2
HOUSTON
The flight from San Francisco to Houston took just a tad over three hours, in Art Thrasher’s executive Learjet. The plane’s interior was luxuriously outfitted with swiveling plush reclinable seats, leather covered bulkheads and a full bar. Thrasher ignored all the amenities and split the time between phone calls and text messaging, while wondering in the back of his mind if he should get himself a supersonic jet.
Naah, he decided. The goddamned government doesn’t allow supersonic flight over land. People complain about the sonic boom. As he hunched over his notepad’s keyboard, pecking away, he thought: Maybe a rocket, like Branson’s flying out of New Mexico. Cut the travel time to half an hour or less.
He cleared his screen, then texted his secretary in Houston to look into the idea. Branson’s Virgin Galactic was making money, at last, flying tourists to the edge of space for a few minutes of experiencing weightlessness. Could the same technology be adapted to fly from point to point on Earth at hypersonic speed? That could make as big an impact on commercial air transportation as the transition from piston engines to jets, over a half a century earlier.
The pilot’s voice came through the intercom speaker. “Making our approach to Houston, Mr. Thrasher.”
Home sweet home, Thrasher thought, tightening his seat belt. But not for long. Gotta get to New York and see Charlie’s big brother. They say he’s got balls that clank.
Leaning back in the commodious chair, Thrasher thought, I’ve got to come up with something that’ll get him interested. He won’t go for scientific interest or national pride; not him. It’s got to be something that’ll make money for him. Let’s see . . . he’s into real estate, banking, what else?
As offices of corporate moguls go, Arthur Thrasher’s was minimalist. No swanky overdecorated suite filled with underlings and paper shufflers. No airport-sized executive desk to overawe visitors. No art treasures on the walls.
Thrasher Digital Corporation had a modest suite of offices on the top floor of one of Houston’s least gaudy high-rise towers. One flight up, on the building’s roof, was a helicopter pad. Thrasher made the commute from the airport to his office in half an hour or less.
He hustled down the spiral staircase from the roof to the reception area of Thrasher Digital, briefcase in hand. With a nod to the two young women seated at their desks, he dashed into his suite’s outer office. His executive assistant, Linda Ursina, was standing just inside the door with a frosted mug of ginger beer in her hand.
“Thanks, sweetie,” Thrasher said as he took the drink from her with his free hand and headed for his private office. “Got me a date with Dave Kahn yet?”
Linda was just a few millimeters taller than Thrasher, with the slim, graceful figure of a dancer. Long legs that showed nicely in her midthigh skirt. The face of an Aztec princess: high cheekbones, olive complexion, dark almond-shaped eyes and sleek midnight hair that she wore tied up on the top of her head, making her look even taller.
“Mr. Kahn says he’s free tonight,” she replied, in a smooth contralto voice, “but not again until next Wednesday afternoon.”
Thrasher grunted as he pushed through the door to his private office. It was large enough to hold his teak and chrome desk, a round conference table in one corner, and a trio of comfortable armchairs, upholstered in burgundy faux leather. One entire wall was a sweeping window that looked out on the city. The other walls held flat screens that showed priceless art treasures from the world’s finest museums. Thrasher appreciated fine art, he just didn’t want to have to pay for it.
The screens on the walls were showing High Renaissance works from Italian masters: Da Vinci, Michelangelo, Rafael.
His one concession to vanity was a small sculpture sitting on a credenza against the office’s back wall. It was bust of Thrasher himself, sculpted by his second wife, back in those early days when he thought she loved him.
Sliding into his padded, high-backed desk chair, Thrasher slammed his mug of ginger beer on the desk’s cermet coaster as he muttered, “If I run out there tonight Dave’ll think I’m pretty damned desperate to see him. If I let it slide into next week . . .” He snapped his fingers. “Get Will Portal on the phone.”
Linda’s full lips curved into a slight smile.
“I know, I know,” Thrasher said, peeling off his jacket. “Portal doesn’t come running to the phone just because I’ve called him. You just explain to whichever flunky you talk to that this is the chance of a lifetime and it can’t wait.”
Looking less than impressed, Linda asked, “May I tell him what it’s all about?”
“Hell no!”
“Would you kindly tell me what it’s all about?”
“Mars, what else?”
“Oh, that.”
It was nearly seven p.m. when Linda stepped into Thrasher’s office and said, “If there’s nothing else you need, I’ll be going home now.”
He glanced at his empty mug, but nodded. “Yeah, sure, go on home, kid.”
“Portal hasn’t returned your call,” she said.
“It’s two hours earlier out in Seattle. He’ll call.”
“You’re going to wait here until he does?”
“Yep.”
“You’ll miss dinner.”
He sighed. “As General Grant once said, I intend to fight it out along these lines if it takes all summer.”
Linda said, “If I recall my history lessons, Grant didn’t win until the following spring.”
Thrasher grinned at her. “Go on home, smartass.”
The phone jingled.
Linda started for the desk, but Thrasher stopped her with an upraised hand, waited for the second ring, then punched the speaker button.
One of the wall screens flicked from a Renaissance Madonna to the youthful, slightly bemused face of Willard Portal.
Thrasher broke into a wide grin as he said, “Hello, Will. Good of you to call back.”
With a lopsided smile, Portal said, “Your message said it’s a matter of life and death.”
Leaning back in his leather-covered desk chair, Thrasher said, quite seriously, “It is, Will. It is. The life or death of human space flight in America.”
“Oh?”
“We’ve got to put together a human mission to Mars, Will. There’s nothing more important, absolutely nothing.”
Linda went to one of the armchairs and sat down, fascinated, as Thrasher spent the next hour and a half cajoling another billionaire.