Galactic Medal of Honor

VI

Don Mathers wasn’t acquainted with the Lindbergh story. Had he been he could have been aware of the similarities to his landing at the space base and Lindbergh’s coming down in Paris. Not only were all personnel of the base on hand, but the population of Center City and a dozen other nearby communities had erupted to greet him.

He was taken aback by the magnitude of the mob and a little apprehensive about setting down. There seemed to be police, or, more likely, soldiers, shoulder to shoulder to hold back the crowd so that it couldn’t swarm out over the runway. If they broke through the cordon the fat was going to be in the fire. The V-102 had no power usable here within the atmosphere. He had to glide in to a landing. If the mob of cheering citizens broke through to the runway, he’d plow into them.

But the ranks of soldiers held and he came in, making a perfect landing and winding up before the hanger in which the V-102 was usually sheltered.

Before the hanger stood Sergeant Jerry Wilkins and the rest of the mechanic crew. All were in dress uniform, rather than dirty coveralls and all were standing to attention. For once, the sergeant was minus the cynical expression on his wizened face.

Don Mathers, casting a somewhat apprehensive look at the cheering mob, climbed out and approached his crew.

He said to the sergeant, “You were right, Wilkins, the V-102 was tuned like a chronometer. It operated perfectly. Thanks. If even the slightest thing had gone wrong, I wouldn’t be here and whatever that Kraden’s mission was it probably would have been accomplished.”

“Thank you, sir,” Wilkins said.

A group of highly uniformed, highly bemedaled older officers was approaching.

Don grinned wryly at his crew and said, “Here comes the brass. Well, boys, take good care of the V-102. I’ll be seeing you.”

“Afraid the V-102 is out of our hands, sir,” the sergeant told him. “The Space Academy and the Smithsonian Institution are fighting for her. Both want to enshrine her.”

Inwardly, Don thought, “Almighty Ultimate!” He turned and faced the advancing brass. The only one he recognized was Commodore Bernklau and he was the lowest ranking officer among them.

Don came to the salute.

The five star Space Fleet admiral said, “At ease, Lieutenant, and, obviously, congratulations.”

“Thank you, sir,” Don said crisply.

The commodore said, “The news people would like to get to you, Donal, but orders are to avoid them until you have made your first report to the Octagon. I am to accompany you to Bost-Wash.”

Don said, looking out at the cheering mob, and then down at his coveralls, “Yes, sir. But how do we get through that crowd to where I can change into uniform?”

One of the generals laughed and said, “We’ve foxed them, Lieutenant. The Presidential Jet has been sent to pick you up. It is equipped with uniforms of your size, and anything else you might need.”

One of the fleet admirals grinned and said, “Including an autobar. I suspect you could use a drink after what you’ve been through.”

“Yes, sir, I sure could, sir,” Don said.

They all shook hands with him before moving along to the Presidential Jet.

“So long, sir,” the sergeant called after him, unheard. He turned to the rest of the mechanics. “We’ll never see him again,” he said. “He’s about to be, what’s the word? Deified. That means they make a god out of you.”

Don Mathers had never been in Bost-Wash before, though he had flown over it. The city stretched from what had once been Boston to what had once been Washington. In fact, if anything, it would have been more accurate, these days, to call it Port-Port, since it was rapidly engulfing Portland, Maine, to the north, and Portsmouth, Virginia, to the south.

The Presidential Jet swooped in to the extensive landing field adjacent to the Octagon and Don Mathers, now in his sub-lieutenant’s dress uniform, was hurried into a hover-limousine and into the bowels of the enormous military building.

The commodore explained. “We didn’t let the word out that you were on your way here. We were afraid that a couple of million citizens might show up and not even the Octagon has the manpower on hand to hold back a crowd that big.”

“Holy smokes,” Don protested. “I didn’t expect anything like this.”

The commodore looked at him strangely. He said, “Donal, so far as we know, you are the only man ever to destroy a Kraden single-handed. In fact, your Miro Class cruiser is the first Kraden destroyed since the big shoot-out fifty years ago. Every human being alive has been wrapped up in this war for half a century and you’re the first one to draw blood in all that time.”

“Sheer luck,” Don said.

“Of course. But nevertheless you did it.”

They were whisked into a lavish conference room and Don was confronted by a dozen of the ranking military of the solar system.

He came to attention and saluted. None of them bothered to return it.

He said, “Sub-lieutenant Donal Mathers reporting.”

His ultimate commander, Senior Admiral of the Space Forces Frol Rubinoff, said, “Relax, DonaL Have a seat. Would you like a drink?”

Don sat. He said, ruefully, “No, sir. I’d better not. I had a couple on the plane. I needed them then. But I guess I better not need any more now.”

It wasn’t that good a sally but all of them laughed, as though to put him at his ease.

They had a tape recorder before him but also all had scratch pads and stylos.

The Senior Admiral said, “Now, we want to get as much of this down as possible while it’s still fresh in your mind. When did you first spot the Kraden?”

Don said, “He just suddenly materialized, sir. Bang, in front of me, only a few hundred kilometers off.”

