Max Rostoff handed back the I.D. card to Don and picked up a Solar
System sector chart from the short-legged table that sat between the
two 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 his
cordial and said, "Very well. How would you like to hold the Galactic
Medal 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 me
to 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 as
I 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 of
the 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, "Tell
him."
Max Rostoff took up the ball. "A few days ago, Mr. Demming and I flew in
from Io on one of the Interplanetary Lines freighters. As you probably
know, they are completely automated. We were alone in the craft."
"So?" Without invitation, Don Mathers leaned forward and dialed himself
another tequila. He made it a double this time. 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.
"Lieutenant, how would you like to capture a Kraden light cruiser? If
I'm not incorrect, probably Miro class."
Don laughed nervously, not knowing what the other was at but still
feeling the growing excitement. He said, "In all the history of the war
between our species, we've never captured a Kraden ship intact. It'd
help 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 are
you talking about?"
"In your sector," Rostoff said, "we ran into a derelict Miro class
cruiser. The crew--repulsive creatures--were all dead. Some thirty of
them. Mr. Demming and I assumed that the craft had been hit during one
of the actions between our fleet 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." Rostoff added softly, "One has
to approach quite close before any signs of battle are evident. The ship
looks intact."
Demming opened his eyes again and said, "And you're going to capture
it."
Don Mathers bolted his tequila, licked a final drop from the edge of his
lip. "And why should that rate the most difficult decoration to achieve
that we've ever instituted?"
"Because," Rostoff told him, his tone grating mockery, "you're going to
radio in reporting a Miro class Kraden cruiser. We assume your superiors
will order you to stand off, that help is coming, that your tiny 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 fifty to one, Mr. Rostoff. At
least."
Demming grunted. "There would be little doubt of you getting the
Galactic Medal of Honor, Lieutenant, especially since Colin Casey is
dead and there isn't a living bearer of the award. Max, another drink
for the Lieutenant."
Don said, "Look. Why? I think you might be right about getting the
award. But why, and why me, and what's your percentage?"
* * * * *
Demming muttered, "Now we get to the point." He settled back in his
chair 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 on
Callisto alone may mean the needed power edge that can give us the
victory over the Kradens. Whether or not that is so, someone is going to
make literally billions out of this new frontier."
"I still don't see ..."
"Lieutenant Mathers," Rostoff said patiently, "the bearer of the
Galactic Medal of Honor is above law. He carries with him an unalienable
prestige of such magnitude that ... Well, let me use an example. Suppose
a bearer of the 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?"
Demming grunted. "And suppose there were a few, ah, crossed wires in the
manipulation of the corporation's 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 business man.
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 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 a
three-way partnership, Mathers. You, with your Medal of Honor, are our
front man. Mr. Demming supplies the initial capital to get underway. And
I ..." He twisted his mouth with evil self-satisfaction. "I was present
when the Kraden ship was discovered, so I'll have to be cut in. I'll
supply the brains."
Demming grunted his disgust, but added nothing.
Don Mathers said slowly, looking down at the empty glass he was twirling
in his fingers, "Look, we're up to our necks 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 like throwing rocks
under it."
Demming closed his eyes.
Rostoff said, "Lieutenant, it's a dog-eat-dog society. If we eventually
lick the Kradens, one of the very reasons will be because we're 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, it works, or at least has so far. 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?"
"Why not, if you--or we--can do it honestly?"
Demming's grunt was nearer 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. Just
between the three of us, wouldn't you like out? There are a full billion
men and women in our armed forces, you can be spared. Let's say 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?"
* * * * *
It was there all right, drifting slowly. Had he done a more thorough job
of his patrol, last time, he should have stumbled upon it himself.
If he had, there was no doubt that he would have at first reported it as
an active enemy cruiser. Demming and Rostoff had been right. The Kraden
ship looked untouched by battle.
That is, if you approached it from the starboard and slightly abaft the
beam. From that angle, in particular, it looked untouched.
It had taken several circlings of the craft to come to that conclusion.
Don Mathers was playing it very safe. This thing wasn't quite so simple
as the others had thought. He wanted no slip-ups. His hand went to a
food compartment and emerged with a space thermo which should have
contained fruit juice, but didn't. He took a long pull at it.
Finally he dropped back into the position he'd decided upon, and flicked
the switch of his screen.
A base lieutenant's face illuminated it. He yawned and looked
questioningly at Don Mathers.
Don said, allowing a touch of excitement in his voice, "Mathers, Scout
V-102, Sector A22-K223."
"Yeah, yeah ..." the other began, still yawning.
"I've spotted a Kraden cruiser. Miro class, I think."
* * * * *
The lieutenant flashed into movement. He slapped a button before him,
the screen blinked, to be lit immediately again.
A gray-haired Fleet Admiral looked up from papers on his desk.
"Yes?"
Don Mathers rapped, "Miro class Kraden in sector A22-K223, sir. I'm
lying about fifty miles off. Undetected thus far--I think. He hasn't
fired on me yet, at least."
The Admiral was already doing things with his hands. Two subalterns came
within range of the screen, took orders, dashed off. The Admiral was
rapidly firing orders into two other screens. After a moment, he looked
up at Don Mathers again.
"Hang on, Lieutenant. Keep him under observation as long as you can.
What're your exact coordinates?"
Don gave them to him and waited.
A few minutes later the Admiral returned to him. "Let's take a look at
it, Lieutenant."
Don Mathers adjusted the screen to relay the Kraden cruiser. His palms
were moist now, but everything was going to plan. He wished that he
could take another drink.
The Admiral said, "Miro class, all right. Don't get too close,
Lieutenant. They'll blast you to hell and gone. We've got a task force
within an hour of you. Just hang on."
"Yes, sir," Don said. An hour. He was glad to know that. He didn't have
much time in which to operate.
He let it go another five minutes, then he said, "Sir, they're
increasing speed."
"Damn," the Admiral said, then rapid fired some more into his other
screens, barking one order after another.
Don said, letting his voice go very flat, "I'm going in, sir. They're
putting on speed. In another five minutes they'll be underway to the
point where I won't be able to follow. They'll get completely clear."