All regarded him for a long silent moment.
Rexford Lucas said, “For one thing, I think we’d better have a still more military stance and walk. Very straight. The bearer of the Galactic Medal of Honor must walk tall.”
One of the writers said to Don, “Let’s hear you talk.”
Don looked at him. “What should I say?”
“Anything. We just want to get a level on your speaking voice. Recite a poem, or something.”
Don thought about that for a long moment. He said finally, “Back when I was a kid in school we had to memorize a poem called, Daffodils.”
“Daffodils!” Rostoff muttered.
“Anything will do. Try it,” the writer said.
Don cleared his throat and began.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high over dale and hill.
Uh, when all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of, uh, golden daffodils,
Beside a lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Out did the sparkling waves in, uh, glee.
A poet could not be gay
In such a jocund company.
I gazed and gazed, but, uh, little thought
What wealth to me the show had brought.
For oft when on my couch I lie,
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They, uh, flash upon that inward eye,
Which is the, uh, bliss of solitude.
And then my heart with pleasure fills
And dances with the daffodils.
He wound up with, “I think there was one more stanza in there but I’ve forgotten it.”
“Jesus,” one of the writers said.
“I thought it was very sweet,” Rexford Lucas simpered.
The writer who had asked him to recite sighed and looked over at Dirck Bosch. He said, “Look, could you get on the data banks screen and get a copy of the Gettysburg Address?”
They stuck to it for two hours or more and then Rostoff and Don left the actors and speech writers to confer on what type of public speaker they were going to convert him into.
Most of them looked a little on the glum side. But Ken Westley waved him a limp wristed bye-bye.
Don and Rostoff got back into the elevator and the interplanetary magnate said, “You’re beginning to get a sample of what you’re in for. This afternoon you’ll meet the writer who’s going to turn out your autobiography. He’s already studying your Dossier Complete.”
“My Dossier Complete! Where’d you get it? Nobody’s allowed to look at my dossier, unless it’s an authorized official, with a court clearance.”
Rostoff sighed. “You’ll learn, you’ll learn. Don’t they have a saying in the military, that rank has its privileges? Well, believe me, they are as nothing to the privileges that wealth has.”
“Damn it!” Don said in protest.
The other ignored him and said, “Demming is turning the whole penthouse over to you. It will be nice and secluded so you won’t be molested by the mob. And it’ll be a good place for doing your autobiography, news conferences, and business in general. You won’t be bothered by anybody except rubbernecks trying to spot you from over flying aircraft. We’ll assign a few heavies to you, to see that nobody gets through that you don’t want to see, or we don’t want to see you.
“ Heavies?”
“Bodyguards.”
“I don’t need bodyguards. I’m the most popular man in the system.”
“That you are, that you are,” the other said with his lupine smile. “But in the near future you’re going to be stepping on some toes. On top of that, there’s always the crackpot. Anybody who shot Donal Mathers would go down in history. Oh, they’d catch him and probably execute him, even though he was as drivel-happy as a loon, but he’d go down in history.”
The compartment stopped and they emerged into the living room of the oversized penthouse chalet.
Rostoff looked at him from the side of his eyes and said, “Are you sleeping with Alicia Demming?”
Don glowered back at him indignantly. “None of your goddamned business.”
“Oh, but it is. Anything about you is my business. So far as Demming is concerned, he probably couldn’t care less. His daughter has slept around before, probably ever since she was about twelve. I’m in favor of it. If you have a bedmate right here in the building, it’ll keep you from prowling the town, looking for it.”
“I don’t have to look very hard,” Don muttered.
“I’ll bet you don’t. Why don’t you get yourself a drink? You look as though you could use one. Your ghost writer is in the library. I’ll go get him. You can have a preliminary talk and then have lunch together.”
“Where’s Demming?”
“I think over in London. He’ll probably be back by tomorrow.”
Rostoff left and Don went over to the autobar. He dialed some of Demming’s ancient Napoleon Brandy. He’d put a hole in that supply, he decided. The son of a bitch would be sorry he’d ever let Don Mathers loose in his fancy guzzle. He amended that. Don and his friends. He’d invite the gang up and there’d be some parties in this penthouse that would make history.
The cognac came and he knocked half of it back, before amending again. He suddenly realized that he, Donal Mathers, didn’t have any real friends. The whole solar system loved him, but, now that he thought about it, he didn’t have any real friends, just acquaintances. People like Eric Hansen? People like the space worshipping bartender, Harry? Nearer to it was Thor Bjornsen, whom he had met exactly twice.
XV
They gave him two full weeks of instructions and rehearsals before clearing him for Tri-Di appearances, news conferences, and making him available to commentators and free lance writers for special articles.
The people had begun to wonder where their new hero was keeping himself but Sid Mullens, the PR chief, and his staff of publicity men leaked just enough material to placate them. For one thing, the holder of the Galactic Medal of Honor was taking a much needed rest after his soul-shattering, exhausting fight with the Kraden which had brought him to the edge of nervous breakdown. For another, Colonel Mathers was embarked upon a project which he would soon reveal to the public, a project even more important, and possibly as daring, as his attack upon the Miro Class cruiser.
