“When did it start, Yul?”
“Right after I met you.”
SITTING IN OLIVER NORTON SHAW’S study, waiting for him to arrive, I run through what I know: I got sick on the flight from London to San Francisco. I got better after I landed. Yul Tan got sick, seemingly with the same neurological disorder, shortly after he met me. That tells me it’s communicable. It’s a pathogen I acquired either in London or on the plane. I’ll make some calls after this meeting. I’m almost scared to fly home. Nothing I can do about it now, though. I just have to get through this meeting. I try to focus on my surroundings, anything but the nagging thought that I’m really sick.
Shaw’s study is decorated in the classical master-of-the-universe motif: mahogany panels, Persian rugs, two stories of bookshelves filled with ancient tomes he’s probably never read, floor-to-ceiling windows that look out on Central Park, the type of view only acquired through inheritance or quick action, an all-cash bid the same day such a property hits the market.
Despite the lavish office, the sixtysomething-year-old man who shuffles in is warm and unassuming, almost grandfatherly. That surprises me. His reputation is just the opposite: a driven, borderline ruthless, uncompromising captain of industry who never relents once he sets a goal.
He extends his hand, but I beg off, saying I’m fighting a cold. That seems less jarring than “a mysterious illness of unknown origin.”
We recount the few times we’ve met: a few years ago in Sun Valley, an IPO party here in New York, possibly at the funeral of a friend of my father’s. Then he gets to it.
“I appreciate you coming, Nick. I requested this meeting because I’m interested in investing heavily in a few early-stage ventures. High risk. High impact.”
“That’s great. Unfortunately, our current fund is closed. We’ll probably raise again in two years.” Staying on good terms with folks like Oliver Norton Shaw is part and parcel of my business. Wealthy individuals form the bulk of our investors, and they’re usually the easiest to manage. But my words come out without conviction, and I realize that I’m not sure I’ll raise another fund in two years. This could be it for me—and I have no idea what’s next.
“I’m not looking for that kind of investment.”
Shaw talks at length about the type of investments he is looking for: global endeavors with the potential to impact every person on the planet, which may or may not make money. “I’m not interested in charity either, Nick.”
“What are you interested in?”
“I want to find the lever that moves the world. I’m looking for that nascent invention that will be the portal to humanity’s future—not something like the airplane, but something like the wheel. Hell—like fire. Paradigm shifts that I can help usher to the rest of the world. I don’t want to measure my return in dollars and cents, or positive press, or pats on the back at parties. All my friends are giving away their fortunes. I applaud them. Projects in the third world, inner-city initiatives, libraries, free Internet access, disease eradication. It’s all important. But it’s not who I am. I’m a builder. And I want to build something that will last an eternity, that will be the beacon that guides the human race into the long tomorrow, making us better, year after year. That’s why you’re here. I have a vision of what I want to build, but I need the pieces. I need the right people. I need access to those inventions and companies that could change history. There’s a hole in the world, Nick. That hole lies at the intersection of capitalism and government. There are countless inventions and organizations waiting down there in the dark. Their potential to benefit humanity is limitless, but they’ll never see the light of day. They’re too unwieldy for governments: they’re global, risky. Capitalism ignores them: it’s not their kind of return on investment. Some won’t make money at all. Some will take decades, maybe centuries, to build. Generations. Money isn’t as patient as it once was. I want to plug that hole. I want to build an organization, a foundation that can reach down, long and deep, across the ages, bringing these innovations to the surface.”
“Fascinating.”
“You know the kinds of ventures I’m talking about?”
I don’t know if it’s all coincidence or fate or whatever, but I’m starting to believe that I was meant to be right here, right now for a very good reason.
“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 I realize that’s what I saw, too, and why I was so turned off by the pitch this morning, focused as it was on profit and not people. 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, ultimately, “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.
“Good—we have a lot more to talk about.”
I couldn’t agree more. I nod.
“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. You brought me a gift today, and it was more than I could have asked for—and more than I expected to accomplish today, if I’m being honest. Yet, I had a feeling about you, and I know you have a talent for getting people to reach deep and see an idea the way you do. That’s why I thought you would be perfect for this, and I don’t think I’m wrong. We just 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. In my mind, 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 Schröder, and I can’t wait for y
ou to meet her.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Nick
WHEN I RETURN TO OLIVER’S HOME IN THE afternoon, 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, 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 focuses on the screen on the wall opposite, a high-resolution panel that must have cost a small fortune.
To my surprise, he pulls up Facebook: 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.”
“None taken,” I say, smiling. I scan the profile. Harper Lane. Harper Lane. I don’t know the name, but . . . I know the face. For a moment, my mind flickers between memories, places I think I’ve seen her. On a plane. Her captivating eyes looking up at mine. The plane shaking. No. That’s not right. A guy behind me, long blond hair. Jerk. Me turning to him. Then . . . I get her bag out of the overhead and set it in the aisle for her, pausing a second to hold the handle, afraid it will topple over.
Oliver pauses, registering the look on my face. “You know her?”
“I . . . think I was on a flight with her to London.”
“She lives there. She was probably headed home after our meeting. She’s a big part of this, Nick. We won’t have a lot to show for years, maybe decades. We’ll be selling the sizzle for a long time, the promise of what’s to come. There’s only so much you can accomplish sitting in a room, telling these people firsthand. This biography will lay out my vision, where I’m coming from. I want it to inspire and explain. I want it to be a call to arms—written by an outsider. She’s the one. I hope she takes the job.”
“How’s it looking?”
“Doubtful.”
He scrolls down, revealing Harper Lane’s latest post.
Harper: Can’t bloody sleep for two days. Losing it. The Decision. The Decision is crushing me :( Remedies anyone?
