Anthonology

HARD SELL

I was, as I have hinted before, phasing out of short fiction by 1971, because the editors were too picky and too free with diddles in my text, and the pay was inadequate. Editors claim they are chronically desperate for decent stories, but they often don't seem to know such stones when they see them. John Campbell of Analog bounced this one because he said it was right on target, therefore not really fiction. But I wrote six stories in this series, to form a novel in the aggregate, as I had done with the eight Prostho Plus stories. You guessed it: the magazines showed little interest, but finally Galaxy Publications picked up the first three—and rejected the last three. And no book publisher wanted the novel Hard Sell. This was a hard sell indeed! Were the stories inferior? Well, you can judge for yourself; they got stronger as they went, so that some of my best efforts were wasted on the market. The titles were: 1. "Hard Sell" 2. "Black Baby" 3. "Hurdle" 4. "Death" 5. "Life" 6. "Libel." The first and third are published here. Once again I had shown too much oomph for the market—and I was pretty well fed up with that market.

"Interplanetary call for Mr. Fisk Centers," the cute operator said.

Fisk almost dropped his sandwich. "There must be some mistake. I don't know anybody offplanet."

The girl looked at him with polite annoyance, as though nobody should be startled by such an event. "Are you Mr. Fisk Centers?"

"Yes, of course," he said. "But..."

Her face sifted out, smiling professionally. The screen bleeped, went blank and finally produced a man. He had handsome gray hair and wore the traditional Mars-resident uniform—a cross between a spacesuit and a tuxedo. He was seated behind a large plastifoam desk and a tremendous color map of classical Mars covered the wall beyond.

"Welcome to Mars, Mr. Centers," the man said, putting on a contagious grin. "I am Bondman, of Mars, Limited." Somehow he had managed to pronounce "Limited" the way it looked on the map on the office wall behind him: "Ltd."

Fisk was fifty and had been around, but he had never been treated to an interplanetary call before. The reason was not only the expense, though he knew that was extraordinary. He simply happened to be one of the several billion who had never had occasion to deal offplanet. Probably Mars, Ltd. was economizing by using OVTS—Open Volume Telephone Service—but the call was still impressive.

"Are you sure—"

"Now, Mr. Centers, let's not let modesty interfere with business," Bondman said, frowning briefly. "You're far too sensible a man for that. That's why you're one of the privileged few to be selected as eligible for this project."

"Project? I don't—"

The Marsman's brow wrinkled elegantly. "Naturally it isn't available to the common run. Mars is too fine a planet to ruin by indiscriminate development, don't you agree?"

Fisk found himself nodding to the persuasive tone before the meaning registered. "Development? I thought Mars was uninhabitable. Not enough water, air—"

"Most astute, Mr. Centers," Bondman said, bathing him with a glance of honest admiration. "Indeed there is not enough water or air. Not for every person who might want to settle. Selectivity is the key—the vital key—for what can be a very good life indeed. Mars, you see, has space—but what is space without air?"

"Right. There's no good life in a spacesuit. I—"

"Of course not, Mr. Centers. The ignorant person believes that man must live on Mars in a cumbersome suit and so he has a low regard for Mars realty. How fortunate that you and I know better." And before Fisk could protest Bondman continued: "You and I know that the new static domes conserve air, water and heat, utilizing the greenhouse effect to make an otherwise barren land burst into splendor. Within that invisible protective hemisphere it is completely Earthlike. Not Earth as it is today, but as it was a century ago. Think of it, Mr. Centers—pure clean air, gentle sunshine, fresh running water. Horses and carriages—automobiles, guns, hallucinogenic drugs and similar evils prohibited. A haven for retirement in absolute security and comfort."

Something was bothering Fisk, but the smooth sales patter distracted him and compelled his half-reluctant attention. He certainly was not going to Mars. "But they don't have such domes on Mars. That technique was developed only a few months ago and is still in the testing stage."

