I have never liked Matt Runstead, as you may have gathered. He is a Paul Pry whom I suspect of wire tapping even within the company. He must have spied out the Venus project well in advance, because not even the most talented reflexes could have brought out his little speech. While the rest of us were still busy assimilating what Fowler Schocken had told us, Runstead was leaping to his feet.
“Gentlemen,” he said with passion, “this is truly the work of genius. Not just India. Not just a commodity. But a whole planet to sell. I salute you, Fowler Schocken—the Clive, the Bolivar, the John Jacob Astor of a new world!”
Matt was first, as I say, but every one of us got up and said in turn about the same thing. Including me. It was easy; I’d been doing it for years. Kathy had never understood it and I’d tried to explain, with the light touch, that it was a religious ritual— like the champagne-bottle smash on the ship’s prow, or the sacrifice of the virgin to the corn crop. Even with the light touch I never pressed the analogy too far. I don’t think any of us, except maybe Matt Runstead, would feed opium derivatives to the world for money alone. But listening to Fowler Schocken speak, hypnotizing ourselves with our antiphonal responses, made all of us capable of any act that served our god of Sales.
I do not mean to say that we were criminals. The alkaloids in Coffiest were, as Harvey pointed out, not harmful.
When all of us had done, Fowler Schocken touched another button and showed us a chart. He explained it carefully, item by item; he showed us tables and graphs and diagrams of the entire new Department of Fowler Schocken Associates which would be set up to handle development and exploitation of the planet Venus. He covered the tedious lobbying and friendmaking in Congress, which had given us the exclusive right to levy tribute and collect from the planet—and I began to see how he could safely use a nine-minute commercial. He explained how the Government—it’s odd how we still think and talk of that clearinghouse for pressures as though it were an entity with a will of its own—how the Government wanted Venus to be an American planet and how they had selected the peculiarly American talent of advertising to make it possible. As he spoke we all caught some of his fire. I envied the man who would head the Venus Section; any one of us would have been proud to take the job.
He spoke of trouble with the Senator from Du Pont Chemicals with his forty-five votes, and of an easy triumph over the Senator from Nash-Kelvinator with his six. He spoke proudly of a faked Consie demonstration against Fowler Schocken, which had lined up the fanatically anti-Consie Secretary of the Interior. Visual Aids had done a beautiful job of briefing the information, but we were there nearly an hour looking at the charts and listening to Fowler’s achievements and plans.
But finally he clicked off the projector and said: “There you have it. That’s our new campaign. And it starts right away— now. I have only one more announcement to make and then we can all get to work.”
Fowler Schocken is a good showman. He took the time to find a slip of paper and read from it a sentence that the lowest of our copyboys could deliver off the cuff. “The chairman of the Venus Section,” he read, “will be Mitchell Courtenay.”
And that was the biggest surprise of all, because Mitchell Courtenay is me.
2
I lingered with Fowler for three or four minutes while the rest of the Board went back to their offices, and the elevator ride down from the Board room to my own office on the eighty-sixth floor took a few seconds. So Hester was already clearing out my desk when I arrived.
“Congratulations, Mr. Courtenay,” she said. “You’re moving to the eighty-ninth now. Isn’t it wonderful? And I’ll have a private office too!”
I thanked her and picked up the phone over the desk. The first thing I had to do was get my staff in and turn over the reins of Production; Tom Gillespie was next in line. But the first thing I did was to dial Kathy’s apartment again. There was still no answer, so I called in the boys.
They were properly sorry to see me go and properly delighted about everybody’s moving up a notch.
And then it was lunch time, so I postponed the problem of the planet Venus until the afternoon.
I made a phone call, ate quickly in the company cafeteria, took the elevator down to the shuttle, and the shuttle south for sixteen blocks. Coming out, I found myself in the open air for the first time that day, and reached for my antisoot plugs but didn’t put them in. It was raining lightly and the air had been a little cleared. It was summer, hot and sticky; the hordes of people crowding the sidewalks were as anxious as I to get back inside a building. I had to bulldoze my way across the street and into the lobby.
