by Ben Bova
“I don’t dump women!”
“Hell hath no fury, you know.”
“Jeez, Patti. I’m asking you for help and all you’re doing is giving me heartburn.”
She laughed heartily. “All right, Artie, all right. I’ll poke around a little for you.”
“Discreetly,” he said, making a shushing motion with both hands. “Quietly.”
“Like a little mouse,” said Patti.
But Thrasher got a mental impression of a lean, hard-eyed cheetah stalking its prey.
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.”
9
SPACEPORT AMERICA,
NEW MEXICO
The governor of New Mexico was perspiring. Thrasher could see sweat beading his broad forehead and upper lip. He was a stocky Hispanic, built like a sack of cement. Even in his light gray summerweight suit, he was obviously uncomfortable. But as long as the TV news cameras were on him, the governor beamed a big telegenic smile while he stood beside Thrasher and his other guest at the VIP stands overlooking the rocket launch pad.
It was a bright desert afternoon, with the Sun blazing in a cloudless sky of turquoise blue. Hot. Dry, baking oven hot. Thrasher could feel trickles of perspiration sliding down his own ribs, beneath his short-sleeved shirt.
The viewing stands were more than half empty, despite the governor’s presence. Launching rockets from the New Mexico desert had become almost commonplace.
“Five minutes and counting,” boomed the loudspeakers on either end of the benches.
The camera crew started to shift their attention to the tall, slim rocket standing on the pad, but the TV reporter—a determined-looking young woman with perfectly-coiffed auburn hair and the buxom figure of a temptress—stayed with the governor and his two guests.
The other guest was Elton Schroeder. It was his rocket standing on the launch pad, a thin wisp of vapor leaking from halfway up its length. The vapor dissipated in the dry New Mexico air almost immediately. A slim gantry tower stood next to the rocket, holding hoses that connected to the rocket’s base and upper stage. Thrasher could see a handful of technicians in white coveralls climbing down from the launch platform and heading for a trio of SUVs parked nearby.
With his smile still in place on his beefy face, the governor began to lecture Thrasher, “It’s a two-stage rocket, you know. The first stage is jettisoned as soon as its rocket engines run out of fuel. Parachutes bring it down to a soft landing.”
“Here at the spaceport?” Thrasher asked.
Waggling one hand, the governor replied, “Well, within the confines of the White Sands range.”
Schroeder spoke up, in a strangely harsh, rasping voice, “We retrieve the stage for reuse.”
Pointing to the bird on the launch pad, Thrasher asked, “How many times has that one been reused?”
Schroeder thought for a moment, then answered, “This is the fourth flight for that one.”
“Four minutes and counting.”
Schroeder was trying to look like a cowboy, Thrasher thought. He had the craggy, weathered face for it, but his clothes looked like Brooks Brothers, or at least L. L. Bean. He was wearing brand-new, sharply creased chinos, a monogrammed white-on-white shirt, unbuttoned leather vest and hand-tooled boots. His lean face bore two days’ stubble, yet his hair was so light he almost looked like an albino. His eyes were deeply brown, though, almost black, probing. He had hardly spoken a word since the governor introduced him to Thrasher, and he co
nspicuously avoided the television news crew.
Thrasher noted that Schroeder put his hands behind his back and crossed his fingers. He started to say something about it, but caught himself in time. Don’t make fun of a man’s superstitions, he told himself. He’s got forty million bucks riding on this launch, he’s entitled to a quirk or two. Hell, he probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
Instead, Thrasher said to the governor, “This is a magnificent thing you’ve done here. A private spaceport.”
“It’s owned by the State of New Mexico,” the governor said, with pride in his voice.
“Plus a consortium of private investors,” Schroeder added. His strained voice was almost painful to the ears.
The governor nodded. “Virgin Galactic, SpaceX, your own company, Mr. Schroeder . . .”
“Is it a profitable operation?” Thrasher asked.
