Illustrated by LEE
The foot-in-the-door technique would
work perfectly for any salesman—if
he had an invisible foot!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Infinity Science Fiction, October 1956.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"And that was Smoky Donahue's Western Swingsters, playing Red Dustfor all you Martian fans out there. Now let's take a look at the newrecordings, hot off the presses this week from all over the system.Looks like we have a real treat for you tonight, folks! There's abrand-new label from way out in outer space. Yes, sir, the very firstrecord put on wax by the Martian Recording Company, and it ought tobe a lulu. We'll spin it for you in just a minute, but first, here's amessage from our sponsor, the Oxygen Corporation of America—Earth'soldest and finest manufacturers of compressed oxygen equipment.
"Friends, when you're scooting around in your little rocket roadster,do you ever stop to think that your fine vehicle deserves nothing butthe best in equipment and accessories? Well, next time, take a look atyour oxygen tanks. Are you still using the cumbersome, old, outmodedtank, with ugly valves and low capacity? Wouldn't you rather have thenew, streamlined Oxco tank that gives you months of service withoutrefilling? Models cost as low as four thousand dollars, and they'reguaranteed up to a full year. Call your local rocket supply storetoday, and get all the facts. When you see the new Oxco, you'll knowwhy we say ... Oxco never leaves you breathless!
"Well, I see Jonesy, our control board operator, waving at me likemad, folks. He wants to hear this new disc from Mars, too. So—withoutfurther ado—here we go. It's on the Canal label, and it's called ...Melancholy!"
The boss slammed the file drawer shut in disgust.
The Martian, standing before his desk, shuffled his feet and rotatedhis cap with his third hand. "Displeasing you?" he said. "Come backother time do?"
"No!" Huber pointed to the chair. "You sit down. We're going tostraighten this whole thing out right now."
He reached across the desk and snapped on the intercom. "Davis!" hesaid. "We're going to have a foremen's meeting. This minute!" Davis, atthe other end, was inclined to argue, but the boss stopped him. "Don'ttell me we're busy! I know our production schedule better than you do.Get the foremen up here right away!"
The foremen shuffled in ten minutes later. They looked sheepish, likesmall boys caught in the jam pot.
Huber got right to the point.
"Your boys have been picking on Chafnu again. And I won't stand forit!" He slapped the desk with a board-like palm for emphasis.
Curly, the foreman, said: "Aw, gee, boss. Just a little rhubarb, that'sall. Just a little kiddin' around. Boys didn't mean any harm."
"Mean any harm?" Huber's eyes went so wide they threatened to pop outon the desk. "Chafnu! Show it to 'em."
The Martian looked embarrassed. Then he slowly lifted his rope-likefoot and displayed the quarter-sized burn on the heel.
"Kidding around!" Huber looked dangerous. "That's what you callkidding around? They could have burned Chafnu to a crisp! You know howsensitive he is!"
Burke, the small parts man, said placatingly: "Well, the boys are kindaedgy, Mr. Huber. It must be the weather or something. They need alittle what-do-you-call-it, outlet."
"Besides," said Curly, "the Goons kinda provoke 'em, you know what Imean—"
"Don't ever use that word to me!"
The irritation that had bee