III

Don Mathers didn’t leave the big man’s apartment until afternoon. They’d had a huge breakfast, and by the time it was over Don had thoroughly recovered.

He asked the other guardedly about the doctor, who would provide you with a false illness that could result in your honorable discharge from the military, for free. Thor explained that he wasn’t alone in opposing the all-out efforts of Earth and its solar system colonies to gird for defense against the Kradens. To him it was madness that the human race was devoting every effort to prepare for fighting an enemy that didn’t exist.

“It reminds me of the race to the moon,” he said in disgust.

Don said, over his coffee, “How do you mean?”

“Back in the very early days of space travel. The United States got a slow start but then dramatically announced that they were going to beat the Russians to the moon by landing there before the decade was out. Billions of dollars were spent, many of them squandered due to haste. Millions of man hours of the best scientists and technicians the country could boast were tossed into the supposed race to the moon. As a result, sure enough, they got there first and before the decade was out. The only thing was, there was no race. The Russians had made no attempt to land men on Luna. They were devoting their efforts to less frenetic experiments in establishing space platforms and sending out probes to Venus and Mars, and spending a damn sight less money and effort in doing so.”

“Well,” Don said, “back to this doctor.”

“The doctor feels the same as I do. The whole thing’s a farce. He believes that any man who devotes his career to the Space Service, or anything else connected with supposed defense, is wasting his life. And he’s willing to help get anybody out who wants it. Are you interested?”

“Let me think about it,” Don said evasively.

How did he know he could trust this big, seemingly generous man? He hardly knew him and the situation was a dangerous one. Theoretically, the human race was at war. Deliberate desertion could be punished with a firing squad. Suppose the doctor changed his mind, sometime in the future, and reported him. Or suppose someone else informed on the doctor and he was arrested and psyched. He’d spill everything he knew, including Thor Bjornsen’s name and that of Don Mathers.

Don thanked the other again and offered to transfer some of his pseudo-dollar credits to him in payment. Thor Bjornsen laughingly refused and told him to think over the doctor’s proposition. The big man was between jobs and could usually be located at the apartment. The trouble with his finding another position was that he didn’t want anything even remotely connected with the war effort, and there were precious few jobs these days that weren’t either directly or indirectly so connected.

Don Mathers was at loose ends. He had gone through quite a few of his pseudo-dollars the night before and so was deprived of the wherewithal to spend his three weeks leave in the manner he ordinarily would have. Besides, he was still glum about the treatment he had received from Dian Keramikou and apprehensive about the commodore and the possibility that his commander would send him to the medicos.

So he made his way to Harry’s Nuevo Mexico Bar. At least he had credit there and could drink without drawing on his pseudo-dollar supply.

The bar, this early in the afternoon, was almost empty. Don spotted a fellow One Man Scout pilot on a stool and went over to join him. It was Eric Hansen, who held down a full lieutenant’s rank, in spite of the fact that he was still assigned to the tiny scouts.

Don said, “Cheers, Eric. What spins?” He took the stool next to the other.

“My head,” the other said gloomily. “Hi, Don. I just got in from a three week patrol and I’m hanging one on.”

Harry came down and Don ordered a beer.

He said to Eric, “Didn’t you spot a Kraden once?”

“Yeah. About a year ago. Big excitement. That’s how I got my promotion.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened. It was just for a couple of seconds. It looked like one of those Dorsi Class cruisers to me. Traveling like a bat out of hell. Then it disappeared.”

Don glanced at him from the side of his eyes. He said, “Eric, damn it, you sure you saw that Kraden?”

The other was mildly indignant. “Sure I’m sure. What the hell are you talking about?”

“How long were you out when you saw it?”

“I was just about to head in. The patrol was over.”

“Any space cafard at all?”

“Almighty Ultimate. Anybody’s got a touch of cafard after three or four weeks in space, all alone.”

Don finished his beer and made circular motions with a forefinger to request another from Harry, who came rambling down. Two strangers in civilian garb had entered and he had just waited upon them at one of the tables.

Don said to Eric, “Could it have been a hallucination?”

