Regan's Planet

THIRTEEN

The old year waned. December trickled away in snow and slush, Regan commuting back and forth across the continent as another man might commute from city to suburb. Washington, Denver; Denver, Washington-the two cities were beginning to blur in his mind, and the only surrounding that had reality for him was the cabin of his company jet.

The press of work grew greater, now that the Fair was only ten months off. There were contracts to close, bills to pay, money to collect. Bond sales went on, slowly but surely. Half the issue had been disposed of now. Global Factors was committed for three billion-a billion and a half as its own direct investment, and the other billion and a half as an advance to the dummy underwriting company, Columbus Equity Corporation. Not bad, but not good, either. If the Fair went under, Global would still suffer a severe loss.

No longer a crippling loss, though. The critical stage was past: the Satellite itself, and the spaceline linked with it, had been constructed and were in the finishing stages. So if the Fair failed, Global, as the chief creditor, could move in and attach the physical assets. The loss would not be total. Global would simply operate the Fair Satellite as a pleasure resort for its own account. Regan was confident that over the long run the place would be a gold mine.

The short run, though, looked a little thornier than his first projections had anticipated. The bomb-scare business had been soft-pedaled, but, even so, advance reservations were not running as anticipated. The first week of the Fair was sold out solid, of course. Everybody who was anybody had booked passage on one of the ships going to the Fair during those first seven days.

But after that it wasn’t so good. The Fair couldn’t hope to survive on the patronage of celebrities alone. The only way it could get through the two years was if John Doe came eagerly forward, dollar bills clutched in his grimy little hand, to get in on what was being extensively billed on six continents as “The Experience of a Lifetime.”

And, the way things were going now, John Doe was adopting a wait-and-see attitude. He wasn’t rushing up to buy his tickets, not just yet. He was letting the other guy go first. But the other guy was waiting for him.

Year Day, 1991.

The last day of the year. Once called December 31, in the barbaric old days of the Gregorian Calendar. Now, under the World Calendar, no month but the first of each quarter had thirty-one days. January, April, July, October, yes. The others, only thirty, including February. Goodbye to December 31. It was a day without a number, Year Day. It had been that way since 1980, which, being a leap year, had had a second bonus day between June 30 and July 1.

The Regans were at the White House for President Hammond’s New Year’s party. A select group of a hundred had gathered at the President’s invitation. United Nations’ Secretary-General Hannikainen was there, and a chosen assemblage of ambassadors, most of them, through no coincidence, from Asian and African countries. The twelve Factors of the great companies were there-the first time in years they had been under the same roof. A sprinkling of Senators attended, and two Supreme Court justices, including Chief Justice Steinfeld.

The world of the arts had not been neglected. A poet or two, a composer, a painter had been invited. Regan listened to a lanky pianist with an astounding shock of white hair play Chopin at the First Lady’s request.

‘He plays well,“ Regan said. ”What’s his name?“

‘Van Cliburn,“ the Chief Justice whispered in surprise.

‘Oh. Of course,“ Regan said, and chuckled.

The Factor mingled. Ten years ago, if he had been pushed into a gathering like this one, he would have moved through it on sheer bluff and bravado. Today, after two years as Factor, he accepted this kind of company calmly, as his equals. It was easy enough to slip into the dual frame of mind when you drew a Factor’s pay. Regan smiled knowingly at men twice his age, men who had been making headlines since before his birth. One of the first seven Astronauts was there, smiling faintly under his white crew cut. Regan shook his hand, exchanged a word or two, moved on. Nola was talking to a famous old conductor, while President Hammond stood by, nodding and occasionally guffawing. Regan accepted a glass of champagne. Across the room, Factor Davidson of Interworld, second only to Regan in busines importance, caught Regan’s eye, smiled pleasantly. Regan returned the smile. It was easy to be cordial in a tuxedo, the Factor thought. There was little enough love lost between Global and Interworld, but one had to maintain the surfaces.

Regan sipped his champagne. President Hammond ambled over.

‘How’s the Fair coming along?“ Hammond asked. ”It’s moving, Tom.“

‘I bet you hate me for having tangled you up in it, eh?“ Regan shook his head. ”It’s been a very interesting experience, Tom. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.“

‘Glad you think so. You know, the Fair’s going to be a great success, Claude. It’ll make you famous forever.“

Regan smiled uncomfortably. He had just the tiniest doubts about the Fair’s success. And the kind of fame it might bring him was perhaps not altogether to be desired.