“Oh yes,” the governor replied quickly. Thrasher saw that Schroeder suddenly looked uncomfortable. If this place is making a profit, Thrasher surmised, it isn’t much. Not enough to make Schroeder happy.
The minutes ticked by. Thrasher wished they were inside the sweeping modernistic air-conditioned operations building, instead of baking out here in the sun. The buxom reporter had moved to stand next to him, close enough for him to catch a hint of her perfume. His nose twitched. Musk. The damned stuff always made him sneeze.
“I didn’t get your name,” he said to the woman. She was really quite pretty beneath her makeup, he thought. Curly auburn hair clipped short. Big baby-blue eyes. The blouse she wore showed just enough cleavage to be interesting.
“Victoria Zane,” she said, smiling at him.
Thrasher nodded and turned his attention back to the activities at the base of the rocket. The SUVs were backing away and heading for the operations building, spouting roostertails of dust behind them.
Schroeder, his hands still behind his back, rasped tightly, “They’ll be going into the automated sequence now.”
“One minute and counting,” blared the loudspeakers.
He glanced at the reporter. Her eyes were riveted on the rocket and she seemed to be holding her breath. Too bad, Thrasher thought. She breathes so fetchingly. But he forced himself to keep his face impassive. This is no time for making a pass.
“Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”
The rocket seemed to be coming alive. Standing tall and alone against the turquoise sky, to Thrasher it seemed to quiver, to breathe, almost. The hoses from the gantry tower dropped away and the tower itself rolled back from the launch platform.
“Three . . . two . . . one…”
Christ, Thrasher thought to himself, this is like having sex! The tension building, building, and then the release. It’s like working up to an explosive orgasm.
Flame blossomed at the base of the rocket and it shuddered, then began to rise, slowly, ponderously, as if in no hurry to leave the ground.
The sound came crashing in on them, an overpowering bellowing roar that rattled the bones and sucked the breath out of Thrasher’s lungs.
The rocket was rising faster now: up, higher, faster, climbing into the bright sky.
“Go, baby, go!” yelled the governor.
Schroeder brought his hands to his chin, his fingers no longer crossed. The reporter was breathing again, Thrasher saw. Very visibly.
The rocket dwindled into a blazing star, streaking upward. Then a flash of flame startled Thrasher.
“First stage separation,” Schroeder said.
“She’s on her way,” said the governor happily. “Another successful launch.”
“Congratulations,” said Thrasher, sticking his hand out to Schroeder.
Very seriously, Schroeder took Thrasher’s proffered hand in a firm grip. “Thanks.”
“Let’s get inside,” said the governor. “I’ve had enough New Mexico sunshine for one afternoon.”
Thrasher felt grateful.
1O
LAS CRUCES
Once inside the air-conditioned operations building, Schroeder led Thrasher, the governor, and Victoria Zane to a door marked:
mission control
authorized personnel only
Schroeder pushed through the door and led the others into a small , windowless room filled with a dozen workstation consoles. Only four of them were occupied by technicians hunched over their keyboards, Bluetooth phones clipped to their ears. Three walls were covered with floor-to-ceiling display screens, all of them blank. Thrasher noticed a glassed-in visitor’s gallery running along the rear wall. Empty.
A slim young woman in gray slacks and a white blouse that bore a Schroeder logo on its back stood behind the technicians. She turned when she heard the four visitors enter the room.
Making a circle with her thumb and forefinger, she announced cheerily, “On the money, chief. Orbital insertion in eleven minutes.”
“The first stage?” Schroeder asked.
“Harry and his team are in the truck, on their way to pick it up.”
Victoria Zane asked, “Could I get my camera crew in here for a few shots?”
The governor started to reply, but Schroeder cut him off. “Not while they’re working. Later, after the payload’s linked up with the space station.”
“How long will that be?”
“A couple of hours.”
She looked disappointed. “Maybe I can get the crew to hang around that long,” she said, more to herself than to Schroeder. “I’ll have to call the station.” She pulled a cell phone out of her handbag.
