The Commodore smiled sourly at him. "I'm afraid I'm being a wet blanket
thrown over your big bust of a celebration, Captain. Tell me, how does
it feel to hold the system's highest award?"
* * * * *
Don shook his head, marveling. "Fantastic, sir. Of course, like any
member of the services I've always known of the Medal of Honor, but ...
well, nobody ever expects to get it." He added wryly, "Certainly not
while he's still alive and in health. Why, sir, do you realize that I
haven't been able to spend one unit of money since?" There was an
element of awe in his voice. "Sir, do you realize that not even a beggar
will take currency from me?"
The Commodore nodded in appreciation. "You must understand the position
you occupy, Captain. Your feat was inspiring enough, but that's not all
of it. In a way you combine a popular hero with an _Unknown Soldier_
element. Awarding you the Galactic Medal of Honor makes a symbol of you.
A symbol representing all the millions of unsung heroes and heroines who
have died fighting for the human species. It's not a light burden to
carry on your shoulders, Captain Mathers. I would imagine it a very
humbling honor."
"Well, yes, sir," Don said.
The Commodore switched his tone of voice. "That brings us to the
present, and what your next assignment is to be. Obviously, it wouldn't
do for you to continue in a Scout. Big brass seems to be in favor of
using you for morale and ..."
Don Mathers cleared his throat and interrupted. "Sir, I've decided to
drop out of the Space Service."
"Drop out!" The other stared at Mathers, uncomprehending. "We're at war,
Captain!"
Don nodded seriously. "Yes, sir. And what you just said is true. I
couldn't be used any longer in a Scout. I'd wind up selling bonds and
giving talks to old ladies' clubs."
"Well, hardly that, Captain."
"No, sir, I think I'd really be of more use out of the services. I'm
tendering my resignation and making arrangements to help in the
developing of Callisto and the other Jupiter satellites."
The Commodore said nothing. His lips seemed whiter than before.
Don Mathers said doggedly, "Perhaps my prestige will help bring
volunteers to work the new mines out there. If they see me, well,
sacrificing, putting up with the hardships ..."
The Commodore said evenly, "Mr. Mathers, I doubt if you will ever have
to put up with hardships again, no matter where you make your abode.
However, good luck. You deserve it."
* * * * *
Outside headquarters, Don Mathers summoned a cab and dialed his hotel.
On the way over, he congratulated himself. It had gone easier than he
had expected, really. Although, come to think of it, there wasn't a damn
thing that the brass could do.
He had to laugh to himself.
Imagine if he'd walked in on the Commodore a month ago and announced
that he was going to _drop out_ of the Space Service. He would have been
dropped all right, all right. Right into the lap of a squadron of psycho
experts.
At the hotel he shucked his uniform, an action which gave him
considerable gratification, and dressed in one of the score of civilian
costumes that filled his closets to overflowing. He took pleasure in
estimating what this clothing would have cost in terms of months of
Space Service pay for a Sub-lieutenant or even a Captain. _Years, my
boy, years._
He looked at himself in the dressing-room mirror with satisfaction,
then turned to the autobar and dialed himself a stone-age-old Metaxa.
He'd lost his taste for the plebian tequila in the last few days.
He held the old Greek brandy to the light and wondered pleasurably what
the stuff cost, per pony glass. Happily, he'd never have to find out.
He tossed the drink down and whistling, took his private elevator to the
garages in the second level of the hotel's basement floors. He selected
a limousine and dialed the Interplanetary Lines building.
He left the car at the curb before the main entrance, ignoring all
traffic regulations and entered the building, still whistling softly and
happily to himself. He grinned when a small crowd gathered outside and
smiled and clapped their hands. He grinned and waved to them.
A receptionist hurried to him and he told her he wanted to see either
Mr. Demming or Mr. Rostoff, and then when she offered to escort him
personally he noticed her pixie-like cuteness and said, "What're you
doing tonight, Miss?"
Her face went pale. "Oh, anything, sir," she said weakly.