Medal of Honor, Page 2

billbefore Don Mathers. "The boss said to give you this."

  It was a thousand-unit note. Don Mathers had never seen a bill of thatdenomination before, nor one of half that.

  He pursed his lips, picked it up and looked at it carefully.Counterfeiting was a long lost art. It didn't even occur to him that itmight be false.

  "All right," Don said, coming to his feet. "Let's go see the boss, Ihaven't anything else to do and his calling card intrigues me."

  At the curb, one of them summoned a cruising cab with his wrist screenand the three of them climbed into it. The one who had given Don thelarge denomination bill dialed the address and they settled back.

  "So what does the boss want with me?" Don said.

  They didn't bother to answer.

  The Interplanetary Lines building was evidently their destination. Thecar whisked them up to the penthouse which topped it, and they landed onthe terrace.

  Seated in beach chairs, an autobar between them, were two men. They wereboth in their middle years. The impossibly corpulent one, Don Mathersvaguely recognized. From a newscast? From a magazine article? The othercould have passed for a video stereotype villain, complete to thebuilt-in sneer. Few men, in actuality, either look like or sound likethe conventionalized villain. This was an exception, Don decided.

  He scowled at them. "I suppose one of you is the boss," he said.

  "That's right," the fat one grunted. He looked at Don's two escorts."Scotty, you and Rogers take off."

  They got back into the car and left.

  The vicious-faced one said, "This is Mr. Lawrence Demming. I am hissecretary."

  Demming puffed, "Sit down, Lieutenant. What'll you have to drink? Mysecretary's name is Rostoff. Max Rostoff. Now we all know each other'snames. That is, assuming you're Sub-lieutenant Donal Mathers."

  Don said, "Tequila."

  * * * * *

  Max Rostoff dialed the drink for him and, without being asked, anothercordial for his employer.

  Don placed Demming now. Lawrence Demming, billionaire. Robber baron, hemight have been branded in an earlier age. Transportation baron of thesolar system. Had he been a pig he would have been butchered long ago;he was going unhealthily to grease.

  Rostoff said, "You have identification?"

  Don Mathers fingered through his wallet, brought forth his I.D. card.Rostoff handed him his tequila, took the card and examined it carefully,front and back.

  Demming huffed and said, "Your collar insignia tells me you pilot aScout. What sector do you patrol, Lieutenant?"

  Don sipped at the fiery Mexican drink, looked at the fat man over theglass. "That's military information, Mr. Demming."

  * * * * *

  Demming made a move with his plump lips. "Did Scotty give you athousand-unit note?" He didn't wait for an answer. "You took it. Eithergive it back or tell me what sector you patrol, Lieutenant."

  Don Mathers was aware of the fact that a man of Demming's positionwouldn't have to go to overmuch effort to acquire such information,anyway. It wasn't of particular importance.

  He shrugged and said, "A22-K223. I fly the V-102."

  Max Rostoff handed back the I.D. card to Don and picked up a SolarSystem sector chart from the short-legged table that sat between thetwo of them and checked it. He said, "Your information was correct, Mr.Demming. He's the man."

  Demming shifted his great bulk in his beach chair, sipped some of hiscordial and said, "Very well. How would you like to hold the GalacticMedal of Honor, Lieutenant?"

  Don Mathers laughed. "How would you?" he said.

  Demming scowled. "I am not jesting, Lieutenant Mathers. I never jest.Obviously, I am not of the military. It would be quite impossible for meto gain such an award. But you are the pilot of a Scout."

  "And I've got just about as much chance of winning the Medal of Honor asI have of giving birth to triplets."

  The transportation magnate wiggled a disgustingly fat finger at him,"I'll arrange for that part of it."

  Don Mathers goggled him. He blurted finally, "Like hell you will.There's not enough money in the system to fiddle with the awarding ofthe Medal of Honor. There comes a point, Demming, where even _your_dough can't carry the load."

  Demming settled back in his chair, closed his eyes and grunted, "Tellhim."

  Max Rostoff took up the ball. "A few days ago, Mr. Demming and I flew infrom Io on one of the Interplanetary Lines freighters. As you probablyknow, they are completely automated. We were alone in the craft."

  "So?" Without invitation, Don Mathers leaned forward and dialed himselfanother tequila. He made it a double this time. A feeling of excitementwas growing within him, and the drinks he'd had earlier had worn away.Something very big, very, very big, was developing. He hadn't thevaguest idea what.

  "Lieutenant, how would you like to capture a Kraden light cruiser? IfI'm not incorrect, probably Miro class."

  Don laughed nervously, not knowing what the other was at but stillfeeling the growing excitement. He said, "In all the history of the warbetween our species, we've never captured a Kraden ship intact. It'dhelp a lot if we could."

  "This one isn't exactly intact, but nearly so."

  Don looked from Rostoff to Demming, and then back. "What in the hell areyou talking about?"

  "In your sector," Rostoff said, "we ran into a derelict Miro classcruiser. The crew--repulsive creatures--were all dead. Some thirty ofthem. Mr. Demming and I assumed that the craft had been hit during oneof the actions between our fleet and theirs and that somehow both sideshad failed to recover the wreckage. At any rate, today it is floating,abandoned of all life, in your sector." Rostoff added softly, "One hasto approach quite close before any signs of battle are evident. The shiplooks intact."

  Demming opened his eyes again and said, "And you're going to captureit."

  Don Mathers bolted his tequila, licked a final drop from the edge of hislip. "And why should that rate the most difficult decoration to achievethat we've ever instituted?"

  "Because," Rostoff told him, his tone grating mockery, "you're going toradio in reporting a Miro class Kraden cruiser. We assume your superiorswill order you to stand off, that help is coming, that your tiny Scoutisn't large enough to do anything more than to keep the enemy underobservation until a squadron arrives. But you will radio back that theyare escaping and that you plan to attack. When your reinforcementsarrive, 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 Scoutagainst a Miro class cruiser? At least fifty to one, Mr. Rostoff. Atleast."

  Demming grunted. "There would be little doubt of you getting theGalactic Medal of Honor, Lieutenant, especially since Colin Casey isdead and there isn't a living bearer of the award. Max, another drinkfor the Lieutenant."

  Don said, "Look. Why? I think you might be right about getting theaward. But why, and why me, and what's your percentage?"

  * * * * *

  Demming muttered, "Now we get to the point." He settled back in hischair again and closed his eyes while his secretary took over.

  Max Rostoff leaned forward, his wolfish face very serious. "Lieutenant,the exploitation of the Jupiter satellites is in its earliest stages.There is every reason to believe that the new sources of radioactives onCallisto alone may mean the needed power edge that can give us thevictory over the Kradens. Whether or not that is so, someone is going tomake literally billions out of this new frontier."

  "I still don't see ..."

  "Lieutenant Mathers," Rostoff said patiently, "the bearer of theGalactic Medal of Honor is above law. He carries with him an unalienableprestige of such magnitude that ... Well, let me use an example. Supposea bearer of the Medal of Honor formed a stock corporation to exploitthe pitchblende of Callisto. How difficult would it be for him todispose of the stock?"
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  Demming grunted. "And suppose there were a few, ah, crossed wires in themanipulation of the corporation's business?" He sighed deeply. "Believeme, Lieutenant Mathers, there are an incredible number of laws whichhave accumulated down through the centuries to hamper the business man.It is a continual fight to be able to carry on at all. The ability to dono legal wrong would be priceless in the development of a new frontier."He sighed again, so deeply as to make his bulk quiver. "Priceless."

  Rostoff laid it on the line, his face a leer. "We are offering you athree-way partnership, Mathers. You, with your Medal of Honor, are