Meanwhile, Don stuck largely to the top floors of the Interplanetary Lines Building. Occasionally, he’d take a relaxing flight in one of the hover limousines, invariably accompanied by two of the bodyguards. Except in the privacy of his penthouse quarters, and particularly in his own suite, he was never out of sight of at least a couple of these and usually more. They were supposedly secretaries of his but all of them were professionals, armed with quick-draw laser pistols. Even in the offices of the Donal Mathers Radioactives Mining Corporation, they were always present. Demming and Rostoff knew all too well that if anything happened to their hero, the whole project was a bust.
The offices were expanding and already took up two floors of the building, and there were thousands of employees, largely busily at work, sworn to secrecy about the soon to be revealed project.
Alicia came to his bed nightly and their relationship had become less frenetic, more easygoing. They continued to enjoy each other sexually, but had agreed that they would keep their affair quiet, not even allowing the bodyguards to know of its existence. If word got out that Colonel Mathers had a full time mistress, every newsman, every commentator, every columnist, every photographer, every news gossip in the system would be after her. Everything she had ever done would be dug into, and in her time, Alicia told her lover wryly, she had done quite a few things, usually hushed up by her father’s influence, but nothing could be hushed up pertaining to Don Mathers.
She surprised him one night, after they had finished making love, by saying, “My father has something on you, hasn’t he, Don?”
He looked at her
warily. “How do you mean?” He didn’t like this. In the whole system, only Demming, Rostoff and Dirck Bosch knew. And even that was too damn many. It meant that for the rest of their lives he was under their thumbs. Even if the two older men died, he would still be at Bosch’s mercy.
She said slowly, “I’m not stupid, Don. I’ve suspected it almost from the first. There’s a something electric between you. There’s a relationship between you and father and Max Rostoff that is particularly obvious when you’re not in the vicinity of any outsiders.”
“You’re dreaming, darling. Our relationship is purely business.”
“Yes, and with the preferred stock of the corporation, supposedly your corporation, the only stock that is going to count, in their hands.”
“How did you know that?”
“I told you I wasn’t stupid. The only one they’ve cut in at all, so far, is the Grand Presbyter. And only him because they want the weight of his Universal Reformed Church behind them.”
Don sighed and said, “I don’t need money, darling. And it looks good for me to be heading the corporation on a non-profit basis.”
“What do you mean, you don’t need money? Everybody needs money,” she said in rejection.
He said, weariness there in his voice, “I suspect that if I called the largest bank on Earth and asked for a million pseudo-dollars, they’d give it to me on my signature.”
“Ridiculous.”
He said, “Watch this.” He flicked on the phone screen that sat at the edge of the bed and dialed for his night secretary. When the other’s face faded in, Don said, “Peters, what’s the best automobile in the world?”
“Rolls-Royce Hover, Colonel.”
“Very well, get me the head of their sales department. I don’t give a damn what time it is, get him.”
While he waited, Alicia said, “What’s going on? We’ve got enough cars around here to carry a regiment.”
He ignored her and surprisingly shortly, in view of the hour, another face replaced his secretary’s. The newcomer was wide-eyed.
Don said, “I’m Colonel Donal Mathers and I’m considering buying one of your cars.”
The other’s jaw slipped. He stuttered, in a British accent, “Just… just a moment, ahh, Colonel. I’ll put you in touch…” His voice dripped away and then his face faded, to be replaced in moments by another wide-eyed stranger.
This new one said, “I’m Gerald Hastings, sir. Head of Rolls-Royce Hover public relations. We’ll immediately send you over a complete selection of all of our models.”
Don said, “I don’t think I could afford—”
The other was distressed. “Oh, sir, there would be no charge.”
Don said, “I’ll think it over. Thanks.” He flicked off the other’s distressed face before he could go into a sales pitch. Don knew what the other was thinking. The interplanetary hero was probably considering the vehicles of some of the competitors, Mercedes Hover, or whoever. He had a sneaking suspicion that the Rolls-Royce Hovers would be on the way to Center City before the night was out.
He turned to Alicia and said, “See what I mean? What would I do with money if I had it?”
She said, “Holy Almighty Ultimate, I didn’t know it went that far.”
“Well, it does. I can’t spend a pseudo-cent. Hell, I can’t give it away.”
For the time, at least, they talked no more of the hold over Don that she sensed her father and Rostoff held.
She had never again mentioned the possibility of marriage. Don didn’t know if it was because she had second thoughts, or if she was waiting for him to take the initiative. Actually, he still didn’t know how he felt about it. She was a dish, but was she the kind of dish you’d want to spend the rest of your life with, even after the initial notoriety of his getting his medal had died away a bit and he was more able to appear in public places without being mobbed? That she was a spoiled, selfish young woman was obvious. But, on the other hand, one day she would inherit the Demming fortune and by that time the Demming fortune would be a damned sight larger than it was today. And although he didn’t really need money now, perhaps the time would come. Money was power and he was beginning to like the feeling of power.
It was the day following this discourse with Alicia that the fourth man to join the holders of preferred stock came on the scene.
