Mars, Inc. - eARC

by Ben Bova

  “Our condition will improve once the Mars mission gets underway.”

  “Poppycock,” Sampson barked. “You’re running this company into the ground.”

  “Then why do you want to take it over?”

  “To save it!” Waving an arm toward the shareholders sitting along the side walls, he went on, “To save the investment that these people have made. To save them from being ruined by your fantasies!”

  Thrasher saw heads nodding up and down the table.

  Through gritted teeth he told them, “Look, when we first went into this Mars program I told the board that we’d be facing some lean years. But once the Mars mission takes off and VR sales start climbing, we’ll be solidly in the black again.”

  Almost smugly, Sampson said, “I repeat: poppycock.”

  “That’s a lie and you know it!” Thrasher snapped.

  Sampson shot to his feet. “Are you calling me a liar?”

  Jumping up from his chair, Thrasher said, “You know the Mars mission will make this company profitable, and if you say differently you’re not telling the truth!”

  Uta Gerson said, “I didn’t come here to watch you two macho he-men engage in a pissing contest.”

  Several people gasped at her language. A few tittered.

  Nels Bartlett, sitting across the table almost opposite Sampson, spoke up. “Uta’s right. You two guys could spend the rest of the day throwing hand grenades at each other. Instead of arguing about this, why don’t we vote?”

  “Yes,” said the florid-faced man sitting next to him. “Enough arguing. Count the votes and be finished with this.”

  Trying to keep a rein on his anger, Thrasher sat down slowly and said, “Do I hear a motion to vote on all three of the agenda items?”

  Sampson took his chair, too, his white-bearded face smirking.

  “So moved,” said Bartlett.

  “Second,” Uta Gerson said.

  “Discussion? Any objections?” No one raised a hand. “All right then, let’s vote.”

  The board members shocked Thrasher by voting in favor of Sampson’s motions, fourteen to eight. I’m finished, he thought. The bastard’s beaten me.

  But then Linda said, tapping on her laptop’s screen, “I have the tally of the proxy votes here.”

  Thrasher half-turned in his chair to face her. “What’s the count?” he asked, fearing the worst.

  Linda peered at the laptop’s screen. “Seven hundred and thirty-eight thousand shares voted by proxy,” she announced, in a perfectly calm voice. “For the first motion there were three hundred and twelve thousand votes in favor, four hundred twenty-six thousand against.”

  Thrasher gulped with surprise. They voted against Sampson! But there were two more motions to consider.

  The vote to bring in an outside auditor lost even more badly: two hundred sixty thousand pro, and four hundred seventy-eight thousand anti. The vote to disassociate from the Mars program was closer, but still Sampson lost: three hundred and forty-two thousand for, three hundred ninety-six thousand against.

  Sampson sputtered, “What about the preferred stock?”

  Linda went carefully through all the numbers. Thrasher’s margin of victory was slim, but he carried all three votes.

  Sampson’s smirk was gone. He sat there glowering with unconcealed anger. “I want an independent count of the votes!”

  As sweetly as a flower girl, Linda replied, “The voting was tabulated by our auditors, Mr. Sampson.”

  “I want outside corroboration!” Sampson bellowed.

  With a self-satisfied grin, Ornsteen leaned across the table toward Sampson and said, “You can count the votes until you’re blue in the face, Greg. They won’t change.”

  It was the first time Thrasher had ever seen Sid so happy.

  Before Sampson could reply, Uta Gerson said, “Come on, Gregory. You’ve lost. Take it like a man.”

  Sampson sat there, his chest heaving. Suddenly he pushed his chair back, got to his feet, and stormed out of the room.

  Thrasher watched him go, still stunned by the results of the voting. From behind him, he heard Linda offer, “I can provide copies of the voting to any board member who’s interested.”

  Several hands went up.

  At last Thrasher said, “The next agenda item is new business. Anyone?”

  Nels Bartlett asked, “So how’s the Mars program going? When can we expect to see some profits from it?”

