14
REACTION
Thrasher was mobbed as he tried to get down from the platform. Young men and women thronged around him, asking him questions, shoving programs at him for autographing. The two astronauts grinned at him as they shouldered their way down to the floor; the male made an “okay” circle with his thumb and forefinger. The Lockheed Martin executive patted his shoulder as he struggled past.
The NASA woman gave him the kind of look she would give to an impudent little boy. The congressman avoided him altogether.
He worked his way toward the doors at the rear of the auditorium, scribbling his signature, answering dozens of questions.
“Do you really think private enterprise could take us to Mars?”
“Sure.”
“But who would put up the money?”
“There are enough billionaires in the United States to finance a Mars mission out of their own pockets.”
“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.”