“I think another one of your investments may be involved too,” Peyton said. “The first cases of the outbreak in Mandera were Americans—two men who had recently graduated from college. They were in Kenya to launch a nonprofit startup called CityForge. Icarus Capital funded them. In fact, the two young men had dinner with you. They said it was very eye-opening.”

“How so?”

“They were impressed, described you as larger than life.”

Desmond saw a curious smile form on Avery’s face, but she said nothing.

Peyton continued, unaware. “They said you were into some major next-generation projects and that you believed humanity was on the cusp of extinction.”

“Why?”

“The absence of space junk.”

“Space junk? As in…”

“Interstellar probes. Relics from alien civilizations before us, from around the universe. They said you told them the moon should be an interstellar junkyard, covered with crashed probes and satellites, yet we’ve found nothing.”

“I don’t understand,” Desmond said.

“They didn’t either. Neither do I.”

Desmond leaned forward, silently asking Avery if she knew.

“Hey, space junk isn’t really my department,” she said, eliciting a quiet laugh from Desmond and an annoyed expression from Peyton.

“So what is your department, Avery?” Desmond asked. “How do we know each other?”

Avery hesitated. Desmond got the impression she was asking him whether it was okay for her to answer in front of Peyton.

“We’re laying all our cards on the table here,” he said.

Avery nodded. “Okay.”

Chapter 69

Chapter 69

Avery began her story with some background. She had been raised in North Carolina and attended college there, majoring in computer science and minoring in two foreign languages: German and Chinese. During her senior year, she was invited to interview with a new venture capital firm called Rubicon Ventures. It was located just off I-40, in an older low-rise building in Research Triangle Park. The office was small, the decorations spartan, most of the walls bare. Her first impression was of a boiler room operation set up overnight, not an established company. She pegged it as a fledgling venture destined to fold, and she had already decided to pass on the offer when the young woman at the reception desk showed her into a conference room.

A middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair sat at the table, a closed folder in front of him. He introduced himself as David Ward, and said, “Don’t mind the digs, we put all of our money into our work.”

To Avery’s surprise, he asked no questions. He seemed to already know everything about her. He told her that her unique combination of skills—languages and computer science—would be invaluable to their work. He added that her winning record on UNC’s tennis team was also a plus. That made her curious—just curious enough to ask what sort of work she’d be doing.

“Due diligence,” he replied.