The comments section is a mix of wisecracks from guys and actionable advice from women, everything from Ambien to chamomile tea, with several recommendations to hide all snacks if she opts for the Ambien route.
So she’s undecided. But that isn’t what really interests me.
I can’t tear my eyes away from her. There’s something about her, maybe—
“Sir, your three o’clock is here.”
Oliver’s assistant retreats, returning quickly with a woman about my age, perhaps slightly older, late thirties or early forties. She’s fit, and her eyes are intense, unblinking. Her hair is black, about shoulder length. She strides in mechanically.
“Nick Stone, this is Dr. Sabrina Schröder.”
She extends her hand and I take it without thinking, an automatic reaction.
When her skin touches mine, the study disappears, and I’m no longer standing. I’m lying on my back on a cold metal surface, blinding lights shining down on me. I can barely see her standing above me, holding my hand in a different way, squeezing as the table I’m on slides away.
Her hand slips from mine as the lights fade, and I’m once again standing in Oliver’s study, her hand still in mine, as if we had never left this place.
I open my mouth to speak but stop, not sure what to say. What’s happening to me?
For a brief moment, I think Sabrina might have seen it, too. She blinks, searches my face, then turns toward Harper Lane’s Facebook profile on the screen, looking confused.
“Do you two . . . know each other?” Oliver asks, glancing between us.
A pause.
If she says yes—
“No,” Sabrina answers curtly, releasing my hand.
And then the woman who walked in is back, the unblinking eyes and expressionless mask. She takes the seat opposite Oliver and me on the couch and begins without any prompting.
I rub my temples and close my eyes, wondering what exactly is happening to me.
“You all right, Nick?”
That’s a very good question.
“Yeah, sorry—lots of travel in the past few days. Dr. Schröder?”
“Yes. Mr. Shaw asked me here to describe my research, which relates to progeria syndrome . . .”
INCREDIBLE. AFTER SABRINA LEAVES, OLIVER and I sit in his private study, reflecting on the day’s conversations, him sipping tea, me drinking water, pacing occasionally.
The scale and genius of his plan is finally gripping me. Immortality is the key, the linchpin that will ensure that what we build is never destroyed. I’ve bought in. Completely. I know it now. This is the change. What I must do. What’s been missing. Excitement. Energy. I feel inspired again, curious about what tomorrow holds. There’s so much to do.
I imagine our cabal, a hundred people marching across time together, the world’s best and brightest, carrying the torch for a better tomorrow. I’m humbled to be involved, and yet I know I am meant to be a part of this. To help lead this.
The Titan Foundation isn’t about a handful of innovations—Q-net, Podway, Orbital Dynamics, or the Gibraltar Dam. It’s about an endless flow of projects on the same scale, generation after generation. An endless human renaissance.
We’re not talking about feeding a single starving village for a year, providing clean water for a war-torn region in ruins, or curing a plague in the third world. We’re talking about an end to all humanity’s problems, any that come, in any age. A group to guide us, watch over the world. Continuity. I feel as though I’m standing at a turning point in human history.
Oliver’s phone rings. He apologizes for taking the call, which he says is urgent. I insist he take it and get up to leave, but he gestures for me to stay.
He picks up and listens attentively, shaking his head every few seconds. Whatever the caller says disturbs him deeply. He seems to deflate with every word, slumping back into the brown leather chair behind the desk. Finally he starts asking questions quickly. He’s out of his element, that’s clear. The talk is of the British court process, gag orders, whether he can sue for conspiracy to libel before anything has been published.
After he hangs up, he stares at the bookshelf beside his desk for a long moment.
“We’re all going to have to make sacrifices for this foundation, Nick.”
I nod, sensing that he wants to say more.
“My son’s very upset about my decision. He’s throwing a selfish, irrational fit, the type a child might throw when you take his toys away, which is essentially what’s happening
. And it’s my fault. His mother died twenty years ago, of cancer, far too young. Broke my heart. She’s the only thing I ever loved, besides my company. That company was all I had left, and it never would have grown into what it is if she hadn’t passed away.
“I was a sorry father. I doted on Grayson. Coddled him. Never said no. The worst thing you can do for a child is give him everything he wants. Humans should grow up a little hungry, struggle a little, be made to strive for something. That’s what builds character. Struggle reveals who we really are. That journey shows us what we want from this world. Now Grayson wants what he’s always taken for granted: my money.”
“What do you want to do?”
“He says if I give him a little money now, that’ll be the end of it. If not, he promises he’ll extract his inheritance by other means, and it will cost me a lot more. He thinks he knows me, thinks I’ll figure up the dollar amounts and pay out the lesser: cash to keep him quiet, hush money that will keep my reputation intact. That reputation is essential to building this foundation.”
I don’t envy Oliver’s situation. He walks over and stares at a picture on the wall: a young man in his twenties with long, flowing blond hair, the smile on his face just a little too self-confident. I’ve seen that face, slightly older, but wearing the same smirk. On a plane. Then outside it. Him shoving me. My fist connecting with that face.
No. That’s wrong. We were on the plane, shoving. He walked away muttering obscenities.
It’s like there are two memories.
I reach up, touching my temple. The migraine is back. It’s nearly blinding. I close my eyes, hoping it will pass.
I can barely hear Oliver’s words.
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in business, it’s that giving a tyrant what he wants doesn’t solve your problem. It only makes it worse. My son has to grow up sometime. This is as good a time as any.”
I say nothing to this. But I want to. The kid in the picture is acting like a brat, but the truth is that he just wants his father’s attention. That’s all. I have my own feelings about my father. I’ve come to terms with them, and I was lucky enough to find my own way. There’s so many things I want to say, but flashes are going off in my head, washing over me, plunging me into darkness, and then blinding light.