"Brilliant, Mr. Centers," Bondman exclaimed sincerely. "You certainly keep abreast of the times. Of course there are no domes on Mars now, as you so astutely point out. Why, it will be years before they are set up, perhaps even as long as a decade. This is what makes it such a superlative investment now, before the news gets out. Provided we restrict it to intelligent men such as yourself. I'm sure—"

"Investment? Now hold on," Fisk protested. "I'm not in the market for investment. I'm comfortably set up right now and—"

"I quite understand. Naturally you're not interested in a mediocre investment, Mr. Centers," Bondman said, frowning at his own failure in not having made the point clear. "Do you think I would insult your intelligence by wasting your time? No, you have the discernment to identify the superior value when you encounter it, unlike the common—"

"What investment?" Fisk demanded, annoyed by the too-heavy flattery. The intrigue of the interplanetary call was wearing thin and the objection he couldn't quite formulate still nagged—and he wanted to finish his sandwich before it got stale.

The man leaned forward to whisper confidentially. "Marsland," he breathed, as though it were the secret of the ages. His voice was so charged with excitement and rapture that Fisk had to struggle to maintain his emotional equilibrium. Could there be something in it?

After a pregnant pause Bondman resumed. "I see you understand. I was sure you would. You comprehend the phenomenal potential in Marsland realty, the incredible opportunity—"

"I don't comprehend it," Fisk snapped, gesturing with his neglected sandwich. "I have no use for land on Mars and I would consider it an extremely risky investment. That dome technique is still in the prototype stage; it may not even work on Mars. So if that's what you're—"

"Yes, of course you want to see the brochure," the salesman agreed irrelevantly. "And you shall have it, Mr. Centers. I will put it in the slot for you immediately, first class. I'm sure you will examine it most—"

Suddenly, facilitated by some devious mental process, Fisk's nagging question came into focus.

"You aren't on Mars," he said angrily. "Its orbit is fifty million miles outside Earth's. Even when Mars is closest it should take a good ten minutes to get an answer by phone."

"Congratulations!" Bondman cried jubilantly. "You have just qualified for our exclusive genius-intellect bonus certificate. Of course I'm not calling from that Mars you see in the sky—I'm here at the Mars, Limited promotion office. Mr. Centers, I'm so glad you were sharp enough to solve our little riddle within the time limit. You're the very kind of investor we prefer. I'll insert the certificate right now. And I'll be seeing you again soon. Bye-bye."

And while Fisk was marveling at the peculiarly childish "bye-bye" the image faded.

He lifted his sandwich, a fine torula-steak on soyrye with enriched onion sauce, but found he was no longer hungry. He was sure this was a sales gimmick for something worthless, but Bondman's contagious excitement had gotten to him. Maybe there was a good investment on Mars.

Well, no harm in looking at the literature. He certainly didn't have to buy.

He didn't have long to wait, either. His mail receiver was already chiming with an arrival.

He picked up the bulky printing and spread it out. It was a first-class presentation, all right, with color photographs and glossy surfacing that must have cost dearly to transmit. If he had not been present when it arrived he would have suspected a physical delivery rather than the normal mailfax. Mars, Ltd. must have oiled the right palms in the post office.

Well, he had to admit it—he was intrigued. He probably would not buy, but he would enjoy looking.

First there was the bonus certificate, entitling him to a twenty percent reduction. Fair enough—but hardly sufficient to induce him to buy without his knowing the actual price. Then a spread on Mars—its discovery in prehistoric times, its variable distance from Earth (35-235 million miles), its long year (687 days—Earth days or Mars days, he wondered—or were they the same?), low surface gravity (one-third Earth's), pretty moons (ten-mile diameter Phobos, six-mile Deimos), scenic craters—all familiar material, but calculated to whet the appetite for investment and retirement.

