Galactic Medal of Honor

door.

“Come in,” he growled, running his tongue over his teeth. His mouth tasted like hell. He’d been drinking too much, eating too much.

One of the servants entered. He said, “Good evening, sir. I am James, your valet.”

Don took him in. He looked like a damn queer. Don said, “I don’t need a valet. I can dress myself.”

“Yes, sir. Your suits have arrived, sir. And your haberdashery.”

“All right, bring them in.”

James left and returned shortly bearing a considerable load of clothing. He was followed by two more servants, each weighted down. They made three trips, in all. The room’s closets and drawers were just barely sufficient to house it. Included were some colonel’s rank uniforms.

Don took it all in. “Almighty Ultimate,” he said, shaking his head. Seemingly, it was enough clothing to last him for the rest of his life. He looked at James. “Find me something to go out in tonight. Something inconspicuous.”

“Yes, sir.” James marched to a closet. The other two servants bowed themselves out.

“How big’s the, uh, staff here?” Don said.

“There are six of us, sir, including Monsieur Pierre. Of course, if the Colonel wished to entertain, additional assistance would be immediately available.” The valet deftly selected clothing and laid it out on the bed.

“I think I can skimp by on six,” Don said. “Get Pierre, I want to ask him something.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pierre appeared promptly.

Don told him, “I’ll be going out tonight. What are the best nightclubs in town?”

The other said judiciously, “I should say, Colonel Mathers, that the liveliest is the Bar-Ta- Cum. The Moulin Rouge is also very chic and is reputed to have a very good floorshow. Then there is the Chez Maxim’s, about the same. The Pussy Cat Saloon is said to be quite hilarious.”

“I’m not feeling particularly hilarious,” Don said. “Which of them has the dimmest atmosphere?”

“I would say the Moulin Rouge, Mon Colonel.”

“All right, get me a drink. I’m dying on the vine. Make it spirits, whiskey or cognac, with soda.”

The drink came before he was finished bathing and dressing. It was the best Scotch he had ever tasted, and certainly not the ersatz which was the common thing these days. Barley was no longer used for the distilling of spirits.

“Where’d this come from?” he said, surprised.

“The President himself sent over a case from his private cellars,” Pierre said.

“A case!” Don said. “What does he expect me to do, take a bath in it?”

“That is only the whiskey, sir. He dispatched other beverages as well.”

Don finished off his dressing. “All right, now, how can I get out of this hotel without that-mob of gawkers spotting me?”

Pierre told him.

“And what’s the address of this Moulin Rouge and how do I get to it? I don’t want to be stopping to ask for directions. That ceremony took place a few hours ago, and it was kept secret until the very last, but I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that by now every newsman in Europe is on his way to Geneva.”

“Just a moment, sir.” The other left, to return in no time at all with a map of Geneva, which he spread out on a small table. “The Moulin Rouge is located at 1 Avenue du Mail.” He brought forth a stylo and marked it, and then quickly made several other crosses and wrote above each one. “And these are the other night spots I mentioned, Colonel.”

He folded the map and handed it over.

VIII

Getting out of the Intercontinental undetected was simplicity itself. Evidently, Don Mathers wasn’t the first reluctant celebrity to desire a rear exit. One of the servants had been sent down to get his sports hovercar and bring it around to the small door off what amounted to an alley in the hotel’s rear. There had been a semi-private elevator to utilize and then a short, empty hall to navigate to the exit.

He brought forth his map, checked it, then put it, opened, on the seat beside him. No problem at all.

Only one thing came up on his way to the nightspot. He pulled off some traffic violation, the nature of which he never did understand, not being used to local laws, and was stopped immediately by an officious-looking traffic policeman in the green uniform and stiff leather helmet of the Geneva police.

The cop began to blurt something at him in German and then, when Don looked blank, in French.

Don said finally, in English, “Look, I’m sorry, I’m not acquainted with local laws. I’m Colonel Mathers, and…”

The police officer’s mouth clicked shut and he stepped back and sprang to attention and saluted. But then he stepped forward again, his hand dragging a notebook from his pocket. “Colonel,” he said, “I wonder if I could have your autograph. My younger son collects. He would give his arm for your signature.”

Wearily, Don took the proffered stylo and signed the notebook. He remembered to make it Colonel Donal Mathers this time. Obviously, he was free to go. He went.

The Moulin Rouge was by far the most elaborate nightclub that Don had ever experienced. He had never been in the income bracket to afford much in the way of nightlife.

He was surprised at the number of employees. Back in Center City almost everything in the way of services was automated, computerized, and sterile, and such things as live waiters were frowned upon on the theory that they should be working in some branch of the defense effort. As it was, a parking attendant took his car off and Don headed for the entrance which was presided over by two doormen, both dressed in uniforms as elaborate as that of a Rumanian Rear Admiral.

They opened up snappily and he advanced to be met by a gushing headwaiter.

“Colonel Mathers! A pleasure to greet you tonight. Your reserved table is awaiting you.” He was flanked by three waiters, much as the maitre d’ had been at the restaurant that afternoon. Why in the hell should he need four waiters, in all?

Don frowned at the other and said, “How did you know I was coming?”

“Your hotel phoned, Colonel.”

That must have been Pierre. Nobody else knew that he was on his way. Not unless his suite was bugged, which seemed unlikely.

The bowing, smiling headwaiter said, “However, we had a table reserved for you already, Colonel, on the off chance that you might grace us with your presence. I suspect that every other club in town has done likewise. If you will please follow.”

When they entered the main room an orchestra was playing for a floor show dance team. In the middle of an intricate step, it suddenly broke off and swung into the stirring Interplanetary Anthem. The startled dancers were lucky that one of them didn’t fall and break a leg.

The some two hundred celebrants in the Moulin Rouge rose to a man and woman and clapped their hands as he followed the headwaiter across the floor. His damned civilian clothes weren’t doing a thing for him, so far as disguising his identity was concerned.

However, prices at the Moulin Rouge seemingly eliminated all but cultivated, upper class clientele. When Don had been seated, they all resumed then own places, and except for covert glances from time to time, he was left to himself. No hand shakers or autograph seekers here.

The table was a good one but discreetly located.

The floorshow resumed.

There was an ice bucket to one side. The head-waiter brought a bottle half out of it. “I took the liberty, Colonel, of chilling a bottle. It is Vintage Mumms and from the owner’s own stock.”

“Vintage Mumms?” Don said. “You mean champagne?” He had never tasted real champagne.