Regan's Planet

SIX

‘Home at last?“ Nola asked him.

Regan nodded. It was late February. Denver still lay in winter’s grip. A field of ice stretched downward along the slopes of Regan’s hilltop. Nola looked wintry too. In his absence, she had grown thinner; the cheekbones slanted like knives embedded in the planes of her face. Beauticians had been at work on her, he knew. She was past thirty, but looked no more than twenty, except around the eyes. They were ancient eyes, Cleopatra’s eyes, viper’s eyes. Those eyes confronted him frigidly now. He had invited her to join him on his fund-raising tour, but she had declined, and now she seemed to be blaming him for the months of solitude.

She was tanned. Her skin sparkled faintly. A small ruby was glistening in the pit in the center of her forehead, making her look like some temple idol. Regan detested the fashion, thinking it grotesque, and perhaps that was why Nola embraced it. She changed jewels every three months. When he left, she had been wearing an emerald-cut diamond. She had the forehead for it, wide and high, a flawless expanse of skin for the insertion of the sliver of colored stone.

‘Home,“ he said. He walked past her, into the indoor garden. Hyacinths bloomed here, and sullen purple tulips, and daffodils with nodding heads. The perfume of the flowers was overwhelming after the winter sterility outside. He felt monumentally tired. He knew what had been going on in his absence, for he had never let eight hours go by without checking both his offices, the home office in Denver and the Fair office in Washington.

It had been a winter of discontent. Global stock had closed, the day before, at 111, the lowest in two years. The company’s 4Vz percent debentures of 2028 had sold off sharply, down to 99, on a rumor that Global would be seeking additional financing shortly at a higher interest rate. It was the first time since 1977 that any Global bond had sold below par.

The Brazilians, Martinelli had informed him yesterday when Regan was in Canberra, were proceeding on schedule with the satellite. Construction contracts for the space line that would take passengers to the Fair Satellite had been let, subject only to Regan’s final approval. The line would be built by a domestic firm, a subsidiary of Interworld Factoring. Regan hated to give the job to the competition, but there was no avoiding it. The wealth had to be shared.

A waterfall trickled gently through the garden room, endlessly recycling itself. It reminded Regan of the waterfall in the Sung scroll Ch’ien had given him. What had that old Sung painter of the eleventh century known of flowers in February? Of recycling devices? Of indoor waterfalls?

Nola strolled after him. She wore a black tunic, with ruffled webwork depending from the arms. Why did she always wear black, Regan wondered? Wishful thinking?

‘How did you spend your time?“ he asked her.

‘Idly.“

‘All of it?“

She shrugged. “I toured Antarctica with your uncle. He went to visit the Global base there, and he thought I might like to come along.”

‘Since when are you and Bruce such good friends?“

‘He knew I was alone here. It was very kind of him to invite me.“

Regan nodded. “Did you enjoy Antarctica?”

‘Very much,“ Nola said. ”It’s very clean there. The fields of snow-so pure. Virginal.“

‘Yes,“ he said. ”I’ve always found it a dull place to visit.“

‘I imagine you would,“ Nola said.

‘Did you spend your whole time down there?“

‘No,“ she said. ”I was on the Moon for two weeks.“

‘Were you? Alone?“

‘With Rex Bennett,“ Nola said. ”He joined your uncle and me in Antarctica, and suggested the Moon visit next. So we went, Rex and I. He’s an amusing old gentleman. Courtly and correct, very conservative. We had an enjoyable time together.“

‘You’ve been seeing a lot of the Old Guard, then.“

‘Yes. Is it wrong, Claude?“

‘Not at all. Not at all. Better that you travel around with doddering old squires than with handsome young men, if you’re going to travel at all.“

‘They seem very worried about you, Claude.“

‘Worried about me or about Global Factors?“

‘Both,“ Nola said. ”They think that you’re a sick man, and that you’re bringing the company down to destruction.“

‘Do you think I’m sick, Nola?“

‘You don’t look well.“

‘That isn’t how they’re using ’sick.‘ What they mean to say is that I’m insane. Do you think I’m insane, Nola? Come on. Tell me!“

She smiled obliquely. Reaching up casually, she plucked the ruby from her forehead and began to fondle the stone, an absent-minded gesture that Regan, in his tense and fatigued state, found unbearably grisly. He stared at the vacant socket above her eyes, then turned away.

