NOTE: This is part of a continuing online novel. Here is the Table of Contents.

In the day after their first meeting Branson threw Cuban off bridges, and balloons, always attached to a rope but still so close to the sting of death. “No reward without risk, my boy, no reward without risk,” he would say, and then repeat Cuban’s own feat, laughing maniacally all the while.

“You only love life when you're cheating death,” he said. “You’ve got to be in the moment if you’re to find your moment.”

When Branson wasn’t taking him through the strangest executive training program in the world, Cuban prowled the streets of Johannesburg, alone. He talked to shopkeepers, engaged them by acting as a middleman for NBA merchandise, which he claimed was bootleg (because otherwise it was completely unaffordable). He looked deep into their stores, to see if their changes had compromised structures, how many buildings were salvageable and how many were not. He tried some of the city’s street food, and paid for it with long prayers to the porcelain god in his suite at the Michelangelo, in Sandton.

He was working off a list given him by Geoffrey Mendelowitz, whose title was Director of Better Buildings for the city of Johannesburg. Director of Better Ratraps is more like it, Cuban thought. He found squatters all over some of them, many living no better than rats themselves. Twice drug dealers threatened him at knifepoint, emptying his pockets. He cut through the lining of one of his jackets, installing a cameraphone he could point and snap when frightened. Then he handed the pictures to off-duty cops he could hire for “protection,” and shortly the men disappeared.

He was learning. It was slow. Branson’s lessons were all in the air, a mix of danger and luxury. His application was down at street level, where the stakes were higher, not just death but ignominious death, death alone, bleeding out on a stair, or thrown onto the street like so much trash.

And he took to copying Branson’s laugh, quietly, almost a chuckle, but for the first time in years he felt truly alive.

Cuban’s own charter had left and he was surprised, one morning in Joburg, to find that the face behind the outrageously wide-brimmed hat of a nut seller was Branson himself, who flung the hat and garment off behind him, where they were caught by the real nut seller, and invited him back into the world.

The Gulfstream jet, splashed with Branson’s Virgin logo, sped north through the clouds. After a single glass of champagne Cuban asked for a couch. Branson offered a bedroom with silk sheets, right there on the plane, and within moments Cuban was asleep.

Some hours later, Cuban awoke and felt something he’d never felt before, fulfilled. He yawned, stretched, and walked out of the bedroom to find Branson and a young man hard at work, poring over papers and the younger man’s laptop. A coffee service was attached to a sidewall, the pot covered and secured, the cups and saucers next to it, cream and sugar in dispensers above it. He smiled, made himself an eye-opener, and as he took his first sip Branson addressed him without looking at him.

“Mark, Steve Berke, Steve, Mark.” Cuban slipped the cup into his left hand and reached out his right. The younger man, dark-haired and strapping, smiled graciously and offered a firm handshake.

“You may recognize Steve from my show, Mark,” said Branson. “I know I only promised one job, but his real estate management experience fit well here so I’m giving him a try-out.”

“We’ve been running some numbers, drawing some maps,” said Berke. “But we can really use your input on the condition of some of these places.” Cuban was drawn-in, and soon it was Branson asleep while he and Berke mapped out a strategy.

The jet came down in Sao Paolo, refueled in just a half-hour, and was quickly airborne again. When Branson woke up Berke and Cuban had a proposal. The two billionaires signed the rough agreement and polished off what Branson called feijoada, along with beers brought onto the plane while on its refueling stop.

“What’s in this?” asked Cuban. “It’s pretty good.”

“Ah, this is the real good stuff,” said Branson. “Ear, tails, feet, lungs, heart…”

“Pricks,” added Berke, smiling.

“All boiled and de-salted, then cooked in a pressure cooker with beans and added to rice,” added Branson. “A true delicacy of the people, Mark. That’s where the real cooking is.”

Cuban fought the urge to be sick, gulped down his beer, and tried hard to smile.

Cuban nodded off again on the second leg as Berke slept in the bed, and Branson spent time with the pilots. (If he starts doing barrel rolls he’s going to have feijoada all over his cabin,” Cuban thought as he drifted off in his chair.)