Then down to paydirt. The proposed colony, Elysium Acres, was located on a map dramatically colored and named. An electrostatic dome a hundred miles in diameter, almost fifty miles high, enclosed a greenhouse atmosphere at Earth-normal pressure and temperature. The development was suitable for homesites, with carefully laid out horse trails and a delightful crater lake. Guaranteed weather, pollution-free atmosphere.

Fisk was middle-aged and cynical, but this gripped him. Earth was such a sweatbox now. He hated having to take weekly shots to protect his system against environmental contamination, and the constantly increasing restrictions invoked in the name of the growing pressure on worldly resources made him rage at times like a prisoned tiger. (What other kind of tiger was there today?) Perhaps if he had married, found someone to share his—but that was another entire dimension of frustration, hardly relevant now.

This Marsdome pitch catered to these very frustrations, he realized. There must be millions like himself, men well enough to do, intelligent and sick of their own lack of purpose. What a beacon it was, an escape to an unspoiled planet—in comfort.

But of course he was old enough to control his foolish fancies. He knew, intellectually, that no such development existed on Mars and probably never would exist. The sheer expense would be prohibitive. All that technology, all that shipment from Earth—why, passenger fare for one person one way would amount to twenty or thirty thousand dollars, assuming emigration could even be arranged. And for him it was out of the question.

Yet he could not help studying the brochure. Elysium Acres—such a suggestion of bliss! Could it possibly come true by the time he turned sixty? Why not, if they were able to finance it?

There was the real rub. Money. How much to establish the dome, stock it with good atmosphere, import vegetation, calculate and maintain a closed-system ecological balance, construct access highways, lakes, houses, service facilities? There would have to be hospitals, libraries, administrative buildings, emergency staffs—all the accouterments of civilization, in short. It would cost billions of dollars to maintain—perhaps trillions to construct. Naturally the brochure did not provide the price list.

But if it were affordable and if it were possible for him to go—what a temptation!

He punched his personal info number for his net worth, just checking. The totals flashed on the screen after he had provided his identification code: liquid assets just over fifty thousand dollars; investments at current quotations just under two hundred thousand; miscellaneous properties and options sixty to eighty thousand, pending urgency of sale. Grand total—a generous three hundred thousand.

Enough, with proper management, to tide him through the twenty-five years until his retirement annuities matured. He was hardly fool enough to jeopardize any of it by investing in pie-on-Mars. Still, it had been fun dreaming.

The dream lingered next morning, a welcome guest staying beyond courteous hours. Fisk showered in the sonic booth, depilitated and dressed. As he arranged and set his graying locks he wondered irrelevantly whether he and the salesman, Bondman, used the same brand of hair tint. He studied his face in the mirror, picturing himself as a hard-sell agent, lifting his brow artfully to augment a pregnant pause. Yes, he did look the part—perhaps he would be good at it.

But then, subjectively, he saw the signs of what he knew was there—the circulatory malady that bound him to Earth for life. His quarterly medication kept it under control—but a trip to Mars, with the necessary accelerations and drugstates, was out of the question. That was why Mars would never be more than a dream for Fisk Centers, no matter how alluring the sales pitch. He would always be a portly, subdued Earthman.

So it was time to end it. He filed the Mars, Ltd. literature in the recycle bin and watched it disintegrate. Then he punched breakfast. He felt lonely.

The phone lighted. "Yes?" he said automatically.

"Interplanetary call for Mr. Fisk Centers," the cute operator said. She had changed her hairdo, but she was the same one who had placed the call yesterday.

"Come off it, girl," he snapped, aware that there was nothing more useless than taking out a personal peeve on an impersonal employee. "It is not interplanetary."

Bondman of Mars phased into view. "Of course it is, Mr. Centers," he said genially. "The Mars, Limited office is legally Mars soil, you know. An enclave. We have to undergo quarantine before reporting for work, ha-ha! I trust you have studied our brochure—"

"Yes. I'm not buying."

Bondman looked hurt. "But you haven't even heard our price, Mr. Centers. I know a man as fair-minded as you—"

"I'll never go to Mars."

