Galactic Medal of Honor

XIV

Harry came up hesitantly, a camera in his heavy freckled hands and said “Colonel Mathers, I bought me this here Tri-Di camera on the off-chance you might come by again some day. I wanted to get a shot of you, here in my bar, so I could frame it and hang it on the wall and people’d know you usta hang out here before you got famous.”

“Sure, Harry,” Don said, standing. “Where do you want me?”

“How about up against the bar?”

Thor stood too and said, “Why not let me take it? You get behind the bar, uh, Harry. And let Don get in front of it. Then you’ll both be in the shot.”

Harry radiated at that. “You don’t mind, Colonel Mathers?”

“Of course not.”

Thor Bjornsen took three pictures in all, from different angles, and then he and Don went back to the booth.

The Scandinavian looked at him. “Do you get much of that sort of thing?”

“Yes.”

Thor said, “To get back to the radioactives thing. Who’s in it with you?”

Don wondered whether or not to answer, but, after all, it would probably soon be in the news. He said, “Lawrence Demming and Maximilian Rostoff, who already have large investments in the field and plenty of know-how, are putting up the initial capital to get going.”

The other took him in in horror. “Demming and Rostoff? They’re the two biggest crooks in the system.”

“I’m to be president of the corporation. I’ll keep them in line.”

“What do you get out of it, Don?”

“Nothing. Nothing except my expenses.”

Thor Bjornsen frowned. “And nobody else is in it at all?”

“Well, actually, Peter Fodor has been given a chunk of stock. He’s going to throw the weight of the Church behind the, uh, crusade.”

“Almighty Ultimate! If Demming and Rostoff are’ the two biggest crooks in the system, he’s the third.”

“What are you talking about? He’s the Grand Presbyter.”

“Yes, and like most big organized religions down through the centuries, his church is a racket, with him the chief racketeer. Religions might start humbly with the leaders really living up to their vows of poverty and so forth—take Christ and his apostles and early followers. They lived in a sort of primitive communism. But have you ever read an account of the church at the time of the Borgias and the Medici? When you get to the top of the heap in business, you don’t become a multi-millionaire by remaining honest. When you get to the top in politics, it isn’t by keeping your hands clean.”

“I’m not up on politics,” Don admitted.

“Well,” the other said. “My point was that big business, such as Demming’s and Rostoff’s type, big politics, and even big religion are headed by corrupt men, since power corrupts.”

Don was getting tired of it. He had made his decision and there was no way to back out of it, even if he had wanted to, and he didn’t.”

He looked at his wrist chronometer and said, “Sorry, Thor, I’m going to have to get underway.”

The other nodded unhappily. “All right, Don. But think about what I’ve said. The human race is bleeding the system white with all this so-called defense preparation. If you’d throw your prestige onto the scales, you’d be able to counter this industrial-military-political combine that’s now in control.”

Don stood and said, “I’ll think about it, Thor.”

He headed for the door, calling over his shoulder, “So long, Harry. Thanks for the drinks.”

The bartender looked after him, wistfully, worshipfully.

Thor came up, pulling his Universal Credit Card from an inner pocket. He said, “How much do I owe you?”

Harry looked at him indignantly. “No man who’s been drinking with Colonel Donal Mathers pays in this bar.”

“Oh, excuse me,” the big fellow said, trying to keep sarcasm from his voice.

Don had little difficulty in getting back to Demming’s place. He didn’t make the mistake of going in the front entrance of the building, strongly suspecting that there’d be a multitude of media people there. Instead, he had dialed the hovercab for the motor pool area in the basements. He got the cab as near as possible to Demming’s private elevator bank before getting out and strolling rapidly toward the nearest one. He was stopped only twice for handshakes and gushing congratulations.

His intention had been to go directly to Rostoff’s office but when he left the elevator he was halted in his tracks for a moment.

In the huge foyer a magnificent sign had been raised. DONAL MATHERS RADIOACTIVES MINING CORPORATION.

Evidently, he decided, the new corporation had taken over this entire floor. Things were moving. One thing you had to give his two partners, Demming and Rostoff, they didn’t drag their heels.

Actually, he hadn’t as yet been able to come to definite conclusions about the position he was in.

He was being used by the two magnates, but he couldn’t figure any way of getting out from under. However, he was also aware of the fact that they couldn’t twist his arm too much. They needed him a damn sight more than he needed them. In fact, nothing would please him more than if they’d both drop dead.

He reached Rostoff’s office, after wading through an ocean of smiles from office personnel, and was immediately passed through by the worshipful receptionist.

Rostoff was alone. He looked up at Don’s entrance.

