Regan's Planet

TWO

Global Factors, Inc., occupied the tallest building in Denver, the sixty-two story Carlin Building, a slim tower of travertine and tinted glass that had mushroomed during the Boom of ‘73. Appalachian Acceptance had held the mortgage; the Panic of ’76 had undone the promoters of the building, and Appalachian Acceptance had foreclosed. It had seemed like a useful building for company headquarters, and the firm moved west, shedding its old name in the process. The Factor Claude Regan occupied a suite on the topmost floor, with the Rockies behind him and a view of the First National Bank Building ahead of him. He kept his desk uncluttered, as much to show off the sumptuous grain of the real wood as to simplify his business routine.

The factoring companies had taken over American business gradually, over the past decade and a half. The process was all but complete, now. You began by lending money to companies against accounts receivable, you branched out by financing expansion campaigns; then came a panic, and you found yourself owning a company, and to keep yourself from bankruptcy you had to operate the company for your own account. It had all been much more complex than that, of course. But now, in the late summer of 1990, Global Factors, Inc., was the largest and most powerful of the twelve finance firms that had come to control American industry.

They were holding companies, really. They owned controlling interests in everything. There were still some independents, of course; General Motors had not gone under, nor Dupont, nor IBM. But even those corporate giants maintained friendly relations with the factors-because they were smart. In Denver, Regan presided over a sprawling empire with outposts on every continent-including a base in Antarctica. Did a nation need a loan for industrial development? See the man from Global. Did a commuter want to finance a home improvement? See the man from Global.

The system worked. It worked to the tune of an annual business up in the forty-million-dollar class. Claude Regan had bought his first hundred shares of Global stock at 11; now, after splits and stock dividends, those shares were worth thousands apiece. He was not the only one to have grown wealthy out of the new corporate dispensation.

But he had more than mere wealth. He had power.

He was the man at the top.

Now, on his return from China, the division heads came to make their reports. They were men in their fifties and sixties, mostly, every last one of them a multimillionaire. Their days were numbered with the company. Regan had taken over too recently to dare to get rid of them yet; it was less than twelve months since the proxy fight had pushed Uncle Bruce upstairs. He had already moved his own men into secondary out.

Positions in each of the company’s great divisions, and, one by one, he soon would pick off these oldsters and get them. They had no love for him. But they kept their resentments well hidden.

From the head of the table, Regan surveyed the tight-lipped faces. He glanced at the man to his right.

‘Donnelly?“

‘Semiconductor division up twelve percent, Factor Regan. The monthly gross is now over three hundred million, including overseas income. We-“

Regan shot past him. “Lee?”

‘We’ve opened our sixteenth power reactor this year, Factor Regan. Total electrical production in kilowatt hours-“

Down the line. Chemicals, drugs, transportation, realty, all the subsidiaries, even the original factoring firm at the bottom of it all. Regan listened, absorbed statistics, rattled off suggestions, hints, and orders.

The last man to report was Regan’s only appointee to high company office-Tim Field, president of Global Factors International, the new subsidiary in charge of coordinating overseas activity. Field was thirty-two and had come up with Regan all the way. Like Regan, he was a small man physically, but slower of speech, less high-strung.

He said, “This month’s overseas activities have been highly favorable. I’ve just returned from Brazil, Factor, and it looks as though they’ll let us build an automobile plant there after all.‘”

‘With expropriation guarantees?“ Regan demanded.

‘We’re still working on that, Factor.“

‘What about Nigeria?“

‘Henderson is representing us at the dam dedication. He’ll be seeing the Prime Minister today and I’ll be in touch.“

Regan nodded. It was vital to the company’s future to get footholds in the new industrial nations. Global was already well ensconced in Europe and the Near East-but in the coming century, Nigeria, Brazil, and China would have the big money. Since China was Leninist, extending the company’s power there posed certain problems. But Nigeria and Brazil certainly would have to be welded into Global’s empire before the twenty-first century dawned, Regan knew.

When Field had finished his report, Regan said, “You’ve all heard about this World’s Fair assignment of mine. I expect that it’ll take up a large share of my time over the next two years. Effective today, Tim Field will represent me at these meetings and will take over many of my functions in the corporation.” Regan glanced at Field, who looked a little dazed. “Tim, I want you to work out something with your next-in-command so that some of your responsibilities will be shared. And so on down the line.”

Someone discreetly cleared his throat. It was old Rex Bennett, a shrewd and venerable banker who guided Global’s fiscal policies. He was a holdover from the regime of Regan’s uncle, too important to be dismissed just yet.

‘Bennett?“

‘I was just wondering, Factor. Do you think this new assignment of yours is in the best interests of the firm?“

‘It’s in the best interests of the United States, Bennett.“

‘Yes, sir, but those two interests don’t always coincide.“

Regan glowered at him. “I’ve had a direct Presidential request to do this job, Bennett. The President and I feel it’s something that needs to be done, and that I’m best suited for it.” He paused, then added, “Incidentally, I have some plans for using the Fair to our own benefit. The welfare of Global Factors, Inc., is always uppermost in my mind, Bennett.”

