Alicia.
Demming indicated the wine to Don. “Edelbee-rensauslese Riesling,” he said.
Don tasted and blinked. He said, “But, it’s real wine.”
“Yes, of course,” the other said in fat satisfaction, and taking another sizable swig. The wine waiter was there immediately to refill the glass to the two thirds level.
Don said, in puzzlement, “But I thought that the government had terminated wine grapes so that the acreage could be devoted to more necessary produce.”
Demming leered smugly. “I prevailed upon the authorities to allow me to continue production on small, but the very best, vineyards in France, Germany, Italy and Hungary, in the name of retaining an art that has come down through the centuries. My vineyards, then, are in the way of being museums. A manner of maintaining a tradition.” He winked one of his pig eyes. “Even the President often dines with me and appreciates my vintages.” He chuckled heavily. “He wouldn’t dare serve wine in his own palace. The outcry in such areas as what we once called France, would reach the skies, if they knew his privilege.”
The hors d’oeuvre cart had reached Don Mathers.
Demming pointed out several, judiciously. “I can recommend Choux au Caviar Mimosa.”
One of the waiters behind Don’s chair immediately served the guest two puffs overflowing with gray-black fish eggs.
Don looked blank. “Caviar?” he said. “I’ve read about it but I didn’t know it was still being produced.”
Demming said, “I have my own artificial lake in the Caspian Mountains. It’s stocked with sturgeons and produces sufficient roe to provide me and some of my closest associates. And you must try some of this Anchovy Garlic Canape and a bit of this Pistachio Cheese Roll.”
Don’s plate was soon overflowing. He couldn’t have eaten this much food even if nothing else was to come. He looked from the side of his eyes at Alicia’s plate. She had selected three small tasties.
When the cart got to Demming it was another thing. He not only selected more than he had recommended to Don, but half again as much.
Course followed course, each with a different wine. Soup, shellfish, poultry—in this case, wild duck. Where in the hell did you get wild duck these days? Don thought. All came with various vegetable dishes, done up in such a way that sometimes Don couldn’t recognize the vegetables. He was surfeited before he had finished the sauteed soft-shell crabs.
The women ate moderately, especially Alicia, who also no more than sipped at the continuing selection of wines. Don sipped too. He had done his share of sampling the Riesling and the rose that went with the shellfish but gave up when it came to the heavier and heavier reds. He felt he was rapidly becoming drenched. Now he realized that he never should have taken those three cognacs earlier.
The climax came when one of the servants brought in an enormous platter of meat and placed it before the billionaire interplanetary tycoon, whose eyes lit up.
“Ah,” he said, all but drooling. “Carre d’Agneau a la Boulangere.” He looked at Don. “Do you like broiled rack of lamb?”
“Not today,” Don said definitely.
The women also refused.
There must have been six to eight pounds of the rack of lamb. As Don sat there, staring in fascination, the glutton ate all of it save scraps.
As he messily tore the meat apart and gorged himself with it, he made conversation with Don Mathers.
“When are you due for your next patrol?”
“In three weeks.”
The pig eyes narrowed. “Couldn’t you, ah, volunteer to go out sooner?”
“They’d consider it strange,” Don said.
The other swigged down heavy Burgundy before returning to the lamb.
“Why?”
“I doubt if in the history of One Man Scouts any pilot has volunteered to go out before ordered. It’s not so bad, possibly, in the bigger spacecraft but the One Man Scouts are breeding grounds for space cafard.”
“So,” Demming said, around a bone which he had in his fat hands and was greasing his mouth with, “it’ll be three weeks before you head out?”
“Yes,” Don said.
“Head out where?” Alicia said, disinterestedly.
“Into deep space,” Don said, viewing Lawrence Demming. “Looking for Kradens.”
V
When Don Mathers reported for duty following his standard three weeks leave of absence, it was to find a message to report to Commodore Walt Bernklau.
It hadn’t been the easiest three weeks he had ever spent. His mind had been in a state of agitation. As a matter of fact, he had never actually given Demming and Rostoff a definite answer. Had there been any way of substituting someone else to “discover” and “destroy” the Kraden cruiser without doubt they would have done it, and had Don Mathers eliminated so that he couldn’t expose the scheme. Don had no doubt that both of them had men on their payrolls who would do anything, literally, up to and including murder. But the thing was, nobody but Don Mathers would do. The derelict Kraden spaceship was drifting in his sector. Only he would normally discover it. It had been a far-out fluke that the two interplanetary magnates and Deming’s secretary had come across the cruiser on their way between Io and Earth. No, it was either Don Mathers or nobody.
But he burned hot and cold. The stakes were so damnably high, but the risks went with them. There wasn’t the chance of an icicle on Mercury but that he would be shot if the scheme was revealed. Demming and Rostoff possibly might buy their way out; without doubt they had a number of politicians on their payrolls. But not a sub- lieutenant in the Space Service. They’d court-martial and shoot him before the week was out.
He dismissed the automated hovercab which had brought him out to the base, summoned one of the hovercarts and dialed the Space Command Headquarters of the Third Division.
He duplicated the route he had taken the last time he had reported to the commodore, duplicated the snappy salute to his commanding officer when he was finally before him.
The commodore, wearing his usual weary air, looked down into his desk screen. He said, “Sub-lieutenant Donald Mathers’ material, please.”
He scrutinized the screen for a time before looking up to say, “Since your report on your last aborted patrol, Lieutenant, I’ve had some second thoughts.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It occurs to me that you’re rather badly in need of a psych. I’ve gone over your record in some detail.”
Don said, trying to hide the desperation in his voice, “Sir, I’d like to avoid that, if I can.”
The other was impatient. He shifted his small body in his swivel chair and said, “Lieutenant, there is a good deal of superstitious nonsense about the effects of being psyched. Ninety-five percent of those who are thus treated have no negative results. Even those who react adversely usually recover eventually.”
Like hell they did, Don Mathers told himself. He had seen some of the walking zombies. Even those who supposedly successfully took the treatment were never again quite the same. Something was gone out of them. Oh, sure, they became dependable pilots again. If anything, more dependable, more efficient than those who had never been psyched. But something was gone out of them. He knew that elements in the upper echelons of the Space Service were advocating that every pilot in the fleet be given the treatment for the sake of added efficiency. But thus far the action hadn’t been taken. It was well known that the top brass, perfectly willing to psych lowly pilots, were not volunteering to go through the process themselves.
He said stiffly, “Sir, I would like the opportunity to prove that I don’t need a psych.”
The commodore was irritated. “Very well, Lieutenant. It is seldom ordered, though there are exceptions. Ordinarily, it is more or less of a voluntary thing taken on when a pilot realizes he has irrevocably shot his efficiency and patriotically wishes to return to top form.”
