by Ben Bova
“You really think so?”
“I really do.”
Then Jessie Margulis came out of the crowd, looking almost awkward, almost embarrassed. “You didn’t make any friends with the NASA hierarchy,” he said, his voice so low Thatcher could barely hear him.
“Yeah, guess not,” said Thrasher.
Glancing guiltily over his shoulder, Margulis stepped close enough to whisper, “Is the job offer still open?”
Still edging through the crowd toward the doors, Thrasher said, “Yep.”
“Same terms?”
“Yep.”
Margulis kept pace with him. “I’ve talked it over with my wife. We won’t have to move, will we?”
“No, you can stay in Houston. There’ll be a lot of travel, though.”
“That’s okay. I . . . I’m going to take a year’s leave of absence, like you suggested.”
Thrasher beamed at the engineer and stuck out his hand. “Welcome aboard, Jessie.”
Margulis took his hand in a quick, limp grasp, then hurried away like a criminal who had just made a drug deal.
Thrasher shook his head. I’ve got my lead engineer, he told himself. If he doesn’t die of anxiety before he signs up.
As he neared the doors he saw Victoria standing there, smiling at him. She was wearing a nubby light blue sweater and darker slacks.
“Good morning!” he said, taking her by the arm. “How long have you been here?”
“I came in about halfway through. You didn’t see me, did you?”
“No, I didn’t.”
They stepped out into hallway, where even more conference attendees were milling about.
“That was quite a performance you put on in there,” said Victoria.
“Oh. That. I guess I got carried away.”
“For a man who doesn’t want me writing about your plans, you sure shot your mouth off.”
He grinned at her. “I didn’t say anything specific. And the news media won’t take note of what’s said in this conference. Not unless an astronaut or a NASA boss makes some dramatic announcement.”
As they headed toward the breakfast bistro, Victoria asked, “You still think you can keep your plans under wraps?”
With a nod, he replied, “I’ve got to. For the time being. Until I get the financing nailed down. Then you can have an exclusive, if you want it.”
“I want it!”
As Thrasher led her to the bistro, he thought to himself that he’d have to handle Victoria very carefully. She could become troublesome. Good thing she’s based in New Mexico. That’s far enough away to give me room to operate.
And he knew that his next meeting was the key to all his hopes and plans. Gregory Sampson. If I can bring him into the game, then everything falls into place. I’ll have all the funding I need and we can go ahead and formally start Mars, Inc.
If I can bring Sampson into the game. Trouble is, he hates my guts.
Gregory Sampson was a major contributor not only to the incumbent President’s political campaigns, but to the campaigns of many other Democratic Party candidates. An archetypical “self-made man,” Sampson started with the money his father had made in the retail clothing business—barely a few million—and built it into the seventh largest fortune in the United States, an empire built on banking and the entertainment industry.
He was a gruff old bear of a man, big and burly, with a loud voice and a hard face. He reminded Hollywood people of the old studio tycoons, men who ruled their industry with iron personalities. It was an image he deliberately cultivated. On the desk in his Wall Street office was a plaque bearing a quote attributed to all those old Hollywood tyrants: “Never let that sonofabitch back into this studio again—unless we need him.”
Thrasher knew he was one of those sonsofbitches, in Sampson’s eyes. Early in his own career, when he was just starting out in the rough-and-tumble competitive world of internet technology, Thrasher had come to Sampson for financing. Sampson was willing, but only if he could control Thrasher’s fledgling company. Thrasher took the money, but outmaneuvered Sampson’s representative on the corporation’s board of directors and held onto his controlling interest.
Sampson dumped his Thrasher Digital stock, which sent the corporation’s shares plummeting. Thrasher held on and came through, which angered Sampson all over again. The man did not enjoy being proved wrong. Twice.
So it was with some trepidation that Thrasher flew back to Manhattan for his visit with Gregory Sampson. Thrasher was even more alarmed when, as his executive Learjet entered the landing pattern at Newark’s Liberty International airport, he received a phone call from one of Sampson’s innumerable assistants.
