Galactic Medal of Honor

Don stared at him.

The other managed a short wry laugh. “Colonel, can you imagine the advertising value both to my business here and to the manufacturers of the vehicle? I am sure that they will insist on reimbursing me when it is announced that the first car selected by the bearer of the Galactic Medal of Honor was one of theirs.”

That hadn’t occurred to Don either.

He said, simply, “Thanks. But I won’t be needing it long. I’ll return it when I leave Geneva.”

“Whatever you wish, Colonel. But you can take it back to America with you if you so desire.”

Don Mathers, set back by his reception at the auto agency, turned right at the Rue de Lausanne and headed down toward the center of town. The little sports hovercar was a dream to drive manually. Come to think of it, the car didn’t contain controls for automated driving. Evidently, this city hadn’t automated its streets. He was surprised; as capital of the Solar System League the town was one of the most important on Earth.

He drove around a bit through the medieval parts of Geneva, until something came to him. He had no wrist chronometer. That too had been left in his locker at the base when he had substituted coveralls for uniform preparatory to take off in his patrol. He could, of course, have dialed the hour on his new transceiver, which he had picked up on the plane along with fresh uniforms, but it was more time consuming than a wrist chronometer.”

The city was full of chronometer shops. He pulled up before a rather large one, and emerged from the car. There was a sidewalk cafe next to the shop, most of the tables taken. Someone spotted him and came to his feet and began to applaud. Others looked up in puzzlement, also recognized Don Mathers, and came to their feet and clapped their hands.

Don hurried into the shop. He’d be in another circle of autograph hunters, if he didn’t look out.

Inside the shop, a girl clerk looked up. Her eyes widened.

Don said, “I need a wrist chronometer.” The next came out automatically. “Not too expensive a one.”

Her hand trembling, she indicated showcase after showcase of instruments. She said, her voice trembling as well, “We handle Patek-Philippe, Vach-eron-Constantin, Audermars-Piguet and Piaget.”

By this time, every clerk and customer in the extensive shop were staring at him, to his discomfort.

He pointed out one of the chronometers, a Piaget. “How much is that one?”

She shook her head in confusion. She was a little tyke, about twenty-five, Don estimated, and with that overly-scrubbed appearance that only the Swiss seem to maintain.

She said, “There is no price. The manager would never forgive me if I charged you for one of our products. Neither would the Piaget Company.”

“Certainly not,” a voice from behind them said indignantly. The newcomer wore formal morning clothing and had a carnation in his lapel. He had in one hand a sheet of heavy white paper and in the other a stylo. The paper bore the store’s name in elaborate engraving. He said, “Colonel Mathers, I saw the broadcast—as did everyone else, I suppose—of you being awarded the Galactic Medal of Honor. Would it be possible to secure your signature? I would like to frame it and display it in this room.”

“Why, of course,” Don said, taking the stationery and putting it down on the showcase, the better to sign it. He wrote, Sub-lieutenant Donal Mathers.

When he looked up the Piaget was on the counter.

The shop manager smiled and said, “You have forgotten. It’s Colonel Mathers now. I am surprised that Kwame Kumasi didn’t make you a general.”

“I don’t know how to be a general,” Don said gruffly, and handing back the paper. “I’m not sure that I know how to be a colonel.”

He took up the chronometer and put it on his wrist. “Thanks,” he said and hurried out when he noticed that others in the store were beginning to close in on him.

He climbed back into the car and took off. The new chronometer revealed that it was lunch time. He had noted a restaurant as he drove down the Rue de Lausanne earlier, located right on the side of the lake. He headed back for it.

He parked in the lot and headed for the park with its outside tables. The panorama was wonderful. A maitre d’ sped up, flanked by two captains.

“Colonel Mathers,” the leader burbled delightedly, “what an honor that you have chosen La Perle du Lac in which to lunch.”

“Yeah,” Don said. “Is it possible for me to get a table off aways so that I won’t be bothered?”

“But certainly, Colonel.” The other led the way.

There was a small orchestra that was playing a currently popular air. They suddenly broke it off and went into the Interplanetary Anthem. Various of the diners looked up from conversation and food and spotted Don. There was a standing ovation. He nodded and smiled in embarrassment and hurried on to his remote table. This was beginning to wear on him a little.

After the meal, a fantastic production with several wines, Don finished his liqueur and asked the maitre d’ for his bill, even as he reached for his Universal Credit Card. All during the lunch the maitre d’ had hovered nearby. So did two waiters. He noticed them fending off other diners who from time to time tried to come over to him, menus and stylos in hand, obviously autograph hunting. He pretended not to see them.

The headwaiter smiled. “Colonel, I am afraid that your money is of no value in La Perle du Lac, not just for this luncheon but whenever you honor us.” He paused and added, “In fact, Colonel Mathers, I doubt if there is a restaurant in the solar system where your money holds value. Or that there ever will be.”

Don Mathers was taken aback all over again. He was only beginning to realize the ramifications of his Galactic Medal of Honor. He had entered his partnership with Demming and Rostoff with the expectation of becoming rich beyond dreams of avarice and he had some pretty avaricious dreams. But what use was it to be rich if you couldn’t spend your money?

Lunch over, he returned to the hotel to take a siesta. He had eaten and drank too much. He was going to have to watch this. He was a good trencherman but if he let himself go the way he had been doing lately he was going to wind up as pig-like as Demming.

He made the mistake of entering the Intercontinental through the main lobby and was immediately swarmed upon by news media people, hotel employees and guests. In fact, he suspected that some of them weren’t even guests but had come in off the streets to catch a glimpse of him. He was beginning to wonder how Tri-Di stars, top politicians, and other celebrities stood it, day in, day out.

He finally made his way through and to the elevators. At least they didn’t crowd in after him. He said into the order screen, “18th Floor.”

“Yes, Colonel Mathers,” the mechanical voice said.

He wondered if the hotel computer knew the face and name of all of the guests. He had never been in a hotel this luxurious before.

The identity screen of his suite picked him up upon his approach and the door swung open.

Only a couple of yards beyond was Pierre, his majordomo. Had the man been standing there, awaiting him, all this time? It was more likely, he decided, that one of the reception clerks had phoned up to alert the servant.

Don tossed his hat to one side and said peevishly, “Listen, Pierre, I want some civilian clothes. Everybody recognizes me in this uniform. I’m evidently a seven-day wonder.”

Pierre said, with his little bow, “Of course, Monsieur. But I rather doubt, Colonel Mathers that the wonder will be over in seven days. After all, you are the only man in the system to hold your decoration. I shall send to the men’s shop for tailors.”

Don said, not as graciously as he might have, “I haven’t the time to have something tailored. I’ll be wanting to go out tonight.”

“I am sure that they will be able to cooperate, Monsieur. I’ll summon them immediately.”

“Do that,” Don said. “I’d like to get it over with and take a nap.”

The tailors came and went and Don took to his bed in the suite’s master bedroom. He wondered who was handling the bill for a suite this far out What in the hell did he need with all these rooms? The place was big enough to hold not just a party, but a ball. Probably the government was picking up the tab, he decided; after all, they’d brought him here.

It was dark by the time he revived. He got up and stretched and immediately came a gentle knock at the