"Remember, you get a special bonus price because of your intelligence and judgment. I'm sure you'll recognize—"

"I have a circulatory disorder. Inoperable. Sorry."

Bondman laughed with a finely crafted lack of affectation. "You don't have to go to Mars, Mr. Centers. We're talking about investment."

"I told you I wasn't looking for—"

"You've studied the plans for Elysium Acres? The phenomenal hundred-mile dome, the luxurious facilities, the nineteenth-century atmosphere—literally—the scenic lots? Of course you have. Mr. Centers, you know values. What do you figure it will cost? I mean the entire setup on Mars, gross?"

"A trillion dollars," Fisk said, believing it. "Plus upkeep of billions per year."

"Would you believe three trillion? But you're remarkably close, Mr. Centers. You certainly understand investment. You merely underestimated the importance of this development to us—and to the world. We're putting everything into it, Mr. Centers. Another developer might do it for one trillion, but we put quality first. Three trillion—but we know we'll make a profit in the end and of course we have to consider profit, Mr. Centers. We're businessmen, like you—and believe me, sir, there is a demand. In ten years Earth will be a veritable nightmare and Elysium Acres will be an incredible bargain at any price." Bondman held up a hand to forestall Fisk's possible objection. "I'm not forgetting that you can't go, Mr. Centers. I'm merely pointing out what an attractive investment this is going to be. Some will have the incalculable privilege of retiring to Elysium Acres—others will merely make a fortune from it. I"—here the voice dropped to its supercharged confidential tone—"hope to do both." Bondman paused long enough for that affirmation of faith to penetrate, but not long enough for Fisk to generate an interjection. "Now, we're subdividing E.A. into lots of one hundred feet square, give or take a foot—enough for a comfortable cottage and garden. Twenty million of them—yes, that's correct, Mr. Centers. That dome is a hundred miles across and there will be eight thousand square miles inside and two and a half thousand lots per mile—but I don't need to do elementary mathematics for you, Mr. Centers. Twenty million lots for three trillion dollars. That comes to a hundred and fifty thousand dollars per lot. A bit high for Earth, considering they're undeveloped—but this is Mars! Those lots are priceless, Mr. Centers, priceless—yet they will be put on the market at a price any successful man can afford." He held up his hand again, though Fisk had made no motion to interrupt. "But Mars, Limited needs operating capital, Mr. Centers, and we need it now. So we are offering for a limited time only a very, very special investment opportunity. You can buy these lots as investment real estate today for a tiny fraction of their actual value. Later—any time you wish—you may sell for a handsome profit. So although you may never have the privilege of going to Mars yourself—and please accept my heartfelt condolences, Mr. Centers, for I know how much you would have liked to retire to Elysium Acres—you can still benefit materially while advancing a noble cause through your investment."

Fisk was more impressed by the emotive delivery than by the content. Salesmanship really was an art.

"How much?"

"Mr. Centers, we are offering these lots at—now listen carefully because this is hard to believe—at one-quarter price. Thir-ty sev-en thou-sand five hun-dred dollars for a property worth one hun-dred and fif-ty thou-sand dollars." Bondman spaced out the syllables to make the figures absolutely clear and emphatic.

"That's my bonus for nabbing your 'interplanetary call' gimmick?"

Bondman rolled his eyes expressively but did not take exception to Fisk's choice of words. "Of course not, Mr. Centers. That's our one-time special-offer bargain price. For you alone we provide the bonus price. Don't tell anyone else, because if word got out that anyone beat the bargain price there would be resentment. Even—" and a great rippling shrug bespoke consequences so vast that to invoke them by name would be foolhardy.

Bondman did not speak that mind-shattering figure. Instead he fed it into his mailfax. The full contract emerged from Fisk's slot. He paged through it while Bondman waited expectantly, anticipating the client's amazed pleasure.

