Powersat

Houston, Texas

As he flew the butter-yellow Beech Staggerwing into the old Hobby Airport, Dan thought that Houston’s sprawl of high-rise towers looked like some Hollywood designer’s concept of what “the city of the future” should look like. All glass and steel, one building gaudier than the next.

Adair had offered to pilot the plane but Dan told him to stay with the FAA team investigating the accident. He flew to Houston on his own in the company’s little “puddle jumper,” a venerable Staggerwing biplane. It was slow and noisy, and it vibrated like a kitchen Cuisinart, but Dan loved the old beauty, loved her graceful lines and her faithful reliability. He and Tenny had personally rebuilt it, and he cherished every bump and rattle as he lined up the biplane for final approach, bouncing around in the jet wash of the Boeing 737 touching down ahead of him.

Garrison had a limousine waiting for him on the ramp as Dan taxied to a parking slot. He grabbed his summerweight jacket and stepped down from the plane. The African-American chauffeur, standing next to the limo in the soggy heat, was in black livery; Dan felt sorry for him. As he walked to the limousine the chauffeur opened the back door for him. Dan noticed that the motor was running and the air-conditioning was on full blast. He didn’t have the heart to tell the guy to turn it down a notch or two.

Garrison’s office tower was also cooled enough to raise goosebumps. Dan was met at the lobby reception desk by a sleek, long-legged brunette with a warm smile and sexy eyes. She led him to an elevator marked PRIVATE, which whisked the two of them nonstop to the top floor of the skyscraper.

When the elevator doors opened, Dan saw that the whole penthouse floor was one single expanse of lush greenery. “Looks like Jurassic Park,” he blurted. The brunette’s smile turned a little brittle. “Mr. Garrison loves nature,” she murmured.

Nature, Dan thought as he followed his escort past trays of colorful flowers and huge tubs that contained real trees. The place smelled like a garden, even down to the scent of freshcut grass, but he wondered if it was real or piped in with the cooled air that sighed through vents in the green-painted pipes twined overhead. The ceiling was mostly glass, deeply tinted to keep the place from turning into a solar oven. Garrison’s turned the top floor of this high-rise into a by-damn greenhouse, Dan saw. He probably thinks of himself as an ecologist while his riggers are out digging up half the world to find more oil.

Through an archway of carefully pruned greenery they walked, past a pair of desks flanking their green-carpeted path, each occupied by another sleek-looking young woman. Garrison likes his scenery, Dan thought. Or maybe he has ’em here to impress visitors.

They went around a seven-foot-high hedge and there was Wendell T. Garrison himself, sitting in his powered wheelchair behind a desk big enough to land a helicopter on.

Garrison was peering intently into a slim display screen as Dan and his escort Came into his view. He looked up and the screen slowly folded itself into the top of his massive desk.

“Dan Randolph,” Garrison croaked, his weathered face breaking into a big welcoming smile. He backed the chair away from the desk and drove around it toward Dan.

“Sorry I can’t stand up,” he said, extending his hand. Dan took it in his own. Garrison’s hand felt cool and dry, reminding Dan of a snake’s skin.

“C’mon over here,” the old man said, driving off toward a corner where a small, round table stood next to windows that ran from floor to ceiling. Dan could see cars crawling along the city streets far, far below. It’s almost like being in orbit, he thought.

“You can go now, sugar,” Garrison said to Dan’s escort. “If I want anything I’ll call.”

Despite the lush garden and the hothouse atmosphere, the huge room was still cool enough for Dan to keep his jacket on. Garrison wore a gray business suit, his shirt collar unbuttoned and a bolo tie hanging loosely down his shirt front, which was as wrinkled as his wizened face. Dan couldn’t make out the greenish gray stone in the bolo, although its setting was clearly silver.

“You want anything? Drink? Lunch?”

“No thanks,” said Dan as he sat next to the old man.

“Okay, then let’s get right to business.”

“Suits me fine.”

“You need a cash influx. I’m willin’ to put a bill or so into your company. How much of a percentage can I buy?”

Dan was a little taken aback by his bluntness, but decided that he liked the direct approach.

“Mr. Garrison, I don’t want to sell any part of Astro Corporation to anybody. I want to keep control of my company.”

“Of course, of course. But what you want doesn’t jibe with your financial situation, now does it?”

“I’d be glad to borrow a billion from you,” Dan said.

“At today’s interest rates?”

“LIBOR plus one percent.”

“The Brit bankers’ rate? How about prime from the good old U.S.A.? Plus two.”

“The London interbank rate suits me better.”

Garrison laughed, a wheezing cackle. “Well, you got balls, I’ll say that much for you.”

Smiling back at the old man, Dan replied, “And I don’t intend to give ’em away.”

Garrison nodded. “Can’t say I blame you. How’d you like that cutie that brought you up here, eh? I can fix you up with her for dinner tonight.”

“I’ll be going back to Matagorda tonight.”

“H’mp.”

“About that loan…”

“Not interested in a loan, son. If I put out money for you I expect a share of your company. That’s reasonable and fair.”

Dan nodded; he had to admit Garrison was right.

“Who owns Astro now?”

From the look in the old man’s flinty eyes, Dan figured he already knew such details. “I do,” he answered. “Most of the shares. Sunk every penny I ever saw into it.”

“Uh-huh. And who else?”

“A couple of banks. A lot of smaller investors. My employees own a chunk.”

Garrison scratched at his chin. “They own how much, fifteen percent?”

Right on the nose, Dan thought. “Just about fifteen, yes.”

“Okay, I’ll buy fifteen percent. You can take it out of your own shares. I’ll pay one point five billion. That ought to raise the value of your stock quite a bit.”

“I’d rather have a loan.”

Garrison shook his head.

“Yamagata’s already offered me a loan.”

The old man’s eyes snapped. “You don’t want to be taking money from the Japs, son. They’re out to cut your throat.”

Dan admitted, “Yamagata wasn’t happy when I started the project. He sees it as competition for his own interests.”

Waggling a bony finger under Dan’s nose, Garrison said, “If you’re worried about somebody musclin’ you out of your company, worry about the Japs. Not me.”

The two men talked for more than an hour without coming to an agreement. Dan promised to think about Garrison’s offer of buying into Astro Corporation. “I’ll talk to some of my key board members about it,” he said.

“You do that,” said Garrison. “And remember, the clock’s ticking. You’re lookin’ at the edge of a cliff, son.”

“Don’t I know it,” Dan said.

Once Dan left, escorted again by the brunette, Garrison muttered to himself, “Got to turn up the screws on that boy. He’s too damn stubborn for his own good.”