Galactic Medal of Honor

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He couldn’t have shocked Don Mathers more if he had suddenly levitated and flown out a window.

“We’ve been looking for you for over a week,” Rostoff snapped, enraged. “Out of one bar, into another. Our men couldn’t catch up with you. Damn it, don’t you realize we’ve got to get going, you drunk? We’ve got a double dozen and more of documents for you to sign. We’ve got to get this thing underway, before somebody else does.”

Don blurted, “You can’t talk to me that way”

It was the other’s turn to stare. Obviously, Max Rostoff had as short a temper as his power was long. He said, low and dangerously, “No? Why can’t I?”

Don glared at him.

Max Rostoff ran a hard hand back over his bald, tanned head and sneered, low and dangerously, “Let’s get this straight, Mathers. To everybody else but Demming and me, you might be the biggest hero in the solar system. But you know what the hell you are to us?”

Don felt his indignation seeping from him. For the past two weeks he had been a god. For the past few days, he had begun to believe it himself. But here he was confronting reality.

Rostoff was saying, “To us, you’re just another demi-buttocked incompetent on the make. You’re a guzzler. A woman chaser. An opportunist willing to freeload on all the starry-eyed slobs who think you’re the greatest thing to come down the aisle since Alexander the Great. You think our men didn’t check you out? Hell, you didn’t even pay your hover-cabs. Underpaid cabbies that needed the couple of pseudo-dollars you owed them. Hell, you didn’t even pay in the whorehouse you spent twenty-four hours in, in Paris. The madam closed the place up to all customers as long as you were there. Do you know who her husband was? I won’t bother to tell you. He died in a One Man Scout; blew when the shuttle was taking him into orbit.”

Don sank into one of the enormous office’s huge, real-leather chairs.

Rostoff said, “You’re a rummy and a con man and… a coward. We have the record of your past six patrols, Mathers.”

Don said nothing. He was breathing deeply.

Rostoff added contemptuously, “Make no mistake, Mathers, you’ll continue to have a good thing out of this only so long as we can use you.”

A voice from behind them said, “Let me add to that, period, end of paragraph.” It was the corpulent Lawrence Demming, who had just waddled in from an inner office.

He said, and even his voice seemed fat, “And now that’s settled, I’m going to call in some of our lawyers who have already begun to work on the project. While they are about, we conduct ourselves as though we’re three equals. Theoretically we will be.” He lowered himself into a sizable chair with a sigh. It was obvious that his feet were too small for his bulk.

“Wait a minute now,” Don blurted. “What do you mean theoretically? What in the hell do you think you’re pulling? The agreement was we split this whole thing three ways.”

Demming’s jowls wobbled as he nodded. “That’s right. And your share of the loot is your Galactic Medal of Honor. That and the dubious privilege of having the whole thing in your name. You’ll keep your medal and we’ll keep our share.” He grunted heavily and added, “You don’t think you’re getting the short end of the stick, do you?”

“I think I’m getting shafted with the stick,” Don said indignantly.

Rostoff had reseated himself. He said now, “Let’s keep this on as gentlemanly a scale as possible.” He took Don in. “We’ve been working this over ever since you were successful in your farce attack upon the Kraden. This is what we’ve come up with. We are going immediately to incorporate the Donal Mathers Radioactives Mining Corporation, concentrating at first on Callisto and its pitchblende deposits. Recent prospecting has indicated a high incidence of carnotite on Ganymede and Io. We’ll undoubtedly move in on them.”

“What’s carnotite?” Don said, his voice sulky.

Rostoff’s face indicated disgust at the other’s lack of knowledge. “It’s an ore composed of oxides of vanadium, uranium and potassium. It usually occurs, often in cavities of rocks, as a lemon-yellow crystalline powder; it crystallizes in the orthorhombic system.”

Don Mathers was out of his depth. “All right, go on,” he said. “What’s all this about my being squeezed out?”

“That’s not the way to put it,” Demming wheezed. He had closed his eyes and leaned back into his chair as Rostoff talked.

Rostoff went on. “We’re going to present this on the highest patriotic level,” he said. “The Donal Mathers Radioactives Mining Corporation is above such mundane matters as making large profits. You will be president and you’ll be chairman of the board, but you will not own a single share of stock. That should impress the peasants.”

“What the hell do I live on?” Don said with belligerence.

