by Ben Bova
“And you’ll have to bring those guys back, right?” asked Schroeder.
“Right.”
Sitting up straighter in his chair, Schroeder said, “We can do that for you. We’ve brought people home from the space station.”
“Landed them right here,” the governor added, “on our own airfield.”
Thrasher gave them a warm smile. “I’d really like to do business with you.”
Schroeder nodded again. The governor said, “And we’d love to do business with you!”
11
BOARD MEETING
Thrasher sat at the head of the conference room’s long, polished table while Sid Ornsteen droned through his treasurer’s report. Board meeting, Thrasher said to himself. It ought to be spelled b-o-r-e-d.
The corporation had rented the conference room from the Marriott Residence Inn in downtown Houston. It was cheaper to rent the hotel facility than to maintain a conference room in the corporate office suite that was only used four times a year.
Ornsteen made no mention of the recent run-up on the corporation’s stock. Whoever had bought the shares was apparently content, for the moment. The stock’s price had settled back to where it had been before the run.
Who would do that? Thrasher wondered. Why? It didn’t make sense.
Looking down the long table at the assembled directors, he noted that every one of them was here for this meeting. That’s unusual. Last meeting half of them didn’t bother to show up. Is one of them behind the stock run? We’ll find when we get to new business, I suppose.
White hair and bald pates. Q-Tips and bowling balls. Which one of you is trying to muscle me out of control?
Thrasher turned slightly to glance at Linda, seated against the side wall, recording the proceedings. She looks tense, he thought. Probably she senses that something’s in the wind.
The meeting dragged on. No problems, no arguments, no gasbags giving long-winded speeches to satisfy their egos.
At last he was able to say, “Okay. The last item on the agenda is new business.” He made himself smile as he looked down the table again. “Anybody?”
Nels Bartlett cleared his throat. “I’m not sure this falls under the heading of new business,” he began in his reedy, nasal voice, “but I think you should tell the board about your plans for a Mars mission. After all, you’ll probably want to sink a good deal of the corporation’s assets into this.”
Heads nodded. Directors fidgeted in their chairs, waiting for a reply. Thrasher made himself smile. So it begins, he thought.
“Yes, what about this Mars business?” asked one of the more prominent Q-Tips. “How will it affect the corporation?”
“Positively,” said Thrasher.
“I think you owe the board a more detailed explanation,” Bartlett said dryly.
“I’m planning to send a half-dozen human explorers to the planet Mars,” Thrasher began. “The goddamned government isn’t going to do it, so I think it’s up to American free enterprise to step up to the challenge.”
Uta Gelson said firmly, “I agree.”
“I’ve already bought into your program,” Bartlett said, “but what I want to know—as a director of Thrasher Digital—is how this is going to affect this corporation.”
“It’s going to soak up a great deal of our assets, in the short term. We’re going to be a major supplier of electronics components and communications systems for the spacecraft and the ground-control facilities.”
“Without a profit, I presume?” grumbled one of the bowling balls.
“That’s right. For the short term, we’ll show no profit from the program.”
“What about our stock dividends?”
Thrasher fought down the urge to squirm in his chair. “We’ll try to continue giving dividends, of course . . . but it might not be possible, for the near term.”
“Then why should we—”
“You said for the near term,” Sid Ornsteen said, as if this were all new to him. “What about the long term?”
Good boy, Sid, Thrasher praised silently.
All eyes were on him. The boardroom was so quiet Thrasher could hear a chair squeak when one of the directors shifted in it.
“When I said we planned to send six explorers to Mars I misspoke,” he started to explain. “In reality we’ll be sending a million or more.”
“A million?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you remember at our last board meeting I reported on our virtual reality program?”
“That simulation stuff. It’s for kids’ games, isn’t it?”
“That’s only a part of the market for VR. The armed services use virtual reality to train their personnel. Big industries are buying VR rigs to train their people, especially technicians and field crews that have to work in extreme environments. With virtual reality they can experience the situations they’ll be facing: see, hear, feel what they would come up against in the real world.”
“It’s a growing market,” Ornsteen commented.
“For the porn industry,” said one of the bowling balls—with a sly grin.
The woman beside him frowned, then turned to Thrasher. “So you’ll use VR systems to train the people who’ll go to Mars. “That won’t make much of an impression on our bottom line.”
Thrasher smiled broadly. “The sale of several million VR sets will affect our bottom line very nicely, don’t you think?”
“How on earth—”
“I get it!” exclaimed the woman sitting at the foot of the table. “People here on Earth will be able to link in to the people on Mars.”
Thrasher bowed his head graciously. “Through virtual reality, people safe in their own homes—or in gaming arcades—will be able to walk on the rust-red sands of Mars. To all intents and purposes, they’ll be on Mars. How much do you think that’ll be worth?”
“Will they be able to interact with the astronauts on Mars?”
Thrasher shook his head. “The time lag is too long, as much as half an hour most of the time. But they’ll see and feel and hear everything the astronauts are doing, just as if they were actually on Mars.”
