by Ben Bova
“We’d all appreciate it,” said Thrasher.
13
AFTER THE BALL
As soon as he decently could, Thrasher detached himself from Senator Jacobs and Sampson and began searching the crowd for Kristin. Reynolds, though, tagged along beside him. Thrasher didn’t want the rep see him with Kristin—not that he saw her anywhere in the crowded, noisy ballroom.
“Do you think we did any good?” he asked Reynolds, while scanning the partygoers for a glimpse of her.
“We did okay,” said Reynolds, doggedly staying at his side. “Jacobs’ people will start poking their noses into Reed’s operation. Reed will have to toe the line.”
“He can still wrap us up in red tape,” Thrasher said. He caught a glimpse of a woman in a red dress, but it wasn’t her.
Reynolds spread his hands. “A certain amount of red tape can’t be helped. Especially when there’s a nuke involved. You’ve got to expect it and play the game accordingly.”
“I guess.”
“That meeting with the president could be very helpful.”
There she was! Thrasher saw Kristin standing by the French windows that led out onto the balcony, talking to two other women. No men with them.
“Well, thanks for everything, Ray. You’ve done a good night’s work.”
Reynolds looked surprised, almost hurt. He realized he was being dismissed.
“You leaving now?” he asked.
“In a bit. I don’t want to keep you, though. Go on home.”
Reluctantly, Reynolds said, “Okay. But give me a buzz tomorrow morning. We can debrief. I’ll check with Jacobs’ people, see if he’s making good on his promise.”
“Great,” said Thrasher. “Fine.”
Reynolds left at last, looking a bit resentful, like a pet dog that’s been scolded. Thrasher watched him leave, while keeping one eye on Kristin. As soon as Reynolds went through the door, Thrasher made a beeline toward her.
The other two women were leaving, also. The party was beginning to break up. Over his shoulder Thrasher saw Sampson with one heavy arm wrapped around Senator Jacobs’ shoulders, heading toward the bar, with Erik Harker trailing behind them.
And then he was standing in front of Kristin Anders, suddenly feeling foolish, tongue-tied.
“Thanks for waiting,” he said to her.
Kristin smiled curiously. “Erik seems to be busy with Senator Jacobs.”
“I can drive you to wherever you’re staying,” Thrasher offered.
“It’s practically in Bethesda.”
“No problem. The driver knows the city.”
She looked across the emptying room at her cousin, deep in conversation now with the senator and Sampson.
“Do you have any plans for dinner?” Thrasher asked. “I’m starved.”
Instead of answering, Kristin reached into her little handbag and pulled out a cell phone. She pecked at it, and Thrasher saw Erik Harker flinch and then reach into his jacket.
“Erik?” Kristin said. “Mr. Thrasher is going to take me home.” She listened for a moment, then said, “Yes, it was good to see you again, too. Say hello to your parents for me. I’ll see you all at the birthday party, I suppose.”
She clicked the phone shut and dropped it back into her purse. “Dinner sounds good. I haven’t had a thing to eat since this morning, in Tucson.”
* * *
The chauffeur didn’t know the streets of the American University Park neighborhood all that well, but Thrasher had him drive to a restaurant he knew in nearby Georgetown.
The Blue Crab was far from fancy: its booths had plain wooden tables covered with brown paper tablecloths. The wine list consisted of “red, white, and pink.” The waiters wore aprons and tied terrycloth towels around the necks of their customers. But the crabs were marvelous, fresh from the Chesapeake Bay waters, boiled in tangy spices and served with wooden mallets.
Thrasher avoided the wine list. They ordered beer: Coors Lite for Kristin, Negra Modelo for Thrasher. Once the crabs were served, conversation stopped as they banged away happily and tossed the broken shells into a plastic wastebasket set at the table’s edge.
At last Kristin looked up and said, “How did you ever find this place?”
Thrasher dabbed at his dripping chin with his spattered towel as he replied. “First time I ever came to Washington, I asked a cab driver where he ate.”
