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Authors: Ben Bova

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A
n unmarked sedan carried Jane from Ronald Reagan National Airport to her apartment building off Dupont Circle, near Connecticut Avenue and Embassy Row.
Being a United States Senator has certain prerogatives. A member of that exclusive, one-hundred-member club can phone the director of Central Intelligence from her private plane on a Sunday evening and get the man to leave his dinner table to answer your call. A U.S. Senator can phone the director of the FBI and ask her to cooperate as fully as possible with the CIA in an investigation of the Astro Corporation’s spaceplane crash.
But as she dressed for her working day on Capitol Hill in her tastefully luxurious apartment, Jane realized how quiet the place was, how empty and lonely. Her swirling thoughts kept coming back to Dan, his vigor, his passion, his drive. It was never quiet around Dan, never predictable or routine. Even the thing that had driven them apart, his insane zeal for creating this power satellite, was magnificent, bigger than life. And now it’s brought us back together, at least for a moment.
It can’t be, Jane thought as she rode the empty elevator down to the garage where her car and driver waited for her, barely hearing the muted music whispering from the speaker in the ceiling. Dan and I simply can’t be together. I can’t hurt Morgan like that. It would destroy him if I asked for a divorce. It would ruin his chances for the White House.
It had all been planned so cleverly, so completely. Once Morgan had won the party’s nomination they would announce their marriage, even go through a formal ceremony. Tremendous publicity. And she would be at his side through
the whole grueling campaign. Every minute. Every step of the way to the White House.
I couldn’t leave him once he’s president, Jane thought. No one’s divorced a president. Not even after he’s left office. As her sedan took her to the Senate Office Building, Jane smiled bleakly to herself. But if ever a First Lady does divorce a president, it would be over Dan Randolph.
 
 
T
ell me what happened,” al-Bashir snapped, once Roberto pulled the limo away from the airport terminal.
Grudgingly, Roberto explained the fiasco with Kinsky and April.
“Randolph’s secretary?” al-Bashir asked. “She was there? She saw you?”
“Yeah,” Roberto said, glancing at the Arab’s round, brown face in his rearview mirror. “She’s a piece, man.”
Al-Bashir glared at him. “And you say the FBI was involved?”
“Some Chicano, big guy, he came in while they were questionin’ me. Talked to me in Spanish, big deal.”
The FBI, al-Bashir mused. This could be serious.
“And what of your contact, this man Kinsky?”
Roberto shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Dunno. From the looks of him, though, he’s runnin’ fast. Might be halfway to China by now.”
How typical of a cowardly Jew, al-Bashir thought. For several moments he remained silent, thinking swiftly while Roberto maneuvered the gleaming white limousine through the crowded freeway traffic.
I’ll have to get rid of this oaf, he told himself. I’ll get the Tricontinental personnel people to find a job for him back in California. Tricontinental has a rehabilitation program; they’ll be happy to add him to their list of good deeds. I can’t afford to have him near me; he’s too blunt an instrument for what needs to be done now. Besides, he thought, I can infiltrate Astro Corporation myself now, and Dan Randolph
will welcome me with open arms. Perhaps his secretary will, too. The thought made al-Bashir smile happily.
 
 
“A
re you ready to fly the oh-two bird?” Dan asked.
Gerry Adair turned toward him. Then he grinned. “Is the Pope Catholic?”
They were standing side by side in Hangar B, where Niles Muhamed was sternly directing his crew as they carefully—tenderly, Dan realized—hoisted the spaceplane off the flatbed that it had been tied to and deposited it safely on the hangar’s concrete floor. The air rang with Muhamed’s deep-throated shouts and warnings. He even drowned out the electrical whine of the overhead crane.
“You’re not rusty since the crash?”
“I’ve been in the simulator every day, Dan. I’m as ready as I can be.”
“Good,” Dan said, nodding. “Stay sharp.”
“When d’you think we can launch?”
Dan scratched his chin. “Couple weeks. Maybe sooner. The legal eagles are working on clearances from six hundred different double-damned government agencies.”
“Will we land in Venezuela again?”
Dan hesitated. “I don’t know yet. Maybe, maybe not.”