Thirty thousand dollars. In other words, the straight twenty percent reduction the certificate had promised.

Yes, it did seem like a good buy. Still, Fisk had had some experience in such matters. He skimmed through until he found the small print—actually regular type buried in an otherwise innocuous paragraph.

Ownership remained with Mars, Ltd. until the stipulated amount had been paid in full. In the event of default, the property reverted to Mars, Ltd. without refund. The risk of capital was all with the purchaser, unless he bought outright for cash. Very interesting.

"Now you see the bargain we are offering you, Mr. Centers," Bondman said gravely. "Frankly, you are one of the very last to receive the thirty-seven fifty figure, let alone the bonus deal. Demand has been even greater than we anticipated, with many people buying multiple lots. Blocks of four—or even more. There will have to be a price increase. After all, the company needs capital—it is ridiculous for us to sell so low when our own clients are turning around and selling their lots for more. Why only last week a man sold five for two hundred thousand flat—and he'd only bought them last month. He made a twelve thousand profit on a three-week investment—and that's only the one we know about. Others—" here his shoulders rose in another eloquent shrug. "Where, Mr. Centers, is the limit?"

"Why didn't the second buyer come to you first?" Fisk inquired. Actually the described profit was only about six percent and normal fluctuation of the market could readily account for it. But it did seem to auger well for the growth prospects. Fisk could buy five lots for $150,000 not $187,500, and make that much more.

"Apparently he didn't realize our price was as low as it was," Bondman said sadly. "He thought he had information. The biggest sucker is the one who thinks he knows it all—right, Mr. Centers? If he had only checked with us—but of course our price won't be lower after this week. So he has a good investment anyway—though not as good as it could have been. If our lots are going for forty thousand—well, we do need capital," he finished almost apologetically. "You understand."

Yes, Fisk was certainly interested now. Buy for thirty, sell for forty—but he knew better than to appear eager. "I might take a lot or two," he said. "But it's a lot of money. I'd have to liquidate some other investments and that would take time."

"I understand perfectly," Bondman agreed instantly. "I had to do the same when I invested in my own first Mars lot. It was well worth it, of course. Fortunately we have a time payment plan exactly suited to your situation. Ten-year term, so that it will be paid up when Elysium Acres opens and the real gold rush begins. Irrevocable six percent interest. Just three hundred and twenty-five dollars a month covers all, Mr. Centers—we absorb the cover charge. How does that suit you?"

Fisk checked the figures quickly in his head. They were fair—six percent on a decreasing principal. No funny business there, no usury. And he would be able to liquidate his investments profitably within a year and pay off the rest, saving the interest. Some contracts had penalty clauses for early payment, but this one fortunately did not.

"Sounds good," he admitted.

"Good? Good?" Bondman demanded rhetorically. "Mr. Centers, how would you like to buy a cyclotron at the sheet metal price? That's how good it is! But that isn't all. What we are talking about is three-twenty-five a month—less than eleven dollars a day to control a genuine Marsland property now selling for—" He broke off, nodding significantly toward the contract with a secret figure. "And with values quadrupling—or more—in the period of agreement. Mr. Centers, you are actually investing a paltry three-twenty-five a month for a return of at least a hundred and fifty thousand in a mere decade."

Fisk knew. Thirty thousand dollars, plus nine thousand dollars accumulated interest for the ten-year span. For $150,000 value. A net profit of $111,000, or over eleven thousand per year—per lot. With just three lots he could triple his fortune.

"Still, it's a sizable amount. Are you sure it's safe? I mean, suppose something happens and the dome doesn't get built. The lots would become almost worthless."

"Mr. Centers, it certainly is a pleasure to do business with you," Bondman exclaimed. "You don't miss a trick. Of course there is a nominal element of risk. Life itself is the biggest risk of all. But by buying on time you can eliminate even that one-in-a-thousand chance. Just consider. If something should happen to abort Elysium Acres tomorrow—and I assure nothing short of World War Four could squelch our plans—and you had bought today and paid your deposit premium, what would you have lost? Three hundred and twenty-five dollars. Why, Mr. Centers—you must blow more than that on one good suit."