  Thrasher stammered, “It’s . . . it’s going well. The spacecraft assembly has been finished. I plan to take a ride up there and inspect it myself.”

  “You’re going into orbit?” Uta Gerson asked.

  “Just for a visit.”

  The board members—even those who had voted in favor Sampson’s motions—listened intently as Thrasher told them about his plans for Mars.

  Behind him, Linda recorded every word.

  11

  EXECUTIVE WOMEN’S LEAGUE

  Once the board meeting ended, Thrasher rode with Sid Ornsteen and Linda back to the office, all three squeezed in the rear seat of the Mercedes, Linda in the middle.

  “I can’t believe it,” Thrasher admitted. “The little guys voted for me.”

  Ornsteen was equally surprised. “I thought for sure that Sampson had bought enough shares to carry the proxy vote.”

  “So did he,” Linda said.

  “Did you see the look on his face when the voting went against him?” Ornsteen crowed. “I wish I had a camera!”

  “The whole meeting was video recorded,” said Linda.

  Thrasher’s shoulder was touching Linda’s. He looked into her face: she seemed delightfully pleased, but not at all surprised.

  “You sure the vote count was accurate?” he asked, half joking. “If Sampson gets an independent count, it’s not going to change, is it?”

  “Not unless he cheats,” she said.

  She’s so sure of herself, Thrasher thought. As if she knew in advance how the voting would go.

  “You tallied the votes before the meeting started, didn’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I always do, that’s regular procedure.”

  “You might have told me,” he grumbled. “Save me an ulcer.”

  Linda laughed softly. “I wanted to tell you. I wanted to tell you months ago, but I thought it would be best if I didn’t get your hopes up.”

  “Get my hopes up?”

  With a nod, Linda said, “Back when Mr. Ornsteen started worrying that Mr. Sampson was trying to buy enough Thrasher Digital stock to outvote you, I started buying a few shares, myself.”

  Grinning, Ornsteen muttered, “David versus Goliath.”

  “A lot of Davids,” Linda said. “Only, they were all women.”

  Ornsteen suddenly looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

  “I started talking to other women in the company,” Linda explained. “And then to women outside the company, other executive assistants and employees of other companies. We used the Internet to keep in touch and we bought as much stock as we could afford.”

  “You’re the reason for the second wave of buying?” Ornsteen gasped.

  Nodding again, Linda said, “We networked. It spread across the country. We formed a sort of association, the Executive Women’s League. Our goal was to acquire enough shares to outvote Mr. Sampson.”

  “Enough shares to control the company,” Thrasher murmured.

  Ornsteen objected, “But you don’t have enough money to outbuy Sampson!”

  “Yes we do. There’s lots of us, all across the country. Not only did we buy enough shares to outvote Mr. Sampson, but we kept those shares out of his hands.” She seemed utterly delighted with herself.

  “Sampson must’ve thought he’d bought enough shares . . .” Ornsteen mused.

  “But we bought more,” Linda said happily. “Just a little here and a little there. Spread across the whole country.”

  Thrasher gaped at her. “A nationwide cabal. Of women.�
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  “The Executive Women’s League,” Linda repeated. “We’re looking at other companies now. Astrolaunch Corporation, for example.”

  Ornsteen broke into a hearty laugh. “My god, Linda, you’re going to become a force in the stock market.”

  “You saved my neck,” Thrasher said.

  Turning to face him, she said, “I couldn’t let Mr. Sampson throw you out of your own company. That wouldn’t be right.”

  “You saved my neck,” Thrasher repeated, almost in a whisper.

  “I wouldn’t want to work for Mr. Sampson,” she said. “I don’t like him.”

  Ornsteen said, “Well, you sure surprised him. The expression on his face!”

  Thrasher found himself staring at her. “My god, Linda,” he blurted, “I’m working for you now!”

  “Oh, no,” Linda said, completely serious. “I only own about a thousand shares.”

