Galactic Medal of Honor

by Mack Reynolds

  However, Don Mathers knocked back the slug of brandy with his now customary stiff-wristed motion.

  He had been in space. The Almighty Ultimate knew he had been in space. He had even been on Callisto twice. Once had been more than enough. He couldn’t understand how anyone, such as Dwight Schmidt, could spend the better part of his life there. No matter what the drive.

  The next big one he took was possibly a month later.

  He had been fielding them as best he could, spending two or three hours a day at it. He hated Si Mullens and his brainstorm. Now there was no avoiding these people. He had to listen to them. Sometimes, he wondered if he hadn’t been better off as a One Man Scout pilot. And the hell with the Galactic Medal of Honor.

  But no. There was no man on Earth who ate better than he did, drank better than he did, laid a more beautiful woman than he did. And, in the privacy of his own quarters, dressed better than he did. Expenses were meaningless. If he had wanted a half dozen Rembrandts he could have had them, if he had given a good goddamn about Rembrandts.

  Besides, he was free of the Space Service and of the One Man Scouts. He was free of them. Demming and Rostoff had suggested that it might be well for him to take a trip to Callisto for publicity reasons, but for once he could tell them to stick it up their asses. He was never going to go into space again, short of being chained and dragged. Si Mullens could write all the press releases he wanted about Don’s burning desire to get back into space, and he could stick such releases up his ass.

  This time it was a committee, two elderly women and a middle-aged man. And all three looked anxious.

  They went through the usual routine of introductions and Don taking their compliments and congratulations. Dirck Bosch got them seated and then took orders for one coffee and two soft drinks. They didn’t particularly look as though they wanted the refreshments but who would turn down the opportunity to be able to say later that they’d had a drink with the bearer of the Galactic Medal of Honor?

  When all were settled down, Don smiled encouragingly and said, “And now what can I do for you?”

  They looked from one to the other and evidently decided to let the man become the spokesman.

  He put down his coffee and said, “We’re stockholders, or were, in Callisto Pitchblende, Incorporated.”

  Don nodded. He had never heard of the outfit.

  The man said, “I don’t know if you know about the early days of the company. It started more or less from scratch, compared to most interplanetary businesses. On a shoestring, so to speak. It was largely financed by a good many people who didn’t have a great deal to invest. But the promised dividends made it look like a good investment and it turned out to be just that.” He hesitated.

  Don nodded encouragingly but inwardly he knew what was coming and this was going to be one of the bad ones.

  The other went on doggedly. “A lot of us stockholders had put everything we had into Callisto Pitchblende, life savings, that sort of thing. Most of us depended on the dividends to live. Some of us had no other income at all. Most of us, perhaps. Well, at any rate, when your corporation took us over, it issued one common share of your Radioactives Mining Corporation for each share of our company. And we’re just as patriotic as anyone else. Nobody complained. But then, last month, it came out that your corporation was going to pay only a three percent dividend.”

  One of the women said, desperation in her voice, “That’s not enough to keep up with inflation. The way inflation is going, in five years my shares of stock won’t be worth the paper.”

  The other woman said, “And now with the new laws, we can’t even sell our shares.”

  Don frowned at her. “How do you mean?”

  Dirck Bosch cleared his throat, “Colonel Mathers, the new law pertaining to the corporation. For at least ten years, anyone owning shares cannot sell them.”

  Don looked at him blankly.

  The committee waited.

  Don said finally, “This is not my particular field. Ill turn you over to one of my associates. Dirck, will you take these ladies and gentleman to Mr. Rostoff’s office?” He stood to see them to the door.

  Behind their backs, Dirck Bosch shook his head in resignation, but escorted the others, who paused long enough to shake hands with Don once again. They shook quite enthusiastically.

  When they were gone, Don Mathers got out his bottle of cognac. He took a hefty slug from it, then reached over and picked up a half full glass of the soft drink Bosch had brought one of the women and used it for a chaser.

