Mars, Inc.: The Billionaire's Club Page 27

  Once Polk lit off the main rocket a feeling of weight returned. The plane bit into the atmosphere and began its jolting, shuddering flight through re-entry. Thrasher knew they were surrounded now by white-hot gases, air heated to incandescence by the speed of their flight through it. He could hear the howling, screaming sound of the air roaring past them.

  His stomach felt almost normal now, although the plane was vibrating so hard his view of the control panel was blurry. Thrasher was glad they had no windows. He didn’t want to see the fiery hell they were diving through.

  Polk sat back and folded his arms across his chest. The display screen showed nothing but a freakish white hash.

  At last the ride smoothed out and the screen cleared to show blue-gray ocean. The water looked iron-hard.

  “Through re-entry blackout,” Polk said.

  Mission control confirmed, “We have reacquired your signal.”

  Now they were flying like an airplane. Brown wrinkled mountains splotched with patches of late winter snow flashed past in the display screen. Polk swung the stubby-winged vehicle around in a series of wide turns, bleeding off velocity, then flared it out for a smooth approach to the runway at Spaceport America.

  The wheels hit the ground solidly and Polk lowered the nose. “We’re down,” he said, breaking into a satisfied smile.

  Thrasher felt glad to be back safely but happier still that he didn’t upchuck this time. Then he remembered that he wanted to send Linda a bouquet of flowers.

  6

  DEATH . . . AND ANALYSIS

  It was nearly five p.m. when Thrasher finally got back to his office in Houston. He trotted down the circular stairway from the roof and breezed into the outer office. It was decked with flowers: roses, peonies, carnations, daisies—the room was ablaze with colors and filled with the soft aromas of spring.

  But instead of greeting him with a kiss and a mug of ginger beer, Linda was sitting at her desk, her head sunk in her hands.

  “Hey!” he snapped. “Welcome home the returning astronaut!”

  Linda looked up; her eyes were red from crying. Thrasher rushed to her. “What’s the matter, kid?”

  She gestured to the phone console. “It’s Vince Egan. He’s dead. Suicide.”

  “Vince? Dead?”

  Nodding miserably, Linda said, “His brother just phoned. They found him in the garage, in his car with the motor running. Carbon monoxide poisoning.”

  “But that doesn’t mean it was suicide,” Thrasher said. “It must’ve been an accident.”

  Linda shook her head. “He had stuffed rags along the base of the garage door. To make sure the gas couldn’t get out. He killed himself.”

  Thrasher felt as if he were back in space, weightless. He sagged onto the edge of Linda’s desk. “I can’t believe it. Vince wasn’t the type to kill himself.”

  “After the mess he made here . . .”

  “Yeah, but he was looking for another job. Didn’t you get requests for recommendations for him?”

  “Three of them.”

  “He wasn’t moping. He was looking for a fresh start.”

  “But our recommendations weren’t much help.”

  “No,” he admitted. “I guess they weren’t.”

  Linda pulled in a deep breath. “I ought to check with the human resources office, see if the company’s life insurance policy for him is still valid.”

  “If it isn’t, tell them to reinstate it and backdate the reinstatement to the day Vince quit.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “I’ll pay whatever penalty the insurance carrier slaps on us.”

  She smiled at him. “You’re a good man, Art.”

  “Yeah.” He got up and headed for his private office, thinking, I’m a good man alright. I might have pushed Vince to kill himself.

  The next morning Larry Franken dropped in to Thrasher’s office.

  Standing two steps in from the door, Frankenstein said, “I heard about Mr. Egan.”

  “Yeah. I never expected Vince to go that way.”

  “You want me to look into it?”

  Thrasher shook his head. “The local police are investigating.” Then he added, “I suppose you could take a look at what they find out. Keep me informed.”

  Franken dipped his chin. “Sure thing.”