Adair started to reply, but Muhamed strode up to them and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the spaceplane sitting now on its three landing wheels. The flatbed truck ground its gears and started out of the hangar with a roar and a stench of diesel fumes.
“Okay, flyboy, you said you wanted to check out the cockpit,” Muhamed said.
Adair nodded once and sprinted toward the spaceplane like a kid heading for his Christmas presents. Dan saw that the crew had rolled up a set of metal stairs.
“Don’t know why he’s gotta go sit in the cockpit,” Muhamed groused. “The bird ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
Dan grinned at him. “He’s a pilot, Niles. He’d sleep in there if you let him. He’d take his meals in there.”
Muhamed shook his head. “Nobody’s gonna mess up my cockpit with crumbs and stuff.”
Dan laughed, thinking, Maybe I ought to put Niles in charge of security.
 
 
A
pril was startled when she returned to her apartment. As she opened the front door she heard country and western music twanging from her radio. She knew she hadn’t left the radio on when she’d left in the morning, and even if she had she’d never leave it tuned to
that
wailing of losers.
Cautiously she edged the door halfway open, ready to run back to her car if Roberto or some stranger were in her apartment.
Kelly Eamons was sitting in the armchair, her head bent over the computer in her lap, her fingers pecking away.
Gusting out a sigh of relief, April stepped into the living room and shut the door.
Eamons looked up and smiled. “Hi! I’m back on your case. But don’t let anybody know about it.”
L
en Kinsky sat tensely in the rickety little grillwork chair on the sidewalk outside the Walnut Brewery restaurant. A cool breeze was blowing down off the mountains; the trees lining the street had already started to turn golden. Looking in through the restaurant’s big front window, Kinsky could see the big gleaming stainless steel vats of the microbrewery. People were ordering samplers, a row of shot glasses filled with different types of beer. He longed for the old Luchow’s in New York, and an honest mug of strong German beer.
Across the table from him sat Rick Chatham, a bland
smile on his round, bearded face. Kinsky didn’t trust men who wore ponytails, but he was desperate enough to agree to this meeting with the environmental activist.
“Try the wheat beer,” Chatham suggested. “You’ll like it.”
Kinsky did not appreciate being told what he would or wouldn’t like. But what the hell, he thought, the guy’s just trying to be friendly. Besides, I need him more than he needs me.
Although the pedestrian mall was a block away, Walnut Street was crowded with scruffy-looking students in tattered jeans and T-shirts that were supposed to look impoverished but actually cost a fortune. There were tourists meandering by as well, toting backpacks, bottled water, and babies that either slept or squalled as they meandered along the sidewalk. Up the street Kinsky could see some mountains and clear blue sky, but he preferred to look at the brick and clapboard buildings lining the street. They’re trying to make this one-horse burg look like a real city, he thought. But it’s just a university town, nothing more.
“So you’ve quit Astro.” Chatham made it a statement, not a question.
“Yeah,” Kinsky said with some bitterness. “I’m going to leave the country and see the world.”
A waitress asked what they wanted. Kinsky asked for the wheat beer; Chatham went through a long menu of bottled water and finally selected the local offering.
“What made you decide to quit?” Chatham asked. He tried to pose it as a friendly question, but Kinsky knew he was really sizing him up.
Always tell the sucker what he wants to hear, Kinsky knew. That was the secret of successful fortune-tellers, and business consultants, and public relations experts.
“I couldn’t take it anymore,” he said slowly, as if pulling it from some inner reservoir of conscience. “I mean, they’re going to be beaming gigawatts worth of microwaves through the atmosphere and they expected me to tell the world it’s all right. Better than all right—they want to pretend it’s an environmentally clean source of energy.”
Chatham’s light brown eyes sparkled.
“Let me play devil’s advocate for a minute,” he said, hunching forward in his chair and clasping his hands together on the little round grillwork table.
“Okay,” said Kinsky. “Go ahead.”
“The microwaves will be beamed to a remote location in New Mexico—”
“White Sands. The middle of nowhere.”
“Astro Corporation is building an antenna farm there to receive the energy being beamed down from space.”
“The rectenna farm, yeah. It’s already finished. Just waiting for the satellite to start working.”
“That’s federal land, isn’t it?”
