Regan's Planet

FIVE

It was the middle of November.

Winter was settling in, east and west. Unseasonable snow fell on Washington, seasonable snow on Denver. The streets ran with rivulets as the thermal filaments melted the fall away. Shuttling back and forth across the continent, Claude Regan found fresh snow waiting for him wherever he went.

The Brazilians were not troubled by snow. It was coming along into summer for them, now, and rockets were rising daily, carrying girders into orbit. Fifty thousand miles up, a vast and heterogenous assortment of construction materials had been assembled, spread out over five or six miles and whirling round the Earth together. The ribs of the space satellite were taking shape. Regan could see them clearly through a telescope. Later, of course, the satellite would be visible to the naked eye, a gleaming wonderworld in the heavens.

Financially, things were moving along too, though not nearly so well. The bond issue was sluggish. Global Factors had duly bought the billion and a half’s worth for which Regan had obtained commitment. Private investors, prodded along mercilessly by Regan, had grudgingly and reluctantly bought up some $200,000,000 worth, grumbling all the while about the low rate of interest. Brazil had kindly purchased $100,000,000 of the bonds, over and above its earlier outright cash grant. The United Nations had voted to subscribe another $200,000,000.

That accounted for exactly a third of the bond issue. Columbus Equities was still stuck for the remaining four billion -which meant, essentially, that Global Factors was stuck for it, a contingent liability that would hardly look pretty on next year’s balance sheet.

Word was creeping through the financial community that Regan’s enthusiasm for the World’s Fair had led him injudiciously to overextend Global’s credit. Regan had tried to keep the story from leaking. Even the four dissident board members had kept silent, since by publicly protesting they could only hurt the price of Global stock, and thus cost themselves money, without gaining anything. Still, the story was getting out. And Global’s stock was dipping. Rumors filtered around.

‘Global Factors Common was off V/i in active trading yesterday,“ reported the Wall Street Journal for November 14, 1990. ”Analysts attributed the steady price pressure to rumors linking Global with the financing of the 1992 Columbian Exposition. Global has allegedly taken on heavy contingent liabilities in connection with the Exposition’s bond issue. The stock, closing yesterday at 138, is now down 22 from the historic high posted in August after the most recent dividend boost.“

The sharp drop in Global stock had cost Regan close to eighty million dollars on paper, but that did not trouble him. Stocks fluctuated in both directions, he knew. What did worry him was the long-term effect on events if Global got into real hot water. Had he miscalculated?

Global started to pull in its horns a little. It had five and a half billion dollars of its own money tied up in World’s Fair Bonds at the moment, and even the world’s largest corporation felt the strain of that. A hundred million dollars in callable loans had to be called. Another $80,000,000 in loans almost consummated were cancelled. With its own liquidity suddenly reduced, Global Factors was not in an easy position to make loans to anybody else.

Regan remained fairly calm. He set out on a world-wide tour to sell World’s Fair bonds.

His first port of call was Europe. The Europeans, basking in their new-found political unity, had plenty of cash to throw around, even though they were starting to tighten the belt as they felt the threat of African and Asian manufacturing industries. Europe would help, Regan thought. Europe had to help!

There was Spain, for example. Columbus had set sail from Spain. Spain would help finance the great Exposition that would commemorate the grandeur of Spain’s past, Regan knew.

And so he found himself standing on a balcony in Madrid just before Christmas, with King Alfonso XV beaming at his side. In the great square, thronging thousands roared their delight at being able to set eyes on that fabulous American, Factor Claude Regan.

‘It would be an honor to subscribe to the Exposition,“ Alfonso XV assured Regan solemnly.

Spain’s grandeur, alas, was all of the past. King and Cabinet met, consulted for hours, finally emerged with their decision. Spain would purchase three million dollars’ worth of the bonds!

‘I am deeply grateful,“ Regan declared in his best Castilian. But three million did not really go very far toward getting Global off the hook.

