Chapter 2

George Stone was an average looking man pushing thirty who thought he was a still a teenage knockout, even though he never had been . Stylish in his Armani bathrobe and slippers, this is a man who never did his own laundry. His flirtatious charm belied the fact that had given up the pursuit in favor of one specific mate. Smart guy, although he had never been a scholar, he went to school forever because that was what one was supposed to do. He didn't do particularly well, and it didn't bother him one bit. George was one of those rare individuals who was truly self-motivated and therefore self-employed. He liked to sell things, anything. Every sale in his mind was a great sale and the customer usually went away thinking he had gotten a tremendous bargain. But in reality, George had simply succeeded once again: The Consummate Capitalist. He was also a good materialist. It was his personal duty to drive the US economy forward by enjoying the good things in life. He wasn't embarrassed by success, he relished it. To George, money was the great score keeper in life. Its accumulation simply demonstrated to others that he was correct.

The haze of the previous evening had cleared. George was cruising down to San Jose in his black Mercedes 550 SEL with CD blaring and the conversation of the previous evening mulling around in his brain. The thing that had kept them out of trouble before was the Corona Mentality. The ideas generated during the burrito fests usually were long since forgotten by morning, when only the Aura of the Coronas and the intestinal gas was still around. But this idea was so unique, so bizarre that George actually picked up the cellular phone and called Bob.

"Good Morning, Datamatics, Please press one for help, or the code of the individual with whom you would like to speak. Thanks for calling Datamatics."

George punched in 1745 and the phone rang.

"Bob, Hi! It's George Stone. Are you busy? Oh. Well how about a little lunch? I'll buy. Harold and I have an idea. No, a good idea. It's even legal. We need some computer simulations and a little biochemistry and Harold's too busy. No. More than the usual fee. We'll actually pay you. Promise. Yes. With money this time, Yes. U.S. currency. That's great. Congrats. I'll pick you up in front of the building at 12:30".

George picked up speed. He was off to a meeting in San Jose at 10:00 and then had to get back to Berkeley by 12:30. In San Jose it was the usual. Some firm wanted more equipment and they wanted George to install and maintain it. He spent half an hour talking, they shook and he was on his way to Berkeley. George never sold stuff, he just guaranteed delivery and service and people called him. On his way to Berkeley, he called his secretary, checked on other appointments, and got her to order the equipment. No inventory, low overhead - George all the way. He pulled into Berkeley a 12:15 and parked in the Datamatics lot. Walked up to the front door and into the front room. Like all great software houses, the decor was low budget. Somebody had rolled some carpet across a concrete floor and rented some desks. The secretary was really just an answering machine and lunch order taker. Bob was ready in a couple of minutes.

Bob Grange always looked damaged in some way. Like he had taken to drinking water imported from Mexico or something. You could never quite put your finger on the problem. He dressed normally. He bathed regularly - a tremendous advance for a programmer. But there was something different about him. It might have been from sitting at a computer all day staring into the screen and not talking to anyone. After programming for a long time, a computer programmer begins to think in C. When they finally try to communicate with non-silicon based life forms the conversation is stilted. George and Bob migrated to the car without the customary tour of the building and headed for Spengers. George knew that the way to a good deal was frequently through some good food. They got a table immediately and sat down. This was a real restaurant. No table cloths, no ferns, a few nautical artifacts, a 30 carat diamond in the bar, and waiters who had been there for thirty years. Bob ordered a salad and asked for extra alfalfa sprouts. The waiter glared but said nothing. George went for the macho shark and fries and a pitcher of iced tea.

"So, what's the idea, George? It's got to be a doozy if you two came up with it and you're paying for lunch." Bob was munching on alfalfa sprouts. Several were sticking out from between his teeth.

"Well.., it's a secret at present, but you know those bacteria that live in oil wells? We need one for a special job. We need a bacteria that lives on carbon dioxide and sulfur dioxide and makes oxygen out of it." George skirted the details. He wanted Bob to help and knew the next question was coming. George needed a cover.

"What are you going to do with it?" Bob munched away like a sheep chewing its cud.

"We're going to set up a little chemical plant to clean up the atmosphere." George knew Bob would never agree to help if he knew the real reason. He didn't have a need to know.

"Harold and I figure we set up a plant to either reprocess air to remove the sulfur dioxide or to reprocess coal to remove the sulfur. We offer to build either plant depending on which group pays more. The coal people will want the clean up after the fact and the environmentalists before. We might even sell one to the East Europeans to clean up their mess."

"So what do you need from me?" Bob only saw the trees - not the forest or even the bear dung he was about to step in. "Can't Harold do the work?"

Bob had taken the hook. He should have ordered some bait fish with that salad. "Harold doesn't have the time to either do the computer simulations or to find the right people to develop the bacteria. We aren't sure if we need one from an oil well or from those undersea volcanoes. You know the high pressure, high temperature ones. We might have to clone one to make it live in the processing plant and not anywhere else."

"But, one problem, I'm not so great at biochemistry." Bob had finished the sprouts and was on to what looked like lawn clippings at the bottom of the bowl.

"Oh, Bob, don't underestimate yourself. We need you to do the computer simulations. Do you know biochemists? Ten years at Berkeley and you didn't meet any biochemists? What about that old girlfriend of yours - Emily, Emily Bandor? Wow, that was a woman who not only could fill a bikini but was worth talking to once she filled it. Call her up. Maybe she'll help us. By the way, Harold is going to fax you a list of the chemical reactions we need and the temperature and pressure ranges of the plant. Show it to her and see what she thinks."

