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.“
EIGHT
Early the next morning, a delta-winged jet liner streaked westward across the face of the United States, outracing the rising sun. Its lone passenger, the Factor Claude Regan, moodily gobbled stimmo pills and looked forward in cold anticipation to the battle that lay ahead.
World’s Fair, he thought dourly. Who needed it?
A silly show. An extravaganza of vanity. Bread and circuses, nothing more. A display of pride. Desperate men had conceived the Fair to shore up the estate of a desperate nation, and now he, called in to save the enterprise, had impaled himself on his own ambitions.
Regan scowled. Had it been worth it? For months, he had driven himself to the brink of extinction, not for his own personal profit but for the greater glory of the 1992 Columbian Exposition. He had gained nothing, and it now seemed that he had lost a great deal. If the Old Guard succeeded in deposing him, it would only be on account of the Fair.
Who needed it?
He grappled with his doubts. Agreed, the Fair was an absurdity. Agreed, it was a display of cosmic vanity. But there was another side of it, wasn’t there? It took valor, bravery, to fling a metal moon into the sky in honor of a long-gone seaman. Columbus had half feared going off the edge of the world; the Fair in Columbus’ honor would literally go off that edge. It was an accomplishment, a hymn to boldness.
Regan found his spirits lifting as the plunging jet began its twenty-mile descent toward Greater Denver Airport. A sleepless night had tricked him into momentary depression, but his energies reasserted themselves now. The Fair was at once silly and grand, but its grandeur was all that mattered. The Fair would be a major event in human history.-And one man, only one man, was capable of seeing it through to completion. Regan knew he must not let himself fall vic-tim to his own fears now, nor allow himself to be toppled by the little men snapping at his heels.
It was a perfect landing. Regan emerged into a crisp, clear morning. The first blue was cutting into the iron gray sky of dawn. The first breath of Denver air hit his lungs, rarefied, invigorating, and he felt instantly more alive than he had for days.