Ben Bova - Able One

Sure enough, Anson disengaged from the other couple and turned to Harry and Sylvia. “You must be Mrs. Hartunian,” he said, making it sound as if it were a compliment.

“Sylvia,” Harry said.

“A pleasure.” Anson took Sylvia’s hand and bowed over it slightly, as if he were going to kiss it. Sylvia’s face turned scarlet.

Then Anson said, “Sylvia, do you mind if I borrow your husband for a few minutes? I have something important to discuss with Harry. In private.”

“Ce… certainly,” Sylvia stammered.

“Thank you, Sylvia,” said Anson graciously. “I won’t keep him long.”

Harry felt mystified as Anson gripped him by the elbow and led him through the partygoers, back toward the stairs. The crowd melted away before them. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, Harry thought.

“Can your ribs do the stairs or should we take the elevator?” Anson asked.

“I’m okay,” Harry said, stretching the truth. “The stairs are fine.”

The staircase curved between walls lined with old, fading photographs. Family, Harry thought. People at the beach, people at formal dinners in tuxedos and evening gowns, a man who looked a lot like Victor Anson shaking hands with President Franklin D. Roosevelt, no less. Some of the pictures seemed to go back to the roaring twenties.

The staircase ended in a single, open, airy solarium. All the walls were tinted windows from floor to ceiling. Harry squinted at the light streaming in despite the tinting; it was almost painful. A big old-fashioned desk of dark mahogany stood on one side of the room, an even bigger, heavy-legged pool table on the other.

“My sanctum sanctorum,” Anson said as Harry looked admiringly around the room, his eyes adjusting to the brightness. “I come up here to do my thinking. And my deciding.”

Harry couldn’t think of anything to say.

A pair of comfortable bottle green-leather wing chairs was in one corner, angled slightly to face each other. A small sherry table stood between them.

Anson gestured to the chairs. “Have a seat, Harry.”

Harry eased himself gratefully into the luxurious chair. It creaked a little. Or is that my back? Harry asked himself.

A bottle and two tiny tulip glasses stood on the table.

“Have some sherry?” Anson asked as he sat facing Harry. “It’s amontillado, my favorite.”

Harry hesitated, then hoisted his club soda as he replied, “I’ve got to drive home.”

Anson nodded. “Smart fellow.”

Harry felt uncomfortable. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if it was okay to rest his glass on the inlaid wood of the little table between them.

Anson solved Harry’s dilemma by sliding a thick green marble coaster across the table as he asked, “How’s the rebuilding work going?”

“We’re on schedule, Mr. Anson. A little ahead of schedule, actually.”

“Good,” said Anson. Leaning forward slightly, his slender hands on his knees, he went on. “This laser project is very important, Harry. Extremely important.”

“I know.” Harry hesitated, wondering how Anson would react to being questioned, but worked up the courage to say, “Mr. Anson, is it all right if I ask you a question?”

“Certainly,” Anson replied grandly. Then, with a sly wink, he added, “I don’t guarantee that I’ll answer it, though.”

Harry forced a perfunctory laugh.

“So what’s your question, son?”

Trying not to let his nervousness show in his voice, Harry said, “When… when the accident happened and Pete Quintana died, I thought—we all thought, actually—that you’d pick Monk Delany to replace Pete as program engineer.”

Anson’s face went dour. For several long moments he said nothing while Harry berated himself for going too far.

At last Anson said slowly, “Not Delany. No, Harry, he wouldn’t do. Not serious enough. I needed a man who could get the job done. That man is you, Harry, and nobody else.”

Swallowing before he could speak again, Harry said, “Thank you, sir. I was . . . well, sort of surprised when you picked me.”

With a thin smile, Anson said, “That’s one of your good qualities, my boy. You don’t have a swelled head.”

Harry couldn’t think of a thing to say.

Anson went on. “I’ve talked General Scheib into giving us a go-ahead for flight tests as soon as we prove the rebuilt laser works.”

“Flight tests?”

“Yes. That’s where the real money is, Harry. Systems integration and then flight tests.”

“We’ll have to test the COIL on the ground first, make sure we’ve got all the bugs out.”

“Of course,” said Anson. “Of course. But I want to stress to you, Harry, how important this program is. I’ve sunk a lot of the company’s money into your COIL. I’m swinging for the fences with this one.”

Harry thought, It isn’t my COIL.

Anson went on. “You see, Harry, I believe in this laser idea. The United States is under threat, you know. A grave threat. It’s bad enough that the Russians and the Chinese have whole fleets of ballistic missiles aimed at us—”

“I thought they agreed to retarget their missiles, just like we did,” Harry interrupted. “They signed an agreement, didn’t they? A treaty?”

Anson waved an impatient hand. “They could target them back on our cities in a matter of hours.”

Harry nodded.

“But it’s these other people who really threaten us. The Russians and Chinese know that if they try to hit us we’ll smash them back to the Stone Age with an overwhelming counterstrike. But what about terrorists? What about the crazies in North Korea and Iran?” A blue vein in Anson’s forehead began to throb. “They’re fanatics! They’re not worried about a counterstrike. All they want is to hurt us as deeply as they can! Blow up an American city! Cripple our economy! Bend us to their will!”

“So the airborne laser—”

“Will be our first line of defense. We’ve got to be able to stop their missiles as soon as they fire them at us. And they’ll be firing them at us, never doubt it.”

Harry picked up his glass and took a gulp of soda. “We’ve got a lot of work to do,” he said.

“We do indeed, Harry,” Anson said, nodding grimly. “And I’ll be perfectly frank with you, son: the company’s entire future is riding on that laser. If it fails, if we can’t make it work and we lose the contract, Anson Aerospace could go bankrupt.”

“The whole company?” Harry felt startled.

“The whole company,” Anson confirmed. “I’ve staked just about everything on this one program.”

“Wow.”

Anson took a sip of amontillado, then asked, “Do you know why you weren’t laid off after the accident?”

Harry’s guts clenched. One of the laser team’s technicians, Andy McMasters, had been fired. Harry had expected the ax to fall on his neck, but they had booted McMasters instead.

Without waiting for Harry to reply, Anson went on. “Levy suggested we let you go, you know. He wanted to find a scapegoat to blame for the accident.”

Harry nodded wordlessly.

“But I knew that the rest of your team looked up to you, Harry. I knew the accident wasn’t your fault. I knew we needed you to get the COIL back on track.”

“Me?”

Anson nodded wisely. “You.”

Dumbfounded, Harry mumbled, “Thank you, sir.”

Anson reached out and grasped Harry by the shoulder. “You’re important to us, son. Important to me.”

“But I’m just an engineer,” Harry protested, his back twinging. “Dr. Levy’s the one—”

Waving an impatient hand, Anson said, “Levy’s a scientist. He’s fine in the lab, of course, but what I need now is a man who can make that contraption really work. I don’t need equations and theories, I need performance. I need you, Harry. You’re my program engineer.”