“How many sets do you think we could sell?”
“We’ll start doing VR sessions from the spacecraft as it goes out to Mars,” Thrasher explained. “The publicity from that ought to ramp up sales nicely. By the time they actually set foot on Mars, we should have sold several million sets, at least.”
“How long will it take to get there?”
Thrasher waggled a hand. “Six, maybe eight or nine months. The tech guys will figure that out for us.”
“That will be a good time to build up the market, I agree.”
“We’ll have to ramp up production. Don’t want to be caught short-handed.”
“That’s going to cost a lot, isn’t it?”
Thrasher nodded. “Yes indeed. As I said, we’ll be sinking a good deal of the corporation’s assets into this and the other aspects of the Mars program.”
Thrasher’s public relations chief, a former anchorwoman for Global News Network, suggested, “We should give VR sets to the major news nets, for free. Good PR.”
“And schools!” shouted one of the directors. “Selected schools.”
“Major universities.”
“Ghetto schools.”
The directors babbled on enthusiastically. Thrasher sat back, smiling. But in his mind he was still wondering, which one of you is trying to take over my corporation?
12
CHICAGO
The atrium of the Hyatt Regency Hotel looked like a major political convention had taken over the place. It was jammed with people, hundreds of men and women all talking and scurrying around. City of the big shoulders, Thrasher reminded himself. Lots of ‘em here, bumping into each other.
Unlike a political convention, though, these people were mostly young. There were plenty of gray heads among them, but somehow even the graybeards seemed more youthful, more vigorous than the typi
cal politician.
This was a major conclave of space enthusiasts, Thrasher knew. A couple of thousand nerdy kids, working engineers, pro-space activists, scientists, teachers—and a handful of men who had walked on the Moon.
For the most part they were dressed pretty decently, Thrasher saw as he pushed his way toward the hotel’s registration desk. No outlandish costumes. Nothing for the news shows to poke fun at. From teenagers to oldtimers, these people were serious about their love of space exploration.
Then he saw a twenty-something woman saunter by, wearing a baseball cap that said: ad astra. And right behind her an even younger lad wearing a bright red cap emblazoned with: mars, incorporated.
His brows rose. Has word leaked out?
Then, as he got into the line for registration, he saw a middle-aged guy who looked like a typical engineer: tweed jacket, blue jeans, loafers. But on the lapel of his jacket there was a button that proclaimed:
the meek shall
inherit the earth.
the rest of us
are going
to the stars!
Thrasher laughed to himself. These are my people, God help me. Then he thought, Mars, Incorporated is a good idea. Once we get the funding squared away, I’ll have to get my legal eagles to form a corporation for the program. Mars, Inc. would be a good name for the firm.
He had preregistered for the conference itself, but he had to stand in line to register for the hotel. By the time he finally got to the counter he felt tired and irritable. They ought to have a better way to take your money, he grumbled to himself.
He went through the tedious routine: credit card, driver’s license for ID, signature. At last, with his electronic room key in one hand, and his roll-along travel bag in the other, he squeezed through the milling crowd toward the elevators.
A buxom, auburn-haired woman was among the group of people waiting in the elevator lobby. Thrasher recognized her.
“Victoria Zane, isn’t it?” he asked.
She turned, saw who had spoken her name, and smiled at him. Victoria was wearing a navy blue business suit, which complemented her reddish hair very nicely.
“Mr. Thrasher!”
“Arthur,” he said. “My friends call me Art. Not like a work of art, though; just Art.”
She laughed.
“What’re you doing here, Victoria? Covering the convention?”
“Yes, but not for my station. They’re not interested in anything outside of New Mexico. I’m on my own here.”
“Freelancing?”
Victoria said, “That’s what it used to be called. I’m hoping to write an article for The New Yorker.”
“Do they know that?”
An elevator arrived at last and everyone tried to jam into it. Thrasher tugged at Victoria’s sleeve and said, “Let’s wait for the next one.”
She frowned.
“Better still,” he said, “let’s go to the bar.”
The frown melted. “Always a good idea.”
Strangely, the atrium bar wasn’t at all busy. Thrasher led Victoria to a table by the high, sunny windows. They parked their luggage and sat down. An overweight waitress came up immediately.
“Chardonnay,” said Victoria.
Half-expecting the hotel wouldn’t have it, Thrasher ordered a ginger beer. To his surprise, the waitress wrote it on her pad and headed off to the bar.
Casting a suspicious eye at him, Victoria said, “What did you mean when you asked if The New Yorker knew I wanted to do a piece for them?”
“Oh, I was just surprised that they’d be interested in a space conference. Doesn’t sound like the kind of thing they would do—unless they want to sneer at it.”
“I don’t intend to sneer at anybody or anything,” Victoria said, with some heat.
“Good.”
“I’ve been in contact with one of their editors. He said he’d read my article and if he likes it he’ll show it to their editorial board.”
“Great,” said Thrasher.
