Regan's Planet

FIFTEEN

October 12, 1992.

Five hundred years before, at two hours past midnight, a cannon had boomed out across the quiet Caribbean, and a five-week journey across the uncharted Atlantic reached its climax. A leather-lunged seaman yelled, “Tierra! Tierra!” as he sighted land. A Genoese sea-captain named Cristoforo Colombo thereby attained a permanent place in history, despite the claims of such earlier travelers as Hoei-Shin of China, Ari Marson of Iceland, Leif Ericsson, and Prince Madoc of Wales.

Five centuries later, three small spaceships soared skyward shortly after dawn, Mountain Standard Time. Some clown in the World’s Fair publicity office had named the ships the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria, and Claude Regan had let the whimsy stand.

The passenger lists of those three ships glittered with the names of celebrities. The Santa Maria, as the flagship, carried the most resplendent cargo of all: the Secretary-General of the United Nations, the President of the United States of America, the Premier of the United States of Europe, and the heads of such states as the Soviet Union, the People’s Republic of China, Brazil, Nigeria, the Congo, Argentina. The Factor Claude Regan was aboard, also.

A galaxy of notables made up the complement of the three ships. One wayward nihilist with a nuclear-tipped warhead could thus decapitate the world at a blow, ridding it of every leader of importance. Kings and Prime Ministers, actors and musicians, athletes and financiers-all had come to see the official opening of the 1992 Columbian Exposition.

Claude Regan felt a certain tightness in his throat, a certain hollowness in the pit of his stomach. For almost two years he had been working toward this day. Would something go wrong? Would the atmosphere system fail? Would the Satellite swerve from its orbit? Would a blazing meteor puncture the metal skin? Would the honored guests be bored with the wonders he had assembled?

In his heart of hearts, Regan knew that they would not be bored, that there would be no calamities. All was well. He had inspected the Fair himself, the day before, and he knew it would be a success. Everyone who had seen it so far was impressed by it. The ones who had congratulated him the most effusively were the hardest-headed of the lot, the media men, the reporters and cameramen. The Satellite was full of journalists, now, on hand to cover the opening ceremonies. The whole business would be bounced along to Earth by the television relay satellites, so that the millions could participate.

Regan settled back against the harness of his cradle. He lightly closed his eyes. The lateral jets roared. The Santa Maria was docking.

The Fair was about to open.

‘A symbol of the dynamic energy, hard work, and far-sighted vision that is so uniquely American…“

That was Secretary-General Hannikainen, eulogizing the planners of the Fair.

‘Five centuries of adventure culminate here today, in this spectacular recapitulation of the American dream…“

President Hammond, orating sonorously as was his wont.

‘A stunning scientific achievement, an historic high-water mark in mankind’s conquest of his environment…“

Premier Falaise of Europe, lauding generously the guiding spirits of the Exposition.

Claude Regan forced himself to sit patiently through the speeches. No one was allowed to talk more than five minutes -and what a protocol headache it had been to get that idea across!-but, even so, every important world leader had to be allowed to get his oar in. And, of course, there were the religious invocations, not to be overlooked. The Pope had decided not to come, which was a pity, but he had sent an Apostolic Delegate all the same. Regan gave him equal time with a rabbi, a Presbyterian minister (chosen by lot to represent all the non-Catholic Christian denominations), and an assortment of Hindu, Moslem, and Buddhist leaders.

And then, at long last, Claude Regan himself was at the dais. He smiled graciously into the television cameras, raked his glance across the assembled global titans before him, looked down the colonnade of the Hall of the Worlds, with the Martian Pavilion straight ahead of him, and said, in a mild, gentle voice, “There’s not much I care to add after what’s already been said. I simply want to extend to the whole universe, on behalf of the Americas, my invitation to come and help us celebrate our five-hundredth birthday. That’s all. I now officially declare the 1992 Columbian Exposition to be open.”

There was applause. Regan snipped the silk ribbon. The celebrities thronged forward.

Regan went with them. The great rush was to the Martian Pavilion, of course. Even world leaders are susceptible to the fascinations of the Sunday supplement.

‘Remarkable,“ the Secretary-General observed.

‘Incredible,“ declared the President of the United States.

‘Such wonderful little gnomes!“ commented Chancellor Schmidt of the German Federal Union.

Regan beamed. The assorted celebrities peered through the wall of one-way glass. The Martians within, unaware of the crowd outside, went about the routines of their daily lives. Even if they had known, they would not have cared much about the goggle-eyed watchers on the far side of the wall.

With difficulty, Regan detached some members of the group and conveyed them onward to the other pavilions.

