The Space Merchants

by Frederik Pohl; C. M. Kornbluth

  He brightened. "Then we'll pay off the fines on the rest of the stuff and fight the CB clear up to the Chamber of Commerce if we have to. What firm?"

  "Chlorella Costa Rica."

  "Hmmm. Middling-sized, but solid. Excellent people, all of them. A pleasure to do business with."

  Not from the bottom up, I thought, and said nothing.

  "I'm sure they'll be reasonable. And if they aren't, I have a majority of the C of C in my pocket anyway. I ought to get something for my retainers, eh?" He dug me slyly in the ribs. His relief at getting Venus Section off his neck was overwhelming.

  A dozen of our Brink's boys churned in. "That should do it," Fowler Schocken beamed. "Lieutenant, the Luna City Inc. Burns people may try to take Mr. Courtenay here away from us. We don't want that to happen, do we?"

  "No, sir," said the lieutenant, dead-pan.

  "Then let's go."

  We strolled down Shopping One, amazing a few night-owl tourists. Shopping One gave way to Residential One, Two, and Three, and then to Commercial One.

  "Hey, you!" a stray Burns patrolman called. We were in somewhat open order. Evidently he didn't realize that the Brink's men were my escort.

  "Go play with your marbles, Punchy," a sergeant told him.

  He went pale, but beeped his alarm, and went down in a tangle offists and boots.

  Burns patrolmen came bounding along the tunnel-like street in grotesque strides. Faces appeared in doorways. Our detail's weapons-squad leader said: "Hup!" and his boys began to produce barrels, legs, belts of ammo, and actions from their uniforms. Snap-snap-snap-snap, and there were two machine guns mounted on the right tripod ready to rake both ends of the street. The Burns men braked grotesquely yards from us and stood unhappily, swingingtheir nightsticks.

  Our lieutenant called out: "What seems to be the trouble, gentlemen?"

  A Burns man called back: "Is that man George Groby?"

  "Are you George Groby?" the lieutenant asked me.

  "No. I'm Mitchell Courtenay."

  "You hear him," the lieutenant called. The weapons men full-cocked their guns at a signal from the squad leader. The two clicks echoed from the vaulting, and the few last-ditch rubber-necks hanging from the doors vanished.

  "Oh," said the Burns man weakly. "That's all right then. You can go ahead." He turned on the rest of the patrolmen. "Well? What are you dummies waiting for? Didn't you hear me?" They beat it, and we moved on down Commercial One, with the weapons men cradling their guns. The Fowler Schocken Associates Luna City Branch was 75 Commercial One, and we went in whistling. The weapons men mounted their guns in the lobby.

  It was a fantastic performance. I had never seen its like. Fowler Schocken explained it as he led me down into the heart of the agency. "It's frontier stuff, Mitch. Something you've got to get into your copy. 'The Equalizer' is what they call it. A man's rank doesn't mean much up here. A well-drilled weapons squad is the law topside of the stratosphere. It's getting back to the elemental things of life, where a man's a man no matter how high his Social Security number."

  We passed a door. "O'Shea's room," he said. "He isn't in yet, of course. The little man's out gathering rosebuds while he may—andthe time isn't going to be long. The only Venus roundtripper. We'll lick that, won't we, Mitch?"

  He showed me into a cubicle and lowered the bed with his own hands. "Cork off with these," he said, producing a sheaf of notes from his breast pocket. "Just some rough jottings for you to go over. I'll send in something to eat and then Coffiest. A good hour or two of work on them, and then the sound sleep of the just, eh?"

  "Yes, Mr. Schocken."

  He beamed at me and left, drawing the curtain. I stared glazedly at the rough jottings. "Six-color doubletrux. Downhold unsuccessful previous flights. Cite Learoyd '29, Holden '38, McGill '46 et al heroic pioneers supreme sacrifice etc etc. No mention Myers-White flopperoo '51 acct visibly exploded bfr passng moon orbit. Try get M-W taken out of newssheet files & history bks? Get cost estimate. Search archives for pix LH & McG. Shd be blond brunet & redhead. Ships in backgrnd. Looming. Panting woman but heroic pioneers dedicated look in eye not interested. Piquant bcs unavlbl . . ."