“Where the hell have you been, you damned rummy? I can smell your breath from here.”

It was still difficult for Don Mathers to adjust himself to his sudden change in status, whenever he was alone with either of his two supposed partners. When among others, he was treated like a semi-god. When alone with Demming or Rostoff, he was treated like a peasant.

He said, “I’ve been resigning from the Space Service.

“Good,” Maximilian Rostoff said. He took in Don’s suit. “I see you’ve already adopted the simplicity look. Your suit looks as though you earn about seventy-five pseudo-dollars a week.”

Don sighed and took a chair. “It’s the only suit I had in my locker at the base.”

“Well, keep wearing that type of clothing whenever you’re in public.”

Don hesitated before saying, “There’s something you probably ought to know. On the way over to the base, Frank Cockney tried to pump me.”

Rostoff was suddenly alert, eyes narrowed. “What do you mean? Exactly what did he say?”

“I can’t remember the exact words, but he thought it quite a coincidence that you and Demming had sent for me just previous to my knocking out the Kraden, and then immediately after my award, you getting together with me again and the corporation being formed. In fact, I got the feeling that he knew the corporation was already being formed before I got my medal.”

“Who else was there?”

“His sidekick, Bil Golenpaul.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing.”

“But he heard the whole conversation?”

“Thats right.”

“What did you say?”

“I clammed up.”

“All right. Ill take care of it. Come on.” The tycoon got up and headed for the office room’s elevator.

“Come on where?” he said now, following the other.

They got into the compartment and Rostoff gave the screen orders. Then he said to Don, “We’ve got a half dozen speech writers for you and a couple of coaches. They’re going to make you the best public speaker since William Jennings Bryan.”

Don had never heard of Bryan. He said, “Six speech writers? Why so many?”

“One is actually the head of your public relations staff. Each is a specialist in some field. One in radio-actives, one on the Jupiter satellites, one in religion, one in corporation law, and so forth. Every time you open your trap, the words that come out will indicate you’re one of the most erudite men in the system.”

The internal transport system of this portion of the Interplanetary Lines Building—call it an elevator if you will—took them this way and that and finally up to the next floor. They stopped, the door opened and they emerged into a moderately-sized conference room. There were nine men seated around the heavy table, coffee or drinks before them. One of them was Dirck Bosch, Demming’s secretary. The others Don didn’t recognize.

He took that back. He did recognize two of them. They were top Tri-Di actors. They were both sympathetic, he-man types, both in Don’s age group and both approximately his own size.

All came to their feet when Don and Rostoff entered, and all gathered around to be introduced and to congratulate the hero. The whole group of sophisticates were as gushing as the crowds that gathered whenever he got into public. He didn’t catch any of their names, save those of the two actors, and he knew them already, of course; Ken Westley and Rexford Lucas. It came as a shock to realize that both were homosexuals, and neither bothered to disguise the fact off-lens as they were now. Both even had limp handshakes and he suspected that both would like to get him into bed.

When they found seats again—Don being given the place of honor at the head of the table—Dirck looked at first at Rostoff and then quickly to Don. Don was inwardly amused, sourly. The Belgian was in on the whole secret but was going to have to continually remind himself that in public Don was the big cheese.

Dirck Bosch said, “I have been briefing these gentlemen on the whole project, stressing the fact that in the past Colonel Mathers was a space pilot, as we are all so admiringly aware, but that he is inexperienced in addressing the public.”

“I’m afraid it’s Mr. Mathers now, Dirck,” Don said. “You see, in order that I would be able to devote full time to the corporation and its, uh, ideals, I resigned my commission this morning.”

There was some surprise at that and a few raised eyebrows.

One of the writers said, “Ummm. Couldn’t you have simply taken an indefinite leave of absence?”

But Maximilian Rostoff pursed his lips and put in, “No, I think Donal was correct. It will be more dramatic if he renounces his promotion and throws his whole weight into the defense preparations. However, I think it might be well to continue to call him Colonel in our press dispatches.”

The wolfish looking tycoon turned to one of the other writers, the PR man, and said, “Mullens, when we get out a press release on this, you might stress the fact that the Colonel resigned his commission since he thought himself unworthy of such a rank at his age and with his lack of experience. He didn’t choose to be a meaningless figurehead, in these pressing times.”

“Right.” The other made some quick notes on the pad before him.

One of the actors, Rexford Lucas said, “To get down to the nitty-gritty and gather some material on Don’s style-to-be, I think at first we should have him walk about the room.”

Rostoff looked at the space hero. “Do you mind, Don?”

More mystified than anything else, Don got up and walked around the room a couple of times.

