Galactic Medal of Honor

Harry Amanroder was somewhere in his mid-sixties, was heavy-set and big, which was possibly one of the reasons he had never been able to get into space, his life-long dream. His had been the fate to serve those who had attained his dream—and most of them, including Don Mathers, hating it. His pudding face shone when he served an active spaceman, his eyes lit up when he was able to lean on his bar and listen in on their conversation. He loved them all and most of them were tolerant of him.

He said now, "Cheers, Lieutenant. What spins? Thought you were due for a patrol along in here. How come you're back so soon? Didn't expect to see you for maybe another couple of weeks."

Don Mathers looked at him coldly. He said, "You prying into security subjects, Harry? I was on a… special mission. Top confidential."

Harry wiped the bar with a dirty bar rag, distressed. He said, earnestly,

"Well gee, no Lieutenant. You know me. I know all the boys. I was just making conversation."

"Well, make it with somebody else," Don said with less than graciousness. "Look, Harry, how about some more credit? I don't have any pay coming up for a week. My Universal Credit Card is down to its last few pseudo-dollars."

"Why, sure, Lieutenant. I ever turned you down? You're into me more than anybody ever comes in here. But, you know me. I never turned down a spaceman in my life. And that goes double for a real pilot. I got a boy serving on the New Taos, you know, the light cruiser."

Don Mathers knew, all right. He'd heard about it often enough.

Harry was saying, "Any spaceman's credit is good with me. What'll it be?"

"Tequila."

Tequila was the only concession the Nuevo Mexico Bar made to its name, save two sick cactus plants in pots which flanked the entry.

Otherwise, the place looked like every other bar has looked in every land and in every era, save the new automated, sterile horrors that were taking over these days.

Harry turned and reached out for a bottle of Sauza. He put it on the bar and took up a lime and cut it into four quarters, then reached back and got a shaker of salt. He took a two-ounce shot glass and filled it carefully with the water-colored liquid H-Bomb.

Don went through the routine. He sprinkled some of the salt on the back of his hand, licked it, picked up the shot glass and tossed its contents back over his tonsils, then hurriedly grabbed up one of the quarters of lime and bit into it.

He said, "I'll be damned if I know why anybody punishes themselves by drinking this stuff."

Harry leaned on the bar before him and said, sympathetically, "You know, Lieutenant, I don't either. I'm a beer-drinking man myself. But, you know, the kind of beer they're turning out these days, they could stick it back in the horse. No body, no strength, no nothing." He sighed. "I guess it's all necessary on account of the war effort. But we still had real beer, back when I was a kid."

"I doubt it. I remember my grandfather, back when I was a boy. He used to tell us, and over and over again, that the beer in those days wasn't worth drinking. No hops, no strength. Now when he was a young fellow they really had beer. I bet the complaint has gone back to the Babylonians, or whoever it was that first brewed beer."

Harry never argued with a real spaceman. He said, "I guess you're right, Lieutenant. Like another one?"

"Yeah, hit me again," Don said. In actuality, in his humor, he wished he could think of something really cutting to say to the fawning bartender, but it was too damned much effort.

Harry poured more tequila.

He said, "You hear the news this morning?"

Don said, "No. I just got in. I've been in deep space."

He knocked back the second drink, going through the same procedure as before. He still didn't know why he drank this stuff, save that it was the quickest manner of getting an edge on.

"Colin Casey died." Harry shook his heavy head. "The only man in the system that held the Galactic Medal of Honor. Presidential proclamation.

Everybody in the solar system is to hold five minutes of silence for him at two o'clock, Sol time."

"Oh?" Don said, in spite of his humor, impressed. "I hadn't heard about it as yet."

Harry said, "You know how many times that medal's been awarded since they first started it up, Lieutenant?" Without waiting for an answer, Harry added, "Just twelve times."

Don said dryly, "Eight of them posthumously, and most of them as a result of the big shoot-out with the Kradens."

"Yeah," Harry said, leaning on the bar again. His other two customers didn't seem to require attention.

He added, in wonderment, "But just imagine. The Galactic Medal of Honor, the bearer of which by law can do no wrong. You come to some city, walk into the biggest jewelry store in town, pick up a diamond bracelet and walk out without paying. And what happens?"