The elevator took me up fourteen floors. It was an old building with imperfect air conditioning, and I felt a chill in my damp suit. It occurred to me to use that fact instead of the story I had prepared, but I decided against it.
A girl in a starched white uniform looked up as I walked into the office. I said: “My name is Silver. Walter P. Silver. I have an appointment.”
“Yes, Mr. Silver,” she remembered. “Your heart—you said it was an emergency.”
“That’s right. Of course it’s probably psychosomatic, but I felt—”
“Of course.” She waved me to a chair. “Dr. Nevin will see you in just a moment.”
It was ten minutes. A young woman came out of the doctor’s office, and a man who had been waiting in the reception room before me went in; then he came out and the nurse said: “Will you go into Dr. Nevin’s office now?”
I went in. Kathy, very trim and handsome in her doctor’s smock, was putting a case chart in her desk. When she straightened up she said, “Oh, Mitch!” in a very annoyed tone.
“I told only one lie,” I said. “I lied about my name. But it is an emergency. And my heart is involved.”
There was a faint impulse toward a smile, but it didn’t quite reach the surface. “Not medically,” she said.
“I told your girl it was probably psychosomatic. She said to come in anyhow.”
“I’ll speak to her about that. Mitch, you know I can’t see you during working hours. Now please—”
I sat down next to her desk. “You won’t see me any time, Kathy. What’s the trouble?”
“Nothing’s the trouble. Please go away, Mitch. I’m a doctor; I have work to do.”
“Nothing as important as this. Kathy, I tried to call you all last night and all morning.”
She lit a cigarette without looking at me. “I wasn’t home,” she said.
“No, you weren’t.” I leaned forward and took the cigarette from her and puffed on it. She hesitated, shrugged, and took out another. I said: “I don’t suppose I have the right to ask my wife where she spends her time?”
Kathy flared: “Damn it, Mitch, you know—” Her phone rang. She screwed her eyes shut for a moment. Then she picked up the phone, leaning back in her chair, looking across the room, relaxed, a doctor soothing a patient. It took only a few moments. But when it was all over she was entirely self-possessed.
“Please go away,” she said, stubbing out her cigarette.
“Not until you tell me when you’ll see me.”
“I . . . haven’t time to see you, Mitch. I’m not your wife. You have no right to bother me like this. I could have you enjoined or arrested.”
“My certificate’s on file,” I reminded her.
“Mine isn’t. It never will be. As soon as the year is up, we’re through, Mitch.”
“There was something I wanted to tell you.” Kathy had always been reachable through curiosity.
There was a long pause and instead of saying again: “Please go away,” she said: “Well, what is it?”
I said: “It’s something big. It calls for a celebration. And I’m not above using it as an excuse to see you for just a little while tonight. Please, Kathy—I love you very much and I promise not to make a scene.”
“. . . No.”
But she had hesitated. I said: “Please?”
“Well—” While she was th
inking, her phone rang. “All right,” she said to me. “Call me at home. Seven o’clock. Now let me take care of the sick people.”
She picked up the phone. I let myself out of her office while she was talking, and she didn’t look after me.
Fowler Schocken was hunched over his desk as I walked in, staring at the latest issue of Taunton’s Weekly. The magazine was blinking in full color as the triggered molecules of its inks collected photons by driblets and released them in bursts. He waved the brilliant pages at me and asked: “What do you think of this, Mitch?”
“Sleazy advertising,” I said promptly. “If we had to stoop so low as to sponsor a magazine like Taunton Associates—well, I think I’d resign. It’s too cheap a trick.”
