tion before going into a fracas.
Aircraft, of course, couldn't be used _during_ the fray, since they
postdated the turn of the century, and hence were relegated to the
cemetery of military devices along with such items as nuclear weapons,
tanks, and even gasoline-propelled vehicles of size to be useful.

Use an aircraft in a fracas, or even _build_ an aircraft for military
usage and you'd have a howl go up from the military attaches from the
Sov-world that would be heard all the way to Budapest. Not a fracas
went by but there were scores, if not hundreds, of military observers,
keen-eyed to check whether or not any really modern tools of war were
being illegally utilized. Joe Mauser sometimes wondered if the
West-world observers, over in the Sov-world, were as hair fine in their
living up to the rules of the Universal Disarmament Pact. Probably. But,
for that matter, they didn't have the same system of fighting fracases
over there, as in the West.

Joe took a chair while he waited and thumbed through a fan magazine.
From time to time he found his own face in such publications. He was a
third-rate celebrity, really. Luck hadn't been with him so far as the
buffs were concerned. They wanted spectacular victories, murderous
situations in which they could lose themselves in vicarious sadistic
thrills. Joe had reached most of his peaks while in retreat, or
commanding a holding action. His officers appreciated him and so did the
ultra-knowledgeable fracas buffs--but he was all but an unknown to the
average dim wit who spent most of his life glued to the Telly set,
watching men butcher each other.

On the various occasions when matters had pickled and Joe had to fight
his way out against difficult odds, using spectacular tactics in
desperation, he was almost always off camera. Purely luck. On top of
skill, determination, experience and courage, you had to have luck in
the Military Category to get anywhere.

This time Joe was going to manufacture his own.

A voice said, "Ah, Captain Mauser."

Joe looked up, then came to his feet quickly. In automatic reflex, he
began to come to the salute but then caught himself. He said stiffly,
"My compliments, Marshal Cogswell."

The other was a smallish man, but strikingly strong of face and strongly
built. His voice was clipped, clear and had the air of command as though
born with it. He, like Joe, wore mufti and now extended his hand to be
shaken.

"I hear you've signed up with B