She gave him a curious look. “I’d have thought that a multimillionaire would eat in the posh restaurants downtown.”
“I wasn’t a multimillionaire in those days.” To himself he added, and I won’t be one much longer, the way things are going.
She smiled and grabbed another crab from the heap on the big serving platter between them.
“How’d you get interested in virtual reality?” he asked.
“Professor Winninger. I was one of his students, and he told us that VR ought to be more useful than just for making porno simulations.”
Thrasher almost choked on his crab claw.
Kristin laughed. “Well, that was the major market for VR, you know.”
“I’d never even thought about that!”
“You didn’t?” She looked surprised.
“No.”
“It’s a big business.”
“I suppose it is. But I’ve never dabbled in it.”
She said, “I suppose you don’t need simulations. You don’t have any trouble getting real women.”
Thrasher heard a voice in his head intone, You have the right to remain silent . . .
“You do have something of a reputation, you know,” Kristin added, the corners of her lips curving slightly.
Trying to make it sound offhand, Thrasher admitted, “I’ve been married twice.”
“And divorced twice.”
“Yeah,” he sighed.
“With plenty of women before, during and after.”
He stiffened. “I was always a faithful husband. Completely.”
“That’s not what the rumor mill says.”
“The rumor mill also says we’re being visited by extraterrestrials and global warming is a hoax.”
Kristin looked at him for a long, silent moment, and Thrasher found himself mesmerized by her calm, unwavering azure eyes.
“It’s the truth, Kristin,” he said.
She nodded. “I believe you, Art.”
“Thanks.”
As they left the restaurant, Thrasher realized he’d been outmaneuvered by a very clever young woman. Yet he couldn’t feel angry toward Kristin. He almost chuckled aloud.
The chauffeur found Kristin’s aunt’s house at last, a modest brick-fronted Federalist bungalow, and double-parked in front of it.
“Thanks for dinner,” Kristin said, as the chauffeur opened the door on her side.
“Thank you, Kristin. I had a fine evening.”
She kissed him lightly on the cheek and whispered, “I’m not ready for you, Art. Not yet. Please understand.”
Then she slid out of the limousine and went briskly up the walkway that led to the house’s front porch.
Thrasher sat there, feeling somewhere between foolish and elated.
As the chauffeur put the limo in gear and pulled away from the curb, he thought to himself, Well, I still have Vicki. Somehow the thought made him feel like a heel.
14
CHRISTMAS DINNER
It looked like a lonely holiday season coming up, thought Thrasher. Most of his staff was taking off the week between Christmas and New Year’s. He grumbled to himself that Santa Claus was putting him a week behind schedule.
Two days before Christmas, Victoria phoned, almost apologetic about going up to Taos for the holiday. “My sister and her family live up there, by the ski resort,” she said.
“Christmas is for families,” he mumbled into the phone.
“Do you want to come up with me?” she asked. “You could stay at the ski lodge, my brother-in-law can get you a room.”
Thrasher found that
he couldn’t work up the enthusiasm for that. “No, thanks.” He repeated, “Christmas is for families.”
“Well, Merry Christmas, then,” Victoria said. She sounded disappointed.
“Merry Christmas, kid.” He cut the connection, wondering if he was doing the right thing. The idea of spending Christmas with Vicki’s family was scary. They’d get the wrong impression, he told himself. She’d get the wrong impression.
Linda came into his office, looking very Christmasy in a bright red sweater trimmed with white fur.
“What are you doing for the big day?” she asked, all smiles.
He cocked his head and answered, “Not much.”
“Well, my mother’s having the family over for dinner and I’ll be the only one without an escort unless you come with me.”
“Me?”
“You shouldn’t spend Christmas alone, and I don’t want to be the only old maid at dinner, so why don’t you come with me? You won’t have to buy presents or anything like that. It’s just dinner with the family.”
Thrasher found himself grinning at her. “Okay. Thanks. Sounds like fun.”