  It was hard for Thrasher to get Egan’s suicide out of his mind. As he went through his day’s routine he kept asking himself, should I go visit the family? Express my regrets? Yeah, the guy who bounced him out of his job. The guy who answered requests for recommendations for him with a form letter. They’ll be happy to see me. Overjoyed.

  But, dammitall, Vince sabotaged me! He took money to blow up that rocket. He knew he could ask me for the money he needed, but he was too pissed off at me because I didn’t give him the Mars job.

  And now he’s dead. Not a thing I can do about that. Death cancels all debts.

  His phone chimed.

  Linda’s face appeared on the phone console’s tiny screen. “Professor Shima, from Georgetown University.”

  “Put him through,” Thrasher said absently. And he pecked at the phone’s keypad to put Shima’s image on his wall screen.

  The professor was beaming a happy smile as he sat at his desk, round and fat and jovial as Thrasher remembered him from their earlier meeting.

  “Good morning, Mr. Thrasher,” he said cordially.

  “Good morning,” Thrasher returned, glancing at the digital clock. It was still morning, but just barely.

  “I have good news for you, sir.”

  “Oh?”

  Waving a chubby hand in the air, Shima said, “I have concluded the analysis of the messages you left with me, and I believe I have produced an accurate assessment of the man who originated them.”

  On a devilish impulse, Thrasher challenged, “It wasn’t a woman, then?”

  Shima shook his head. “Not a woman. A man. Definitely.”

  “Okay. Who?”

  “That I cannot say, as yet.”

  “Then what good is your analysis?”

  Shima laughed, a full-throated chortle of amusement. “One thing at a time, my impatient one. We must learn to walk before we can run.”

  Forcing himself to remain calm, Thrasher said, “Explain what you mean, please.”

  “We have a workable analysis of the man who originated the words on the CDs you gave me. We have a picture of his personality. Now, if you can provide me with voice recordings or writings by the men you suspect of being the culprit, I can match them to the analysis and identify your guilty party.”

  “You can?”

  “With great confidence.”

  Intrigued, Thrasher asked, “So what does your analysis tell you?”

  Shima’s smile faded. “We are dealing with a dangerous man, Mr. Thrasher. He is cold, precise, and very determined. His personality reminds me of something Mr. H. G. Wells wrote in The War of the Worlds: ‘an intellect vast and cool and unsympathetic.’ He is dangerous.”

  Thrasher thought, That doesn’t sound like Greg Sampson. Greg’s a blusterer and a bully, not cold and precise.

  Aloud, he said, “Okay. I’ll send you writings and voice recordings from the boards of directors of Thrasher Digital and Mars, Inc. It’s got to be one of them.”

  “Not someone outside your corporations?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Or one of your workers?”

  Thrasher shook his head. “It’s a board member, I’m pretty sure.”

  Shima’s cheerful smile returned. “Very well. As soon as I receive the package I will begin comparing its contents to the analysis we have done. We will identify your miscreant, never fear.”

  “Good,” said Thrasher.

  “And when we do, you must write a check to endow a scholarship for my department.” Shima laughed heartily as he disconnected the phone link and his image disappeared from Thrasher’s wall screen.

  7

  PORTALES

  Watching
from the balcony that ran around three of the walls of the cavernous former warehouse, Thrasher felt unaccountably nervous as the news reporters and camera crews began to fill up the area where the Mars One spacecraft had been assembled. The backup components had been moved to one corner of the big, open space to make room for rows of folding chairs and a platform holding a long table where the seven Mars-bound men and women would be seated.

  It was late May, almost Memorial Day, and the launch of the Mars-bound crew was only six weeks off.

  This news conference would be the media’s first introduction to all seven of the astronauts: Bill Polk, Nacho Velasquez, Judine McQuinn, the three scientists, and Alan Dougherty.

  Down in the first row of spectators various dignitaries were already seated: the governor of New Mexico, a deputy director from NASA, Professor Winninger from the University of Arizona, and Kristin Anders—now Mrs. Dougherty. Beside her sat Jeremiah Herzberg, from the National Academy of Sciences, and Quentin Hynes, the geologist who had been bumped from the mission to make room for Dougherty. Behind them, members of the boards of directors of Thrasher Digital and Mars, Inc. were finding their places. The reporters filled the rest of the seats, while camera crews were setting up on either side.

