Mars, Inc. - eARC

by Ben Bova

  MARS,

  INC. – eARC

  THE BILLIONAIRE’S CLUB

  BEN BOVA

  Advanced Reader Copy

  Unproofed

  Baen Books

  by Ben Bova

  * * *

  Mars Inc.: The Billionaire’s Club

  Laugh Lines

  The Watchmen

  The Exiles Trilogy

  MARS, INC.: THE BILLIONAIRE’S CLUB

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by Ben Bova

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  A Baen Book

  Baen Publishing Enterprises

  P.O. Box 1403

  Riverdale, NY 10471

  www.baen.com

  ISBN: 978-1-4516-3934-6

  Cover art by Stephan Martiniere

  First Baen printing, December 2013

  Distributed by Simon & Schuster

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: TK

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  DEDICATION

  To the lovely Rashida,

  and the future.

  MARS,

  INC.

  THE BILLIONAIRE’S CLUB

  Confidence is what you have

  before you understand the problem.

  —Woody Allen

  YEAR

  ONE

  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.

  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.

  3

  HOME SWEET HOME

  It was nearly nine o’clock when Portal finally said, “Okay, Art, okay. I’ll think about it.”

  His bolo tie pulled loose, Thrasher tilted his padded chair back and planted his booted feet on his desk top. “Think of the tax break you can get out of this, Will. Think of the publicity and good will.”

  “I said I’ll think about it,” Portal repeated, his thin voice rising slightly.

  “Fine, wonderful.”

  “Now can I go to dinner?” Portal’s face took on a sardonic little grin.

  “Sure,” said Thrasher magnanimously. “Sorry to have kept you so long. I appreciate your time, Will, I really do.”

  “Good night, Art.”

  “’Night, Will.”

  The wall screen went back to the displaying the Madonna. Thrasher sighed heavily, then took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He was surprised to see Linda still sitting there, her chin on her fists.

  “I thought you were going home.”

  “I am,” she said, getting to her feet. “Goodness, look at the time.”

  Replacing his glasses, Thrasher said, “Just because I work crazy hours doesn’t mean you have to.”

  She smiled. “Have you made any plans for your own dinner?”

  “I’ll grab something out of the freezer.”

  Linda gave him a critical look. “You ought to take better care of yourself.”

  Getting up from behind the desk, Thrasher said, “Yes, Mommy. Now go home.”

  “Make sure you get some food into you.”

  “And be back here at eight sharp.”

  “Right, boss.” She turned and left the office.

  Admiring her form, Thrasher recognized that Linda was really a very beautiful young woman. What is it the Catholics call it? he mused. Then he remembered, she’s a near occasion of sin. A very tempting morsel indeed. He shook his head and said to himself sternly, you do not come on to employees. It’s very unfair to them. And you could get sued up to your eyeballs.

/>   The intercom buzzed.

  “What?” he demanded.

  Linda’s voice asked, “Should I tell Carlo to meet you in the lobby?”

  “Naw. Tell him to go home. I’ll stay here tonight.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Stop mothering me, kid. And go home yourself.”

  A hesitation, then she said, “Goodnight, then.”

  “Goodnight, already.”

  Thrasher’s home was far out in the posh suburbs, a mansion he had built for his second wife, the sculptress. But he maintained a modest apartment on the other side of the corridor from his office suite. Nothing very fancy, just a couple of bedrooms, kitchen, sitting room, and a book-lined study. Plus a walk-in shower in the master bathroom. He had spent some very special hours, sharing that shower.

  But tonight he was alone. He pulled a dinner package from the freezer, microwaved it, then sat at the kitchen counter and nibbled at it while he watched television, switching from CNN to Fox News to MSNBC and back again at every commercial break.

  Pouring himself a ginger beer, he briefly thought about adding a dollop of brandy to it. Brandy and dry, the Aussies called it. He decided against the brandy and walked slowly to his study, then out onto the balcony that overlooked the garish lights of downtown Houston.

  Can’t see the stars, they keep it so goddamned bright, he complained silently. Not like Arizona. Not at all.

  His mother had died in childbirth and Thrasher was raised by his embittered father, a dry husk of an astronomy professor at the University of Arizona’s Steward Observatory. Dad worked all his life and what did he get for it? Bubkiss. A lousy pension and his name on a couple of boxfuls of research papers.