‘The Columbian Exposition? Sure.“
‘It’s due to open in less than two years. July fourth, 1992. Claude, we’re in an unholy mess. The whole planning commission just resigned in a huff. We aren’t going to make it by opening day unless we get somebody dynamic and forceful to run the show. You, Claude.“
Regan stared. “Me? Run a world’s fair?”
‘It’s vital to the security of the Western world.“
‘Just a silly sideshow, and-“
‘No. It’s more than that.“ Hammond squared his vast shoulders and seemed to take on oratorical fervor. ”The whole hemisphere is on trial, Claude. This fair has to be a display of our vigor, our purpose, our national strength. We’ve got to stand up on our hind legs and show all these assorted yellow and black bastards that we’ve still got what it takes. We need to make the world tremble, Claude. We-“
‘Why don’t we just H-bomb Nigeria?“ Regan asked wearily. ”That’ll accomplish the same thing in a whole lot less time, and-“
‘You’re being facetious,“ the President said, in a depressed tone. He came forward, towering over the Factor. ”Claude, don’t play with this. I tell you it’s essential that we run this fair the right way, and that you run it. You’re the only man who can. You must do it.“
Regan looked at him stonily.
‘You’ll take it, won’t you?“ Hammond said. ”Do it for me, Claude. For all of us?“
‘You must think I’m crazy,“ Regan said. ”Well, you’re probably right.“
It was just what he needed: averaging only sixteen hours a day as head of Global Factors, he now had a full-time job as Chairman of the 1922 Fair as well. But some obligations are unavoidable. In his ticklish position as head of a quasi-sovereign entity within the United States, he had to make certain concessions. Hammond wanted him, and in all likelihood had already leaked the news of his appointment to the newsfax sheets. The publicity would not be good if he refused.
Regan thought about the job all the way home-home being a hilltop palace of redwood, glass and steel, looking down on the sprawling metropolis of Denver. The company jet took him westward out of the capital in an hour, and a limousine was waiting at the airport. Sirens shrilled ahead of him all the way home, and traffic obediently pulled off the road to let Factor Regan pass.
Nola was waiting for him, slim and sleek in a black sheath of spun silk. She greeted him coolly, with a chaste kiss on the cheek. She had been his wife nine years, long enough to lose her awe of him. They stood together on the terrace, moonlight highlighting her pale face, with its bladelike cheekbones. He had been gone four days.
‘Were you bored, darling?“ he asked.
‘Of course not,“ she said crisply. ”I played the Chaplin tapes, and I rode through the hills, and I sunbathed nude on the patio and took a shot at a reporter who came by in a helicopter. It was a very quiet time, Claude. I played the stock market, too. I sold Global Factors short, a thousand shares. Wasn’t that a coy thing to do?“
Regan spun round, angrily jabbed the autobar. A cold martini spurted out. “Did you really do that, Nola?”
‘Do you think I did?“
‘You’re capable of anything. Even breaking the law about insider transactions.“
‘I did it through the Swiss account,“ she said. ”No one will ever know. I lost two grand, Claude. The filthy stock went up. It always goes up. But I was bored, darling. I like to play the market when I’m bored. How was China? Did you see the Great Wall?“
‘I saw Ch’ien,“ Regan said. ”And nothing else. We closed the deal this morning.“
‘And the World’s Fair?“ Nola asked. ”I heard it on the newsfax five minutes before you came in. What kind of thing is that?“
‘They didn’t lose any time, did they?“ he muttered. ”Well, it’s true. I’m heading the Fair.“
‘I think that’s amusing.“
‘Do you?“ he snapped. He scowled at her. ”If it amuses you so much, you take charge of it.“
‘Oh, no, darling. It’s all yours!“
They ate, on the roof terrace-real steak, real French wine. Being a millionaire had its advantages. During the meal, Regan painfully made conversation with his wife, and somehow dealt with a constant stream of memoranda as well. Nola faced him across the table, glacially cool, radiantly lovely. Regan could feel the waves of hatred emanating from her. His steak took on a coppery taste. She ruined everything, puncturing his happiness with a glance, with a pucker of her cheeks. Bitch, he thought, and signed a voucher.
They had no children. They had taken the Sterility Pledge in ‘84, at the height of the fashion, and of course there was no undoing that. Regan had had no use for children on his way up, but now, at the summit, he needed an heir. Nola would not tolerate an adoption. If children came to live with them, her life might take on a purpose, and she would no longer have the luxury of tormenting herself and him with her boredom.
‘Tell me about this World’s Fair, darling,“ she said, turning the innocent sentence into a biting sarcasm by inflection alone.
He chose to ignore the inflection. “It’s the five-hundredth anniversary of Columbus’ discovery of the New World,” he explained. “The United States wants to throw a big fling to celebrate. A kind of muscle-flexing to impress the Asian-African nations. Hammond wants me to run it. That’s all.” “Why you? Don’t you have enough to do?” “They had a committee,” Regan said. “The whole thing fell apart. Hammond seems to think I can work miracles.” “Can’t you?”
‘Not all the time. Will you excuse me?“ He left the table, not having touched dessert or the cognac that accompanied it. The liftshaft took him down to his den, a hundred feet deep in bedrock. It was the sanctum sanctorum, and nothing, not even the messenger bearing word of Judgment Day, could reach him here. He slipped off his tunic and lowered himself into a vibrobath.
His mood of tension and depression slipped away as the gentle eddying motion rocked him into relaxation. He was a man with a tiger by the tail, and that can get wearing at times. The highest rung of global finance is a slippery one. There he was, at the top, nowhere higher to go. In a way, the new assignment would be an interesting challenge, he thought. Whipsawing prime ministers was growing dull.
And-now that he had thought about it-he could see the importance of the Fair. The United States was past its peak as a nation, sliding gracefully down into old age. Nigeria, Brazil, China-those were the countries to reckon with today. Russia and America, two sleepy titans, drained of vitality by long years of cold war, were comical staggering figures to the sharpshooters of the new industrial powers.
The 1992 Fair might help to change all that. Regan knew his Image Dynamics. The shadow was the substance; content was form; power was the display of intent. Put on a good show and hold back the tide-for a while.
It was midnight Denver time when he went to his bedroom. He had been through so many time zones today that he had little idea how long he had been awake, but he was tired. Tomorrow there were the reins of Global Factors to pick up. And then, he thought, he would have to see about getting this World’s Fair on the move.
Nola had not waited for him. He glanced at the burnished redwood paneling of the door separating their bedrooms, and saw that it was locked. He had expected it. Shrugging, he undressed quickly, prepared for bed. Glancing out, he saw a streak of light crossing the sky at a sharp angle-the Mars rocket, climbing fast. Give my best to the Martians, Regan thought.
He switched off the light, and moments later switched himself off with the same ease. His sleep was deep and dreamless almost until morning-when, suddenly, the gaudy midways of the 1992 World’s Fair came to blazing life in his awakening brain.
TWO
Global Factors, Inc., occupied the tallest building in Denver, the sixty-two story Carlin Building, a slim tower of travertine and tinted glass that had mushroomed during the Boom of ‘73. Appalachian Acceptance had held the mortgage; the Panic of ’76 had undone the promoters of the building, and Appalachian Acceptance had foreclosed. It had seemed like a useful building for company headquarters, and the firm moved west, shedding its old name in the process. The Factor Claude Regan occupied a suite on the topmost floor, with the Rockies behind him and a view of the First National Bank Building ahead of him. He kept his desk uncluttered, as much to show off the sumptuous grain of the real wood as to simplify his business routine.