by Ben Bova
Ornsteen had stalked into Thrasher’s office unannounced, just brushing past Linda and marching up to Thrasher’s desk, a fistful of financial reports in his hand.
“We’re not broke yet,” said Thrasher, trying to remain upbeat.
“We’re getting close.”
“Our stock price is holding steady.”
“So far,” Ornsteen said glumly, collapsing his gaunt body into one of the armchairs in front of Thrasher’s desk.
“We’re getting good publicity,” said Thrasher. “Did you see the piece in Aviation Week? And the Discovery Channel wants to do a documentary about us.”
Ornsteen was not impressed. “The Wall Street Journal will do a great article on us when we file for bankruptcy.”
“Don’t be such a wet blanket, Sid.”
With a mournful shake of his head, the treasurer said, “You’ve got to get your backers to put more cash into the pot, Art.”
“They’ve agreed to a billion a year, each. I can’t ask them for more.”
“You’ve got to.”
Leaning back in his swivel chair, Thrasher saw that Sid was totally serious. “Is it that bad?” he asked.
“It’s getting scary, Art. I mean . . . we’re cutting it too damn close.”
Thrasher mused, “Maybe I could ask them to chip in next year’s contribution a little early.”
“Rob Peter to pay Paul? That won’t work; not for long, anyway. They need to put in more money.”
Thrasher said to himself, Which means I have to go to guys like Jenghis Kahn and Gregory Sampson in sackcloth and ashes and my begging bowl in my hand.
He sighed. “I’ll see what I can do, Sid.”
As his limousine approached Gregory Sampson’s mansion, on the beach of one of Long Island’s most exclusive communities, Thrasher thought, It goes to show what God could have done if he’d had money.
The place was built to impress people, a pile of gray stones arranged like a castle, complete with round, cone-topped turrets and pennants fluttering in the breeze from Long Island Sound. Thrasher half expected to see a moat with drawbridge and serfs clenching their fists over their hearts and swearing to Sampson, “My liege!”
The trees lining the driveway were ablaze with autumn reds and golds, the shrubs at their bases still bright with asters and chrysanthemums and other flowers that Thrasher didn’t recognize.
A liveried doorman was waiting as the limo pulled up at the mansion’s entrance. He showed Thrasher to the carved oak double doors, where a butler bowed minimally and escorted him through an entryway large enough to hold a tennis court, then down a wide corridor lined with paintings by masters from Raphael to Picasso and finally to the library, where Gregory Sampson stood waiting for him, wearing prefaded jeans and a gray Dartmouth College sweatshirt.
The far wall of the book-lined room was all glass, two stories high, that looked out on the Sound. A regatta of sailboats was cutting through the choppy water, under a sky dotted with puffy white cumulus clouds.
Gregory Sampson turned away from the tall windows, a crystal champagne flute in one meaty hand, a broad welcoming smile on his bearded face.
“Artie!” he boomed. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
Thrasher had to grin at the man’s hubris. “Nice of you to invite me. What do you call this place, Camelot?”
“How did you guess?” Sampson laughed as he waved at an oversized leather wing chair. “Sit down. Relax. Have some champagne?” Before Thrasher could reply, he went on, “No, you drink ginger beer, don’t you?”
“If you have it,” Thrasher said, sitting in the big chair. He felt dwarfed by it.
“Flew in a couple of cases from Jamaica the other day,” said Sampson, jovially. He sat in an identical chair facing Thrasher. “I had a feeling you’d come visiting, sooner or later.”
Thrasher nodded. He knows why I’m here. But maybe I can throw him a curve, shake him up a bit.
“I need your help,” he said.
Sampson’s smile grew even wider.
“How well do you know Senator Jacobs?”
“Chuckie?” Sampson looked puzzled briefly, but he swiftly recovered. “I’ve known Chuck Jacobs since he was running for his first public office, twenty-five years ago. Why do you ask?”
“He’s chairman of the Senate subcommittee for space, isn’t he?”
Sampson nodded warily.
