Galactic Medal of Honor

IV

Don Mathers laughed sarcastically. “How would you?” he said.

The fat tycoon scowled. “I am not jesting, Lieutenant Mathers. I never jest. I considered it, but for various reasons I do not believe it practical. Obviously, I am not of the military. It would be quite unusual if not impossible for me to gain such an award. But you are the pilot of a One Man Scout. I also lack the charisma. You are young, moderately handsome and have a certain air of dash about you. You would make a very popular holder of the Galactic Medal of Honor.”

Don said, disgust in his voice, “I’ve got just about as much chance of winning the Galactic Medal of Honor as I have of giving birth to triplets.”

The transportation and uranium magnate wiggled a disgustingly fat finger at him and said, “I’ll arrange for it, in collaboration with my colleague, here, Mr. Rostoff.”

Don Mathers gawked at him. He blurted finally,

“Like hell you will. There’s not enough money in the solar system to fiddle with the awarding of the Galactic Medal of Honor. There comes a point, Demming, where even your kind of bread can’t carry the load. Corruption we might have, on all levels of government, but it doesn’t touch the Galactic Medal of Honor. And it never will The people wouldn’t stand for it.”

Demming settled back in his chair again, laced his fat hands over his belly, closed his eyes and said, “Dirck, brief us on the space defenses of the solar system.”

The neat, quiet young man who had been hovering in the background, stepped forward. He was a bland-faced type with secretary written all over him. Although seemingly alert and ever ready to obey, his eyes had a disconcerting empty quality. And his mouth was not the type to indulge in smiling.

He said, in a brisk voice, “Yes, sir. The patrolling spacecraft have major bases on Earth, Luna and Mars. There are smaller bases on the Jupiter satellites, Io, Europa, Ganymede and Callisto. There is another base on the Saturn satellite Titan. When the planetary engineering problems have been worked out, there are plans to establish another base on the Neptune satellite Triton. The One and Two Men Scouts patrol nearest to their home bases, and for the shortest periods. They are the last line of warning, in case a Kraden sneaks through. Beyond them, in scantier numbers, are Destroyers holding four men. The Destroyers stay out for as long as two months at a time. Beyond them, are eight to ten men Light Cruisers, which stay out for as much as three months at a time. They are the first warning and are expected to stand and fight in case Kradens appear. These are all warning craft. Nearer in, closer to Earth and the other bases, are the Monitors. They are continually in orbit, having been built in space and quite impossible to land due to their size. They have a crew of approximately thirty. Fresh crews are sent up to them every six months to relieve them. They are the heavies, ready to zero-in on the enemy when and if the Kradens get through the initial defense. Also in the defense screen are the Space Platforms, the permanent artificial satellites which are hardly maneuverable at all but carry the heaviest of our defenses, short of those based on Earth itself. In all, the Solar System defenses include at least twenty thousand spacecraft, not to mention the permanent installations on Earth, Luna, Mars and the Jupiter and Saturn satellites. More than a billion men and women are in the armed forces.”

The secretary came to an end.

Don said, “Is any of that supposed to be news to me?”

Demming ignored that and muttered, his eyes still closed, “Thank you, Dirck. Max?”

The other magnate took over after taking a swallow from the glass of sparkling wine before him. He looked at Don calculatingly and said, “A few days ago, Mr. Demming and I flew in from Io in his private space yacht, accompanied only by his secretary here, Dirck Bosch. The yacht is completely automated, without crew. As a matter of fact, I am sorry Mr. Demming was along, and he is sorry I was along. It required that we become partners when we made our discovery.”

Don said, “Look, could I have another cognac?” A feeling of excitement was growing within him and the drinks he’d had earlier had worn away. Something very big, very, very big, was developing. He hadn’t the vaguest idea what it might be.

The secretary stepped forward and dialed the fresh drink.

Maximilian Rostoff ran a hand back over his bald pate and went on, saying, “Lieutenant, how would you like to capture a Kraden cruiser? If I am not incorrect, the Space Service calls them Miro Class.”

Don laughed nervously, not getting it, not knowing where the other was at but still feeling the growing excitement. He said, “In the whole history of the war between our races, we’ve never captured a Kraden ship intact, or even remotely so. It would help a lot if we could. Our engineers would like to get their hands on one.”

Rostoff said, “This one isn’t exactly intact, but it’s nearly so.”