Extremely sharp observation. Fisk had paid more than that for his dress suit.

Bondman followed up his advantage, knowing he had scored. "Considering the hundred and fifty thousand value—just what are you risking? One suit."

"But suppose something happens in two years. Or nine. I can't afford to lose a suit every month."

"Mr. Centers," Bondman said sternly. "I'm a busy man and this call is expensive. Don't waste my time and yours with inconsequentials. If you don't trust the stability of a fine new developer like Mars, Limited, don't invest. Or if you believe it will fail in two years, sell in one year. Your property will have increased in value at least ten percent—in fact, considering the coming price rise, twenty percent may be a more accurate estimate. But just keep it simple, let's call it ten percent. That's between three and four thousand dollars, right? And how much are you paying per year?"

"Between three and four thousand dollars," Fisk said.

"So if you sell then, your return on your actual investment will be just about one hundred percent. This is leverage, Mr. Centers—using a small amount of money to control a large amount of money. And the profit is yours even if, as you say, Mars, Limited fails in two years. Or nine. Ha-ha." He leaned forward again, speaking intensely. "The dome may fail, Mr. Centers—but you won't."

Fisk laughed. "Very well, Mr. Bondman. You've sold me. Just give me a little time to check around—" This was a key ploy. If the salesman were out to take him he would do anything to prevent a fair investigation of the facts. And of course Fisk wouldn't buy without checking. That was the big advantage in being an experienced fifty. He couldn't be stampeded.

"Certainly, Mr. Centers. In fact I insist on it. If we were looking for foolish investors we never would have called you. I'll be happy to provide the government property report—"

"Thanks, no. I just want a few days to make some calls." He was hardly going to use Mars, Ltd. data to check out Mars, Ltd.

"By all means. I wouldn't have it otherwise." Bondman paused as though remembering something. "Of course, I can't guarantee your price, Mr. Centers. That increase is going to come through any day now—perhaps tomorrow. They never let us salesmen know in advance, of course, because some might—uh—profiteer at the expense of the customer. But I know it's soon. Your bonus will still apply, naturally, but five or six thousand per lot is a pretty hefty penalty for a day's time. Uh—do you think you could make it by this afternoon? Say, four o'clock? I don't want to rush you—and of course it might be as late as next week before the rise—but I would feel terrible if—"

Bondman would feel terrible if he lost his commission because an irate customer balked at the higher price, Fisk thought. "I think I can make it by four." That would give him six hours—time enough.

"Excellent. I'll see you then. Bye-bye." And the screen faded.

Fisk had not been bluffing. The Marslot investment seemed attractive indeed, but he never made snap decisions about money. It wasn't just a matter of checking—he wanted to appraise his own motives and inclinations. The best buy in the world—or Mars—was pointless if it failed to relate to his basic preferences and needs.

He punched an early lunch and ate it slowly. Then he began his calls.

First the library informational service for a summary of Mars, Ltd. operations. While that was being processed for faxing to him he read the sample contract carefully and completely. It was tight—he would not actually own the lot until it was completely paid for and he couldn't sell it until he owned it. Leverage? Ha!

But apart from that trap, it was straight. He could defang it by purchasing outright. Not to mention the interest he would save.

The rundown on Mars, Ltd. arrived. He settled down to his real homework.

Interesting—there was a cautionary note about that "Ltd."

"Limited" meant that the developer's liability was limited to its investments on Earthsoil—of which it had none. Its only Earthly enclave was, as Bondman had claimed, legally Mars soil. A nice device for impressive "interplanetary" calls to clients—but perhaps even nicer as a defense against lawsuit. An irate party might obtain a judgment for a million dollars—but unless he sued on Mars there was nothing for him to collect. What a beautiful foil against crackpots and opportunists.