‘Of course, sir. But-“

‘The subject is closed, Bennett. Are there any other questions?“

By midday, Claude Regan was on his way east again, to attend a meeting of the Executive Committee of the Fair, in Washington. En route, he ran through a briefing tape on the Fair. It was not a subject he had paid much attention to before yesterday. The 1992 Fair had been in the talking stage for four or five years, but Regan had had other matters on his mind during those years.

During the hour-long flight, he ran through the newsclips. They seemed strangely incomplete. Where, for instance, was the Fair going to be held? A clipping dated June, 1990-only two months back-still talked of “possible sites.” And what about financing? Had they floated a bond issue, or was Congress appropriating money, or what?

Regan was disturbed by the omissions in the file.

He grew a great deal more disturbed at the meeting itself. There were twelve men around the shining table-the President, Regan, and ten members of the World’s Fair Executive Committee. Originally there had been fifteen on the committee, but it seemed that five had resigned during last week’s crisis and unalterably refused to have anything to do with the project furthermore. The other ten had resigned too, but were willing to meet with the new chairman, at least.

It was the second time in six hours that Regan had attended a meeting. The same sort of faces confronted him now; the faces of middle-aged men, pink and well-scrubbed, men who had been holding the reins of power for twenty or thirty years and whose contempt for the upstart in their midst was equalled only by their fear of him.

There were three bankers in the group, and a high member of the United Nations Secretariat, and an under-secretary of State, and a governor of the New York Stock Exchange. There was a well-known philanthropist, and a retired Senator from West Virginia, and several other prominent figures of the moneyed, influential world. It was a select group.

Regan faced them and said, “Gentlemen, will someone-tell me where this Fair is going to be held?”

Former Senator Washburn harrumphed and said, “That’s not been quite decided, Mr. Factor.”

‘With less“ than two years to go?”

‘We were unable to agree on a site.“

‘Do you think a Fair can be built overnight?“ Regan asked.

‘There were administrative problems,“ the U.N. man put in. ”Irreconcilable personality differences. We-“

‘Yes,“ Regan said. ”I begin to see.“ He took a packet of stimmo tablets from his breast pocket and pointedly offered them around, as though hinting that the members of the committee could do with a jolt. There were no takers. Regan shrugged and popped a pill into his own mouth. He glanced at the President and said, ”Mr. President, what sort of financing arrangments will be available for the fair? I mean, Federal support.“

Hammond looked uneasy. “Well, of course there’ll be a Federal grant. You understand, exports have fallen off… unfavorable balance of trade… deficit.. certain difficulties… appropriation…”

‘Naturally,“ Regan said.

A glow came into the Chief Executive’s eyes. “But this Fair is going to reverse that trend!” he boomed. “It’ll be our way of recapturing America’s old prestige. This is going to be the show to end all shows, Claude. It’ll dazzle them! It’ll awe them! It’ll impress the biflimbus out of them! We’ll show these new countries that they’re just a bunch of noo-noov-”

“Nouveaux riches,” the U.N. man prompted.

‘Exactly!“ cried the President. ”Claude, you’ve got to pull out all the stops. Spend five billion! Ten billion, if you have to! Twenty! But knock ’em dead!“

‘Can I count on at least six billion dollars from the Federal Government?“ Regan asked.

Hammond gasped. “Six billion? It’s an unbalanced budget already, Claude. I don’t see how we can possibly-”

‘Four billion?“

‘I’ll try to get you two,“ the President muttered. ”The rest has to be raised privately.“

Regan had been expecting that. He stood up, raked a glance over the assembled company. “Gentlemen, we have a big job ahead. I can count on your cooperation, of course?”

There was murmuring. Regan stilled it.

‘I want the use of your names on the Fair letterhead,“ he said. ”There probably won’t be any further meetings of the Executive Committee. I just want your names. I’ll handle the work alone.“

They were unhappy about that. Regan let them take it or leave it. The committee system, he pointed out, had been tried and found wanting. Either they lent their names, but took no part in the decision-making, or else they could have all the responsibility they wanted-without him. Take it or leave it.

They took it.

Regan smiled serenely. “Thank you, gentlemen. That’ll be all.”

He set up an office in Washington, renting three floors of a skyscraper six blocks from the Capitol and dubbing it World’s Fair Headquarters. There had been a headquarters in New York, but Regan had no use for New York. It took a day and a half to transfer the records to the new office.

Regan moved in. A direct closed-circuit line linked him to Denver, so that he could keep an eye on the Global Factors operation while settling into this new job. Regan’s first task was to go through the minutes of the now disbanded committee, and see just what had been accomplished since 1988, when the first meeting had been held.

It was appalling.

All they had managed to do was set a date for opening the Fair: July 4, 1992. Why July 4? Well, it was patriotic. The Fair would run for two years. Every nation in the world would have a pavilion. Large corporations-particularly the twelve factoring firms-would be invited to participate. All the pavilions, of course, would be built at the expense of the exhibitors. But who would pay for the purchase of land? Who underwrote the promotional expenses? For God’s sake, where would the Fair be held?

