Galactic Medal of Honor

by Mack Reynolds

  Thor Bjornsen told him, “It was on the news this morning that you had returned to Center City. I remembered that you’d made it rather clear that you didn’t like the Space Service. I made an educated guess that one of the first things you’d do is come out here and resign.” He took in the civilian suit Don was wearing. “Was I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “At any rate, I came out and hung around the main entrance to the base. Finally, I spotted you leaving and followed you over here.”

  Don took a swallow of his drink and scowled at the other. The drink tasted awful after the guzzle he’d been drinking recently. “Why?” he said.

  “I wanted to talk to you about that Kraden you destroyed. You see, you flushing the cruiser and shooting it out with him throws the whole argument of the organization I belong to out of kilter.”

  “How do you mean?” Don said cautiously.

  “Remember? Our story is that the Kradens aren’t coming back. They were a peaceful armada, probably interested in trade, or new planets to colonize, if they weren’t already occupied.”

  Don said grumpily, “That big shoot out we had with them half a century ago didn’t indicate that they were exactly peace lovers.”

  The big man was unhappy at that. He said slowly, “As I mentioned to you before, some of us aren’t sure that the Kradens participated in that shoot out. That possibly they were shocked by the attack upon them and simply disappeared back into hyper-space, or whatever they call it.”

  Don said, “Look, even if they were originally peacefully inclined, once our four space fleets hit them, they’d fire back.”

  The big Scandinavian shook his head. “Not necessarily. The human race doesn’t subscribe to Jesus’ teaching that, if someone slaps you, turn the other cheek. But that doesn’t mean that more advanced, more enlightened cultures might not believe in it. Possibly when attacked, and even after having lost some of their spaceships, the Kradens, with their higher ethics, simply left.”

  “Why did my cruiser come back?”

  “How do you know it was a cruiser? Perhaps it was a merchantman, an explorer, possibly it was a ship bearing ambassadors.” Thor leaned forward. “Tell me the truth, Don. Did it fire at you? Even after you had initiated your attack?”

  Don ran his tongue over his lip. He liked this man and was in his debt. However, there was nothing he could do without risking his neck. He said, finally, “Frankly, I can’t be sure. I was all caught up in the excitement, moving as fast as I could.”

  Thor slumped back in his seat. He thought about it. He said finally, “Very possibly the Kradens were sending out another peaceful feeler to us. After the lapse of fifty years, perhaps their hope was that our warlike attitude toward extraterrestrials had cooled.”

  “Perhaps,” Don said, putting doubt in his voice.

  “It can never be proven now,” the other said in disgust. He finished his drink. “What are you going to do now that you’re a civilian again? I would have thought you might stay in and get some chairborne assignment that would keep you out of space but still allow you to enjoy your prestige.”

  “I don’t have to wear a uniform to enjoy my prestige, as you put it. In fact, I’m beginning to wish I could avoid some of the damn prestige. But at any rate, I’m going to throw myself all out into the war effort to exploit the radioactives on the satellites.”

  Thor stared at him. “They’re exploiting them too damn much as it is. In ten years there won’t be any remaining. If we haven’t solved the nuclear fusion problem by then there simply won’t be any radioactives left.”

  Don Mathers couldn’t think of anything to say to that. If anything, he’d welcome the day. It would free him of Demming and Rostoff. They wouldn’t have any need of him any longer.

  His companion waved at Harry to bring them a refill and then went into it. He said, “We’re destroying ourselves in destroying the solar system’s raw materials like this. It’s an utterly mad socioeconomic system. Are you at all up on economic history?”

  “No,” Don said. What’s more, he couldn’t care less.

  “Well, the last century in particular has been chaotic. Unbelievable. Classical capitalism, of the type raged against by Marx, actually collapsed in 1929. And never recovered. After ten years of economic chaos, prosperity was restored by the Second World War. The resources, both material and labor power, of practically the whole world were thrown into the military effort. Business boomed. When the war ended, so had classical capitalism. A form of what some call State Capitalism took over. The State entered into the economy to the point of dominating it. The military-industrial complex took over, increasingly, supported by government. Supposed prosperity was maintained by spending endless billions on the military. Supposedly the West and East were confronting each other eyeball to eyeball but in actuality their basic socioeconomic systems had little real difference. The Soviet Complex called itself communist, or socialist, but in truth, it was simply a different version of State Capitalism. The major difference was that instead of having individual capitalists and corporations owning the means of production, they were owned by the State, headed by the Communist party whose heads profited by the system. But basically both Eastern and Western economies were systems of waste, destruction of natural resources, pollution, inflation, threatened collapse of the international monetary system, overproduction in the developed countries and under-production in the undeveloped. These along with the uncontrolled population explosion were leading to a complete collapse. Only the coming of the Kradens prevented it. It was a shot in the arm, somewhat similar to the Second World War. Overnight, the planet was united and became an armed camp. The space program boomed, colonies went to every planet and satellite in the system that could support human life. Unemployment ceased to exist, production boomed.”

  Don said, wearying of the long harangue, “Well, isn’t that for the good? At least nobody starves anymore. Everybody has work.”

