The other made a slight gesture. “Do any of the ladies present attract you?”
Don still followed along with what he assumed was supposed to be a joke. He said, “Almost all of them. I have never seen such an assemblage of attractive women. Unfortunately…”
“Who do you think particularly attractive, Colonel Mathers? The headwaiter refilled his glass, though it was but half empty.
Don smiled and considered the selection of some one hundred women. He assumed that the headwaiter would produce a professional as near the original as possible. He said finally, “That redheaded girl over there, in the white evening gown. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a more attractive young woman, even on Tri-Di shows and, the Almighty Ultimate knows, on Tri-Di, even if they don’t start glamorous, the pro beauticians can make them so.” “A moment, Colonel.”
Don stared after him, in puzzlement, as the head-waiter took off across the room. He stopped at the table where the redhead was seated with a distinguished companion, bent and spoke in low tone to them. For a moment, the man stiffened. The girl shot a quick glance over at Don, then looked away.
The headwaiter had stepped back several discreet feet. The girl whispered something to her escort, who said something in return.
She came to her feet and the headwaiter led her to Don’s table, to his absolute and utter surprise. He shot to his feet.
The headwaiter said, “It is obviously not necessary to introduce Colonel Donal Mathers. Colonel, this is the Graffin Greta von Emden und Garmisch.”
She was looking at him starry-eyed.
Behind her, her escort had stood, and now, very Prussian, he clicked his heels, bowed to Don, turned and strode from the room, looking only straight ahead.
She was quite the most striking girl Don could ever remember having seen. Girl was the term, since she looked considerably younger than she had when seated across the room. She couldn’t have been more than in her early twenties. Her red hair was a dark red and piled atop her head, in a style of years before. Her delicate ears would have inspired a poet.
Her complexion was of the light fineness that only the northern races seem to be able to achieve. Her nose was slightly thin and aristocratic; her mouth delicate, though full-lipped and red. Don had not failed to notice the perfection of her figure as she crossed the dance floor. It seemed more mature than one of her years would ordinarily have boasted.
The waiters scurried up and held the chairs for Don and the newcomer.
The headwaiter had magically produced a second glass and now poured wine for her, returned the bottle to the ice bucket and made off. The waiters also faded back.
Don was flustered and said, “I hope that your boyfriend wasn’t…”
Her voice went with face and figure, sweet but with a slight trill in it. She shook her head. “But he is not my boyfriend, he is my husband.” Her English was excellent. Seemingly, everyone in Geneva spoke the language.
That stopped him for a moment, but then he thought he understood and said, “Oh, I see. You have a friendly arrangement. Both of you are free to go your own way.”
She opened her gray-green eyes wide. “Oh, no. Our marriage is a happy one. You see, we are on our honeymoon.”
He bug-eyed her and couldn’t think of anything to say.
She said, and her voice was very slight now, and her eyes down, looking into her champagne which she hadn’t tasted as yet, “You see, we both watched, on the Tri-Di, the presentation ceremony this morning. We both cried, although, in spite of the fact that I have known him for years, I have never seen Kurt cry before. Possibly you weren’t aware of the fact that it was all recorded, all taken down on video-tape by the fleet admiral, and it was all replayed on the Tri-Di, all over the world, all over the Solar System. You disobeyed orders. You said, I’m going in,’ and you banged the cocking hammer, I think that is what my husband named it, of your flak-flak gun, or whatever they call it. And some of the commentators say your chances were one in a thousand of surviving at all, not to speak of destroying the monsters.”
Don’s lips were dry. He took a desperate sip of his champagne. She was right, he hadn’t known that the whole thing had been video-taped.
She went on, “Later when the Space Monitors of our fleet came up, eight of them, their commodore continued to video-tape it all. The ruined Miro Class cruiser—I think they called it—that great, hulking spacecraft of the Kradens. And, for a moment, he caught your tiny One Man Scout, flying past its bulk. We have many myths and legends in my country, Colonel Mathers, about knights and princes fighting dragons, but never such a small knight against such a large dragon.”
Don said, “What has this got to do with your husband leaving you here with me?”
Greta said simply, “My husband is honored.”
By this time she had sipped at her wine and smiled at him over the glass. “As I am, to be chosen to be your companion the very evening of the day you won your award.”
A waiter scurried up and refilled their glasses, held the bottle up, saw it was nearly empty, and scurried off with it.
For a moment, Don felt the first twinge within him since he had made his decision in the One Man Scout and went on in quest of glory and wealth. He put the feeling down. Demming and Rostoff had been right. It was a dog-eat-dog system, each man out for himself. Take what you can get. If you don’t, somebody else will.
The waiter came back with more wine, put it into the ice bucket and swirled it around.
Don invited her to dance and, as to be expected, she was perfect, as her face and figure were perfect. You did not breed such women, save in time, centuries of time.
He said, “What is a Graffin?”
She smiled up at him and said, “In actuality, there is no such thing any more. Some of we who were of the aristocracy, a century and a half ago, still use our titles but they are meaningless. A graffin is the German equivalent of a French countess. The equivalent of being the wife of an earl, in England. My husband is a Graf.”
“I see,” Don said. “So, if the, ah, Kaiser was ever brought back to Germany, you would again be a countess.”
She smiled again. “It seems unlikely.”
As they danced, the other couples made room for them, so that it was as though they were in the center of a circle, which made Don uncomfortable. Something else made him additionally uncomfortable. They would pass the empty table where Greta and her husband had been seated enjoying their honeymoon.
He said, suddenly, “What do you say we get out of here and go somewhere else?”
As always, there was no bill.
They stopped, in turn, at the various nightspots that Pierre had recommended, breaking the routine of drinking somewhat at the Ba-Ta-Clan where they ate. But even there, the food was taken with wine once again from the private cellars of the manager, and not usually for sale. Don was too far gone by this time to appreciate it.
The fog rolled in somewhere along there and when it rolled out again, it was to find that he and Greta had acquired friends, two Space Service officers in the uniform of captains, and their girls. Nobody was feeling pain. They were in the Pussy Cat Saloon and had evidently been there for some time.
The captains, deferential to Don, in spite of them all being drenched, didn’t discuss his feat against the Kraden, nor his decoration. Possibly that had come sooner while he was in the alcoholic fog, or possibly they thought it would be bad manners, bad taste. It was all very hilarious.
And at the other tables, no matter how loud his party was being, the other club-goers were smiling, looking over at the new hero sympathetically. Obviously, they thought he had every right to be intoxicated on this, of all nights.