What was the key? Personality, Albert realized. This was what businessmen meant by their technical term “personality”. Personality was the asset Mr. Blick had exploited to rise to where he was—rather than becoming, say, a scientist.
The Blicks and Boersmas worked hard at it. Wistfully, Albert wondered how it was done. Of course the experts in this field didn’t publish their results, and anyhow he had never studied it. But it was the most important field of human culture, for on it hinged the policy decisions of government—even of The Corporation!
He couldn’t estimate whether Cal was as good as Mr. Blick, because he assumed Cal had never put forth a big effort on him, Albert. He wasn’t worth it.
He had one other question for Cal. “What is an expediter?”
“Oh, I thought you knew,” boomed Cal. “They can be a big help. That’s why we’re doing well to be assigned one. We’re going to get into the top levels, Albert, where only a salesman of true merit can hope to put across an idea. An expediter can do it if anyone can. The expediters are too young to hold Key Executive Positions, but they’re Men On The Way Up. They—”
Mr. Blick turned his head toward a door on his left, putting the force of his personality behind the gesture. “Mr. Demarest,” he announced as the expediter walked into the room,
* * * *
III
Mr. Demarest had captivating red curly sideburns, striking brown eyes, and a one-piece coverall in a somewhat loud pattern of black and beige. He almost trembled with excess energy. It was contagious; it made you feel as if you were as abnormally fit as he was.
He grinned his welcome at Albert and Cal, and chuckled merrily: “How do you do, Mr. Boersma.”
It was as if Mr. Blick had been turned off. Albert hardly knew he was still in the room. Clearly Mr. Demarest was a Man On The Way Up indeed.
They rose and left the room with him—to a new corridor, very different from the last: weirdly lighted from a strip two feet above the floor, and lined with abstract statuary.
This, together with Mr. Demarest, made a formidable challenge.
Albert rose to it recklessly. “Oxidase epsilon,” he proclaimed, “may mean the saving of three of The Corporation’s richest colonies!”
Mr. Demarest responded with enthusiasm. “I agree one hundred percent—our Corporation’s crop of Triticum witti must be saved! Mr. Blick sent me a playback of your explanation by interoffice tube, Professor LaRue. You’ve got me on your side one hundred per cent! I want to assure you both, very sincerely, that I’ll do my utmost to sell Mr. Southfield. Professor, you be ready to fill in the details when I’m through with what I know.”
There was no slightest condescension or reservation in his voice. He would take care of things, Albert knew. What a relief!
Cal came booming in: “Your Mr. Blick seems like a competent man.”
What a way to talk about a Corporation executive! Albert decided it was not just a simple faux pas, though. Apparently Cal had decided he had to be accepted by Mr. Demarest as an equal, and this was his opening. It seemed risky to Albert. In fact, it frightened him.
“There’s just one thing, now, about your Mr. Blick,” Cal was saying to Mr. Demarest, with a tiny wink that Albert was proud of having spotted. “I couldn’t help wondering how he manages to find so much to do with those switches of his.” Albert barely restrained a groan.
But Mr. Demarest grinned! “Frankly, Cal,” he answered, “I’m not just sure how many of old Blick’s switches are dummies.”
Cal had succeeded! That was the main content of. Mr. Demarest’s remark.
But were Mr. Blick’s switches dummies? Things were much simpler back—way back—at the University, where people said what they meant.
They were near the end of the corridor. Mr. Demarest said softly, “Mr. Southfield’s Office.” Clearly Mr. Southfield’s presence was enough to curb even Mr. Demarest’s boyishness.
They turned through an archway into a large room, lighted like the corridor, with statuary wilder still.
Mr. Southfield was at one side, studying papers in a vast easy chair: an elderly man, fantastically dressed but with a surprisingly ordinary face peeping over the crystal ruff on his magenta leotards. He ignored them. Mr. Demarest made it clear they were supposed to wait until they were called on.
Cal and Albert chose two of the bed-sized chairs facing Mr. Southfield, and waited expectantly.
Mr. Demarest whispered, “I’ll be back in time to make the first presentation. Last-minute brush-up, you know.” He grinned and clapped Cal smartly on the shoulder. Albert was relieved that he didn’t do the same to him, but just shook his hand before leaving. It would have been too upsetting.
Albert sank back in his chair, tired from all he’d been through and relaxed by the soft lights.
It was the most comfortable chair he’d ever been in. It was more than comfortable, it was a deliciously irresistible invitation to relax completely. Albert was barely awake enough to notice that the chair was rocking him gently, tenderly massaging his neck and back.
He lay there, ecstatic. He didn’t quite go to sleep. If the chair had been designed just a little differently, no doubt, it could have put him to sleep, but this one just let him rest carefree and mindless.
Cal spoke (and even Cal’s quiet bass sounded harsh and urgent): “Sit up straighter, Albert!”
“Why?”
“Albert, any sales resistance you started with is going to be completely gone if you don’t sit up enough to shut off that chair!”