  Standing beside Thrasher, Linda slipped an arm around his waist and said quietly, “Don’t be nervous.”

  He looked into her lovely, serious face. “It shows, huh?”

  “You look pretty tense.”

  Gesturing to the board members taking their seats, Thrasher said, “One of them is a killer.”

  Linda look shocked. “What do you mean?”

  “Vince didn’t commit suicide. I’m certain of that. He was murdered.”

  “Why? By whom?”

  “Why? Because he admitted he’d set up the accident, and whoever paid him to do it was getting nervous about it. The killer was worried that I might go public with the news that the accident wasn’t accidental.”

  “And he killed Vince?”

  “To keep him quiet. No loose ends. Made it look like an accident. Suicide.”

  “But you don’t know who did it.”

  “Not yet.”

  Linda’s expression turned thoughtful. “That means that, the closer you get to finding out who’s responsible, the more danger you’ll be in.”

  “Me? In danger?”

  “If he killed Vince to keep him quiet, he won’t hesitate to kill you, if he thinks you’re going to expose him.”

  Thrasher mulled over the idea for a few moments. Then he nodded. “You might be right, kid.”

  “You’re going to need protection. I’ll talk to Larry Franken.”

  “I don’t want—”

  Very firmly, Linda said, “I’ll talk to Larry. That’s settled.”

  Thrasher grinned at her. “Harkening and obedience,” he murmured. And he grinned at the thought that the two most important words in a marriage are “yes, dear.”

  The news conference was a big success, carried live on all the major networks and cable outlets. Thrasher climbed down from the balcony and took his seat at the end of the table with the Mars team and introduced the astronauts, the scientists, and the VIPs in the audience. Then he moderated a long question-and-answer period. Most of the reporters’ questions were directed at the astronauts rather than the scientists, although one bearded newsman from a science channel asked: “What would be the most important thing you could expect to find on Mars?”

  The team’s biologist, the other woman among the seven, answered simply, “Life.”

  “Martians?”

  “Martian microbes are the best we can hope for. We know the surface of Mars is a frozen desert, but microbial life might exist below the surface. Or, more likely, once did and is now extinct.”

  The newsman persisted. “But you think there’s a chance some form of life could exist on Mars now?”

  “A slim chance,” she replied.

  “Is there any evidence that gives you hope . . . ?”

  The biologist shifted in her chair, then replied, “Satellites in orbit about Mars have detected traces of methane in the atmosphere. Traces that appear in the local springtime and break down within a few weeks.”

  “Methane?”

  “On Earth,” she went on, “there are microbes living deep underground that emit methane. They’re called methanogens; they produce methane gas as a waste product of their metabolism.”

  “And you think there might be similar microbes on Mars?”

  She shrugged. “Something’s producing the methane. It just might be bug farts.”

  The audience erupted in laughter. The reporter chuckled happily and sat down.

  Thrasher looked down the table at the biologist’s earnest face and pictured the headlines her words would make: SCIENTIST HOPES TO FIND LIVING MARTIANS. He sighed inwardly: well, maybe it’ll help to sell VR sets.

  Dr. McQuinn fielded the questions about radiation in space.

  “Our storm cellar will keep us safe and snug if we encounter any solar storms on our way to Mars.”

  “How snug?” asked a female reporter.

  McQuinn smiled. “Let’s put it this way: we’ll be living cheek by jowl for several days on end. Like chickens in a coop. Without shower facilities.”

  Thrasher closed his eyes, picturing more headlines. And cartoons.

  The next question was about sex, of course. From Vicki Zane. She got to her feet, smiled brightly, and asked, “What are you going to do about sex for the eighteen months you’ll be on the mission?”

