Galactic Medal of Honor

XVI

Mathers spent the next weeks, the next months, in what was. seemingly a chaos of interviews, speeches and press releases, though many of the last he never saw. The efficient Si Mullens turned them out wholesale, and was more apt to check them, before release, with Demming or Rostoff rather than Don.

Actually, Rostoff and Demming remained in the background. They never allowed themselves to be seen in Don’s company in public, or even when news people were around. They went to considerable effort and expense to suppress any news stories about their being affiliated with the corporation. It wasn’t as hard as all that to do. Between the two of them, they had large financial interests in most of the important media. Those news outlets which they didn’t personally control, largely belonged to fellow members of the financial elite who owed them favors, or possibly not adverse to accumulating some credit with the two men who had already become the wealthiest magnates in the system. No matter what field you were in, it was most likely that sooner or later you’d have some reason to call upon Demming and or Rostoff.

It wouldn’t have been so bad, perhaps, if he could have spent more of his time in a haze of alcohol, but his binges were restricted to after-hours. He had to maintain his Boy Scout image. Supposedly, he didn’t drink, he didn’t smoke, and the sighing matrons, un-weds and virgins of the solar system could go to bed at night and dream of marrying—or at least having an affair with—Don Mathers. He was a bachelor. The secret of Alicia was as well kept as that of Eva Braun and her relationship with Hitler.

It wasn’t all strawberries and cream by a long shot.

A couple of months after the initial announcement, he was politely invited to Demming’s office, his innermost, most private, sanctum sanctorum.

There Sam Frankle was introduced. Don was aware of him, though not in any detail. President of the One Big Union, once a common copper miner, he had evidently fought his way up through union politics—sometimes with his heavy, merciless fists. He was beetle-browed, broken-nosed, and there were obvious scars on his dark face. In this age of plastic surgery, Don wondered? He supposed it was part of the other’s image. He was extremely popular with the workers he led, supposedly continuously fighting for their rights.

Frankle took the space hero in, his eyes less than friendly. He was not the hero worshipping type, obviously.

Present were Demming, Rostoff and the unassuming Dirck Bosch, and all three were empty of face.

Don said, after becoming properly seated, “What can I do for you, Mr. Frankle?”

“They call me Bull Frankle, and I want to know what the shit’s going on.”

Don looked from Demming to Rostoff and could tell nothing from their expressions, although both were alert of eye. He looked back at the union leader. “I don’t believe I follow you, ah, Bull.”

The tough man said, “Look, Mr. Interplanetary Hero, let me tell you some of the facts of life. Unions are big business. Like any other kind of big business they exist to make money for the people who own, or control them. For instance, Lawrence Demming’s Interplanetary Conglomerate doesn’t exist for the people who work in it, several hundred thousands. It exists for him.”

“Get to the point, Bull,” Rostoff said.

“That is the point. I want to know my in.” He looked at Don suspiciously. “You made a big talk to the marks, the suckers. Everybody’s got to sacrifice, including the workers on Callisto and so forth, all members of the One Big Union. Okay, some of them will take it. Most of them will take it. You say they shouldn’t get double wages, on account of working on the satellites. Okay, you want to know something? If they don’t get anything extra, as a result of the union being in there pitching for them, why should they keep membership in the union and pay out their dues?”

“I’m not up on all this,” Don said weakly. He didn’t know what it was all about.

“That’s why I’m briefing you,” the other said impatiently. “I know you’re not up on it. But you’re asking these funkers to work at Earth-side pay, when things are such up there they can’t even bring their families up, most of them, and it’s pretty damn slim living and it’s a damn sight more dangerous than working on Earth. Okay. So what is it the One Big Union is going to do for them? From what you say, nothing.”

Don looked at his two supposed partners.

Demming said flatly, “We must all sacrifice together in these times.”

