at sat between the
two of them and checked it. He said, "Your information was correct, Mr.
Demming. He's the man."

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."

Don laughed nervously, not knowing what the other was at but still
feeling the growing excitement. He said, "In all the history of the war
between our species, we've never captured a Kraden ship intact. It'd
help a lot if we could."

"This one isn't exactly intact, but nearly so."

Don looked from Rostoff to Demming, and then back. "What in the hell are
you talking about?"

"In your sector," Rostoff said, "we ran into a derelict Miro class
cruiser. The crew--repulsive creatures--were all dead. Some thirty of
them. Mr. Demming and I assumed that the craft had been hit during one
of the actions between our fleet and theirs and that somehow both sides
had failed to recover the wreckage. At any rate, today it is floating,
abandoned of all life, in yo