The damage was done;
May he roast in hell, whoever he was, Regan prayed.
Already, in defense, Regan had been forced to meddle with the freedom of the press-thus violating his own ethics, using Global’s power immorally. It was a descent. And perhaps a pointless one.
Who knew but that those hundred words might not have already ruined the Fair? And ruined with it Global Factors, and Claude Regan as well?
Who knew?
Wait and see, that was all Regan could do at this point Just wait and see, wait and see.
THIRTEEN
The old year waned. December trickled away in snow and slush, Regan commuting back and forth across the continent as another man might commute from city to suburb. Washington, Denver; Denver, Washington-the two cities were beginning to blur in his mind, and the only surrounding that had reality for him was the cabin of his company jet.
The press of work grew greater, now that the Fair was only ten months off. There were contracts to close, bills to pay, money to collect. Bond sales went on, slowly but surely. Half the issue had been disposed of now. Global Factors was committed for three billion-a billion and a half as its own direct investment, and the other billion and a half as an advance to the dummy underwriting company, Columbus Equity Corporation. Not bad, but not good, either. If the Fair went under, Global would still suffer a severe loss.
No longer a crippling loss, though. The critical stage was past: the Satellite itself, and the spaceline linked with it, had been constructed and were in the finishing stages. So if the Fair failed, Global, as the chief creditor, could move in and attach the physical assets. The loss would not be total. Global would simply operate the Fair Satellite as a pleasure resort for its own account. Regan was confident that over the long run the place would be a gold mine.
The short run, though, looked a little thornier than his first projections had anticipated. The bomb-scare business had been soft-pedaled, but, even so, advance reservations were not running as anticipated. The first week of the Fair was sold out solid, of course. Everybody who was anybody had booked passage on one of the ships going to the Fair during those first seven days.
But after that it wasn’t so good. The Fair couldn’t hope to survive on the patronage of celebrities alone. The only way it could get through the two years was if John Doe came eagerly forward, dollar bills clutched in his grimy little hand, to get in on what was being extensively billed on six continents as “The Experience of a Lifetime.”
And, the way things were going now, John Doe was adopting a wait-and-see attitude. He wasn’t rushing up to buy his tickets, not just yet. He was letting the other guy go first. But the other guy was waiting for him.
Year Day, 1991.
The last day of the year. Once called December 31, in the barbaric old days of the Gregorian Calendar. Now, under the World Calendar, no month but the first of each quarter had thirty-one days. January, April, July, October, yes. The others, only thirty, including February. Goodbye to December 31. It was a day without a number, Year Day. It had been that way since 1980, which, being a leap year, had had a second bonus day between June 30 and July 1.
The Regans were at the White House for President Hammond’s New Year’s party. A select group of a hundred had gathered at the President’s invitation. United Nations’ Secretary-General Hannikainen was there, and a chosen assemblage of ambassadors, most of them, through no coincidence, from Asian and African countries. The twelve Factors of the great companies were there-the first time in years they had been under the same roof. A sprinkling of Senators attended, and two Supreme Court justices, including Chief Justice Steinfeld.
The world of the arts had not been neglected. A poet or two, a composer, a painter had been invited. Regan listened to a lanky pianist with an astounding shock of white hair play Chopin at the First Lady’s request.
‘He plays well,“ Regan said. ”What’s his name?“
‘Van Cliburn,“ the Chief Justice whispered in surprise.
‘Oh. Of course,“ Regan said, and chuckled.
The Factor mingled. Ten years ago, if he had been pushed into a gathering like this one, he would have moved through it on sheer bluff and bravado. Today, after two years as Factor, he accepted this kind of company calmly, as his equals. It was easy enough to slip into the dual frame of mind when you drew a Factor’s pay. Regan smiled knowingly at men twice his age, men who had been making headlines since before his birth. One of the first seven Astronauts was there, smiling faintly under his white crew cut. Regan shook his hand, exchanged a word or two, moved on. Nola was talking to a famous old conductor, while President Hammond stood by, nodding and occasionally guffawing. Regan accepted a glass of champagne. Across the room, Factor Davidson of Interworld, second only to Regan in busines importance, caught Regan’s eye, smiled pleasantly. Regan returned the smile. It was easy to be cordial in a tuxedo, the Factor thought. There was little enough love lost between Global and Interworld, but one had to maintain the surfaces.
Regan sipped his champagne. President Hammond ambled over.
‘How’s the Fair coming along?“ Hammond asked. ”It’s moving, Tom.“
‘I bet you hate me for having tangled you up in it, eh?“ Regan shook his head. ”It’s been a very interesting experience, Tom. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.“
‘Glad you think so. You know, the Fair’s going to be a great success, Claude. It’ll make you famous forever.“
Regan smiled uncomfortably. He had just the tiniest doubts about the Fair’s success. And the kind of fame it might bring him was perhaps not altogether to be desired.
He took a canape from a passing tray. He caught sight of Nola, laughing at some remark of Secretary-General Han-nikainen. Regan walked toward them. Nola looked dazzlingly beautiful tonight, easily the most attractive woman in the room. Half a dozen other men had said so. They had no way of knowing, of course, that the Regans had occupied separate wings of their house since the summer. Again and again, people complimented Regan on Nola, envied him bis possession of such a jewel of a wife.
Believe me, he thought, if you want her, you can have her!
He kept those thoughts to himself. Rain drummed on the White House roof. Toward midnight, the rain turned to snow, and Regan glanced out the window at a world fresh and clean and new-looking.
‘Happy New Year!“ somebody yelled. Television cameras stared into the room-for, of course, the President’s party was being shared vicariously by the whole nation. Regan turned, forced a smile for the benefit of the watching multitudes.
He wondered what sort of parties they were having in Marsport tonight. Probably, he thought, they were too busy to bother at all. Year Day was just another working day for them.
‘Happy New Year, Claude!“
It was Nola. She looked a little drunk. Her face was flushed, her dark eyes unnaturally glossy.
‘Hooray for 1992!“ she yelled. ”Kiss me, Claude!“ ”We’re on television.“
‘Don’t be a stuffed shirt. The President is making his New Year speech. Kiss me for New Year’s.“
Her lips touched his. She seemed to sway a little. He drew away quickly. She was more than a little drunk, he realized. She was stoned.
‘Happy New Year!“ Nola yelled, and wrapped her arm around the Factor Irwin Davidson. Interworld’s head looked a little startled. Then, grinning at Regan and at his own wife, the elderly Factor gravely kissed Nola.