Bull Frankle didn’t even bother to laugh. “I want in,” he said. “And I also have to have something to throw my boys, otherwise they drop out of the organization. Don’t you characters get the point? Everybody’s got to get something, or they start looking somewheres else. Now what can I promise my boys, so they’ll want to stay in the union?”

“And so that you can continue milking them of dues,” Rostoff said, thinking it out.

“Okay, put it that way if you wanta get on a snotty level. I thought we were all practical men around here.”

“Don’t misunderstand,” Demming wheezed thoughtfully. “You make the problem clear. Hmmm. Max?”

Maximilian Rostoff said, “How about this? As a result of the efforts of Samuel Frankle, President of the One Big Union, the government of the Solar System League has ruled that any worker on any planet or satellite off Earth shall receive two year’s credit toward any pensions, social security, that sort of thing, for each year he spends off Earth. A very patriotic step, highly endorsed by the bearer of the Galactic Medal of Honor. All this through the efforts of the One Big Union, and, frankly, costing our corporation not one extra pseudo-cent.”

Demming and Frankle looked at him in admiration.

Frankle said, “Okay, that seems to cover that part of it, if you can swing it, and, through Mathers, here, I assume you can. Now, where’s my in?”

Don wasn’t following too well. He wished that he could get a double shot of something or other. But he said, “What in?”

Frankle looked at him as though he was completely around the corner.

“My in, my in.” He was exasperated. “What do I get out of it?”

Rostoff said smoothly, “I suggest, Bull, that in highest confidence we issue you one percent of the preferred stock of the Donal Mathers Radioactives Mining Corporation.”

The other grunted contempt. “The word’s already gone out that the dividends are going to be practically nothing. That you claim you’re plowing back practically everything you take in, into the corporation.”

Demming placed his fat hands over his fat belly and said, “That’s the common stock, Bull. We’re talking about the preferred. We’ve had to grease a few palms in Geneva, but the charter of this corporation is rather unique. In fact, as a result of Colonel Mathers’ recommendations it comes under the head of Solar System Security and anyone wanting to make a thorough investigation of it would have his work cut out.”

The labor leader grunted. “I see. I might’a known anything you two were connected with would have some fancy angles. One percent isn’t enough. I’ll need at least three.”

“Three!” Rostoff blurted. “Are you drivel-happy, Frankle?”

Don Mathers was getting only about half of this. He hadn’t known anything about a special charter that involved Solar System Security. He supposed that some of the endless papers he had signed without reading were involved.

Bull Frankle’s expression was one of disgust. “At least three. Damn it, Max Rostoff, I’ll have to spread it around but plenty, to keep my lieutenants in line. You don’t think I run this by myself, do you? The One Big Union controls over a billion workers. You want to keep them quiet, don’t you? No strikes, no slow-downs, no sit-downs, no nothing. Any trouble and my goons go in to quell it. I’m not just talking about the few tens of thousands on Mars and the satellites, though at the rate you’re going there’ll be shortly a damn sight more than that. I’m talking about all of your enterprises involved in this corporation to any extent whatsoever.” He looked at Demming. “Take your Interplanetary Lines, for instance. Your maintenance men are muttering about a strike. Okay. I’ll see there’s no strike.”

Rostoff and Demming looked at each other.

Rostoff said, “What do you say, Lawrence?”

Demming closed his eyes, but nodded.

Rostoff said, “It’s a deal. Three percent.”

The labor leader looked at Don suspiciously.

“Don’t he have a say?”

Rostoff said smoothly, “Colonel Mathers operates on other levels. He leaves business matters in our hands. That is, he can’t be bothered with details.”

Bull Frankle came to his feet after shooting Don a quick look of contempt. He said, “This is the biggest rip-off in history.”

Rostoff nodded as near to pleasantly as his face allowed. “We’ve already come to that conclusion, Bull. And using practically the same words.”

It was Si Mullens, Don’s energetic public relations head, who came up with the brainstorm which was to become the beginning of the end for the space hero.

