Short Fiction by Mack Reynolds (ready to read books .TXT) 📕

Don Mathers laughed. “How would you?” he said.

Demming scowled. “I am not jesting, Lieutenant Mathers. I never jest. Obviously, I am not of the military. It would be quite impossible for me to gain such an award. But you are the pilot of a Scout.”

“And I’ve got just about as much chance of winning the Medal of Honor as I have of giving birth to triplets.”

The transportation magnate wiggled a disgustingly fat finger at him, “I’ll arrange for that part of it.”

Don Mathers goggled him. He blurted finally, “Like hell you will. There’s not enough money in the system to fiddle with the awarding of the Medal of Honor. There comes a point, Demming, where even your dough can’t carry the load.”

Demming settled back in his chair, closed his eyes and grunted, “Tell him.”

Max Rostoff took up the ball. “A few days ago, Mr. Demming and I flew in from Io on one of the Interplanetary Lines freighters. As you probably know, they are completely automated. We were alone in the craft.”

“So?” Without invitation, Don Mathers leaned forward and dialed himself another tequila. He made it a double this time. 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.

“Lieutenant, how would you like to capture a Kraden light cruiser? If I’m not incorrect, probably Miro class.”

Don laughed nervously, not knowing what the other was at but still feeling the growing excitement. He said, “In all the history of the war between our species, we’ve never captured a Kraden ship intact. It’d help a lot if we could.”

“This one isn’t exactly intact, but nearly so.”

Don looked from Rostoff to Demming, and then back. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

“In your sector,” Rostoff said, “we ran into a derelict Miro class cruiser. The crew⁠—repulsive creatures⁠—were all dead. Some thirty of them. Mr. Demming and I assumed that the craft had been hit during one of the actions between our fleet 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.” Rostoff added softly, “One has to approach quite close before any signs of battle are evident. The ship looks intact.”

Demming opened his eyes again and said, “And you’re going to capture it.”

Don Mathers bolted his tequila, licked a final drop from the edge of his lip. “And why should that rate the most difficult decoration to achieve that we’ve ever instituted?”

“Because,” Rostoff told him, his tone grating mockery, “you’re going to radio in reporting a Miro class Kraden cruiser. We assume your superiors will order you to stand off, that help is coming, that your tiny 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 fifty to one, Mr. Rostoff. At least.”

Demming grunted. “There would be little doubt of you getting the Galactic Medal of Honor, Lieutenant, especially since Colin Casey is dead and there isn’t a living bearer of the award. Max, another drink for the Lieutenant.”

Don said, “Look. Why? I think you might be right about getting the award. But why, and why me, and what’s your percentage?”

Demming muttered, “Now we get to the point.” He settled back in his chair again and closed his eyes while his secretary took over.

Max Rostoff leaned forward, his wolfish face very serious. “Lieutenant, the exploitation of the Jupiter satellites is in its earliest stages. There is every reason to believe that the new sources of radioactives on Callisto alone may mean the needed power edge that can give us the victory over the Kradens. Whether or not that is so, someone is going to make literally billions out of this new frontier.”

“I still don’t see⁠ ⁠…”

“Lieutenant Mathers,” Rostoff said patiently, “the bearer of the Galactic Medal of Honor is above law. He carries with him an unalienable prestige of such magnitude that⁠ ⁠… Well, let me use an example. Suppose a bearer of the Medal of Honor formed a stock corporation to exploit the pitchblende of Callisto. How difficult would it be for him to dispose of the stock?”

Demming grunted. “And suppose there were a few, ah, crossed wires in the manipulation of the corporation’s business?” He sighed deeply. “Believe me, Lieutenant Mathers, there are an incredible number of laws which have accumulated down through the centuries to hamper the business man. It is a continual fight to be able to carry on at all. The ability to do no legal wrong would be priceless in the development of a new frontier.” He sighed again, so deeply as to make his bulk quiver. “Priceless.”

Rostoff laid it on the line, his face a leer. “We are offering you a three-way partnership, Mathers. You, with your Medal of Honor, are our front man. Mr. Demming supplies the initial capital to get underway. And I⁠ ⁠…” He twisted his mouth with evil self-satisfaction. “I was present when the Kraden ship was discovered, so I’ll have to be cut in. I’ll supply the brains.”

Demming grunted his disgust, but added nothing.

Don Mathers said slowly, looking down at the empty glass he was twirling in his fingers, “Look, we’re up to our necks in a war to the death with the Kradens. In the long run it’s either us or them. At a time like this you’re suggesting that we fake an action that will eventually enable us to milk the new satellites to the tune of billions.”

Demming grunted meaninglessly.

Don said, “The theory is that all men, all of us, ought to have our