The waitress arrived with their drinks. Thrasher took a sip. It was ginger ale, of course. He sighed inwardly.
Victoria toyed with her wine glass. “I’ve heard a rumor that you want to send an expedition to Mars.”
Thrasher thought there were too many blabbermouths in the world to keep his plans secret for long. With a smile he replied, “I had intended to make a public announcement at this conference, but I don’t have the funding settled yet.”
She smiled back. “Maybe next year.”
“I’d rather you didn’t put anything about it into your article.”
“It might help you to raise money if I did.”
With a shake of his head, Thrasher said, “It’d bring out the kooks. I don’t need that.”
“When do you think you’ll get the money?”
“In a couple of months, if things go right.”
“How close are you now?”
“No comment.”
“Who are you talking to?”
“No comment.”
She leaned back in her chair and eyed him carefully. “What are you willing to comment on?”
“I’d like to take you to dinner.”
“Tonight?”
“Sure.”
“You don’t have any other commitments?”
“I’d break them if I did.”
Victoria took a sip of her wine, then said, “All right. I’d like to have dinner with you.”
“I’ll knock on your door at seven o’clock.”
“Okay.”
“What’s your room number?”
She had to fetch her room key from her handbag and read off the number.
Thrasher said, “Right down the hall from me.”
“How convenient,” said Victoria Zane.
13
PANEL DISCUSSION
For an early morning panel, Thrasher thought, we’ve got a good audience. There must be two hundred people out there. Of course, “early morning” meant ten a.m. But after the night he had spent with Victoria, it felt like sunrise.
Tired but happy, Thrasher couldn’t suppress a self-satisfied smile as he recalled their gymnastics in bed together. She was still curled up in his bed snoozing contentedly when he quietly left for this meeting.
The moderator was introducing the panelists sitting along a long table draped with hotel-issue white tablecloths. Of the six panelists, two were former astronauts—one male and one female—an executive from Lockheed Martin Corporation, a Congressman from Cook County, a women from NASA’s public affairs office, and . . .
“. . . and last but not least,” the moderator said, “Mr. Arthur D. Thrasher, founder and CEO of Thrasher Digital Corporation.”
The ostensible topic for the panel was “How Can Space Advocates Influence the Nation’s Space Program?”
Thrasher thought he already knew the answer: Very little, if at all. But he listened patiently as the other panelists ran through all the clichés about grass-roots involvement and political action.
“Congress does listen to the voters,” the Congressman was saying. He was fairly young, his hair still dark, his face lean and earnest. “But you’ve got to realize the tremendous pressures there are on us. Advocates from every part of the nation, from industrial groups and farm lobbies, from foreign nations, even, are constantly pressuring us to enact laws that will help them.”
“So where do we space advocates stand?” the moderator asked.
“You’ve got to get more voting power behind you,” the Congressman replied. “Your influence is directly proportional to the number of votes you can swing your way.”
One of the former astronauts, with handsome silver-gray hair, looked down the table at the congressman. “We’ve got thousands of citizens involved in the space movement. I mean, just look at the turnout for this conference.”
The congressman nodded, but said, “Look, I understand that most people like space. They want to see a vigorous American space program. But they w
ant lower taxes, too. And they want jobs, they want their communities to be safe from crime, they want health care—nobody’s against space, but they just don’t have space high up on their priority list.”
The discussion surged back and forth. Thrasher listened in silence. He had heard it all before, for years and years.
At last the moderator looked down the table in Thrasher’s direction. “Mr. Thrasher, you’ve been very quiet about all this. How do you feel about it?”
Thrasher straightened up in his chair and reached for the microphone on the tabletop in front of him with both hands.
“I’m more-or-less a bystander here,” he began. “I’ve been a member of several space advocacy organizations for many years. I agree with the Congressman: until we can bring a million marchers to Capitol Hill, Washington isn’t going to pay much attention to us.”
“That might work for civil rights or some other cause,” said the Lockheed Martin executive. “Space advocacy is different.”
The NASA woman said, “That kind of populist pressure might actually do more harm than good.”
Feeling mildly disgusted, Thrasher looked out at the audience and said, “As long as you depend on the goddamned government, your space program is going to be run for political reasons. Hell, President Kennedy started the Apollo program to take the public’s mind off the Bay of Pigs fiasco.”
“That’s not true!” the NASA woman flashed.
“The hell it’s not,” said Thrasher. “Okay, we went to the Moon to beat the Russians. Once we got there and planted the Stars and Stripes, Washington’s interest in space evaporated.”
The Lockheed Martin executive said, “Perhaps interest in human spaceflight fell off, but we’ve done a magnificent job of exploring space with robotic craft.”
“But that doesn’t get the public excited,” Thrasher countered. “That doesn’t translate into votes and political power.”
“It’s important, though.”
“Sure it is. But it’s not enough.” Turning to the Congressman, “You say people are worried about jobs. The biggest boost to the American economy that Washington ever made in peacetime was the Moon program.”