Then there was Italy. Columbus was a man of Genoa, though he had sailed under Spanish colors. Regan was given a state dinner in Rome, ceremonially toured the Forum and the Colosseum, shook hands with Pope Adrian. Italy pledged $15,000,000 toward the support of the Fair. The Pontiff added $500,000 of Vatican funds. But he did not take at all kindly to Regan’s suggestion that selected art treasures of the Vatican be put on display at the Fair.

‘Impossible, my friend,“ His Holiness declared in flawless English. ”Raphael, Michelangelo-they do not belong in space. I cannot authorize it. We cannot take the risk.“

Regan eyed the Pope thoughtfully. Adrian was a youngish man, only sixty, forceful and farsighted. It could not hurt to ask, Regan thought.

Delicately he broached the subject. “Would Your Holiness consent, then, to attend the Fair in person? If the Pope would be present on opening day, to provide his blessing-”

Adrian looked startled. “You must be joking!”

‘On the contrary. It’s in your power to become the first Pope to enter space. Think of the effect, Your Holiness. The eyes of every Catholic in the world turned Heavenward as you address them from space, televising your message to the entire world!“

‘But I must decline,“ the Pontiff said. ”I am quite close enough to Heaven where I am.“

Was there a suggestion of interest in the Pontifical expression, Regan wondered? Was Adrian just a wee bit tempted by the thought?

Regan did not press his position. He moved on, from capital to capital.

The results were uneven. No country, in this day of global prosperity, actually wanted to refuse. On the other hand, there was the general feeling that this Exposition was America’s business, and that America would have to foot the bulk of the bills. And, of course, not every member state of the United States of Europe was ready to dig down and contribute on the spot. Some had to deliberate lengthily first. It was still only a loose confederation, and each state had a large measure of sovereignty.

England was good for ten million, Germany for fifteen, Switzerland-not a member of the U.S.E., of course-for three. France, racked by a parliamentary crisis, could not see its way clear to buying any bonds, but expressed its hope of building a pavilion at the Fair. Luxembourg bought $30,000 worth of bonds. Monaco, piqued, doubled that. The Scandinavian nations contributed a million. The Netherlands, four million.

It was adding up, Regan thought. Slowly, painfully. But at this rate he’d never unload the whole four billion. All of Europe had accounted for less than a quarter of a billion. He had hoped for more.

He had hoped, too, for more assistance from the United Nations. The U.N. had come through for two hundred million, of course-but that was only a drop out of the treasury. Bloated with wealth from the lunar mines, the United Nations certainly could have managed half a billion dollars for the Fair, Regan thought. But something had slipped up.

Onward. It was 1991, now. Twenty-one months to opening day. The Brazilians were toiling gamely away. Surfeited on caviar and pheasant, Regan continued his money-raising tour of the world.

His big hope was the Afro-Asian bloc. The real money was here; with the factories of Africa turning out heavy-duty machinery for the world, with Brazzaville producing more cars than Detroit, there should be plenty of loose cash for the taking. Proud of their new wealth, the Afro-Asian countries would logically be expected to subscribe heavily to the bonds, by way of conspicuous consumption.

Regan discovered it wasn’t necessarily so.

He met with coolness in Addis Ababa, icy politeness in Cairo, cordial correctness in Monrovia. Everyone wished him well, but no one bought bonds. “We will erect pavilions at the Fair,” they told him. But they did not intend to lend money for the Fair’s own expenses.

Regan was a trifle disturbed by this. He continued onward, into black Africa. When he came to Nigeria, biggest and richest of the African nations, he began to understand something of the problem.

He was welcomed warmly enough in Lagos, that booming skyscraper city of seven and a half million people. In a glassy eyrie high above the sprawling city, the Nigerian Prime Minister, Sir Bawala Abukawa Ngdala, black as night and close to seven feet tall, clasped Regan’s hand in fraternal friendship.

Global Factors had developed strong ties in Nigeria within the last few years. The Nigerians were ambitious and skilled, and their universities were pouring forth a profusion of technicians. But Nigeria still lacked capital. As a new nation, it had not benefited from centuries of capital formation. Global Factors had entered, had made certain advances to the Nigerians, for which they were duly grateful.

