Golenpaul sat in the pilot’s place and Cockney next to him. Don Mathers got into the back. The craft was somewhat of a sportster and had but four seats. The big man dialed their destination and the helio-hover zoomed off, immediately reaching for higher altitudes.
“So what does the boss want with me?” Don said.
Cockney said laconically, “He seldom lets us in on his business, Lieutenant.”
The hi-rise Interplanetary Lines Building was evidently their destination. Don Mathers had, on occasion, been in some of the offices on the lower levels, some of the restaurants and nightspots, but they were now heading for the penthouse on the roof. They swept in to a landing on what was obviously real grass and as well-kept as a golf course.
Don began to goggle even before they emerged from the helio-hover.
It was unbelievable that they were atop a building. It had been so landscaped that it would seem to be a park. There were trees, shrubs, flowers. There was even a small stream and two Japanese bridges across it. In the center of the park, or perhaps it was better termed a wood, was a rather large Swiss-type chalet.
Cockney said, “This way.”
Don followed him, still gawking at the unbelievably ostentatious surrounds.
They headed for a terrace before the chalet and as they approached Don could make out three men there, two seated in beach chairs, a portable type autobar between them. The third stood slightly back and to one side.
One of the seated men looked to be in his late middle years, the other about forty. The gentleman who was standing and looking somewhat deferential was younger, perhaps thirty-five. He was dressed in a conservative business suit, the older men were in resort wear, very informal.
Don Mathers, as he got closer, thought that he recognized the impossibly corpulent one, from a newscast, or possibly from some illustrated article. He couldn’t quite place him. The fact that he was so unhealthily fat came as a surprise in this age when the medical researchers had conquered obesity. It took a fanatical gourmand not to be able to control his weight. The man looked like a latter-day Hermann Goering, his plump hands laced over his belly, his porcine eyes small in the layers of fat of his face.
The other seated one could have passed for a stereotype villain, complete to the built-in sneer. Few men, in actuality, either look like or sound like the conventionalized villain. This was an exception, Don decided. Had this one been in uniform he well could have assumed the role of a Russian general of the Second World War period. He even had a shaven head which was well tanned.
Neither of them came to their feet to greet the newcomer.
Don took them in carefully, before saying, “I suppose that one of you is the boss.”
“That is correct,” the fat one grunted. He looked at Don’s two escorts and said, “Frank, you and Bil take off. Keep yourselves available, on instant call.”
“Yes, Mr. Demming.” Cockney all but touched his forelock. The two backed several feet before turning and heading for the helio-hover.
The younger man, still standing as though anxiously, said, “Lieutenant Mathers, this is Mr. Lawrence Demming and this is Mr. Maximilian Rostoff.”
Demming was the fat one. He had been running his little eyes up and down Mathers. “Why aren’t you in uniform?” he puffed.
“I’m on leave,” Don told him. “What did you want to see me about?”
Demming took up a well-chilled glass that sat on a small table beside him and took a surprisingly dainty sip, considering his gross appearance.
He said, “Sit down, Lieutenant Mathers. What will you have to drink?”
Don sat and said, “Tequila.”
The fat man looked at him. Maximilian Rostoff laughed contempt.
Demming said, “In my private stock, I have some genuine French cognac, if you are accustomed to spirits this time of the day.”
Don said, and immediately knew he had said the wrong thing, “Real French cognac?” In all his drinking career, which had been extensive considering his age, he had tasted only the modern synthetic.
Demming said, without expression, “Yes. Laid down during the reign of Napoleon the Little.”
“I’ll have cognac,” Don said.
The younger man, still standing, hustled forward to the autobar and dialed. He said deferentially to Demming, “The 1869, sir?”
“No,” the fat man wheezed. “The 1851. The Lieutenant must get used to the better things.” He smiled greasily at Don. “There are only four cases of 1851 Napoleon brandy left in existence. I have three of them.”
“Thanks,” Don said.
He knew who they were now, both of them. Demming was a North American, Rostoff a European by birth. Both of them were international tycoons, in fact they were interplanetary tycoons.
Neither of them seemed to be in any great hurry to get to the point. On the face of it, they were sizing him up. He hadn’t the vaguest idea why.
The cognac came in a beautiful crystal snifter glass. Although he had never sampled real brandy before in his life, and certainly not in crystal, he knew the procedure from Tri-Di shows, from revived movies. He swirled the precious beverage around in the glass, cupping it so that the warmth of his hands would cause the bouquet to announce itself. He put his nose in the snifter glass and inhaled.
They were still taking him in thoughtfully.
He said, just to say something, indicating the grounds, “I’d hate to pay the rent on this place.”
Demming said, offhandedly, “I own the building. I reserve the top two floors and the roof for my own establishment when I am in residence in Center City.”
It had never occurred to Don Mathers that a single person would, or could, own something like the Interplanetary Lines Building. It simply hadn’t occurred to him. The government, yes, perhaps even some multi-national consortium. But one man?
More and more was coming back to him about Lawrence Demming. Robber baron, he might have been branded back in the nineteenth century. Transportation and uranium baron of the solar system. Inwardly, Don Mathers snorted. Had Demming been a pig he would have been butchered long since.
Rostoff said, “You have identification?”
Once again Don Mathers fumbled through his pockets and came up with his Universal Credit Card and his military I.D. Both of them examined the papers with care, front and back.
Demming huffed and said, “Your papers indicate that you pilot a One Man Scout. What sector do you patrol, Lieutenant?”
Don took a sip of his superlative brandy and looked at the corpulent man over his glass. “That’s military information, Mr. Demming.”
Demming made a moue with his plump lips. “Did Frank Cockney reveal to you the five thousand pseudo-dollars that have been deposited to your account?” He didn’t wait for an answer but added, “You took it. Either return it, or tell me what sector you patrol, Lieutenant.”
Don Mathers was well aware of the fact that a man of Demming’s position wouldn’t have to go to much effort to acquire such information, anyway. It wasn’t of particular importance and, of course, the magnate had strings going into the very highest echelons of the Octagon.
He shrugged and said, “A22-K223. I fly the V-102.”
Maximilian Rostoff handed back the identification papers to Don and said to his colleague, after checking a solar system sector chart, “You were right, Demming. He’s the man.”
Demming shifted his great bulk and his beach chair and took up his cordial glass again. He sipped it daintily and said, “Very well. How would you like to hold the Galactic Medal of Honor, Lieutenant Mathers?”
IV
Don Mathers laughed sarcastically. “How would you?” he said.
The fat tycoon scowled. “I am not jesting, Lieutenant Mathers. I never jest. I considered it, but for various reasons I do not believe it practical. Obviously, I am not of the military. It would be quite unusual if not impossible for me to gain such an award. But you are the pilot of a One Man Scout. I also lack the charisma. You are young, moderately handsome and have a certain air of dash about you. You would make a very popular holder of the Galactic Medal of Honor.”