by Ben Bova
Then the offer was suddenly withdrawn. A week before Michael Cochrane was killed.
Now, squarely in the middle of his desk, was a memo from his chief financial officer. The buyout offer had been renewed. The CFO advised Tulius to phone a certain Lionel Gould, in New York City.
MANHATTAN:
GOULD TRUST HEADQUARTERS
I’m delighted that you called,” said Gould to the image on his wall-mounted screen.
He saw that Jason Tulius looked slightly uncomfortable as he sat behind his desk in Palo Alto. Perhaps not uncomfortable, Gould thought, so much as uncertain, even a little fearful. Good, he said to himself. Fear is good. It stimulates the mind, encourages the imagination, leads one to make decisions that are not necessarily logical. That is good.
Warily, Tulius said, “My CFO tells me you’ve expressed interest in buying into Calvin Research.”
“Indeed I have,” said Gould, smiling his best smile.
He noted with approval that Tulius was in his shirtsleeves, as he himself was. Gould’s office was heavily air-conditioned, yet he worried that he might be visibly perspiring. Gould always felt uncomfortably warm; his body’s metabolism was somehow pitched at a near-fever level. He knew that many of his staff complained about the frigid temperature of his office. Some of the women grumbled that he kept it cold so that their nipples would be stiff. There were even rumbles now and then of a sexual harassment suit. Ridiculous! Gould sniffed at the very idea. They can wear sweaters, can’t they?
Tulius shifted uneasily in his desk chair. “Mr. Gould, you have to understand that Calvin Research Center is pretty much my whole life. I have no intention of retiring.”
“Retiring?” Gould was genuinely surprised at the idea. “No, no, that is not what I have in mind. Not at all. You are the very heart and soul of Calvin Research; I understand that.”
“You’d let me remain in charge, then?”
“I would insist on it,” Gould said, with complete honesty. “We could draw up an ironclad guarantee of it in our agreement.”
Tulius still looked suspicious, as wary as a bearded pirate being offered amnesty instead of hanging.
“Could you tell me, then, just why you’re interested in my company?”
“Gladly,” said Gould, with a cavalier wave of his hand. “The Gould Trust is dedicated to supporting the arts and sciences. We finance hundreds of scholarships each year.”
“I know,” said Tulius. “I’ve Googled you.”
“That is good. However, I feel that the time has come for the trust to become more deeply involved in energy research.”
“Gould Energy Corporation has a very well-funded research laboratory.”
“Indeed it has. Indeed it has.” Gould leaned toward the microcam on his desk and lowered his voice a notch. “But, truth to tell, the corporation’s research efforts are geared toward the past, not the future.”
Puzzlement clouded over Tulius’s face. “I don’t understand “
Folding his hands over his belly, Gould said, “Just between you and I, Dr. Tulius, the corporate research labs are focused on improvements in fossil fuel technology. They’re trying to find better ways to locate new oil fields, cleaner methods of burning coal, new techniques for handling liquefied natural gas.”
“They’re working on magnetohydrodynamics, too, aren’t they?”
Gould frowned for a moment. Magnetowhatever?
“MHD power generation,” Tulius said.
“Ah, yes!” replied Gould, relieved. “Yes, indeed. MHD might allow us to burn high-sulfur coal without breaking the EPA’s air quality standards.”
“That sounds pretty futuristic to me,” Tulius said.
“Perhaps so. But the corporation will not support research into alternative energy sources. No wind or solar power work.”
“They’re into nuclear energy.”
“Yes, but when I suggested to the board of directors that we should be looking into the possibilities of fusion energy, they voted me down. Almost unanimously.”
Unbidden, a smile crossed Tulius’s face. “I didn’t realize that your board dared to cross you.”
Gould shrugged good-naturedly. “It happens occasionally. Not often, I grant you. In the matter of fusion research, I must admit that they were probably right. It’s much too far in the future.”
Still smiling, Tulius said, “The physicists say that fusion power is just over the horizon.”
“Yes, and the horizon is an imaginary line that recedes as you approach it.”
