sent him sailing back into the recruiting
line, now composed of excited, shouting verbal participants of the fray.

However, the extinction of Joe Mauser's small ally had taken a moment or
two and time was what Joe needed most. For a double second he had the
oaf alone on his hands and that was sufficient. He caught a flailing
arm, turned his back and automatically went into the movements which
result in that spectacular hold of the wrestler, the Flying Mare. Just
in time he recalled that his opponent was a future comrade-in-arms and
twisted the arm so that it bent at the elbow, rather than breaking. He
hurled the other over his shoulder and as far as possible, to take the
scrap out of him, and twirled quickly to meet the further attack of his
sole remaining foe.

That phase of the combat failed to materialize.

A voice of command bit out, "Hold it, you lads!"

The original situation which had precipitated the fight was being
duplicated. But while the three Lowers had failed to respond to Joe
Mauser's tone of authority, there was no similar failure now.

The owner of the voice, beautifully done up in the uniform of Vacuum
Tube Transport, complete to kilts and the swagger stick of the officer
of Rank Colonel or above, stood glaring at them. Age, Joe estimated,
even as he came to attention, somewhere in the late twenties--an Upper
in caste. Born to command. His face holding that arrogant, contemptuous
expression once common to the patricians of Rome, the Prussian Junkers,
the British ruling class of the Nineteenth Century. Joe knew the
expression well. How well he knew it. On more than one occasion, he had
dreamt of it.

Joe said, "Yes, sir."

"What in Zen goes on here? Are you lads overtranked?"

"No, sir," Joe's veteran opponent grumbled, his eyes on the ground, a
schoolboy before the principal.

Joe said, evenly, "A private disagreement, sir."

"Disagreement!" the Upper snorted. His eyes went to the three fallen
combatants, who were in various stages of reviving. "I'd hate to see you
lads in a real scrap."

That brought a response from the non-combatants in the recruiting line.
The _bon mot_ wasn't that good but caste has its privileges and the
laughter was just short of uproarious.

Which seemed to placate the kilted officer. He tapped his swagger stick
against the side of his leg while he ran his eyes up and down Joe Mauser
and the others, as though memorizing them for future reference.

"All right,"