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Medal Of Honor
by
Demming grunted amusement at the short speech, but didn’t bother to look up from his perusal.
Max Rostoff’s face had grown wolfishly thin in his anger. “Look, bottle-baby,” he sneered, “you’re the only one that’s vulnerable in this set-up. There’s not a single thing that Demming and I can be held to account for. You have no beefs coming, for that matter. You’re getting everything you ever wanted. You’ve got the best suite in the best hotel on Callisto. You eat the best food the Solar System provides. And, most important of all to a rummy, you drink the best booze and as much of it as you want. What’s more, unless either Demming or I go to the bother, you’ll never be exposed. You’ll live your life out being the biggest hero in the system.”
It was Don Mathers’ turn to sneer. “What do you mean, I’m the only one vulnerable? There’s no evidence against me, Rostoff, and you know it. Who’d listen to you if you sounded off? I burned that Kraden cruiser until there wasn’t a sign to be found that would indicate it wasn’t in operational condition when I first spotted it.”
Demming grunted his amusement again.
Max Rostoff laughed sourly. “Don’t be an ass, Mathers. We 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.”
* * * * *