She looked doubtful. “It’s a pretty big family. Be prepared.”
“Should I bring flowers or something?”
“Bring earmuffs.”
As Linda flounced out of his office, Thrasher wondered if she had listened to his phone conversation with Vicki. He sat in his desk chair for several minutes, swiveling back and forth, trying to make up his mind. At last he fished out his cell phone and tapped Vicki’s number.
She answered on the first ring.
“What’re you doing New Year’s Eve?” he asked.
Even in the phone’s small screen he could see the sudden delight on her face.
“The station’s throwing a party for the staff and major advertisers,” she said, “but I can skip it, I guess.”
“Good. Can you meet me in Portales?”
“Sure!”
“I’ll book a suite at the Holiday Express.”
“Okay. Fine.”
“See you there, late afternoon.”
“I’ll be there,” Vicki said, with a bright, happy smile.
Thrasher clicked his phone shut. What the hell, he said to himself. We can watch the ball go down in Times Square and it’ll only be ten o’clock in New Mexico. Then he thought, grinning, Might as well start the New Year with a bang.
Christmas dinner was a bewildering rush of Linda’s family: parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, at least one grandfather, and hordes of squealing, running, laughing children. Christmas decorations everywhere: the house’s windows all had electric candles, a Christmas tree scraped the ceiling of the spacious living room, dripping with colorful ornaments and tinsel, torn wrapping paper littered the floor. Thrasher was dazed by the energy and enthusiasm of all these people.
Linda’s mother, portly and gray-haired, smiled genially as he handed her the poinsettia plant that he brought.
“You can plant it in your garden,” he said.
“Yes, of course,” she replied, all smiles. Then she turned and handed it to one of her daughters, who placed it beside the six other poinsettias already lined up along the sideboard in the dining room.
Dinner was sumptuous, a traditional turkey plus savory Mexican dishes, candied sweet potatoes, and salsa hot enough to burn the roof of Thrasher’s mouth. He enjoyed every bite of it.
Over all the noise and confusion, Linda’s father—a stocky dark-skinned man with a stern expression on his mustachioed face—sat at the head of the table and watched the proceedings with unsmiling dignity.
The Lord of the Manor, Thrasher thought, watching him. Founder of the feast. Master of all he surveys. Three generations carrying his genes, all sitting around the dinner table together. It’s wonderful, in a noisy, hectic way. Like one of those old movies with Lionel Barrymore.
At last it was all over. Feeling stuffed and a little woozy from the homemade wine, Thrasher thanked them all profusely as he said his farewells. Linda’s mother even hugged him.
Linda walked him to the front door.
“You’ll be all right to drive? I can get one of my brothers to drive you.”
“I’m okay,” he said. “Thanks for everything. It was overpowering, but a lot of fun.”
“Merry Christmas, boss.” She pressed her hands against his shoulders and kissed him soundly.
Totally surprised, Thrasher sputtered, “Ulp . . . Merry Christmas, kid.”
Linda grinned at him and pointed overhead. “You are standing underneath the mistletoe, you know.”
Thrasher looked up and saw that indeed he was.
“See you Monday morning,” Linda said.
“Yeah, right. Monday.”
15
INSURANCE
“David Kahn called me,” said Sid Ornsteen.
Thrasher leaned back in his desk chair and eyed his corporate treasurer. Sid always looked worried, he thought, but today he doesn’t look as gloomy as usual. Maybe he had a good Christmas, too.
“What did old Jenghis have to say?” he asked.
“He wants to talk with you about getting an insurance policy for the rocket launches.”
Nodding, Thrasher said, “Does he want me to call him?”
“No,” Ornsteen replied. “He’s coming out here to see you.” There was awe in his voice.
Thrasher blinked with surprise. “David Kahn is coming here? He’s leaving New York to come here?”
“That’s right. I was kind of surprised, myself. I always thought that people came to him, not the other way around.”