  Thoughtfully, there was a pencil and copypaper in the cubicle. I began to write painfully: "We were ordinary guys. We liked the earth and the good things it gave us. The morning tang of Coffiest . . . the first drag on a Starr . . . the good feel of a sharp new Verily pinstripe suit ... a warm smile from a girl in a bright spring dress —but they weren't enough. There were far places we had to see, things we had to know. The little guy's Learoyd. I'm Holden. The redhead with the shoulders is McGill. Yes; we're dead. But we saw the far places and we learned what we had to learn before we died. Don't pity us; we did it for you. The long-hair astronomers could only guess about Venus. Poison gas, they said. Winds so hot they'd set your hair on fire and so strong they'd pick you up and throw you away. But they weren't sure. What do you do when you aren't sure? You go and see."

  A guard came in with sandwiches and Coffiest. I munched and gulped with one hand and wrote with the other.

  "We had good ships for those days. They packed us and enough fuel to get us there. What they didn't have was enough fuel to get us back. But don't pity us; we had to know. There was always the chance that the long-hairs were wrong, that we'd be able to get out, breathe clean air, swim in cool water—and then make fuel for the return trip with the good news. No; it didn't work out that way. It worked out that the long-hairs knew their stuff. Learoyd didn't wait to starve in his crate; he opened the hatch and breathed methane after writing up his log. My crate was lighter. The wind picked it up and broke it—and me with it. McGill had extra rations and a heavier ship. He sat and wrote for a week and then—well; it was pretty certain after two no-returns. He'd taken cyanide with him. But don't pity us. We went there and we saw it and in a way we sent back the news by not coming back ourselves. Now you folks know what to do and how to do it. You know the long-hairs weren't guessing. Venus is a mean lady and you've got to have the stuff and the know-how to tame her. She'll treat you right when you do. When you find us and our crates don't pity us. We did it for you. We knew you wouldn't let us down."

  I was home again.

  fourteen

  "Please, Fowler," I said. "Tomorrow. Not today."

  He gave me a steady look. "I'll go along, Mitch," he said. "I've never been a back-seat driver yet." He displayed one of the abilities that made him boss-man. He wiped clean out of his mind the burning curiosity about where I had been and what I had been doing. "That's good copy," he said, slapping my work of the previous night on his desk. "Clear it with O'Shea, won't you? He can give it some extra see-taste-smell-hear-feel if anybody can. And pack for return aboard the Vilfredo Pareto—I forgot. You haven't got anything to pack. Here's some scratch, and shop when you get a chance. Take a few of the boys with you, of course. The Equalizer—remember?" He twinkled at me.

  I went to find O'Shea curled up like a cat in the middle of his full-sized bunk in the cubicle next to mine. The little man looked ravaged when he rolled over and stared blearily at me. "Mitch," he said thickly. " 'Nother goddam nightmare."

  "Jack," I said persuasively. "Wake up, Jack."

  He jerked bolt upright and glared at me. "What's the idea—? Hello, Mitch. I remember. Somebody said something when I got in 'smorning." He held his small head. "I'm dying," he said faintly. "Get me something, will you? My deathbed advice is this: don't ever be a hero. You're too nice a guy . . ."

  The midget lapsed into torpor, swaying a little with each pulse-beat. I went to the kitchen and punched Coffiest, Thiamax, and a slice of Bredd. Halfway out, I returned, went to the bar, and punched two ounces of bourbon.

  O'Shea looked at the tray and hiccuped. "What the hell's that stuff?" he said faintly, referring to the Coffiest, Thiamax, and Bredd. He shot down the bourbon and shuddered.

  "Long time no see, Jack," I said.

  "Ooh," he groaned. "Just what I needed. Why do cliches add that e
xtra something to a hangover?" He tried to stand up to his full height of thirty-five inches and collapsed back onto the cot, his legs dangling. "My aching back," he said. "I think I'm going to enter a monastery. I'm living up to my reputation, and it's killing me by inches. Ooh, that tourist gal from Nova Scotia! It's springtime, isn't it? Do you think that explains anything? Maybe she has Eskimo blood."

  "It's late fall," I said.

  "Urp. Maybe she doesn't have a calendar . . . pass me that Coffiest." No "please." And no "thank you." Just a cool, take-it-for-granted that the world was his for the asking. He had changed.

  "Think you can do some work this morning?" I asked, a little stiffly.

  "I might," he said indifferently. "This is Schocken's party after all. Say, what the hell ever became of you?"