“White Sands Proving Grounds, right. Dan’s leased the land for the rectenna farm. Looks like a big set of steel clothes poles stuck in the sand. Thousands of ’em.”
“‘Dan’?”
“Dan Randolph. The head of the corporation. Founder and CEO. And chairman of the board, too.”
Chatham pursed his lips. “He’s got all the power in his own hands, doesn’t he.”
“He sure does.”
“So,” Chatham went on, “if these microwaves are being beamed to such a remote location, where nobody’s living, not even cattle or grass, who’s going to get hurt?”
Kinsky smiled crookedly at him. “Devil’s advocate, huh? Okay, yeah, maybe nothing’ll get fried except some lizards and snakes.”
“So what’s the harm?”
Kinsky hesitated a moment. He wants me to do his thinking for him, he realized. He wants me to come up with the ideas he can use.
Raising an index finger, Kinsky said, “First, if they do kill some wildlife out there in the desert, who’s going to know about it? They sure as hell won’t tell anybody.”
“Ahh. Good point.”
“Second,” Kinsky raised another finger, “if they make everybody believe that the satellite works and they’re getting gigawatts of energy from it, they’re going to start
building more powersats—with more rectenna farms on the ground.”
Chatham nodded hard enough to make his ponytail bob up and down. “And where will they put those rectenna farms? As close to big cities as they can, because those cities will be the market for the energy!”
“Right,” Kinsky said.
Growing more excited, Chatham asked, “And what about the long-term effects on the climate of beaming so much energy through the atmosphere? Has anybody looked into that?”
“Dan got a couple of meteorologists from some university to come up with a paper that said the effect would be negligible.”
“Negligible! That’s the term they use when they want you to look the other way.”
“There’s more, too.”
“What?”
“Those rockets they use,” Kinsky said. “Solid fuel boosters. Their exhaust gases are toxic, for chrissake. Aluminum perchloride or something. We can’t park our cars within a mile of the launchpad because the exhaust peels the paint off.”
“Wow! This is dynamite. We’ve got to get this information out on the Net, got to organize protests, rallies, the whole nine yards:”
Kinsky felt a pang of guilt at having betrayed Dan. What the hell, he told himself. This geek would come after Dan anyway, with me or without me. I’ve got to look out for numero uno.
Which reminded him. “You mentioned a consultant’s fee when we talked on the phone.”
Chatham immediately sobered. “That’s right. I have a cashier’s check for a thousand dollars right here in my pocket. All I have to do is fill in your name as the recipient.”
“We talked about a lot more than one thousand.”
“This is just the first installment, my friend. There’ll be more, plenty more. I think you’re going to be very valuable to us, helping to orchestrate the protests that’ll bring this satellite project to a screeching halt.”
“I’m heading out of the country,” Kinsky said.
“May I ask why?”
Thinking of his ex-wife and her lawyer, and even more of Roberto and the shadowy figures he must be working for, Kinsky replied merely, “Personal reasons.”
“But you can stay in touch through e-mail, can’t you?”
“Can you set up an account for me? With a new user name. I don’t want to be traced.”
“Sure,” Chatham said easily. “No problem.”
“And you can wire-transfer my money.”
“Sure,” he repeated. “Anywhere you want.”
 
 
A
l-Bashir was tempted to reveal his scheme to Garrison. The crusty old scoundrel would appreciate the beauty of it, and he might even agree to killing the president of the United States. Garrison had complained about “that jerkoff in the White House” often enough.
But he resisted the temptation. Garrison was an American, and even though he had always run the multinational Tricontinental Oil Corporation with the totally unsentimental attitude of a man who puts profits above all else, some shred of national loyalty still might make him balk at the scheme al-Bashir was unfolding.
So I must be clever enough to do what needs to be done without stirring up his opposition. He’s still smarting from the realization that I’m the real power in the corporation, and he’s working hard to win key members of the board away from me. My best path is to make him a party to the scheme without revealing the entire scheme to him. I want him either on my side or neutralized, not actively opposing me.
The old man hardly ever left the tower in downtown Houston that housed Tricontinental’s corporate offices. Garrison kept an apartment on the floor below his own penthouse offices, a spacious suite comfortably furnished with all the latest gadgetry and a handful of servants. Al-Bashir felt quite pleased that Garrison had invited him to his living quarters for a quiet little dinner, rather than to his office for a more impersonal meeting.