  Thor looked at him pityingly. “For how long? We’re ripping off not only the resources of Earth but now of the whole solar system. Ninety percent of the efforts are going into space and so-called defense. How long before we’ve stripped ourselves naked?”

  Don had never thought about it. And he still didn’t give a damn. He had his and would continue to have it for the rest of his life. If what Thor said was correct, let the powers that be figure it out when the time came. After him the deluge? Okay, let it rain.

  XIV

  Harry came up hesitantly, a camera in his heavy freckled hands and said “Colonel Mathers, I bought me this here Tri-Di camera on the off-chance you might come by again some day. I wanted to get a shot of you, here in my bar, so I could frame it and hang it on the wall and people’d know you usta hang out here before you got famous.”

  “Sure, Harry,” Don said, standing. “Where do you want me?”

  “How about up against the bar?”

  Thor stood too and said, “Why not let me take it? You get behind the bar, uh, Harry. And let Don get in front of it. Then you’ll both be in the shot.”

  Harry radiated at that. “You don’t mind, Colonel Mathers?”

  “Of course not.”

  Thor Bjornsen took three pictures in all, from different angles, and then he and Don went back to the booth.

  The Scandinavian looked at him. “Do you get much of that sort of thing?”

  “Yes.”

  Thor said, “To get back to the radioactives thing. Who’s in it with you?”

  Don wondered whether or not to answer, but, after all, it would probably soon be in the news. He said, “Lawrence Demming and Maximilian Rostoff, who already have large investments in the field and plenty of know-how, are putting up the initial capital to get going.”

  The other took him in in horror. “Demming and Rostoff? They’re the two biggest crooks in the system.”

  “I’m to be president of the corporation. I’ll keep them in line.”

  “What do you get out of it, Don?”
r />   “Nothing. Nothing except my expenses.”

  Thor Bjornsen frowned. “And nobody else is in it at all?”

  “Well, actually, Peter Fodor has been given a chunk of stock. He’s going to throw the weight of the Church behind the, uh, crusade.”

  “Almighty Ultimate! If Demming and Rostoff are’ the two biggest crooks in the system, he’s the third.”

  “What are you talking about? He’s the Grand Presbyter.”

  “Yes, and like most big organized religions down through the centuries, his church is a racket, with him the chief racketeer. Religions might start humbly with the leaders really living up to their vows of poverty and so forth—take Christ and his apostles and early followers. They lived in a sort of primitive communism. But have you ever read an account of the church at the time of the Borgias and the Medici? When you get to the top of the heap in business, you don’t become a multi-millionaire by remaining honest. When you get to the top in politics, it isn’t by keeping your hands clean.”

  “I’m not up on politics,” Don admitted.

  “Well,” the other said. “My point was that big business, such as Demming’s and Rostoff’s type, big politics, and even big religion are headed by corrupt men, since power corrupts.”

  Don was getting tired of it. He had made his decision and there was no way to back out of it, even if he had wanted to, and he didn’t.”

  He looked at his wrist chronometer and said, “Sorry, Thor, I’m going to have to get underway.”

  The other nodded unhappily. “All right, Don. But think about what I’ve said. The human race is bleeding the system white with all this so-called defense preparation. If you’d throw your prestige onto the scales, you’d be able to counter this industrial-military-political combine that’s now in control.”

  Don stood and said, “I’ll think about it, Thor.”

  He headed for the door, calling over his shoulder, “So long, Harry. Thanks for the drinks.”

  The bartender looked after him, wistfully, worshipfully.

  Thor came up, pulling his Universal Credit Card from an inner pocket. He said, “How much do I owe you?”

  Harry looked at him indignantly. “No man who’s been drinking with Colonel Donal Mathers pays in this bar.”

  “Oh, excuse me,” the big fellow said, trying to keep sarcasm from his voice.

  Don had little difficulty in getting back to Demming’s place. He didn’t make the mistake of going in the front entrance of the building, strongly suspecting that there’d be a multitude of media people there. Instead, he had dialed the hovercab for the motor pool area in the basements. He got the cab as near as possible to Demming’s private elevator bank before getting out and strolling rapidly toward the nearest one. He was stopped only twice for handshakes and gushing congratulations.

  His intention had been to go directly to Rostoff’s office but when he left the elevator he was halted in his tracks for a moment.

  In the huge foyer a magnificent sign had been raised. DONAL MATHERS RADIOACTIVES MINING CORPORATION.

  Evidently, he decided, the new corporation had taken over this entire floor. Things were moving. One thing you had to give his two partners, Demming and Rostoff, they didn’t drag their heels.

  Actually, he hadn’t as yet been able to come to definite conclusions about the position he was in.

  He was being used by the two magnates, but he couldn’t figure any way of getting out from under. However, he was also aware of the fact that they couldn’t twist his arm too much. They needed him a damn sight more than he needed them. In fact, nothing would please him more than if they’d both drop dead.

  He reached Rostoff’s office, after wading through an ocean of smiles from office personnel, and was immediately passed through by the worshipful receptionist.

  Rostoff was alone. He looked up at Don’s entrance.

  “Where the hell have you been, you damned rummy? I can smell your breath from here.”