“I need him to help move some paperwork through the NASA bureaucracy,” said Thrasher.
Sampson’s shaggy brows knit. “NASA? What’re you doing with NASA?”
Thrasher explained his problem, finishing with, “So as long as this little weasel Reed can delay all the approvals we need, we’re going to be tied up in red tape.”
Absently tugging at his white beard, Sampson asked, “He can really hold you up?”
“He can, and he will—unless we can find some way to put pressure on him.”
“Jacobs’ subcommittee handles the NASA budget request,” Sampson mused.
“If he could make it clear that the Senate is behind us, and he doesn’t want us held up unreasonably—”
“‘Unreasonably’ is a stretchy word, Artie. What seems unreasonable to you might look perfectly okay to a guy like Reed.”
“Look, Greg, this is important. The only way I can think of to pressure Reed is to have Congress lean on him.”
“Have you tried plying him with women?” Sampson asked, grinning toothily.
Thrasher made a sour face. “You haven’t met him. He’s not the type to make a move in that direction.”
“Not like you or me, huh?”
“Can you talk to Senator Jacobs?”
“Sure. I’m not certain it will do any good, though, if this guy is as firmly entrenched in the NASA hierarchy as you told me.”
“Money talks,” Thrasher said. “If Jacobs lets Reed know that NASA’s budget depends on how he deals with Mars, Inc., I think it will help us. A lot.”
Sampson’s cold gray eyes stared at Thrasher for a long, silent moment, then shifted away. “I’ll talk to Chuckie, see what I can do. Maybe I’ll throw a party in D.C. and invite him. More business is done in Washington at cocktail parties than on the floor of the Senate.”
“And invite Reed, too?”
“No, no,” Sampson said, shaking his bushy white head. “From what you’ve told me about him, he’d be totally out of place. Besides, you never invite the victim to the arraignment.”
“Oh. I see. Well, thanks, Greg.” Thrasher started to get out of the chair, but Sampson laid a heavy hand on his arm.
“How’s the project going?” he asked.
“Great. Swell. You ought to come out to Portales and see that spacecraft. Its outer shell is almost finished and they’re working on the interior wiring now. Miles of wires!”
“You okay money-wise?”
Thrasher hesitated. He knows about our finances. He knows down to the penny. Jenghis Kahn keeps him up-to-the minute.
Very carefully, Thrasher replied, “Oh, we could use more cash, of course.”
“How much more?”
A vision flashed through Thrasher’s mind: a vulture sitting in a dead tree, watching an animal breathing its last.
“A hundred mill should tide us over ‘til the next fiscal year.”
“A hundred million. That’s in addition to our regular contributions?”
“Yes,” Thrasher said tightly.
“It wouldn’t be deductible as a charitable donation, would it?”
“I don’t think so.”
Sampson was enjoying this, Thrasher saw. He’s having fun, stretching me on the rack.
“I won’t hand you another hundred million just for old time’s sake,” Sampson said, deadly serious now, “but I’ll tell you what I will do.”
Thrasher said nothing.
“I’ll buy a hundred million dollars worth of Thrasher Digital stock. From you. Directly.”
I should have expected this, Thrasher thought. He still w
ants to take over my company. He still wants to drive me out.
“I own twenty-five percent of the corporate preferred stock,” Thrasher said.
“Sell me half of it.”
“For a hundred mill?”
Sampson licked his lips and nodded.
“It’s not worth a hundred million, you know that.”
“I’m willing to be overcharged.”
Thrasher was thinking furiously, I’ll still keep twelve and a half percent. He’ll have the same amount, but I can outvote him, if the other stockholders stick with me. But he’ll be nibbling away, picking up shares wherever he can. Sooner or later he’ll beat me.
But he heard himself say, “Okay. Twelve and a half percent for a hundred million dollars.”
Sampson broke into a wide grin. “Done!”
So he’ll run me out of my own company, Thrasher thought. But not before we get to Mars. Not before we get to Mars.
11
THE WHITE HOUSE
Christmas was only a week away, but it was so balmy in the nation’s capital that news commentators were talking about global warming again.
