Powersat

Matagorda Island, Texas

“Mr. Randolph?”

Dan looked up from his desk.

April said, “The control tower just called. Mr. al-Bashir is landing.”

Dan got to his feet and looked through his outside window. Sure enough, a sleek little T-38 was making its turn for the final approach to the runway, glinting silvery in the late morning sunlight. Dan saw thunderheads building up out over the Gulf. We’ll have boomers this afternoon for sure, he thought.

“Do we have somebody at the airstrip to ferry him over here?” Dan asked.

“That’s all taken care of,” April assured him.

“Good. Thanks.” Now all I have to do is wait and look like the busy executive when he gets here.

Once he had returned from Austin, Dan had looked up al-Bashir on the Internet. Not much there, he found. Born in Tunis of a filthy rich family, on the boards of a dozen big multinational corporations. Nothing in the tabloids about him. Either he’s not a playboy or he’s got enough money to keep his exploits out of the scandal sheets.

Dan asked April to straighten up his office in preparation for al-Bashir’s visit while he took a walk around the hangar floor. Still more than a dozen FAA and NTSB people down there, measuring and weighing fragments of the shattered spaceplane. And more in the office building next to the hangar, running analyses on their laptops and driving up Astro’s phone bill with calls to Washington.

By the time he’d returned to his office he hardly recognized it. Everything neat and clean, sparkling, almost His desk was bare, Dan saw with some astonishment. I’ll never be able to find anything, he thought.

April announced, “Mr. al-Bashir to see you,” precisely on the tick of eleven A.M. I always heard that Arabs had no sense of timing, Dan thought as he got up from his chair and came around his desk, hand extended.

Al-Bashir smiled as he stepped into Dan’s office, but he took a good long look at April before turning to accept Dan’s proffered hand. He was dressed like a fashion model in a light gray suit and pale blue tie. Dan felt almost shabby in his shirtsleeves and creaseless slacks. They sat at the circular little table in the corner of the office, next to the window that looked out on the parking lot and the trees beyond it. April brought in a tray of coffee and juices, smiling prettily as she put the tray down on the table and left. Al-Bashir followed her with his eyes, a curious little smile on his lips.

“Your secretary is quite lovely,” al-Bashir murmured as April closed the door behind her.

Dan nodded offhandedly. “Yep, I guess she is.”

“Is she married?”

His attitude riled Dan. Keeping his tone pleasant, he lied, “No, but she’s got a steady boyfriend. Local police officer and martial arts champ. Big guy, mean as a hungry bear.”

Al-Bashir’s smile faded.

“Coffee?” Dan asked.

Half an hour later, Dan was impressed with how much al-Bashir knew about the technology of solar power satellites. He’s no engineer, Dan thought, but he’s pretty damned smart.

“Power satellites will never replace petroleum entirely,” the Tunisian was saying, “but they should be able to take over a large percentage of base-load electrical power generation:”

“Yep,” said Dan. “If we get a dozen or so powersats up there we’ll be able to shut down most of the fossil-fuel electrical power plants on the ground. Maybe all of ’em.”

“Only the fossil-fuel plants? What about the nuclear?”

Dan hesitated a moment, wondering how much he should tell his visitor. Then he said carefully, “Fossil-fuel plants put out greenhouse gases. Nukes don’t. Burning coal and oil and natural gas is causing global warming—”

“Many eminent scientists don’t agree that global warming is real.”

“Yeah, I know. But global temperatures are creeping up every year. If we could shut down the fossil-fuel power plants around the world—”

“An enormous if,” al-Bashir interrupted, with an upraised finger.

Dan chuckled. “Okay. Okay. Let’s concentrate on getting one powersat up and running.”

“What do you think of Scanwell’s dream of making the United States independent of imported petroleum?”

“It’s no dream,” Dan replied. “It’s a necessity.”

“Really?” Al-Bashir’s brows rose. “How so?”

“As long as we’re tied to Middle Eastern oil we’re tied to Middle Eastern politics. We’re hostages to the terrorists and nutcases who want to wipe out Israel and the United States because we support Israel.”

Al-Bashir smiled blandly. “And if the United States no longer needs to import petroleum from the Middle East? What then?”

“That’s their problem, not mine.”

“And Israel’s?”

Dan said, “Israel will have to solve its own problems.”

“I see,” murmured al-Bashir. Then he fell silent.

You stuck your foot in it, Dan angrily told himself. You’re talking to an Arab, for double-damn’s sake, a Moslem. Why can’t you put your brain in gear before you rev up your mouth?

Well, he asked for it, Dan thought. He pushed the door open. So now what?

Al-Bashir sat before Dan’s desk, his face expressionless, his deep, dark eyes on Dan.

“Look,” Dan said, feeling uncomfortable, “I’m not a politician. I’m a businessman. I’m not trying to save the world. I just want to get this power satellite going and make an indecent profit out of it.”

Al-Bashir broke into laughter. “Indeed, that’s what we are all seeking, Mr. Randolph.”

“Call me Dan.”

Nodding, al-Bashir said, “It’s very rare to find one so honest as you are, Dan.”

Dan shrugged.

Growing serious again, al-Bashir said, “Very well. Mr. Garrison is prepared to buy fifteen percent of Astro Manufacturing for a price of one point five billion dollars.”

“And what else?”

“Tricontinental Oil will want to have one of its board members sit on your board of directors.”

“Would that be you, Mr. al-Bashir?”

“It will be me, yes.”

“I would much prefer a loan,” said Dan, “without diluting my holdings of Astro stock.”

AI-Bashir leaned back in his chair and said nothing.

“Senator Thornton plans to introduce a bill that will provide government guarantees for loans to Astro.”

“And other firms, as well,” said al-Bashir.

He knows about Jane’s plan! Dan felt surprised. But he kept his voice level as he added, “The bill is intended to help Astro.”

“The loans will be at very low interest,” al-Bashir pointed out.

“Two percent of a billion and a half is still—”

“Much less than the money would earn elsewhere.”

“But it would be guaranteed,” Dan pointed out. “Zero risk.”

Al-Bashir had the look of a cat playing with a mouse it had captured. “Dan, be serious. You can’t expect us to hand you a billion and a half dollars and get nothing for it but two percent interest over a ten- or twenty-year time span. It’s ridiculous.”

“Then I’ll have to go elsewhere, I guess,” said Dan. “Maybe Saito Yamagata will be more willing:’

Al-Bashir’s expression turned pitying. “Dan, my friend, if you’re worried about having your corporation snatched out of your hands, worry about Yamagata and the Japanese, not Tricontinental.”

Inwardly, Dan agreed. Sai is willing to help, he knew. But the price of that help would be to allow Yamagata to get its hands on the spaceplane design.

“You can’t get the kind of money you need without giving up something, Dan,” al-Bashir said, quite reasonably. “What is it the scientists talk about, some law of thermodynamics?”

“The second law,” Dan muttered. “You can’t win, and you can’t even break even.”

“There’s no free lunch, Dan. All Garrison wants is a seat on your board so he can stay informed of what you’re doing. One seat isn’t going to change your board. I won’t be able to take over your company with only one vote.”

“I suppose not,” Dan admitted. But a voice in his head asked, Then why do you want that seat so badly?