Don had been sitting at his desk, going over the speech he was to make the following day. This was only the second time he had been on Tri-Di lens and the first time, at the ceremony in Geneva, it wasn’t a personal thing. He hadn’t really given a speech or anything. He was unhappy about it, in spite of all the coaching the two actors had given him, and in spite of all the careful honing the speech writers had done to bring out the proper sincerity, the proper simplicity, the proper terminology. For instance, it wouldn’t have done to use a single word or expression that couldn’t be understood by everyone in the system older than ten.
The identity screen on the door buzzed and he flicked the button that activated it. Rostoff’s face was there.
He said, oozing unctuousness, “May we come in, Colonel Mathers?”
Mildly surprised at the courtesy, Don flicked another button which opened the door.
Rostoff strode in, followed by a stranger, followed by Demming. All were fawning.
The stranger was a bluff, slightly red-faced type, who simply radiated good will and honesty. He was conservatively dressed, clear and deep of voice when he spoke. And in five seconds flat Don had branded him politician. The other could have gotten a job portraying a prominent politician any day in the week on Tri-Di.
Don began to stand but the newcomer said, still radiating cheerful admiration, “No, no, Colonel. Don’t bother.” He reached across the desk to shake hands. His grip was firm and friendly.
Demming wheezed, “Colonel Mathers, this is Senator Frank Makowski, of Callisto. Undoubtedly you have heard his inspired speeches over and over again; possibly when you were in deep space in your One Man Scout. He is Callisto’s representative to the Solar System League’s Parliament in Geneva.”
“Yes, of course,” Don said, smiling as best he could. He had never heard of the man in his life. “Please be seated, gentlemen. It’s an honor to meet you personally, Senator.”
The senator, even while finding his chair said, “Colonel Mathers, the honor is mine.”
“Could I offer you gentlemen a drink?” Don said. He had already had two or three today, even though he was trying to concentrate on the speech.
Rostoff said, “No, no, Colonel. It’s only four o’clock and Lawrence and I are acquainted with your restrained drinking habits.”
“Well,” Don said, in deprecation, “I’m not exactly a teetotaler.” The bastard. Don could have used another drink along in here.
“But almost,” Demming said in his flat voice. “Colonel, we know how busy you are, but we have a business matter with the Senator, here, and in view of the fact that you are president and chairman of the board, he was desirous to clear it with you.”
The senator chuckled. “In actuality, Colonel, my big motivation was to have the honor of meeting you. I have dealt with Mr. Demming and Mr. Rostoff before, in line of my duties, and, of course trust them implicitly.”
Don tried to look interested and sincere and held his peace.
Demming cleared his voice and said, “In view of the fact that Senator Makowski is in a key position so far as the corporation is concerned, it occurred to Max and me that possibly we should, ah, give him a piece of the action, as the old saying goes. He has invariably cooperated most generously with both Max and myself in earlier projects involving the mineral exploitation of Callisto and I am sure that in this more all out effort, his position will make it imperative that we work in full cooperation with him.”
“Yes, indeed,” Rostoff said.
“Of course, in this great crusade,” the Senator said, “you would have my all out support in any case…”
Don said, “What is the p
roblem, gentlemen?” He hadn’t the vaguest idea what they were talking about.
Rostoff said, “Lawrence and I have suggested that one percent of the preferred stock of the Donal Mathers Radioactives Mining Corporation be issued to the Senator.”
Demming said, “And he wished your assurance that you completely concurred.”
“Why, of course,” Don said earnestly. “In fact, I had been considering bringing up the matter myself, except that I had thought in terms of two percent.”
The Senator shone.
Demming and Rostoff glared.
Rostoff got out finally, “We shall have to look into it, Colonel Mathers. You are aware of how thinly stretched we already are.” He came to his feet, followed by the other two. “I’ll confer with you later on, after checking with the executive committee of the board.”
When they were gone, Don snorted in both self-satisfaction and ill humor. He said aloud, “If they keep on passing out chunks of their stock to every crook that comes along with his hand extended, they’ll be running out themselves, the bastards.” He had to laugh at the expression on Rostoff’s face as the three had filed out. The other was going to hit the ceiling the next time he saw Don Mathers. Don didn’t give a damn.
They held the initial broadcast in a comparatively small conference room of the offices of the corporation. The penthouse was too luxurious to fit in with the soon to be mounted campaign for the Simplicity Look. In fact, the conference room itself had been redecorated with a less ostentatious table, less ornate chairs.
Don was alone save for Dirck Bosch and two of the bodyguards, but these sat to one side, so as not to appear on lens. The bodyguards kept their cold eyes roaming continuously over the swarm of Tri-Di technicians, in spite of the fact that all of these had been electronically frisked as they entered the building.
The director finally checked his wrist chronometer, turned and said to Don, “All ready, Colonel?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose,” Don said.
The crew all laughed. Hell it wasn’t as good a bon mot as all that. It was just that he was Colonel Mathers, modest attainer of the Galactic Medal of Honor and anything he said in self-deprecation was humor.
Galactic Medal of Honor Page 16
