The Kradens
The other was getting more drenched by the minute, Don realized, but he said, impatiently, “You can’t travel faster than the speed of light.”
“Balls. Einstein never said so.”
Don looked at him. “Where in the hell did you take your basic?”
“Einstein said you couldn’t travel at the speed of light. He didn’t say anything about traveling faster.”
“Chum-pal, you’ve really got a load on. I envy you. But how could you possibly travel faster than light, without at one point traveling at the same speed as light?”
Eric said glumly, obviously tiring of the subject, “How would I know? There must be some way of dodging through the crucial point.”
One of the two men who had entered and taken a table came up and said, “Are either of you gentlemen sub- lieutenant Donal Mathers?”
Don gave him the once over and said, “I am.”
The newcomer was well dressed. His face was on the pinched side and his hair was thinning, which was passingly strange since baldness had long since been cured. His lips were dark, almost bluish, and his eyes were faded and somehow evasive. He projected uncomfortableness.
The stranger said, “My name’s Cockney, Frank Cockney. I wonder if I could have a few words with you, Lieutenant, over at the table.” He made a gesture at the table where his companion sat.
Don instinctively didn’t like him. “Why?” he said.
Cockney regarded him patiently. “You’ll know that when we’ve had the few words, won’t you? One guarantee. You won’t lose any money.”
“I haven’t any to lose,” Don said. He looked over at the table the two strangers had taken. Harry’s bar didn’t usually have many customers who weren’t in Space Services uniform. The other sat there unperturbedly, an untouched drink before him. He was a larger man than this one, almost as large as Thor Bjornsen, but dark rather than light. His face was expressionless. For some reason, Don thought of both of them as the mobster types you saw in the old revival movie and TV shows that were all the thing these days and sent viewers into spasms of laughter.
Don said, “What the hell,” and came to his feet. He went over to the table, pulled out a chair and said, “What do you want?”
The smaller of the two strangers resumed his own chair and said, “Can you prove you’re sub-lieutenant Donal Mathers?” His voice was polite enough.
“Of course I can prove it. I have my Space Service I.D. and I’ve got my Universal Credit Card.”
“May we see them, please?”
“What are you, police or something?” Don Mathers couldn’t figure it out, and he didn’t particularly like the looks of these two. Besides, he wanted to get back to his drink.
“No,” the big one said.
Frank Cockney said, “This is Bil Golenpaul “No, we’re not police.”
Don Mathers-shrugged, ran a thumbnail over his mustache in irritation, but shrugged again and brought out his identification.
Cockney looked at it briefly and said, “The boss wants to see you.”
Don put his papers back into his pocket and said, “Great. And who in the hell is the boss?” It came to him now that by the looks of these two, their emptiness of facial expression, they were the kind of men fated to be ordered around at the pleasure of those with wealth or brains, neither of which they had or would ever have.
“Maybe he’ll tell you when he sees you,” the other said, patiently and reasonably.
Don came back to his feet. He said, “Well, you can tell the boss”
The one named Golenpaul said, “Suggest you check your pseudo-dollars credit, Lieutenant.”
Don squinted at him. “Why?”
Neither of the two said anything.
In continued irritation with this whole damn thing, he brought forth his Universal Credit Card and put it in the table’s slot and dialed the International Data Banks.
He said, “What is my credit standing?”
The mechanical voice answered almost immediately, “5324 pseudo-dollars and 64 cents.”
Don Mathers stared at the screen. He had never had five thousand pseudo-dollars to his credit at one time in his whole life. He said finally, “When was the most recent credit deposited to my account? And how much was it?”
The screen said, “This morning. The amount was five thousand pseudo-dollars.”
“Who deposited it?”
“It was transferred to your account by the Interplanetary Conglomerate.”
Don Mathers had never heard of the organization. He took back his Universal Credit Card, returned it to his pocket and looked across the table at Cockney and Golenpaul. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go see the boss. I haven’t anything else to do and his calling card intrigues me.”
He waved a farewell to Eric and Harry and followed the two strangers out to the street. There was a swank helio-hover parked at the curb, to his surprise. Privately-owned vehicles weren’t allowed on the surface streets of Center City.
Golenpaul sat in the pilot’s place and Cockney next to him. Don Mathers got into the back. The craft was somewhat of a sportster and had but four seats. The big man dialed their destination and the helio-hover zoomed off, immediately reaching for higher altitudes.
“So what does the boss want with me?” Don said.
Cockney said laconically, “He seldom lets us in on his business, Lieutenant.”
The hi-rise Interplanetary Lines Building was evidently their destination. Don Mathers had, on occasion, been in some of the offices on the lower levels, some of the restaurants and nightspots, but they were now heading for the penthouse on the roof. They swept in to a landing on what was obviously real grass and as well-kept as a golf course.
Don began to goggle even before they emerged from the helio-hover.
It was unbelievable that they were atop a building. It had been so landscaped that it would seem to be a park. There were trees, shrubs, flowers. There was even a small stream and two Japanese bridges across it. In the center of the park, or perhaps it was better termed a wood, was a rather large Swiss-type chalet.
Cockney said, “This way.”
Don followed him, still gawking at the unbelievably ostentatious surrounds.
They headed for a terrace before the chalet and as they approached Don could make out three men there, two seated in beach chairs, a portable type autobar between them. The third stood slightly back and to one side.
One of the seated men looked to be in his late middle years, the other about forty. The gentleman who was standing and looking somewhat deferential was younger, perhaps thirty-five. He was dressed in a conservative business suit, the older men were in resort wear, very informal.
Don Mathers, as he got closer, thought that he recognized the impossibly corpulent one, from a newscast, or possibly from some illustrated article. He couldn’t quite place him. The fact that he was so unhealthily fat came as a surprise in this age when the medical researchers had conquered obesity. It took a fanatical gourmand not to be able to control his weight. The man looked like a latter-day Hermann Goering, his plump hands laced over his belly, his porcine eyes small in the layers of fat of his face.
The other seated one could have passed for a stereotype villain, complete to the built-in sneer. Few men, in actuality, either look like or sound like the conventionalized villain. This was an exception, Don decided. Had this one been in uniform he well could have assumed the role of a Russian general of the Second World War period. He even had a shaven head which was well tanned.
Neither of them came to their feet to greet the newcomer.
Don took them in carefully, before saying, “I suppose that one of you is the boss.”
“That is correct,” the fat one grunted. He looked at Don’s two escorts and said, “Frank, you and Bil take off. Keep yourselves available, on instant call.”
“Yes, Mr. Demming.” Cockney all but touched his forelock. The two backed several feet before turning and