Nola said, “What does insane mean, Claude?”

‘Skip the semantics. I can just see you and Bruce and Bennett, sitting down there in Little America, telling each other that I ought to be committed. You do think I’m nutty, don’t you?“

‘Do you feel persecuted, Claude? Do you feel surrounded by enemies?“

‘I feel tired. I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams. But I feel sane, Nola.“

‘Then you must be sane,“ she said. ”Q.E.D.“

He glanced up at her. “Put the stone back in your head, will you?”

‘I thought you didn’t like that fashion.“

‘I like looking at a ruby up there better than I do looking at the empty socket. Put it back!“

‘If you wish.“

She reinserted the ruby without turning around. Regan forced himself to watch. He realized he was trembling. A constricting band of tension gripped his belly. He walked toward her, his footsteps echoing on the tile. The waterfall gently burbled in the background. Flower-scents dazzled his nostrils. Nola stood still, black-garbed against a background of blazing azaleas.

He paused when he was a few steps away from her. Struggling to keep his voice level, Regan said. “Nola, I wish you hadn’t taken those trips with Bruce and Bennett. I wish you wouldn’t hobnob with them in the future.” “They’re both very sweet.”

‘Those men are my enemies, Nola. They are dedicated to my destruction. And you’re my wife. Pick your side and stay with it. Don’t try to shuttle back from one camp to the other.“ ”They’re very fond of you, Claude. They have your welfare at heart.“

‘They’d like to ship me to Antarctica for keeps,“ Regan said. ”Preferably in a coffin. Decide where your loyalty lies, Nola.“

She smiled. “With you, of course.” “Really?”

‘You’re my husband.“ ”Yes. Yes, that’s true, isn’t it?“

‘If you didn’t want me to spend time with those men, you should have told me so in advance.“

‘I never expected-I mean-oh, God, Nola, can’t you see? They’re out to break me!“

‘And what did you do to them last year?“ ”What I did was for the benefit of Global Factors as much as it was for me. What they’d like to do now is destruction for its own sake. They hate me for having pushed them aside, and so they want to knock me down-even though it would make them richer if I continued to run the company.“

‘They seem to think it’ll make them bankrupt,“ Nola said. ”They’re very worried about your tie-in with the Fair.“

‘I’ll come out ahead,“ Regan said grimly. ”I give you my word on that, just as I gave it to them. Nola, keep away from them! If you love me, keep away!“

He didn’t give her a chance to say anything further. He moved in on her, put his arms around her, just as though they were still in love and not merely tenants of the same house. For an instant, she resisted, but only for an instant. Her stiffness melted, and there she was, pliable and warm in his arms. He drew her close.

It seemed almost as though she were on his side. But he couldn’t be sure. With Nola, he could never be sure of anything, anymore-except that he could no longer trust her.

Regan released her, finally. Dots of color stippled her cheeks. Her expression was less chill. “Claude, let’s take a trip together.”

‘I’ve just come home, Nola.“

‘I don’t care. I’ve just come home, too. Let’s go away somewhere for two or three weeks.“

He shook his head. “I’d love to, Nola. But I can’t. I’ve got to stay on the firing line and see this thing through. You’ve got to understand that.”

‘Let’s go to Mars, Claude,“ she persisted. ”There aren’t many people who can afford to do that, but we can. Let’s go. When I was on the Moon with Rex Bennett, he took me to the observatory, and I saw Mars. Big and red, with the lines and the green spots at the poles. I want to go, Claude!“

‘Maybe later in the year.“

‘Why not now?“

‘I’ve been away for months,“ he said hoarsely. ”I can’t take another trip. Please understand it.“ He caught her hand. It was cold, cold and bloodlessly pale. ”We’ll go to Mars, Nola. That’s a promise. But not now. Give me a few months to get back into harness. We’ll go. Together. A little later in the year, Nola.“

The idea remained with him in the next few days. The thought of Mars haunted him. A second honeymoon? Well, why not? Somewhere along the way, during his rise to the executive suite at the Carlin Building, he and Nola had lost each other, but was that necessarily forever? The two of them, wandering the red dunes of Mars, perhaps visiting the Martians themselves. Yes, he thought. The Martians! No one had known of them, the last time Regan had been to Mars. He had gone-alone -in ‘85, when he was still one of Uncle Bruce’s fair-haired boys, and no one had known of the desert dwellers then. It was time for a return visit. With Nola, he thought. Get her away from her plush world of couturiers and flatterers, get her off to the wilderness, to the real frontier.