  "I've been investigating," I said.

  "Seen Kathy?" he asked. "That's a wonderful girl you have there, Mitch." His smile might have been reminiscent. All I was sure of was that I didn't like it—not at all.

  "Glad you enjoyed her," I said flatly. "Drop in any time." He sputtered into his Coffiest and said, carefully setting it down: "What's that work you mentioned?"

  I showed him my copy. He gulped the Thiamax and began to steady on his course as he read.

  "You got it all fouled up," he said at last, scornfully. "I don't know Learoyd, Holden, and McGill from so many holes in the ground, but like hell they were selfless explorers. You don't get pulled to Venus. You get pushed." He sat brooding, cross-legged.

  "We're assuming they got pulled," I said. "If you like, we're trying to convince people that they got pulled. What we want from you is sense-impressions to sprinkle the copy with. Just talking off the front of your face, how do you resonate to it?"

  "With nausea," he said, bored. "Would you reserve me a shower, Mitch? Ten minutes fresh, one hundred degrees. Damn the cost. You too can be a celebrity. All you have to do is be lucky like me." He swung his short legs over the edge of the cot and contemplated his toes, six inches clear of the floor. "Well," he sighed, "I'm getting it while the getting's good."

  "What about my copy?" I asked.

  "See my reports," he said. "What about my shower?"

  "See your valet," I said, and went out, boiling. In my own cubicle I sweated sense-impressions into the copy for a couple of hours and then picked up a guard squad to go shopping. There were no brushes with the patrolmen. I noticed that Warren Astron's shop-front now sported a chaste sign:

  Dr. Astron Regrets That

  Urgent Business

  Has Recalled Him to Earth on

  Short Notice

  I asked one of our boys: "Has the Ricardo left?"

  "Couple hours ago, Mr. Courtenay. Next departure's the Pareto, tomorrow."

  So I could talk.

  So I told Fowler Schocken the whole story.

  And Fowler Schocken didn't believe a goddamned word of it.

  He was nice enough and he tried not to hurt my feelings. "Nobody's blaming you, Mitch," he said kindly. "You've been through a great strain. It happens to us all, this struggle with reality. Don't feel you're alone, my boy. We'll see this thing through. There are times in life when anybody needs—help. My analyst—"

  I'm afraid I yelled at him.

  "Now, now," he said, still kind and understanding. "Just to pass the time—laymen shouldn't dabble in these things, but I think I know a thing or two about it and can discuss it objectively—let me try to explain—"

  "Explain this!" I shouted at him, thrusting my altered Social Security tattoo under his nose.

  "If you wish," he said calmly. "It's part of the whole pattern of your brief—call it a holiday from reality. You've been on a psychological bender. You got away from yourself. You assumed a new identity, and you chose one as far-removed from your normal, hardworking, immensely able self as possible. You chose the lazy, easygoing life of a scum-skimmer, drowsing in the tropic sun—"

  I knew then who was out of touch with reality.

  "Your horrible slanders against Taunton are crystal-clear to, ah, a person with some grasp of our unconscious drives. I was pleased to hear you voice them. They meant that you're halfway back to your real self. What is our central problem—the central problem of the real Mitchell Courtenay, copysmith? Lick the opposition! Crush the competing firms! Destroy them! Your fantasy about Taunton indicates to, ah, an informed person that you're struggling back to the real Mitchell Courtenay, copysmith. Veiled in symbols, obscured by ambivalent attitudes, the Taunton-fantasy is nevertheless clear. Your imagined encounter with the girl 'Hedy' might be a textbook example!"

  "God damn it," I yelled, "look at my jaw! See that hole? It still hurts!"

  He just smiled and said: "Let's be glad you did nothing worse to yourself, Mitch. The id, you see—"

  "What about Kathy?" I asked hoarsely. "What about the complete data on the Consies I gave you? Grips, hailing signs, passwords, meeting places?"

  "Mitch," he said earnestly, "as I say, I shouldn't be meddling, but they aren't real. Sexual hostility unleashed by the dissociation of your personality into 'Groby'-Courtenay identified your wife with a hate-and-fear object, the Consies. And 'Groby' carefully arranged things so that your Consie data is uncheckable and therefore unassailable. 'Groby' arranged for you—the real you—to withhold the imaginary 'data' until the Consies would have had a chance to change all that. 'Groby' was acting in self-defense. Courtenay was coming back and he knew it; 'Groby' felt himself being 'squeezed out.' Very well; he can bide his time. He arranged things so that he can make a comeback—"

  "I'm not insane!"