Tulius laughed and Gould knew that he had established his bona fides with the scientist.
“But to get back to our business,” Gould said, “I feel strongly that the Gould Trust must become involved in energy research for the future: solar, wind power, hydrogen fuel, that sort of thing.”
“But we’re a biochemistry research center. I don’t see where our kind of work could help you.”
Gould leaned back in his yielding chair and pursed his lips. For a long moment neither man said anything. They simply looked at each other, each of them trying to take the measure of the other.
At last Gould said, “Dr. Tulius, let me be perfectly frank with you. One of your staff scientists, the late Dr. Cochrane, led me to believe that he was on the track of a considerable breakthrough in producing hydrogen fuel.”
Despite his beard, Tulius couldn’t hide the surprise in his expression. “Michael Cochrane? Hydrogen fuel?”
“That’s what he led me to believe. Of course, I’m no scientist, but—”
“Photosynthesis,” Tulius said, more to himself than Gould. “Splitting water molecules into oxygen and hydrogen.”
“The Gould Trust is prepared to fund your center’s research quite handsomely,” Gould said. “All your research efforts, every project you have going.”
“Including the work that Michael Cochrane was engaged in.”
“Especially the work that Michael Cochrane was engaged in,” Gould purred.
“I see.”
“For legal and administrative reasons, the trust cannot simply hand out grant monies to your center. You are a profit-making enterprise, and the trust is set up only to fund not-for-profit endeavors.”
Tulius smiled bitterly. “We try to make a profit, that’s true. It doesn’t always work out, though.”
Gould knew better. Calvin Research Center made a modest profit on contract research, although Tulius plowed almost every penny back into more research.
“It will be necessary for the trust to buy your center outright and convert it legally into a not-for-profit organization.”
Tulius scratched at his bearded chin thoughtfully. “That sounds tricky. Our existing customers—”
“We can work that out,” Gould said quickly. “My legal people will take care of every detail.”
Nodding, Tulius said, “I’d like to think about this, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” Gould said grandly. “This is a big step for you. Naturally you should consider it quite carefully.”
Tulius promised to get back to Gould before the week was over, then said a gracious goodbye and cut their phone link.
As the scientist’s image winked out on his wall screen, Gould took in a deep breath of satisfaction. I’ve got him! He’ll go for it, he told himself. The prospect of guaranteed funding for all his projects is too good for him to refuse.
Spinning his swivel chair gleefully in a complete circle, Gould thought, And once the Calvin Research Center belongs to the Gould Trust, we will be the owners of any and all patentable inventions they make. I’ll have this hydrogen fuel discovery locked up tight, in my own hands. No matter how Tulius or anyone else feels about it.
BOSTON:
ISABELLA STEWART GARDNER
MUSEUM
It was late afternoon when Sandoval returned. Cochrane had spent the day wandering through the museum, looking at the Manets and Vermeers and Degas without really seeing them. His mind was on what Fiona had told him a
bout Sandoval.
She’s a high-class hooker, he told himself as he walked slowly through the sun-filled courtyard, past a life-sized statue of some Greek goddess. Industrial espionage is a fancy name for it, but what she does is screw guys to get information out of them that she sells to her customers. Nothing but a whore working wholesale instead of retail.
And yet. And yet. Fiona says she’s interested in me, not the money. Yeah. Right. Ten million bucks doesn’t mean anything to her. Sure.
He returned to the residence and wearily climbed the narrow stairs to the bedroom level. Then he heard the front door, downstairs, open and close. He raced down the stairs, eager as a schoolboy. Sandoval smiled to see him. She was wearing a beige trousered suit that he hadn’t seen before, and had a large leather tote bag slung over one shoulder.
“Where’ve you been all day?” he heard himself ask, accusation sharp in his tone.
“Shopping,” Sandoval replied.
She brushed past him and started up the stairs. Cochrane followed her.
“All day? Shopping?”
Over her shoulder Sandoval said, “When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.”
“On Fiona’s credit card?”
She reached the top of the stairs and went to their bedroom. Tossing the tote bag onto her bed, she turned to face him, still smiling.