  He was sitting there, breathing deeply, the bottle still on his desk, when Maximilian Rostoff came bursting in, shortly after followed by the Belgian secretary.

  Rostoff, his face livid, ripped out, “What’s the idea of pushing off these stupid marks on me? What do you think we gave you the job for? I can’t waste my time cooling indignant suckers.”

  Don flushed angrily. “Look,” he said. “Don’t push me too far. You need me. Plenty. In fact, from what I can see, this corporation needs me more than it does you.” He was scornful. “Originally, the idea was that you put up the money. What money? All the pseudo-dollar credit needed is coming from sale of nearly worthless common stock. You were also to put up the brains. What brains? We’ve hired the best mining engineers, the best technicians, the best scientists, to do their end, the best corporation executives to do that end. You and Demming aren’t needed.”

  Max Rostoff’s face had grown wolfishly thin in his anger. He took in the open bottle on the desk. “Look, bottle-baby,” he sneered, “you’re the only one who’s vulnerable in this set-up. There’s not a single thing that Demming and I can be held accountable for. You have no beefs coming, for that matter. You’re getting everything you ever wanted. You’ve got a swanky place to live in. You eat the best food in the solar system. And, most important of all to a rummy, you drink the best guzzle and as much of it as you want. What’s more, unless either Demming or I go to the bother, you’ll never be exposed. You’ll live your life out being the biggest hero in the system.”

  It was Don Mathers’ turn to sneer. “What do you mean, I’m the only one vulnerable? There’s no evidence against me, Rostoff, and you know it. Who’d listen to you if you sounded off? I burned that Kraden cruiser until there wasn’t a sign to be found that would indicate it wasn’t operational when I first spotted it.”

  Rostoff snorted amusement, or as near to amusement as he was capable of. He said, “Don’t be an ass, Mathers. We took a series of photos of that derelict when we stumbled on it. Not only can we prove that you didn’t knock it out, we can prove that it was in good shape before you worked it over. I even took some shots in the interior. I imagine that Space Fleet technicians would have loved to have seen the inner workings of that Kraden cruiser—before you loused it up.”

  “If you opened up on me, you’d be revealed too.”

  “No, we wouldn’t,” Rostoff laughed. “We could announce that we’d been just about ready to reveal the presence of the derelict when we were flabbergasted to find that you claimed to have destroyed it. We hardly knew what to do when you received the decoration. We were afraid of disrupting solar system morale.”

  Don was speechless.

  Rostoff chuckled flatly. “I wonder what kind of a court-martial they give to an interplanetary hero who turns out to be a saboteur.”

  XVII

  After Rostoff had left, slamming the door behind him, Don grabbed up the bottle of cognac and took a deep swig. Then he slapped it down to the desk again and glared at Dirck Bosch.

  Bosch shook his head, his face, as usual, expressionless. “The bottle is no answer,” he said.

  “How the hell would you know, you plastic doll?”

  “Tried it.”

  “What is the answer?”

  The Belgian shook his head. “I don’t know. They are more ruthless men than we are… Don.” It was the first time he had ever called Don Mathers by his first name. “Men who are completely, ruthless c
an sweep all before them. Rostoff, and especially Demming, are probably the most ruthless men in the solar system.”

  Don took up the bottle again. He said, “Like a drink, Dirck?”

  The other shook his head. “No. Like I said, I tried that route. I don’t suppose you’ll be wanting to interview any more today.”

  “No,” Don said.

  Dirck Bosch left. To cancel any more of the day’s appointments, Don assumed.

  He took up the bottle and took one more belt from it then threw it against the wall. Screw Lawrence Demming’s million dollar guzzle.

  He went over to the room’s elevator door and flung it open. Inside, was one of the always present bodyguards.

  Don said, “Get the hell out.”

  The guard, whose name escaped Don, there were so damned many of them around the place, said, apologetically, “Colonel, my orders are…”

  . “You can stick your orders up your rosy-red rectum,” Don told him in the language of his cadet days. “Get out of there.”

