“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?”

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.”