‘I’m not here on behalf of Global Factors, Bobo,“ Regan stressed. ”My presence here is strictly on behalf of the 1992 Columbian Exposition. We know that Nigeria will be eager to support this endeavor.“

Prime Minister Ngdala peered solemnly down at Regan, and said gently, “We owe a great debt to you, Claude. You have helped us build modern Nigeria into the wealthy nation it has become.”

Regan modestly remained silent. Could he expect a hundred million, he wondered? Two hundred million?

The Prime Minister continued, his voice rich as an organ’s swelling diapason, “We are obligated to you in many ways, Claude. But yet, you must try to see this from our point of view.”

Regan glanced up in alarm. What was he getting at? “You see, Claude, this is the white man’s party. If Global Factors were presenting the Fair, we would be eager to help you. But it is the Fair of the United States of America. And my people are not fond of your nation as a whole. It is unfortunate, but we cannot forget your history, we cannot erase from our national conscience the names of Mississippi, Alabama, South Carolina-”

Regan fidgeted. “All that’s gone, Bobo. We’ve changed in the past thirty years. I don’t need to tell you that the new Senator from Alabama is black, do I? Doesn’t that count for anything?”

Ngdala laughed mellowly. “One Senator, against three hundred years of slavery? No, Claude. We cannot help the white man advertise himself. Simply for us to build a pavilion at your Fair would cause agitation here. To buy your bonds might bring down my government.”

‘Aren’t you taking an extreme view?“

‘I am taking a realistic view,“ the Prime Minister said, with a finicky precision of tone that clearly conveyed absolute finality.

There was no Nigerian loan.

The Congo Federation bestirred itself to buy a million dollars’ worth of bonds-an absurdly low figure, for that wealthy nation. There, too, Regan encountered hostility, though none of it was ever voiced as honestly and as plainly as it had been in Nigeria. The East African Union was even cooler to the idea of supporting the Fair. Regan did not even dare to enter South Africa; if friendly states like Nigeria and the Congo were so uncooperative, he could hardly hope for sympathy from the rabid black racists of the Cape. White faces were rarely welcome there, these days, and certainly not those of white men asking for money.

The Middle East proved a little more interested in the idea of the Exposition. Sheikh Hassan of the Persian Gulf Republic, rich with oil, gladly pledged fifty million. President Ismail of the League of Arab States matched the pledge. Young King Abdullah of the Hashemite Union contributed thirty million. Israel did the same.

Richest of all the Arab states was Saudi Arabia, sitting atop its desert-locked treasures of oil and uranium and refractive metals. Regan journeyed to Medina, where King Feisal happened to be holding court, and was greeted effusively by the towering Wahhabi ruler. Speaking in flawless French, the desert monarch buoyed the Factor’s sagging spirits by announcing that his land would gladly buy half a billion dollars’ worth of World’s Fair bonds-the biggest single purchase, outside of that by Global Factors itself.

Regan called Washington that‘ evening to relay the good news. “We’re over the hump,” he told Martinelli. “I’ve sold close to a billion dollars’ worth, and I haven’t yet gotten to Asia. How’s the Latin American campaign coming along?“ ”So-so,“ the counsel said. ”A million here, half a million there. We’re trying to pry ten million out of Argentina, but they’re worried about the beef situation.“

‘Hold their hands,“ Regan advised. ”Tell them everything’s going to be all right. And hit them up for twenty million. God knows they’ve got it!“

There was a ceremonial feast for him, desert style, in Feisal’s air-conditioned palace. Regan ate sheep eyes and cracked wheat with the best of them. For half a billion dollars, there were few parts of a sheep he would not eat.

In the morning, the jet took him eastward.

Peking was his first Asiatic port of call. Only a few months before, representing Global Factors, Regan had negotiated an enormous loan for the People’s Republic. Now, wearing a different hat, he had come to get some of that money back.

Regan was not too confident. In August, he had been lending money to China at eight percent; now, as a borrower, he offered only three percent. The Chinese could hardly be expected to welcome such an arrangement. Still, they were making a show of their friendship toward the West these days. They could spare twenty or thirty million, Regan thought.