No answers.

‘It’s stuff like this that has sent this country down the hill,“ Regan complained to a corps of his aides, flown in from Denver to help. ”A hundred years ago nobody would have done it this way. But we’re soft now. We can’t make decisions. We can’t get anything done. And meanwhile Brazil builds a new dam every week, and-“

Regan’s first important decision went forth to the news-fax sheets that afternoon. Cameras ground as he declared levelly, “There has been an adjustment in the opening date of the Columbian Exposition. It will now commence on October 12, 1992. Please don’t regard this as a postponement, merely as an adjustment. It struck the members of the committee that it was far more appropriate to open the Fair on the actual anniversary of the great discovery.”

Postponement, adjustment-the fact remained that Regan had bought three months of extra time. Now he had twenty-six months to get things shipshape, instead of twenty-three. It might make a difference. He poked around for some way of “adjusting” opening day still farther into the future, but found none. Columbus had made his landfall in October, damn him. Regan needed time-but no time was to be had.

None was to be wasted, either, a site had to be chosen for the Fair, fast, and construction begun.

But where?

A long-legged young man named Hal Martinelli had been serving as counsel and general factotum for the former Executive Committee. Regan had retained him, since he was the only one connected with the committee who seemed to have any idea of how to get things done. Martinelli filled Regan in on the site problem-struggling, all the while, with his overmastering awe for the Factor.

‘We had the site narrowed down to six cities, sir. But then we bogged down, sir.“

‘Cut out the sir,“ Regan ordered. ”There’s no time. Which six cities?“

‘Well, sir, there was-“

“Martinelli!”

‘Sorry, sir.“ The counsel flushed, bit his lip, took a deep breath. ”New York, San Francisco, Chicago, Houston, Boston, and New Orleans were the finalists.“

‘What the hell do they have to do with Christopher Columbus?“

‘Nothing, sir. Sorry!“ Martinelli grinned. ”But they had facilities available to hold fairs. They each made formal presentations last year.“

‘What happened?“

‘It was impossible to reach a final decision. The matter was left in abeyance.“

‘To go on abeying indefinitely?“ Regan made a face. ”Hal, get hold of the six cities and tell them to make their presentations again. They’ve got three days, and anyone who can’t scrape together a presentation by deadline time is automatically out.“

‘Yes, Factor Regan!“

While he was waiting, Regan zoomed back to Denver to attend a directors’ meeting. He authorized a boost in the dividend-for the eleventh year in a row-and suggested that they consider a stock split in October. Global Factors stock rose three points. Claude Regan’s personal wealth increased automatically, on paper, at least, by eleven million dollars. He took no notice of that. He busied himself on the second day by going over the plans for a housing project in Pakistan. The government would build it, with a construction loan advanced by Global Factors. It would house two and a half million Pakistanis. A Global subsidiary would manage it. By the end of the day, the contract was signed. The sun never set on Global’s enterprises.

On Wednesday he was back in Washington. Nola had come with him, to view the presentations. It amused her to take part in these little things.

Houston and New Orleans had sent their mayors. The Other cities had sent lesser officials. Regan allowed each of the six forty-five minutes to tell its tale.

Somebody had worked long and hard on those six presentations, Regan thought. There were elaborate mock-ups, table-top models, plans, charts. He was amused by the look of desperation in each man’s eyes as he in turn entered the conference room and went into a preamble explaining why his city, and his alone, should be granted the honor of staging the Fair.

Regan eliminated New York and Chicago right away. Chicago wanted the Fair because it had held the last Columbian Exposition, in 1892. That seemed a good enough reason to Regan to scratch it this time. As for New York-well, Regan decided, New York wasn’t a good place to hold a World’s Fair. It was too sophisticated a place; a Fair tended to get swamped by the big city’s other attractions. Look at Boston, New Orleans, Houston, San Francisco-Regan listened to each in turn, nodded sagely, smiled now and then, now instilled hope, now struck terror. An idea was forming in the back of his mind. It was a Claude Regan sort of idea, and when it popped into his brain even he was a little frightened of it.

The gentleman from San Francisco had bowed his way out of the room, taking his complex automated models with him. Regan glanced sideways at his wife, who was coolly tracing a green lipstick line around her mouth. Martinelli and various other staff members stood stiffly, expectantly in corners of the room.

‘Well, darling?“ Nola drawled. ”Which shall it be?“ ”Which do you prefer?“ Regan asked. ”I don’t know.“ She shrugged indolently. ”I liked them all. But why don’t you give it to Houston dear? The man from Houston seemed so sincere.“

There was tension among the aides. They were exchanging glances. Would the all-powerful Claude Regan be swayed by his wife’s whim? Would the accolade fall upon Houston?

Regan said, “I don’t think it’ll go to Houston. Or any of the others.”

Ears pricked forward all through the room. “Why should we hold the Fair on Earth at all?” Regan said loudly. “Why not up in space somewhere?”