  Chuckling at the way things had turned out, Thrasher mused, “I’m supposed to be hosting dinner tonight for the board. I wonder if Sampson will show up?”

  “If he does,” Ornsteen said, “have somebody taste your food before you try it.”

  They all laughed, but Thrasher felt more convinced than ever that Sampson was the man behind the sabotage of the Delta IV launch.

  “Dinner’s at seven?” Ornsteen asked.

  “Right. At the Marriott. Bar opens at six.”

  Glancing at his wristwatch, Ornsteen said, “I’ll have time to go home and pick up my wife.”

  Looking at Linda again, Thrasher asked, “Linda, would you do me the honor of coming to the dinner with me?”

  She looked startled. “You’re not going to tell them all what I did!”

  “Not if you don’t want me to.”

  “I think it’s best if we keep it our little secret.”

  “Okay. Fine. But will you be my date tonight?”

  Linda smiled warmly. “I’d be happy to.”

  12

  DINNER

  Sampson did not show up, although most of the board members who voted his way did. Thrasher sent Carlo to pick up Linda while he showered and put on a fresh suit, then took a taxi to the Marriott. Sid Ornsteen and his wife were already there, at the bar in the hallway outside the banquet room. Sid was waving a champagne flute, laughing with a couple of the board members, while his wife stood at his side in a floor-length gown dripping with sequins, bone thin, frowning disapprovingly.

  Miriam doesn’t like to see Sid drinking, Thrasher thought as he approached them. But it sure looks good to see him happy, for a change.

  “. . . and did you see the look on Sampson’s face?” Ornsteen was saying to a pair of older men. “Priceless!”

  Thrasher inserted himself between his treasurer and the board members. “It was quite a meeting, wasn’t it?” he said cheerily. “Short and sweet.”

  One of the board members, tall enough to be a basketball player, with a leonine mane of silver hair, smiled minimally. “I still think he has a legitimate point, Arthur. We’re on the edge of a precipice, you know.”

  Nodding soberly, Thrasher agreed, “I know. But there’s light at the end of the tunnel.”

  The man harrumphed. “I just hope that it’s not the light of an oncoming train.”

  Ornsteen laughed loudly and his wife tugged at his sleeve. He reluctantly allowed her to lead him away from the bar. I wonder how many Sid’s had? Thrasher wondered. Then he realized that for a man who drinks as seldom as Ornsteen did, one glass of champagne could make the world glow.

  Towering over Thrasher, the silver-haired board member asked quite seriously, “What happens to the program if there’s another launch failure, or some other sort of accident?”

  “That won’t stop us,” Thrasher said.

  “But we’re running on such a slender thread. Another accident or some kind of delay might push the company into bankruptcy.”

  As brightly as he could, Thrasher said, “Then we’ll just have to avoid accidents and delays.”

  “Easy to say, Arthur, but—”

  Thrasher spotted Linda coming down the hallway toward him, looking elegant in a navy blue scoop-necked mid-thigh cocktail dress adorned with a single rope of pearls. Her midnight-dark hair curled softly around her shoulders.

  “Excuse me,” he said and rushed to her.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Linda said.

  “No, no, we’re just getting started. You look absolutely wonderful.”

  She smiled brightly. “I haven’t seen that suit on you before. It looks good.”

  Thrasher led her to the bar and ordered two champagnes.

  “Not ginger beer?” Linda asked.

  “Not tonight. I’m celebrating.”

  “About beating Sampson.”

  “About having the loveliest woman in Texas as my date.”

  For a moment Linda looked startled, almost. Then her smile returned and she said, “You’re not trying your reprobate lines on me, are you?”

  “No,” said Thrasher, handing her one of the champagne flutes. “I’ve given up on being a reprobate.” Placing his free hand over his heart, he said, “I’m sincere.”

  They clinked glasses.

  “Really?” Linda said.

  “Really.”

  At that moment the doors to the banquet room swung open and the crowd began to surge in. Thrasher offered his arm and Linda took it.

