Sitting in Oliver Norton Shaw’s study, 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. 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.”
“Interesting.”
“You know the kinds of ventures I’m talking about?”
“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 that’s what I saw, why I was so turned off by the pitch this morning. 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 “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.
“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. That’s the other reason you’re perfect for this. We 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. 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 Schr?der, and I can’t wait for you to meet her.”