“Not in here,” Schroeder snapped. “Outside.”
Victoria nodded glumly and headed for the door. Thrasher thought, how extravagant, throwing away women like that. It was a line he remembered from an old movie.
The governor clasped one hand each on Schroeder’s and Thrasher’s shoulders and said, “Why don’t you fellows let the people of New Mexico buy you lunch?”
For the first time all day, Schroeder smiled. But it looked as if it hurt his face, Thrasher thought.
The three men rode in the governor’s air-conditioned limousine to the Ramada Palms hotel, in downtown Las Cruces.
“Finest eatery in the city,” the governor said, as a fawning hostess showed them to a table in the nearly empty restaurant. It was decorated to resemble an adobe hacienda in old Mexico.
“We’re between the luncheon and dinner serving hours,” the hostess apologized, “but I’m sure whoever’s in the kitchen will be happy to make whatever you ask for, Your Honor.”
As the governor settled his portly body onto the chair she held out for him, he said, “Just something to snack on. And drinks, of course.”
Thrasher figured they wouldn’t have ginger beer, so he asked for a Diet Coke instead. Schroeder ordered a Coors Lite and the governor settled for a dirty Martini.
As their drinks were being served, Schroeder asked Thrasher bluntly, “So are you looking for launch services or is this just a tourist trip for you?”
Thrasher leaned back in his chair. “A little bit of both. I’ll be looking for launch services soon, but I think I’m going to need a bigger rocket booster than yours.”
“Bigger?” the governor asked.
Schroeder pointed out, “We’re launching three-man crews to the International Space Station.”
Nodding, Thrasher replied, “I’ll be able to use that capability, but I’m also going to need a bird that can put ten, twelve tons into orbit.”
“What on Earth for?” said the governor.
“Nothing on Earth. It’s for Mars.”
Schroeder’s eyes narrowed. “I heard you were putting together a consortium for a Mars mission.”
“A crewed mission,” said Thrasher.
“So you need a heavy-lift capability.”
“My engineering guys tell me that’s the least expensive way to launch the components of the spacecraft.”
“You’re going to assemble your Mars craft in orbit?”
Thrasher nodded.
“Have you done a cost analysis on using medium-lift boosters? Like mine?”
“My number crunchers have. Looks like I’ll have to talk to Boeing. Their Delta IV can carry the load, I’m told.”
It was Schroeder’s turn to nod.
“You could still launch from here,” the governor said. Then he added hopefully, “Couldn’t you?”
“Not from what my engineers tell me,” said Thrasher. “Unfortunately, the Delta IV’s first stage would fall back to Earth outside the confines of the White Sands range.”
“Oh.”
“Wouldn’t want it landing on this hotel.” Thrasher said it lightly, but both the others maintained a stony silence. He took a sip of his cola.
“Then you’ll have to use the Kennedy launch complex out at Cape Canaveral,” said Schroeder. “Let the first stage plop into the ocean.”
“Looks that way.”
“Isn’t there any way you could use Spaceport America?” The governor almost whined his question.
Thrasher shrugged. “This is all preliminary, of course. Maybe, once I get my tech team fully staffed and running, they’ll come up with something better. I sure don’t want to have to lease a launch facility from the goddamned government.”
Schroeder took a pull from his beer bottle, then said, “I’ve worked with the NASA guys at the Cape. They’re not so bad.”
“I’m sure the technical guys are okay,” Thrasher replied. “It’s the bureaucrats they work for that bother me. And their lawyers.”
“But you’ll launch your crew for the Mars mission from here?” the governor asked.
“I’d like to. Unless Boeing and NASA make me a better deal.” Before either of the men could react, Thrasher added, “Which I doubt will happen.”
The governor looked unhappy, Schroeder thoughtful.
“For what it’s worth, we’ll have to launch people to assemble the spacecraft in orbit. Looks like there’ll be lots of launches.”