“Paul, I spent most of the day shopping in the best stores in town. Then I went to Filene’s basement and bought this suit, on sale, fifty percent off.”
“Somebody could’ve seen you,” he said, his emotions jumbled within him. “If Kensington’s looking for us…”
She put both hands on his shoulders. “Who’s going to pick me out of the crowds in the department stores, Paul? I was safer there than I am here.”
“Still,” he mumbled.
“You were worried about me?”
He nodded, not able to tell her that he was worried she had shacked up with some guy to earn them some cash.
“You’re sweet.” Sandoval gave him a peck on the lips. Then she turned to the tote bag on the bed and pulled out a paper bag labeled FILENE’S; in it was a dress Cochrane recognized. She must have worn that when she went out this morning, he thought.
“Have you decided what we should do?” Sandoval asked as she hung the dress in the massive mahogany dresser that loomed in the corner of the bedroom. Cochrane had been surprised, the night before, that the piece had no TV set inside it.
“Decided?” He sat on his bed, shoulders slumping. “No. I haven’t even thought much about it. I spent the day wandering through the museum.”
“It’s wonderful, isn’t it? Did Fee tell you about the Rembrandt?”
“She told me it was stolen once. And you got it back.”
Sandoval didn’t bat an eye. “I was working here then. I was barely out of my teens.”
He nodded glumly.
She came over and sat on the bed beside him. “Fee told you a lot more, didn’t she?”
“Some,” he admitted.
“So you know about me. What I do.”
“Yeah.”
“Does it make a difference to you?”
He tried not to say it, but he couldn’t. “Of course it makes a difference! How could it not make a difference?”
Strangely Sandoval smiled again. “That’s good, Paul. You’d be a really insensitive jerk if it didn’t.”
He stared at her, searching for words, searching his own emotions. At last he asked, “So where do we go from here, Elena?”
“Where do you want to go?”
He grasped her and pulled her to him. “I don’t know, but I know that wherever it is I want you to be with me. Wherever. I want you.”
She melted into his arms and murmured, “That’s what I want, too, Paul. Wherever you want to go, I want to go there with you.”
By the time they got out of bed it was deep twilight outside. Sandoval showered first, then Cochrane did.
“Wear your suit,” she called to him through the shower’s frosted glass door. “We’re taking Fee to dinner.”
The restaurant was down in a cellar beneath one of the posh shops on Boylston Street. Tiny, intimate, and French. The maitre d’ practically brushed the floor with his forehead when Fiona swept in, regal in a voluminous floor-length dress of dark blue with silver threads.
“Madame Neal!” he exclaimed. “So wonderful to have you with us again.”
Fiona took it all with the good grace of a noblewoman accustomed to such deference. The maitre d’ led them to the biggest booth in the little restaurant. As soon as the three of them were seated, a pert waitress in a black short-skirted uniform brought a bottle of sherry and three aperitif glasses.
“Amontillado,” Fiona said as the waitress poured. “I’ve been a sucker for it ever since I first read Edgar Allan Poe.”
Cochrane sipped at the wine and felt it warming its way down his innards. The menu was mostly in French, but he followed Fiona’s lead. And Sandoval’s: she showed no hesitation in ordering what turned out to be frog’s legs. Cochrane, like Fiona, had a small but beautifully prepared steak.
“Since I’m not the perfect hostess,” Fiona began, once their entrees had been served, “I’ll ask outright: how long do you two plan to stay with me?”
Sandoval glanced at Cochrane and said nothing. He mumbled, “A couple more days, if that’s all right with you.”
Fiona nodded. “From what Ellie tells me, you need some friends in high places.”
“We’ve got enough enemies in high places,” Sandoval said, almost lightly.
“I know Lionel Gould,” Fiona said. “Charity affairs, social circles. He puts on a good front, but Gould Energy Corporation is his baby. He’ll do whatever he can to suppress your brother’s work, Paul.”
“Who won’t?” Cochrane rejoined. “The energy companies, the oil combines, the automobile corporations—it’s all one big global club.”
