Regan's Planet

SEVEN

Some hasty research work by members of Regan’s staff turned up the information, within an hour, that the legend of Christopher Columbus’ Hebraic ancestry was just that: a legend. It was part of the apocryphal ragbag of miscellaneous untruth and half-truth that had become attached to the Admiral of the Ocean Sea in the past five centuries-a speculative interlude in the work of a none too reliable biographer.

But none of that mattered. Regan could not very well put through a call to King Feisal in Jidda, telling him to reconsider, imploring him to accept the findings of historical science that Columbus and Columbus’ ancestors unto the tenth generation were good Catholics and no more Jewish than the Pope himself, or Mohammed.

Some chance. Feisal’s mind was made up-or had been made up for him-and that was that. The Emir Talal’s word had been final. There would be no purchase of bonds for the Fair by Saudi Arabia.

It was a body blow. Regan had been able to tolerate Chairman Ch’ien’s tale of Hoei-Shin’s voyage of 499, because he had not really expected much in the way of cash from the People’s Republic of China in the first place. But to have $500,000,000 practically in his grasp, only to lose it for the most preposterous of reasons-that hurt.

There was no way Regan could hide from the world the news of the cancellation. He had already announced the Saudi Arabian commitment; now, he would have to make public the change of heart. This he duly did-without specifying the reason for the switch. By two o’clock, the story was coming across the stock market tickers.

Regan braced himself and waited for Global Factors to drop another fistful of points. The stock was at 109. Stock market theorists, gravely tending their charts, had opined in yesterday’s oracles that 107 was a “resistance point” for Global stock. If it crossed 107 on high volume, heading downward, it might very well head down into the low 80’s before it stopped dropping.

‘Perhaps a syndicate can be organized to keep the price of the stock up,“ Hal Martinelli suggested, at the tense meeting in Fair headquarters that afternoon.

Regan shook his head. “Can’t do. The chief contributor to the syndicate would have to be me, and most of my capital is tied up in Global stock. In order to get cash to buy Global on the Exchange, I’d have to sell Global. Self-defeating.”

‘But if there’s a stock-market break-“ Lyle Henderson said ominously.

‘Then we’re fried,“ Regan finished for him. He paced the room, paused to peer out through the window at the falling snow, and opaqued the window with a savage poke of his index finger. He didn’t want to see the snow. He didn’t want to see anything, right now.

He was staring ruin right in the face.

If Global stock collapsed as a result of the Saudi cancellation, the whole stock market would collapse right along with it, because Global had been the market leader for years. A general crash would feed on itself; investors faced with margin calls would be forced to sell, new supplies of stock would be dumped on the market for sacrifices at any cost, stocks would go down and down and down without a bottom.

Regan had seen it all happen once before, in 1976. He hadn’t been personally involved, so he had simply watched the process from the outside, with a certain detachment and morbid fascination. After all, the present power of Global Factors had come about largely as a result of the reshuffle-ment following that economic collapse.

But this was different. He was right in the thick of it. He had started it, in fact.

If the market crashed and a general depression resulted, nonessential expenditures would be cut back pronto-meaning any commitments nations or corporations might have to build pavilions at the 1992 Columbian Exposition. Without exhibitors, there would be no Fair. If the Fair flopped, there would be no profits with which to pay off the bondholders, not even any assets to divide. The bondholders would lose their entire investments, or perhaps would recover as much as one mill on the dollar.

And the chief bondholder-to the tune of about four and a half billion dollars!-was Global Factors. Thanks to Regan’s high-pressure tactics, Global had invested in a billion and a half’s worth of bonds on its own account, and was also stuck for some three billion more in unsold bonds technically owned by Columbus Equities Corporation. If and when the Fair collapsed, Global Factors would suffer a grave wound, perhaps a mortal one. And then the jackals would move in on the stricken titan, eager for their slices of fat meat.

Regan had built a pyramid of corporations. The destinies of Global Factors and of the 1992 Columbian Exposition were inextricably interwoven by the bond issue. The failure of one component meant the collapse of the whole pyramid. And the Saudi pullout might very well have set that collapse in motion.

‘What are the quotations?“ Regan asked glumly.

‘Global’s being traded heavily,“ Martinelli reported. ”A block of thirty thousand just crossed the tape at 108VЈ.“

‘Not so bad,“ Henderson murmured. ”Only off half a dollar so far.“

‘There’s still forty minutes of trading time left,“ Martinelli said.

‘And three hours left on the Pacific Exchange,“ Regan added. ”Enough time for plenty to happen.“

Hypnotically drawn, Regan kept his eye on the ticker tape that was spelling out his own downfall. Global was suddenly the most active stock on the Exchange. He wondered what sort of pandemonium the Exchange floor had turned into. A block crossed the tape at 108%, then a small order at 108Vi, then a thousand shares at 108Vs. Sinking fast.

‘Will there really be a panic if it breaks through 107?“ Henderson asked, of no one in particular.

‘That’s what the theory says,“ Martinelli told him. ”If a stock breaks its resistance level, it seeks support at the next stop down. For Global, that’s around 83.“

‘Jesus,“ Henderson said.

Regan was silent. The switchboard was blazing with calls, but he was taking none of them. Perhaps the time called for dramatic action, but he felt suddenly paralyzed, numbed by the flow of events. No one can keep up the pressure all the time. Right now he was tired of fighting. He had fought his way to the top, had teetered there dizzily for a few months, had apparently over-reached himself, and now, it appeared, he was about to topple.

