by Ben Bova
He sprang up to a sitting position, the bedclothes tangled and damp with his sweat. Christ, he thought, they’re all pissed at me. Squinting, he saw the bedside clock read 4:22 a.m. Too soon to get up. But he pulled himself out of bed, wrapped a bathrobe around his naked body, and padded out to his study and through the glass doors to the balcony.
Even at this wee hour the Houston skyline was ablaze with light. That’s right, Thrasher groused silently, burn away, use all the oil and coal and natural gas for crap like this. Then maybe we’ll get smart enough to make the move to better energy technologies.
It was chilly on the balcony in nothing but the thin robe. The sky was covered with clouds that reflected the lights of the city. Kind of pretty, actually, he thought. But no stars showed through the overcast. No way to see Mars.
Then it started to rain. Go back to bed, Thrasher told himself. Instead, he went back to the computer in his study and pulled up all the reports they’d sent to the NRC, and the agency’s approval forms.
A fat lot of good those approvals will do us, he thought. They can pull the rug out from under us whenever they want to. And what can we do about it? Take ‘em to court? That’ll take years and a lot of bucks we can’t afford to spend.
Then a voice in his head reminded him, If you can’t go through them, go around them. There’s got to be a way around Meek and the NRC and all their goddamned red tape.
Musing on that thought, Thrasher went back to bed and fell soundly asleep.
“You’re looking more beautiful than ever,” Thrasher said as he helped Vicki Zane into a chair at the little round conference table in the corner of his office.
She was wearing a smartly tailored rose pink pants suit, with a pleated white blouse beneath the jacket. No cleavage, but the outfit was tight enough to remind Thrasher of her agile, sumptuous figure.
Linda was icily proper as she set a plastic cup of coffee before Victoria and the inevitable mug of ginger beer at Thrasher’s place, next to Vicki’s.
Once Linda marched out of the office, Victoria smiled thinly at Thrasher. “She doesn’t like me much, does she?”
Thrasher made a noncommittal shrug. “She thinks you hurt me.”
“Have I?”
“Oh . . . yeah, some.”
Vicki’s smile grew warmer. “Well, I’m here, Art. Aren’t you pleased to see me?”
“Sure,” he said, with a confidence he didn’t truly feel.
Leaning slightly toward him, Vicki said, “I can stay an extra night, if you like.”
“Great,” he said mechanically.
Vicki straightened in her chair. “But first I have to get this interview down. I have a camera crew on their way here—”
The desk phone buzzed. Linda’s voice said, “There’s a cameraman and assistant out here, asking for Ms. Zane.” The “Ms.” sounded like an angry bee’s buzz.
“Send them right in,” Thrasher called.
Victoria became strictly businesslike as the bearded cameraman and his overweight assistant set up their lights and a pair of cameras. They moved Vicki to Thrasher’s other side, lowered the blinds on the office’s windows, and took sound levels of both their voices.
The cameraman wormed on a pair of ear buds and finally said, “Okay, I’m set.”
Victoria put on a photogenic smile and started, “I’m in the office of Arthur D. Thrasher, head of the Mars, Incorporated group that wants to send a team of human explorers to the planet Mars.”
Thrasher nodded pleasantly at the camera.
“I suppose the question that’s on everyone’s mind,” Vicki went on, “is how you can expect to continue your program in the wake of the recent disaster you had with your first attempted launch.”
Forcing a smile, Thrasher said, “Rockets sometimes fail. It’s all part of the game.”
“You think of this as a game?” Victoria snapped. “What if there’d been people aboard that rocket?”
So this is how it’s going to be, Thrasher said to himself. A cross-examination. An interrogation.
“The rocket was unmanned. Nobody got hurt.”
“Except your pocketbook.”
“We’re covered by insurance.”
“I understand that your insurance carrier is balking at paying you.”
She’s got good sources of information, Thrasher understood. She’s close to somebody inside the Portales office.