As the initial pressures of the forming of the corporation fell off and the speech load, interviews and so forth, lessened, Don needed new methods of keeping him in the public eyes to aid continuing common stock sales. At least, that was the way Demming and Rostoff saw it.

The autobiography had come out. Don hadn’t known it was possible to write a book and get it into circulation so quickly. It was one of the biggest sellers of all time. And so far as Don was concerned, it was more fiction than biography. He recognized himself in the pages not at all, other than the illustrations. Where the ghost writer had obtained them all, he hadn’t the slightest idea. There were photos, snapshots and otherwise, of all of his grandparents, his parents, and other more distant relatives, some of whom he had never known he had. All of them had seemingly led outstanding, productive and especially patriotic lives. He blinked when it turned out that his ancestors had been prominent in every major war ever fought by the United States, before the forming of the Solar System League. He blinked again to find that an ancestor had been Thomas Jefferson’s right-hand aide when the Declaration of Independence was being written.

He was astonished to find how popular he had been from earliest childhood. How superlative he had been in school. How popular he had been in cadet school, at the Space Academy, and later among his squadron mates. It also turned out that for all practical purposes he didn’t drink, had never smoked pot in his life, nor tobacco. As a matter of fact, the latter was true; one of the few true things in the thick book.

But back to Si Mullens, PR man supreme. He came up with the suggestion that Don make himself available for personal interviews to anyone involved in the great project, the exploiting of the radioactives of the whole Solar System. Be they ever so humble, if they had a problem involving the Don Mathers Corporation they were free to consult him personally.

Most of them were unimportant. Most of them were largely desirous of meeting the great hero, of shaking his hand, of getting his signed photograph, or worshipping him a bit.

That was most of them. It took about a month for Dwight Schmidt to get in to see him.

Don went through the usual preliminaries, winding up with the old-timer sitting across from him, a soft drink in hand. The other was possibly in his mid-sixties and had obviously led life the hard way. He was only slightly stooped with long years of toil, still wiry, still strong, still fully alive and alert.

Don said, “What can I do for you, Mr. Schmidt?”

The only other person present was Dirck Bosch. Demming had given him the job of prompting Don, when Don was at sea which was often enough when dealing with the affairs of the corporation.

The old man said, “I’ll lay it on the line, son, Don’t think I don’t appreciate a man like you taking the trouble to listen to the problems of an old fart like me. But business is business, and survival is survival.”

“That’s what I’m here for, Mr. Schmidt.”

“Mostly they call me Cobber. I was born in Australia, Colonel Mathers.”

“Mostly they call me Don, Cobber,” Don said.

“Fair dinkum. Now I don’t want to take up much of your time. You must have less time than any man in Center City. This is how it is. I was one of the first pitchblende prospectors ever to work Callisto. And bad as it is now, it’s nothing like it was in those days. I suppose I was first on Callisto before you was ever born, Don. Just a young joey, but hard working. To cut it short, I went into the outback there, put in some thirty Earth-years. When I ran out of money I got more from my parents, my relatives, my friends. They all believed in me. I worked like a dingo.”

Don nodded. He glanced over at Bosch. Bosch, as usual, was expressionless.

The old-timer went on. “Finally, I hit it. Pretty rich. All of a sudden, me and all my friends was in business.”

“Wonderful,” Don said.

“Fair dinkum. Up until now. But when your new outfit—oh, I don’t argue, I know we’re all fighting the Kradens—but when your new outfit bought up my claims, they didn’t pay as much for them as we’ve put in down through the years. Not to speak of my time, my whole life of searching. I wasn’t left with enough to pay off my debts, and these debts were to relatives and my best friends.”

Don shrunk back into himself. “Why’d you sell? Why didn’t you hold out for more?”

The old boy looked at him strangely. “Don’t you know the new laws? Senator Makowski pushed them through. A man’s got to sell. They’re amalgamating every last ounce of uranium in the system. They don’t want any small operators, like me. For efficiency, it’s all got to be gathered together. The better to fight the Kradens.”