  Nacho Velasquez grabbed one of the microphones and blurted, “I don’t know about the rest of them, but I’m bringing a big supply of blackstrap molasses.”

  The audience broke into laughter again.

  Undeterred, Vicki persisted, “No, seriously. Eighteen months is a long time. Couldn’t the virtual reality equipment be used for, er . . . simulations of an erotic nature?”

  Bill Polk took the microphone from Velasquez’s hand. “All seven of us are mature adults and capable of controlling ourselves. We’re going to Mars to explore the planet, not for fun and games.”

  Vicki looked unconvinced, but she sat down. Thrasher let out a sigh of relief. But he thought that Vicki’s suggestion might boost VR sales more than anything else.

  8

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  June in the nation’s capital was hot and muggy. Stuffed in the back of a rattletrap taxicab with the massive Frankenstein crowding him, Thrasher asked the driver to turn up the air conditioning.

  “Up’s far as it’ll go,” the driver replied, without taking his eyes off the vans and buses and autos and other cabs clogging the bridge over the Potomac River.

  Frowning, Larry Franken muttered, “You’d think there wouldn’t be so much hot air now that Congress is on vacation.”

  Humor? From Frankenstein? Thrasher felt his sweaty brows rise.

  Linda had been adamant that Franken accompany Thrasher on this trip to Georgetown University. Thrasher gave in to her, but insisted that they shouldn’t let Reynolds know he was visiting Professor Shima. R Cubed isn’t the type to keep secrets, and Thrasher didn’t want anyone to know he was using Shima’s forensic linguistic skills. So they flew to Reagan National Airport on a regular American Airlines flight and took the dilapidated taxi from the airport rather than a company car.

  Shima’s office was as immaculate as ever: everything in its place. The professor rose ponderously from behind his desk as Thrasher introduced Franken, who bowed stiffly in Japanese fashion. Shima seemed delighted by the courtesy and bowed back.

  “Mr. Franken heads my security department,” Thrasher explained as the two of them took chairs in front of the desk. “I thought he should hear what you have to say.”

  Thrasher did not want to admit that Franken was actually serving as his bodyguard, at Linda’s insistence.

  Shima smiled graciously at Franken, then turned his attention to Thrasher. “I believe I have identified the man who scripted t
he words on the CDs you gave me.”

  “And?” Thrasher prompted.

  Oblivious to Thrasher’s impatience, Shima explained, “My students and I went through all the samples of the writing and speaking of your various board members, comparing them to the messages on the CDs.”

  “Who is it?” Thrasher asked eagerly.

  Holding up a chubby hand, Shima went on, “I compared the word choices, syntactical morphology, sentence structure and other facets of the messages—”

  “Who the hell is it?”

  Shima put up both his hands. “This is not a totally definitive identification, you understand. I would say it is within about eighty-five or ninety percent of certainty.”

  Exasperated, Thrasher again asked, “Who?”

  “Of all the persons we compared to the CD messages, a certain Mr. David Kahn comes closest to a match. Within eighty-five or ninety percent, as I said.”

  “David Kahn? Jenghis?”

  Shima blinked. “He is named after the Mongol conqueror?”

  Thrasher sank back in his chair. Jenghis Kahn. A cold, precise, murderous son of a bitch. Yes. It fits.

  Franken asked, “Would your evidence hold up in a court of law?”

  Shima nodded vigorously. “Men have been sent to jail on evidence such as this.”

  To Thrasher, Franken said, “You accuse Mr. Kahn of being responsible for the accident and the first thing he’ll do is sue your ass for slander.”

  “Not just the accident,” Thrasher said. “There’s Vince’s murder, too.”

  “The police have ruled it a suicide.”

  “It was murder.” Thrasher was absolutely certain of it.

  Shima rested his heavy forearms on his desktop. “My analysis will hold up in a court of law,” he repeated. “I would stake my reputation on it.”

  Thrasher smiled wanly. “I’m staking my financial future on it, Professor. And maybe my life.”