Aloud, he replied, “Insurance carriers are always pretty cautious. But I’m sure they’ll honor our policy. We’ll go on to Mars. This setback isn’t going to stop us.”
Looking more and more like a prosecuting attorney dealing with a hostile witness, Victoria said, “You want to launch a nuclear reactor into space.”
“That’s for the main propulsion system, yes.”
“Suppose that rocket blows up? Wouldn’t that spray deadly radioactive materials all over southern Florida, as far as Miami and Ft. Lauderdale?”
And so it went, for more than an hour. Victoria was out for blood, his blood, Thrasher realized. Keep your cool, don’t let her get under your skin. Stick with the party line. We’re going to Mars, that’s the important thing. We’ll do it safely. We’re using the best and safest technology that exists. There may be setbacks, but we’re going to Mars.
At last it was over. The cameraman pulled off his earbuds, the pudgy assistant turned off the lights and Victoria leaned back in her chair, looking satisfied.
“I hope I wasn’t too rough on you, Art,” she said.
“Kind of,” he replied.
“I couldn’t do a sweetheart interview, it wouldn’t look right. The public wants tough questions and straight answers.”
“Well,” Thrasher said, a little weakly, “the questions were tough enough.”
“Good! Now why don’t you let Global News treat you to dinner tonight.”
“Sure,” he said. Then he heard himself add, “Let’s include my assistant. She deserves a night out.”
Victoria looked surprised, but no more so than Thrasher himself felt.
It was an awkward dinner, with Thrasher sitting between the two women. Linda was entirely proper and kept up her end of the conversation with intelligence and some wit, but Thrasher couldn’t help feeling that she was acting as a chaperon, an Aztec princess serving as a dueña, protecting him from a predatory woman who wanted to take advantage of him. He almost enjoyed the ludicrousness of the situation.
Victoria did not. Once dinner was finished she bade Thrasher—and Linda—a frosty goodnight in the hotel’s lobby and went up to her room alone.
Thrasher escorted Linda to her home. As Carlo opened the limo’s door, he said to her. “Goodnight kid. And thanks.”
She grinned at him. “Maybe there’s some hope for you, after all.”
“Even for an old reprobate like me?”
“You’re not so old,” Linda said. Before he could respond she slid out of the car and, turning, waved him a goodnight.
10
RAMONA PERKINS
It was two days later that Ramona Perkins showed up.
She phoned from Wichita, Kansas, identifying herself as a friend of Bart Rutherford. Thrasher took her call, after telling Linda it was personal and he didn’t want to be interrupted.
Linda looked puzzled. Her expression seemed to Thrasher to be saying, we just got rid of one bimbo and you’re already chasing after another one?
But in the phone screen’s image, Ramona Perkins hardly looked like a bimbo. She was pretty, but in a young, wholesome, girl-next-door way. Sandy blonde hair pinned up in a style that made her look even younger. Innocent baby blue eyes and just a hint of freckles sprinkled across her pert little nose.
“Mr. Rutherford said you might want to use my services,” she said, in a clear, flat Midwestern twang. Thrasher got the impression she might be a singer in a country music group. She certainly didn’t look like a private eye. Probably all to the good, in that line of business, he supposed.
“Yes,” he said cautio
usly. “I’d like to talk to you about that.”
“I can be in Houston tomorrow.”
Thrasher glanced at the appointment calendar on his desktop screen. “How about lunch?”
“I can do that. One o’clock okay?”
“Fine. At the airport. I’ll meet your flight.”
“See you then!” she said, as chirpy as a cheerleader.
Ramona’s flight was nearly an hour late, due to thunderstorms rolling through the Houston area. Thrasher sat the gate where she’d come in, bent over his notebook computer, scrolling for information about launch facilities that could handle Delta IV boosters: the European base on the coast of Guiana, the Russian centers at Baikonur and Plesetsk, even the old Woomera Rocket Range in Australia.
At last the commuter jet taxied in and people began trudging through the doorway into the airport terminal. Thrasher closed his notebook, got to his feet, and searched the arrivals for Ramona Perkins’ pert young face.