Don looked from Rostoff to Demming and then back again. He said, “What in the hell are you talking about?”

Rostoff nodded, as though that was a reasonable question. “In your sector,” he said, “we ran into a derelict Miro Class Kraden cruiser. The crew—repulsive-looking creatures—were all dead, some forty of them in all. Mr. Demming and I assumed that the spacecraft had been hit during one of the actions between our ships and theirs and that somehow both sides had failed to recover the wreckage. At any rate, today it is floating, abandoned of all life, in your sector. The Almighty Ultimate only knows why it hasn’t been detected by radar, or whatever, long before this.” He added softly, “One has to approach quite close, except from the angle we first saw it from, before any signs of battle are evident. The spaceship looks intact.”

Lawrence Demming opened his porker eyes again, smiled flatly and said, “And that is the cruiser you are going to capture, Lieutenant.”

Don Mathers bolted his new brandy and licked a final drop from the edge of his lip. He said. “And why should that rate the most difficult decoration that we’ve ever instituted?”

“Don’t be dense,” Rostoff told him, his tone grating mockery. “Capture isn’t actually the term. You’re going to radio in, reporting a Miro Class Kraden cruiser. We assume that your superiors will order you to stand off, that help is coming, that your tiny One Man Scout isn’t large enough to do anything more than to keep the enemy under observation until a squadron arrives. But you will radio back that they are escaping and that you plan to attack. When your reinforcements arrive, Lieutenant, you will have conquered the Kraden, single-handed, against odds of—what would you say—fifty to one?”

Don Mathers’ mouth was dry, his palms moist. He said, “A One Man Scout against a Miro Class cruiser? At least five hundred to one, Mr. Rostoff. At least.”

Demming grunted. “There would be little doubt of your being awarded the Galactic Medal of Honor, Lieutenant, especially in view of the fact that Colin Casey is dead and there isn’t a living bearer of the award. The powers that be in Space Command like to have a bearer of the Galactic Medal of Honor around—it’s good for solar system morale. Dirck, another drink for the Lieutenant.”

Don said, “Look. Why? I think you might be right about getting the decoration. But why, and why me, and what’s your percentage?”

Demming muttered heavily, “You are a perceptive young man, Lieutenant Mathers. Obviously, Mr. Rostoff and I have an iron or two in the fire. We now get to the point.” He settled back in his chair again, closed his eyes again, obviously waiting for his partner to take back over.

Maximilian Rostoff leaned forward, his lupine face very serious. He said, “Lieutenant, the exploitation the very earliest stages. There is every reason to believe that the new sources of radioactives on Callisto alone may mean the needed power edge that might give us victory over the Kradens when they appear again. Whether or not that is so, someone is going to make literally billions out of this new frontier. Possibly as much as a trillion.”

“I still don’t see——”

“Lieutenant Mathers,” Rostoff interrupted patiently, “the bearer of the Galactic Medal of Honor is above the law. He carries with him an inalienable prestige of such magnitude that… well, let me use an example. Suppose a bearer of the Galactic Medal of Honor formed a stock corporation to exploit the pitchblende of Callisto. How difficult would it be for him to dispose of the stock? How difficult for him to get concessions from the government?”

Demming grunted and without bothering to open his eyes said, “And suppose that there were a few, ah, crossed wires in the manipulation of the corporations’ business?” He sighed deeply. “Believe me, Lieutenant Mathers, there are an incredible number of laws which have accumulated down through the centuries to hamper the businessman. It is a continual fight to be able to carry on at all. The ability to do no legal wrong would be priceless in the development of the new frontier.” He sighed again, so deeply as to make his bulk quiver. “Priceless.”

Rostoff laid it on the line. “We are offering you a partnership, Mathers. You, with your Galactic Medal of Honor, will be our front man. Mr. Demming and I will supply the initial capital to get underway, the organization and the know-how, the brains. We’ll take Callisto and the other satellite colonies the way Grant took Richmond, to use the old Americanism.”

Don said slowly, looking down at the empty glass he was twirling in his fingers, “Look, we’re in a war to the death with the Kradens. In the long run it’s either us or them. At a time like this you’re suggesting that we fake an action that will eventually enable us to milk the new satellites to the tune of billions.”

Demming grunted meaninglessly.

Don said, “The theory is that all men, all of us, ought to have our shoulders to the wheel. This project sounds to me as though we’d be throwing rocks under it.”

Demming closed his eyes, still again.

