Galactic Medal of Honor

Don growled, "The jewelry store owner would probably be over-reimbursed by popular subscription. And probably the mayor of the town would write you a letter thanking you for honoring his fair city by deigning to notice one of the products of its shops. Just like that."

"Yeah." Harry shook his head in continued awe. "And, imagine, if you shoot somebody you don't like, you couldn't spend even a single night in the Nick."

Don said, "If you held the Galactic Medal of Honor, you wouldn't have to shoot anybody. All you'd have to do is drop the word that you mildly didn't like him, and after a week or so of the treatment he got from his fellow citizens, the poor bastard would probably commit suicide."

Harry sighed. "And suppose you went into one of them fancy whorehouses, like in Paris or Peking. Anything would be free. Anything."

Don snorted at the lack of imagination. "Why not just go out to New Hollywood? Look, Harry, mind if I use the phone?"

"Go right ahead, Lieutenant. Anything you want in the place, until two o'clock. Then I close down for the rest of the day, on account of Colin Casey."

Don knew the Colin Casey story. Everybody knew the Colin Casey story.

He had been a crewman on one of the Monitors, the heaviest of Solar System battle craft. When one of the reactors blew he had gone in immediately, improperly shielded, and had done what had to be done. His burns, though treated by the most competent physicians on Earth, had led to his present death, but he had saved the ship and had lived long enough to be awarded, though not to enjoy, the highest decoration the human race had conjured up. Yes, Don Mathers had known of Colin Casey—but hadn't envied the poor damn fool. Sure, they had kept him alive for years, but what good is life when you're blind, when you're sexually impotent, when you can't even walk? Precious little good the Galactic Medal of Honor had done Colin Casey.

He could have used his pocket transceiver to call Dian Keramikou but the screen was so small that he wouldn't have been able to make out her features very well and even though he had seen her less than a week before, he wanted to feast his eyes on her.

In the phone booth he dialed and almost immediately the screen lit up and the face of the woman he loved faded in.

Dian Keramikou was a great deal of woman. Possibly five feet eight, possibly 134 pounds, possibly 39-25-39 and every inch glossy and firm.

She wasn't truly a pretty woman. Her features were too vital and just slightly heavy. The brows were heavy, her hair harsh and black and glossy, like a racing mare. She had Indian-black eyes, a bold nose and a broad mouth. Not pretty, no, but strikingly handsome in the Greek tradition which she had inherited from her forebears.

She was obviously in the process of packing when the screen had summoned her. She looked into his face and said, in that slightly husky voice of hers, "Why, Don. I thought that you were on patrol."

He said, a little impatiently, "Yeah. Yeah, I was. However, something came up and I had to return to base."

She looked at him, a slight wrinkle on her broad, fine forehead. She said, "Again?"

He said impatiently, "Look, Di, I called you to ask for a get together.

You're leaving for that job on Callisto tomorrow. It's our last chance to be together.

Actually, there's something that I wanted to ask you about. Something in particular. It might change your mind about Callisto. I don't know why you're going, anyway. I've been there. It's a terrible place, Di. There's no atmosphere. You live under what amounts to a giant inverted plastic fishbowl."

"I've read up on Callisto," she said in irritation. "I know it's no paradise.

But somebody has to do the work there and I'm a trained secretary. Don, I'm packing. I simply don't have the time to see you again. I thought that we said our goodbyes six days ago."

"This is important, Dian." His voice was urgent.

She tossed the two sweaters she was holding into a chair, or something, off-screen, and faced him, her hands on her hips.

"No it isn't, Don Mathers. Not to me, at least. We've been all over this.

Why keep torturing yourself? You're not ready for marriage, Don. I don't want to hurt you, but you simply aren't. Look me up, Don, in a few years."

"Di! Just a couple of hours this afternoon." He was desperate.

Dian Keramikou looked him full in the face and said, "Colin Casey finally died of his burns and wounds this morning. The President has asked for five minutes of silence at two o'clock. Don, I plan to spend that time here alone in my apartment, possibly crying a few tears for a man who died for me and the rest of the human race under such extreme conditions of gallantry that he was awarded the highest honor of which man has ever conceived. I wouldn't want to spend that five minutes while on a date with another member of my race's armed forces who had deserted his post of duty."