Galactic Medal of Honor

by Mack Reynolds

  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.”

  V

  When Don Mathers reported for duty following his standard three weeks leave of absence, it was to find a message to report to Commodore Walt Bernklau.

  It hadn’t been the easiest three weeks he had ever spent. His mind had been in a state of agitation. As a matter of fact, he had never actually given Demming and Rostoff a definite answer. Had there been any way of substituting someone else to “discover” and “destroy” the Kraden cruiser without doubt they would have done it, and had Don Mathers eliminated so that he couldn’t expose the scheme. Don had no doubt that both of them had men on their payrolls who would do anything, literally, up to and including murder. But the thing was, nobody but Don Mathers would do. The derelict Kraden spaceship was drifting in his sector. Only he would normally discover it. It had been a far-out fluke that the two interplanetary magnates and Deming’s secretary had come across the cruiser on their way between Io and Earth. No, it was either Don Mathers or nobody.

  But he burned hot and cold. The stakes were so damnably high, but the risks went with them. There wasn’t the chance of an icicle on Mercury but that he would be shot if the scheme was revealed. Demming and Rostoff possibly might buy their way out; without doubt they had a number of politicians on their payrolls. But not a sub-lieutenant in the Space Service. They’d court-martial and shoot him before the week was out.

  He dismissed the automated hovercab which had brought him out to the base, summoned one of the hovercarts and dialed the Space Command Headquarters of the Third Division.

  He duplicated the route he had taken the last time he had reported to the commodore, duplicated the snappy salute to his commanding officer when he was finally before him.

  The commodore, wearing his usual weary air, looked down into his desk screen. He said, “Sub-lieutenant Donald Mathers’ material
, please.”

  He scrutinized the screen for a time before looking up to say, “Since your report on your last aborted patrol, Lieutenant, I’ve had some second thoughts.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It occurs to me that you’re rather badly in need of a psych. I’ve gone over your record in some detail.”

  Don said, trying to hide the desperation in his voice, “Sir, I’d like to avoid that, if I can.”

  The other was impatient. He shifted his small body in his swivel chair and said, “Lieutenant, there is a good deal of superstitious nonsense about the effects of being psyched. Ninety-five percent of those who are thus treated have no negative results. Even those who react adversely usually recover eventually.”

  Like hell they did, Don Mathers told himself. He had seen some of the walking zombies. Even those who supposedly successfully took the treatment were never again quite the same. Something was gone out of them. Oh, sure, they became dependable pilots again. If anything, more dependable, more efficient than those who had never been psyched. But something was gone out of them. He knew that elements in the upper echelons of the Space Service were advocating that every pilot in the fleet be given the treatment for the sake of added efficiency. But thus far the action hadn’t been taken. It was well known that the top brass, perfectly willing to psych lowly pilots, were not volunteering to go through the process themselves.