by Ben Bova
It’s another world here, he thought as he sat back in a wrought-iron chair on the patio outside the inn’s lounge. The inner square of the hotel was blooming with colorful flowers, birds flitted among the tall palm trees, and stately, slender cypresses swayed in the warm breeze.
Sandoval seemed in her element, completely relaxed, smiling at him as they sat side by side and sipped at tall, cool glasses of Pernod and water. Sandoval had ordered the drink and Cochrane followed her lead. The pale pastel-green liquor tasted of licorice.
She was wearing a light sleeveless short-skirted dress of pale green, almost matching their drinks. Expensive-looking gold jewelry glittered with gemstones at her wrists, throat, and earlobes. Her contented smile tightened a bit as she asked softly, “You brought the discs, didn’t you?”
He tapped the pocket of his short-sleeved shirt. “Right here, next to my heart.”
She laughed. “We ought to make a copy of them and put them in a safe place, Paul.”
“I already did,” he replied. “Soon as I booted up the laptop when we got into our room.”
“Good.” She sipped at the Pernod. Then, “Are you sure the copy is safe?”
“Copies,” he said. “I made three copies and sent them to three different places.”
“Good,” she repeated, although she seemed a little less certain than before.
“Did you talk to Gould?” he asked.
“I left a message for him. He’s out of the country until Monday. We’ll hear from him before then, trust me.”
Noticing that Sandoval’s purse, lying on the table, was hardly bigger than her hand, he asked, “Did you bring your cell phone with you?”
“It’s back in the room, recharging.”
Cochrane nodded and looked over the greenery and the low pink buildings of the inn. She’s really relaxed if she didn’t bring the phone with her. He felt totally content. The sky was a perfect cloudless blue, with a thin white contrail so high above that he could neither see nor hear the plane that was making it.
He pulled in a deep, satisfied breath. “You know, a guy could get accustomed to living like this.”
Sandoval gave him her brightest smile.
The message light on their telephone was blinking when they returned to their spacious room.
“Gould,” she said, going to the night table beside the king-sized bed.
Cochrane watched her face as she sat on the bed and listened to the message. She nodded as she put the phone down.
“He’ll send his own plane to the airport here in Tucson Monday morning. He’s invited us to have dinner with him that evening.”
“Where?” Cochrane asked.
“New York. Manhattan.”
“His own plane, huh? I’ve never flown in a private jet.”
Sandoval pointed to the open laptop. “You’re certain that you’ve got the copies in a safe place?”
“You don’t trust Gould?”
“Why should I? Ten million is a lot of money, even for him. If he can get the information for free, why pay us?”
Why not kill us? Cochrane thought. Aloud he said, “I sent the data on the discs to three different friends of mine in zip files, with instructions not to unzip the files unless they find out I’m dead or disappeared.”
“You trust them?”
He smiled at her. “We all went to high school together. We were pretty tight.”
She nodded, seemingly satisfied. Cochrane waited for her to ask for more details, and found that he was glad when she didn’t. Three high school buddies. He tried to picture their faces. Haven’t seen them in years. But they’re all I’ve got. If I can’t trust them, I can’t trust anybody.
MANHATTAN:
GOULD TOWER
Lionel Gould was in rare form as he sat at the head of the dining table in his penthouse atop the Gould Tower on Park Avenue West. Through the sweeping windows on one side of the spacious dining room, Cochrane could see the row of hotel and condominium towers across the open space of Central Park silhouetted against the purple glow of the twilight sky. Lights were beginning to twinkle in the windows like a galaxy of stars coming to life. Far, far below the noise and dirt and stress of everyday life on Manhattan’s streets were nothing more than a faint background buzz.
Gould was playing host to Sandoval and Cochrane, telling ponderous jokes, graciously approving of the wines that his servants brought for him to taste, explaining the origins of the mussels and scallops of their first course, the baby lamb chops of the entree.
