Don stood and said, “I’ll think about it, Thor.”
He headed for the door, calling over his shoulder, “So long, Harry. Thanks for the drinks.”
The bartender looked after him, wistfully, worshipfully.
Thor came up, pulling his Universal Credit Card from an inner pocket. He said, “How much do I owe you?”
Harry looked at him indignantly. “No man who’s been drinking with Colonel Donal Mathers pays in this bar.”
“Oh, excuse me,” the big fellow said, trying to keep sarcasm from his voice.
Don had little difficulty in getting back to Demming’s place. He didn’t make the mistake of going in the front entrance of the building, strongly suspecting that there’d be a multitude of media people there. Instead, he had dialed the hovercab for the motor pool area in the basements. He got the cab as near as possible to Demming’s private elevator bank before getting out and strolling rapidly toward the nearest one. He was stopped only twice for handshakes and gushing congratulations.
His intention had been to go directly to Rostoff’s office but when he left the elevator he was halted in his tracks for a moment.
In the huge foyer a magnificent sign had been raised. DONAL MATHERS RADIOACTIVES MINING CORPORATION.
Evidently, he decided, the new corporation had taken over this entire floor. Things were moving. One thing you had to give his two partners, Demming and Rostoff, they didn’t drag their heels.
Actually, he hadn’t as yet been able to come to definite conclusions about the position he was in.
He was being used by the two magnates, but he couldn’t figure any way of getting out from under. However, he was also aware of the fact that they couldn’t twist his arm too much. They needed him a damn sight more than he needed them. In fact, nothing would please him more than if they’d both drop dead.
He reached Rostoff’s office, after wading through an ocean of smiles from office personnel, and was immediately passed through by the worshipful receptionist.
Rostoff was alone. He looked up at Don’s entrance.
“Where the hell have you been, you damned rummy? I can smell your breath from here.”
It was still difficult for Don Mathers to adjust himself to his sudden change in status, whenever he was alone with either of his two supposed partners. When among others, he was treated like a semi-god. When alone with Demming or Rostoff, he was treated like a peasant.
He said, “I’ve been resigning from the Space Service.
“Good,” Maximilian Rostoff said. He took in Don’s suit. “I see you’ve already adopted the simplicity look. Your suit looks as though you earn about seventy-five pseudo-dollars a week.”
Don sighed and took a chair. “It’s the only suit I had in my locker at the base.”
“Well, keep wearing that type of clothing whenever you’re in public.”
Don hesitated before saying, “There’s something you probably ought to know. On the way over to the base, Frank Cockney tried to pump me.”
Rostoff was suddenly alert, eyes narrowed. “What do you mean? Exactly what did he say?”
“I can’t remember the exact words, but he thought it quite a coincidence that you and Demming had sent for me just previous to my knocking out the Kraden, and then immediately after my award, you getting together with me again and the corporation being formed. In fact, I got the feeling that he knew the corporation was already being formed before I got my medal.”
“Who else was there?”
“His sidekick, Bil Golenpaul.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing.”
“But he heard the whole conversation?”
“Thats right.”
“What did you say?”
“I clammed up.”
“All right. Ill take care of it. Come on.” The tycoon got up and headed for the office room’s elevator.
“Come on where?” he said now, following the other.
They got into the compartment and Rostoff gave the screen orders. Then he said to Don, “We’ve got a half dozen speech writers for you and a couple of coaches. They’re going to make you the best public speaker since William Jennings Bryan.”
Don had never heard of Bryan. He said, “Six speech writers? Why so many?”
“One is actually the head of your public relations staff. Each is a specialist in some field. One in radio-actives, one on the Jupiter satellites, one in religion, one in corporation law, and so forth. Every time you open your trap, the words that come out will indicate you’re one of the most erudite men in the system.”
The internal transport system of this portion of the Interplanetary Lines Building—call it an elevator if you will—took them this way and that and finally up to the next floor. They stopped, the door opened and they emerged into a moderately-sized conference room. There were nine men seated around the heavy table, coffee or drinks before them. One of them was Dirck Bosch, Demming’s secretary. The others Don didn’t recognize.
He took that back. He did recognize two of them. They were top Tri-Di actors. They were both sympathetic, he-man types, both in Don’s age group and both approximately his own size.
All came to their feet when Don and Rostoff entered, and all gathered around to be introduced and to congratulate the hero. The whole group of sophisticates were as gushing as the crowds that gathered whenever he got into public. He didn’t catch any of their names, save those of the two actors, and he knew them already, of course; Ken Westley and Rexford Lucas. It came as a shock to realize that both were homosexuals, and neither bothered to disguise the fact off-lens as they were now. Both even had limp handshakes and he suspected that both would like to get him into bed.
When they found seats again—Don being given the place of honor at the head of the table—Dirck looked at first at Rostoff and then quickly to Don. Don was inwardly amused, sourly. The Belgian was in on the whole secret but was going to have to continually remind himself that in public Don was the big cheese.
Dirck Bosch said, “I have been briefing these gentlemen on the whole project, stressing the fact that in the past Colonel Mathers was a space pilot, as we are all so admiringly aware, but that he is inexperienced in addressing the public.”
“I’m afraid it’s Mr. Mathers now, Dirck,” Don said. “You see, in order that I would be able to devote full time to the corporation and its, uh, ideals, I resigned my commission this morning.”
There was some surprise at that and a few raised eyebrows.
One of the writers said, “Ummm. Couldn’t you have simply taken an indefinite leave of absence?”
But Maximilian Rostoff pursed his lips and put in, “No, I think Donal was correct. It will be more dramatic if he renounces his promotion and throws his whole weight into the defense preparations. However, I think it might be well to continue to call him Colonel in our press dispatches.”
The wolfish looking tycoon turned to one of the other writers, the PR man, and said, “Mullens, when we get out a press release on this, you might stress the fact that the Colonel resigned his commission since he thought himself unworthy of such a rank at his age and with his lack of experience. He didn’t choose to be a meaningless figurehead, in these pressing times.”
“Right.” The other made some quick notes on the pad before him.
One of the actors, Rexford Lucas said, “To get down to the nitty-gritty and gather some material on Don’s style-to-be, I think at first we should have him walk about the room.”
Rostoff looked at the space hero. “Do you mind, Don?”
More mystified than anything else, Don got up and walked around the room a couple of times.
“And just stand there for a moment, as though you were facing a microphone,” Ken Westley said.
Don just stood there for a moment, looking back at them, and feeling like a damn fool.