And there she was, looking like a college kid on school break in a pair of faded jeans and a T-shirt that proclaimed legalize pot. She was taller than Thrasher had expected, just about his own height. Rail thin, but she wasn’t scrawny; Thrasher got the impression she was athletic, hard muscled.
She had a small knapsack on her back and a handbag slung over one shoulder. She recognized Thrasher and went straight to him with a big grin and her hand held out.
“Nice of you to meet me at the airport, Mr. Tee,” she said.
He couldn’t help grinning back at her. “Nice of you to come to Houston.”
She had no other luggage, so they repaired to the nearest restaurant, Pappa’s Burgers.
Once they were seated in the crowded, bustling restaurant, Thrasher asked, incredulous, “You’re a private investigator?”
Ramona nodded. “I worked for the Wichita police force for three years. Mostly undercover, with the vice squad.”
Thrasher felt his brows hike up. “Wasn’t that dangerous?”
“Some,” she replied nonchalantly. “But the paperwork was worse.”
He laughed. “I read the resumé you e-mailed, but it’s kind of hard to believe.”
“You can check with the Wichita P.D. Or with the Drug Enforcement Agency; I’ve applied for a job with them.”
“So this P.I. thing is temporary.”
Ramona nodded briskly as she picked up her burger. “I figured I could make a few bucks while I’m waiting for the DEA to check me out.”
She took a healthy bite of the burger.
Thrasher watched her chew heartily, wondering if she could do the job, wondering if he needed a private investigator at all.
As if she could read his thoughts, Ramona said, “Mr. Rutherford says you might have a rat in your outfit. That’d be in Portales, wouldn’t it?”
He nodded. “I think maybe Bart’s being melodramatic. Saboteurs belong in spy movies, not in real life.”
“Maybe,” she said, attacking the burger again.
“How would you go about finding him—if he exists?” Thrasher asked.
Ramona shrugged her slim shoulders. “Give me a position in your accounting department. Or better yet, human resources. Let me snoop around a little.”
“I don’t want my people upset.”
“Neither do I. I work undercover, remember.”
“But how would you work it?”
“Follow the money. If somebody threw a monkeywrench into your rocket launch, it must’ve been for money, right? Not a personal grudge.”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
“You don’t have any enemies?”
Thrasher started to reply, hesitated, then finally admitted, “A few. But they’re more likely to try to get at me through my board of directors. I can’t see any of them resorting to violence.”
“Maybe,” Ramona repeated, noncommittally.
“So I’ll hire you for our human resources department,” he said. “That way you’ll have access to all the personnel files.”
“Fine.”
“When can you start?”
Her blue eyes widened. “Don’t you want to talk about my fee?”
“How much?”
“A thousand a week, plus expenses.”
“Minus the salary we pay you as an employee.”
She giggled. “Okay.”
“Okay. When can you start?”
“Monday morning.”
“In Portales.”
“Sure thing.”
Thrasher nodded. “I’ll tell my H.R. director you’re the daughter of an old friend. That way she won’t question a new hire.”
“You better tell me who your old friend is if he’s supposed to be my daddy.”
Thrasher mentally flicked through a list of his old friends. There weren’t that many.
“Terry Cassidy. He’s been living in Europe since his marriage broke up.”
“Good enough,” Ramona said. “I can Google him, can’t I? Get his background.”
“He’s on Google, all right. He’s our ambassador to the Court of St. James.”
Ramona looked impressed. “So he lives in London. I guess I stayed here in the States with my mom.”
“You’d better Google her, too. She was an actress on Broadway. Nothing big. Now she’s retired on Terry’s alimony.”
“Nice family you picked out for me,” said Ramona Perkins.
11
TUCSON
Chance favors the prepared mind, Thrasher said to himself as his leased Cessna Citationjet taxied smoothly toward Tucson International Airport’s executive terminal. The plane was smaller, much less luxurious, and a tad slower than his old Learjet, but it was less expensive to operate.