“All that you will receive from the corporation will be your expenses. Of course, your expense account will be unlimited. You will receive not a single pseudo-dollar in salary, but what difference if your expense account is unlimited?”

“The same thing,” Demming wheezed.

“What’s the Space Service going to say about all this?” Don said. “Officers aren’t supposed—”

“You’ll resign from the Space Service tomorrow,” Rostoff said.

“That won’t go over. You’re not allowed to resign, especially in time of war. Besides, it’ll hurt my image with the common herd.”

Rostoff made with a humorless laugh. “No, it won’t. In the first place, you can resign any time you want. You can do no wrong. In the second place, we’ve assembled a whole squad of writers and speech writers for you. This will be presented as the ultimate in patriotism, you throwing yourself into a non-profit endeavor to solve the uranium shortage.”

Demming said, “You’d better move into my apartments. Tomorrow the speech writers want a preliminary session with you. They want your style of talking. They’re going to have to work on your public image. We also have a couple of actors to coach you. Then you’ll have to have a session with the makeup staff.”

“Makeup!”

“Yes,” Rostoff said. “Everything from the way you cut your hair to the type of civilian clothes you wear. We’re considering a new style of clothes, which you’ll sponsor. The simplicity look. You’re going to be the clean cut kid from next door, who, in view of the war effort, scorns expensive, fancy clothing, expensive cars, and all the rest of it.”

“Almighty Ultimate, why?”

Rostoff sighed. “The standard of living is too damn high these days. To maintain it, employees have to be paid too much. We want to lower wages and salaries—all in the name of the war effort, of course. We’re going to get them down to a living wage.”

“A meager living wage,” Demming said. “The bastards are living too high on the hog.”

Look who’s talking about hogs, Don thought inwardly.

Rostoff said, “In the privacy of your own quarters, of course, you can do whatever you want. Eat, drink, wear, and bed anything or anybody you want. But in public you’re a simple, earnest, personally unambitious young man, as befits being the hero of the solar system.”

Demming sighed satisfaction and said, “The common stock we sell will return a minimum dividend, very minimum. The dividends of the preferred stock will be limited only by the rate of profit the corporation realizes. Max, here, and I will own the preferred stock but that fact will not be made public. Through you, we will take measures to get permission to withhold such information due to, ah, let us say, national security, always a useful term.”

“It’s the rip-off of the century,” Don muttered.

Rostoff grinned his wolf grin. “It’s the rip-off of all history,” he corrected.

“And you called me a con man,” Don said bitterly.

Demming wheezed again and said, “Let’s knock this off and get the law boys in.” He pushed his bulk to his feet and went over to the desk and flicked a switch on one of the screens there and said, “Dirck.”

Dirck Bosch, his Belgian secretary, entered from the same inner office Demming had emerged from earlier.

Demming said, “Bring in the damn lawyers. We’ve got enough paper work to keep us busy for the rest of the week.”

Don said, “Wait a minute. What if I say no?”

Rostoff chuckled his humorless laugh. He said, “We four here, including you, are the only living persons who know that you’re a heel, not a hero.”

Don Mathers lost track of the number of lawyers who came and went. They were all obviously top men in their various fields, very deferential to Demming and Rostoff and as impressed with meeting Don as anybody else had been since his decoration. Two of them, pleading children who collected, even asked for autographs. Don, of course, complied, suspecting that they, in actuality, wanted them for themselves, not for their kids.

It would be impossible for him to ever go broke, he decided acidly. If worse came to worse, he could always stand on a street corner and sell his signature for, say five pseudo-dollars a throw.

He didn’t bother to read any of the things he signed. Had he, it would have taken him forever; some of the sheaf’s of legal paper were half an inch thick.

Finally, Demming grunted to his secretary, “What time is it, Dirck?”

Dirck Bosch told him immediately, seemingly not even looking at his wrist chronometer.

Demming lurched to his feet. “I have a guest,” he said. “Let’s call the rest of this off until tomorrow.”

Rostoff said, “Tomorrow, Don is going to have to start work on his autobiography.”

“Autobiography?” Don snorted. “I could no more write an autobiography than…”

Rostoff said absently, scanning some papers in his hands, “We’ve got a writer chap to ghost it. One of the best authors in the system. But he’ll have a lot of questions to ask you. We want to get it into print as soon as possible—before we issue stock. We’re also having two other books done, one a juvenile, another a straight biography.”

