it,” he said, and busied himself shutting down the projector. Orbital diagrams and financial projections faded from the air like unfunded dreams.
Valerie Itsui, principal of Itsui Investments, sat with fingers steepled and a stiff unreadable expression on her face.
“Well . . .” said Jan, at the same time Kellie said, “Well then . . .” The twins shared a momentary glance, then Kellie continued, “. . . why don’t we adjourn to the outer office? I believe lunch is ready.” Ray swallowed; the Griffin sisters almost never stepped on each other’s lines. That they would do so now showed just how nervous they were.
As the twins and Ms. Itsui moved toward the door, the fourth and newest member of the fledgling Asteroid Metals Extraction Corporation touched Raymond’s hand. “Might as well start packing up now,” Javon muttered low. “I was watching her the whole time you were talking and I swear her face never moved once.”
“You just leave her to me,” Ray replied, and clapped Javon on the shoulder. But after Javon turned and followed the other three, Ray pursed his lips and sighed.
Money was getting tight, for the industry as a whole as much as for AMEC. The nearby Moon and the resource-rich satellites of Saturn and Jupiter had been snapped up years ago, and after the recent series of space development bankruptcies some people were saying the scattered rocks of the Asteroid Belt could never be successfully exploited. But Ray was convinced that the twins’ novel refinery technology could make mining the asteroids for molybdenum possible, young Javon’s engineering talents could make it practical, and his own money skills could make it profitable. First, though, he had to sell that concept to the people with the money, and so far he’d failed.
What was he doing wrong? The technology would work, he was sure of it. The financials were rock-solid. He’d put every bit of supporting data he could into his presentation. So why weren’t the big fish biting?
Ray drummed his fingers on the table. Maybe . . . maybe he was using the wrong bait.
Venture capitalists like Valerie Itsui spent their days in meetings like this one, looking at charts full of optimistic projections. What made the difference between the one that caught her attention and the many that didn’t?
Not data. Dreams.
He had to make her believe in the dream . He had to make her feel the same excitement he felt for AMEC’s plan.
The same excitement that had driven him into space development in the first place.
Ray nodded to himself, tucked the folded projector into a pocket, and stepped into the outer office.
He made his selections from the tray of sushi laid out on the reception desk, then sat next to Ms. Itsui. “So,” he said, “what made you decide to invest in space development in the first place?”
She wiped her lips with a precisely folded napkin before replying. “Profit, Mr. Chen. There’s more upside potential in space than anywhere on Earth, even now.”
“It wasn’t the money for me,” Ray said. The twins looked at each other in surprise. “Oh, sure, I got my MBA, because I didn’t have the head for science or the guts for zero-gee construction. But ever since I was a teenager I wanted to go to space.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Because of the stories.”
They were all looking at him now, giving him their complete attention in a way he’d never managed with any number of rosy financial projections. Ms. Itsui cocked her head in consideration of his words; the others were flat astonished. This was a side of himself he’d never revealed before.
“What stories, Mr. Chen?”
“Tales of exploration and adventure and derring-do, Ms. Itsui. Do you know the name Titanium Mike?”
“I can’t say that I do.”
Ray settled back in his chair. “Well, most folks say Mike is just a myth. But the fact is that he’s been kicking around the System since Branson Station was just a loose mess of bolts and
Valerie Itsui, principal of Itsui Investments, sat with fingers steepled and a stiff unreadable expression on her face.
“Well . . .” said Jan, at the same time Kellie said, “Well then . . .” The twins shared a momentary glance, then Kellie continued, “. . . why don’t we adjourn to the outer office? I believe lunch is ready.” Ray swallowed; the Griffin sisters almost never stepped on each other’s lines. That they would do so now showed just how nervous they were.
As the twins and Ms. Itsui moved toward the door, the fourth and newest member of the fledgling Asteroid Metals Extraction Corporation touched Raymond’s hand. “Might as well start packing up now,” Javon muttered low. “I was watching her the whole time you were talking and I swear her face never moved once.”
“You just leave her to me,” Ray replied, and clapped Javon on the shoulder. But after Javon turned and followed the other three, Ray pursed his lips and sighed.
Money was getting tight, for the industry as a whole as much as for AMEC. The nearby Moon and the resource-rich satellites of Saturn and Jupiter had been snapped up years ago, and after the recent series of space development bankruptcies some people were saying the scattered rocks of the Asteroid Belt could never be successfully exploited. But Ray was convinced that the twins’ novel refinery technology could make mining the asteroids for molybdenum possible, young Javon’s engineering talents could make it practical, and his own money skills could make it profitable. First, though, he had to sell that concept to the people with the money, and so far he’d failed.
What was he doing wrong? The technology would work, he was sure of it. The financials were rock-solid. He’d put every bit of supporting data he could into his presentation. So why weren’t the big fish biting?
Ray drummed his fingers on the table. Maybe . . . maybe he was using the wrong bait.
Venture capitalists like Valerie Itsui spent their days in meetings like this one, looking at charts full of optimistic projections. What made the difference between the one that caught her attention and the many that didn’t?
Not data. Dreams.
He had to make her believe in the dream . He had to make her feel the same excitement he felt for AMEC’s plan.
The same excitement that had driven him into space development in the first place.
Ray nodded to himself, tucked the folded projector into a pocket, and stepped into the outer office.
He made his selections from the tray of sushi laid out on the reception desk, then sat next to Ms. Itsui. “So,” he said, “what made you decide to invest in space development in the first place?”
She wiped her lips with a precisely folded napkin before replying. “Profit, Mr. Chen. There’s more upside potential in space than anywhere on Earth, even now.”
“It wasn’t the money for me,” Ray said. The twins looked at each other in surprise. “Oh, sure, I got my MBA, because I didn’t have the head for science or the guts for zero-gee construction. But ever since I was a teenager I wanted to go to space.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Because of the stories.”
They were all looking at him now, giving him their complete attention in a way he’d never managed with any number of rosy financial projections. Ms. Itsui cocked her head in consideration of his words; the others were flat astonished. This was a side of himself he’d never revealed before.
“What stories, Mr. Chen?”
“Tales of exploration and adventure and derring-do, Ms. Itsui. Do you know the name Titanium Mike?”
“I can’t say that I do.”
Ray settled back in his chair. “Well, most folks say Mike is just a myth. But the fact is that he’s been kicking around the System since Branson Station was just a loose mess of bolts and
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