Meech adjusted his taped-together glasses and shuffled his sneakered feet. "We explained all that."
"Refresh my memory," Bolt ordered.
"The Pentagon's not underwriting SDI R we launch a working prototype, we have their attention in a way never before seen. It's viable, and a PR coup that will put qNM in the forefront of planetary defense, which we feel will be the cutting edge for the new century, technological-application-wise."
Bolt stared blankly.
"And best of all, the energy is free!" Meech added.
Reemer Bolt's scowl broke like the sun breaking through thunderheads.
"You spoke the magic words." Then his voice darkened again. "Just make damn sure the Pentagon will buy it."
"Oh, they'll buy it," Meech promised.
"Make certain. It's our jobs."
"I guess we can program it for planetary interventions. Not just defense."
Some of the engineers went pale at that. Bolt ignored the not very subtle warning sign. "Do it."
"No problem, R.M. We're on it."
They started to return to their labs when Bolt stopped them. "Wait!"
They hesitated.
"Aren't you forgetting something? It needs a name."
"We're calling it the Paraguay Project because that's where we assembled the components. It was cheap and offered the best security, patent-wise," said Meech.
Bolt shook his head firmly. "'The Paraguay Project' won't cut it."
"How about the Solar Harnesser?"
"Sounds horsey."
"The Sun Tamer, then?"
"Reminds me of a cheap Western."
"I know," offered a nameless engineer. "We can call it the ParaSol 2001."
"What does that mean?" demanded Bolt.
"Nothing, really. But people respect numbers. Especially big ones attached to futuristic-sounding words. I think it has something to do with math anxiety."
Reemer Bolt's close-shaved face wavered between a scowl and a mere frown. Eventually realizing they were running into lunch, he said, "Makes sense to me. Go with it."
And with that, Reemer Bolt turned his back on the project.
It was many months later that he finally pieced together the bits of data that explained what the ParaSol 2001 actually was. He did this by pink-slipping an engineer and debriefing him while the man blubbered behind closed doors. That way, no one was the wiser.
Bolt had to explain it to the board of directors; otherwise, he would never have bothered.
"The ParaSol 2001 is designed to repel planet-threatening threats," Reemer Bolt said proudly as he stood before a wall chart that showed threat quantities and their H-bomb equivalents. It was a very frightening display. It even scared him.
The board, as usual, cut right to the heart of the thing.
"Who in their right mind is going to pay to defend the planet against external threats?" CEO Ralph Gaunt asked.
"They'll pay if we're the only game in orbit."
"Knowing the Pentagon generals, they'll appeal to our patriotism and expect us to do the job gratis to save our own butts," Gaunt scoffed. "No profit in saving the world, Bolt."
"Already thought of that. It can be directed earthward to zap any military target on earth. No other Earth-based weapon has that feature."
The board stared stonily. Bolt sweated.
"And best of all," he added quickly, "it's the most gigantic advertising billboard in human history."
With that, Bolt pressed a remote switch, and the scale-model ParaSol 2001 opened up like a dark, unfolding flower to reveal the qNM logo in neat black letters right down to the lowercase q which had been the first-year suggestion that earned Reemer Bolt his initial salary hike. He was very proud of it.
"Our logo. Twice as big as the moon in the evening sky. The PR value will be stunning."
This won over the board. They had just one question.
"Will it hurt the ozone layer?"
"Don't worry. I already thought of that," said Reemer Bolt, who felt an old, cold fear trickle down the gully of his back. After all, he was directly responsible for the 1987 Montreal Protocol Treaty, which called for reducing fluorocarbon emissions by the year 2000. Even if he couldn't exactly put in on his resume.
Now, many months later, that sweat was back and it was very very hot. The board was screaming. They didn't care anymore about planetary defense or the global marketing footprint or Pentagon generals. They wanted Reemer Bolt. And they wanted answers. Was that thing up there ours or Russia's?
Working his desktop system, Bolt checked his e-mail.
To: RM@qnm.com From: RalphGaunt@qnm.com Subject: Where are you? Am in Cancun. Hotel says you checked out. Urgent we meet. Where are you?
Bolt typed out a reply:
To: RalphGaunt@qnm.com From: RM@qnm.com Subject: Whereabouts Sorry. Did not receive sent message. Had to fly to Paraguay to debug ParaSol 2001. Will return to States in forty-eight hours. All will be explained.
The reply came back almost instantaneously: "Remain in Paraguay. En route."
"Perfect," Bolt said, "I didn't get that message, either."
Then he settled down to do the final damage control. It was pretty bad out there. The press was full of Martian fever and war-scare talk with Russia. As long as the Martian fever stayed hot, maybe the Russians would remain cool. But he couldn't trust to fate. He had to take action-smart executive action. If Reemer Bolt could save the planet, it might be possible to salvage his career.
As he started pounding out a message to Meech down in R ered, "This is almost as bad as that ozone mess back in '85. Why does this crap keep happening to me?"
Chapter 44
Seattle was wreathed in an early-morning fog when the jetliner descended toward the airport. A steady winter drizzle drummed on the fuselage as their landing wheels whined out of their wells.
In coach, the Master of Sinanju stared out of the window, unable to see the wingtips in the fog.
Then, in the near distance, a great saucer of steel and glass became visible, floating above the fog.
"We are too late, Remo," he squeaked.
"What?" asked Remo, returning to his seat after having just locked a hysterical stewardess in the rear rest room.
"The star chariots of the Martian invader have landed. Behold the certain sign of their arrival on earth."
Ducking his head, Remo looked past the Master of Sinanju's concerned face. "Oh, that." He sat down.
"Do not dismiss the evidence of your eyes. It is a flying saucer."
"It's the freaking Space Needle, Chiun."
"And a more fearful spectacle I have never seen. See how it hovers over the vanquished city? Note its chilly grandeur, its utter fearlessness from attack. Tell the pilot to turn around. We will not land in occupied Seattle, lest we, too, fall into Martian hands."
"The Space Needle is a building. You just can't see the part that's holding up the saucer in all this fog."
"It is a trick," said Chiun.
"No trick. Now settle down. We have to hit the ground running."
"Never fear. Our foe is doomed."
"That's the problem," said Remo. "We still don't know who we're supposed to doom."
"We will leave no one standing."
"That could take all day, and there's no telling what that thing up there could hit next."
HAROLD SMITH HAD breached the firewalls protecting the computer links for Quantum Neutrino Mechanics. The difficulty was, there was nothing on the qNM local-area network that referenced the thing in orbit, or ParaSol.
Smith refused to accept defeat. There had already been too many dead ends in this situation.
Downloading the entire qNM file system from hard drives to the magnetic-tape records, he initiated a massive unerase program.
It would take time to process. There was no guessing what it might or might not uncover. But if a corporate cover-up was already under way, this was the only way to unlock it.
THE 747 TOUCHED DOWN. Once they reached the terminal, Remo checked in with Harold Smith by pay phone. By mistake, he fed it a kopeck and had to move on to the next booth when it refused U.S. coin.