‘Here are the gladiators,“ Regan said, and two muscle-bound young men bowed. ”We’ll be watching them later.“

‘Will they fight to the death?“ Chairman Ch’ien wanted to know.

Regan shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Humanity is past that point, Chairman Ch’ien. They’ll simply batter each other around. Net and trident, that sort of thing.” Regan did not add that contests to the death had been very seriously under consideration in the earlier, shakier days of the Fair. Almost anything had been under consideration then that would have been likely to bolster attendance. After all, the Satellite was beyond the jurisdiction of any Earthly government. Gambling casinos, gladiators, bullfights, bubble-dancers-Regan had pondered them all.

But no sensationalism had been necessary. Not after the coup of landing the Martians. It was easy to be virtuous, Regan thought, with a sold-out house.

As he guided his intrepid band of notables from pavilion to pavilion, it was impossible not to sense that they were impressed. Regan was impressed with it all himself. The pavilions gleamed. Level after level was bright with the artifice of man-handsome, unusual one-story buildings, compressed but somehow elegant, displaying the wonders of science, technology, nature. And, periodically, a window looking outward, giving a spectacular view (for a price) of the starry firmament.

Everything was on the house today. These were not paying customers. The Secretary-General of the United Nations could gaze at the constellations without charge today. Next week, it would be different, of course.

It became impossible to hold the group together. They wandered everywhere-to the Hall of the Worlds, where vast models of the planets moved in stately orbits; to the midway, with its concessions and barkers; to the three-dee sensie shows, tactile and all, sponsored by the Hollywood studios; to the commercial exhibits and the national pavilions; to the fountain, the reflecting pool; to the windows onto the universe.

And, naturally, to the Martians.

The Martians drew the biggest crowd. Some of the dignitaries scarcely bothered to look at the rest of the World’s Fair. They remained glued in front of the window into Mars, staring openmouthed at the gnomish beings from the red planet.

People kept coming up to Regan to pump his hand and congratulate him. Even Nola, who had scarcely spoken to him at all in months, but whose presence had been necessary at the opening ceremonies for reasons of public relations, managed to smile and say, “It’s quite a show, Claude. Really terrific.”

Regan was surprised at the sincerity of her warm approval.

But he had a little surprise up his sleeve for Nola, too.

Friday, October 13.

The World’s Fair was twenty-four hours old, and the public was milling through it, those lucky few who had been there first when tickets went on sale. Cash registers were chiming. It had been necessary to institute a time limit in front of the Martian Pavilion; every half hour, the place was cleared, and anybody who wanted to see the little creatures again would need to buy a new ticket.

The Fair was a success, and Claude Regan felt that this was his lucky day. Friday the 13th, true, but that couldn’t be helped; the new calendar provided four of them every year. He had been awake for twenty-eight hours, now, and fatigue had not yet nailed him. He needed his strength for another hour, now. He was holding a press conference in the auditorium of the Global Factors’ Pavilion.

The place was full of reporters. As Regan strode in, they began to yell questions at him, but he silenced them with his hands.

‘No questions,“ he said. ”I’ve got a few statements to make.“

They grew quiet. Regan cleared his throat solemnly.

He said, “First of all, I’d like to express my gratitude to all the people who helped make this 1992 Columbian Exposition the success it has turned out to be. To Hal Martinelli and Lyle Henderson of my staff, to Tim Field of Global Factors, who helped me in many ways, to President Thomas Hammond of the United States, to the fine craftsmen of Aero do Brasil who built this magnificent satellite for us-to those people, and to hundreds of others, my heartfelt thanks.

‘As you know, it’s a little over two years since I took over the task of promoting the 1992 Columbian Exposition. It’s been a hectic two years, and not always a cheerful two years-but it’s never been dull, and I’m glad to say that the work has been worth-while. We have had a remarkable advance sale for the Fair, and we will be placing more tickets on sale just as soon as we can build the ships to get people here. The people of Earth are eager to come and see what we have here, and, believe me, we’re eager to welcome them.

‘There’s little doubt in my mind that the high point of this World’s Fair is the Martian Pavilion. It’s encouraging to see the interest that these visitors from our neighbor world have generated. Their presence here is terribly exciting to me. Having the Martians here has a wonderful symbolic value -for, just as Christopher Columbus gave Europe a New World populated by strange and unusual beings, so too does this World’s Fair, commemorating Columbus’ great achievement, bring close to Earth the inhabitants of a modern-day New World.