“What?”

“The Kraden.”

Eric finished his highball with a quick gesture of the practiced drinker. He was still mildly indignant, in fact, less so than previously. He said plaintively, “Of course it could have been hallucination. I only saw it for a few seconds. Hell, in my time, I’ve seen elves playing around in the cockpit after a couple of weeks in deep space. So have you, no doubt.”

“I usually see fairies,” Don said. “Real pretty ones, with gossamer pink wings.”

“You’re probably a latent homosexual,” Eric told him.

They sat there for a while. Eric got another drink. He said, “How long do you go on before you get the big jolt of space cafard and go completely tripe-ripe?”

“I don’t know,” Don said, knocking on the bar with his knuckles, though he knew damn well it wasn’t wood. “What do you mean the Kraden disappeared?”

“Just that. One second it was there. Then it was gone. The only thing I can figure is that Intelligence is right. The Kradens have some way of dropping into ultra-space, or qua-space, or hyper-space, or whatever gobbledygook name you want to call it, and take off faster than light.”

Don said, pulling at his drink, “Don’t be drivel-happy. Nothing can go as fast as light. That’s basic. You got that in training.”

“I didn’t say anything about traveling at the speed of light. I said traveling faster than light. The big double domes these days are working it over. How otherwise could the Kradens come from some, uh, other star system? Hell, even the closest ones, uh, Alpha Centauri A and B are 4.3 light years from here and we haven’t any reason to believe that’s where they came from. The next nearest is Epsilon Eridani and that’s almost eleven light years away. The Kradens have to have some way of traveling faster than light.”

The other was getting more drenched by the minute, Don realized, but he said, impatiently, “You can’t travel faster than the speed of light.”

“Balls. Einstein never said so.”

Don looked at him. “Where in the hell did you take your basic?”

“Einstein said you couldn’t travel at the speed of light. He didn’t say anything about traveling faster.”

“Chum-pal, you’ve really got a load on. I envy you. But how could you possibly travel faster than light, without at one point traveling at the same speed as light?”

Eric said glumly, obviously tiring of the subject, “How would I know? There must be some way of dodging through the crucial point.”

One of the two men who had entered and taken a table came up and said, “Are either of you gentlemen sub-lieutenant Donal Mathers?”

Don gave him the once over and said, “I am.”

The newcomer was well dressed. His face was on the pinched side and his hair was thinning, which was passingly strange since baldness had long since been cured. His lips were dark, almost bluish, and his eyes were faded and somehow evasive. He projected uncomfortableness.

The stranger said, “My name’s Cockney, Frank Cockney. I wonder if I could have a few words with you, Lieutenant, over at the table.” He made a gesture at the table where his companion sat.

Don instinctively didn’t like him. “Why?” he said.

Cockney regarded him patiently. “You’ll know that when we’ve had the few words, won’t you? One guarantee. You won’t lose any money.”

“I haven’t any to lose,” Don said. He looked over at the table the two strangers had taken. Harry’s bar didn’t usually have many customers who weren’t in Space Services uniform. The other sat there unperturbedly, an untouched drink before him. He was a larger man than this one, almost as large as Thor Bjornsen, but dark rather than light. His face was expressionless. For some reason, Don thought of both of them as the mobster types you saw in the old revival movie and TV shows that were all the thing these days and sent viewers into spasms of laughter.

Don said, “What the hell,” and came to his feet. He went over to the table, pulled out a chair and said, “What do you want?”

The smaller of the two strangers resumed his own chair and said, “Can you prove you’re sub-lieutenant Donal Mathers?” His voice was polite enough.

“Of course I can prove it. I have my Space Service I.D. and I’ve got my Universal Credit Card.”

“May we see them, please?”

“What are you, police or something?” Don Mathers couldn’t figure it out, and he didn’t particularly like the looks of these two. Besides, he wanted to get back to his drink.

“No,” the big one said.

Frank Cockney said, “This is Bil Golenpaul “No, we’re not police.”

Don Mathers-shrugged, ran a thumbnail over his mustache in irritation, but shrugged again and brought out his identification.

