“But could it work?” Senator Tomlinson asked.
“It already has,” Jake said, echoing Karamondis’s words.
The senator’s private office had changed in the nearly six years since he’d arrived in Washington. Back then the room had been decorated in soft, neutral tones of beige and soft blue, with light walnut paneling and pearl gray drapes. Over the years the décor had become bolder: the drapes were now more silvery, the carpeting royal blue, the senator’s desk wider, handsomely curved, more regally imposing.
Tomlinson leaned back in his desk chair and steepled his fingers in front of his face, thinking. Sitting in front of the desk on either side of Jake were O’Donnell and Patrick Lovett.
“Zach’s a clever man,” Lovett said, with a satisfied smile.
“An academic,” countered O’Donnell.
Senator Tomlinson said softly, “The Treasury Department guarantees the loans so that even if the whole scheme collapses the investors won’t lose their money.”
“That’s the idea,” said Jake.
“Is that legal?”
“It’s been done before.”
O’Donnell said, “Maybe it has, but that was before the Securities and Exchange Commission was created, I’ll bet. There’s probably five hundred federal regulations that’d prevent it now.”
“You could look that up easily enough,” said Lovett.
“Even if it’s not illegal,” O’Donnell insisted, “the opposition would tear the idea to shreds. The US government guaranteeing that Wall Street investors can’t lose their money.” O’Donnell shook his head. “You’d be crucified, Frank.”
“But if we got a couple of key financial types to say they’d invest in this…” Lovett’s voice faded away, leaving the idea dangling.
“Sure they’d invest in it! What’ve they got to lose?”
Jake said, “They’d be tying up their money for fifty years, maybe longer.”
Tomlinson nodded warily.
Lovett countered, “It would make a hot campaign issue. It would get Frank noticed by the news media.”
“Captain Moonbeam,” O’Donnell groused.
Jake said, “Wait a minute. Suppose we got some of the people who’ve already invested in private space companies to say they’d put in seed money, with or without a federal guarantee.”
“Like who?” Tomlinson asked.
“Like Harold Quinton, for example,” Jake replied. “The Silicon Valley billionaire who started up Space Tours, Inc.”
Lovett nodded. “I know Harry Quinton. He might go for something like this.”
Jake added, “And Nicholas Piazza. He founded Astra Corporation. They’re the major carrier back and forth from the International Space Station.”
“You think they’d invest their own money in a lunar base project?” Tomlinson asked.
“Yes!” said Jake. “And they’d back a plan to encourage other investors to put in their money.”
Lovett rubbed his square chin. “It could work. At the very least, it could start a dialogue. Give the news media something different to chew on.”
O’Donnell shook his head. “Captain Moonbeam,” he repeated.
Tomlinson sat up straighter. “Jake, you get this Kalamandis to check out the Treasury Department and the SEC about this.”
“Karamondis,” Lovett corrected. “And you don’t ask him to do dog work. He’d laugh in your face.”
“But I could ask him to recommend a grad student to look up the existing regulations,” Jake said.
“That could work.”
Tomlinson put on his million-dollar smile. “I think we’re onto something. I could be the first president of the United States to fly to the Moon!”
Lovett nodded thoughtfully. O’Donnell said nothing, but the expression on his face could have curdled milk.
* * *
When they first got married, Jake and Tami alternated the chore of preparing dinner. Tami was a good and imaginative cook, although Jake teased her that a sushi dinner shouldn’t count as cooking.
“You try slicing the fish and preparing the garnishes,” she would counter, with faked indignation.
Jake’s idea of cooking was to heat up a couple of microwave dinners. To make up for his lack of culinary capability, Jake was in charge of the cocktails and the wine cellar—a bin among the kitchen cabinets.
On special occasions they would eat out, and this night was certainly a special occasion in Jake’s mind.
He got home before Tami did. Too excited even for a cocktail, Jake stewed around the living room, turned on the evening TV news, turned it off again, checked the clock on the wall, paced back and forth, debated calling Tami’s cell phone—and finally heard her key turning in the front door’s lock.
As she stepped into their living room Jake rushed to Tami and kissed her mightily.
She understood immediately. “He’s going ahead with it?”
Nodding vigorously, Jake said, “Full speed ahead. Next stop, Moon Base One!”
“Jake, that’s wonderful. But—”
“We’re going to Mamie’s for dinner. I’ve already made the reservations.”
“Good!” said Tami.
Jake felt puzzled. It was his turn to cook, he knew. Usually Tami twitted him when he decided to go to a restaurant on a night he was supposed to do the cooking. Instead, she just stood there, her purse slung over her shoulder, beaming at him.
“Good?” he asked.
“I’ve got something to celebrate, too,” Tami said. “Pat Lovett’s PR man has asked me to join his staff!” Her smile could have lit up the whole District of Columbia.
“You’ll be on the campaign staff?” Jake heard his own voice jump an octave.
“We’ll be working together!” Tami said.
“Together again. For the first time.”
Arm in arm they left their apartment and headed for Mamie’s Restaurant.