12
CHICAGO
The atrium of the Hyatt Regency Hotel looked like a major political convention had taken over the place. It was jammed with people, hundreds of men and women all talking and scurrying around. City of the big shoulders, Thrasher reminded himself. Lots of ‘em here, bumping into each other.
Unlike a political convention, though, these people were mostly young. There were plenty of gray heads among them, but somehow even the graybeards seemed more youthful, more vigorous than the typical politician.
This was a major conclave of space enthusiasts, Thrasher knew. A couple of thousand nerdy kids, working engineers, pro-space activists, scientists, teachers—and a handful of men who had walked on the Moon.
For the most part they were dressed pretty decently, Thrasher saw as he pushed his way toward the hotel’s registration desk. No outlandish costumes. Nothing for the news shows to poke fun at. From teenagers to oldtimers, these people were serious about their love of space exploration.
Then he saw a twenty-something woman saunter by, wearing a baseball cap that said: ad astra. And right behind her an even younger lad wearing a bright red cap emblazoned with: mars, incorporated.
His brows rose. Has word leaked out?
Then, as he got into the line for registration, he saw a middle-aged guy who looked like a typical engineer: tweed jacket, blue jeans, loafers. But on the lapel of his jacket there was a button that proclaimed:
the meek shall
inherit the earth.
the rest of us
are going
to the stars!
Thrasher laughed to himself. These are my people, God help me. Then he thought, Mars, Incorporated is a good idea. Once we get the funding squared away, I’ll have to get my legal eagles to form a corporation for the program. Mars, Inc. would be a good name for the firm.
He had preregistered for the conference itself, but he had to stand in line to register for the hotel. By the time he finally got to the counter he felt tired and irritable. They ought to have a better way to take your money, he grumbled to himself.
He went through the tedious routine: credit card, driver’s license for ID, signature. At last, with his electronic room key in one hand, and his roll-along travel bag in the other, he squeezed through the milling crowd toward the elevators.
A buxom, auburn-haired woman was among the group of people waiting in the elevator lobby. Thrasher recognized her.
“Victoria Zane, isn’t it?” he asked.
She turned, saw who had spoken her name, and smiled at him. Victoria was wearing a navy blue business suit, which complemented her reddish hair very nicely.
“Mr. Thrasher!”
“Arthur,” he said. “My friends call me Art. Not like a work of art, though; just Art.”
She laughed.
“What’re you doing here, Victoria? Covering the convention?”
“Yes, but not for my station. They’re not interested in anything outside of New Mexico. I’m on my own here.”
“Freelancing?”
Victoria said, “That’s what it used to be called. I’m hoping to write an article for The New Yorker.”
“Do they know that?”
An elevator arrived at last and everyone tried to jam into it. Thrasher tugged at Victoria’s sleeve and said, “Let’s wait for the next one.”
She frowned.
“Better still,” he said, “let’s go to the bar.”
The frown melted. “Always a good idea.”
Strangely, the atrium bar wasn’t at all busy. Thrasher led Victoria to a table by the high, sunny windows. They parked their luggage and sat down. An overweight waitress came up immediately.
“Chardonnay,” said Victoria.
Half-expecting the hotel wouldn’t have it, Thrasher ordered a ginger beer. To his surprise, the waitress wrote it on her pad and headed off to the bar.
Casting a suspicious eye at him, Victoria said, “What did you mean when you asked if The New Yorker knew I wanted to do a piece for them?”
“Oh, I was just surprised that they’d be interested in a space conference. Doesn’t sound like the kind of thing they would do—unless they want to sneer at it.”
“I don’t intend to sneer at anybody or anything,” Victoria said, with some heat.
“Good.”
“I’ve been in contact with one of their editors. He said he’d read my article and if he likes it he’ll show it to their editorial board.”
“Great,” said Thrasher.
The waitress arrived with their drinks. Thrasher took a sip. It was ginger ale, of course. He sighed inwardly.
Victoria toyed with her wine glass. “I’ve heard a rumor that you want to send an expedition to Mars.”
Thrasher thought there were too many blabbermouths in the world to keep his plans secret for long. With a smile he replied, “I had intended to make a public announcement at this conference, but I don’t have the funding settled yet.”
She smiled back. “Maybe next year.”
“I’d rather you didn’t put anything about it into your article.”
“It might help you to raise money if I did.”
With a shake of his head, Thrasher said, “It’d bring out the kooks. I don’t need that.”
“When do you think you’ll get the money?”
“In a couple of months, if things go right.”
“How close are you now?”
“No comment.”
“Who are you talking to?”
“No comment.”
She leaned back in her chair and eyed him carefully. “What are you willing to comment on?”
“I’d like to take you to dinner.”
“Tonight?”
“Sure.”
“You don’t have any other commitments?”
“I’d break them if I did.”
Victoria took a sip of her wine, then said, “All right. I’d like to have dinner with you.”
“I’ll knock on your door at seven o’clock.”
“Okay.”
“What’s your room number?”
She had to fetch her room key from her handbag and read off the number.
Thrasher said, “Right down the hall from me.”
“How convenient,” said Victoria Zane.