Free SpaceCorp by Ejner Fulsang Page A

arm close. “Let’s go down now. I want to…” She looked away blushing in the moonlight. “Let’s just go down.”
    July 2070 – a week later
    Mack’s office overlooking the floor of the mock up hangar, Vandenberg
    Mack was sitting at his computer when a message avatar from Hank Larsen interrupted his thoughts. “Monica, can you come here please? I think you’ll find this interesting!”
    Monica leaned over his shoulder to read the message, then smiled. “Oh, Mack! They bought it! Do you really think we can pull this off in a year?”

C HAPTER F IVE
    August 2070
    Hotel InterContinental, 7-9 Chemin du Petit-Saconnex , Geneva, Switzerland
    The room was windowless, dominated by a large boardroom table in its center which was in turn surrounded by two dozen plush leather captain’s chairs—twelve to a side. Several dozen armless leather chairs were arranged along the walls. Overhead hung a large crystal chandelier that reflected very little light off the dark inlaid wood ceiling. Track lights along the ceiling provided the primary illumination of the room. The wall paneling looked like mahogany, the carpet was a plush but worn burgundy wool. The world was a cooler place two centuries ago when the building was constructed. Today a couple of floor fans whirred from opposite corners to provide circulation to the stuffy atmosphere. Access to the room was by separate entrances on either side of the table. Several members of the press occupied strategic viewing positions around the room. Guards would occasionally step forward to shoo them back into position when they got too curious.
    The American side left the twin doors open, the better to provide circulation. On the Iranian side the doors were still closed. The Americans sat quietly staring at the vacant seats on the other side of the table. The Iranians were uncharacteristically late… over an hour now since the agreed upon time.
    Deputy Secretary of State Roger Miller leaned over to the Secretary, Foster Adams. He whispered behind his hand to shield his lips from possible lip readers, “ Without prior concessions? Tell me again that wasn’t your idea.”
    Adams smiled. “You shouldn’t drink so much coffee.”
    At that moment, the Iranians burst through their entrance led by the Iranian Foreign Affairs Minister Payam Najafi. All were dressed in dark western style suits, Seville Row from the look of them, white shirts open at the collar, no neckties—all except one who wore traditional Shi’a cleric’s robes. He was a thin, intense little man who couldn’t seem to hold still. He wore rimless spectacles that kept slipping down the bridge of his nose.
     The American Secretary waited for them to be seated. “Minister Najafi, thank you for—”
    Najafi appeared not to notice. His assistant showed him a folder which he glanced at and nodded. The assistant rose from his seat and removed the paper from within the folder. “Mr. Secretary, we have a list of demands.” Without waiting for the Secretary to answer he began reading. Najafi’s vacant eyes were fixed on the Secretary, looking as though he would prefer to be taking a nap. The assistant droned on: “...economic sanctions must be lifted and reparations must be paid for the economic damage done to the people of Iran since 1953 and a formal letter of apology read into the record by your president at the United Nations.”
    The cleric rose and waved his finger toward the Americans. “And the apology must be pre -ratified by the Senate!”
    The assistant paused to look at the cleric, his countenance waffling between embarrassed and irritation. “Yes, pre-ratified by your Senate.” Then he sat down.
    Adams stared at the Iranians, eyes unblinking for a full minute. Then without a word, he rose slowly, turned, and walked out of the room. One by one the Americans rose and followed him.
    *   *   *
    Once in the hallway with the doors secured behind them, Miller caught up to Adams and spoke in a low voice.