Galactic Medal of Honor

by Mack Reynolds

  “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?”

  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 l
iterally 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?”