He was prepared to do a little conniving if they balked- to arrange for a slight mitigation of the interest terms on China’s loan from Global, if China would cooperate in the Fair’s bond drive. Cutting the rate on the loan from eight percent to, say, six, would cost Global some money, but would also release some of the capital tied up in World’s Fair bonds. The Factor was certain he could ram his indenture revision through the Board of Directors when he got back. He had rammed far more unlikely things past them.

But he did not get the opportunity.

He was left to cool his heels in Peking for two days before Chairman Ch’ien would see him, for one thing. That was a striking enough contrast to his treatment in August, which had been strictly red carpet. At length, Regan was conducted to the Flower Palace, and allowed into the presence of the Chairman.

Of all the heads of state In the world, none impressed ‘Regan more than Ch’ien Hsiu-ch’uan. He had held his post twenty years, a major accomplishment in itself, coming to the fore in 1971 after the China Troubles. Poet, scholar, archaeologist, diplomat, Ch’ien had rescued Communist China from the chaos that had beset it, and had transformed it into a leading industrial power whose old belligerent attitude now seemed only an uneasy memory in the West.

Regan and Ch’ien had met on cordial enough terms in August. But there was a certain stiffness in the Chinese leader’s manner now. Shorter even than Regan, seamed by the years, Ch’ien waited impassively, saying nothing, while the Factor explained why he had come.

At length Ch’ien remarked, “What is this Fair to us, Factor? Why should we be concerned with Columbus and his voyage?”

‘We are commemorating one of the supreme achievements of human courage,“ Regan said.

‘To sail westward and find land? Does this take bravery?“

‘It took bravery then, Chairman Ch’ien.“

‘There have been other feats of bravery in the world’s history, Factor. Is it necessary to spend billions of dollars to commemorate each one?“

‘We regard this particular feat as exceptional,“ Regan said tightly. ”It was the discovery of our hemisphere, after all.“

‘Was it?“ There was cool irony in the shining Oriental eyes. ”I remind you, Factor, of the voyage of Hoei-Shin. Is it of no significance to you?“

‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.“

‘During the reign of the dynasty of Tsi,“ Ch’ien said, ”a Buddhist priest named Hoei-Shin voyaged eastward out of China for some twenty thousand Chinese miles, until he came to a land called Fusang. Fusang was quite probably Mexico or Peru. I can cite documents to support this, if you wish. Hoei-Shin’s voyage took place in a.d. 499. He was not the first Chinese visitor to the New World, Factor. You will kindly note that this took place one thousand years before the journey of Columbus.“

Regan kept a straight face. “I’ve heard stories of prior discovery, Chairman Ch’ien. Nonetheless, we feel that the voyage of Columbus deserves honor-”

‘We scarcely agree with you,“ Ch’ien said gently.

It was pure mockery, Regan knew. If China wanted to help the Fair, China would help, and no nonsense about the voyage of Hoei-Shin to Fusang in 499. China did not want to help. It had no craving to assist the Westerners in puffing their own discovery of themselves.

Regan left China empty-handed, though Ch’ien was kind enough to present him with a Sung Dynasty scroll as a personal gift, by way of consolation. It was a lovely enough scroll, with its dim, delicate depictions of mountains and waterfalls, but it did not help Global Factors at all to get off the hook on which Regan had so buoyantly impaled it.

Japan, Korea, Thailand, Indonesia, the Polynesian Federation-Regan continued his tour inexorably from capital to capital. Japan was helpful, but only moderately. Australia and New Zealand subscribed with lukewarm zeal.

Regan sensed a world-wide lack of interest in backing the Fair. There was nothing organized about it, nothing conspiratorial. The nations of the world simply did not choose to underwrite the American show. They preferred to let America do a little squirming.

Or was it hostility toward him, he wondered dolefully?

Right now, the man who was squirming-with Global Factors in the hole for billions of dollars on the 1992 Columbian Exposition-was Claude Regan. And he was squirming most agonizingly.