Thrasher felt unaccountably nervous as his limousine stopped at the security checkpoint. After nearly six years in office, the President of the United States had finally invited him to the White House. And why? To make some publicity points about the Mars project. To show the voters that he’s not anti-space, after all.
Even Reynold Reynolds, sitting beside Thrasher in the limo, looked on edge, drumming his fingertips on the thighs of his precisely creased trousers.
“This is the big time,” Reynolds muttered, more to himself than to Thrasher.
“I guess it is,” he said.
Thrasher’s public relations director had been wonderfully surprised when the White House staffer called. Thrasher had never seen her so excited.
“You’re invited to meet the president!” Francine had gushed. “In the Oval Office!”
And now he felt excited, too. Even though I think he’s a blowhard jerk, he said to himself, he’s still the President of the United States. He found himself humming “Hail to the Chief” as an aide led him and Reynolds along the corridor to the West Wing.
And there he was, POTUS himself, sitting behind his massive mahogany desk, smiling his brightest, toothiest smile as Thrasher and Reynolds were ushered into the Oval Office.
The Chief Administrator of NASA was sitting on one of the striped sofas by the empty fireplace, together with a couple of other people Thrasher didn’t recognize. Two photographers buzzed around like foraging bees as Thrasher walked across the carpet bearing the Great Seal of the U.S. and up to the President’s desk. Reynolds quietly sat on the end of the sofa, with the others.
The president was considerably shorter than Thrasher had expected: a swarthy, stocky Hispanic from California with tightly curled salt-and-pepper hair and a photogenic smile. He reached across his desk to extend his hand.
“Mr. President,” said Thrasher as he gripped the man’s outstretched hand.
“Mr. Thrasher. It’s good to see you.”
More clicks and flashes from the photographers.
The president gestured to the only chair before his desk; it was angled so that Thrasher could face the NASA administrator and the others on the sofa, including Reynolds.
“How is your Mars project going?” the president asked.
“Pretty well,” said Thrasher. “I’d be honored if you’d come out to our headquarters in Portales and see the spacecraft taking shape.”
The president glanced over at the only woman on the sofa. “Can we work that into my next western trip, Connie?”
“Certainly, sir,” the woman answered.
“Fine.” Turning back to Thrasher, the president said, as if reciting by rote, “I want to congratulate you on attempting to show the world that American free enterprise can accomplish great things. Too many people believe that only the government can manage space exploration. I’m delighted that you’ve accepted the challenge of putting Americans on Mars.”
Thrasher smiled. Canned speech, he thought. It’ll be on all the news nets this evening.
“Well, it’s not only Americans who’re going to Mars, you know. Our crew includes a planetary astronomer from South Africa.”
“Fine, fine,” said the president.
The NASA administrator spoke up. “I understand that you’ll be using our launch center at Cape Canaveral.”
“For the heavy lifting, yes,” Thrasher replied. “Our manned launches will be done from Spaceport America, in New Mexico.”
The administrator nodded. Reynolds frowned slightly and shook his head once. The Washington rep had warned Thrasher not to bring up the Reed problem. Going over the bureaucrat’s head would only anger Reed and embarrass the NASA administrator in front of the President.
“That’s fine, fine,” the president repeated. He got to his feet, signaling that the meeting was concluded.
Thrasher got up too, thinking that the president had gotten his photo op; he’d be on all the news shows. In and out, a few clicks of the cameras and off you go.
The others got up from the sofa, as well. As he approached the NASA administrator, Thrasher said, “I wonder if I might talk to you sometime about our launch schedule at the Cape.”
“Of course,” said the administrator. “Any time. We’ll be glad to help you in any way we can.”
Reynolds was getting red in the face, trying to warn Thrasher not to go any farther without saying anything aloud.
“I’ll phone you if we have any problems,” Thrasher said.
“Certainly,” the administrator said, with all the warmth and sincerity of a man who knew the cameras were on him.