  The guard got.

  Don said to the order screen, “Motor pool, in the basement.”

  “Yes, sir,” the screen said. “Colonel Mathers, our orders are…”

  “Screw your orders.”

  That command stopped the metallic computer voice only a moment. He had never heard a phone screen hum before. This one hummed only for the briefest of moments and then said, “The motor pool. Yes, Colonel Mathers.”

  In the motor pool, he summoned an automated hovercab. While he waited, several persons approached him, as usual. He snarled at them. When the cab came he got in and dialed the entertainment area of Center City.

  He began the biggest, most prolonged toot of his life, and in his time Donal Mathers had been on some king-sized binges.

  From time to time the fog would roll in on him and when it would roll out again he couldn’t remember where he was, how he had gotten there, or what had been happening just previously. Usually, he found himself in some sort of nightclub or bar. He would immediately order again and take up where he left off. He assumed that he was still in Center City but he couldn’t be sure. Hell, he might be in SanSan, London or Bombay.

  It was when he came out of one of these alcoholic dazes that he found her seated across the table from him. They were in some sort of night spot. He didn’t recognize it.

  He licked his lips and scowled at the taste of stale vomit. He slurred, “Hello, Di. Cheers, cheers. What spins?”

  Dian Keramikou said, “Hi, Don.”

  He said, “I thought you were on Callisto.”

  She laughed at him. “We went through all that. I’ve been back over a month. It seems that the gravity on Callisto didn’t” agree with me. It’s only slightly larger than Luna and with a gravity only two tenths that of Earth. I was continually nauseated. Finally, they shipped me home. This is the third time I’ve told you about it.”

  He said, “I must’ve blanked out. Guess I’ve been hitting it a little hard.”

  She laughed again. “You mean you don’t remember all the things you’ve been telling me the past two hours?” She was obviously quite sober. Dian had never been much for the guzzle.

  Don looked at her narrowly. “What’ve I been telling you for the past two hours?”

  “Mostly about how it was when you were a little boy. About fishing and your first .22 rifle. And the time you shot the squirrel and then felt so sorry.”

  “Oh,” Don said. He ran his right hand over his mouth.

  There was an ice bucket beside him, but the bottle of ersatz champagne in it was empty. He looked about the room for a waiter. People at nearby tables would shoot looks at him from time to time, but none approached. He got the feeling that possibly some of them had tried earlier and that he had run them off, probably nastily.

  Dian said gently, “Do you really think you need any more, Don?”

  He looked across the table at her. She was as beautiful as ever. Not a glamour type like Alicia, but for Donal Mathers the most beautiful woman in the world.

  Don said, “Look, I can’t remember. Did we get married, or something?”

  Her laugh trilled. “Married! I only ran into you two or three hours ago.” She hesitated before saying further, “I had assumed you were deliberately avoiding me. Center City isn’t as big as all that.”

  Don Mathers said shakily, “Well, if we’re not married, let me decide when I want another bottle of the grape.”

  Dian flushed. “Sorry, Don.”

  The headwaiter approached, bearing another magnum of the ersatz champagne. He bobbed at Don Mathers. “Having a good time, Colonel?”

  “Okay,” Don said shortly. When the other was gone he downed a full glass and felt the fumes almost immediately.

  He said to Dian, “I haven’t been avoiding you. We haven’t met is all. I don’t get out much—being a celebrity is a hazard—and didn’t know you were back on Earth. But even if I had known, I don’t know whether or not I’d have looked you up.” He twisted the knife in his own wound. “The way I remember it, the last time we saw each other, you gave me quite a slap in the face. The way I remember, you didn’t think I was hero enough for you.” He poured another glass of the wine, hating himself.

  Dian’s face was still flushed. She said, her voice very low, “I misunderstood you, Don. Even after your defeat of that Kraden cruiser, I still, I admit, think I basically misunderstood you. I told myself that it could have been done by any pilot of a One Man Scout, given that one in a million break. It just happened to be you, who made that suicide dive attack that succeeded. A thousand other pilots might have also taken the million-to-one suicide chance rather than let the Kraden escape.”

