"I'm telling you, Gary," Trevor said, swirling a glass of scotch, "My investors are nervous. They hear rumors about the propulsion system. They hear there's a 'ghost' inventor out there."

"Then this folder," Trevor tapped the manila envelope on the table, "goes to the patent office. And the fraud charge goes to the DA. I know a guy who knows a guy, Gary. You don't want to go to jail. The wifi is terrible."

"Harvey," Trevor said, ignoring the glares of the senior partners. "We need to talk. Off the record."

The receptionist, a woman with hair lacquered into a bronze helmet, didn’t look up. “Name?”

"Gary," Harvey said, his voice low and dangerous. "Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to settle. You’re going to pay my client—Danny—retroactive royalties for every engine you’ve sold. And you’re going to issue a press release correcting the inventor name on the patent."