“Sales resistance?” Albert pondered comfortably. “What have we got to worry about? Mr. Demarest is on our side, isn’t he?”
“Mr. Demarest,” Cal pointed out, “isnot the Regional Director.”
So they still might have problems! So the marvelous chair was just another trap where the unfit got lost! Albert resolved to himself: “From now on, one single thought will be uppermost in my mind: defending my sales resistance.”
He repeated this to himself.
He repeated it again....
“Albert!” There was genuine panic in Cal’s voice now.
A fine way to defend his sales resistance! He had let the chair get him again. Regretfully he shifted his weight forward, reaching for the arms of the chair.
“Watch it!” said Cal. “Okay now, but don’t use the arms. Just lean yourself forward. There.” He explained, “The surface on the arms is rough and moist, and I can’t think of any reason it should be—unless it’s to give you narcotic through the skin! Tiny amounts, of course. But we can’t afford any. First time I’ve ever seen that one in actual use,” he admitted.
Albert was astonished, and in a moment he was more so. “Mr. Southfield’s chair is the same as ours, and he’s leaning back in it. Why, he’s even stroking the arm while he reads!”
“I know.” Cal shook his head. “Remarkable man, isn’t he? Remarkable. Remember this, Albert. The true salesman, the man on the very pinnacle of achievement, is also—a connoisseur. Mr. Southfield is a connoisseur. He wants to be presented with the most powerful appeals known, for the sake of the pleasure he gets from the appeal itself. Albert, there is a strong strain of the sensuous, the self-indulgent, in every really successful man like Mr. Southfield. Why? Because to be successful he must have the most profound understanding of self-indulgence.”
Albert noticed in passing that, just the same, Cal wasn’t self-indulgent enough to trust himself to that chair. He didn’t even make a show of doing so. Clearly in Mr. Southfield they had met somebody far above Cal’s level. It was unnerving. Oxidase epsilon seemed a terribly feeble straw to outweigh such a disadvantage.
Cal went on, “This is another reason for the institution of expediters. The top executive can’t work surrounded by inferior salesmanship. He needs the stimulus and the luxury of receiving his data well packaged. The expediters can do it.” He leaned over confidentially. “I’ve heard them called backscratchers for that reason,” he whispered.
Alber
t was flattered that Cal admitted him to this trade joke.
Mr. Southfield looked up at the archway as someone came in—not Mr. Demarest, but a black-haired young woman. Albert looked inquiringly at Cal.
“Just a minute. I’ll soon know who she is.”
She stood facing Mr. Southfield, against the wall opposite Albert and Cal. Mr. Southfield said in a drowsy half-whisper, “Yes, Miss Drury, the ore-distribution pattern. Go on.”
“She must be another expediter, on some other matter,” Cal decided. “Watch her work, Albert. You won’t get an opportunity like this often.”
Albert studied her. She was not at all like an Agency Model; she was older than most of them (about thirty); she was fully dressed, in a rather sober black and gray business suit, snug around the hips; and she wasn’t wearing makeup. She couldn’t be even an ex-Model, she wasn’t the type. Heavier in build, for one thing, and though she was very pretty it wasn’t that unhuman blinding beauty. On the contrary, Albert enjoyed looking at her (even lacking Mr. Southfield’s connoisseurship). He found Miss Drury’s warm dark eyes and confident posture very pleasant and relaxing.
She began to talk, gently and musically, something about how to compute the most efficient routing of metallic ore traffic in the Great Lakes Region. Her voice became a chant, rising and falling, but with a little catch in it now and then. Lovely!
Her main device, though, sort of snuck up on him, the way the chair had. It had been going on for some time before Albert was conscious of it. It was like the chair.
Miss Drury moved.
Her hips swung. Only a centimeter each way, but very, very sensuously. You could follow the motion in detail, because her dress was more than merely snug around the hips, you could see every muscle on her belly. The motion seemed entirely spontaneous, but Albert knew she must have worked hard on it.
The knowledge, however, didn’t spoil his enjoyment.
“Gee,” he marveled to Cal, “how can Mr. Southfield hear what she’s saying?”
“Huh? Oh—she lowers her voice from time to time on purpose so we won’t overhear Corporation secrets, but he’s much nearer her than we are.”
“That’s not what I mean!”
“You mean why doesn’t her delivery distract him from the message? Albert,” Boersma said wisely, “if you were sitting in his chair you’d be getting the message, too—with crushing force. A superior presentation always directs attention to the message. But in Mr. Southfield’s case it actually stimulates critical consideration as well! Remarkable man. An expert and a connoisseur.”
Meanwhile Albert saw that Miss Drury had finished. Maybe she would stay and discuss her report with Mr. Southfield? No, after just a few words he dismissed her.
* * * *
IV
In a few minutes the glow caused by Miss Drury had changed to a glow of excited pride.
Here was he, plain old Professor LaRue, witnessing the drama of the nerve center of the Lakes Region—the interplay of titanic personalities, deciding the fate of millions. Why, he was even going to be involved in one of the decisions! He hoped the next expediter to see Mr. Southfield would be Mr. Demarest!