  It was still difficult for Don Mathers to adjust himself to his sudden change in status, whenever he was alone with either of his two supposed partners. When among others, he was treated like a semi-god. When alone with Demming or Rostoff, he was treated like a peasant.

  He said, “I’ve been resigning from the Space Service.

  “Good,” Maximilian Rostoff said. He took in Don’s suit. “I see you’ve already adopted the simplicity look. Your suit looks as though you earn about seventy-five pseudo-dollars a week.”

  Don sighed and took a chair. “It’s the only suit I had in my locker at the base.”

  “Well, keep wearing that type of clothing whenever you’re in public.”

  Don hesitated before saying, “There’s something you probably ought to know. On the way over to the base, Frank Cockney tried to pump me.”

  Rostoff was suddenly alert, eyes narrowed. “What do you mean? Exactly what did he say?”

  “I can’t remember the exact words, but he thought it quite a coincidence that you and Demming had sent for me just previous to my knocking out the Kraden, and then immediately after my award, you getting together with me again and the corporation being formed. In fact, I got the feeling that he knew the corporation was already being formed before I got my medal.”

  “Who else was there?”

  “His sidekick, Bil Golenpaul.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “But he heard the whole conversation?”

  “Thats right.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I clammed up.”

  “All right. Ill take care of it. Come on.” The tycoon got up and headed for the office room’s elevator.

  “Come on where?” he said now, following the other.

  They got into the compartment and Rostoff gave the screen orders. Then he said to Don, “We’ve got a half dozen speech writers for you and a couple of coaches. They’re going to make you the best public speaker since William Jennings Bryan.”

  Don had never heard of Bryan. He said, “Six speech writers? Why so many?”

  “One is actually the head of your public relations staff. Each is a specialist in some field. One in radio-actives, one on the Jupiter satellites, one in religion, one in corporation law, and so forth. Every time you open your trap, the words that come out will indicate you’re one of the most erudite men in the system.”

  The internal transport system of this portion of the Interplanetary Lines Building—call it an elevator if you will—took them this way and that and finally up to the next floor. They stopped, the door opened and they emerged into a moderately-sized conference room. There were nine men seated around the heavy table, coffee or drinks before them. One of them was Dirck Bosch, Demming’s secretary. The others Don didn’t recognize.

  He took that back. He did recognize two of them. They were top Tri-Di actors. They were both sympathetic, he-man types, both in Don’s age group and both approximately his own size.

  All came to their feet when Don and Rostoff entered, and all gathered around to be introduced and to congratulate the hero. The whole group of sophisticates were as gushing as the crowds that gathered whenever he got into public. He didn’t catch any of their names, save those of the two actors, and he knew them already, of course; Ken Westley and Rexford Lucas. It came as a shock to realize that both were homosexuals, and neither bothered to disguise the fact off-lens as they were now. Both even had limp handshakes and he suspected that both would like to get him into bed.

  When they found seats again—Don being given the place of honor at the head of the table—Dirck looked at first at Rostoff and then quickly to Don. Don was inwardly amused, sourly. The Belgian was in on the whole secret but was going to have to continually remind himself that in public Don was the big cheese.

  Dirck Bosch said, “I have been briefing these gentlemen on the whole project, stressing the fact that in the past Colonel Mathers was a space pilot, as we are all so admiringly aware, but that he is inexperience
d in addressing the public.”

  “I’m afraid it’s Mr. Mathers now, Dirck,” Don said. “You see, in order that I would be able to devote full time to the corporation and its, uh, ideals, I resigned my commission this morning.”

  There was some surprise at that and a few raised eyebrows.

  One of the writers said, “Ummm. Couldn’t you have simply taken an indefinite leave of absence?”

  But Maximilian Rostoff pursed his lips and put in, “No, I think Donal was correct. It will be more dramatic if he renounces his promotion and throws his whole weight into the defense preparations. However, I think it might be well to continue to call him Colonel in our press dispatches.”

  The wolfish looking tycoon turned to one of the other writers, the PR man, and said, “Mullens, when we get out a press release on this, you might stress the fact that the Colonel resigned his commission since he thought himself unworthy of such a rank at his age and with his lack of experience. He didn’t choose to be a meaningless figurehead, in these pressing times.”

  “Right.” The other made some quick notes on the pad before him.

  One of the actors, Rexford Lucas said, “To get down to the nitty-gritty and gather some material on Don’s style-to-be, I think at first we should have him walk about the room.”

  Rostoff looked at the space hero. “Do you mind, Don?”

  More mystified than anything else, Don got up and walked around the room a couple of times.

  “And just stand there for a moment, as though you were facing a microphone,” Ken Westley said.

  Don just stood there for a moment, looking back at them, and feeling like a damn fool.

  “Make a gesture, as though you were trying to make a strong point,” Westley said.

  Don made a gesture, as though trying to cinch a point.

  “Hmmm,” Rexford Lucas said. “Have you ever done any public speaking at all, or did you belong to the dramatic club, or take drama, when you were in school?” No.

  “Didn’t belong to the debating team or anything like that?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Don said, and went back and sat down again.