Demming was headed for an elevator to one side of the room. He said, “I’ll go up and welcome the Grand Presbyter. Max, can you stay for dinner?”

“Yes, of course.” Demming said to Don, “We have a suite prepared for you. You can pick up your things, or we’ll have one of the men go over to get them, tomorrow. Ill expect you gentlemen in ten minutes or so. In the blue dining room, Max.”

Maximilian Rostoff and Don wound up two or three more items and then the lawyers left, followed by the self-effacing Dirck Bosch, leaving Rostoff and Don alone.

Don looked at the door through which the Belgian secretary had just gone and said, “What spins with him?”

Rostoff didn’t look up but said, “Who?”

“Bosch. He knows the whole story. Suppose he spills it?”

Rostoff shook his head. “Demming owns him. Some years ago he worked in Demming’s, let us say, security staff. A situation arose in which it became necessary to, as you’d say, liquidate two financial competitors. Demming has definite proof that Bosch performed the deed.” He smiled his lupine smile. “The moral of the story is, don’t ever let friend Lawrence get anything on you. Which, obviously, is too late a warning in your case.”

Don said, “He could still spill, given enough pressure of whatever sort on him. He hates Demming.”

“Everybody hates Demming. You’re more observant than I would have given you credit for. However, Bosch has a semi-invalid wife and two children in Brussels. Their only source of income is Bosch’s pay from Demming. Her medical bills are high. If anything happened to Bosch’s income they would be in poverty.”

“He could get a job somewhere else, if he could beat the murder rap. He’s obviously a top notch man.”

“Not with Demming blacklisting him. Let’s go on upstairs. You’re going to meet the Grand Presbyter.”

“The Grand Presbyter! You mean the head of the Universal Reformed Church? I thought I misunderstood Demming when he mentioned this guest of his.”

Rostoff didn’t bother to answer. He tossed the legal papers to his desk and led the way to the elevator.

When the door opened again, they emerged into a dining room possibly half again as large as the “cozy” family room in which he had eaten with the Demming family several weeks before. It was largely in blue, even the Gainsborough painting which Don absently recognized as that master’s most famous work. He wondered how many dining rooms Demming maintained in all.

Besides Martha and Alicia Demming, there was a stranger present. Not exactly a stranger. Don recognized him from the times he had seen him on Tri-Di. It was Peter Fodor, Grand Presbyter of the Universal Reformed Church, successor to the prominence once held by a combination of the Pope, the Patriarch of the Orthodox Eastern Church, and the Grand Mufti of Mecca. He was a quiet, dignified man in his early sixties. He was very straight in posture and slight in build though his comparatively simple robes did little to hide a rounded paunch. He held a glass of sherry in his hand, as did Martha and Alicia. Somewhat to Don’s surprise, there was a quirk of sly humor in his eyes that didn’t show up on Tri-Di where he usually seemed somewhat sad.

Upon Don and Rostoff’s appearance, Lawrence Demming bustled over, beaming. He took Don by the arm in friendly fashion and led him to where Peter Fodor and the ladies v/ere chatting.

“Your Supreme Holiness,” he said, “may I present our solar system hero, Colonel Donal Mathers?”

The Grand Presbyter put out a hard dry hand.

Don didn’t know if he was supposed to kiss it or shake it. He wasn’t a member of the Universal Reformed Church, nor any other, for that matter—if there were any others left. He wasn’t up on matters religious. He shook.

Peter Fodor said, “My son, surely the Almighty Ultimate was at your side when you attacked the Kraden monsters.” His voice was strong but still held a kindly ring.

“I… I suppose so, Your Supreme Holiness,” Don got out.

“A touch of Amontillado, Colonel Mathers?” Demming wheezed, still beaming fondly at Don.

“Why, yes sir,” Don said. “Thank you.” He hadn’t had a drink all day and could use one in view of the developments of the past hours.

His host must have made some imperceptible signal since a liveried servant came hurrying up with a gold tray upon which was a superlatively beautiful crystal decanter and a sherry glass. Demming himself took up the container and poured. He handed the glass to Don.

Rostoff had ordered his own drink from one of the servants. By the looks of it, it was a double shot of very cold vodka. He slugged it back in one bolt, put the glass down and came over to join the others.

The two women were gushing over Don, if it could be said that the bland Martha was capable of gushing. However, she did her best in her rasping voice.

