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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.





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