‘Which brings me to an important point: this is the last World’s Fair that can ever be held. We have to move that apostrophe, from now on. They’ll be Worlds’ Fairs-Fairs of the Worlds. A wonderful new world is rising on Mars, a world of colonies, and we must never forget the Old Martians. I’m privileged to announce that Global Factors, Inc., has decided to sponsor a long-range, multibillion dollar project to contact intelligent life in every part of the universe, so that future Worlds’ Fairs can be truly intergalactic in scope.“

Regan paused. He toyed with the microphone, listened to the hum of the tiny recorders taking down his words. No doubt Global Factors would be a little startled by this new project to which he had just committed the company. Regan had discussed it, after all, only with Tim Field, on an unofficial basis. But Global Factors was in for bigger surprises, Regan thought.

He moistened his lips.

‘Now for a personal announcement,“ he said, and the assembled reporters snapped to attention. ”I regard the successful launching of this World’s Fair as the culmination of my career. Yes, that’s right. Even though I’m only thirty-six, I feel that I’ve achieved all I can achieve on Earth. Power, wealth, and now great creative satisfaction-what more can a man want?

‘Therefore, effective November 1,“ Regan went on, ”I’m resigning my post as Chief Executive Officer of Global Factors, Inc.-“

He heard the gasp, rising like a booming hiss from the audience. He simply smiled.

‘Resigning my post,“ he repeated. ”I’ve designated as my successor the Factor Tim Field, who I’m sure will guide the destinies of this great corporation capably and well. I am at the same time severing all of my connections with the financial world. I am emigrating to Marsport, where I’ll live the humble life of a colonist.“

Eyebrows were rising en masse.

‘The first of next month will see me there. I expect to serve any need the colony may have for me. As for my personal wealth, I am making it over to the Claude Regan Foundation, a nonprofit organization whose function will be the protection and preservation of the way of life of the Old Martians. It’s my hope that this money will guarantee peace and safety to these people throughout the rest of their days.“

There was uproar in the hall.

‘Factor Regan! Factor Regan!“ they were shouting. ”We’d like to know-“

Regan silenced them. “As I said, there will be no questions answered at this press conference, nor will I hold any further press conferences. My reasons for taking this step are strictly private, and I do not intend to amplify them. Thank you.”

He strode from the hall, leaving them shouting and arguing among themselves. Outside, in the anteroom, Nola rushed up to him. She had heard the whole conference.

‘Are you crazy?“ she cried. ”Giving all your money away?

Resigning!“

‘You wanted me to resign, Nola. For my health. You said I was working too hard.“

‘But setting up a foundation for Martians? Claude, it’s insane! You couldn’t really have meant it, about becoming a colonist on Mars.“

‘I did mean it,“ he said. ”It’s true.“

Her eyes were wide. “What about me, then?”

Regan shrugged. “You’re my wife. Will you come with me to Mars?”

‘And live in that horrid little slum? Don’t be foolish!“

‘That’s about what I expected. All right, Nola. You stay here, and I’ll go to Mars. You won’t starve. Your personal funds are still your own. And after seven years the law will allow you to divorce me for desertion. You can marry my Uncle Bruce, if you like. He’ll only be seventy, then. Or your friend Rex Bennett. Excuse me.“

He turned away from her, and made his way out of the building. The sounds of confusion echoed behind him. He wondered how Global Factors would react to the news. He hadn’t told anyone, not even Tim Field. Better that they find out about it all at once, with the rest of the world.

It was just a short walk from the Global Pavilion to the Martians. Regan cut his way through the mob outside the cave. “Excuse me,” he said, savagely shouldering them to the side.

‘Who the hell does he think he is?“ someone demanded hotly.

‘It’s Regan!“ somebody else answered. ”It’s the Factor!“

He entered the pavilion. Two Fair employees were on guard-Regan kept a round-the-clock watch on the Martians, so that a medic could be summoned if any of the captives looked sickly. Regan gestured at the men.

‘Open the lock,“ he said. ”I’m going in.“

‘Factor Regan!“ they gasped. ”The air in there-’

‘I can breathe it for a little while,“ Regan said. ”It won’t kill me. Open it up!“

Numbed, dazed, they let Regan enter the Martian cave through the airlock. It closed behind him, and the atmosphere went whistling out, and a moment later the thin, acrid Martian atmosphere filtered in. The inner door opened. Regan entered. His head started to pound. He could feel his heart throbbing at an accelerated rate. It was cold in here, and the air was deficient in oxygen. But he could survive. It was like breathing mountain air. He stood there, confronting the six Martians. They regarded him without interest.

He said, “I just wanted to tell you something. I wanted to offer my apologies for bringing you people here. I had to do that. It was necessary. It was cruel and brutal, but I had no choice, and I want you to forgive me. Will you forgive me?”