Cuban didn’t recognize the airport where they landed, but one look outside told him exactly where he was. It was still strange to see the New York skyline without the towers. It was unbalanced somehow toward Midtown. He hoped the skin of the new Liebeskind building on the Ground Zero site went up soon.

“Welcome to Teterboro,” said Branson cheerfully, as the jet taxied. “And our carriage awaits us.” A helicopter, also with the Virgin logo, stood by their Gulfstream’s hanger, and its rotors began moving as soon as they came in sight of it.

In a daze, Cuban followed Branson and Berke onto the chopper. Once he sat down Branson tossed him a suit jacket, tan, smooth, nice. “Need to look our best, Mark,” he said. Looking quizzically toward him, he pulled a comb out of his own pocket and handed it over. “Bed hair, the press doesn’t like bed hair,” he said.

“The press?” asked Cuban.

But they were already over Manhattan. Cuban saw they were about to set down right on top of the Pan Am building. He followed the two men to an elevator, which whisked them to nearly ground level. As they exited Branson went right into his public mode, smiling, nodding, waving to strangers, leaving Berke and Cuban to try and follow his wake. Berke, who had been here before, grabbed Cuban by the back of his jacket, and motioned him down another hallway. A second, shorter elevator ride took them to yet-another hallway, then through a door, and finally into Grand Central Station itself.

Berke walked quickly across the famous atrium and took a staircase, two steps at a time, toward a restaurant overlooking the hall. A podium had already been set up, also sporting the Virgin logo. There were two chairs on either side of this dais – Berke took an end chair and urged Cuban into the one next to him. A presentation easel stood at the other side of the dais, its first page blank. A woman came up behind Cuban and draped a small microphone around him, clipping it to his lapel. Then she sat down on the opposite end of the table, leaving one chair empty.

And with that, Branson was with them again. All eyes in the restaurant turned to him, and suddenly Cuban saw they were reporters. Notebooks came out, laptops were armed, lights turned on TV cameras behind them.

“It’s a pleasure to see you all this morning,” said Branson, beaming like sunshine. “We hope to make this 13th a lucky day indeed. With me I have Steve Berke, who you may know from my show, “The Rebel Billionaire” on Fox, and Mr. Mark Cuban, star of ABC’s “The Benefactor” and one of the few men in America both richer and more audacious than I am.” Cuban gave a half-smile.

“Now, let’s get right to it. We are here this morning to unveil,” and he ripped the blank page of the presentation over the easel, “Virgin Maverick!” A logo was displayed, the red stylized Virgin, the Dallas Maverick’s horsehead logo in blue and black, and below them both, a map of South Africa with a green star on its right side.

“This is the greatest opportunity of your life, my friends. I’m talking to each one of you, both in this room and behind those cameras. Here’s your chance to build a great new world, to make real the hopes of the great Nelson Mandela, and to live the life you’ve always imagined.”

Branson ripped the page over the easel, revealing a picture of downtown Joburg. “Here, ladies and gentlemen. Downtown Johannesburg, the center of South Africa, safe, secure, and ready to do business.

“Big business,” he added.

“Virgin Maverick has an agreement with the Mbeki government that will bring in consulting houses, software houses, design houses, and a full four-year University to these towers, all within the next two years.

“Amazing but true. We have the capital. We have the paperwork. We have the site. The buildings are up. All we need do now is fill them, perhaps with you!” At that he looked right into the eyes of the cameras across from him, and pointed.

“Yes, you! Are you educated, creative, but feeling unfulfilled? Are you looking for a new challenge, in an environment that honors both you and your values? Well, apply now. Come to our Web site at Virgin dash Maverick dot com. Learn all about it. See how you can change your life, and build your world in your way. Fill in our application, with no obligation. Let us know what skills you have, what work you can do. We’ll be in touch.

“Now, I have to rush uptown, but Mark here will take your questions.” Branson patted Cuban on both shoulders, whispered in one ear “It’s your moment,” and rushed from the room.