Alan Dougherty just happened to be visiting the Arizona University’s virtual reality lab. And the Australian daredevil just happened to be in the United States to find funding and customers for the Woomera Rocket Range.
Dougherty had won international fame with his high-altitude parachute jumps. Lofted almost to the edge of space in huge helium-filled balloons, the Aussie broke Baumgartner’s 2012 record of 128,100 feet, then went on to establish new world’s records for HALO—high altitude, low opening—jumps, freefalling for more than a dozen miles before opening his chute.
His last stunt had been right here in Arizona, Thrasher recalled as he drove to the lab on the campus. Jumped from twenty-three miles up and didn’t open his chute until he was within five thousand feet of the ground. He made it, but not in one piece. His jumping days are over. Now he wants to restore the Woomera range and put it to use.
Dougherty was talking with Kristin Anders when Thrasher entered the virtual reality the lab. It was difficult to judge his height because he was sitting in a wheelchair, but he looked strong, sinewy. The blond, crewcut face of an outdoorsman, lean and weathered. And smiling brightly as he chatted with Kristin.
“. . . so with the stem cell treatments, I’ll be on my feet quick as two rabbits make twenty,” he was saying to Kristin, with a distinct Australian accent.
She looked up as Thrasher approached her desk. “Here’s Mr. Thrasher now,” she said, getting to her feet.
Thrasher walked past a table full of electronics equipment to reach her and gave Kristin a friendly hug.
Disengaging, she gestured toward Dougherty, “Art, this is—”
“Alan Dougherty, I know.” He stuck his hand out to the Aussie. “I’m—”
“Arthur D. Thrasher, I know,” said Dougherty, beaming a broad smile up at him. “You’re just the man I want to see.”
“Funny,” said Thrasher. “You’re just the man I want to see.”
“So let’s find a pub and get acquainted,” Dougherty suggested.
“Good idea.” Turning to Kristin, Thrasher said, “Let us take you away from all this.”
She made a sad little frown. “I’m afraid I can’t get away. Too much to do.”
“I want to put her to work for me, settin’ up a VR link from Woomera.”
�
�The lady’s already working for me.”
“’Bout Mars. I know.”
Kristin said, “It won’t take much of our time to set up a system for Alan.”
“You could come to Australia, y’know,” Dougherty said cheerfully. “See the Outback, Ayer’s Rock, the Opera House over in Sydney.”
Feeling more than a little nettled, Thrasher said, “I hate to sound proprietary, but the VR system is funded by Thrasher Digital Corporation. We own the rights.”
Dougherty grinned up from his wheelchair. “Well, we expect to pay for ‘em, mate. We’re not going to rob you.”
Thrasher glanced at Kristin and wondered how true the Aussie’s words were.
Dougherty drove his motorized wheelchair through the blazing June morning, Thrasher working up a sweat to keep up with him. By the time they found Dirtbag’s bar and grill at the edge of the campus, Thrasher felt grateful for the cold blast of air conditioning in the joint’s dim interior.
They settled in a booth toward the rear of the place, Dougherty sliding onto the wooden bench from his wheelchair, and ordered beers from the young waitress. Dougherty asked for Killian’s Red.
“Not Foster’s?” Thrasher asked, surprised.
“Nah. That’s for export to you Yanks and the bloody Poms. Back home we drink Victoria.”
“I like dark beer,” said Thrasher, as the waitress placed a bottle of Negra Modelo before him. Somehow he felt he didn’t want to tell this Aussie about his preference for ginger beer.
“So you want to go to Mars,” Dougherty said, after a healthy slug of Killian’s.
Thrasher nodded. “And I hear you want to establish an international launching base at Woomera.”
Dougherty nodded. “Got a big open area in the Outback just sittin’ there in the bleedin’ sun. Seems to me we could use it to launch commercial rockets.”
“Could you handle Delta IVs?”
“Can’t handle anything right now, but give us a year—and some money—and we’ll launch anything you want.”