Don said, disgust in his voice, “I’ve got just about as much chance of winning the Galactic Medal of Honor as I have of giving birth to triplets.”
The transportation and uranium magnate wiggled a disgustingly fat finger at him and said, “I’ll arrange for it, in collaboration with my colleague, here, Mr. Rostoff.”
Don Mathers gawked at him. He blurted finally,
“Like hell you will. There’s not enough money in the solar system to fiddle with the awarding of the Galactic Medal of Honor. There comes a point, Demming, where even your kind of bread can’t carry the load. Corruption we might have, on all levels of government, but it doesn’t touch the Galactic Medal of Honor. And it never will The people wouldn’t stand for it.”
Demming settled back in his chair again, laced his fat hands over his belly, closed his eyes and said, “Dirck, brief us on the space defenses of the solar system.”
The neat, quiet young man who had been hovering in the background, stepped forward. He was a bland-faced type with secretary written all over him. Although seemingly alert and ever ready to obey, his eyes had a disconcerting empty quality. And his mouth was not the type to indulge in smiling.
He said, in a brisk voice, “Yes, sir. The patrolling spacecraft have major bases on Earth, Luna and Mars. There are smaller bases on the Jupiter satellites, Io, Europa, Ganymede and Callisto. There is another base on the Saturn satellite Titan. When the planetary engineering problems have been worked out, there are plans to establish another base on the Neptune satellite Triton. The One and Two Men Scouts patrol nearest to their home bases, and for the shortest periods. They are the last line of warning, in case a Kraden sneaks through. Beyond them, in scantier numbers, are Destroyers holding four men. The Destroyers stay out for as long as two months at a time. Beyond them, are eight to ten men Light Cruisers, which stay out for as much as three months at a time. They are the first warning and are expected to stand and fight in case Kradens appear. These are all warning craft. Nearer in, closer to Earth and the other bases, are the Monitors. They are continually in orbit, having been built in space and quite impossible to land due to their size. They have a crew of approximately thirty. Fresh crews are sent up to them every six months to relieve them. They are the heavies, ready to zero-in on the enemy when and if the Kradens get through the initial defense. Also in the defense screen are the Space Platforms, the permanent artificial satellites which are hardly maneuverable at all but carry the heaviest of our defenses, short of those based on Earth itself. In all, the Solar System defenses include at least twenty thousand spacecraft, not to mention the permanent installations on Earth, Luna, Mars and the Jupiter and Saturn satellites. More than a billion men and women are in the armed forces.”
The secretary came to an end.
Don said, “Is any of that supposed to be news to me?”
Demming ignored that and muttered, his eyes still closed, “Thank you, Dirck. Max?”
The other magnate took over after taking a swallow from the glass of sparkling wine before him. He looked at Don calculatingly and said, “A few days ago, Mr. Demming and I flew in from Io in his private space yacht, accompanied only by his secretary here, Dirck Bosch. The yacht is completely automated, without crew. As a matter of fact, I am sorry Mr. Demming was along, and he is sorry I was along. It required that we become partners when we made our discovery.”
Don said, “Look, could I have another cognac?” A feeling of excitement was growing within him and the drinks he’d had earlier had worn away. Something very big, very, very big, was developing. He hadn’t the vaguest idea what it might be.
The secretary stepped forward and dialed the fresh drink.
Maximilian Rostoff ran a hand back over his bald pate and went on, saying, “Lieutenant, how would you like to capture a Kraden cruiser? If I am not incorrect, the Space Service calls them Miro Class.”
Don laughed nervously, not getting it, not knowing where the other was at but still feeling the growing excitement. He said, “In the whole history of the war between our races, we’ve never captured a Kraden ship intact, or even remotely so. It would help a lot if we could. Our engineers would like to get their hands on one.”
Rostoff said, “This one isn’t exactly intact, but it’s nearly so.”
Don looked from Rostoff to Demming and then back again. He said, “What in the hell are you talking about?”
Rostoff nodded, as though that was a reasonable question. “In your sector,” he said, “we ran into a derelict Miro Class Kraden cruiser. The crew—repulsive-looking creatures—were all dead, some forty of them in all. Mr. Demming and I assumed that the spacecraft had been hit during one of the actions between our ships and theirs and that somehow both sides had failed to recover the wreckage. At any rate, today it is floating, abandoned of all life, in your sector. The Almighty Ultimate only knows why it hasn’t been detected by radar, or whatever, long before this.” He added softly, “One has to approach quite close, except from the angle we first saw it from, before any signs of battle are evident. The spaceship looks intact.”
Lawrence Demming opened his porker eyes again, smiled flatly and said, “And that is the cruiser you are going to capture, Lieutenant.”
Don Mathers bolted his new brandy and licked a final drop from the edge of his lip. He said. “And why should that rate the most difficult decoration that we’ve ever instituted?”
“Don’t be dense,” Rostoff told him, his tone grating mockery. “Capture isn’t actually the term. You’re going to radio in, reporting a Miro Class Kraden cruiser. We assume that your superiors will order you to stand off, that help is coming, that your tiny One Man Scout isn’t large enough to do anything more than to keep the enemy under observation until a squadron arrives. But you will radio back that they are escaping and that you plan to attack. When your reinforcements arrive, Lieutenant, you will have conquered the Kraden, single-handed, against odds of—what would you say—fifty to one?”
Don Mathers’ mouth was dry, his palms moist. He said, “A One Man Scout against a Miro Class cruiser? At least five hundred to one, Mr. Rostoff. At least.”
Demming grunted. “There would be little doubt of your being awarded the Galactic Medal of Honor, Lieutenant, especially in view of the fact that Colin Casey is dead and there isn’t a living bearer of the award. The powers that be in Space Command like to have a bearer of the Galactic Medal of Honor around—it’s good for solar system morale. Dirck, another drink for the Lieutenant.”
Don said, “Look. Why? I think you might be right about getting the decoration. But why, and why me, and what’s your percentage?”
Demming muttered heavily, “You are a perceptive young man, Lieutenant Mathers. Obviously, Mr. Rostoff and I have an iron or two in the fire. We now get to the point.” He settled back in his chair again, closed his eyes again, obviously waiting for his partner to take back over.
Maximilian Rostoff leaned forward, his lupine face very serious. He said, “Lieutenant, the exploitation the very earliest stages. There is every reason to believe that the new sources of radioactives on Callisto alone may mean the needed power edge that might give us victory over the Kradens when they appear again. Whether or not that is so, someone is going to make literally billions out of this new frontier. Possibly as much as a trillion.”