29 AUGUST 1998
AEROSPACE PLANE YEAGER
“Cindy, Dan.”
“I can’t hear you.”
“It’s Dan!”
“You don’t have to shout.”
“Is Bill there?”
“No.”
“This is very important, Cindy. I’m not calling to shoot the breeze.”
“He’s not home.”
“Has he left for the space plane?”
“That’ll be the day.”
“Cindy, we have a slight problem up here. I don’t think this is a very opportune time for Bill to visit the station. I’ve had his passes revoked”
“Trying to get back in my good graces, huh?”
“That isn’t it at all. Is Bill there?”
“I told you he’s not. What’s your problem? Some young girl scientist think you’re a big spaceman?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“I understand that as well as anyone.”
“Tell him I’m sorry and that I’ll make it up to him.”
“Famous last words.”
Shaped vaguely like a shark with wings instead of flippers, its eight hypersonic scramjet engines drinking up liquid hydrogen fuel, the aerospace plane Yeager accelerated past an altitude of 150,000 feet over the Great Plains. Nine minutes earlier it had taxied down the runway at Edwards Space Center in the high desert of California and vaulted into the crystalline blue of the early morning sky. Its itinerary: Trikon Station and Space Station Freedom.
Much to his relief, Aaron Weiss felt none of the crushing g-forces he had expected. The aerospace plane had taken off as smoothly as a commercial airliner. Which, in Weiss’s catalogue of evils, was bad enough. No lover of high-speed travel, Weiss believed that roller coasters should be outlawed as dangerous instrumentalities. But he had traveled in bullet trains in both France and Japan, and was pleased to discover that the aerospace plane was no less comfortable. For a moment, he even forgot about the airsick bag dangling from his fist.
The seats were arranged four across, with an aisle in the middle. Weiss had demanded an aisle seat; he had no desire to see the world falling away from him. The window seat was empty. More than half the seats were empty. Nutty way to run an airline, Weiss thought, flying this expensive contraption without a full load of paying passengers.
Across the aisle sat Fabio Bianco. Weiss had heard that the elderly CEO of Trikon International looked like a monk; he saw that the description was not exaggerated. The frail old man seemed too small, almost childlike, nestled in his chair, his wispy tonsure splayed like a halo on the maroon velour of the headrest, his liquid brown eyes staring serenely forward, his lips quivering as if in silent prayer.
“Hell of a ride,” said Weiss, realizing as he spoke that the cabin was much quieter than any plane he had ridden aboard.
Bianco smiled pleasantly and nodded.
“My first time on one of these babies.” Weiss held aloft his airsick bag. “I thought it would be worse.”
“The ride is very smooth,” agreed Bianco, with just a hint of Italian vowels at the end of his English words.
“Where are you headed?”
“Trikon Station.”
“So am I. My name is Aaron Weiss.” He stretched his hand across the aisle.
“I am Fabio Bianco.”
“Bianco?” Weiss put on his most innocent expression. “Isn’t the head of Trikon named Bianco?”
“That is correct. I am that person. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Weiss of the whales.”
“Recognized me, huh?” Weiss lifted a lock of gray hair from behind his ear. “Even without the hat?”
“I have been following your reports with great interest. I have been wondering how accurate they are.”
“Accurate enough.”
“Those deaths have brought me great sadness.”
“Those deaths are pretty damned scary,” said Weiss.
“What brings you to Trikon Station, Mr. Weiss? There are no whales on board, at least not to my knowledge.”
“A hunch or two,” Weiss said. “What about you? CEOs aren’t noted for mingling with the peons.”
“I have my reasons, Mr. Weiss. Now if you will excuse me, I need to rest. It has been an exhausting week for me. We can speak further on Trikon Station.”
You bet we will, Fabio baby, Weiss muttered to himself.
Dan Tighe eyed Aaron Weiss suspiciously. The reporter wore white crew socks, baby chinos, and a denim workshirt with pearl buttons. His Donegal walking hat was attached to his head by a jerry-rigged system of rubber bands. A Minicam hovered at chest level, loosely tethered to Weiss’s skinny neck by a loop of thinly braided cord. Dan didn’t like the idea of a reporter nosing around the station. Especially the muckraking TV-tabloid kind. He didn’t buy Weiss’s protestations that he was now a legitimate reporter covering stories related to science and technology for CNN in Atlanta. To Dan, Aaron Weiss always was and always would be a parasite. But the parasite was on board with Trikon’s permission, so Dan had to be cooperative, if not cordial.