Rostoff took up the bottle of sparkling wine from the ice bucket next to him and poured the drink into his champagne glass. He said to Don Mathers, “Lieutenant, it’s a dog-eat-dog socioeconomic system we live under. If we eventually defeat the Kradens, one of the very reasons will be because we are a dog-eat-dog society. Every man for himself and the devil take the hindmost. Our apologists dream up some beautiful gobbledygook phrases for it, such as free enterprise, but actually it’s dog-eat-dog. Surprisingly enough, the system works, or at least it has so far. It leads to progress, the inept fall out of the game. Right now, the human race needs the radioactives of the Jupiter satellites. In acquiring them, somebody is going to make a tremendous amount of money. Why shouldn’t it be us?”

Don said, a dogged quality in his voice, “Why not, if you—or we—can do it honestly?”

Demming’s grunt was nearer to a snort this time.

Rostoff said sourly, “Don’t be naive, Lieutenant. Whoever does it, is going to need little integrity. You don’t win in a sharper’s card game by playing your cards honestly. The biggest sharper wins. We’ve just found a joker somebody dropped on the floor. If we don’t use it, we’re suckers.”

Demming opened his pig eyes and said, “All this is on the academic side. We checked your background thoroughly before approaching you, Mathers. We know your record, even before you entered the Space Service, your, ah, minor peccadilloes. Just between the three of us, wouldn’t you like out of your commission? There are a full billion men and women in our armed forces—you can be spared. Let us say that you’ve already done your share. Can’t you see the potentialities in spending the rest of your life with the Galactic Medal of Honor in your pocket?”

Don said, breathing a little harder, “If it came out, it would mean the firing squad for all of us.”

The fat man was reasonable. “How could it come out? Only we three would be in on it, and it is certainly not to the interest of any of us to reveal anything.”

Don looked at the secretary. “How about him? You’re not even cutting him in, and he knows the whole thing.”

Demming shook his head. “Dirck is completely faithful to me. He’s my man.”

Don said, I’ll have to think about it.”

Maximilian Rostoff said, “Don’t take too long about thinking. Every day that goes by runs the risk that someone else might also spot the derelict.” He looked at his wrist chronometer and stood. “I’ve got a corporation board meeting,” he said. “Demming, I’ll leave it to you to give the Lieutenant any details, how to get in touch with us, the exact location of the Kraden spaceship, and so forth.”

He brought his transceiver from a jacket pocket, opened it, activated it and spoke a few words. Within a minute, a luxurious helio-hover had swooped in and a uniformed chauffeur had popped out to open the door.

Rostoff repeated, “Don’t take too long about it, Lieutenant.” He turned and headed for his craft.

Demming said, “What time is it, Dirck?”

The secretary said promptly, seemingly without having to check, “Ten minutes until two, sir.”

The fat man lurched to his feet. He wheezed to Don Mathers, “Why not stay for dinner? Perhaps it would be interesting for you to experience the way of life you could become used to if you bore the Galactic Medal of Honor.”

“Why… thank you,” Don said, standing too.

Lawrence Demming waddled, rather than walked, toward the chalet, Don Mathers following. As soon as they left the area where they had been drinking and talking, two liveried servants materialized and began policing it up. Dirck Bosch, the secretary headed in a different direction toward the chalet. As hired help, he seemingly did not eat with the boss.

Don said to his host, “I still don’t like the idea of his being in on the whole story. Just one slip and we’d be sunk—if I come in with you.”

Demming grunted. “I have Dirck under my thumb. I know where the body is buried, as the saying goes. I own him, body and soul.”

“Sometimes a worm turns under too much pressure,” Don said, still unhappy.

“Not this worm,” the fat man said, leading the way into the chalet proper.

It was a new experience for Don Mathers. Like everyone else, he had been surfeited all his life with the luxurious sets of films, TV and now Tri-Di. Nine shows out of ten were devoted to characters who lived on a scale of luxury unknown to ninety-nine percent of the population. Evidently, that was what the viewers wanted, a dream world, a fairyland world.

Lieutenant Don Mathers had never seen anything like this, even on Tri-Di. This was a museum. Obviously, the uncouth Lawrence Demming had had little to say about its decor. Undoubtedly, the interior decorator had been the best available; undoubtedly, the budget for art had been absolutely unlimited. Don Mathers was no great connoisseur of art but he recognized paintings that he vaguely thought were in various of the world’s museums. How had the interplanetary magnate ever acquired them?