One of the others leaned forward and said, “So you think he emerged from hyper-space, as some have called it? That is, that the Kradens have accomplished faster than light travel?”

Don played it sincere. “I don’t know, sir. All of a sudden, he was there.”

To the extent he could, he stuck to the truth. Many of the questions they asked, he couldn’t answer but seemingly did the best he could. In the heat of the action, he explained, a lot of details went by him.

One of them said, “Why in the world did you switch off your scanners just at the point when you went into action? It would have been invaluable to have been able to watch the progress of the attack.”

Don looked at him and said, “Yes, sir, but I had just been ordered by my fleet admiral not to attack. I was afraid that if I continued to communicate he would give me further orders that I felt I couldn’t obey, not if the Kraden wasn’t going to get away.”

The Senior Admiral shook his head in rejection but also in admiration. He said, “You are a very undisciplined young man, Lieutenant. In this case, thank the Almighty Ultimate. What did you think you were going to accomplish going in to attack?”

“I… I’m not sure I know, sir. I guess that I thought that I might be able to divert him for a short time. Keep him busy until the Monitors came up. I wasn’t as fast as he was by a long shot, but I was more maneuverable at short range. I… I didn’t expect to be able to do much more than a mosquito could to an elephant.”

One of the others shook his head. “You shouldn’t have been able to,” he muttered.

“Yes, sir,” Don said.

The screen before the Senior Admiral lit up and he glowered at it impatiently. He growled, “I thought I had given orders that we were not to be disturbed under any circumstances.”

But then he brought his eyes up and said, “The lieutenant has been taken out of our hands.” He looked at Don. “The President of the Solar System League has ordered that you immediately be flown to New Geneva.”

“Yes, sir,” Don said, coming to his feet. It was a relief, though he tried not to let that show in his face. These were not stupid men. It might have been only a matter of time before one of them asked some question that he couldn’t answer. Some question that would trip him up.

The Senior Admiral looked at the commodore and said, “Bernklau, see sub-lieutenant Mathers back to the Presidential Jet. It will not be necessary that you further accompany him.”

“Yes, sir,” the commodore said.

The Senior Admiral came back to Don. He said, “Sub-lieutenant Mathers, I congratulate you. You have conducted yourself in such manner that the whole human race can only be proud of you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Don said. He snapped the other a salute.

“It is I who should be saluting you,” the older man said, returning the courtesy.

Don Mathers had never before been in Switzerland. The aircraft swooped into the landing field near Lake Leman on the outskirts of New Geneva with precision, the precision to be expected of the pilots of the Presidential Jet. There was only a small group, not all uniformed, to greet the new celebrity. Evidently, his movements were still being concealed.

Don Mathers went through the standard amenities, failing to remember the name of a single one of the committee. This was piling up so fast that his thinking was in a continuous state of turmoil.

Three limousines sped up and he was ushered into the middle one. There were two uniformed, stolid-faced chauffeurs in the front. Only one of the welcoming delegation got into the back with him, an elderly man in formal morning clothes and with a red ribbon across his chest. Don had forgotten his name but obviously he was some high ranking mucky-muck.

The caravan took off and the other told Don, “We have reserved a suite for you at the Intercontinental. It is conveniently located near the Palais des Nations.”

Don knew what the Palais des Nations was. It was the parliament building of the Solar System League. First begun in 1929 for the League of Nations, later it had been taken over as the European Office of the United Nations Organization, and, after the coming of the Kradens and the institution of system-wide government, by the Solar System League. It was here that the president presided over the parliament, consisting of representatives from formerly sovereign nations on Earth and from all of the colonies.

As they progressed, his companion gave Don Mathers a running commentary, and it sounded as though he had been through it before and much more than once. “This is the Rue de la Servette. If we continued along it we would pass through the Place des 22 Cantons, cross the Rhone river and be in the oldest part of the city. It is quite attractive. Geneva was originally settled by the Romans but most of its older buildings today are medieval.”

Don, a product of modern North America, couldn’t have cared less.

The city was a far cry from those he was used to in North America. There were no hi-rises, no modern buildings at all for all practical purposes. There was little in the way of advertising and traffic seemed strangely slow, and even sparse. The pedestrians strolled, rather than walking briskly. Some of the side streets were winding and, of all things, cobbled.

The caravan turned left and they drove up to a side entry of a large, ultra-deluxe hotel. Doors were flung open by chauffeurs and the whole party hustled inside.

“You are being kept incognito until tomorrow,” his formally clad guide told him.

“What happens tomorrow?” Don said.

They were heading for an elevator bank in a wing of the hotel, avoiding entering the lobby.

“You are to be presented to the Parliament of the Solar System League, or at least to those elements of it that have had the time to arrive.”

They zipped up to the eighteenth floor of the hotel and Don was ushered into his suite.

When his guide had told him that they had reserved a suite for him, he had meant a suite. Other than the quarters of Lawrence Demming in Center City, Don had never seen anything like this.

His guide told him, “And this is Pierre, your majordomo.”

Pierre bowed slightly from the hips. He looked and dressed like a head waiter, Don decided. “At your service, sir,” he said in impeccable English.

