Free The Fracas Factor by Mack Reynolds

pig, I’m an Upper now, but he doesn’t really consider anyone an Upper unless he was born into the caste. For him, I’m still a Lower and a born slob.”
    A voice from the door said, “Am I interrupting anything?”
    It was Philip Holland, Category Government, Rank Secretary, Middle-Middle. But he was much more than that. He was the secretary of Harlow Mannerheim, Minister of Foreign Affairs, alcoholic extraordinary. Philip Holland was the brains behind the throne. He did the actual work. Mannerheim, an Upper-Upper, often didn’t even bother to come to his offices for weeks on end. When he did, he didn’t have the vaguest idea of what was going on.
    Philip Holland was about forty, physically on the slight side. He had a way of cocking his head and chuckling when he made a point, and seemed just slightly stuffy. Joe had long suspected that he had a thing going for Nadine and wasn’t happy about Joe Mauser moving in. However, with Frank Hodgson, he was top man in the organization and was dedicated enough to know that Joe Mauser was a valuable ally Nadine said, “Phil! How are you?”
    “Wizard, my dear. And you look well.” He looked over at Joe. “You’re back awfully soon. We expected your expedition to take a week or so.”
    Nadine stood and went over to the bar. “Martini?” she said, obviously knowing the other’s preference.
    Joe felt a twinge. Nadine had said that she wasn’t a virgin. Had Phil Holland been one of her lovers? And then he felt like a cloddy. Jealousy at his age? The most sterile of all emotions.
    “It’s a little early, but yes,” the bureaucrat said to Nadine. And then to Joe, “How did it come off?”
    Joe finished his brandy and put down the snifter glass and told him in detail.
    “Two hundred new members!” Holland marvelled. “And largely Middles. We need more Middles. Things are beginning to move, perhaps. However, I don’t like that attack upon you.”
    “Neither did I,” Joe said dryly. “In spite of my former profession, I loath being shot at.”
    Nadine had brought Holland’s drink to him and sat down.
    Phil Holland sipped at his Martini, then said to Joe, “Do you have any idea of who might have taken that crack at you?”
    “I suspect Balt’s Nathan Hale Society. He’s fanatical about subversives and he accuses Nadine of being one. And, of course, I see a great deal of Nadine. He probably adds two and two together adequately, though otherwise he doesn’t seem to be very astute.”
    “Oh, wizard!” Holland looked over at Nadine. “What do you think he thinks about our relationship?” he asked cynically.
    “He thinks you’re courting me. He’s made snide remarks to that effect from time to time.”
    “But I’m a Middle.”
    “Yes, but he realizes perfectly well that if you went to the trouble of pulling a few strings, you could bounce yourself up as high as you wanted to go, even to Upper-Upper. I suspect he’s mystified that you haven’t.”
    “Couldn’t be bothered,” Holland chuckled.
    Joe leaned forward. “Just one thing about that Mexican romp. I’ve reported my car stolen. They’ve found it bombed and with five dead men in the vicinity. It won’t be long before somebody comes around to question me.”
    The other nodded. “Frank Hodgson, in his position in the Bureau of Investigation, can handle it. It’s not a local matter and comes under his jurisdiction.”
    Joe said, “Wizard. One other thing. Jesus Zavala pointed out something that was interesting. His own outfit had come to the same conclusions as we have. He claims that the closer we come to our socioeconomic change the more groups will spontaneously evolve in the same direction. Some smalls, some large. They’ll mushroom up all over the place.”
    Phil Holland thought about it. “He’s probably right. And it’s an idea. We’re going to have to start looking for such groups. We’ve got to increase our speed of recruitment.”
    Nadine said, “The Sons of Liberty.”
    The