Galactic Medal of Honor

by Mack Reynolds

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” Don said. It was a dismissal. He did an about face and retraced the route the two colonels had brought him along earlier. The Tri-Di cameras followed him all the way to the door. The assembly was applauding again.

  However, the President had been incorrect. Don had neither relatives nor friends waiting for him here—even in North America the nearest relatives he could think of were an aunt, somewhere out on the West Coast and two cousins of whom he had long since lost track.

  Short though the time had been since he had first entered the auditorium of the Parliament building, there was already a crowd before the Palais des Nations, perhaps as many as a hundred persons. They applauded as he descended the steps. Some were obviously news-people, complete with their complicated equipment, but the majority were evidently passersby who had heard the broadcast.

  Some pressed closer, and for the first time in his life Don Mathers was asked for his autograph and then again and again. Others wanted to shake his hand, and shook. He rather desperately fielded questions from the media people.

  No, he had no immediate plans other than to return to his base and to duty.

  One of the reporters called, “Have hopes of getting another Kraden, Colonel?”

  Don laughed ruefully.

  Was he married?

  “No.”

  “Did he have a fiancee?”

  Don set his face. “There was a labor shortage in the new mining developments on Callisto. She signed up for a five year tour, feeling it her duty beyond personal affairs.” It was a lie, but it sounded good. Dian had most definitely severed their relationship.

  The crowd was getting bigger by the minute. Before he knew it he’d be in a mob big enough to crush him.

  He held up his two arms. “Please,” he said. “I have things I must do.”

  Somewhat to his surprise, they meekly pressed back and opened a way for him. When he hurried through, none followed. He had to admire their courtesy. In Center City autograph hunters and celebrity seekers were on the more aggressive side.

  He made his way down the Avenue de France, in the direction of the lake, not knowing exactly what he had in mind, now that he was on the town.

  He spotted an auto rental agency and entered. A clerk came up to him, blinked in sudden recognition, and said, “Just a minute, Colonel Mathers.” He turned and sped off to return in moments with an older man, obviously one of the enterprise’s top staff, if not the owner.

  He said unctuously, “It is a pleasure to welcome you, Colonel Mathers.”

  Don said, “Look, I’d like to rent a car but the trouble is I don’t have my driver’s license. I left America quickly without being able to get hold of my papers.”

  The other smiled. “But you are Donal Mathers. You don’t need a driver’s license. You don’t need any kind of a license, to do anything, Colonel.”

  That hadn’t occurred to Don.

  “What model appeals to you?” the other said, indicating a large selection with a sweep of his hand. Several of the employees had come around and stood back away goggling the hero.

  He said, pointing out a very recent model sports number. “That’s a beauty.”

  “The keys are in it, Colonel.”

  Don brought his Universal Credit Card from his uniform tunic. “Do I pay now? Or leave a deposit?”

  “The car is yours, Colonel Mathers.”

  Don stared at him.

  The other managed a short wry laugh. “Colonel, can you imagine the advertising value both to my business here and to the manufacturers of the vehicle? I am sure that they will insist on reimbursing me when it is announced that the first car selected by the bearer of the Galactic Medal of Honor was one of theirs.”

  That hadn’t occurred to Don either.

  He said, simply, “Thanks. But I won’t be needing it long. I’ll return it when I leave Geneva.”

  “Whatever you wish, Colonel. But you can take it back to America with you if you so desire.”

  Don Mathers, set back by his reception at the auto agency, turned right at the Rue de Lausanne and headed down toward the center of town. The little sports hovercar was a dream to drive manually. Come to think of it, the car didn’t contain controls for automated driving. Evidently, this city hadn’t automated its streets. He was surprised; as capital of the Solar System League the town was one of the most important on Earth.

  He drove around a bit through the medieval parts of Geneva, until something came to him. He had no wrist chronometer. That too had been left in his locker at the base when he had substituted coveralls for uniform preparatory to take off in his patrol. He could, of course, have dialed the hour on his new transceiver, which he had picked up on the plane along with fresh uniforms, but it was more time consuming than a wrist chronometer.”

  The city was full of chronometer shops. He pulled up before a rather large one, and emerged from the car. There was a sidewalk cafe next to the shop, most of the tables taken. Someone spotted him and came to his feet and began to applaud. Others looked up in puzzlement, also recognized Don Mathers, and came to their feet and clapped their hands.

  Don hurried into the shop. He’d be in another circle of autograph hunters, if he didn’t look out.

  Inside the shop, a girl clerk looked up. Her eyes widened.

  Don said, “I need a wrist chronometer.” The next came out automatically. “Not too expensive a one.”

  Her hand trembling, she indicated showcase after showcase of instruments. She said, her voice trembling as well, “We handle Patek-Philippe, Vach-eron-Constantin, Audermars-Piguet and Piaget.”

  By this time, every clerk and customer in the extensive shop were staring at him, to his discomfort.

  He pointed out one of the chronometers, a Piaget. “How much is that one?”

  She shook her head in confusion. She was a little tyke, about twenty-five, Don estimated, and with that overly-scrubbed appearance that only the Swiss seem to maintain.