He took a canape from a passing tray. He caught sight of Nola, laughing at some remark of Secretary-General Han-nikainen. Regan walked toward them. Nola looked dazzlingly beautiful tonight, easily the most attractive woman in the room. Half a dozen other men had said so. They had no way of knowing, of course, that the Regans had occupied separate wings of their house since the summer. Again and again, people complimented Regan on Nola, envied him bis possession of such a jewel of a wife.

Believe me, he thought, if you want her, you can have her!

He kept those thoughts to himself. Rain drummed on the White House roof. Toward midnight, the rain turned to snow, and Regan glanced out the window at a world fresh and clean and new-looking.

‘Happy New Year!“ somebody yelled. Television cameras stared into the room-for, of course, the President’s party was being shared vicariously by the whole nation. Regan turned, forced a smile for the benefit of the watching multitudes.

He wondered what sort of parties they were having in Marsport tonight. Probably, he thought, they were too busy to bother at all. Year Day was just another working day for them.

‘Happy New Year, Claude!“

It was Nola. She looked a little drunk. Her face was flushed, her dark eyes unnaturally glossy.

‘Hooray for 1992!“ she yelled. ”Kiss me, Claude!“ ”We’re on television.“

‘Don’t be a stuffed shirt. The President is making his New Year speech. Kiss me for New Year’s.“

Her lips touched his. She seemed to sway a little. He drew away quickly. She was more than a little drunk, he realized. She was stoned.

‘Happy New Year!“ Nola yelled, and wrapped her arm around the Factor Irwin Davidson. Interworld’s head looked a little startled. Then, grinning at Regan and at his own wife, the elderly Factor gravely kissed Nola.

‘Happy New Year,“ Factor Davidson said. Regan filled his glass. The champagne tasted like water to him. An orchestra was playing Auld Lang Syne. The distinguished guests were laughing and singing, just a trifle raucously. Regan’s head pounded. He had to get away, if only just for a moment.

He passed through a double doorway and found himself at the entrance to a balcony. He wrenched open the French doors and stepped out. The thirty-degree cold did not trouble him. He looked up, hoping to catch a glimpse of ruddy Mars, or of the metal moon he had put in the sky.

The swirling snow was too thick. Regan was unable to see anything. After a moment, he went back inside, rejoined the party. A smiling waiter handed him more champagne. He accepted it gladly-Mumm’s, ‘85 brut. A vintage year. It still tasted like water to him. The fault, he knew, was not with the champagne.

March, 1992.

Seven months to Opening Day.

‘Do you think it’s that bomb-scare article that’s keeping them away?“ Hal Martinelli asked.

Lyle Henderson shook his head. “That’s part of it, but only a very small part.”

‘Yes,“ Regan said. ”Only a small part.“

‘What’s the trouble, then?“ Martinelli demanded. ”Why aren’t they booking reservations?“

Regan stared at his assistants solemnly. “Half of them are afraid,” he said. “They don’t want to get into a spaceship and go anywhere. And the other half, well, maybe they don’t want to spend the money. A trip to the Fair can cost five, six hundred dollars, figuring the cost of getting to the spaceport, the space fare, admission, and all the rest. Maybe we guessed wrong. Maybe there just aren’t that many people around who are willing to go to that kind of expense.”

‘The polls we took-“ Henderson began.

Regan scowled. “Polls! What can they prove?”

His temper was starting to fray. He had been riding the whirlwind for a year and a half, and he was coming close to his breaking point now. He was beginning to doubt that he would make it through the remaimng seven months.

Everything was on schedule. The Satellite was finished, and so was the spaceline. Every pavilion was contracted for. Several of them had been completed, most were well along, and all would be ready by October 12. The concessions had been sold. The Fair’s bills were mostly paid. The claims of pre-Columbian discoverers of America had not greatly interfered with the progress of the Fair.

Everything was fine.

The only thing wrong was that people were not buying tickets to attend.

The Fair’s finances were predicated on a healthy advance sale. Many of the concessionaires and exhibitors had contracts calling for rent reductions if advance ticket sales fell below a certain point. The failure to make advance sales thus had a doubly crippling effect on the Fair’s budget. Not only was less money coming in than anticipated from ticket sales, but that led directly to a drop in rent money received. It was a situation that could quickly set in motion a snowball effect of disastrous proportions.

The Fair had obligations to meet. It had day-by-day expenses, payrolls, fees, publicity costs. Regan had long since used the money raised the year before for capital expenditures. The six billion dollars obtained through the sale of bonds, and the additional money received as outright grants from several governments-that was all gone.