But not now.. Now, there was work to do.

Problems were multiplying like toadstools underfoot. Trying to hold down two demanding jobs at once was proving impossible even for the Factor Regan. Tim Field, acting in his stead at Global, was doing a fine job-but even Field was showing the strain.

‘The price of Global stock keeps dropping,“ Field said.

‘We aren’t concerned with the price of the stock,“ Regan reminded him. ”We’re concerned only with the profits of the corporation. The stock price is subject to irrational popular whims. The corporation profits aren’t.“

Field’s boyish face looked drawn and pale. “Would you like to see the balance sheet, Factor? We’re running dry of cash.”

‘You mean we’re down to our last umpteen billion, is that it?“ Regan said, laughing with a merriment he did not inwardly feel.

‘I mean that the dividend we paid in October made a dent, and the dividend we paid in January made a big dent, and that if we were smart we’d pass the dividend entirely in April to conserve working capital.“

‘Tim, do you know what would happen to the stock market if Global Factors passed a dividend? We’d have the damnedest crash you could imagine.“

‘I suppose,“ Field said gloomily. ”But the alternative is to liquidate some of our own investments.“

‘Of course. You’ve been doing that, haven’t you?“

‘Whenever I can. But it’s got to be covered up all the time. If word ever got out that Global was selling off assets to cover the dividend, it wouldn’t be much better than if we’d passed the dividend entirely,“ Field said.

His trouble-rimmed dark eyes stared worriedly into Regan’s pale blue ones. Regan saw the terror in Tim Field, and wondered why the same terror had not yet struck him. They were both men riding a whirlwind. Both of them together were not yet as old as Bruce Regan, and yet it had fallen to them to rule an empire of capital greater than any the world had ever known before. And if Global Factors swayed even slightly, the entire capitalistic system would totter. It was a crushing responsibility that he had fought so bitterly to assume.

‘We’ll make out,“ Regan said.

‘If only those bonds could be sold-“

‘We’ll make out,“ Regan repeated, stressing each word harshly.”The bonds will sell, and any that don’t sell will stay with us. We’ll be paid off out of the profits of the Fair.“ He closed his eyes for a moment, and saw the Fair satellite in orbit, the whirling disk of metal, containing within its fragile skeleton the gleaming pavilions of fifty nations, the fancies and fantasies of the world’s most imaginative minds. And a steady stream of small spaceliners, carrying eager Earthmen skyward to view the wonders.

Was it all a pipe-dream, he wondered?

Suppose no one came to the Fair? Suppose the whirling satellite rusted in its orbit, unvisited and unknown? The bonds would default, of course. The Fair would go into bankruptcy. Global Factors would sustain the biggest investment loss in corporate history. And he might well be lynched by outraged stockholders.

‘I’m thinking of taking another trip soon,“ Regan said.

Field looked startled. “Sir?”

‘To Mars,“ the Factor murmured. ”My wife and I. A brief rest. You can hold the fort for a while without me, can’t you, Tim? Just for a while?“

Visibly shaken, Field said, “When will you be leaving, Factor Regan?”

‘It isn’t settled yet. May, June, perhaps as late as August. Perhaps never. I want to get the Fair properly launched, first, then I’ll get away for a little while.“

The stricken look in Tim Field’s face haunted Regan as he flew to Washington the next day. More stricken faces encountered him there-Hal Martinelli, Lyle Henderson. They looked harried, chivvied, overworked.

The man at the top is only as good as his lieutenants. Bruce Regan had cited that maxim to a twenty-two-year-old Nephew Claude, back in the Dark Ages. Claude Regan had never forgotten it. He had surrounded himself with young men, men of stamina, will, and endurance. They shared his rashness and they shared his boldness and, he hoped, they shared some of his determination as well. But could they match his pace, he wondered? He started to have his doubts. He tried to picture each of his most trusted men, in turn, taking his place, and failed utterly. They had the energy, but not the coolness. Tim Field was practically the same age as Regan, but yet seemed terribly, terribly young all of a sudden. So did Martinelli seem young. And Lyle Henderson. Their faces were clean-cut, their eyes clear, their jaws honest and determined. But, but they were boys.