Cockney looked at it briefly and said, “The boss wants to see you.”

Don put his papers back into his pocket and said, “Great. And who in the hell is the boss?” It came to him now that by the looks of these two, their emptiness of facial expression, they were the kind of men fated to be ordered around at the pleasure of those with wealth or brains, neither of which they had or would ever have.

“Maybe he’ll tell you when he sees you,” the other said, patiently and reasonably.

Don came back to his feet. He said, “Well, you can tell the boss”

The one named Golenpaul said, “Suggest you check your pseudo-dollars credit, Lieutenant.”

Don squinted at him. “Why?”

Neither of the two said anything.

In continued irritation with this whole damn thing, he brought forth his Universal Credit Card and put it in the table’s slot and dialed the International Data Banks.

He said, “What is my credit standing?”

The mechanical voice answered almost immediately, “5324 pseudo-dollars and 64 cents.”

Don Mathers stared at the screen. He had never had five thousand pseudo-dollars to his credit at one time in his whole life. He said finally, “When was the most recent credit deposited to my account? And how much was it?”

The screen said, “This morning. The amount was five thousand pseudo-dollars.”

“Who deposited it?”

“It was transferred to your account by the Interplanetary Conglomerate.”

Don Mathers had never heard of the organization. He took back his Universal Credit Card, returned it to his pocket and looked across the table at Cockney and Golenpaul. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go see the boss. I haven’t anything else to do and his calling card intrigues me.”

He waved a farewell to Eric and Harry and followed the two strangers out to the street. There was a swank helio-hover parked at the curb, to his surprise. Privately-owned vehicles weren’t allowed on the surface streets of Center City.

Golenpaul sat in the pilot’s place and Cockney next to him. Don Mathers got into the back. The craft was somewhat of a sportster and had but four seats. The big man dialed their destination and the helio-hover zoomed off, immediately reaching for higher altitudes.

“So what does the boss want with me?” Don said.

Cockney said laconically, “He seldom lets us in on his business, Lieutenant.”

The hi-rise Interplanetary Lines Building was evidently their destination. Don Mathers had, on occasion, been in some of the offices on the lower levels, some of the restaurants and nightspots, but they were now heading for the penthouse on the roof. They swept in to a landing on what was obviously real grass and as well-kept as a golf course.

Don began to goggle even before they emerged from the helio-hover.

It was unbelievable that they were atop a building. It had been so landscaped that it would seem to be a park. There were trees, shrubs, flowers. There was even a small stream and two Japanese bridges across it. In the center of the park, or perhaps it was better termed a wood, was a rather large Swiss-type chalet.

Cockney said, “This way.”

Don followed him, still gawking at the unbelievably ostentatious surrounds.

They headed for a terrace before the chalet and as they approached Don could make out three men there, two seated in beach chairs, a portable type autobar between them. The third stood slightly back and to one side.

One of the seated men looked to be in his late middle years, the other about forty. The gentleman who was standing and looking somewhat deferential was younger, perhaps thirty-five. He was dressed in a conservative business suit, the older men were in resort wear, very informal.

Don Mathers, as he got closer, thought that he recognized the impossibly corpulent one, from a newscast, or possibly from some illustrated article. He couldn’t quite place him. The fact that he was so unhealthily fat came as a surprise in this age when the medical researchers had conquered obesity. It took a fanatical gourmand not to be able to control his weight. The man looked like a latter-day Hermann Goering, his plump hands laced over his belly, his porcine eyes small in the layers of fat of his face.

The other seated one could have passed for a stereotype villain, complete to the built-in sneer. Few men, in actuality, either look like or sound like the conventionalized villain. This was an exception, Don decided. Had this one been in uniform he well could have assumed the role of a Russian general of the Second World War period. He even had a shaven head which was well tanned.

Neither of them came to their feet to greet the newcomer.

Don took them in carefully, before saying, “I suppose that one of you is the boss.”

“That is correct,” the fat one grunted. He looked at Don’s two escorts and said, “Frank, you and Bil take off. Keep yourselves available, on instant call.”

