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

took a series of photos of that derelict when we stumbled on it. Not only can we prove you didn’t knock it out, we can prove that it was in good shape before you worked it over. I imagine the Fleet technician would have loved to have seen the inner workings of that Kraden cruiser⁠—before you loused it up.”

Demming chuckled flatly. “I wonder what kind of a court martial they give a hero who turns out to be a saboteur.”

He ran into her, finally, after he’d been on Callisto for nearly eight months. Actually, he didn’t remember the circumstances of their meeting. He was in an alcoholic daze and the fog rolled out, and there she was across the table from him.

Don shook his head, and looked about the room. They were in some sort of night spot. He didn’t recognize it.

He licked his lips, scowled at the taste of stale vomit.

He slurred, “Hello, Di.”

Dian Fuller said, “Hi, Don.”

He said, “I must’ve blanked out. Guess I’ve been hitting it too hard.”

She laughed at him. “You mean you don’t remember all the things you’ve been telling me the past two hours?” She was obviously quite sober. Dian never had been much for the sauce.

Don looked at her narrowly. “What’ve I been telling you for the past two hours?”

“Mostly about how it was when you were a little boy. About fishing, and your first .22 rifle. And the time you shot the squirrel, and then felt so sorry.”

“Oh,” Don said. He ran his right hand over his mouth.

There was a champagne bucket beside him, but the bottle in it was empty. He looked about the room for a waiter.

Dian said gently, “Do you really think you need any more, Don?”

He looked across the table at her. She was as beautiful as ever. No, that wasn’t right. She was pretty, but not beautiful. She was just a damn pretty girl, not one of these glamour items.

Don said, “Look, I can’t remember. Did we get married?”

Her laugh tinkled. “Married! I only ran into you two or three hours ago.” She hesitated before saying further, “I had assumed that you were deliberately avoiding me. Callisto isn’t that big.”

Don Mathers said slowly, “Well, if we’re not married, let me decide when I want another bottle of the grape, eh?”

Dian flushed. “Sorry, Don.”

The headwaiter approached bearing another magnum of vintage wine. He beamed at Don Mathers. “Having a good time, sir?”

“Okay,” Don said shortly. When the other was gone he downed a full glass, felt the fumes almost immediately.

He said to Dian, “I haven’t been avoiding you, Di. We just haven’t met. The way I remember, the last time we saw each other, back on Earth, you gave me quite a slap in the face. The way I remember, you didn’t think I was hero enough for you.” He poured another glass of the champagne.

Di’s face was still flushed. She said, her voice low, “I misunderstood you, Don. Even after your brilliant defeat of that Kraden cruiser, I still, I admit, think I basically misunderstood you. I told myself that it could have been done by any pilot of a Scout, given that one in a million break. It just happened to be you, who made that suicide dive attack that succeeded. A thousand other pilots might also have taken the million to one suicide chance rather than let the Kraden escape.”

“Yeah,” Don said. Even in his alcohol, he was surprised at her words. He said gruffly, “Sure anybody might’ve done it. Pure luck. But why’d you change your mind about me, then? How come the switch of heart?”

“Because of what you’ve done since, darling.”

He closed one eye, the better to focus.

“Since?”

He recognized the expression in her eyes. A touch of star gleam. That little girl back on Earth, the receptionist at the Interplanetary Lines building, she’d had it. In fact, in the past few months Don had seen it in many feminine faces. And all for him.

Dian said, “Instead of cashing in on your prestige, you’ve been devoting yourself to something even more necessary to the fight than bringing down individual Kraden cruisers.”

Don looked at her. He could feel a nervous tic beginning in his left eyebrow. Finally, he reached for the champagne again and filled his glass. He said, “You really go for this hero stuff, don’t you?”

She said nothing, but the star shine was still in her eyes.

He made his voice deliberately sour. “Look, suppose I asked you to come back to my apartment with me tonight?”

“Yes,” she said softly.

“And told you to bring your overnight bag along,” he added brutally.

Dian looked into his face. “Why are you twisting yourself, your inner-self, so hard, Don? Of course I’d come⁠—if that’s what you wanted.”

“And then,” he said flatly, “suppose I kicked you out in the morning?”

Dian winced, but she kept her eyes even with his, her own moist now. “You forget,” she whispered. “You have been awarded the Galactic Medal of Honor, the bearer of which can do no wrong.”

“Oh, God,” Don muttered. He filled his glass, still again, motioned to a nearby waiter.

“Yes, sir,” the waiter said.

Don said, “Look, in about five minutes I’m going to pass out. See that I get back to my hotel, will you? And that this young lady gets to her home. And, waiter, just send my bill to the hotel too.”

The other bowed. “The owner’s instructions, sir, are that Captain Mathers must never see a bill in this establishment.”

Dian said, “Don!”

He didn’t look at her. He raised his glass to his mouth and shortly afterward the fog rolled in again.

When it rolled out, the unfamiliar taste of black coffee was in his mouth. He shook his head for clarity.

He seemed to be in some working class restaurant. Next to him, in a booth, was a fresh-faced Sublieutenant of the⁠—Don squinted at the collar tabs⁠—yes, of the Space Service. A Scout pilot.

Don stuttered, “What’s⁠ ⁠… goin’⁠ ⁠… on?”

The pilot said apologetically, “Sublieutenant Pierpont, sir. You seemed so far under the weather,