Are they too young, he wondered, or am I just aging fast?

He needed Field to carry the load of Global Factors during the organizational period of the World’s Fair. But if Field cracked, who would replace him? The lieutenants could not begin caving in, not without jeopardizing the strength of the Factor himself.

He threw himself into his work in Washington with frenzied energy. There were problems-always problems-and he dealt with them as he had always dealt with problems, by grabbing them one at a time, clutching them by the throat, and shaking them hard until they lost their teeth. The national pavilions were beginning to take shape on the drafting boards, and of course every nation wanted fifty acres for its display. The Congo alone had requested close to fourteen percent of the entire display area. How to refuse these bold, self-confident new powers? Martinelli was too tactful. Regan had to do it.

‘No nation is to have more than four acres of display space,“ Regan declared. ”If any of them don’t like it, they’re welcome to build a space satellite of their own. We don’t have room.“

There was some grumbling, as Regan had expected. The Congo withdrew from the Fair altogether. Nigeria, India, and China filed formal protests objecting to the size of the space that had been allotted to their pavilions. Considering the expense of building any sort of pavilion at all fifty thousand miles out in space, it struck Regan as amusing that those countries least willing to subscribe to Fair debentures were the ones most eager to erect splashy pavilions. He stuck to his decision, though. The new nations were not going to be allowed to hog the necessarily limited area of the Fair.

On his third day back in Washington, word reached him that His Excellency, Emir Talal ibn Abdullah, Saudi Arabian Minister Plenipotentiary to the United States of America, sought the honor of an interview with Factor Regan. Regan was elated. Saudi Arabia had not yet made good on its pledge to purchase five hundred million dollars’ worth of Fair bonds, but payment was expected imminently. Obviously the Minister Plenipotentiary was coming to deliver the check.

Obviously.

‘Shall we call a press conference?“ Martinelli wanted to know.

‘We’d better not,“ Regan said. ”The Emir Talal doesn’t think much of American journalistic methods. I think he’d be happier just to hand the check over in a private ceremony, without any fanfare.“

The Emir Talal arrived, ten minutes late, clad in flowing desert robes that must have given him some discomfort in the bitingly cold weather. He did not show it. He was a sturdy, olive-skinned man in his late forties, flashing of eye, imposing of mien-every inch the Arabian chieftain, Regan thought.

The Factor greeted Talal effusively. There was a reserve, almost a chill about the Emir’s manner, but that was only to be expected from someone of such dignity. What Regan was not expecting was the Emir’s opening statement.

‘Factor Regan, why did you not tell King Feisal that this festival of yours was in honor of a Jew?“

Regan had rolled with many a punch in his day, but this one nearly floored him. Recovering after a second or two, he said falteringly, “Your Excellency, the Fair honors the exploit of Christopher Columbus.”

‘Precisely. Columbus was a Jew.“

Regan’s eyes bulged. “Are you making a serious statement, Your Excellency? Columbus was an Italian.”

It was the wrong thing to say. The Emir drew himself up to an improbable height, and his brilliant eyes blazed with fire. Regan half expected him to draw a scimitar from his voluminous robes and send the infidel’s head flicking into the dust for daring to contradict him.

Talal said with monumental hauteur, “We have checked this very carefully, Factor. Columbus was of Jewish descent His own religious preference is of no concern to us. A Jew is one with Jewish blood. Columbus was a Jew. Surely you cannot expect us to advance money for the support of an exposition in honor of a Jew, Factor Regan!”

It’s a joke, Regan thought. It has to be! The man has a great little sense of humor.

As mildly as he could manage it, Regan said, “There must be some mistake here, Your Excellency. I understand the political considerations involved, but I find it hard to accept the idea that Columbus-Columbus-”

‘Under the circumstances,“ the Emir Talal declared, ”It will hardly be possible for us to honor our pledge. King Feisal was not in full possession of the facts when he spoke with you. We trust you will understand.“

Nodding curtly, the Minister Plenipotentiary took his leave.

Regan stared after him, utterly aghast. Columbus a Jew? What kind of nonsense was that?

And half a billion dollars in bonds cancelled, just like that, poof! Where am I going to find another half a billion dollars, Regan wondered?

For the first time since he had embarked on this enterprise, he felt fear. Not uneasiness, not uncertainty, but fear-live, crawling fear.