The company was legitimate. In fact it was the largest of its kind, having sold billions of dollars worth of Marsland to speculators in the past few years. The Elysium Acres project was listed, too. A note read: SEE GOVERNMENT PROPERTY REPORT. Fisk sighed and punched for it—it had not been attached to the main commentary. He had a lot of dull reading to do.

The phone lighted. The hour was already four. He had meant to make some other checks—well, they hardly mattered. He had verified that Mars, Ltd. was no fly-by-night outfit.

"Did you come to a decision, Mr. Centers?" Bondman inquired, sounding like an old friend.

Fisk had decided—but a certain innate and cussed caution still restrained him. The deal seemed too good to be true and that was a suspicious sign. But aside from the "leverage" hoax he could find no fault in it. He decided not to query the salesman about the time payment trap—to do so would only bring a glib explanation and more superfluous compliments on his intelligence. Better to let Bondman think he was fooling the client.

"I might be interested in more than one lot," Fisk said.

"Absolutely no problem, Mr. Centers." Fisk was sure the salesman's warmth was genuine this time. "Simply enter the number of lots you are buying on the line on page three where it says 'quantity,' write your name on the line below, and make out a check to Mars, Limited for your first payment. That's all there is to it, since I have already countersigned. Fax a copy back to us and—"

Fisk's mail chime sounded. "Oh—the property report," he said. "Do you mind if I just glance at it first? A formality, of course."

"Oh, I thought you'd already read that. Didn't I send you one? By all means—"

A buzzer on Bondman's desk interrupted him. "I'm in conference," he snapped into his other phone. "Can't it wait?" Then his expression changed. "Oh, very well." He turned to Fisk. "I beg your pardon—a priority call has just signaled on my other line and—well, it's from my superior. Can't say no to him, ha-ha, even if it is bad form to interrupt a sales conference. If you don't mind waiting a moment—"

"Not at all. I'll read the property report."

"Excellent. I'll wrap this up in a moment, I'm sure." Bondman faded, to be replaced by a dramatic artist's conception of Elysium Acres, buttressed by sweet music. The connection remained. This was merely Mars, Ltd.'s privacy shunt.

There was a snap as of a shifting connection and Bondman's voice was superimposed on the music. "...tell you I'm closing a sale for several lots. I can't just pull the rug out—he's signing the contract right now..." A pause, as he listened to a response that Fisk couldn't hear. Then: "To fifty thousand? As of this morning? Why didn't you call me before?"

Fisk realized that Bondman's privacy switch hadn't locked properly. It wouldn't be ethical to listen and he did want to skim that property report. But the voice wrested his attention away from the printed material.

"Look, boss—I just can't do it. I quoted him the thirty-grand bonus... no, I can't withdraw it. He's sharp—and he's got the contract! He'd make a good Mars, Limited exec... terms, I think... yes, if we could get him to default on the payments, so the reversion clause... hate to bilk him like that—I like him... no, I'm sure he wouldn't go for the new price. Not with the cancellation of the bonus and all. That's a twenty-grand jump just when he's about to sign... okay, okay, I'll try it—but listen, boss, you torpedo me in midsale again like this and I'm signing with Venus, Limited before you finish the call... I know they're a gyp outfit. But I promised this client the bonus price and now you're making a liar out of me and cheating him out of the finest investment of the century on a time-payment technicality. If I have to operate that way I might as well go whole Venus hog—"

There was a long pause. Fisk smiled, thinking of the tongue-lashing Bondman must be getting for putting integrity ahead of business.

Fisk knew it was unfair for him to take advantage of a slipped switch and private information—but he had been promised the bonus price and now someone was trying to wipe it out. If Mars. Ltd. were trying to con him out of his investment, he had a right to con himself back in.