Even in his cell phone’s minuscule screen she looked like a video starlet. Sampson stocked his office with gorgeous, hopeful young women, Thrasher knew.
But she put on an unhappy pout as she said, “I’m afraid Mr. Sampson won’t be able to meet you in his office this afternoon, Mr. Thrasher.”
“What? We set this meeting up a week ago! I’m just about to land—”
“You don’t understand, Mr. Thrasher,” she interrupted. “His chauffeur will meet you at the airport and he’ll see you at the appointed time, but not in his office.”
“Oh. Where, then?”
“Central Park. At the entrance to the zoo.”
14
CENTRAL PARK ZOO
This must be the old man’s version of a sense of humor, Thrasher thought sourly as the limousine pulled up at the curb. Then he decided, no, it’s the old bastard’s way of humiliating me.
The chauffeur came around and opened the limo door. Thrasher stepped out into a muggy hot afternoon. The dog days in the Big Apple, he grumbled to himself. Part of the treatment.
The chauffeur pointed and said, “The zoo is through that entrance and down the path, sir.” His accent sounded Haitian to Thrasher. His skin was ebony, his eyes rimmed with red. He added, “You can’t miss it.”
Thrasher muttered, “You’d be surprised at the places I’ve missed.”
“Sir?”
Thrasher loosened his bolo tie and peeled off his jacket as he headed for the entrance to the park. A couple of teenagers on skateboards rocketed past him on either side.
Could Sampson be behind the stock grab last month? Thrasher asked himself. Be just like the old bastard to walk me to the monkey house and then tell me he’s bought control of my board of directors.
And there he was, standing at the entrance to the zoo, in rumpled shirtsleeves and suspenders, a bag of peanuts in one meaty hand, munching away contentedly. He’s putting on the humble billionaire act, Thrasher thought: just a simple man of the people. Yeah, like Ivan the Terrible.
Sampson was looking the other way, not deigning to notice Thrasher approaching him. I should have brought a hat, Thrasher thought, so I could hold it in my hand like a proper beggar.
He looked bigger than ever, and shaggier: he had augmented his thick mop of dead white hair with an equally white and bushy beard. Thrasher felt like a little kid approaching his rich, powerful grandfather—which is just the way he wants me to feel, he realized. Well, screw that!
“Hey, Greg,” Thrasher called heartily as he got to within a few steps of Sampson.
The older man turned, smiled with sharp white teeth, and boomed out, “Artie! You found me!”
No handshake. Sampson just loomed over Thrasher and stuffed his free hand into the bag of peanuts.
“Peanut?” he offered.
“Thanks,” said Thrasher, accepting the one unshelled nut.
“Come on into the zoo,” Sampson said, leading Thrasher through the entrance. “Good place to talk without being interrupted. Or overheard.”
So that’s why he wanted to meet me here, Thrasher said to himself.
As he sauntered along he curving lane, crowded with visitors and tourists, Sampson said, “You know, Bernard Baruch used to come out here to the park when he had some thinking to do. When he was in Washington he
’d go to Lafayette Park, across from the White House.”
Baruch was a financier, Thrasher knew, who had advised many presidents—whether they wanted his advice or not.
“The Boy Scouts put up a bench to his memory in Lafayette Park, you know.”
“Will wonders never cease,” Thrasher muttered.
Sampson turned to follow a sign that pointed to the monkey house. Thrasher followed along, his heart sinking.
“I had a long talk with Dave Kahn a few days ago,” Sampson said, lowering his voice a bit. “He says you want to raise money to send people to Mars.”
Looking up at the shaggy, munching, smiling old man, Thrasher said as brightly as he could manage, “That’s right. I think it’s time that we showed the world what American free enterprise can accomplish.”
“Very patriotic.”
“I’d like you to join the team.”
“You want a billion a year for five years?”
“Right.”
“From me?” Sampson almost snarled the words.