Possibly, Don decided sourly, by buying the museum.

He had expected to be conducted to the dining room, but instead was taken to an elevator.

Demming said heavily, “We rough it up here for the sun, fresh air and so forth, but actually we usually live below.”

If this was roughing it, in Don Mathers’ considered opinion, then by the same standards you could have consigned Nefertiti, Cleopatra and Madame Du Barry to the rank of two-dollar whores. The rugs they had waded through must be Persian, and antiques, he realized, though he knew nothing of rugs. He knew nothing of furniture, either, but surely this was all of museum quality, and, he supposed, at least several centuries old. For Don Mathers’ money it didn’t look particularly comfortable.

They entered the spacious elevator, Demming muttering something about being hungry. The magnate spoke into the elevator screen and they descended sedately. Then the elevator stopped and then shunted sideward for a distance Mathers couldn’t calculate. It stopped again and then started off in another direction; forty-five degrees, he estimated, in the alteration of course. What in the hell kind of an elevator was this? It stopped again, momentarily, and then began to descend once more. Finally it came to a complete halt and the door slid open.

They emerged into a dining room.

At first, Don was mildly surprised at its size. He had expected, from what he had seen thus far, some absolutely baronial room. This was large but not as much so as all that. The table was set for four, and possibly could have accommodated eight, but no more in comfort.

Demming mumbled, “Family dining room. Cozy, eh?”

Cozy wasn’t quite the word. Still again, though no connoisseur of art, Don Mathers recognized that the room was done in Picasso, the twentieth century master.

Demming saw the direction of his eyes and said, “My daughter’s a collector. Can’t stand the man myself. Lot of crud. Could do better myself. Pay off the national debt of France, at the time he lived, for what they cost.”

There were two women at the far side of the room and the interplanetary magnate led Don over to them. They were in semi-formal afternoon dress and both had small sherry glasses in hand.

Demming said, “My dear, may I present sub-lieutenant Donal Mathers? My wife, Martha, Lieutenant.”

Don Mathers had taken the usual course in etiquette at the Space Forces Academy, which supposedly turned out gentlemen as well as fighting pilots. He bent over Mrs. Demming’s hand.

She was completely unattractive, colorless and bland of expression. She even had slightly buck teeth and Don could only wonder why she hadn’t had them straightened as a child; dental science had advanced as much as any other field of medicine and a mouth full of perfect teeth was assumed in everyone. He vaguely remembered reading something about her once. The Demming fortune went back several generations and the tycoon had inherited wealth beyond the dreams of most men, but when he had married the heiress Martha Wentworth his fortune had doubled. Looking at her, Don wondered inwardly if it had been worth it.

Demming said, “And this is my daughter Alicia, Lieutenant.”

Now Alicia was another thing and Don wondered how such a woman as Martha Demming could ever have produced her. Her eyes were a startling green and her skin was flawlessly tanned an even gold that looked theatrical and almost implausible. Her hair was long, down to her shoulders, blond, rich and pale. Her figure, too, was rich, though possibly just a shade underweight.

She didn’t offer to shake hands. She said, “A sub-lieutenant? What in the world do you do, Lieutenant?”

Don said, “I pilot a One Man Scout.”

“Good heavens,” she said, her nose slightly high, as though there was an odor about. “Father does bring home the strangest people.”

“That will be all, Alicia,” Demming sighed. “The lieutenant is a most perceptive young man.” And to Don. “Would you like an Amontillado before we eat?”

“Amontillado?”

“The driest of the Spanish sherries. I put down quite a few pipes before they discontinued the wineries.”

“Oh. Well, no thanks. I suppose I got a sufficient edge on from the cognac.”

The fat man looked at the women and gestured to the table. “Then, my dears…”

Don was seated across from Alicia. She was so startlingly attractive that it was difficult to keep his eyes off her. She, however, seemed completely oblivious to his masculine charm. Alicia obviously did not mingle with ranks as low as sub-lieutenant.

Miraculously, liveried servants materialized. Two stood behind each chair. Two silver ice buckets were brought and placed immediately to the side of Demming. A long green bottle was brought forth, deftly wrapped in a napkin, deftly opened. The servant had a gold key suspended about his neck. He poured half a glass of wine into a crystal goblet before Demming and took a step backward respectfully.

The fat tycoon swirled the wine a bit to bring up the bouquet, then sipped. He pursed his plump lips thoughtfully.

