A galaxy of notables made up the complement of the three ships. One wayward nihilist with a nuclear-tipped warhead could thus decapitate the world at a blow, ridding it of every leader of importance. Kings and Prime Ministers, actors and musicians, athletes and financiers-all had come to see the official opening of the 1992 Columbian Exposition.
Claude Regan felt a certain tightness in his throat, a certain hollowness in the pit of his stomach. For almost two years he had been working toward this day. Would something go wrong? Would the atmosphere system fail? Would the Satellite swerve from its orbit? Would a blazing meteor puncture the metal skin? Would the honored guests be bored with the wonders he had assembled?
In his heart of hearts, Regan knew that they would not be bored, that there would be no calamities. All was well. He had inspected the Fair himself, the day before, and he knew it would be a success. Everyone who had seen it so far was impressed by it. The ones who had congratulated him the most effusively were the hardest-headed of the lot, the media men, the reporters and cameramen. The Satellite was full of journalists, now, on hand to cover the opening ceremonies. The whole business would be bounced along to Earth by the television relay satellites, so that the millions could participate.
Regan settled back against the harness of his cradle. He lightly closed his eyes. The lateral jets roared. The Santa Maria was docking.
The Fair was about to open.
‘A symbol of the dynamic energy, hard work, and far-sighted vision that is so uniquely American…“
That was Secretary-General Hannikainen, eulogizing the planners of the Fair.
‘Five centuries of adventure culminate here today, in this spectacular recapitulation of the American dream…“
President Hammond, orating sonorously as was his wont.
‘A stunning scientific achievement, an historic high-water mark in mankind’s conquest of his environment…“
Premier Falaise of Europe, lauding generously the guiding spirits of the Exposition.
Claude Regan forced himself to sit patiently through the speeches. No one was allowed to talk more than five minutes -and what a protocol headache it had been to get that idea across!-but, even so, every important world leader had to be allowed to get his oar in. And, of course, there were the religious invocations, not to be overlooked. The Pope had decided not to come, which was a pity, but he had sent an Apostolic Delegate all the same. Regan gave him equal time with a rabbi, a Presbyterian minister (chosen by lot to represent all the non-Catholic Christian denominations), and an assortment of Hindu, Moslem, and Buddhist leaders.
And then, at long last, Claude Regan himself was at the dais. He smiled graciously into the television cameras, raked his glance across the assembled global titans before him, looked down the colonnade of the Hall of the Worlds, with the Martian Pavilion straight ahead of him, and said, in a mild, gentle voice, “There’s not much I care to add after what’s already been said. I simply want to extend to the whole universe, on behalf of the Americas, my invitation to come and help us celebrate our five-hundredth birthday. That’s all. I now officially declare the 1992 Columbian Exposition to be open.”
There was applause. Regan snipped the silk ribbon. The celebrities thronged forward.
Regan went with them. The great rush was to the Martian Pavilion, of course. Even world leaders are susceptible to the fascinations of the Sunday supplement.
‘Remarkable,“ the Secretary-General observed.
‘Incredible,“ declared the President of the United States.
‘Such wonderful little gnomes!“ commented Chancellor Schmidt of the German Federal Union.
Regan beamed. The assorted celebrities peered through the wall of one-way glass. The Martians within, unaware of the crowd outside, went about the routines of their daily lives. Even if they had known, they would not have cared much about the goggle-eyed watchers on the far side of the wall.
With difficulty, Regan detached some members of the group and conveyed them onward to the other pavilions.
‘Here are the gladiators,“ Regan said, and two muscle-bound young men bowed. ”We’ll be watching them later.“
‘Will they fight to the death?“ Chairman Ch’ien wanted to know.
Regan shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Humanity is past that point, Chairman Ch’ien. They’ll simply batter each other around. Net and trident, that sort of thing.” Regan did not add that contests to the death had been very seriously under consideration in the earlier, shakier days of the Fair. Almost anything had been under consideration then that would have been likely to bolster attendance. After all, the Satellite was beyond the jurisdiction of any Earthly government. Gambling casinos, gladiators, bullfights, bubble-dancers-Regan had pondered them all.
But no sensationalism had been necessary. Not after the coup of landing the Martians. It was easy to be virtuous, Regan thought, with a sold-out house.
As he guided his intrepid band of notables from pavilion to pavilion, it was impossible not to sense that they were impressed. Regan was impressed with it all himself. The pavilions gleamed. Level after level was bright with the artifice of man-handsome, unusual one-story buildings, compressed but somehow elegant, displaying the wonders of science, technology, nature. And, periodically, a window looking outward, giving a spectacular view (for a price) of the starry firmament.
Everything was on the house today. These were not paying customers. The Secretary-General of the United Nations could gaze at the constellations without charge today. Next week, it would be different, of course.
It became impossible to hold the group together. They wandered everywhere-to the Hall of the Worlds, where vast models of the planets moved in stately orbits; to the midway, with its concessions and barkers; to the three-dee sensie shows, tactile and all, sponsored by the Hollywood studios; to the commercial exhibits and the national pavilions; to the fountain, the reflecting pool; to the windows onto the universe.
And, naturally, to the Martians.
The Martians drew the biggest crowd. Some of the dignitaries scarcely bothered to look at the rest of the World’s Fair. They remained glued in front of the window into Mars, staring openmouthed at the gnomish beings from the red planet.
People kept coming up to Regan to pump his hand and congratulate him. Even Nola, who had scarcely spoken to him at all in months, but whose presence had been necessary at the opening ceremonies for reasons of public relations, managed to smile and say, “It’s quite a show, Claude. Really terrific.”
Regan was surprised at the sincerity of her warm approval.
But he had a little surprise up his sleeve for Nola, too.
Friday, October 13.
The World’s Fair was twenty-four hours old, and the public was milling through it, those lucky few who had been there first when tickets went on sale. Cash registers were chiming. It had been necessary to institute a time limit in front of the Martian Pavilion; every half hour, the place was cleared, and anybody who wanted to see the little creatures again would need to buy a new ticket.
The Fair was a success, and Claude Regan felt that this was his lucky day. Friday the 13th, true, but that couldn’t be helped; the new calendar provided four of them every year. He had been awake for twenty-eight hours, now, and fatigue had not yet nailed him. He needed his strength for another hour, now. He was holding a press conference in the auditorium of the Global Factors’ Pavilion.
The place was full of reporters. As Regan strode in, they began to yell questions at him, but he silenced them with his hands.
‘No questions,“ he said. ”I’ve got a few statements to make.“