Regan coughed. His lungs were giving out. He glanced toward the wall, opaque on this side, and pointed to the airlock, hoping somebody out there would see him and let him out. Whether or not the Martians had understood what he was trying to tell them, he couldn’t remain here any longer.
The Martians continued to give him the blank-faced stare.
The airlock irised open.
Regan stumbled out, choking, gasping. He reeled for a moment, caught hold of someone, steadied himself. The spasm passed. He filled his lungs with air.
A reporter loomed up before him. “Mr. Regan, if you’ll give us a statement-”
‘No-please-“
‘Factor! Factor!“
‘No comment!“ Regan yelled.
He got away from them, running like a demon-ridden soul down the streets of the moon he had built, until he reached the Fair’s administration building and took refuge there. He staggered into his office. Lyle Henderson was there, looking dazed.
‘Factor Regan! There’s a call from Denver for you. Global is calling, sir. They’ve heard the news, and-“
‘Tell them I’ll be in touch,“ Regan said. ”I don’t feel like talking to them now. Tell them that whatever they’ve heard is true. Jesus, Lyle, get me a drink. I’ve had a rough time of it.“
He gulped down the contents of the paper cup Henderson handed him. Bourbon? Rye? He didn’t know. He belted it away, closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths. The tension started to ebb.
‘Do you want anything else, Factor?“
‘No, Lyle. Just leave me alone. I don’t want to see anyone for a while. And stop calling me Factor. That’s all over with now.“
‘Yes, sir.“
Henderson left.
Regan was alone. He sat quietly. The Martians had understood, hadn’t they? Well, no matter. They’d probaby go on hating him forever, but he couldn’t help that. What was done was done.
He smiled. Right now they were busy writing the editorials about him, praising his nobility, bis self-renunciation. Turning his back on billions, stepping out of the world’s most lucrative job, going off to grub in the desert.
Do you feel very noble, Factor Regan? he asked himself.
Not really. Not noble at all. He was a kidnaper, a liar, a cheat. AH in a good cause, of course. Well, now he could atone. Not that it was all pure altruism, of course.
Let them think so, Regan told himself. Let them sing hymns to him. It was good publicity. They would never understand. Old Alexander the Great had understood, though. He had wept for lack of new worlds to conquer. Not Regan. The new world was there, up in the sky. Just starting out. He would go to it, not as a millionaire, just as an ordinary colonist. The slate was clean. He had gone as far as he could go on Earth: the control of one large corporation. But up there…
A whole world, waiting to be developed, waiting for the guiding hand, waiting…
Waiting for Claude Regan.
He poured himself another drink. Then, flicking on the closed-circuit television set in the office, he scanned the different levels of the Fair, saw the throngs roaming in wonder from pavilion to pavilion. The Fair was a great success, Regan thought. Most satisfying. A man with talent can handle the impossible with the greatest of ease.
Regan lifted his paper cup. “To the 1992 Columbian Exposition,” he said ringingly. He took a sip. But the toast seemed inappropriate, somehow. One didn’t toast past triumphs. One looked forward. He lifted his cup a second time.
‘To Mars!“ he cried. He laughed in boyish delight, and thought of the consternation his press conference had caused, and remembered the feeling of dedication he had experienced on his visit to Mars, the yearning to take that planet and mold it into something marvelous. Well, now he would have his chance. Starting from scratch, rising by skill and shrewdness alone. He finished his drink. ”Hey there, Mars “ he shouted at the wall of his office. ”Get ready for. something big! Get ready for Claude Regan! Regan is coming, Mars! Regan’s on his way!“
THE END