“What is RailCell?”
The gray-haired man clears his throat and peers up at me through thick curved glasses that make his eyes appear unnaturally large, nearly cartoonish. “RailCell is faster, safer travel, a network that will link the world. Faster than a train. Safer than a plane. RailCell. Get there quicker, safer, cheaper.”
The lines come off well enough, though I can tell he’s pretty nervous. Poor guy.
I like scientists. They’re my favorite. By far.
Like anybody, they’re uncomfortable outside their element. Most don’t like selling things. And he’s no different.
The scientist sits next to a guy I knew in college but have only seen a few times since. I took the meeting at his request, not knowing what it was about. I was in town and my flight wasn’t for a few hours, so I figured what the heck.
My acquaintance is a marketing guy. He should be giving the pitch. He’s clearly coached the scientist. That’s trouble: the marketing team giving the lines to the scientist, who is inevitably the person investors want to hear from.
I can imagine the primer the scientist was given. “Sell benefits. Don’t describe features. Sell the benefits.”
There was no doubt an analogy made. “You’re not selling breath mints, or fresh breath, you’re selling sex appeal, attractiveness—what you become after you take the breath mint. It’s not about the shampoo, it’s about shiny, sexy, vibrant hair that catches the eye of the cute guy who lives across the hall, causing him to turn, pause, then ask you out. It’s not about the shampoo, it’s about the big house and beautiful children you’ll have with that cute guy who finally notices you. And to seal the deal, said shampoo is infused with countless vitamins and minerals, all clinically proven to strengthen dry or damaged hair. Scientific proof breeds confidence. Hit ’em with the science if you have to, but hook ’em with the benefits first, let them know they want what you’re selling.”
People in my particular line of work, however, can sort out the benefits themselves. We want to know if it works—whether it’s the real deal. Great marketing can sell an inferior product for a short time. Only a strong product can sell itself over the long term.
“How does RailCell link the world?”
After some hemming and hawing and verification that I have signed the NDA (so much for my old friend’s trust), they come clean: they’ve bought the patents of a Brazilian mining company for a song. Pretty revolutionary stuff. There’s a complicated business model: they’ll sell the minerals they get from the underground tunnels, everything from iron ore to gold, silver, and copper, splitting the proceeds with national and local governments in return for a monopoly on the lines. The operation of the passageways will be opened to local operators, ensuring that most of the money paid for tickets goes back into the local economy. It’s smart. Maybe a few problems with it, but it could be a global gold mine, both literally and figuratively.
It’s also well outside my wheelhouse. I’m usually sitting in meetings about an app that could be worth nothing or billions in two years, depending on whether it catches on with hipsters and teens.
They want to start in England, which—given the population density and housing issues, especially in London—they feel will be more receptive.
I tell them it sounds interesting enough, but it’s outside my area of expertise—“Not the sort of thing I typically invest in” are my exact words. But I add that I’ll help in any way I can.
“What we’re looking for at the moment, Nick, is introductions.” A pause, and my acquaintance from college quickly adds, “And of course any advice you might have.”
Mentally, I start rifling through my Rolodex. “I’ll think about who I know, who might be interested.”
“We’d cut you in for a finder’s fee, of course, on any investment dollars you bring in.”
“That’s okay. I only do intros for free.”
“Best counter offer I’ve ever heard!” My old friend slaps the table and cuts his eyes over toward the scientist, a look that says, See, I told you about this guy. This is why you need me.
And there it is: the probable history of RailCell to date. The scientist worked for the undercapitalized Brazilian company. When they folded, he got on the phone, desperate to continue his work, to find anyone who could help him buy the patents. He’s probably got his house mortgaged and his retirement savings—and maybe some family members’ savings too—in this. My acquaintance likely has very little skin in the game. He just wants to see if some heavy hitters will throw in and make it a reality. Pretty common.
“One thought.”
Both men wait, eyebrows raised.
“You can’t call it RailCell.”
Crickets.
“To me, rail implies slow, old. A train.”
“It will replace the trains,” my college friend says.
Yep, the name was definitely his idea. The scientist’s eyes shift back and forth slowly, giant fish in a bowl behind those glasses.
“True. It will replace trains, but it’s faster, newer technology. And I wouldn’t use the word cell either. Feels confined. I hear ‘cell,’ I think prison, cramped, inescapable. Last thing you want for a transportation brand.”
“What would you name it, then?” There’s an edge to his voice now.
“I don’t know. I would come up with two dozen names and test them with diverse groups. It’s cheap to do these days with social media. If this thing’s going to be as big as you think, a global brand that could reach everyone on earth, the name is crucial. Maybe Pod something. The cars in the tunnels are like pods. Pods feel safe. Impregnable. Comfortable. Like new technology.”
“PodJet? JetPod? Jets are fast.” He nods at the scientist, who doesn’t react.
“Jets crash,” I say.
“Not anymore. I mean, they crash so rarely.”
“People think rarely could happen to them. Subways don’t crash.”
“PodTube?”
“Sounds like TV.”
“TubePod.”
I shake my head. “Sounds like part of a plant.”
“Podway?”
“That could work. Keep playing with that.”
The worst place to be sick is on an airplane. Well, maybe not the worst place, but it’s bad, and I’m bad sick, in and out of the first-class lavatory, puking, leaning against the wall, waiting for the pain and nausea to pass or to puke some more. I never know which is next.
I slump back in my seat, pale and drained.
“Get some bad food, partner?” the guy across the aisle asks.
“Must have,” I mumble.
It’s not bad food. I’ve never had a migraine in my life. Never felt this sick. Something is wrong with me. Something bad. Heathrow to SFO. Eight hours to go. I wonder if I’ll make it.
43
Vodka bottles drank last night: .25
Hugely important decisions made: 0
Episodes of Sherlock watched: 2
I awake to my phone ringing, my agent’s number staring me in the face.
It was late enough last night not to return his call—my agent and I aren’t that close, after all. Not ringing him up this morning looks like I’m dodging him. I start compiling cover stories, mentally rehearsing them to see what might float.
Got a nasty bug, Ron. Bloody planes—you know—laid up all day . . .
Mum’s been ill . . .
Oh, Ron, my phone, dropped it in the gap where the plane meets the ramp, cracked into a billion pieces when it hit the tarmac. Then a luggage truck ran over it, then a fuel truck, which god bless the driver tried to swerve to miss my poor phone but hit another truck. The explosion was enormous, blew the plane over, right onto my phone. It’s still down there somewhere.
May have gone a bit far with that last one. Nothing says you’re lying like overselling it.
But none of them will really work anyway. That’s the downfall of the digital age: no one can ever really get away. Even if I’d lost my cell, or come down with something, or had to pop out to help my mum, I’d still have e-mail access at home and hers to fire off a quick “Yes.” It’s rude not to ring him back, after all the work he’s put in. He deserves an answer, and so do the publisher and Mr. Shaw.
Tapping at my phone, I fire off an e-mail, thanking my agent for all his efforts to get me this opportunity, but . . . I haven’t made a decision yet.
A response pops up almost immediately.
Thanks, Harp. Take the time you need, but I want you to know they’re in a hurry to get the ball rolling. I have a call with the editor in an hour, sounds urgent. Will keep you posted.
Vodka didn’t shake the decision loose. Time for new tactics.