“Yes, Mr. Demming.” Cockney all but touched his forelock. The two backed several feet before turning and heading for the helio-hover.

The younger man, still standing as though anxiously, said, “Lieutenant Mathers, this is Mr. Lawrence Demming and this is Mr. Maximilian Rostoff.”

Demming was the fat one. He had been running his little eyes up and down Mathers. “Why aren’t you in uniform?” he puffed.

“I’m on leave,” Don told him. “What did you want to see me about?”

Demming took up a well-chilled glass that sat on a small table beside him and took a surprisingly dainty sip, considering his gross appearance.

He said, “Sit down, Lieutenant Mathers. What will you have to drink?”

Don sat and said, “Tequila.”

The fat man looked at him. Maximilian Rostoff laughed contempt.

Demming said, “In my private stock, I have some genuine French cognac, if you are accustomed to spirits this time of the day.”

Don said, and immediately knew he had said the wrong thing, “Real French cognac?” In all his drinking career, which had been extensive considering his age, he had tasted only the modern synthetic.

Demming said, without expression, “Yes. Laid down during the reign of Napoleon the Little.”

“I’ll have cognac,” Don said.

The younger man, still standing, hustled forward to the autobar and dialed. He said deferentially to Demming, “The 1869, sir?”

“No,” the fat man wheezed. “The 1851. The Lieutenant must get used to the better things.” He smiled greasily at Don. “There are only four cases of 1851 Napoleon brandy left in existence. I have three of them.”

“Thanks,” Don said.

He knew who they were now, both of them. Demming was a North American, Rostoff a European by birth. Both of them were international tycoons, in fact they were interplanetary tycoons.

Neither of them seemed to be in any great hurry to get to the point. On the face of it, they were sizing him up. He hadn’t the vaguest idea why.

The cognac came in a beautiful crystal snifter glass. Although he had never sampled real brandy before in his life, and certainly not in crystal, he knew the procedure from Tri-Di shows, from revived movies. He swirled the precious beverage around in the glass, cupping it so that the warmth of his hands would cause the bouquet to announce itself. He put his nose in the snifter glass and inhaled.

They were still taking him in thoughtfully.

He said, just to say something, indicating the grounds, “I’d hate to pay the rent on this place.”

Demming said, offhandedly, “I own the building. I reserve the top two floors and the roof for my own establishment when I am in residence in Center City.”

It had never occurred to Don Mathers that a single person would, or could, own something like the Interplanetary Lines Building. It simply hadn’t occurred to him. The government, yes, perhaps even some multi-national consortium. But one man?

More and more was coming back to him about Lawrence Demming. Robber baron, he might have been branded back in the nineteenth century. Transportation and uranium baron of the solar system. Inwardly, Don Mathers snorted. Had Demming been a pig he would have been butchered long since.

Rostoff said, “You have identification?”

Once again Don Mathers fumbled through his pockets and came up with his Universal Credit Card and his military I.D. Both of them examined the papers with care, front and back.

Demming huffed and said, “Your papers indicate that you pilot a One Man Scout. What sector do you patrol, Lieutenant?”

Don took a sip of his superlative brandy and looked at the corpulent man over his glass. “That’s military information, Mr. Demming.”

Demming made a moue with his plump lips. “Did Frank Cockney reveal to you the five thousand pseudo-dollars that have been deposited to your account?” He didn’t wait for an answer but added, “You took it. Either return it, or tell me what sector you patrol, Lieutenant.”

Don Mathers was well aware of the fact that a man of Demming’s position wouldn’t have to go to much effort to acquire such information, anyway. It wasn’t of particular importance and, of course, the magnate had strings going into the very highest echelons of the Octagon.

He shrugged and said, “A22-K223. I fly the V-102.”

Maximilian Rostoff handed back the identification papers to Don and said to his colleague, after checking a solar system sector chart, “You were right, Demming. He’s the man.”

Demming shifted his great bulk and his beach chair and took up his cordial glass again. He sipped it daintily and said, “Very well. How would you like to hold the Galactic Medal of Honor, Lieutenant Mathers?”

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