The bond issue would soon be coming back to haunt. Under the sinking-fund clause of the debenture issue, the World’s Fair corporation had to begin redeeming those bonds in June, 1993. A billion dollars’ worth of bonds had to be bought in then, and the same amount each June until 1998, when the entire issue would have been redeemed. Regan had planned to pay off those bondholders out of Fair profits. But if there were no profits to distribute, the creditors would close in, the assets would be dismembered, and the Fair would spiral down into bankruptcy before it was a year old.

‘We’ve got to sell more tickets,“ Regan declared.

But selling them was harder than making declarations. No one wanted to dig down. It was understood that space was limited aboard the ships, it was well advertised that only the fortunate few who hurried, hurried, hurried would get to see the Fair at all. And yet nobody was doing much hurrying.

Some corporations had taken tickets to distribute to their employees. That accounted for most of the sales so far. The general public had not yet begun to buy tickets in any significant number.

‘They’re waiting for it to open,“ Lyle Henderson muttered. ”There’ll be a rush once we’re in business.“

‘But we can’t work it that way,“ Martinelli answered. ”We’ve got to sell the tickets in an orderly way. And that means we’ve got to be selling them steadily, month by month, all spring and summer.“

Regan had been silent a long while. Now the Factor turned and said, slowly, “I know what the trouble is. We need some kind of smash exhibit, something to pull ‘em in like a magnet. We’ve got a bunch of fancy pavilions, plenty of interesting stuff, but there’s got to be more.”

‘What, though?“ Henderson asked.

Regan said, “They’ve got to be able to see something at the Fair that they can’t possibly see on Earth, and I don’t mean just a view of space. We’re selling them novelty, uniqueness. They can see museums and pavilions on Earth. But there’s one thing we can give them that isn’t in the plan now, something millions of people will pay to see.”

‘Bubble-dancers?“ Henderson said. ”Sensie shows? Gladiators? We’ve got all that planned already.“

‘You aren’t listening,“ Regan said. ”They can see all those things on Earth, in their own home towns. I’ve got something else in mind. Martians.“

Henderson and Martinelli blinked. “Martians?” they said, almost in unison.

Regan nodded. “The Martian Pavilion. Sure! Well put it on Level Five, right next to the Global Factors Pavilion. Five or six Old Martians in their native habitat. A cave, some Martian plants, a Martian family. People will fall all over themselves to get to see them.”

‘Real Martians?“ Martinelli asked.

‘What else?“ Regan replied. ”The genuine articles.“

‘Can we get them?“

‘I think so,“ Regan said. He fought back the writhings of his conscience. ”When I was on Mars last summer, I visited the Martian caves, as you know. This idea of a Martian Pavilion occurred to me then, and I broached the idea to some of the Martians. They seemed to understand, but they were cool to the idea, so I let it drop.“

‘And now you think you can talk them into coming?“

‘No,“ Regan said. ”I don’t.“ He looked at Martinelli. ”Hal, what’s the legal status of the Old Martians?“

‘I don’t understand, sir.“

‘Are they protected by law? Are they wards of the United Nations, or anything like that?“

Martinelli shook his head. “I could check it, sir. But I don’t think there’s been any decision concerning them. They’re still too new to us.”

‘All right,“ Regan said. ”You research it for a day or so. In the meanwhile I’ll operate under the assumption that we have a clear shot at them. Lyle, call in half a dozen technical boys and an ecologist or two and we’ll start planning this thing. I want a habitat group so perfect that a Martian won’t be able to tell it from his own cave. The same temperature, the same atmosphere, the same relative humidity-the works. I don’t care if it costs fifty million bucks. We’re in a desperate position now, and we’ve got to shoot the works.“

Regan moistened his lips. His heart was racing, his hands felt cold.

Everything within him rebelled against doing this. But his back was against the wall. The Fair was in danger of collapsing before it even opened. And he had staked everything on keeping it open and making it a success.

He cursed the day he had ever gotten involved in this whole misbegotten project. The Factor had engaged in slippery dealings in his day, but he had never before done anything that he considered downright contemptible.

Not until now.

Martinelli and Lyle Henderson were staring at him with expressions of shock and bewilderment on their open, youthful faces. Regan waited for the inevitable question.

Martinelli supplied it.

‘Sir, may I clarify something?“

‘Go ahead.“

‘It seems to me-I just want to get clear in my own mind, sir-“ He hesitated. ”You said that you spoke to the Martians in the summer, and that they refused to let themselves be exhibited at the Fair.“

Regan nodded.

Martinelli went on, “Now you say that we’re going to have a Martian Pavilion anyway. Does that mean-sir-that the Martians are going to be brought to the Fair forcibly?”

‘That’s right,“ Regan said in a weary voice. ”That’s exactly right. We’re going to kidnap them, Hal. We’re going to kidnap them.“