“And just stand there for a moment, as though you were facing a microphone,” Ken Westley said.

Don just stood there for a moment, looking back at them, and feeling like a damn fool.

“Make a gesture, as though you were trying to make a strong point,” Westley said.

Don made a gesture, as though trying to cinch a point.

“Hmmm,” Rexford Lucas said. “Have you ever done any public speaking at all, or did you belong to the dramatic club, or take drama, when you were in school?” No.

“Didn’t belong to the debating team or anything like that?”

“No, I didn’t,” Don said, and went back and sat down again.

All regarded him for a long silent moment.

Rexford Lucas said, “For one thing, I think we’d better have a still more military stance and walk. Very straight. The bearer of the Galactic Medal of Honor must walk tall.”

One of the writers said to Don, “Let’s hear you talk.”

Don looked at him. “What should I say?”

“Anything. We just want to get a level on your speaking voice. Recite a poem, or something.”

Don thought about that for a long moment. He said finally, “Back when I was a kid in school we had to memorize a poem called, Daffodils.”

“Daffodils!” Rostoff muttered.

“Anything will do. Try it,” the writer said.

Don cleared his throat and began.

He wound up with, “I think there was one more stanza in there but I’ve forgotten it.”

“Jesus,” one of the writers said.

“I thought it was very sweet,” Rexford Lucas simpered.

The writer who had asked him to recite sighed and looked over at Dirck Bosch. He said, “Look, could you get on the data banks screen and get a copy of the Gettysburg Address?”

They stuck to it for two hours or more and then Rostoff and Don left the actors and speech writers to confer on what type of public speaker they were going to convert him into.

Most of them looked a little on the glum side. But Ken Westley waved him a limp wristed bye-bye.

Don and Rostoff got back into the elevator and the interplanetary magnate said, “You’re beginning to get a sample of what you’re in for. This afternoon you’ll meet the writer who’s going to turn out your autobiography. He’s already studying your Dossier Complete.”

“My Dossier Complete! Where’d you get it? Nobody’s allowed to look at my dossier, unless it’s an authorized official, with a court clearance.”

Rostoff sighed. “You’ll learn, you’ll learn. Don’t they have a saying in the military, that rank has its privileges? Well, believe me, they are as nothing to the privileges that wealth has.”

“Damn it!” Don said in protest.

The other ignored him and said, “Demming is turning the whole penthouse over to you. It will be nice and secluded so you won’t be molested by the mob. And it’ll be a good place for doing your autobiography, news conferences, and business in general. You won’t be bothered by anybody except rubbernecks trying to spot you from over flying aircraft. We’ll assign a few heavies to you, to see that nobody gets through that you don’t want to see, or we don’t want to see you.

“ Heavies?”

“Bodyguards.”

“I don’t need bodyguards. I’m the most popular man in the system.”

“That you are, that you are,” the other said with his lupine smile. “But in the near future you’re going to be stepping on some toes. On top of that, there’s always the crackpot. Anybody who shot Donal Mathers would go down in history. Oh, they’d catch him and probably execute him, even though he was as drivel-happy as a loon, but he’d go down in history.”

The compartment stopped and they emerged into the living room of the oversized penthouse chalet.

Rostoff looked at him from the side of his eyes and said, “Are you sleeping with Alicia Demming?”

Don glowered back at him indignantly. “None of your goddamned business.”

“Oh, but it is. Anything about you is my business. So far as Demming is concerned, he probably couldn’t care less. His daughter has slept around before, probably ever since she was about twelve. I’m in favor of it. If you have a bedmate right here in the building, it’ll keep you from prowling the town, looking for it.”

“I don’t have to look very hard,” Don muttered.

“I’ll bet you don’t. Why don’t you get yourself a drink? You look as though you could use one. Your ghost writer is in the library. I’ll go get him. You can have a preliminary talk and then have lunch together.”

“Where’s Demming?”

“I think over in London. He’ll probably be back by tomorrow.”

Rostoff left and Don went over to the autobar. He dialed some of Demming’s ancient Napoleon Brandy. He’d put a hole in that supply, he decided. The son of a bitch would be sorry he’d ever let Don Mathers loose in his fancy guzzle. He amended that. Don and his friends. He’d invite the gang up and there’d be some parties in this penthouse that would make history.

The cognac came and he knocked half of it back, before amending again. He suddenly realized that he, Donal Mathers, didn’t have any real friends. The whole solar system loved him, but, now that he thought about it, he didn’t have any real friends, just acquaintances. People like Eric Hansen? People like the space worshipping bartender, Harry? Nearer to it was Thor Bjornsen, whom he had met exactly twice.