As they left the White House, Reynolds blew out a heavy gust of breath. “I thought for a minute back there that you were going to upset the apple cart.”
Thrasher shrugged. “At least I can phone the guy if I need to.”
Reynolds shook his head. “That’s the last thing you want to do. That’s a card to be played only as a last resort.”
“Yeah,” Thrasher said. “But it might help if Reed knows I’ve got an in with his boss.”
Shaking his head like a schoolteacher disappointed with a stubborn student, Reynolds muttered a line from an old movie, “Don’t shoot Mongo, you’ll only make him mad at you.”
12
COCKTAIL PARTY
True to his word, Gregory Sampson threw a lavish cocktail party the evening after Thrasher’s White House visit. The excuse was to celebrate the Yuletide season. The reason was for Thrasher to meet Senator Charles Jacobs, without going to his office for a formal visit that would immediately be broadcast along the D.C. grapevine.
It was a sumptuous affair, held in the main ballroom of the Grand Hyatt Hotel. Half of the District of Columbia seemed to be there, chatting, laughing, clinking glasses, the men in tuxedos or dark business suits, the women in stylish dresses and jewelry, all of them sipping at drinks and nibbling at the canapés spread out on more than two dozen little round tables scattered across the big room.
But as soon as Thrasher stepped into the crowded, noisy hotel ballroom, with Reynolds at his side, he saw Kristin Anders standing in the midst of the throng, holding a stemmed wineglass in one hand as she talked amiably with a ruggedly handsome, athletic-looking blond young man.
She wore a wine-red knee-length dress with a high mandarin collar. Silver choker with a ruby pendant. Ruby bracelet. Or maybe they’re garnets, Thrasher thought as he left Reynolds standing at the doorway and shouldered his way through the crowd to Kristin’s side.
“Hello!” he said brightly, raising his voice over the babble of the crowd.
Kristin turned away from the handsome youth, her deeply blue eyes widening with surprise.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I was going to ask you the same question,” he hollered back.
Pointing to the young man, Kristin introduced, “This i
s my cousin, Erik Harker. Erik, this is Arthur Thrasher.”
Cousin, Thrasher said to himself. He’s her cousin.
The blond young man smiled boyishly as he took Thrasher’s hand in a strong grip. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Thrasher.”
“Some of it might even be true,” Thrasher joked.
“Erik is on Senator Jacobs’ staff,” Kristin said.
As innocently as he could manage, Thrasher asked, “Is the senator here?”
“Yes,” said Erik. “We came in together, but Mr. Sampson is monopolizing him and I saw cousin Kristin standing all alone . . .”
“What brings you to Washington?” Thrasher asked her.
“Family birthday,” she said. “I’ll be staying through Christmas.”
“How are things going with the VR system?”
“We’re moving ahead. Some problems, but nothing that can’t be solved, sooner or later.”
Make it sooner, Thrasher urged silently. But he said nothing.
Harker said, “You don’t have a drink, Mr. Thrasher.”
“I just got here. And call me Art.”
Reynolds cruised up, with a heavy cut crystal glass in his hand. “Senator Jacobs is over there, with Sampson.”
Thrasher sighed. “Business.”
“I understand,” Kristin said, with a nod.
Looking into her sparkling eyes, Thrasher said, “Please don’t leave until I get a chance to get back to you.”
“I’ll try . . .”
“Good to meet you, Ernie.”
“Erik.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.” Reluctantly, very reluctantly, Thrasher allowed Reynolds to lead him away from Kristin, through the crowd to the corner where Sampson and Senator Jacobs were standing with their heads inclined toward each other in intense conversation.
Charles Jacobs was a pleasant looking man of about fifty, Thrasher judged. Dark hair just starting to gray at the temples. Lean face, almost ascetic, except for the eagle beak of a nose. Although he was slim, wiry, he stood almost as tall as Sampson, who outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. Thrasher forced himself not to smile at the pair of them: Senator Jacobs, lean and dapper in a gray suit; Sampson bulky and shaggy-bearded, looking disheveled even in the tuxedo he was wearing.