Thrasher decided to be completely open with the old bully. “If you come in, the Kahn boys and all the others will come in, too.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Look, Greg, I know you don’t like me. I suppose you’ve got good reason to hate my guts. But Mars is too big for that. We have to do it! If we don’t, nobody else will.”
“So what? What’s so wonderful about Mars? What’s in it for me?”
For the first time, Thrasher felt a glimmer of hope.
“You can have the motion picture rights,” he said.
Sampson shrugged his heavy shoulders. “A few hundred million. Not much of a return on my investment.”
“But we’re not doing this for profit, it’s—”
“You’re keeping the virtual reality rights for yourself, aren’t you?”
I should have known he’d know, Thrasher thought. On impulse, he said, “I’ll give you half the VR rights to the mission.”
“Really?” Sampson broke into a delighted smile. Then he asked, “And how will your board of directors react to such generosity?”
“Let me worry about that.”
They had arrived at the monkey house. A gaggle of children, mostly boys, pressed against the guard railing and laughed at the little animals capering inside their cage. Thrasher felt unspeakably sad to see them penned up that way. One of the kids, standing just next to a DO NOT FEED THE ANIMALS sign, threw a handful of peanuts through the bars. A half dozen monkeys scampered to grab the treats.
Sampson turned from the monkeys to face Thrasher. Grasping his shoulder in his big ham-sized hand, the older man said, “Tell you what, Artie. I’m going to come in on your Mars deal. The VR rights will be piffle compared to what I’ll have to put into your project, but it’ll be worth it so see your corporation go down in flames.”
“Gee, thanks,” said Thrasher.
“Think nothing of it. I’m going to enjoy this. Mars or bust! We’ll go to Mars and you’ll go bust!” Sampson laughed so heartily that even the children turned to gape at him.
And Thrasher remembered a line written about Bernard Baruch, from long ago: Bernard Baruch sat on his favorite park bench, struggling with his conscience. He won.
16
MARS, INCORPORATED
Valentine’s Day. Thrasher hurried from his limousine to the entrance of the Marriott Residence Inn, with Linda Ursina scampering along beside him. A Blue Norther was sweeping through Houston, making Thrasher realize the truth behind the old saying that there’s nothing between Texas and the North Pole but a barbed wire fence.
“Lord, it’s freezing!” Linda said. She was wearing a lined leather coat over her businesslike pants suit, but it was obviously too light for the weather. Thrasher, in nothing but a tan sports jacket and brown whipcord slacks, agreed with a shivering nod.
The first meeting of Mars, Incorporated’s board of directors wasn’t scheduled to begin for another hour, but Thrasher wanted to be there first, to make sure that everything was set up properly and to greet his directors as they arrived.
The hotel manager was just inside the door, all smiles.
“Sure is cold out there, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yep,” said Thrasher, grateful for the hotel’s warmth. “Is everything set up?”
“Yes indeed,” the manager replied, leading Thrasher and Linda to a bank of elevators. “You’ll be in the executive suite, on the top floor.”
“Good,” Thrasher said, thinking, That ought to impress Sampson. And the Kahn boys.
Fifteen minutes before the hour appointed for the meeting, all twenty of the directors of the newly-formed corporation had arrived in the executive suite. The conference room was a little crowded, but Thrasher thought the sweeping view of Houston’s skyline would make up for it. That, and the long table filled with drinks and finger foods.
He greeted and chatted with each of the directors as they arrived. Once all twenty were present, Thrasher called out, “Okay, I think we can get started now.”
He went to the head of the gleamingly polished table and watched the directors arrange themselves along its length. Sampson sat at his right, of course. The Kahn brothers opposite him. Will Portal nonchalantly pulled out a chair halfway down the table. No pretensions for Will, Thrasher told himself, smiling inwardly. Uta Gelson, Nels Bartlett and the others arranged themselves within a few moments. Linda took up her usual post along the wall, recorder in hand, alongside Francine Timons, Thrasher’s public relations director.
