Then came the catch.
Bolt asked an obvious question. "What is our market?"
They looked at him with dull, blank expressions.
"R.M?"
"Market," Bolt snapped. "Who can we sell this to?"
Meech adjusted his taped-together glasses and shuffled his sneakered feet. "We explained all that."
"Refresh my memory," Bolt ordered.
"The Pentagon's not underwriting SDI R we launch a working prototype, we have their attention in a way never before seen. It's viable, and a PR coup that will put qNM in the forefront of planetary defense, which we feel will be the cutting edge for the new century, technological-application-wise."
Bolt stared blankly.
"And best of all, the energy is free!" Meech added.
Reemer Bolt's scowl broke like the sun breaking through thunderheads.
"You spoke the magic words." Then his voice darkened again. "Just make damn sure the Pentagon will buy it."
"Oh, they'll buy it," Meech promised.
"Make certain. It's our jobs."
"I guess we can program it for planetary interventions. Not just defense."
Some of the engineers went pale at that. Bolt ignored the not very subtle warning sign. "Do it."
"No problem, R.M. We're on it."
They started to return to their labs when Bolt stopped them. "Wait!"
They hesitated.
"Aren't you forgetting something? It needs a name."
"We're calling it the Paraguay Project because that's where we assembled the components. It was cheap and offered the best security, patent-wise," said Meech.
Bolt shook his head firmly. "'The Paraguay Project' won't cut it."
"How about the Solar Harnesser?"
"Sounds horsey."
"The Sun Tamer, then?"
"Reminds me of a cheap Western."
"I know," offered a nameless engineer. "We can call it the ParaSol 2001."
"What does that mean?" demanded Bolt.
"Nothing, really. But people respect numbers. Especially big ones attached to futuristic-sounding words. I think it has something to do with math anxiety."
Reemer Bolt's close-shaved face wavered between a scowl and a mere frown. Eventually realizing they were running into lunch, he said, "Makes sense to me. Go with it."
And with that, Reemer Bolt turned his back on the project.
It was many months later that he finally pieced together the bits of data that explained what the ParaSol 2001 actually was. He did this by pink-slipping an engineer and debriefing him while the man blubbered behind closed doors. That way, no one was the wiser.
Bolt had to explain it to the board of directors; otherwise, he would never have bothered.
"The ParaSol 2001 is designed to repel planet-threatening threats," Reemer Bolt said proudly as he stood before a wall chart that showed threat quantities and their H-bomb equivalents. It was a very frightening display. It even scared him.
The board, as usual, cut right to the heart of the thing.
"Who in their right mind is going to pay to defend the planet against external threats?" CEO Ralph Gaunt asked.
"They'll pay if we're the only game in orbit."
"Knowing the Pentagon generals, they'll appeal to our patriotism and expect us to do the job gratis to save our own butts," Gaunt scoffed. "No profit in saving the world, Bolt."
"Already thought of that. It can be directed earthward to zap any military target on earth. No other Earth-based weapon has that feature."
The board stared stonily. Bolt sweated.
"And best of all," he added quickly, "it's the most gigantic advertising billboard in human history."
With that, Bolt pressed a remote switch, and the scale-model ParaSol 2001 opened up like a dark, unfolding flower to reveal the qNM logo in neat black letters right down to the lowercase q which had been the first-year suggestion that earned Reemer Bolt his initial salary hike. He was very proud of it.
"Our logo. Twice as big as the moon in the evening sky. The PR value will be stunning."
This won over the board. They had just one question.
"Will it hurt the ozone layer?"
"Don't worry. I already thought of that," said Reemer Bolt, who felt an old, cold fear trickle down the gully of his back. After all, he was directly responsible for the 1987 Montreal Protocol Treaty, which called for reducing fluorocarbon emissions by the year 2000. Even if he couldn't exactly put in on his resume.
Now, many months later, that sweat was back and it was very very hot. The board was screaming. They didn't care anymore about planetary defense or the global marketing footprint or Pentagon generals. They wanted Reemer Bolt. And they wanted answers. Was that thing up there ours or Russia's?
Working his desktop system, Bolt checked his e-mail.
To: RM@qnm.com From: RalphGaunt@qnm.com Subject: Where are you? Am in Cancun. Hotel says you checked out. Urgent we meet. Where are you?