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8

INDEPENDENCE, MISSOURI





Margaret Watkins spoke with a leisurely southern drawl. Thrasher wondered whether it came naturally to her, or was an affectation.

She was approaching eighty, Thrasher knew, although she dressed in frilly little frocks designed for women half her age. And weight. She was what was once called “pleasingly plump,” short and round. Born to the founder of Watkins Brands, Inc., she had been an adorably pretty little girl when her father made his first few millions, and one of the nation’s most attractive debutantes when the old man died, leaving her a cool billion dollars in trust. Maggie turned out to have a good head for business, and now was one of the wealthiest women on Earth. But for each billion she gained, she also put on ten pounds. Or more.

She and Thrasher were wending their way slowly through the Truman Library, early in the evening, after the museum was closed to the general public. Through the long draperied windows Thrasher could see the sunset outside turning the sky flame red.

“So to what do I owe the honah of your visit?” Maggie asked, in her girlish southern accent.

She’s trying to sound like Scarlett O’Hara, Thrasher thought. Maybe I should try my Clark Gable impression on her.

Instead, he shrugged and answered in his normal voice, “I just realized it’s been a while since we’ve seen each other and decided to drop in on you. Hope you don’t mind.”

Maggie gave him a disbelieving look. “And your sudden yearnin’ to see me wouldn’t have anything at all to do with Mars, would it?”

With what he hoped was a boyish grin, Thrasher answered, “Mars? What have you heard about Mars?”

“That you’re sweet-talkin’ and arm-twistin’ and goin’ every which way to raise money for flying out to Mars.”

“You’re damned right I am,” Thrasher said, with some heat.

They started along a corridor lined with photographs from Truman’s career. Thrasher especially liked the one of Harry from the morning after election day, 1948. He was grinning from ear to ear as he held up a copy of the Chicago Tribune with its famously incorrect headline, DEWEY DEFEATS TRUMAN.

Now they stood at the entrance to the replica of President Truman’s Oval Office. As they stepped through, Thrasher realized with some bitterness that the present president hadn’t invited him to the White House. Not once.

“What’s so special ‘bout Mars?” Maggie asked, her baby blue eyes intent.

“Lots of things,” said Thrasher. “It may have harbored life once. There might even still be some form of life there, maybe deep underground. It’s another world; we have a lot to learn from it.”

“How’re you goin’ to make money out of it?”

“I’m not. None of us are. We’re doing it because it’s the right thing to do.”

Maggie Watkins shook her head slowly. “Hard to raise money fo’ that.”

“I don’t know about that. I think the Kahn brothers will come in on it. Will Portal’s in, for sure. Bartlett. Gelson. If you join the club we’ll be more than halfway there.”

“A billion a year? For five years?”

“You can afford it.”

“Well sure, I can afford it. But why would I want to?”

Thrasher looked around at the replica of the Oval Office. Hard decisions were made here, he knew. Dropping the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. Standing up to Stalin’s aggressions. The Marshall Plan. Korea.

He looked at the sign resting on Truman’s desk. The buck stops here.

He thought, Damn! If Harry were President today we’d be going to Mars, and then some.

Turning back to Maggie, he said, “We can leapfrog the Chinese and their Moon program. We can get America back into space in a major way. We can open the way to the whole damned Solar System, and then maybe go on to the stars. It’s the human race’s destiny, Maggie: to expand, to reach out, to explore. That what we do! That’s who we are!”

She said nothing.

Pointing to Truman’s desk and the sign upon it, Thrasher said, “It’s time to put up or shut up. If we don’t go to Mars this nation will be giving up its heritage and we’ll sink into insignificance. We’re a frontier people, Maggie! Your father understood that! He was always breaking new ground.”

“An’ making money out of it.”

“So now you’ve got more money than you know what to do with. Do something big! Do something significant. Put up or shut up, for chrissakes!”

Maggie broke into a low chuckle. “All right, Artie. All right. I’ll put up. Even if it’s only to make you shut up.”




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