The sommelier said, anxiety in his voice, “Perhaps the Gewurztraminer instead? It has come of age and should be supreme, sir.”

Demming shook his head and said, “No, no, Alfredo. The Riesling is still excellent, though in another six months or so we may have another story.”

The servant served the two ladies, then Don, and returned to fill his master’s glass, then put the bottle back into the ice bucket. There were two other similar bottles.

Meanwhile, another lackey had pushed an hors d’oeuvre cart up beside Martha Demming. On it was a variety sufficient to feed a hungry squad of infantrymen. She selected exactly one canapé and the cart moved on to Alicia.

Demming indicated the wine to Don. “Edelbee-rensauslese Riesling,” he said.

Don tasted and blinked. He said, “But, it’s real wine.”

“Yes, of course,” the other said in fat satisfaction, and taking another sizable swig. The wine waiter was there immediately to refill the glass to the two thirds level.

Don said, in puzzlement, “But I thought that the government had terminated wine grapes so that the acreage could be devoted to more necessary produce.”

Demming leered smugly. “I prevailed upon the authorities to allow me to continue production on small, but the very best, vineyards in France, Germany, Italy and Hungary, in the name of retaining an art that has come down through the centuries. My vineyards, then, are in the way of being museums. A manner of maintaining a tradition.” He winked one of his pig eyes. “Even the President often dines with me and appreciates my vintages.” He chuckled heavily. “He wouldn’t dare serve wine in his own palace. The outcry in such areas as what we once called France, would reach the skies, if they knew his privilege.”

The hors d’oeuvre cart had reached Don Mathers.

Demming pointed out several, judiciously. “I can recommend Choux au Caviar Mimosa.”

One of the waiters behind Don’s chair immediately served the guest two puffs overflowing with gray-black fish eggs.

Don looked blank. “Caviar?” he said. “I’ve read about it but I didn’t know it was still being produced.”

Demming said, “I have my own artificial lake in the Caspian Mountains. It’s stocked with sturgeons and produces sufficient roe to provide me and some of my closest associates. And you must try some of this Anchovy Garlic Canapé and a bit of this Pistachio Cheese Roll.”

Don’s plate was soon overflowing. He couldn’t have eaten this much food even if nothing else was to come. He looked from the side of his eyes at Alicia’s plate. She had selected three small tasties.

When the cart got to Demming it was another thing. He not only selected more than he had recommended to Don, but half again as much.

Course followed course, each with a different wine. Soup, shellfish, poultry—in this case, wild duck. Where in the hell did you get wild duck these days? Don thought. All came with various vegetable dishes, done up in such a way that sometimes Don couldn’t recognize the vegetables. He was surfeited before he had finished the sautéed soft-shell crabs.

The women ate moderately, especially Alicia, who also no more than sipped at the continuing selection of wines. Don sipped too. He had done his share of sampling the Riesling and the rosé that went with the shellfish but gave up when it came to the heavier and heavier reds. He felt he was rapidly becoming drenched. Now he realized that he never should have taken those three cognacs earlier.

The climax came when one of the servants brought in an enormous platter of meat and placed it before the billionaire interplanetary tycoon, whose eyes lit up.

“Ah,” he said, all but drooling. “Carre d’Agneau a la Boulangere.” He looked at Don. “Do you like broiled rack of lamb?”

“Not today,” Don said definitely.

The women also refused.

There must have been six to eight pounds of the rack of lamb. As Don sat there, staring in fascination, the glutton ate all of it save scraps.

As he messily tore the meat apart and gorged himself with it, he made conversation with Don Mathers.

“When are you due for your next patrol?”

“In three weeks.”

The pig eyes narrowed. “Couldn’t you, ah, volunteer to go out sooner?”

“They’d consider it strange,” Don said.

The other swigged down heavy Burgundy before returning to the lamb.

“Why?”

“I doubt if in the history of One Man Scouts any pilot has volunteered to go out before ordered. It’s not so bad, possibly, in the bigger spacecraft but the One Man Scouts are breeding grounds for space cafard.”

“So,” Demming said, around a bone which he had in his fat hands and was greasing his mouth with, “it’ll be three weeks before you head out?”

“Yes,” Don said.

“Head out where?” Alicia said, disinterestedly.

“Into deep space,” Don said, viewing Lawrence Demming. “Looking for Kradens.”