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
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 canape and the cart moved on to