“Irish lamb,” he said grandly, tucking a starched white linen napkin under his chin. “The Irish don’t do many things well, but lamb is their gift to the world.”
Sandoval dabbed lightly at her lips. Seated across the table from Cochrane, she was wearing a glittering green sequined dress that she’d bought that afternoon in Saks Fifth Avenue. On Gould’s credit. They were staying at a town house on Sixty-eighth Street that Gould owned; he had insisted on that.
She smiled at Gould and said, “I thought that the Irish have given the world most of the great poetry and prose of the English language: Shaw, Yeats, Wilde—all the great British writers are actually Irish, aren’t they?”
“Shakespeare?” Gould countered, his face alight with the joy of intelligent conversation with a beautiful woman. “Churchill?”
“Christopher Marlowe,” Cochrane heard himself say, surprised that he remembered anything from his English Lit classes. “If he hadn’t died so young—”
“You can’t count Churchill,” Sandoval said, still looking at Gould. “He was a politician.”
“And a journalist,” Gould countered. “As well as a historian.”
“Like Theodore Roosevelt,” she said, dipping her fork into the vegetable ratatouille on her dish alongside the lamb.
That started them onto a discussion of American presidents. To Cochrane’s surprise, Gould favored liberals such as Wilson, Franklin Roosevelt and Kennedy. Sandoval was harder to read; she kept her approvals to old-timers such as Lincoln and Jefferson.
“Chester Arthur,” Gould said, his voice booming with enthusiasm.
“A nonentity,” said Sandoval.
“Yes, a political hack. Became president by the accident of Garfield’s assassination. But once in the White House he pushed through the civil service reform. Ended the spoils system for federal jobs. Which was good.”
“And ended his own political career,” Sandoval pointed out.
They were still at it as dessert was served: a delicate sorbet with fresh tropical fruits.
“Can I ask a question?” Cochrane butted in.
They both turned toward him.
“Now that you know what my brother accomplished, where do we go from here?”
Still beaming cheerfully, Gould pulled the napkin from his open shirt collar. “You go anywhere you please. Ten million dollars gives you plenty of options.”
“I mean, about the hydrogen process Mike invented.”
“Ah. That.”
“You’ll be able to produce hydrogen so cheaply that it can sell for less than the price of gasoline—”
“Eventually,” said Gould.
“Eventually? Why not right away? Why not now?”
Gould puffed his cheeks and sighed heavily. “Infrastructure, for one thing. Distribution.”
“I don’t understand,” Cochrane said. Across the table, Sandoval’s face had settled into a puzzled, almost worried expression.
“Distribution,” Gould repeated. “What good is this process for producing hydrogen unless we can distribute the hydrogen to the one hundred and thirty-seven million owners of automobiles in this country?”
“You can convert gas stations into hydrogen stations, can’t you?”
“In time, yes. It can’t be done overnight.”
Cochrane nodded, accepting that fact. But then he thought aloud, “You know, it ought to be possible to produce membranes that consist of colonies of Mike’s cyanobacteria. Put them into the cars
. Then all they’d need for fuel is water!”
Gould leaned back in his chair and stared at Cochrane appreciatively. “That… that is little short of brilliant, Dr. Cochrane.”
“You could start converting from gasoline to hydrogen right away.”
Sandoval made a forced smile. “There’s more to it that that, I should think.”
“Indeed there is,” Gould said. “Indeed there is. For one thing, we must get this hydrogen process patented. We’ll need patent protection. We don’t want someone else to steal the process out from under our noses, do we?”
“Obtaining a patent takes time,” Sandoval said.
Nodding, Gould said, “My legal department can push the patent application through, but still, the patent office is something of a law unto itself. They can only be pushed so far.”
Cochrane looked from Sandoval to Gould and back again. “But in the meantime—”
“Then there’s the delicate matter of international trade. Petroleum imports are a major part of the U.S. trade balance.”
