Demming shifted his great bulk in his beach chair, sipped some of his cordial and said, "Very well. How would you like to hold the Galactic Medal of Honor, Lieutenant?"
Don Mathers laughed. "How would you?" he said.
Demming scowled. "I am not jesting, Lieutenant Mathers. I never jest. Obviously, I am not of the military. It would be quite impossible for me to gain such an award. But you are the pilot of a Scout."
"And I've got just about as much chance of winning the Medal of Honor as I have of giving birth to triplets."
The transportation magnate wiggled a disgustingly fat finger at him, "I'll arrange for that part of it."
Don Mathers goggled him. He blurted finally, "Like hell you will. There's not enough money in the system to fiddle with the awarding of the Medal of Honor. There comes a point, Demming, where even your dough can't carry the load."
Demming settled back in his chair, closed his eyes and grunted, "Tell him."
Max Rostoff took up the ball. "A few days ago, Mr. Demming and I flew in from Io on one of the Interplanetary Lines freighters. As you probably know, they are completely automated. We were alone in the craft."
"So?" Without invitation, Don Mathers leaned forward and dialed himself another tequila. He made it a double this time. A feeling of excitement was growing within him, and the drinks he'd had earlier had worn away. Something very big, very, very big, was developing. He hadn't the vaguest idea what.
"Lieutenant, how would you like to capture a Kraden light cruiser? If I'm not incorrect, probably Miro class."