  She said, “There is no price. The manager would never forgive me if I charged you for one of our products. Neither would the Piaget Company.”

  “Certainly not,” a voice from behind them said indignantly. The newcomer wore formal morning clothing and had a carnation in his lapel. He had in one hand a sheet of heavy white paper and in the other a stylo. The paper bore the store’s name in elaborate engraving. He said, “Colonel Mathers, I saw the broadcast—as did everyone else, I suppose—of you being awarded the Galactic Medal of Honor. Would it be possible to secure your signature? I would like to frame it and display it in this room.”

  “Why, of course,” Don said, taking the stationery and putting it down on the showcase, the better to sign it. He wrote, Sub-lieutenant Donal Mathers.

  When he looked up the Piaget was on the counter.

  The shop manager smiled and said, “You have forgotten. It’s Colonel Mathers now. I am surprised that Kwame Kumasi didn’t make you a general.”

  “I don’t know how to be a general,” Don said gruffly, and handing back the paper. “I’m not sure that I know how to be a colonel.”

  He took up the chronometer and put it on his wrist. “Thanks,” he said and hurried out when he noticed that others in the store were beginning to close in on him.

  He climbed back into the car and took off. The new chronometer revealed that it was lunch time. He had noted a restaurant as he drove down the Rue de Lausanne earlier, located right on the side of the lake. He headed back for it.

  He parked in the lot and headed for the park with its outside tables. The panorama was wonderful. A maitre d’ sped up, flanked by two captains.

  “Colonel Mathers,” the leader burbled delightedly, “what an honor that you have chosen La Perle du Lac in which to lunch.”

  “Yeah,” Don said. “Is it possible for me to get a table off aways so that I won’t be bothered?”

  “But certainly, Colonel.” The other led the way.

  There was a small orchestra that was playing a curr
ently popular air. They suddenly broke it off and went into the Interplanetary Anthem. Various of the diners looked up from conversation and food and spotted Don. There was a standing ovation. He nodded and smiled in embarrassment and hurried on to his remote table. This was beginning to wear on him a little.

  After the meal, a fantastic production with several wines, Don finished his liqueur and asked the maitre d’ for his bill, even as he reached for his Universal Credit Card. All during the lunch the maitre d’ had hovered nearby. So did two waiters. He noticed them fending off other diners who from time to time tried to come over to him, menus and stylos in hand, obviously autograph hunting. He pretended not to see them.

  The headwaiter smiled. “Colonel, I am afraid that your money is of no value in La Perle du Lac, not just for this luncheon but whenever you honor us.” He paused and added, “In fact, Colonel Mathers, I doubt if there is a restaurant in the solar system where your money holds value. Or that there ever will be.”

  Don Mathers was taken aback all over again. He was only beginning to realize the ramifications of his Galactic Medal of Honor. He had entered his partnership with Demming and Rostoff with the expectation of becoming rich beyond dreams of avarice and he had some pretty avaricious dreams. But what use was it to be rich if you couldn’t spend your money?

  Lunch over, he returned to the hotel to take a siesta. He had eaten and drank too much. He was going to have to watch this. He was a good trencherman but if he let himself go the way he had been doing lately he was going to wind up as pig-like as Demming.

  He made the mistake of entering the Intercontinental through the main lobby and was immediately swarmed upon by news media people, hotel employees and guests. In fact, he suspected that some of them weren’t even guests but had come in off the streets to catch a glimpse of him. He was beginning to wonder how Tri-Di stars, top politicians, and other celebrities stood it, day in, day out.

  He finally made his way through and to the elevators. At least they didn’t crowd in after him. He said into the order screen, “18th Floor.”

  “Yes, Colonel Mathers,” the mechanical voice said.

  He wondered if the hotel computer knew the face and name of all of the guests. He had never been in a hotel this luxurious before.

  The identity screen of his suite picked him up upon his approach and the door swung open.

  Only a couple of yards beyond was Pierre, his majordomo. Had the man been standing there, awaiting him, all this time? It was more likely, he decided, that one of the reception clerks had phoned up to alert the servant.

  Don tossed his hat to one side and said peevishly, “Listen, Pierre, I want some civilian clothes. Everybody recognizes me in this uniform. I’m evidently a seven-day wonder.”

  Pierre said, with his little bow, “Of course, Monsieur. But I rather doubt, Colonel Mathers that the wonder will be over in seven days. After all, you are the only man in the system to hold your decoration. I shall send to the men’s shop for tailors.”

  Don said, not as graciously as he might have, “I haven’t the time to have something tailored. I’ll be wanting to go out tonight.”

  “I am sure that they will be able to cooperate, Monsieur. I’ll summon them immediately.”

  “Do that,” Don said. “I’d like to get it over with and take a nap.”

  The tailors came and went and Don took to his bed in the suite’s master bedroom. He wondered who was handling the bill for a suite this far out What in the hell did he need with all these rooms? The place was big enough to hold not just a party, but a ball. Probably the government was picking up the tab, he decided; after all, they’d brought him here.

  It was dark by the time he revived. He got up and stretched and immediately came a gentle knock at the 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.”