Don played it very sincere. “I don’t blame you, sir,” he said. “In fact, to some extent you were correct. I was beginning to decide that you were right, that I should be psyched.”
“You proved otherwise,” Bernklau said and then switched his tone of voice. “That brings us to the present and what your next assignment is to be. Obviously, it wouldn’t do for you to continue in a One Man Scout, particularly with your present rank. Space Command seems to be in favor of using you for morale projects and——”
Don Mathers cleared his throat and interrupted. “Sir, I’ve decided to drop out of the Space Service.”
“Drop out!” The other stared at him, uncomprehendingly. “We’re at war, Colonel!”
Don nodded seriously. “Yes, sir. And what you just said is true. I couldn’t be used any longer in a One Man Scout, and I don’t have the background to command a larger vessel. I’d wind up selling bonds and giving talks to old ladies’ clubs.”
“Well, hardly that, Colonel.”
“No, sir. I think I’ll be of more use out of the services. I’m tendering my resignation and making arrangements to help in the developing of Callisto and the other Jupiter satellites.”
The commodore said nothing. His lips seemed to be whiter than before.
Don Mathers said doggedly, “Perhaps my prestige will help bring in volunteers to work the new mines out there. If they see me, well, sacrificing, putting up with all of the hardships…”
The commodore said evenly, “Mr. Mathers, I doubt if you will ever have to put up with hardships again, no matter where you make your abode. However, good luck. You deserve it.”
XIII
Inwardly laughing, Don Mathers made his way out of the building. He would never forget the way the commodore’s eyes popped when he announced that he was dropping out of the Space Service. Had he made such an announcement a month ago, he would have been dropped all right, all right, right into the laps of a bunch of psych doctors’ laps. But now? Now there was absolutely nothing the brass could do. He was out! At long last, he was out! No more three week patrols in deep space. No more space cafard. No more toadying to officers who ranked him. No more scorn to be seen in the eyes of his chief mechanic when he came in prematurely from an aborted patrol.
No more of the damned military, period! He got his full salute at the entrance to the administration buildings again and stood there for a moment on the curb, waiting for the hovercart he summoned on his transceiver. While he waited, half a dozen passing officers stopped to shake hands and congratulate him. He recognized several of them, but none too well. They were all of different squadrons than his own. However, the way they gushed, you would have thought they were lifelong buddies. It was a relief when the hovercart pulled up and he got into it.
He dialed the living quarters of the Third Division and got out before the non-residents’ dressing rooms. On his way over he’d had to answer to a few score waves of passers-by who recognized him. All right, it was part of the game and to be truthful it gave him a bit of ego-boo.
He made his way to his locker and opened it. He had been away only a couple of weeks or so, but already the contents looked foreign to him, as though he had never seen them before.
He brought out the several personal things that he wanted to retain, but left most of the locker’s contents where they were. Anybody who wanted them could scrounge them. Probably quite a few would want to, as souvenirs of such a celebrity.
He undressed, threw the colonel’s uniform aside, and brought forth the civilian suit he customarily kept in the locker. If he had anything to say about it, that was the last time he’d ever be seen in a uniform. The civilian suit was a bit on the proletarian side, he recognized now, but he could remedy that as soon as he got to an order box. From now on, Don Mathers was yearly going to make the Ten Best Dressed Men of the Solar System list.
Then, even as he redressed, something either Demming or Rostoff said came back to him. They were going to sponsor a “simplicity look” with some far-out plan in mind to lower the standard of living, and with it wage and salary standards. Well, he could think about that later.
Among the things in his locker had been his wrist chronometer, which he had never taken with him into space. For one thing, there was a chronometer in the cockpit of his V-102, and secondly he didn’t want to run the risk of batting it against something while in free fall.
He took it up now and sneered slightly as he compared it to the one that had been given him in Geneva.
There was an enlisted man nearby, idly supervising a half a dozen automatic floor waxers. Don called him over and proffered the chronometer.
“Could you use this, spaceman? I don’t need it any more.”
The other goggled. “Your own personal wrist chronometer?”
Don said impatiently, “Yes, of course. I have a new one. Take it if you want it.”
The other all but grabbed in his anxiousness. He blurted, “Almighty Ultimate! Imagine! I’ll be able to show it to my grandkids and tell them it was the chronometer of Colonel Donal Mathers and he gave it to me personally!”
Don remembered that the German girl had said something similar. She was going to be able to tell her grandchildren that she was the first woman Don had laid after winning his fight over the Kraden, while she was on her honeymoon.
He’d had a small bag in his locker. He put his things into it and left.
He summoned another hovercart and dialed the entrance of the base, but the screen of the small vehicle said, the computer voice metallic, “This transportation is restricted to space base personnel.”
Don said laconically, “I am Colonel Donal Mathers.”
“Yes, sir. Apologies.” The hovercart took off.
At the entry of the base, the guard sprang to attention, but Don ignored them. So far as he was concerned, if he never gave or received a salute again, it would still be too soon.
He dismissed the cart and summoned a hovercab and, after a moment’s hesitation, dialed Harry Amanroder’s Nuevo Mexico Bar. It wasn’t, of course, very far. He could have walked it. However, he’d just as well not be spotted. He’d wind up leading a host into the bar and spend his time there shaking hands and writing autographs.
At least, he was less conspicuous in civvies. He brought out his Universal Credit Card when they arrived at the bar and put it in the slot. The cab’s screen voice said, “Company’s orders. The credit card of Colonel Mathers is not to be recognized.”
He assumed that meant he wasn’t expected to pay. He got out of the cab and hustled into the bar, wanting to get off the street before being spotted.
At this time of the morning, there was only one customer present, a Space Service lieutenant sitting on a stool at the bar. Harry Amanroder, of course, presided, and was idly wiping the space before him with a soiled bar rag. His pudding face brake when he saw who the newcomer was.
“Lieutenant… I mean, Colonel Mathers! I… I never expected to see you ever come in this dump again!”
Don took a stool, two down from the lieutenant, and said, smiling, “This is my favorite bar, Harry. Besides, I have a tab here that’s been accumulating for months. Hell, for all I know, for years.”
Harry stood before him, tears in his eyes. “No, sir. That tab’s been picked up.”
Don scowled at him. “By whom?”
“Byrne.”
Don shook his head. “No, sir, Harry. A hundred times you’ve put my guzzle on the cuff when I was broke. I’ve got more credits in my account than I’ve ever had before, and I’m having no luck at all spending them. But I’m going to pay your bill. I’ll consider it a special favor, if you’ll let me.”
Harry said, his voice all but breaking, “All right, sir. But from then on in, the same thing applies in this bar as anywhere else in the Solar System. A holder of the Galactic Medal of Honor doesn’t pay no tab.”