details.”
“I see,” the old man said wearily. He came to his feet. “Then there’s nothing you, personal, can do?”
Don said hurriedly, “I’ll have my uh, secretary, here take you to Mr. Rostoff, one of our, uh, specialists. He’s up on these things. Dirck, will you take Cobber to Mr. Rostoff?”
The Belgian raised his eyebrows and shrugged very slightly, but, “Certainly, Colonel Mathers,” he said.
When the two had left, Don opened a desk drawer and brought forth a bottle of Demming’s prehistoric brandy.
Very few persons think of themselves as bastards. The more perceptive, the more sensitive, the more vulnerable, might admit to occasional opportunism, may even commit acts which later they truly deplore, in self- interest. But almost all of us can explain almost all of the actions we take to our own satisfaction. It’s the nature of the beasts that we are.
However, Don Mathers knocked back the slug of brandy with his now customary stiff-wristed motion.
He had been in space. The Almighty Ultimate knew he had been in space. He had even been on Callisto twice. Once had been more than enough. He couldn’t understand how anyone, such as Dwight Schmidt, could spend the better part of his life there. No matter what the drive.
The next big one he took was possibly a month later.
He had been fielding them as best he could, spending two or three hours a day at it. He hated Si Mullens and his brainstorm. Now there was no avoiding these people. He had to listen to them. Sometimes, he wondered if he hadn’t been better off as a One Man Scout pilot. And the hell with the Galactic Medal of Honor.
But no. There was no man on Earth who ate better than he did, drank better than he did, laid a more beautiful woman than he did. And, in the privacy of his own quarters, dressed better than he did. Expenses were meaningless. If he had wanted a half dozen Rembrandts he could have had them, if he had given a good goddamn about Rembrandts.
Besides, he was free of the Space Service and of the One Man Scouts. He was free of them. Demming and Rostoff had suggested that it might be well for him to take a trip to Callisto for publicity reasons, but for once he could tell them to stick it up their asses. He was never going to go into space again, short of being chained and dragged. Si Mullens could write all the press releases he wanted about Don’s burning desire to get back into space, and he could stick such releases up his ass.
This time it was a committee, two elderly women and a middle-aged man. And all three looked anxious.
They went through the usual routine of introductions and Don taking their compliments and congratulations. Dirck Bosch got them seated and then took orders for one coffee and two soft drinks. They didn’t particularly look as though they wanted the refreshments but who would turn down the opportunity to be able to say later that they’d had a drink with the bearer of the Galactic Medal of Honor?
When all were settled down, Don smiled encouragingly and said, “And now what can I do for you?”
They looked from one to the other and evidently decided to let the man become the spokesman.
He put down his coffee and said, “We’re stockholders, or were, in Callisto Pitchblende, Incorporated.”
Don nodded. He had never heard of the outfit.
The man said, “I don’t know if you know about the early days of the company. It started more or less from scratch, compared to most interplanetary businesses. On a shoestring, so to speak. It was largely financed by a good many people who didn’t have a great deal to invest. But the promised dividends made it look like a good investment and it turned out to be just that.” He hesitated.
Don nodded encouragingly but inwardly he knew what was coming and this was going to be one of the bad ones.
The other went on doggedly. “A lot of us stockholders had put everything we had into Callisto Pitchblende, life savings, that sort of thing. Most of us depended on the dividends to live. Some of us had no other income at all. Most of us, perhaps. Well, at any rate, when your corporation took us over, it issued one common share of your Radioactives Mining Corporation for each share of our company. And we’re just as patriotic as anyone else. Nobody complained. But then, last month, it came out that your corporation was going to pay only a three percent dividend.”
One of the women said, desperation in her voice, “That’s not enough to keep up with inflation. The way inflation is going, in five years my shares of stock won’t be worth the paper.”
The other woman said, “And now with the new laws, we can’t even sell our shares.”
Don frowned at her. “How do you mean?”
Dirck Bosch cleared his throat, “Colonel Mathers, the new law pertaining to the corporation. For at least ten years, anyone owning shares cannot sell them.”
Don looked at him blankly.
The committee waited.
Don said finally, “This is not my particular field. Ill turn you over to one of my associates. Dirck, will you take these ladies and gentleman to Mr. Rostoff’s office?” He stood to see them to the door.
Behind their backs, Dirck Bosch shook his head in resignation, but escorted the others, who paused long enough to shake hands with Don once again. They shook quite enthusiastically.
When they were gone, Don Mathers got out his bottle of cognac. He took a hefty slug from it, then reached over and picked up a half full glass of the soft drink Bosch had brought one of the women and used it for a chaser.
He was sitting there, breathing deeply, the bottle still on his desk, when Maximilian Rostoff came bursting in, shortly after followed by the Belgian secretary.
Rostoff, his face livid, ripped out, “What’s the idea of pushing off these stupid marks on me? What do you think we gave you the job for? I can’t waste my time cooling indignant suckers.”
Don flushed angrily. “Look,” he said. “Don’t push me too far. You need me. Plenty. In fact, from what I can see, this corporation needs me more than it does you.” He was scornful. “Originally, the idea was that you put up the money. What money? All the pseudo-dollar credit needed is coming from sale of nearly worthless common stock. You were also to put up the brains. What brains? We’ve hired the best mining engineers, the best technicians, the best scientists, to do their end, the best corporation executives to do that end. You and Demming aren’t needed.”
Max Rostoff’s face had grown wolfishly thin in his anger. He took in the open bottle on the desk. “Look, bottle-baby,” he sneered, “you’re the only one who’s vulnerable in this set-up. There’s not a single thing that Demming and I can be held accountable for. You have no beefs coming, for that matter. You’re getting everything you ever wanted. You’ve got a swanky place to live in. You eat the best food in the solar system. And, most important of all to a rummy, you drink the best guzzle and as much of it as you want. What’s more, unless either Demming or I go to the bother, you’ll never be exposed. You’ll live your life out being the biggest hero in the system.”
It was Don Mathers’ turn to sneer. “What do you mean, I’m the only one vulnerable? There’s no evidence against me, Rostoff, and you know it. Who’d listen to you if you sounded off? I burned that Kraden cruiser until there wasn’t a sign to be found that would indicate it wasn’t operational when I first spotted it.”
Rostoff snorted amusement, or as near to amusement as he was capable of. He said, “Don’t be an ass, Mathers. We took a series of photos of that derelict when we stumbled on it. Not only can we prove that you didn’t knock it out, we can prove that it was in good shape before you worked it over. I even took some shots in the interior. I imagine that Space Fleet technicians would have loved to have seen the inner workings of that Kraden cruiser—before you loused it up.”
“If you opened up on me, you’d be revealed too.”
“No, we wouldn’t,” Rostoff laughed. “We could announce that we’d been just about ready to reveal the presence of the derelict when we were flabbergasted to find that you claimed to have destroyed it. We hardly knew what to do when you received the decoration. We were afraid of disrupting solar system morale.”
Don was speechless.
Rostoff chuckled flatly. “I wonder what kind of a court-martial they give to an interplanetary hero who turns out to be a saboteur.”