Once they were all seated, Thrasher—still standing—wiped his glasses, replaced them on his nose, and said, “I want to thank you all for joining this mission. We’re going to make history.”
Somebody muttered, “Instead of money.”
Thrasher ignored the comment. They went through the agenda with surprising alacrity. Thrasher was elected chairman of the board by acclamation. Sampson was named vice chairman, and David Kahn—after a whispered conversation with his brother—accepted the post of treasurer.
“That fills the legal requirements for forming a corporation in the sovereign state of Texas,” Thrasher said. “We’re in business.”
They broke into applause. Briefly.
Then Sampson asked, “Who’s our legal counsel?”
“I’m using the same firm that Thrasher Digital uses: Towers and Towers.”
Sampson nodded. “Are you getting a volume discount from them?”
Polite laughter.
After a few more questions and answers, Thrasher said, “Now I’d like you to meet the guy who’s heading up our technical team.” He turned to Linda and nodded. She spoke quietly into her smartphone.
Everyone turned to face the door as Jessie Margulis stepped into the conference room. The engineer was wearing an actual suit, dark blue, and a Texas Aggies maroon and white tie. He looked uncomfortable as he stood by the door, all eyes on him.
“Ladies and gentlemen, meet Jessie Margulis, the best engineer in NASA—until this past January first. Now he’s the chief engineer of Mars, Incorporated.”
Another spattering of polite applause.
Margulis blinked shyly and went to the empty chair at the foot of the conference table, next to Vince Egan. As he sat down he pulled a smartpad from his jacket pocket.
“I have a few slides to show y’all,” he said.
Thrasher groaned inwardly. Every NASA presentation always begins with, “The first slide, please.”
Linda went to the nearest window and touched the control panel. Storm shutters slid slowly down, darkening the room.
The wall above the buffet table lit up and showed: MARS, INC. PRELIMINARY PLAN.
Margulis fiddled with his smartpad and a chart appeared on the wall.
I hope he doesn’t bore them to death, Thrasher thought.
“We’re going to use the Earth-orbital assembly technique,” Margulis said, aiming a laser pointer at one of the boxes. “Instead of building a rocket booster big eno
ugh to lift the whole spacecraft and send it to Mars, we’ll use existing commercial boosters such as Boeing’s Delta IV to lift the craft in segments and assemble the segments in low Earth orbit.”
“Won’t that be expensive?” Uta Gerson asked.
“Not as expensive as developing a whole new booster,” said Margulis.
“How many launches will you need?” Sampson asked.
“I’m figuring on a minimum of six. That includes lifting the propulsion system and its propellant, plus all the life-support supplies.”
Will Portal, the only other engineer at the table, asked, “Do you plan to send supplies and fuel for the return flight on ahead, separately?”
In the darkened room, Thrasher could see Margulis relax into a grin. A fellow geek boy to talk to.
“You’re thinking of the old Mars Express idea,” he said to Portal.
“Zubrin’s plan, yes.”
“We’ll be looking into that, of course,” Margulis said. “We’ll have to do a cost analysis and weigh the consequences of a possible failure somewhere along the mission profile.”
“Failure?” piped Charlie Kahn.
Spreading his hands, Margulis said, “Rockets blow up sometimes. Spacecraft go dead. It’s a long way to Mars. We’ve got to factor in the effects of possible failures.”
“You mean somebody might get killed?”
Before Margulis could reply, Thrasher said flatly, “It’s a possibility. We’ll be doing everything we can to make that possibility as small as we can, of course.”
“Zero defects,” Margulis said.
“What does that mean?”
“It’s a program NASA instituted during the Apollo program. Every piece that goes into the spacecraft is examined and tested. Every single weld, every component of every vehicle, every shoelace, even.”
“Instead of just taking samples at random and testing them,” Portal said.
“Yessir,” said Margulis. “Zero defects is our goal. No piece goes uninspected or untested.”
“That will be expensive,” Gelson murmured.