Don looked into Dirck Bosch’s face, which remained expressionless.

He looked back at the aged prospector. “I… I am afraid, uh, Cobber, this isn’t something I know about. All the evaluation of mines and so forth is handled by experts. I don’t even know them. I know practically nothing about radioactives.”

The other looked at him, puzzled. He said, “I heard some of your talks over the Tri-Di, Don. Sounds to me you understood pretty well.”

Don said apologetically, “I’ve got a lot of experts, speech writers, that sort of thing, who take care of details.”

“I see,” the old man said wearily. He came to his feet. “Then there’s nothing you, personal, can do?”

Don said hurriedly, “I’ll have my uh, secretary, here take you to Mr. Rostoff, one of our, uh, specialists. He’s up on these things. Dirck, will you take Cobber to Mr. Rostoff?”

The Belgian raised his eyebrows and shrugged very slightly, but, “Certainly, Colonel Mathers,” he said.

When the two had left, Don opened a desk drawer and brought forth a bottle of Demming’s prehistoric brandy.

Very few persons think of themselves as bastards. The more perceptive, the more sensitive, the more vulnerable, might admit to occasional opportunism, may even commit acts which later they truly deplore, in self-interest. But almost all of us can explain almost all of the actions we take to our own satisfaction. It’s the nature of the beasts that we are.

However, Don Mathers knocked back the slug of brandy with his now customary stiff-wristed motion.

He had been in space. The Almighty Ultimate knew he had been in space. He had even been on Callisto twice. Once had been more than enough. He couldn’t understand how anyone, such as Dwight Schmidt, could spend the better part of his life there. No matter what the drive.

The next big one he took was possibly a month later.

He had been fielding them as best he could, spending two or three hours a day at it. He hated Si Mullens and his brainstorm. Now there was no avoiding these people. He had to listen to them. Sometimes, he wondered if he hadn’t been better off as a One Man Scout pilot. And the hell with the Galactic Medal of Honor.

But no. There was no man on Earth who ate better than he did, drank better than he did, laid a more beautiful woman than he did. And, in the privacy of his own quarters, dressed better than he did. Expenses were meaningless. If he had wanted a half dozen Rembrandts he could have had them, if he had given a good goddamn about Rembrandts.

Besides, he was free of the Space Service and of the One Man Scouts. He was free of them. Demming and Rostoff had suggested that it might be well for him to take a trip to Callisto for publicity reasons, but for once he could tell them to stick it up their asses. He was never going to go into space again, short of being chained and dragged. Si Mullens could write all the press releases he wanted about Don’s burning desire to get back into space, and he could stick such releases up his ass.

This time it was a committee, two elderly women and a middle-aged man. And all three looked anxious.

They went through the usual routine of introductions and Don taking their compliments and congratulations. Dirck Bosch got them seated and then took orders for one coffee and two soft drinks. They didn’t particularly look as though they wanted the refreshments but who would turn down the opportunity to be able to say later that they’d had a drink with the bearer of the Galactic Medal of Honor?

When all were settled down, Don smiled encouragingly and said, “And now what can I do for you?”

They looked from one to the other and evidently decided to let the man become the spokesman.

He put down his coffee and said, “We’re stockholders, or were, in Callisto Pitchblende, Incorporated.”

Don nodded. He had never heard of the outfit.

The man said, “I don’t know if you know about the early days of the company. It started more or less from scratch, compared to most interplanetary businesses. On a shoestring, so to speak. It was largely financed by a good many people who didn’t have a great deal to invest. But the promised dividends made it look like a good investment and it turned out to be just that.” He hesitated.

Don nodded encouragingly but inwardly he knew what was coming and this was going to be one of the bad ones.