“And their reach goes right up to the top levels of government,” Sandoval added.
“So what do you want to do?” Fiona asked. “Surrender to Gould and hope he’ll stick to the deal he offered?”
Cochrane shook his head. “We’ll have a fatal accident before his check clears the bank.”
Fiona nodded, agreeing. “So, like I said, you need friends in high places.”
“You know any?”
“Maybe. The senior senator from Maine is an old friend of mine. Wanted to marry me, donkey’s years ago.”
“Senator Bardarson?” Sandoval asked.
“Ian Bardarson,” said Fiona. “He’s a maverick up there on the Hill, but he’s got a whale of a lot of seniority.”
“He’s the ranking minority member of the Senate Energy Committee,” Sandoval pointed out.
“And if the elections in November go the right way,” Fiona said, “he’ll become the committee’s chairman.”
Fuel for Thought
Every few weeks, Etta Kantor goes to a Chinese restaurant and fills a couple of three-gallon pails with used cooking oil. Back in her garage, the 59-year-old philanthropist and grandmother strains it through a cloth filter and then pours it into a custom-made second fuel tank in her 2003 Volkswagen Jetta diesel station wagon. Once the car is warmed up, she flips a toggle on the dashboard to switch to the vegetable oil. Wherever she drives, she’s trailed by the appetizing odor of egg rolls.
Sean Parks of Davis, California, collects his cooking oil from a fish-and-chips restaurant and a corndog shop. He purifies it chemically in a 40-gallon reactor that he built himself for about $800. The processed oil can be used even when his car’s engine is cold, at a cost of about 70 cents a gallon. Parks, a geographer for the U.S. Forest Service, makes enough processed oil to fuel his family’s two cars.
Kantor and Parks are willing to go the extra mile to reduce their dependence on petroleum and cut down on pollution. But these days environmentalists are not the only ones banking on biodiesel, as diesel-engine fuel made from vegetable oil is know
n. Entrepreneurs and soybean farmers are creating a new biodiesel industry, with some 300 retail biodiesel pumps nationwide so far. Commercial production of biodiesel grew 25 percent in 2004, making it the fastest-growing alternative fuel in the United States. Even the singer Willie Nelson recently started a company to market the fuel at truck stops.
The greening of the diesel engine is a return to its roots. Rudolf Diesel, the German engineer who in 1892 invented the engine that bears his name, boasted that it ran on peanut and castor oil. “Motive power can be produced by the agricultural transformation of the heat of the Sun,” he said. The inventor foresaw a future of virtually unlimited renewable energy from plants, but the idea slipped into obscurity because petroleum was so much cheaper than vegetable oil.
A century later, customers for commercial biodiesel include the U.S. Postal Service, the U.S. Army, the Forest Service, the city of Denver and numerous private truck fleets. Almost all use blends of 20 percent biodiesel mixed with standard petroleum diesel. The mixture helps federal and state agencies comply with a 2000 executive order by President Clinton mandating less petroleum consumption. Minnesota recently became the first state to require that all diesel fuel sold there be 2 percent biodiesel. Daimler-Chrysler’s 2003 diesel Jeep Liberty comes off the production line with its tank filled with a 5 percent biodiesel mixture.
The major obstacle to wider use is price. Pure biodiesel sells for $2.50 to $3 a gallon, about 50 cents to $1 more than petrodiesel. To spur biodiesel’s use, some European nations levy no taxes on it, and in October 2004, President Bush signed into law a 50 cent to $1 credit to fuel manufacturers for every gallon of biodiesel blended into petrodiesel.
Diesel engines differ from gasoline engines in their use of high pressure rather than a spark plug to ignite the fuel and drive the pistons. Diesel engines can run on fuel that is heavier than gasoline, making it possible to substitute filtered waste grease for petroleum. Both used and virgin vegetable oil contain glycerine—a syrupy liquid used in hand lotions. It burns well in a hot engine, as in Etta Kantor’s retrofitted diesel, but clogs a cold one. Removing the glycerine yields biodiesel, which is suitable for even a cold engine.