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6

THRASHER DIGITAL CORPORATION





All through the flight back to Houston, Thrasher mused about the possibilities of developing existing rocket technology for hypersonic commercial air transportation.

Big public-relations problem, he said to himself. People remember whenever a rocket blows up. Sticks in their minds. They’ll be scared to fly a rocket.

Then he thought, but why should it have to take off like a rocket? Why not a jet plane that carries the bird piggyback up to high altitude, then the bird lights its rocket engine and goes off like a bat out of hell. That’s what Branson’s doing with his suborbital flights. Tourists pay good money for a few minutes of feeling weightless, as if they were actually in space.

As he rode his helicopter from Hobby Airport to his office, the city below reminded him of an inhumanly busy ants’ nest, with cars scurrying madly along the throughways. He pulled out his handheld and called Linda.

“Get Egan to meet me in my office before the day’s out,” he said.

Her face in the phone’s miniature screen looked only mildly surprised. “Egan is in California, meeting with the SpaceX people. Besides, it’s almost five o’clock.”

“You don’t expect to leave at quitting time, do you?”

“Of course not.” With a rueful shake of her head.

“Set up a phone link with him for me. I’ll be in the office . . .” he glanced at the clock readout on the handheld, “. . . in ten, twelve minutes.”

“Right. Oh, Mr. Ornsteen wants to see you as soon as you get in. He says it’s urgent.”

“Sid?” The corporation’s treasurer never brought good news, Thrasher thought. “Urgent, huh?”

“He seemed upset.”

“He’s always upset. The man’s a walking ulcer.”

“Shall I tell him to meet you in your office?”

Nodding reluctantly, Thrasher replied, “After I’ve talked with Egan.”


Linda kept a corner of her desktop screen focused on the view from the camera at the helipad, up on the roof. The instant her boss’ chopper touched down, she went to the minifridge built into the cabinets lining the back wall of the anteroom and poured a chilled mug of ginger beer. She sniffed at the bubbling brew, wondering why Thrasher liked it so much. It’s not alcoholic, she knew. It’s sort of like ginger ale, only stronger.

Thrasher came breezing through the corridor door, briefcase slung over a shoulder of his rumpled sports coat, one hand reaching for the mug.

“Egan is standing by in California,” she said.

“Good.”

“And Ornsteen’s on his way up.”

“Oy.”

Thrasher disappeared into his office. Linda returned to her desk and saw his phone line turn on. She clipped on her Bluetooth earset and listened in for a few moments. Tech talk, about flying rockets from Houston to California. She quietly cut her connection and put the earset back in her top desk drawer as Sidney P. Ornsteen stepped in, looking more worried than usual.

The corporate treasurer was balding and rail thin, anxiety thin. Linda thought he always looked as if he were on the verge of a nervous breakdown, although Thrasher insisted that Ornsteen didn’t get nervous breakdowns, he gave them to others. He wore a three-piece suit, dark as an undertaker’s, and an expensive-looking patterned blue tie. He might be good-looking, she thought, if he’d only relax and smile once in a while.

Nodding toward Thrasher’s closed door, Ornsteen asked, “He’s in?”

Linda replied, “He’s on a phone call, Mr. Ornsteen. He’ll be with you in a moment or two. Can I get you something? Coffee? Soda?”

Ornsteen shook his head and began pacing back and forth in front of Linda’s desk.

“Who’s he talking to?”

“Egan.”

“The engineering guy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Probably pissing more money down a rathole,” Ornsteen muttered. Then he looked stricken. “Sorry about the language, Ms. Ursina.”

Linda smiled minimally.

“How long—”

Thrasher’s voice came over the intercom. “Is Super Sid there yet?”

“He’s right here,” Linda cooed.

“Good. Send him in.”

Linda started to get up from her desk, but Ornsteen didn’t wait to be ushered. He bolted to the door and opened it himself.

Thrasher closed his eyes briefly as his treasurer stalked into his office. Ornsteen looked more worked up than usual, he saw. Can’t be good news.

“Hello, Sid. Have a seat.”

Ornsteen sat on the front three inches of the nearest armchair.

Before the treasurer could say anything, Thrasher asked, “What’s happening, Sid? You look unsettled.”

“Somebody’s making a run at the corporation’s stock,” Ornsteen announced.

“A run?”

“Buying up a lot of shares.”

“How many?”

The treasurer reached into his jacket and pulled out his smartphone. Thrasher noticed his left eye twitched as he tapped at the phone’s screen.

“Eleven percent, as of close of business this afternoon.”

Thrasher gave out a low whistle and swiveled his desk chair slowly back and forth, thinking fast. He mused, “I left Jenghis Kahn’s office just about one p.m., New York time . . .”

“The push started yesterday,” Ornsteen said. “It just became noticeable this afternoon.”

“His brother Charlie?”

“You think?”

“I popped the Mars idea to Charlie last week. He didn’t seem too wild about it, but maybe he was conning me.”

“Why would he want a chunk of our stock?” Ornsteen wondered. “All he’s doing is driving up the price.”

“Eleven percent?”

“And counting.”

“Maybe he wants to buy his way onto our board,” Thrasher guessed.

“Why would he want to do that?”

“To block my Mars program.”

Ornsteen shook his head. “The smart thing to do would be to wait until the value of our shares drops and then scoop ‘em up.”

“Why would our stock’s value drop?”

The treasurer closed his eyes and massaged his brows. Then he said, “Because, Art, once you start pumping money into your Mars thing our net is going to sink like a lead balloon.”

“Maybe,” Thrasher admitted. “For a while.”

“It doesn’t make sense to buy now,” Ornsteen insisted.

“Any way of finding out who it is?”

“Come on, Art,” Orsteen replied sourly. “He must be using dummies. Just what you’d do if you wanted to move in on a company.”

“H’mm.”

“I can ask around on the Street, see if anybody knows anything.”

“You do that, Sid. This could be serious.”

“You’re telling me?”

Thrasher watched his treasurer get up from the chair and walk stiffly to his office door. Once Ornsteen was gone, he leaned back in his desk chair and tried to make sense of what was happening.

Somebody’s trying to buy his way onto my board of directors, he thought. Hell, this might be the first step in an attempt to weasel me out of my own company!

I’ve got to find out who it is. And what he’s after.




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