Galactic Medal of Honor

Men didn't kill each other, or get themselves killed in sports… when the Kradens were out there. Oh, he'd had some hand to hand combat while in cadet training, but not as it had been in the old days.

The three of them moved in on him carefully, and spaced out so that he couldn't face them all at once. They were going to be able to do whatever they wanted with him.

Suddenly, one reached out with his truncheon and whacked Don across the belly, hard.

Don's face went white. He brought his hands down over his guts and doubled forward. He vomited onto the sidewalk, the contents of his stomach burning acid and alcohol as it spewed out of his mouth. Even in his agony, his mind was clear enough to anticipate another blow of the club on his head momentarily. There was nothing that he could do about it.

But it was then that Thor Bjornsen exploded onto the scene. Where he came from none of the four participants in the drama ever comprehended.

It was as though magically a giant had materialized in their midst. A berserk giant. And, in spite of his size, a veritable flurry of movement.

Don Mathers, still in agony, never did quite comprehend the next few minutes—if it lasted that long. Blows were struck and received, most of them going one way—from the giant out. In a moment, two men were down on the sidewalk, one sitting and looking startled, one sprawled flat.

And the next thing Don knew, the giant was chasing his three attackers down the street, one of the truncheons in hand and whacking them unmercifully on their buttocks as they went.

He returned shortly, chuckling. He cut off the laughter when he saw Don sitting on the curb and said, "Are you all right?"

"No," Don said. "I'm sick."

"You smell drenched."

"I am… or was."

The other peered down at him, quizzically. He said finally, "Well, whether or not, you're in no shape to be getting yourself home. My apartment's nearby. Come on over there. You can sleep on the couch. By morning, you should be able to hold down an Anti-Ale. I've got some. I too, in my time, have been drenched."

He helped Don to his feet, and, still holding him by one arm led him along.

The big man said, "What did those three want?"

"They said they wanted everything I had."

Thor Bjornsen grunted. "You're fairly well dressed. They probably figured they could hock your things for enough pseudo-dollar credits to buy a few drinks. It's a queer world we're living in. For half a century we've been at peace, but preparing for war. We're in continual training for conflict that doesn't come. Violence is in the air and can't be sublimated with real violence against an enemy. So it sometimes comes out in some type of manufactured real violence, in short, masochism. Those three that jumped you didn't really need what little credits they would have realized.

What they really wanted was the fun of working you over."

The other's apartment was in one of the older of Center City's buildings, rather than in one of the new hi-rises. And, being of an earlier era, the apartments were larger. Although a single, the place must have been twice the size of Don's mini-apartment. And it was considerably more comfortably furnished and decorated, for that matter.

His rescuer got Don into a chair and looked down at him, fists resting on his hips.

He said, "Can I get you anything?"

"No. I'll be all right in a minute or so." But Don doubted it!

"You don't think you could hold anything, any food, on your stomach?"

"Almighty Ultimate, no."

The other said, "My name's Thor Bjornsen."

Don looked up at him. "You look like Thor. I'm Sub-lieutenant Donal Mathers."

"Space Forces?"

"Pilot of a One Man Scout."

"Oh? I don't envy you that job."

Thor Bjornsen lived up to the first impression he had made on both Don and his attackers. He was a giant of a man in the Viking way. Red of hair, square of face, light blue of eye, graceful of carriage in spite of his brawn. Neither of them would have known, but physically he was a Norse version of the Joe Louis of an earlier time. In age he must have been roughly the same as Don Mathers, but his face had a boyish quality that made him seem more youthful.

He went over to an old-fashioned autobar set in the corner, rather than built-in, and dialed himself a drink, a stein of dark beer, and returned with it. He sat down on the couch across from Don's comfort chair.

He took a pull at the beer and said, "What in the hell were you out on the streets in this condition for?"

"I was drowning my sorrows," Don said ungraciously. "I should thank you for coming to the rescue. How could you possibly have taken on three men, two of them armed, and run them off?"

"Nobody knows how to fight any more," the other told him. "I make a hobby of it. I'd rather be able to knock down my enemies than drink my friends under the table. What sorrows?"