  "My analyst—!"

  "You've got to believe me!"

  "These unconscious conflicts—"

  "I tell you Taunton has killers!"

  "Do you know what convinced me, Mitch?"

  "What?" I asked bitterly.

  "The fantasy of a Consie cell embedded in Chicken Little. The symbolism—" he flushed a little, "well, it's quite unmistakable."

  I gave up except on one point: "Do people still humor the insane, Mr. Schocken?"

  "You're not insane at all, my boy. You need—help, like a lot of—"

  "I'll be specific. Will you humor me in one respect?"

  "Of course," he grinned, humoring me.

  "Guard yourself and me too. Taunton has killers—all right; I think, or Groby thinks, or some damn body thinks that Taunton has killers. If you humor me to the extent of guarding yourself and me, I promise not to start swinging from the ceiling and gibbering. I'll even go to your analyst."

  "All right," he smiled, humoring me.

  Poor old Fowler. Who could blame him? His own dreamworld was under attack by every word I had to say. My story was blasphemy against the god of Sales. He couldn't believe it, and he couldn't believe that I—the real I—believed it. How could Mitchell Courtenay, copysmith, be sitting there and telling him such frightful things as:

  The interests of producers and consumers are not identical;

  Most of the world is unhappy;

  Workmen don't automatically find the job they do best;

  Entrepreneurs don't play a hard, fair game by the rules;

  The Consies are sane, intelligent, and well organized.

  They were hammer-blows at him, but Fowler Schocken was nothing if not resilient. The hammer bounced right off and the dents it made were ephemeral. There was an explanation for everything and Sales could do no wrong. Therefore, Mitchell Courtenay, copysmith, was not sitting there telling him these things. It was Mitchell Courtenay's wicked, untamed id or the diabolic 'George Groby' or somebody—anybody but Courtenay.

  In a dissociated fashion that would have delighted Fowler Schocken and his analyst I said to myself: "You know, Mitch, you're talking like a Consie."

  I answered: "Why, so I am. That's terrible."

  "Well," I replied, "I don't know about that. Maybe . . ."

  "Yeah," I said thoughtfully. "Maybe . . ."

  It's an axiom of my trade that things are invi
sible except against a contrasting background. Like, for instance, the opinions and attitudes of Fowler Schocken.

  Humor me, Fowler, I thought. Keep me guarded. I don't want to run into an ambivalent fantasy like Hedy again, ever. The symbolism may have been obvious, but she hurt me bad with her symbolic little needle.

  fifteen

  Runstead wasn't there when our little procession arrived in executives' country of the Schocken Tower. There were Fowler, me, Jack O'Shea, secretaries—and the weapons squads I had demanded.

  Runstead's secretary said he was down the hall, and we waited . . . and waited . . . and waited. After an hour I suggested that he wasn't coming back. After another hour word got to us that a body had been found smashed flat on the first setback of the Tower, hundreds of feet below. It was very, very difficult to identify.

  The secretary wept hysterically and opened Runstead's desk and safe. Eventually we found a diary covering the past few months of Runstead's life. Interspersed with details of his work, his amours, memos for future campaigns, notes on good out-of-the-way restaurants, and the like were entries that said: "He was here again last night. He told me to hit harder on the shock-appeal. He scares me . . . He says the Starrzelius campaign needed guts. He scares hell out of me. Understand he used to scare everybody in the old days when he was alive . . . GWH again last night . . . Saw him by daylight first time. Jumped and yelled but nobody noticed. Wish he'd go away . . . GWH teeth seem bigger, pointier today. I ought to get help . . . He said I'm no good, disgrace to profession . . ."

  After a while we realized that "he" was the ghost of George Washington Hill, father of our profession, founder of the singing commercial, shock-value, and God knows what else.

  "Poor fellow," said Schocken, white-faced. "Poor, poor fellow. If only I'd known. If only he'd come to me in time."

  The last entry said raggedly: "Told me I'm no good. I know I'm no good. Unworthy of the profession. They all know it. Can see it in their faces. Everybody knows it. He told them. Damn him. Damn him and his teeth. Damn—"