Something bothered him. “Cal, how can Mr. Demarest possibly be as—well—persuasive as Miss Drury? I mean—”
“Now, Albert, you leave that to him. Sex is not the only possible vehicle. Experts can make strong appeals to the weakest and subtlest of human drives— even altruism! Oh yes, I know it’s surprising to the layman, but even altruism can be useful.”
“Really?” Albert was grateful for every tidbit.
“Real masters will sometimes prefer such a method out of sheer virtuosity,” whispered Cal.
Mr. Southfield stirred a little in his chair, and Albert snapped to total alertness.
Sure enough, it was Mr. Demarest who came through the archway.
Certainly his entrance was no let down. He strode in even more eagerly than he had into Mr. Blick’s office. His costume glittered, his brown eyes glowed. He stood against the wall beyond Mr. Southfield; not quite straight, but with a slight wrestler’s crouch. A taut spring.
He gave Albert and Cal only half a second’s glance, but that glance was a tingling communication of comradeship and joy of battle. Albert felt himself a participant in something heroic.
Mr. Demarest began releasing all that energy slowly. He gave the background of West Lapland, Great Slave, and Churchill. Maps were flashed on the wall beside him (exactly how, Albert didn’t follow), and the drama of arctic colonization was recreated by Mr. Demarest’s sportscaster’s voice. Albert would have thought Mr. Demarest was the overmodest hero of each project if he hadn’t known all three had been done simultaneously. No, it was hard to believe, but all these vivid facts must have been served to Mr. Demarest by some research flunky within the last few minutes. And yet, how he had transfigured them!
The stirring narrative was reaching Mr. Southfield, too. He had actually sat up out of the easy chair.
Mr. Demarest’s voice, like Miss Drury’s, dropped in volume now and then. Albert and Cal were just a few feet too far away to overhear Corporation secrets.
As the saga advanced, Mr. Demarest changed from Viking to Roman. His voice, by beautifully controlled stages, became bubbling and hedonistic. Now, he was talking about grandiose planned expansions—and, best of all, about how much money The Corporation expected to make from the three colonies. The figures drooled through loose lips. He clapped Mr. Southfield on the shoulder. He stroked Mr. Southfield’s arm; when he came to the estimated trade balances, he tickled his neck. Mr. Southfield showed his appreciation of the change in mood by lying back in his chair again.
This didn’t stop Mr. Demarest.
It seemed almost obscene. Albert covered his embarrassment by whispering, “I see why they call them backscratchers.”
Cal frowned, waved him silent, and went on watching.
Suddenly Mr. Demarest’s tone changed again: it became bleak, bitter, desperate. A threat to the calculated return on The Corporation’s investment—even to the capital investment itself!
Mr. Southfield sat forward attentively to hear about this danger. Was that good? He hadn’t done that with Miss Drury.
What Mr. Demarest said about the danger was, of course, essentially what Albert had told Mr. Blick, but Albert realized that it sounded a lot more frightening Mr. Demarest’s way. When he was through, Albert felt physically chilly. Mr. Southfield sat saying nothing. What was he thinking? Could he fail to see the tragedy that threatened?
After a moment he nodded and said, “Nice presentation.” He hadn’t said that to Miss Drury, Albert exulted!
Mr. Demarest looked dedicated.
Mr. Southfield turned his whole body to face Albert, and looked him straight in the eyes. Albert was too alarmed to look away. Mr. Southfield’s formerly ordinary jaw now jutted, his chest swelled imposingly. “You, I understand, are a well-informed worker on plant metabolism.” His voice seemed to grow too, until it rolled in on Albert from all sides of the room. “Is it your opinion that the danger is great enough to justify taking up the time of the Regional Director?”
It wasn’t fair. Mr. Southfield against J. Albert LaRue was a ridiculous mismatch anyway! And now Albert was taken by surprise—after too long a stretch as an inactive spectator—and hit with the suggestion that he had been wasting Mr. Southfield’s time . . . that his proposition was not only not worth acting on, it was a waste of the Regional Director’s time.
Albert struggled to speak.
Surely, after praising Mr. Demarest’s presentation, Mr. Southfield would be lenient; he would take into account Albert’s limited background; he wouldn’t expect too much. Albert struggled to say anything.
He couldn’t open his mouth.
As he sat staring at Mr. Southfield, he could feel his own shoulders drawing inward and all his muscles going limp.
Cal said, in almost a normal voice, “Yes.”
That was enough, just barely. Albert whi
spered, “Yes,” terrified at having found the courage.
Mr. Southfield glared down at him a moment more.
Then he said, “Very well, you may see the Regional Director. Mr. Demarest, take them there.”
* * * *
Albert followed Mr. Demarest blindly. His entire attention was concentrated on recovering from Mr. Southfield.
He had been one up, thanks to Mr. Demarest. Now, how could he have stayed one up? How should he have resisted Mr. Southfield’s dizzying display of personality?
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