“That’s why our trade deficits are so big,” Cochrane said. “Now we can cut them back.”
“That will require some rather delicate political negotiations with the OPEC nations, my boy. You can’t simply tell Saudi Arabia and the rest of them that we won’t be buying their oil anymore. That could cause enormous repercussions all over the Middle East. All over the world.”
“Well, we can phase it in, I suppose,” Cochrane agreed reluctantly.
“Yes,” said Gould. “Slow but steady wins the race.”
Cochrane felt an uncomfortable wave of misgiving.
“The first step is for you to deliver your brother’s data to my scientific staff. Then my legal people will apply for a patent.”
“When do your engineers start developing the system for automobiles?” Cochrane asked.
“For that, we must get together with the leaders in the automotive industry. They will be delighted with this new development, I’m sure. Absolutely delighted.”
Again Cochrane looked across the table at Sandoval. She would not meet his eyes.
Gould laid on a limousine to take them to his town house. Cochrane rode the few blocks in a gloomy silence.
A butler admitted them to the house and showed them to the elevator that brought them to the third floor, where their scanty luggage had already been delivered to their bedroom.
Cochrane closed the bedroom door firmly, then leaned his back against it.
“Do you think he’s got the place bugged?” he asked.
Sandoval’s eyes flicked to the ceiling light fixture. “Probably,” she said.
“Let’s take a walk, then.”
“At this time of night? Out on the street?”
“Just around the block. There’s plenty of streetlights, people on the street. We’ll be okay.”
She looked dubious.
He forced a grin. “I’ll protect you.”
Smiling back at him. “You don’t have your saber with you.”
“True enough,” he admitted.
Sandoval glanced at her wristwatch. “Lincoln Center ought to be letting out about now. There should be a decent crowd on the streets if we walk in that direction.”
“Okay,” Cochrane said. “Let’s do it.”
“Just give me a minute to change into something less noticeable.”
They walked toward Lincoln Center, Sandoval in a pair of slacks and a loose blouse, Cochrane still in his one and only business suit. There were plenty of pedestrians on the street, restaurants were open, windows blazing light.
“It’s bothering you,” she said as they reached the corner of the block.
Cochrane nodded. “He doesn’t want to put Mike’s invention to use. He wants to suppress it.”
“I don’t think—”
“He’s in the oil business, isn’t he?” Cochrane said with some heat. “He’s not part of the solution, he’s part of the problem.”
“Paul, ten million dollars.”
“Hush money.”
“Our money!”
A block away, Lincoln Center stood bathed in brilliant lights, a sea of limousines and taxis lapping around its colonnaded facade.
He stopped walking, turned to face her. “Do you really think he’s going to give us that money? Wouldn’t it be easier for him to get rid of us once we’ve given him Mike’s data?”
“Paul, I don’t think you understand,” she said, her face grim. “He’ll get rid of us if we don’t give him your brother’s data.”
MANHATTAN:
GOULD TRUST HEADQUARTERS
Thirty floors below Lionel Gould’s penthouse living quarters were the offices of the Gould Trust. Established by Gould’s grandfather, the trust donated funds and expertise to a variety of educational and charitable institutions. Gould money built libraries and research laboratories at poorly endowed universities, bought scholarships and medical care for the underprivileged, supported struggling symphony orchestras and opera companies in small and midsized cities all across the United States. It made for wonderful publicity for the Gould family. And it was all tax-deductible.
Gould himself much preferred New York City to Dallas, where his corporate headquarters were located. Dallas was the heart of the international petroleum industry, although Gould and most of his peers assiduously maintained the illusion that Arab oil sheikhs and Middle Eastern dictators controlled the price of petroleum worldwide.
Gould went along with the convenient fiction, but Manhattan was where he had been born and where he preferred to live. His private office in the trust’s headquarters suite was small but sumptuous. Gould often quoted Polonius’s advice: “rich, not gaudy.” Dark paneling of Philippine mahogany lined the walls, hundred-year-old Persian carpets covered the floor, the furnishings and Old Masters on the walls reeked of old money.
