1
SAN FRANCISCO
“Well, somebody’s got to do it. The goddamned government isn’t going to.”
Charles Kahn smiled tolerantly as he reached for his half-finished glass of manzanilla. He had never heard Art Thrasher speak the word “government” without preceding it with “goddamned.”
The two men were sitting in a pair of wingchairs in a quiet corner of the Kensington Club’s Men’s Bar, a haven of restful luxury, leather upholstery, and dark cherrywood paneling. Through the gracefully-draped window beyond Thrasher’s chair, Kahn could see the club’s lovely little private garden and, beyond its carefully-tended trees, the Bay Bridge arching over the surging waters.
The trouble is, Kahn thought, that no place on Earth is placid or quiet when Art’s in it. I should never have invited the little toothache to come here for a drink with me. He’s small potatoes, him and his electronics gadgets; he’s not even worth a billion. Nowhere near it. Why am I putting up with this aggravation?
Kahn reached for his wine again; the little stemmed glass rested on the elegantly-styled sherry table standing between their two chairs. Thrasher’s mug of ginger beer was beside it, untouched. Ginger beer, Kahn thought; how infantile.
Mistaking Kahn’s silence for tacit approval, Thrasher continued, “We can do it! You, me, and a handful of others. We can get to Mars!”
“Really, now, Art.”
“Really,” Thrasher insisted.
The two men were a study in contrasts. Thrasher was short, paunchy, with big round light hazel eyes made even more owlish by his rimless eyeglasses. He wore his sandy hair boyishly short despite his receding hairline. His tan sports coat and darker chinos barely passed the club’s dress code, Kahn knew. Instead of a tie he was wearing one of those ridiculous Texas string things. Even sitting in the capacious wingchair he fidgeted and squirmed restlessly, like a little boy yearning to go outside and play in the mud.
Compared to him, Kahn was a monument to calm dignity in his gray three-piece suit and chiseled ruggedly handsome features, the very best that modern cosmetic surgery could provide.
“And just how much would this mission to Mars cost?” Kahn asked.
Thrasher hesitated, rolled his eyes ceilingward, pursed his lips, then finally replied, “About a hundred billion, tops.”
“A hundred billion?” Kahn almost dropped his drink.
“That’s over five years, Charlie. That’s twenty billion a year. Peanuts, really.”
Kahn sipped at his manzanilla before replying, “You have a strange concept of peanuts.”
“Come on, Charlie, we both know you’re making indecent profits. What’s the price of gasoline at the pump? Nine bucks a gallon? Going up to ten, eleven here in California, isn’t it?”
Kahn shrugged noncommittally.
Thrasher went on, “You and your brother can put up a billion per year, each. You make that much in interest on your holdings every year, don’t you? Take it off your taxes as a charitable donation.”
“Really,” Kahn muttered.
“Think of the publicity you’ll earn! The good will! You could use some good will. I hear you’re getting death threats on Twitter.”
With a sigh, Kahn said, “I have PR people to handle things like that. And security people, as well.”
“Give the people Mars and they’ll love you! They’ll build statues to you.”
“There’s no profit in such a mission.”
“Only the profit of knowing that you’ve helped advance humankind’s frontier. Mars, for chrissakes! The red planet! The scientists are dying to explore it, find out if there’s life there.”
“And why should I spend my hard-earned money on such a venture?”
“Come on, Charlie, this is me you’re talking to. The hardest work you’ve done in the past fifteen years is reading Forbes magazine to see where you stand on the billionaire’s list.”
“Why isn’t NASA—”
“Because the goddamned government has slashed their budget, that’s why! Those fartbrains in the White House have no interest in human space flight anymore.”
Kahn said nothing. He had contributed generously to the superpac that had helped get the current president into the White House. And Thrasher knew it.
Scrunching up closer on the wingchair, Thrasher coaxed, “Look, the Chinese are sending a man to the Moon in five years or so. America’s going to look like a chump.”
“You want to upstage the Chinese.”
“It’d be great, wouldn’t it? Leave those commies in the dust by going to Mars. Make them look like chumps.”
“That’s what John Kennedy did to the Soviets back in the Sixties,” Kahn mused. “He leapfrogged their space efforts by putting Americans on the Moon first.”
“And we can leapfrog the People’s Republic of China! With private enterprise! Capitalism beats the communists!”
“A billion a year,” Kahn murmured.
“For five years.”
Leaning back in the warmly embracing wingchair, Kahn eyed Thrasher for a long moment, then said, “Tell you what, Art. You go to New York and see my brother. If you can talk David into doing this, then I’ll come along, too.”
Thrasher jumped to his feet, pumped Kahn’s hand vigorously, and dashed out of the bar. Heads turned as he raced out. Several of he elder members shot disapproving glances at Kahn.
As if I’m responsible for the little ass, Kahn grumbled to himself. Then he reached for his sherry again. Let him talk to David. My brother will swat him like the annoying little mosquito that he is.