Mack Reynolds - Galactic Medal of Honor

Alicia was beautiful but far from dumb. She said, “Don! Don’t be ridiculous. If you do anything foolish, it will mean the collapse of father’s empire. Why, we could become penniless overnight! There wouldn’t be anything left for me to inherit.”

He didn’t answer her.

Lawrence Demming said, “Leave the room, Alicia. We’ll handle this madman.”

She got up, gave Don one last pitying look, and followed her father’s instructions.

When she was gone, Demming said, “Take him, Dirck.”

But the Belgian shook his head. “No,” he said. “This worm, too, has turned, Demming. I don’t care what happens to me, or my family, stopping you is the only important thing. Over the years, I’ve learned a great deal of the business of the Demming and Rostoff corporations. I have no particular desire to live. But I’ll continue to do so, at least until I’ve helped Don with my testimony.”

Surprisingly fast for such a fat man, Lawrence Demming’s hand flitted into a desk drawer to emerge with a twin of the laser pistol tucked into Don’s belt.

Don Mathers grinned at him calmly, even as he pushed his jacket back to reveal the butt of his own weapon. He made no attempt to draw it however.

He said softly, “Shoot me, Demming, and you’ve killed the most popular man in the Solar System. There’d be no place to hide, no matter how much money you have; the whole human race would be seeking you out. On the other hand, if I should kill you…”

He put his left hand into his pocket and it emerged with a small, ordinary bit of red ribbon on which was suspended a platinum cross. He displayed it on his palm.

The fat man’s face whitened at the ramifications and his hand relaxed to let the gun drop to the desk top.

“Listen, Donal,” he broke out. “We’ve been unrealistic with you. We’ll reverse ourselves and split, honestly—split three ways.”

Don Mathers laughed at him. “Trying to bribe me with money, Demming? Why, don’t you realize that I’m the only man in existence who has no use for money, who can’t spend money? That my fellow men, whom I’ve done such a good job of betraying, have honored me to a point where money is meaningless?”

Max Rostoff snatched up the fallen gun, snarling, “I’m calling your bluff, you gutless rummy. And when I’ve finished you, I’ll deal with Bosch.”

Don Mathers said, “Okay, Rostoff. There’s just two other things I want to say first. One, like Dirck, here, I don’t care if I live or not. I’ve destroyed too much of what was decent, to care if I live or not. Two—you’re only fifteen feet or so away, but you know what I think? I think you’re probably a lousy shot. I don’t think you’ve had much practice. I think I can get my gun out and cut you down before you can finish me.” He grinned thinly. “Wanta try?”

Max Rostoff snarled a curse and his finger whitened on the trigger.

Don Mathers fell sideward to the floor and rolled, his hand streaking for his weapon. Without thought, there came back to him the hours of training as a cadet in hand weapons, in judo, in hand to hand combat. Anachronistic the training might have been, but they gave it to you. He went into action with cool confidence.

From the Geneva Spaceport he took an automated hover cab to the Presidential Palace. At the palace gates he found he had left his credit card back in Center City. He snorted wearily. It was the first time in months that he’d had to pay for anything.

Four sentries were standing at attention. He said, “Do one of you boys have a Universal Credit Card to pay off this cab? I seem to have mislaid mine.”

A sergeant grinned, approached and did the necessary.

Don said, “I don’t know how you go about this. I don’t have an appointment, but I want to see the president.”

“We can turn you over to one of his aides, Colonel Mathers,” the sergeant said. “We can’t go any further than that. While we’re waiting, what’s the chance of getting your autograph, sir? I gotta kid.

…”

Don sighed, then took a deep breath and said, “He’ll probably tear it up before the week’s cut.”

“No sir, Colonel. He’ll treasure it the rest of his life.”

It wasn’t nearly as complicated as Don thought it would be. In less than half an hour he was seated in the president’s office. How long had it been since this man had given him his decoration? Could it be less than a year?

He told the story completely, making no effort to spare himself. At the end, he stood up long enough to put a paper in front of the other, then sat down again.

He said, “I’m turning the whole corporation over to the government…”

President Kwame Kumasi, whose ebony face had been registering shock after shock, the past hour, said, “Just a moment, Colonel Mathers. My administration does not advocate State ownership of industry.”

“I know. When the State controls industry you only put the whole mess off one step. The question then becomes, who controls the State? However, I’m not arguing political economy with you, Mr. President. You didn’t let me finish. I’m turning it over to the government to untangle, even while making use of the radioactives. There’s going to be a lot of untangling to do. Demming and Rostoff were devious and complicated, to say the least. So are some of the others they brought into the, ah, action. Reimbursing the prospectors and small operators who were blackjacked out of their holdings; reimbursing the miners and other laborers who were squeezed into accepting minimal pay in the name of patriotism.” Don Mathers shrugged unhappily. “On top of everything else, for all these people victimized, the uranium will be all but useless once it is learned that there have been nuclear fusion breakthroughs.”

“Yes,” the president said. He sighed deeply. “And you say that Maximilian Rostoff is dead?”

“Yes, I killed him. And Demming has gone completely drivel-happy. I think he was always a little unbalanced and the prospect of losing all that money, the greatest fortune ever conceived of, tipped the scales.”

President Kumasi said, “And what about you, Colonel Mathers?”

Don took a deep breath. “I suppose that after my court-martial, or civilian trial, or whatever, I’ll—

The president interrupted gently, “You seem to forget, Colonel Mathers. You carry the Galactic Medal of Honor, the bearer of which can do no wrong.”

Don Mathers gaped at him.

The president smiled, albeit a bit sourly. “It would hardly do for human morale, in this period which will shake our concepts, to find that our supreme symbol of heroism was a phoney. Colonel, there will be no trial and you will retain your decoration.”

Don was still gaping. “But it will have to come out that the Kraden cruiser I supposedly destroyed was already a derelict. Otherwise, no one will believe that the Kradens were not hostile. Otherwise, everyone will believe that they came back again. Otherwise, all our people will believe that the so-called war must go on.”

The president shook his head. “I think I have that figured out. At the same time that we announce that the original battle was a terrible mistake, and that the Kradens were a peaceful fleet of spaceships, we will announce that our technicians, examining the Miro Class cruiser which you destroyed, found it unarmed and obviously a spaceship sent to attempt to reopen negotiations with us, in spite of our initial attack upon them fifty years earlier. No blame will be placed on you, who, in good faith, went in to the attack, believing that you were fighting an enemy. It was all a great mistake, but your courage and gallantry were still there. You deserved the award, in spite of the tragedy. Meanwhile, we shall immediately put our tight laser beams on Luna to working trying to contact the Kradens—wherever in space they may be located—and utilizing the most recently developed methods of attempting to communicate with extraterrestrials—to apologize for our mistake and to reopen contact with them.”