‘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.