"... all right." Bondman's voice came again. "That's best. I'll try to talk him out of it so nobody loses. But get those new quotations in the slot right away. Couple of other clients I have to call—they're going to be furious about that increase, but at least they were warned about delaying... yes... yes... okay. Sorry I blew up. Bye-bye."

The music faded. The picture vanished and Bondman reappeared, looking unsettled. "Sorry to keep you waiting so long, Mr. Centers," he said. "Bad news, The offer I was describing to you—well, I'm afraid we'll have to call it off."

"But I just signed the contract," Fisk protested innocently. "Are you telling me to tear it up already?"

Bondsman's eyelids hardly flickered. "What I meant to say is that the conditions have changed. New government restrictions have forced up construction costs and the whole Elysium Acres project is in jeopardy. In fact, Mr. Centers, we now have no guarantee that there will even be a dome on Mars. Under the circumstances I don't see how I can recommend—"

So that was the pitch. "We all have to take chances, as you pointed out," Fisk said briefly. "I should think that if your expenses go up your prices would follow—to compensate. So I should buy now."

"Er—yes," Bondman admitted. "Still, it looks bad. I wouldn't want you to be left holding title to a worthless lot, Mr. Centers. Until this thing settles down—"

"One lot?" Fisk interjected with mock dismay. "Lots. I signed up for ten."

For a moment even the supersalesman was at a loss for words. "T-ten?"

"Why not, for such a good investment? Leverage, you know."

"Leverage! Let me tell you something—" Bondman caught himself. He sighed. He put on a smile of rueful admiration. "You certainly know your business, Mr. Centers. I only hope you aren't taking a terrible chance with a great deal of money. Are you sure?" But, observing Fisk's expression, he capitulated. "Well, then, just make out your first monthly payment for three thousand two hundred and fifty dollars and we'll—"

"Thanks, no. I'm paying cash."

Bondman looked so woebegone that Fisk felt sorry for him, though he knew the salesman would still receive a handsome commission along with his reprimand for letting so many underpriced lots go. "Cash? The entire amount?"

"Yes. Here is my check for three hundred thousand dollars, certified against the escrow liquidation of my total holdings. That saves you the annoyance of time payments and gives you a good chunk of the working capital you need. Your boss should be well pleased, considering your rising expenses."

"Uh, yes." Bondman agreed faintly as Fisk faxed check and contract back to him. The originals remained with him for his records, but the faxes were legal, too. The deal was closed. He owned the lots outright and could not lose them by payments default. If he needed working capital himself, he could sell one at the fifty-thousand-dollar price tomorrow.

Bondman stared bleakly at the documents, then pulled himself together. "It has been a real pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Centers," he said with a brave smile. "I'm sure you'll never regret your purchase. Uh, bye-bye."

"Bye-bye!" Fisk returned cheerily as the connection broke.

But something about the salesman's expression just as the picture faded bothered him. It reminded him of what Bondman had said during the morning call: The biggest sucker is the one who thinks he knows it all...

The library information on Mars, Ltd. was general and, of course, bland. Any negative remarks would have made it vulnerable for a liable suit regardless of the truth. It had provided him with essentially the Mars, Ltd. publicity release, but added the cautionary note: SEE GOVERNMENT PROPERTY REPORT.

Fisk had been about to look at that report when Bondman's boss had interrupted and the privacy switch had coincidentally malfunctioned. Interesting timing.

After the price-increase call Bondman had been nervous and stuttery, hardly a supersalesman. His facade had disintegrated—yet he had known the word was coming. And a salesman of that caliber should have been able to cover better than that. Unless the whole thing had been an act to puff up the confidence of a sucker who thought he knew it all.

Fisk's hand shook as he lifted the property report, for now he knew what he would find.

Plainly printed in red ink:

This property is not adaptable for terraforming purposes. The lots are unimproved, unsurveyed and without roads, landing facilities or other improvements. Access is extremely poor. Site is subject to frequent ground tremors prohibiting construction of permanent buildings or erection of static-dome generators. Approximate value per lot is $300.00...