  “Linda,” he said, in what he hoped was a fair impression of Humphrey Bogart, “this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

  13

  HOPES AND PLANS

  The dinner went well. The food was uncommonly good, for hotel fare, and the assembled board members seemed to enjoy themselves. Thrasher gave a slide show presenting the progress of the Mars program and the plans for the mission.

  “So what do you expect to find on Mars?” someone called out from one of the tables in the darkness.

  “Darned if I know,” Thrasher answered. “That’s why we’re going, to see what’s there. That’s the whole point of exploration, to discover something new. Columbus didn’t know he’d find a New World. Einstein didn’t realize his work would lead to solar cells and nuclear power.”

  “Is there life on Mars?”

  “We just don’t know. Not yet. But the biggest volcano in the solar system is there, Olympus Mons. It’s so tall you could put Mt. Everest inside the crater at its top.”

  “You think Mars will become a tourist attraction?”

  People laughed.

  But Thrasher answered, “With our virtual reality technology, people will be able to visit Mars, see the sights, climb Olympus Mons, go skiing down its slopes if they want to. All in the safety and comfort of their own homes.”

  “On to Mars, then!” Nels Bartlett called out.

  “On to Mars,” Thrasher repeated, fervently.

  Thrasher rode with Linda back to her family’s home. Sitting beside her in the back seat of the Mercedes, he chatted happily about his upcoming visit to the Mars One spacecraft.

  “They’re going to spin up the wheel, so I’ll be in normal gravity once we get there.”

  “You’ll be in a spacesuit?” Linda asked.

  He nodded, then realized she probably couldn’t see the gesture in the shadows. “Yep. I’ll be like an astronaut. For a day and a half.”

  “You’re going to spend a night up there?”

  “Yep.”

  For a heartbeat, Linda was silent. Then, “Please be careful, Mr. Thra—”

  “Art,” he said. “You can call me Mr. Thrasher in the office, but I wish you’d call me Art when we’re together.”

  He sensed her smile. “All right . . . Art.”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For saving my neck. For running the office. For coming to dinner with me tonight. For being such a delightful, charming, intelligent, beautiful woman.”

  She laughed shakily. “You’re slipping into your reprobate ways again.”

>   “I’m completely sincere, Linda. I think you’re wonderful.”

  “I think you are, too. But I worry about you.”

  “Worry? What for? I’ve given up my reprobate ways, honest.”

  “Not that,” she said. “This hop up to orbit. If anything goes wrong . . .”

  “I’ll be with Bill Polk. He’s the best in the business.”

  “Accidents can happen,” Linda said, quite seriously. “Accidents can be made to happen.”

  Thrasher stared at her. In the flickering lights from the street lamps, Linda’s face seemed grave, intent.

  “Like the Delta IV launch,” he muttered.

  “That wasn’t an accident, was it?”

  “No, it wasn’t. Larry Franken’s trying to unravel who was behind it.”

  “Whoever it was, they’d have a great opportunity to get rid of you when you fly off to orbit.”

  “Then I’d better find out who it was before I go,” Thrasher said lightly.

  “It’s not a joke,” Linda insisted.

  “No,” he admitted. “I guess it isn’t.”

  The car glided to a stop and Carlo turned toward them. “This the place?”

  Linda nodded. “Yes. Home sweet home.”

  As Carlo opened the driver’s door and stepped out onto the street, Thrasher reached for Linda.

  “I know there’s some mistletoe around here somewhere,” he murmured.

  “You don’t need mistletoe, Art,” she said.

  He kissed her soundly, ignoring Carlo’s opening the door on her side. Linda clung to him for a moment, then moved away.

  “Thanks for a wonderful evening,” she said, a little breathlessly.

  “Thank you, Linda.”

  “I’ll see you in the office tomorrow morning.”

  “Sure.”

  She slid out of the car. On an impulse, Thrasher slid out behind her and walked her to the door of the rambling Dutch colonial house. A single porch light was on, otherwise the house seemed dark, asleep. He slid his arms around her waist and kissed her again.