His desk had once been the centerpiece of the Oval Office. Now its gleaming dark surface was uncluttered by anything except a compact white telephone console. On the wall beside the desk a plasma screen that usually showed a sequence of Turner and Constable landscapes now was filled with the harried, balding face of Gould Energy Corporation’s chief of security.
“I’m waiting for an explanation,” Gould rumbled, drumming his stubby fingers on the desktop.
The security chief was in Dallas. Behind his balding head Gould could see the gaudy skyline against a bright Texas morning sky. Gould could see beads of perspiration on the man’s high forehead.
“According to the limo driver,” he said, “he dropped them off at your building at nine-thirty. Right on schedule.”
“But they never showed up for their meeting with my science people,” Gould said.
“Yessir. So I understand. We’re looking into that.”
“What happened to them?”
“Er… we don’t know yet, sir.”
Gould took in a deep, exasperated breath, then let it out again in an annoyed sigh. “Did the chauffeur actually see them enter the building?”
“Apparently not, sir.”
“Apparently?”
“We… we don’t know for certain. Not yet.”
Gould closed his eyes briefly, then with murderous calm he said, “You had better find out, then. I want to know where they’ve gone. I want to know now, this morning. Without fail.”
“I’m already on it, sir.”
“Call me the instant you find anything.”
“Yessir!”
Gould jabbed a thumb on his phone console, cutting the connection.
Gone. They just got out of the limo and disappeared. I should have expected something like this from that man Cochrane. An idealist. Ivory tower dreamer. I should have known, I should have seen this coming from the way he talked to me last night. Damned fool. Damned stupid idealistic fool!
He sucked in another deep breath, trying to calm himself. Sandoval’s with him, of course. She’ll stick with him wherever he goes. He’s her ticket to ten million dollars. She�
��ll find a way to contact me. All I have to do is wait. Be patient.
But what if he ditches her? What if he runs off somewhere on his own?
Gould frowned as he contemplated the consequences. No, he assured himself, he won’t go anywhere without her. She’s got him well and truly hooked. He won’t let go of her. He can’t, the simpleminded fool. Wherever he goes, he’ll take her along with him.
She might try to go to another source, Gould realized. Then he smiled to himself. But there is no other source. Whoever she might go to is in this with me. At this level of threat there is no competition in the industry, we’re all in this together.
No, she’ll let him run for a while and then contact me. She wants that ten million. Dr. Cochrane is a means for her to that end.
Satisfied that he had analyzed the situation correctly, Gould tapped a speed-dial number on his phone console.
Kensington’s gaunt, humorless face filled the screen on the wall.
“Yes, sir, what can I do for you today?”
“Where are you?”
There was a noticeable delay before he answered, “Anchorage, finishing up that business with the wildcatters.”
“Ah, yes,” said Gould. “I want you back here as soon as you can get to New York. This man Cochrane is becoming troublesome.”
Kensington fingered the thin cut under his right eye. It was still red, sore.
“Cochrane, huh? I’d like to meet up with him again.”
Is Hydrogen Clean?
Although hydrogen has been touted as a clean, non-polluting fuel for the future, can hydrogen itself be produced cleanly?
Currently, the two most common methods of producing hydrogen are electrolysis and gasification of fossil fuels such as coal and natural gas.
In electrolysis, electricity is used to split the water molecule (H2O) into hydrogen and oxygen. But to provide the massive amounts of hydrogen that would be necessary to replace gasoline and other fossil fuels, unprecedented amounts of electrical power would be necessary.
Hydrogen enthusiasts have suggested building hundreds of new nuclear generating stations, which could run 24/7, providing the electricity needed to produce hydrogen from water. Nuclear power stations, of course, have their own environmental and political problems, to say nothing of the huge costs and long time-spans of their construction.