“It’s the rip-off of the century,” Don muttered.
Rostoff grinned his wolf grin. “It’s the rip-off of all history,” he corrected.
“And you called me a con man,” Don said bitterly.
Demming wheezed again and said, “Let’s knock this off and get the law boys in.” He pushed his bulk to his feet and went over to the desk and flicked a switch on one of the screens there and said, “Dirck.”
Dirck Bosch, his Belgian secretary, entered from the same inner office Demming had emerged from earlier.
Demming said, “Bring in the damn lawyers. We’ve got enough paper work to keep us busy for the rest of the week.”
Don said, “Wait a minute. What if I say no?”
Rostoff chuckled his humorless laugh. He said, “We four here, including you, are the only living persons who know that you’re a heel, not a hero.”
Don Mathers lost track of the number of lawyers who came and went. They were all obviously top men in their various fields, very deferential to Demming and Rostoff and as impressed with meeting Don as anybody else had been since his decoration. Two of them, pleading children who collected, even asked for autographs. Don, of course, complied, suspecting that they, in actuality, wanted them for themselves, not for their kids.
It would be impossible for him to ever go broke, he decided acidly. If worse came to worse, he could always stand on a street corner and sell his signature for, say five pseudo-dollars a throw.
He didn’t bother to read any of the things he signed. Had he, it would have taken him forever; some of the sheaf’s of legal paper were half an inch thick.
Finally, Demming grunted to his secretary, “What time is it, Dirck?”
Dirck Bosch told him immediately, seemingly not even looking at his wrist chronometer.
Demming lurched to his feet. “I have a guest,” he said. “Let’s call the rest of this off until tomorrow.”
Rostoff said, “Tomorrow, Don is going to have to start work on his autobiography.”
“Autobiography?” Don snorted. “I could no more write an autobiography than…”
Rostoff said absently, scanning some papers in his hands, “We’ve got a writer chap to ghost it. One of the best authors in the system. But he’ll have a lot of questions to ask you. We want to get it into print as soon as possible—before we issue stock. We’re also having two other books done, one a juvenile, another a straight biography.”
Demming was headed for an elevator to one side of the room. He said, “I’ll go up and welcome the Grand Presbyter. Max, can you stay for dinner?”
“Yes, of course.” Demming said to Don, “We have a suite prepared for you. You can pick up your things, or we’ll have one of the men go over to get them, tomorrow. Ill expect you gentlemen in ten minutes or so. In the blue dining room, Max.”
Maximilian Rostoff and Don wound up two or three more items and then the lawyers left, followed by the self-effacing Dirck Bosch, leaving Rostoff and Don alone.
Don looked at the door through which the Belgian secretary had just gone and said, “What spins with him?”
Rostoff didn’t look up but said, “Who?”
“Bosch. He knows the whole story. Suppose he spills it?”
Rostoff shook his head. “Demming owns him. Some years ago he worked in Demming’s, let us say, security staff. A situation arose in which it became necessary to, as you’d say, liquidate two financial competitors. Demming has definite proof that Bosch performed the deed.” He smiled his lupine smile. “The moral of the story is, don’t ever let friend Lawrence get anything on you. Which, obviously, is too late a warning in your case.”
Don said, “He could still spill, given enough pressure of whatever sort on him. He hates Demming.”
“Everybody hates Demming. You’re more observant than I would have given you credit for. However, Bosch has a semi-invalid wife and two children in Brussels. Their only source of income is Bosch’s pay from Demming. Her medical bills are high. If anything happened to Bosch’s income they would be in poverty.”
“He could get a job somewhere else, if he could beat the murder rap. He’s obviously a top notch man.”
“Not with Demming blacklisting him. Let’s go on upstairs. You’re going to meet the Grand Presbyter.”
“The Grand Presbyter! You mean the head of the Universal Reformed Church? I thought I misunderstood Demming when he mentioned this guest of his.”
Rostoff didn’t bother to answer. He tossed the legal papers to his desk and led the way to the elevator.
When the door opened again, they emerged into a dining room possibly half again as large as the “cozy” family room in which he had eaten with the Demming family several weeks before. It was largely in blue, even the Gainsborough painting which Don absently recognized as that master’s most famous work. He wondered how many dining rooms Demming maintained in all.
Besides Martha and Alicia Demming, there was a stranger present. Not exactly a stranger. Don recognized him from the times he had seen him on Tri-Di. It was Peter Fodor, Grand Presbyter of the Universal Reformed Church, successor to the prominence once held by a combination of the Pope, the Patriarch of the Orthodox Eastern Church, and the Grand Mufti of Mecca. He was a quiet, dignified man in his early sixties. He was very straight in posture and slight in build though his comparatively simple robes did little to hide a rounded paunch. He held a glass of sherry in his hand, as did Martha and Alicia. Somewhat to Don’s surprise, there was a quirk of sly humor in his eyes that didn’t show up on Tri-Di where he usually seemed somewhat sad.
Upon Don and Rostoff’s appearance, Lawrence Demming bustled over, beaming. He took Don by the arm in friendly fashion and led him to where Peter Fodor and the ladies v/ere chatting.
“Your Supreme Holiness,” he said, “may I present our solar system hero, Colonel Donal Mathers?”
The Grand Presbyter put out a hard dry hand.
Don didn’t know if he was supposed to kiss it or shake it. He wasn’t a member of the Universal Reformed Church, nor any other, for that matter—if there were any others left. He wasn’t up on matters religious. He shook.
Peter Fodor said, “My son, surely the Almighty Ultimate was at your side when you attacked the Kraden monsters.” His voice was strong but still held a kindly ring.
“I… I suppose so, Your Supreme Holiness,” Don got out.
“A touch of Amontillado, Colonel Mathers?” Demming wheezed, still beaming fondly at Don.
“Why, yes sir,” Don said. “Thank you.” He hadn’t had a drink all day and could use one in view of the developments of the past hours.
His host must have made some imperceptible signal since a liveried servant came hurrying up with a gold tray upon which was a superlatively beautiful crystal decanter and a sherry glass. Demming himself took up the container and poured. He handed the glass to Don.
Rostoff had ordered his own drink from one of the servants. By the looks of it, it was a double shot of very cold vodka. He slugged it back in one bolt, put the glass down and came over to join the others.
The two women were gushing over Don, if it could be said that the bland Martha was capable of gushing. However, she did her best in her rasping voice.
Now, once again, Alicia Demming was another thing. She was wearing a golden formal dress, with no jewelry save a magnificent emerald necklace, and it set off her fine blond hair and green eyes to perfection.