‘Eight hundred shares at 107%,“ Martinelli intoned.

Wasn’t there any bottom? Would the stock fall right through?

Regan wondered what would happen if it did. Say, if it closed at 80 tonight. Many men who had been millionaires yesterday would be back where they started, tonight. Those rash enough to have staked their Global stock as collateral for loans might be wiped out. Men Regan had appointed, who owed their wealth and therefore their loyalty to him, would no longer have that wealth-because of his foolhardiness. Would they still have their loyalty, then?

He wondered. There was already one defector among his appointees to the Board of Directors. Another turncoat and Brace’s faction would have a six-five majority, enough to vote him out of control. To get back on top, he would have to mount another proxy battle. But would the stockholders care to give him a vote of confidence after his flyer in the World’s Fair? Or would they decide to turn the company back to the sound, sanely conservative administration that had guided it through its years of greatest growth?

‘Seven hundred shares at 107V4,“ Martinelli sang out.

Still sinking. Only half a point from the mystic resistance point that spelled doom. All over the nation, no doubt, troubled stockholders were reaching for their telephones, calling their brokers to put in sell orders before Global fell much further. Stop-loss orders would be touched off. A selling wave would hit the whole market. There would be panic in Wall Street, panic spreading westward from time zone to time zone.

No matter what happened, Claude Regan would still be a millionaire when the day ended. Unlike the men around him, he had no personal fears of hardship; what he was losing now was paper profit, but there was plenty left. He dreaded loss of power. To have risen so high, and failed at thirty-five, that was the shame. What did you do, for the fifty or sixty years of life left to you? Where did you hide?

‘A thousand shares at 107%,“ Martinelli said, his voice quivering, almost cracking.

Foolish to talk of hiding, Regan told himself. If the catastrophe occurred - as it seemed certain to do, now-he would simply start over. What he had attained once, he could attain again, sadder, wiser, but no less potent. Before he was forty, he promised himself, he would once again be where he had been today.

The vow made him feel calmer. He had written off his losses mentally, now. They could not hurt him anymore. Let Global break through its resistance! Let it go to 106, to 99, to 83, to 50, to 12! Let the storm break!

He would endure. Somehow he would endure.

Emboldened, he strode over to have a look at the ticker himself. It clicked away frantically. He glanced down, saw the familiar symbol for Global.

‘A thousand shares at 107%,“ he said. ”Looks like it’s stabilizing a little.“

A minute ticked by. The ticker was running late, now. Even the shiny new, high-speed ticker, driven by its computer brain deep in the bowels of Manhattan, was unable to keep pace with the scene on the market floor. But something Very odd was happening. Global had stopped falling. 107% had been the bottom. As the clock crawled on to the three o’clock closing bell, the quotations hovered at 107V4, flickering downward an eighth of a point now and then, but then gaming, gaining, from moment to moment, from one trade to the next.

‘Denver calling, Factor Regan!“ someone cried.

‘Tell them to wait,“ Regan snapped.

107 3/4!

107 7/8!

Rising. Rising.

Three o’clock came and went. The ticker, eight, ten minutes behind the actual transactions, spewed forth its data, and Regan watched, with Henderson and Martinelli silent behind him. The last quote came, finally. Global had closed on the New York Stock Exchange at 108, off 1V6 on the day.

Not bad, considering.

‘Get the West Coast quotes now,“ Regan ordered.

What was happening out there was even more startling. Global was being traded in San Francisco on heavy volume, but it was showing signs of definite strength. By four o’clock, Washington time, the stock had recovered all of the day’s loss so far. Ten minutes later, a block crossed the tape at IO91/2-up % for the day.

‘It’s insane“ Regan said. ”They’ve all lost their minds. Why is the stock rallying?“

Henderson shook his head. Martinelli simply gaped in disbelief. Why? Why, indeed? Why go up, on the worst of all bad news, after scraping the brink of disaster? “Denver calling, Factor Regan!”

‘All right,“ Regan said irritably. ”I’ll take the call now.“ He activated the screen. Tim Field appeared, face tense, lips working in little nervous nibbles and suckings.

‘Have you been following the price of the stock?“ Regan shot at him.

‘Yes, Factor Regan. I have.“

‘Down, then up. I know why it’s gone down, but why did it start to rally?“

‘It does seem a little odd,“ Field said. ”It seems damned odd. Did you release any news in the afternoon to counteract the Saudi Arabian business?“ ”No,“ Field said. ”I didn’t.“

‘Then why’s it going up? Hell, why did you call me, anyway? What’s happening?“

‘I wanted to tell you about the special meeting of the Board of Directors, sir.“ ”What special meeting?“ ”Tomorrow. Here, in Denver.“ ”Who called it?“

‘Your uncle and Bennett,“ Field said. ”They rounded up six votes. Six is enough to call a special meeting, sir.“

Regan thought the top of his skull would lift off. “I know that,” he said. “What’s the reason for the meeting, though? Trouble with the dividend?”

Field shook his head. “No,” he said. He seemed about to collapse. “The meeting, Factor Regan-well, sir-you see, this rally, we suspect it started because Bennett and his bunch began to buy stock heavily when it got near 107.” “To support the price?”

‘No,“ Field said. ”To strengthen their hands in voting. You see, this meeting tomorrow-they’ve called it to vote on dismissing you as head of the company.“