The whole delegation had entered the suite and now stood in a group. Don wondered what the hell they were supposed to be doing. Thus far, aside from the handshakes and murmured greetings at the airport, they had accomplished nothing. He had a sneaking suspicion that the same group met all arriving VIPs. And did exactly what they were doing now. Nothing.

His guide, or whatever the hell he was, said, “And now, Lieutenant Mathers, it is to be assumed that you are fatigued and certainly need rest for tomorrow. I would suggest that you take your meals here in your suite, rather than enter the public dining room, where you might be recognized. The chef will make every effort to excel himself in your behalf. He has been let in on the secret of your indentity. His specialty is pieds de pore au madere.”

“Well… thanks,” Don said.

The delegation bowed themselves out.

Don tossed his hat to a side table and said to the flunky, “How about a drink?”

“Certainly, Monsieur.” The majordomo clapped his hands and a waiter materialized.

Don sunk down into a chair and eased his shoes off. The Presidential Jet had been stocked with a supply of uniforms and other clothing in anticipation of his needs, but they had slipped up on the shoes, which were a bit too tight.

“What do you drink around here?” he said.

“Monsieur, since the vineyards have been turned over to producing cereals, new wine vintages are no longer with us. However, the former manager of the Intercontinental was farsighted enough to lay down an extensive stock in the cellars. I can recommend a bottle of Silvaner.”

“Whatever that is,” Don said. “All right, well give it a try.”

Pierre said to the waiter, “A bottle of well-chilled Silvaner, Hans.”

The waiter disappeared.

Don said, “These damn shoes are too tight.”

Pierre said quickly, “I shall have a representative from the hotel shop come up immediately to fit you, sir.”

Don, in his stockinged feet, went over to the terrace and looked out over Lake Leman. It was a superlative view and as an attractive body of water as he had ever seen.

He said, “That’s a beautiful castle over there.”

Pierre said, “That is Chillon, Monsieur Mathers.

Immortalized by Lord Byron in his Prisoner of Chillon.”

Don had never heard of Lord Byron but didn’t want to show himself up to the servant. Almighty Ultimate, this was living. He had eaten and drunk like a king on the Presidential Jet but he couldn’t wait to get into the fleshpots of Geneva. This was living!

In the morning, they came for him, two Space Service colonels. By their insignia, both were commanders of Space Monitors.

Don didn’t have his cap on, so he didn’t salute. Not sure what this day held for him, he had refrained from getting even moderately drenched the night before and was now in good shape.

The first colonel said, snap in his voice, “The President of the Solar System League sends his compliments and requires that you attend an extraordinary session of the Parliament of the Solar System League.”

“Yes, sir,” Don said.

Pierre brought his hat.

They left formally, not speaking, eyes straight ahead.

This time Don Mathers was not shielded from the lobby. They marched out the front entry. There were four infantrymen there, all captains, but armed with laser rifles. They snapped to attention. Hotel guests and pedestrians stared. Don was still incognito. Geneva was used to VIPs but they didn’t recognize this one in the uniform of a space sub-lieutenant.

They drove in silence to the Palais des Nations.

At the entry, there was an honor guard of spacemen. They presented arms, or snapped to salute, as Don and his two colonels entered.

He was marched up this corridor, down that, and finally wound up in an enormous auditorium. He was marched to the podium. There were six men there, five seated, one standing. The one standing was a Black. Don obviously knew who he was. He also knew three of the others. They were continuously on the news.

The two colonels saluted, wheeled and marched off.

The Tri-Di cameras were already fully operational.

Kwame Kumasi, this decade’s President of the Solar System League, stepped forward. Don Mathers stood to rigid attention.

The President read the citation. It was short, as Galactic Medal of Honor citations always were.

“… for conspicuous gallantry far and beyond the call of duty, in which you single-handedly and against unbelievably desperate odds attacked and destroyed an enemy cruiser while piloting a One Man Scout armed only with a short beam flakflak gun.”

He pinned a small bit of metal and ribbon to Don Mathers’ tunic. The Galactic Medal of Honor was possibly the most insignificant looking medal in the history of military decorations. It was a tiny cross of platinum, on a red ribbon, without inscription.

The president, his ebony face beaming, said, “Colonel Mathers, only twelve of these decorations have ever been awarded in human history before.”

Don said, ” Sub-lieutenant Mathers, Mr. President.”

Kwame Kumasi smiled and said, “Donal Mathers, you are famed for the fact that you disobey the orders of even your highest ranking officers. However, as President of the Solar System League I am your ultimate commander-in-chief, and you must not contradict your commander-in-chief, Colonel Mathers.”

The packed chamber reverberated with cheers and applause.

When it had died somewhat, Don Mathers said simply, “But I only did my duty.”

It was a slogan that was to sweep the solar system. During the following months when anyone active in defense performed a task beyond the call of the expected, he or she invariably said, when commended, “But I only did my duty.”

The President looked into the face of Don Mathers and said, “As President of the Solar System League, I hold the most prestigous position for a member of the human race to achieve. However, Colonel Mathers… I wish I was you.”

At the time, it didn’t occur to Don Mathers that he was the thirteenth man to be awarded the Galactic Medal of Honor—the bearer of which could do no wrong.