George had chosen well. Now to confuse Bob, change channels, and stop the inquiries. "How's Linda?"

"Well, she's great, She's still at California Organics." Bob fell for the cover.

"I bet a little extra income wouldn't hurt matters at all." George let the power of money cover the scent of the trail.

George felt great. The first stage of the project was underway. Usually these ideas just collapsed in their infancy, but this one was starting to take shape. Bob would be helpful with the computer work, but Emily Bandor, she would make all the biochemistry seem trivial. His mind raced to the next in a long list of problems. Next we needed the atmospherics report from Harold and then the vehicles and then the funding. First get Bob back to work, then contact Harold and urge him on. After lunch George drove Bob back to Datamatics. Ten seconds after leaving Bob he was on the phone. "Harold, yeah it's George, I got Bob Grange to join the project."

"What did you tell him? He and Linda would never cooperate if they knew." Harold had known Bob and Linda Grange for years. They were typical knee jerk, granola sucking liberals.

"I told him we were trying to clean up sulfur dioxide in the atmosphere and in coal, using bacteria." George swerved through traffic as he talked on the phone.

"Well that's absolutely true isn't it? Good dodge. I got the composition from the NASA data base. The best data is Russian but the data base had a translation." Harold was working in his desk.

"Fax it to Bob. He said he could get Emily Bandor to help on the chemistry." George accelerated through a yellow that rapidly shifted to red.

"Emily Bandor, wow. Well, that solved that problem once and for all. What about the vehicles? I've roughed out a design but we need someone to build us some NASA approved vehicles." Harold kept diligently working at his desk as he talked on the phone.

"Don't worry, Harold, I've got the perfect guy. He understands the regs and can build it all from Home Depot and surplus. We'll get the vehicles and be under NASA's bid by a factor of 1000." George turned left on a red (from a one way into a one way) but in front of a semi which had to skid to a stop to avoid him.

"That's another thing. That napkin from last night had guacamole smeared across the part about funding. This project is going to cost something." Harold opened a drawer by his desk.

"Don't worry, it's almost taken care of." George cut off another car and got on the freeway.

"What about the last thing on the list?" Harold took a stethoscope out of the drawer and started playing with it.

"Oh, yeah, well I think PR can solve that one." George accelerated right past a cop.

"George, PR can solve Madonna's relationship problems. It can help Cher get a bigger bust - part in movies. It got O.J. off the hook. But this is a major problem. Those environmental instant experts - you know, just add a cause and ten minutes later, poof you have protesters and demonstrations and are being beaten with a desk chair on Gerando. They're going to crucify us. We may never be offered another Sierra Club calendar." Harold started playing with the stethoscope.

"Look Harold, the Sierra Nevada Mountains are a million miles away from this site. There is nothing environmental to ruin." George was now in the fast lane passing everyone.

"Just because something is not even close to the Sierra Nevada Mountains has never stopped them before. If they can sue to protect the mud flats off Emeryville they can sue over anything They stick their nose in all over the place." Harold was snapping the ear pieces, when he pulled back on one of them, it slipped from his fingers and whacked him squarely in the nose.

"That is wetland, Harold. Besides, those guys can never claim we are ruining some hiking trail or the refuge of the three toed, lilly livered, snail darter. This is prime, unused real estate. Nobody lives there. Nobody can live there. We're cleaning up the environment so we can use it. Well, so the world can use it." George cut across five lanes of traffic to pass several cars.

"George, those guys won't even let you clean up the sludge along the bay shore. You know the argument, you will disturb the habitat of what ever animal lives in the tidal muck. They'll go bonkers with this idea." Harold rubbed his nose from the pain.

"Harold, what's the worst thing they can do to us? Take away our birthdays? Have Mike Wallace follow us around and make us look stupid in front of Sunday night TV viewers? They can't even execute a confessed homicidal maniac in this state. You're not going to get the chair for a little environmental improvement." George cut across five more lanes of traffic and accelerated.

"Environmental improvement?! They'll say we're raping the universe on a planetary scale. You know what you can catch from that much activity, don't you?" Harold picked up the stethoscope again.

"Calm down, Don't worry. I got the PR covered and I've got the perfect guy to write the environmental impact statement. He worked for Exxon in the late 80's explaining how oil only improved the Alaskan sound. You know, making those little furry creatures have soft shiny pelts just before they drowned. He'll write something that will diffuse the controversy and let the funding roll." George let go of the wheel to adjust the stereo and open the sun roof at the same time.

"OK." Harold could see things getting out of hand. "But what's the worst thing that could happen?"

"Right. Why don't you come over this weekend? Sit around the pool and we'll hash it out. Caroline will be happy to see you and she can provide a little impersonal advice and public reaction." George reclined in his seat.

"See you Saturday." George was right. Everything would work out. Total happiness and great wealth would be had by all. Who am I kidding? This is getting out of hand and we haven't gotten anywhere. Harold pulled the ear pieces apart and let go - they sprung into his ears with a tad bit more - no a lot more force than expected. The pain was as if he had been lobotomized awake. He hung up the phone.

Chapter 3

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