They didn’t answer. Perhaps they hadn’t even understood. He thought he had spoken clearly, but maybe in the low pressure, the thin atmosphere…

He swayed. He felt dizzy. This was Martian environment, all but the gravity. Unable to duplicate Mars’ low gravity in the pavilion, Regan had simply had the whole Fair satellite adjusted to about seventy percent of Earth gravity-making things a little odd for everybody, but sparing the Martians from hardship.

He said, into the teeth of their silence, “I want to tell you what I’ve done for you. I’ve turned all my money over to your people. I’ve set up a foundation to protect you. Nobody will ever exploit you. Nobody will ever do to you what I did to you, not again. It’s my atonement. Will you accept it? Will you forgive me?”

No answer. They took his announcement coolly, passively. They were not impressed. They were beyond reacting to anything, these survivors of a long-dead race.

‘I’m going to Mars!“ he shouted at them. ”I’m going to live there, to work there. I’m going to dedicate myself to the Martian people-the Old Martians and the New. Can you follow that? In another two years, you’ll be brought back to Mars. You’ll have done a great thing for your world, by consenting to come here. But I want you not to think badly of me. I want you to pardon me for-for…“

Regan coughed. His lungs were giving out. He glanced toward the wall, opaque on this side, and pointed to the airlock, hoping somebody out there would see him and let him out. Whether or not the Martians had understood what he was trying to tell them, he couldn’t remain here any longer.

The Martians continued to give him the blank-faced stare.

The airlock irised open.

Regan stumbled out, choking, gasping. He reeled for a moment, caught hold of someone, steadied himself. The spasm passed. He filled his lungs with air.

A reporter loomed up before him. “Mr. Regan, if you’ll give us a statement-”

‘No-please-“

‘Factor! Factor!“

‘No comment!“ Regan yelled.

He got away from them, running like a demon-ridden soul down the streets of the moon he had built, until he reached the Fair’s administration building and took refuge there. He staggered into his office. Lyle Henderson was there, looking dazed.

‘Factor Regan! There’s a call from Denver for you. Global is calling, sir. They’ve heard the news, and-“

‘Tell them I’ll be in touch,“ Regan said. ”I don’t feel like talking to them now. Tell them that whatever they’ve heard is true. Jesus, Lyle, get me a drink. I’ve had a rough time of it.“

He gulped down the contents of the paper cup Henderson handed him. Bourbon? Rye? He didn’t know. He belted it away, closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths. The tension started to ebb.

‘Do you want anything else, Factor?“

‘No, Lyle. Just leave me alone. I don’t want to see anyone for a while. And stop calling me Factor. That’s all over with now.“

‘Yes, sir.“

Henderson left.

Regan was alone. He sat quietly. The Martians had understood, hadn’t they? Well, no matter. They’d probaby go on hating him forever, but he couldn’t help that. What was done was done.

He smiled. Right now they were busy writing the editorials about him, praising his nobility, bis self-renunciation. Turning his back on billions, stepping out of the world’s most lucrative job, going off to grub in the desert.

Do you feel very noble, Factor Regan? he asked himself.

Not really. Not noble at all. He was a kidnaper, a liar, a cheat. AH in a good cause, of course. Well, now he could atone. Not that it was all pure altruism, of course.

Let them think so, Regan told himself. Let them sing hymns to him. It was good publicity. They would never understand. Old Alexander the Great had understood, though. He had wept for lack of new worlds to conquer. Not Regan. The new world was there, up in the sky. Just starting out. He would go to it, not as a millionaire, just as an ordinary colonist. The slate was clean. He had gone as far as he could go on Earth: the control of one large corporation. But up there…

A whole world, waiting to be developed, waiting for the guiding hand, waiting…

Waiting for Claude Regan.

He poured himself another drink. Then, flicking on the closed-circuit television set in the office, he scanned the different levels of the Fair, saw the throngs roaming in wonder from pavilion to pavilion. The Fair was a great success, Regan thought. Most satisfying. A man with talent can handle the impossible with the greatest of ease.

Regan lifted his paper cup. “To the 1992 Columbian Exposition,” he said ringingly. He took a sip. But the toast seemed inappropriate, somehow. One didn’t toast past triumphs. One looked forward. He lifted his cup a second time.

‘To Mars!“ he cried. He laughed in boyish delight, and thought of the consternation his press conference had caused, and remembered the feeling of dedication he had experienced on his visit to Mars, the yearning to take that planet and mold it into something marvelous. Well, now he would have his chance. Starting from scratch, rising by skill and shrewdness alone. He finished his drink. ”Hey there, Mars “ he shouted at the wall of his office. ”Get ready for. something big! Get ready for Claude Regan! Regan is coming, Mars! Regan’s on his way!“

THE END