heading for the helio-hover.
The younger man, still standing as though anxiously, said, “Lieutenant Mathers, this is Mr. Lawrence Demming and this is Mr. Maximilian Rostoff.”
Demming was the fat one. He had been running his little eyes up and down Mathers. “Why aren’t you in uniform?” he puffed.
“I’m on leave,” Don told him. “What did you want to see me about?”
Demming took up a well-chilled glass that sat on a small table beside him and took a surprisingly dainty sip, considering his gross appearance.
He said, “Sit down, Lieutenant Mathers. What will you have to drink?”
Don sat and said, “Tequila.”
The fat man looked at him. Maximilian Rostoff laughed contempt.
Demming said, “In my private stock, I have some genuine French cognac, if you are accustomed to spirits this time of the day.”
Don said, and immediately knew he had said the wrong thing, “Real French cognac?” In all his drinking career, which had been extensive considering his age, he had tasted only the modern synthetic.
Demming said, without expression, “Yes. Laid down during the reign of Napoleon the Little.”
“I’ll have cognac,” Don said.
The younger man, still standing, hustled forward to the autobar and dialed. He said deferentially to Demming, “The 1869, sir?”
“No,” the fat man wheezed. “The 1851. The Lieutenant must get used to the better things.” He smiled greasily at Don. “There are only four cases of 1851 Napoleon brandy left in existence. I have three of them.”
“Thanks,” Don said.
He knew who they were now, both of them. Demming was a North American, Rostoff a European by birth. Both of them were international tycoons, in fact they were interplanetary tycoons.
Neither of them seemed to be in any great hurry to get to the point. On the face of it, they were sizing him up. He hadn’t the vaguest idea why.
The cognac came in a beautiful crystal snifter glass. Although he had never sampled real brandy before in his life, and certainly not in crystal, he knew the procedure from Tri-Di shows, from revived movies. He swirled the precious beverage around in the glass, cupping it so that the warmth of his hands would cause the bouquet to announce itself. He put his nose in the snifter glass and inhaled.
They were still taking him in thoughtfully.
He said, just to say something, indicating the grounds, “I’d hate to pay the rent on this place.”
Demming said, offhandedly, “I own the building. I reserve the top two floors and the roof for my own establishment when I am in residence in Center City.”
It had never occurred to Don Mathers that a single person would, or could, own something like the Interplanetary Lines Building. It simply hadn’t occurred to him. The government, yes, perhaps even some multi- national consortium. But one man?
More and more was coming back to him about Lawrence Demming. Robber baron, he might have been branded back in the nineteenth century. Transportation and uranium baron of the solar system. Inwardly, Don Mathers snorted. Had Demming been a pig he would have been butchered long since.
Rostoff said, “You have identification?”
Once again Don Mathers fumbled through his pockets and came up with his Universal Credit Card and his military I.D. Both of them examined the papers with care, front and back.
Demming huffed and said, “Your papers indicate that you pilot a One Man Scout. What sector do you patrol, Lieutenant?”
Don took a sip of his superlative brandy and looked at the corpulent man over his glass. “That’s military information, Mr. Demming.”
Demming made a moue with his plump lips. “Did Frank Cockney reveal to you the five thousand pseudo- dollars that have been deposited to your account?” He didn’t wait for an answer but added, “You took it. Either return it, or tell me what sector you patrol, Lieutenant.”
Don Mathers was well aware of the fact that a man of Demming’s position wouldn’t have to go to much effort to acquire such information, anyway. It wasn’t of particular importance and, of course, the magnate had strings going into the very highest echelons of the Octagon.
He shrugged and said, “A22-K223. I fly the V-102.”
Maximilian Rostoff handed back the identification papers to Don and said to his colleague, after checking a solar system sector chart, “You were right, Demming. He’s the man.”
Demming shifted his great bulk and his beach chair and took up his cordial glass again. He sipped it daintily and said, “Very well. How would you like to hold the Galactic Medal of Honor, Lieutenant Mathers?”
IV
Don Mathers laughed sarcastically. “How would you?” he said.
The fat tycoon scowled. “I am not jesting, Lieutenant Mathers. I never jest. I considered it, but for various reasons I do not believe it practical. Obviously, I am not of the military. It would be quite unusual if not impossible for me to gain such an award. But you are the pilot of a One Man Scout. I also lack the charisma. You are young, moderately handsome and have a certain air of dash about you. You would make a very popular holder of the Galactic Medal of Honor.”
Don said, disgust in his voice, “I’ve got just about as much chance of winning the Galactic Medal of Honor as I have of giving birth to triplets.”
The transportation and uranium magnate wiggled a disgustingly fat finger at him and said, “I’ll arrange for it, in collaboration with my colleague, here, Mr. Rostoff.”
Don Mathers gawked at him. He blurted finally,
“Like hell you will. There’s not enough money in the solar system to fiddle with the awarding of the Galactic Medal of Honor. There comes a point, Demming, where even your kind of bread can’t carry the load. Corruption we might have, on all levels of government, but it doesn’t touch the Galactic Medal of Honor. And it never will The people wouldn’t stand for it.”
Demming settled back in his chair again, laced his fat hands over his belly, closed his eyes and said, “Dirck, brief us on the space defenses of the solar system.”
The neat, quiet young man who had been hovering in the background, stepped forward. He was a bland-faced type with secretary written all over him. Although seemingly alert and ever ready to obey, his eyes had a disconcerting empty quality. And his mouth was not the type to indulge in smiling.
He said, in a brisk voice, “Yes, sir. The patrolling spacecraft have major bases on Earth, Luna and Mars. There are smaller bases on the Jupiter satellites, Io, Europa, Ganymede and Callisto. There is another base on the Saturn satellite Titan. When the planetary engineering problems have been worked out, there are plans to establish another base on the Neptune satellite Triton. The One and Two Men Scouts patrol nearest to their home bases, and for the shortest periods. They are the last line of warning, in case a Kraden sneaks through. Beyond them, in scantier numbers, are Destroyers holding four men. The Destroyers stay out for as long as two months at a time. Beyond them, are eight to ten men Light Cruisers, which stay out for as much as three months at a time. They are the first warning and are expected to stand and fight in case Kradens appear. These are all warning craft. Nearer in, closer to Earth and the other bases, are the Monitors. They are continually in orbit, having been built in space and quite impossible to land due to their size. They have a crew of approximately thirty. Fresh crews are sent up to them every six months to relieve them. They are the heavies, ready to zero-in on the enemy when and if the Kradens get through the initial defense. Also in the defense screen are the Space Platforms, the permanent artificial satellites which are hardly maneuverable at all but carry the heaviest of our defenses, short of those based on Earth itself. In all, the Solar System defenses include at least twenty thousand spacecraft, not to mention the permanent installations on Earth, Luna, Mars and the Jupiter and Saturn satellites. More than a billion men and women are in the armed forces.”