“Um.” He put the magazine face down; the flashing inks gave one last burst and subsided as their light source was cut off. “Yes, it’s cheap,” he said thoughtfully. “But you have to give them credit for enterprise. Taunton gets sixteen and a half million readers for his ads every week. Nobody else’s—just Taunton clients. And I hope you didn’t mean that literally about resigning. I just gave Harvey the go-ahead on Shock. The first issue comes out in the fall, with a print order of twenty million. No—” He mercifully held up his hand to cut off my stammering try at an explanation. “I understood what you meant, Mitch. You were against cheap advertising. And so am I. Taunton is to me the epitome of everything that keeps advertising from finding its rightful place with the clergy, medicine, and the bar in our way of life. There isn’t a shoddy trick he wouldn’t pull, from bribing a judge to stealing an employee. And, Mitch, he’s a man you’ll have to watch.”
“Why? I mean, why particularly?”
Schocken chuckled. “Because we stole Venus from him, that’s why. I told you he was enterprising. He had the same idea I did. It wasn’t easy to persuade the Government that it should be our baby.”
“I see,” I said. And I did. Our representative government now is perhaps more representative than it has ever been before in history. It is not necessarily representative per capita, but it most surely is ad valorem. If you like philosophical problems, here is one for you: should each human being’s vote register alike, as the lawbooks pretend and as some say the founders of our nation desired? Or should a vote be weighed according to the wisdom, the power, and the influence—that is, the money—of the voter? That is a philosophical problem for you, you understand; not for me. I am a pragmatist, and a pragmatist, moreover, on the payroll of Fowler Schocken.
One thing was bothering me. “Won’t Taunton be likely to take—well, direct action?”
“Oh, he’ll try to steal it back,” Fowler said mildly.
“That’s not what I mean. You remember what happened with Antarctic Exploitation.”
“I was there. A hundred and forty casualties on our side. God knows what they lost.”
“And that was only one continent. Taunton takes these things pretty personally. If he started a feud for a lousy frozen continent, what will he do for a whole planet?”
Fowler said patiently, “No, Mitch. He wouldn’t dare. Feuds are expensive. Besides, we’re not giving him grounds—not grounds that would stand up in court. And, in the third place . . . we’d whip his tail off.”
“I guess so,” I said, and felt reassured. Believe me, I am a loyal employee of Fowler Schocken Associates. Ever since cadet days I have tried to live my life “for Company and for Sales.” But industrial feuds, even in our profession, can be pretty messy. It was only a few decades ago that a small but effective agency in London filed a feud against the English branch of B.B.D. & O. and wiped it out to the man except for two Bartons and a single underage Osborn. And they say there are still bloodstains on the steps of the General Post Office where Western Union and American Railway Express fought it out for the mail contract.
Schocken was speaking again. “There’s one thing you’ll have to watch out for: the lunatic fringe. This is the kind of project that’s bound to bring them out. Every crackpot organization on the list, from the Consies to the G.O.P., is going to come out for or against it. Make sure they’re all for; they swing weight.”
“Even the Consies?” I squeaked.
“Well, no. I didn’t mean that; they’d be more of a liability.” His white hair glinted as he nodded thoughtfully. “Mm. Maybe you could spread the word that spaceflight and Conservationism are diametrically opposed. It uses up too many raw materials, hurts the living standard—you know. Bring in the fact that the fuel uses organic material that the Consies think should be made into fertilizer—”
I like to watch an expert at work. Fowler Schocken laid down a whole subcampaign for me right there; all I had to do was fill in the details. The Conservationists were fair game, those wildeyed zealots who pretended modern civilization was in some way “plundering” our planet. Preposterous stuff. Science is always a step ahead of the failure of natural resources. After all, when real meat got scarce, we had soyaburgers ready. When oil ran low, technology developed the pedicab.
I had been exposed to Consie sentiment in my time, and the arguments had all come down to one thing: Nature’s way of living was the right way of living. Silly. If “Nature” had intended us to eat fresh vegetables, it wouldn’t have given us niacin or ascorbic acid.
I sat still for twenty minutes more of Fowler Schocken’s inspirational talk, and came away with the discovery I had often made before: briefly and effectively, he had given me every fact and instruction I needed.
The details he left to me, but I knew my job:
We wanted Venus colonized by Americans. To accomplish this, three things were needed: colonists; a way of getting them to Venus; and something for them to do when they got there.
