Departure(81)
“Interesting.”
“You know the kinds of ventures I’m talking about?”
“I know of a few.”
I tell him about Yul Tan, about Q-net, and about the scientist who bought the mining patents and his ideas for RailCell, or possibly Podway—how the two technologies could link the world, one virtually, one physically.
We talk at length about how both companies could be ruined by the wrong investors, never reaching their true potential. How the world would benefit from both. He asks me about others, and I can’t resist telling him about the Gibraltar Project. Shaw comes alive, looking younger than his years, the ideas flowing out of him, how his connections and existing companies might move the project along. We talk about my meeting this morning, the orbital colonies. Shaw sees the true potential of the project, which isn’t about real estate or asteroid mining or anything else on the investment buffet I was shown: it’s about inspiring the human race, about making us dream again, about creating a cause that’s bigger than nations or races, a grand goal that unifies humanity. And that’s what I saw, why I was so turned off by the pitch this morning. It was the right product—as my acquaintance said, far out there, not my typical investment. A project with huge potential impact. The approach was my problem. I see the world as Shaw does. He’s speaking as if he’s reading my mind. With every word I come alive a little more, ideas occurring to me, us feeding off each other. Gradually phrases like “You could” and “I would” transition to “We should,” and then “We will.”
I don’t know exactly what we’re building, but it’s taking shape right here in this room. It’s like a new venture capital fund, his resources and mine (which pale in comparison), and our complementary know-how: start-ups for me, large-scale organizations for him. “We’re bookends” are his words.
As the clock’s hands near twelve, I realize I don’t want the meeting to end. I’m unsure where things go from here, even whose court the ball is in or who’s in charge.
“How long are you in town for, Nick?”
“Not sure,” I say, in lieu of I’m a little nervous about flying right now—I seem to have a mysterious disease that’s activated by air travel.
“We’re going to need a lot of help to build what we’re planning, Nick. Visionaries, scientists. And money. Fortunes. Billions, possibly trillions, of dollars. You know about raising money. That’s the other reason you’re perfect for this. We have to think about how we package what we’re selling.”
“I agree.”
“To me, we’re selling the only thing money can’t buy.”
My mind flashes to the word love.
“Status,” says Shaw. “The issue is how to value status. There are two components—extrinsic and intrinsic value. How much do others value status, the people the beholder respects? That’s the extrinsic value. And how much benefit does the status hold for you personally, excluding all external factors and influence? That’s the intrinsic value. I’ve been calling this . . . venture the Titan Foundation. Its members will be Titans. It will be the most exclusive club in the world. But the people we’ll recruit are used to status and exclusive clubs. We need something else. I have someone coming in at three. She’s been working on a key to convincing these people to join us. Something irresistible. Her name is Sabrina Schr?der, and I can’t wait for you to meet her.”
47
When I return to Oliver’s home, his assistant doesn’t lead me to the master-of-the universe study where we met before. Rather, she leaves me in a much smaller space, an office with a simple, worn desk, two chairs, and a couch. The shelves are filled not with collector’s editions of books or conversation-spawning antiques from around the world, but with personal photographs and popular nonfiction books, mostly history and science—books the masses read.
This is Shaw’s personal study, and its simplicity and humility reflect the man I met earlier today, the person the public has never seen. He sits on the couch, a keyboard and trackpad on the coffee table in front of him. “Hi,” he says, pushing up from the couch to greet me.
“Hi.” I hold a hand up, urging him to keep his seat. It’s strange. I only met him this morning, but I feel like I’ve known Oliver Norton Shaw for a hundred years or more.
He returns his focus to the screen on the wall opposite, a high-resolution panel that must have cost a small fortune.
To my surprise, Facebook is pulled up: the profile of a girl in her late twenties or early thirties. Blond hair. A twinkle in her eyes and a slightly mischievous smile on her lips, as if the picture was taken just before she laughed out loud at a prank pulled on a friend.
He studies the screen intently, reading the latest posts.
“Didn’t figure you for a Facebook user.” I pause, then shrug. “No offense.”
“None taken. I’m not. My assistant’s idea. Apparently it’s become somewhat acceptable to stalk people on the Internet.”
I take a seat on the couch beside him. “Just some harmless stalking, huh? Glad it’s not anything weird.”
He chuckles as he works the keyboard.
“She’s a biographer, a really talented young lady. I met with her recently. I want her to write my story, but I haven’t been able to get an answer from her. My assistant suggested looking her up to see if she’d posted any clues as to what she might do. This new generation . . . they revel in putting it all out there, dirty laundry and all.” He gives me a sly sidelong glance. “No offense.”