Now, once again, Alicia Demming was another thing. She was wearing a golden formal dress, with no jewelry save a magnificent emerald necklace, and it set off her fine blond hair and green eyes to perfection.

She was saying, “Good heavens, Colonel Mathers, father must be clairvoyant, or whatever they call it when you can look into the future. Imagine! The last time we saw you, you were a mere sub-lieutenant. Now you are the toast of the Solar System.”

“Sheer luck, Ms. Demming,” Don said with befitting modesty.

“I am sure not,” His Supreme Holiness said. “Your courage and gallantry are an example for all our noble young warriors fighting for the Almighty Ultimate and his highest creation, the human race.”

“Most certainly,” Maximilian Rostoff said, with great conviction.

Alicia had that starry look in her eye that Don was getting used to in young women, and not-so-young women, for that matter.

She said to him, “Alicia, not Ms. Demming… Don.”

At table, Don remembered the last siege he’d had in this home and took it easy on each course and with each wine. He didn’t want to become foundered again.

Demming was saying to him, “It is a great privilege to have his Supreme Holiness here. He has decided to throw the full weight of the Universal Reformed Church into our efforts to amalgamate system-wide efforts to produce radioactives for the war effort. The church will proclaim the need for sacrifice from every citizen.”

“We will proclaim a jihad,” the Grand Presbyter said, his voice inspired.

Don regarded him blankly. “A what?”

“A jihad,” the other told him definitely. “It comes down from the Arabic, when the scimitar was conquering half the civilized world under the inspiration of the Prophet. The Moslem world, of course, is now all but completely assimilated into the Universal Reformed Church, but it is fitting that we proclaim a Holy War against the Kraden monsters.”

Rostoff said, his voice only very faintly wry, “To help subsidize it, we are issuing His Supreme Holiness two percent of the preferred stock of the Donal Mathers Radioactives Mining Corporation.”

Alicia said, taking her eyes from Don momentarily, “You mean you’re actually going to donate two percent of the corporation stock to the Universal Reformed Church, father?” On the face of it, Alicia Demming had never heard of her father ever having freely donated anything to anybody.

Lawrence Demming pursed his plum lips judiciously. “Not exactly, my dear. The stock will be issued to Peter Fodor, the Grand Presbyter, in his own name. We have decided that in this manner he will be in a position to more efficiently handle the income. Indeed, we do not plan to release the information to the media.”

“Much more efficient,” Rostoff said.

His Supreme Holiness said benignly, “It will give me considerably more leeway. Unnecessary to go through red-tape and church hierarchy channels to accomplish immediate results.”

Inwardly, Don Mathers wondered what two percent of, say, a few hundred billion was.

Martha Demming said to Don sweetly, in an obvious make-conversation gambit, “And what is your mining background, Colonel Mathers?”

Demming looked at her from the side of his eyes, and then closed them in pain momentarily, before opening them again so that he could resume plowing into the brace of capons before him.

Rostoff took over gently, explaining, “The Colonel will not deal with such mundane matters as the technology involved in extracting uranium and other radioactives, Ms. Demming. He will work on the highest levels of policy, high echelon decisions, public relations, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, I see. My, such responsibility for such a young man.”

She gave Don a bucktoothed, approving smile, and he inwardly winced.

After the ladies had withdrawn, the four men took to cigars and port. Don was treated, by his two supposed partners, as an equal. Indeed, if anything, they deferred to him. His opinion was always carefully listened to and the both of them would sagely nod whenever he made a point. Which was, however, seldom enough since he knew nothing whatsoever about corporation law and even less about radioactives, beyond their use in the nuclear engines of a One Man Scout.

Somewhat to his surprise, His Supreme Holiness was up on corporation law and fully able to discuss fine points with his host and Rostoff. Indeed, after a flurry of discussion on one phase of the development of Don’s new corporation, Demming and Rostoff excused themselves, came to their feet, and, cigars in hand, went over to the terrace, which over-looked Center City, from its lofty altitude, and conferred in low voices.

The Grand Presbyter tapped ash from his imperial size Manila cigar. Don had understood that the Universal Reformed Church frowned upon, though it did not completely forbid, use by the faithful of tobacco and alcohol. Evidently, His Supreme Holiness was making an exception tonight.

He said, “Have you ever considered taking Holy Orders, my son?”