The first was easy to handle through direct advertising. Schocken’s TV commercial was the perfect model on which we could base the rest of that facet of our appeal. It is always easy to persuade a consumer that the grass is greener far away. I had already penciled in a tentative campaign with the budget well under a megabuck. More would have been extravagant.
The second was only partly our problem. The ships had been designed—by Republic Aviation, Bell Telephone Labs, and U. S. Steel, I believe, under Defense Department contract. Our job wasn’t to make the transportation to Venus possible but to make it palatable. When your wife found her burnedout toaster impossible to replace because its nichrome element was part of a Venus rocket’s main drive jet, or when the inevitable disgruntled congressman for a small and frozen-out firm waved an appropriations sheet around his head and talked about government waste on wildcat schemes, our job began: we had to convince your wife that rockets are more important than toasters; we had to convince the congressman’s constituent firm that its tactics were unpopular and would cost it profits.
I thought briefly of an austerity campaign and vetoed it. Our other accounts would suffer. A religious movement, perhaps—something that would offer vicarious dedication to the eight hundred million who would not ride the rockets themselves. . .
I tabled that; Bruner could help me there. And I went on to point three. There had to be something to keep the colonists busy on Venus.
This, I knew, was what Fowler Schocken had his eye on. The government money that would pay for the basic campaign was a nice addition to our year’s billing, but Fowler Schocken was too big for one-shot accounts. What we wanted was the yearafter-year reliability of a major industrial complex; what we wanted was the colonists, and their children, added to our complex of accounts. Fowler, of course, hoped to repeat on an enormously magnified scale our smashing success with Indiastries. His Boards and he had organized all of India into a single giant cartel, with every last woven basket and iridium ingot and caddy of opium it produced sold through Fowler Schocken advertising. Now he could do the same with Venus. Potentially this was worth as much as every dollar of value in existence put together! A whole new planet, the size of Earth, in prospect as rich as Earth—and every micron, every milligram of it ours.
I looked at my watch. About four; my date with Kathy was for seven. I just barely had time. I dialed Hester and had her get me space on the Washington jet while I put through a call to the name Fowler had given me. The name was Jack O’Shea; he was the only human being who had been to Venus—so far. His voice was young and cocky as he made a date to see me.
We were five extra minutes in the landing pattern over Washington, and then there was a hassle at the ramp. Brink’s Express guards were swarming around our plane, and their lieutenant demanded identification from each emerging passenger. When it was my turn I asked what was going on. He looked at my low-number Social Security card thoughtfully and then saluted. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Courtenay,” he apologized. “It’s the Consie bombing near Topeka. We got a tip that the man might be aboard the 4:05 New York jet. Seems to have been a lemon.”
“What Consie bombing was this?”
“Du Pont Raw Materials Division—we’re under contract for their plant protection, you know—was opening up a new coal vein under some cornland they own out there. They made a nice little ceremony of it, and just as the hydraulic mining machine started ramming through the topsoil somebody tossed a bomb from the crowd. Killed the machine operator, his helper, and a vice-president. Man slipped away in the crowd, but he was identified. We’ll get him one of these days.”
“Good luck, Lieutenant,” I said, and hurried on to the jetport’s main refreshment lounge. O’Shea was waiting in a window seat, visibly annoyed, but he grinned when I apologized.
“It could happen to anybody,” he said, and swinging his short legs shrilled at a waiter. When we had placed our orders he leaned back and said: “Well?”
I looked down at him across the table and looked away through the window. Off to the south the gigantic pylon of the F.D.R. memorial blinked its marker signal; behind it lay the tiny, dulled dome of the old Capitol. I, a glib ad man, hardly knew where to start. And O’Shea was enjoying it. “Well?” he asked again, amusedly, and I knew he meant: “Now all of you have to come to me, and how do you like it for a change?” I took the plunge. “What’s on Venus?” I asked.
American Science Fiction Four Classic Novels 1953-56 Page 2