“Yeah,” said Thrasher. “When is this momentous event to take place?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
“Friday.” The first of January, Thrasher realized. A holiday for everybody else, but not for Jenghis Kahn. I’ll have to get back here from Portales earlier than I’d planned.
“He said he’ll be here in time for lunch.”
“I’ll tell Linda to book a table at the University Club.”
“Good.”
“You come with me.”
“Really?” Ornsteen squeaked.
“Really.”
“Okay, if that’s what you want.” Ornsteen stood up and started for the door.
“And once Jenghis gets here,” Thrasher called to him, “lock the doors and count the children.”
Ornsteen did not laugh.
The University Club dining room was quiet, dignified, and almost empty on New Year’s Day. Most of the Texas alumni were home watching their football team on television, or in New Orleans, at the Sugar Bowl. On the top floor of one of Houston’s tallest buildings, the dining room’s sweeping windows offered a panoramic view of the city. Unfortunately, a driving winter storm was blurring the vista in pelting rain, mixed with sleet.
If the weather bothered David Kahn, he’d given no indication of it. Thrasher had offered to meet him at the airport, but Kahn turned down that idea and insisted he’d be there on time, weather notwithstanding.
“Hope the weather doesn’t delay his plane,” Thrasher mused, fingering his mug of ginger beer. His own flight from Portales had landed a half-hour late, and he’d taken a taxi to the Club.
“I called the airport,” Ornsteen said. “His plane got in about an hour ago.”
“Shouldn’t take an hour—”
And there was Kahn at the door, in his powered wheelchair, pointing a knobby finger toward Thrasher. The maitre d’ led the old man past the mostly empty tables and moved a chair away to make room for him between Thrasher and Ornsteen.
Kahn looked ghastly, his pallor gray, his bald pate mottled with liver spots. His health must be deteriorating, Thrasher thought. He was wearing a dark gray three-piece suit with a red and blue University of Pennsylvania tie knotted carefully at his wattled throat.
“Arthur,” he wheezed.
Thrasher gestured toward Ornsteen. “You know Sid, of course.”
“Certainly,” said Kahn, w
ithout taking his beady eyes off Thrasher.
“Something to drink?” the maitre d’ inquired in a servile whisper.
Kahn glanced with disdain at Ornsteen’s iced tea and Thrasher’s ginger beer, then looked up at the fawning man and said, “Jack Daniels, neat.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Sorry about the weather,” Thrasher said.
Kahn mumbled something.
“Good day for soup,” Ornsteen suggested as the maitre d’ retreated. Kahn glared at him and the treasurer seemed to shrivel in his chair.
“Is the food here any good?” Kahn asked Thrasher. “Hard to find decent food outside Manhattan.”
Thrasher made himself smile. “Well, I like it.”
“Steak, I suppose.”
“Among other things.”
A waiter brought Kahn’s drink and a trio of oversized menus. Kahn took a sip, then opened his menu, muttering, “Texas. The bigger something is, the better Texans like it.”
“I’m from Arizona,” Thrasher said. He looked toward Ornsteen, who seemed to be hiding behind his menu.
Kahn grumbled and muttered. Thrasher didn’t ask him why he’d flown in; he figured that old Jenghis would bring up that subject when he was good and ready. Instead he talked about the solid progress the project was making. Kahn continued to grumble and mutter.
It wasn’t until they were halfway through the soup course that Kahn finally put down his spoon and said, “Have you picked an insurance carrier yet?”
Thrasher turned to Ornsteen. “Sid, who’ve you been talking to about launch insurance?”
“There’s not many companies who cover rocket launches,” the treasurer replied. “There’s an international consortium that’s got most of the business.”
“And they set their own prices,” rasped Kahn.
“More or less,” Ornsteen agreed.
“I’ll handle the insurance,” Kahn said.
Thrasher asked, “You’ll pick a carrier . . . ?”
“No, I mean that I’ll get one of my companies to draw up a policy for you. And I’ll give you a better price than those Europeans, by damn.”