This is a sign that he’s beginning to accept the situation, al-Bashir told himself, at least a little. He wants to show off his lifestyle to me. All to the good.
The apartment was even more sumptuous than al-Bashir had expected. A young, broad-shouldered butler in a traditional dark suit was waiting for him when the doors to the private elevator smoothly slid open. Al-Bashir found himself in a Texas-sized living room, thickly carpeted, the two farthest walls completely glassed so that he could see the garish majesty of Houston’s skyscraper towers, just beginning to light up in the twilight glow that still lingered on the distant horizon. These furnishings and decorations are tasteful—even elegant, al-Bashir thought as the butler led him to the bar of black marble.
Despite the room’s size, it seemed comfortable, livable, not like some of the homes al-Bashir had seen, which looked to him more like furniture store showrooms than homes where people actually spent their lives.
Without being asked, the butler poured al-Bashir a tall glass of tea. He sipped at it, appreciating the trace of mint he tasted. Above the bar, he saw, was a larger-than-life painting of a fleshy nude woman.
“Rubens,” came Garrison’s voice from behind him. Al-Bashir turned and saw the old man wheeling up noiselessly across the plush carpet.
“It’s an original, of course.” Garrison waved an arm. “They’re all originals. Cost a mint, each of ’em. Rafael. Pair of Monet haystacks. That etching over there is by Rembrandt.”
“They’re magnificent,” al-Bashir said.
“Yep. Nice to look at now and then, make you realize what it’s all about. Got a mural by Da Vinci on the ceiling over my bed.” He cackled evilly. “That one’s just a reproduction, though. But it impresses the women.”
Al-Bashir smiled down at him. His own home, outside Tunis, had no images on its walls. That was not permitted. But there were many women.
As Garrison led him through the opulent apartment, pointing out artworks as he rolled his powered chair across
the plush carpeting, al-Bashir began to understand why the old man had invited him to his home. He’s showing me what he’s accumulated over all these years. He’s begging me not to take all this away from him. Al-Bashir smiled tolerantly down at the wizened cripple and thought, You can keep it all, Garrison. All except the power.
Dinner was served by the butler, who was the only servant in sight. Garrison sat at the head of the long dining room table, al-Bashir on his right. The old man’s wheelchair was a shade lower than the other high-backed chairs; it made Garrison look almost like a child seated at a table too high for him. He ignored that, though, as they ate delicately seasoned veal and talked about business. At last Garrison asked, “Randolph still givin’ you the runaround?”
Al-Bashir made a smile. “It’s a delicate situation, almost to the point of amusement.”
“Nothing amusin’ about a billion and a half bucks,” Garrison muttered.
“I’m beginning to think that perhaps my approach to Randolph has been wrong.”
“Whattaya mean?”
With a rueful little pout, al-Bashir said, “The man seems pathologically unable to make a decision on selling part of his company to us.”
“His funeral, then. He needs the money, he sells. Otherwise he can piss in his pants for all I care.”
“I would agree, except for one thing.”
“Yamagata?”
Al-Bashir dipped his chin in acknowledgment. This old man is no fool, he reminded himself. You must treat him with respect. He’s quite capable of ambushing you if you’re not careful.
“I don’t want to see the Japs get their paws on that power satellite any more’n you do,” Garrison said, holding a forkful of veal poised between the platter and his mouth. “I want ‘em buyin’ our oil, not pullin’ in energy from outer space.”
“This man Scanwell is a factor, too.” al-Bashir said.
Garrison snorted.
“Do you know him? Personally, I mean?”
“I
knew
him,” the old man replied. “Before he fixed his eyes on the White House and started all this energy independence bullshit.”
“He apparently has allied himself with Randolph.”
“Yep. And he won’t come within ten miles of me. I’m the big, bad oil industry.”
“Scanwell could be trouble if he’s elected.”
Strangely, Garrison smiled. A sly, knowing smile. “Let him get himself elected. Once he’s in the White House we’ll show him who the real players are in this business.”
Al-Bashir felt genuinely surprised. “You believe you can contain him?”
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