The other went on doggedly. “A lot of us stockholders had put everything we had into Callisto Pitchblende, life savings, that sort of thing. Most of us depended on the dividends to live. Some of us had no other income at all. Most of us, perhaps. Well, at any rate, when your corporation took us over, it issued one common share of your Radioactives Mining Corporation for each share of our company. And we’re just as patriotic as anyone else. Nobody complained. But then, last month, it came out that your corporation was going to pay only a three percent dividend.”

One of the women said, desperation in her voice, “That’s not enough to keep up with inflation. The way inflation is going, in five years my shares of stock won’t be worth the paper.”

The other woman said, “And now with the new laws, we can’t even sell our shares.”

Don frowned at her. “How do you mean?”

Dirck Bosch cleared his throat, “Colonel Mathers, the new law pertaining to the corporation. For at least ten years, anyone owning shares cannot sell them.”

Don looked at him blankly.

The committee waited.

Don said finally, “This is not my particular field. Ill turn you over to one of my associates. Dirck, will you take these ladies and gentleman to Mr. Rostoff’s office?” He stood to see them to the door.

Behind their backs, Dirck Bosch shook his head in resignation, but escorted the others, who paused long enough to shake hands with Don once again. They shook quite enthusiastically.

When they were gone, Don Mathers got out his bottle of cognac. He took a hefty slug from it, then reached over and picked up a half full glass of the soft drink Bosch had brought one of the women and used it for a chaser.

He was sitting there, breathing deeply, the bottle still on his desk, when Maximilian Rostoff came bursting in, shortly after followed by the Belgian secretary.

Rostoff, his face livid, ripped out, “What’s the idea of pushing off these stupid marks on me? What do you think we gave you the job for? I can’t waste my time cooling indignant suckers.”

Don flushed angrily. “Look,” he said. “Don’t push me too far. You need me. Plenty. In fact, from what I can see, this corporation needs me more than it does you.” He was scornful. “Originally, the idea was that you put up the money. What money? All the pseudo-dollar credit needed is coming from sale of nearly worthless common stock. You were also to put up the brains. What brains? We’ve hired the best mining engineers, the best technicians, the best scientists, to do their end, the best corporation executives to do that end. You and Demming aren’t needed.”

Max Rostoff’s face had grown wolfishly thin in his anger. He took in the open bottle on the desk. “Look, bottle-baby,” he sneered, “you’re the only one who’s vulnerable in this set-up. There’s not a single thing that Demming and I can be held accountable for. You have no beefs coming, for that matter. You’re getting everything you ever wanted. You’ve got a swanky place to live in. You eat the best food in the solar system. And, most important of all to a rummy, you drink the best guzzle and as much of it as you want. What’s more, unless either Demming or I go to the bother, you’ll never be exposed. You’ll live your life out being the biggest hero in the system.”

It was Don Mathers’ turn to sneer. “What do you mean, I’m the only one vulnerable? There’s no evidence against me, Rostoff, and you know it. Who’d listen to you if you sounded off? I burned that Kraden cruiser until there wasn’t a sign to be found that would indicate it wasn’t operational when I first spotted it.”

Rostoff snorted amusement, or as near to amusement as he was capable of. He said, “Don’t be an ass, Mathers. We took a series of photos of that derelict when we stumbled on it. Not only can we prove that you didn’t knock it out, we can prove that it was in good shape before you worked it over. I even took some shots in the interior. I imagine that Space Fleet technicians would have loved to have seen the inner workings of that Kraden cruiser—before you loused it up.”

“If you opened up on me, you’d be revealed too.”

“No, we wouldn’t,” Rostoff laughed. “We could announce that we’d been just about ready to reveal the presence of the derelict when we were flabbergasted to find that you claimed to have destroyed it. We hardly knew what to do when you received the decoration. We were afraid of disrupting solar system morale.”

Don was speechless.

Rostoff chuckled flatly. “I wonder what kind of a court-martial they give to an interplanetary hero who turns out to be a saboteur.”