already studying your Dossier Complete.”
“My Dossier Complete! Where’d you get it? Nobody’s allowed to look at my dossier, unless it’s an authorized official, with a court clearance.”
Rostoff sighed. “You’ll learn, you’ll learn. Don’t they have a saying in the military, that rank has its privileges? Well, believe me, they are as nothing to the privileges that wealth has.”
“Damn it!” Don said in protest.
The other ignored him and said, “Demming is turning the whole penthouse over to you. It will be nice and secluded so you won’t be molested by the mob. And it’ll be a good place for doing your autobiography, news conferences, and business in general. You won’t be bothered by anybody except rubbernecks trying to spot you from over flying aircraft. We’ll assign a few heavies to you, to see that nobody gets through that you don’t want to see, or we don’t want to see you.
“ Heavies?”
“Bodyguards.”
“I don’t need bodyguards. I’m the most popular man in the system.”
“That you are, that you are,” the other said with his lupine smile. “But in the near future you’re going to be stepping on some toes. On top of that, there’s always the crackpot. Anybody who shot Donal Mathers would go down in history. Oh, they’d catch him and probably execute him, even though he was as drivel-happy as a loon, but he’d go down in history.”
The compartment stopped and they emerged into the living room of the oversized penthouse chalet.
Rostoff looked at him from the side of his eyes and said, “Are you sleeping with Alicia Demming?”
Don glowered back at him indignantly. “None of your goddamned business.”
“Oh, but it is. Anything about you is my business. So far as Demming is concerned, he probably couldn’t care less. His daughter has slept around before, probably ever since she was about twelve. I’m in favor of it. If you have a bedmate right here in the building, it’ll keep you from prowling the town, looking for it.”
“I don’t have to look very hard,” Don muttered.
“I’ll bet you don’t. Why don’t you get yourself a drink? You look as though you could use one. Your ghost writer is in the library. I’ll go get him. You can have a preliminary talk and then have lunch together.”
“Where’s Demming?”
“I think over in London. He’ll probably be back by tomorrow.”
Rostoff left and Don went over to the autobar. He dialed some of Demming’s ancient Napoleon Brandy. He’d put a hole in that supply, he decided. The son of a bitch would be sorry he’d ever let Don Mathers loose in his fancy guzzle. He amended that. Don and his
The cognac came and he knocked half of it back, before amending again. He suddenly realized that he, Donal Mathers, didn’t have any real friends. The whole solar system loved him, but, now that he thought about it, he didn’t have any real friends, just acquaintances. People like Eric Hansen? People like the space worshipping bartender, Harry? Nearer to it was Thor Bjornsen, whom he had met exactly twice.
XV
They gave him two full weeks of instructions and rehearsals before clearing him for Tri-Di appearances, news conferences, and making him available to commentators and free lance writers for special articles.
The people had begun to wonder where their new hero was keeping himself but Sid Mullens, the PR chief, and his staff of publicity men leaked just enough material to placate them. For one thing, the holder of the Galactic Medal of Honor was taking a much needed rest after his soul-shattering, exhausting fight with the Kraden which had brought him to the edge of nervous breakdown. For another, Colonel Mathers was embarked upon a project which he would soon reveal to the public, a project even more important, and possibly as daring, as his attack upon the Miro Class cruiser.
Meanwhile, Don stuck largely to the top floors of the Interplanetary Lines Building. Occasionally, he’d take a relaxing flight in one of the hover limousines, invariably accompanied by two of the bodyguards. Except in the privacy of his penthouse quarters, and particularly in his own suite, he was never out of sight of at least a couple of these and usually more. They were supposedly secretaries of his but all of them were professionals, armed with quick-draw laser pistols. Even in the offices of the Donal Mathers Radioactives Mining Corporation, they were always present. Demming and Rostoff knew all too well that if anything happened to their hero, the whole project was a bust.
The offices were expanding and already took up two floors of the building, and there were thousands of employees, largely busily at work, sworn to secrecy about the soon to be revealed project.
Alicia came to his bed nightly and their relationship had become less frenetic, more easygoing. They continued to enjoy each other sexually, but had agreed that they would keep their affair quiet, not even allowing the bodyguards to know of its existence. If word got out that Colonel Mathers had a full time mistress, every newsman, every commentator, every columnist, every photographer, every news gossip in the system would be after her. Everything she had ever done would be dug into, and in her time, Alicia told her lover wryly, she had done quite a few things, usually hushed up by her father’s influence, but nothing could be hushed up pertaining to Don Mathers.
She surprised him one night, after they had finished making love, by saying, “My father has something on you, hasn’t he, Don?”
He looked at her warily. “How do you mean?” He didn’t like this. In the whole system, only Demming, Rostoff and Dirck Bosch knew. And even that was too damn many. It meant that for the rest of their lives he was under their thumbs. Even if the two older men died, he would still be at Bosch’s mercy.
She said slowly, “I’m not stupid, Don. I’ve suspected it almost from the first. There’s a something electric between you. There’s a relationship between you and father and Max Rostoff that is particularly obvious when you’re not in the vicinity of any outsiders.”
“You’re dreaming, darling. Our relationship is purely business.”
“Yes, and with the preferred stock of the corporation, supposedly
“How did you know that?”
“I told you I wasn’t stupid. The only one they’ve cut in at all, so far, is the Grand Presbyter. And only him because they want the weight of his Universal Reformed Church behind them.”
Don sighed and said, “I don’t need money, darling. And it looks good for me to be heading the corporation on a non-profit basis.”
“What do you mean, you don’t need money? Everybody needs money,” she said in rejection.
He said, weariness there in his voice, “I suspect that if I called the largest bank on Earth and asked for a million pseudo-dollars, they’d give it to me on my signature.”
“Ridiculous.”
He said, “Watch this.” He flicked on the phone screen that sat at the edge of the bed and dialed for his night secretary. When the other’s face faded in, Don said, “Peters, what’s the best automobile in the world?”
“Rolls-Royce Hover, Colonel.”
“Very well, get me the head of their sales department. I don’t give a damn what time it is, get him.”
While he waited, Alicia said, “What’s going on? We’ve got enough cars around here to carry a regiment.”
He ignored her and surprisingly shortly, in view of the hour, another face replaced his secretary’s. The newcomer was wide-eyed.
Don said, “I’m Colonel Donal Mathers and I’m considering buying one of your cars.”
The other’s jaw slipped. He stuttered, in a British accent, “Just… just a moment, ahh, Colonel. I’ll put you in touch…” His voice dripped away and then his face faded, to be replaced in moments by another wide-eyed stranger.
This new one said, “I’m Gerald Hastings, sir. Head of Rolls-Royce Hover public relations. We’ll immediately