  “Yeah,” Don said. Even in his alcohol, he was surprised at her words. He said gruffly, “Sure, anybody might have done it. A pure fluke. But why’d you change your mind about me? How come the switch of heart?”

  “Because of what you’ve done since, darling.”

  He closed one eye, the better to focus. “Since?”

  He recognized the expression in her dark eyes. A touch of star gleam. That little girl receptionist when he had gone to the Interplanetary Lines Building, on his return from Geneva. The honey-mooner in Geneva. Even Alicia. In fact, in the past few months Don had seen it in many feminine eyes. And all for him.

  Dian said, “Instead of cashing in on your fame, you’ve devoted yourself, unselfishly, to something even more important to the defense than bringing down individual Kraden cruisers.”

  Don looked at her. He could feel a nervous tic beginning in his left eyebrow. Finally, he reached for the champagne bottle again and refilled his glass. He said, “You really go for this hero stuff, don’t you?”

  She said nothing, but the starshine was still in her eyes.

  He made his voice deliberately sour. “Look, suppose I asked you to come back to my place tonight?”

  “Yes,” she said, so softly as hardly to be heard.

  “And told you to bring your overnight bag along,” he added brutally.

  Dian Keramikou looked into his face. “Why are you twisting yourself, your inner-self, so hard, Don? Of course I’d come, if that’s what you wanted.”

  “And then,” he said flatly, “suppose I kicked you out in the morning?”

  Dian winced, but kept her eyes even with his, her own moist now. “You forget,” she whispered. “You have been awarded the Galactic Medal of Honor, the bearer of which can do no wrong.”

  “Almighty Ultimate!” Don muttered in soul defeat. He filled his glass, still once again, motioning to a nearby captain of waiters who was obviously hovering only for his orders.

  “Yes, Colonel,” the captain said.

  Don said, “Look, in about five minutes I’m going to pass out. See that I get to some hotel, any hotel, will you? And that this young lady gets to her apartment. And, waiter, just send my bill to the Radioactives Mining Corporation.”

  The other bowed. “The manager’s instructions, sir, are that
Colonel Mathers must never see a bill in this establishment.”

  Dian said, worrying over the new drink he was taking, “Don!”

  He didn’t look at her. He raised his glass to his mouth and shortly afterward the fog rolled in again.

  When it rolled out, the unfamiliar taste of black coffee.was in his mouth. He shook his head in an attempt to achieve clarity.

  He seemed to be in some working class type auto-cafeteria. Next to him, in a booth, was a fresh faced sub-lieutenant of the, Don squinted at the collar tabs, yes, of the Space Service. A One Man Scout pilot.

  Don stuttered, “Cheers. What spins?”

  The pilot said apologetically, “Sub-lieutenant Pierpont, sir. You seemed so far under the weather that I thought I’d best take over. No disrespect, sir.”

  “Oh, you did, eh?”

  “Well, yes sir. You were, well, reclining in the gutter, sir. In spite of your, well, appearance, your condition, I recognized you, sir.”

  “Oh,” Don got out. His stomach was an objecting turmoil.

  The lieutenant said, “Want to try some more of this coffee now, sir? Or maybe some soup or a sandwich?”

  Don groaned, “No, no thanks. I don’t think I could hold it down.”

  The pilot grinned. “You must have thrown a classic, Colonel Mathers.”

  “I guess so. Don’t call me Colonel. I’m a damned civilian now. What time is it? No, that doesn’t make any difference. What’s the date?”

  Pierpont told him and then added, “You’ll always be Colonel Mathers to me, sir. I have your photo-graph above my bed, and in the cockpit of my Scout.”

  The date was hard to believe. The last he could remember, he had been with Di. With Dian in some nightclub. He wondered how long ago that had been.

  He growled at the lieutenant, “Well, how go the One Man Scouts?”