Anthony, Piers - Hard Sell

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Hard Sell by Piers AnthonyPiers Anthony
HARD SELL
Portions of this book originally appeared in slightly different form in the
following magazines:
Chapter 1 (originally titled "Hard Sell") in If magazine, August 1972
Chapter 2 (originally titled "Black Baby") in If magazine, September 1972
Chapter 3 (originally titled "Hurdle") in If magazine, December 1972
Chapter 5 (originally titled "Life") in Twilight Zone magazine, December 1987
CHAPTER 1
"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 Ltd." Somehow he managed to pronounce "Ltd." the way it
looked.
Fisk was fifty and had been around, but he had never been treated to an
interplanetary call before. It wasn't just the expense, though he knew that
was
extraordinary. He just 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 it 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, he
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. "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. Now 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 skillfully. "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'd 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 cried angrily. "Mars 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 Ltd. 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 hadn't 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
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 of Earth's), pretty moons (ten mile diameter
Phobos,
six mile Deimos), scenic craters, legendary canals—all familiar material, but
calculated to whet the appetite for investment and retirement.
Then down to pay dirt: the proposed colony, "Elysium Acres," located on a map
dramatically colored and named. An electrostatic dome a hundred miles in
diameter, almost fifty miles high, enclosing a greenhouse atmosphere at
Earth-normal pressure and temperature. Suitable for homesites, with carefully
laid out horse trails and a delightful crater lake. Guaranteed weather,
pollutant-free.
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 an imprisoned 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: well enough to do, intelligent, and sick of
uselessness. 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 two hundred thousand dollars or more, assuming emigration could even be
arranged. And for him it was completely out of the question.
Yet he couldn't help studying it. Elysium Acres—such suggestion of bliss!
Could
it possibly be 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 accoutrements of civilization, in short.
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 five hundred thousand dollars sterling; investments at
current
quotations just under two million; miscellaneous properties and options six to
eight hundred thousand, pending urgency of sale. Grand total: a generous three
million.
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! But 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 the salesman Bondman
used
the same brand of hair tint he did. 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 conducive 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 it 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 Ltd. office is legally Mars soil, you know. An enclave. We
have to undergo quarantine before reporting for work, ha-ha! Now 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 the value of things.
What
do you figure it will cost? I mean the entire setup on Mars, gross?"
"Ten trillion dollars," Fisk said, believing it. "Plus upkeep of billions per
year."
"Would you believe thirty trillion? But you're remarkably close, Mr. Centers!
You certainly comprehend 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 ten trillion, but we put quality
first! Thirty 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!—because
believe me, sir, there is a demand! Earth is crowded, and in ten years Earth
will be a veritable nightmare! Elysium Acres will be an incredible bargain at
any price!" Bondman held up a hand to forestall Fisk's possible objection.
"Now
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 in Elysium Acres; others will merely make a fortune from
it." And here he dropped to his supercharged confidential tone. "I hope to do
both!" He paused just 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, ha-ha! 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'll 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 thirty trillion dollars. That comes to one million five hundred
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 Ltd. 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. 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 in Elysium Acres—you can
still benefit 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! Three hundred and sev-en-ty thou-sand
dollars for a property worth one mil-lion five hun-dred 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 the
description. "Of course not, Mr. Centers! That's the one-time special-offer
bargain price. For you alone we provide the bonus price." Here he paused to
make
that dramatic conspiratorial lowering of voice. "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 bespeaking consequences so vast that it
would be foolhardy to invoke them by name.
But he did not speak that mind-shattering figure. Instead he fed it into his
mailfax. The full contract emerged from Fisk's slot. He rifled through it
while
Bondman waited expectantly, anticipating the client's amazed pleasure.
Three hundred thousand dollars. In other words, the straight twenty percent
reduction the certificate had promised.
It did seem like a good buy. Still, Fisk 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 three-hundred
seventy-thousand 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, Mars Ltd. 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 million flat—and he'd only bought them last month! He made a one hundred
and
twenty 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 augur well for Mars
Ltd.'s growth prospects.
"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. You understand?"
Yes. Fisk was certainly interested now. Buy for three hundred, sell for
four...
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 my 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 thousand two hundred and fifty
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
didn't, fortunately. "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-two-fifty a month, one hundred dollars
a
day to control a genuine Marsland property now selling for—" here he broke
off,
nodding significantly toward the contract with the secret figure. "And with
values quadrupling—or more!—in the period of agreement! Mr. Centers, you are
actually investing a paltry three-two-fifty a month—for a return of at least
one
million five hundred thousand in a bare decade!"
Fisk knew. Three hundred thousand dollars, plus ninety thousand dollars
accumulated interest for the ten year span. For one-million-five. A net profit
of one million eleven hundred thousand, or over one hundred and ten 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 you nothing short of World
War Four could squelch our plans—and then where would you be anyway, ha-ha!—if
it ended tomorrow, and you had bought today and paid your deposit premium—what
would you have lost? Three thousand two hundred and fifty 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 one
million five hundred thousand value—just what do you risk? 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 Ltd., 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 to keep it
simple, let's call it ten percent. That's between thirty and forty thousand
dollars, right? And how much are you paying per year?"
"Between thirty and forty thousand dollars," Fisk said with a smile.
"So if you sell then, your return on your actual investment will be just about
one hundred percent. This is leverage, Mr. Centers: taking a small amount of
money to control a large amount of money. And the profit is yours even if, as
you say, Mars Ltd. 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." Then 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 fifty or sixty 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'd feel terrible if—"
He'd 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 hadn't been bluffing. The Marslot investment seemed attractive, indeed,
but
he never made snap decisions about money. It wasn't just a matter of checking;
it was appraising his own motives and inclinations. The best buy in the world—
on
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 it
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 "Ltd." That stood for Limited,
and
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 Marssoil. 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 said SEE GOVERNMENT PROPERTY
REPORT. Fisk sighed and punched for it, as it hadn't been attached to the main
commentary. He had a lot of dull reading to do!
The phone lighted. It was four already! 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—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; that 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 Ltd. 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—"
Then 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.
Then 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 the response that Fisk couldn't hear. Then: "To five hundred
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 three hundred grand bonus...
no, I can't withdraw it! He's sharp, and he's got the contract! He'd make a
good
Mars Ltd. exec... no, 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 two hundred grand jump just when he's about to
sign... okay, okay, I'll try it—but listen, boss, you torp me in midsale again
like this and I'm signing with Venus Ltd. 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 similar right to con himself back ire!
"...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 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?"
摘要：

HardSellbyPiersAnthonyPiersAnthonyHARDSELLPortionsofthisbookoriginallyappearedinslightlydifferentforminthefollowingmagazines:Chapter1(originallytitled"HardSell")inIfmagazine,August1972Chapter2(originallytitled"BlackBaby")inIfmagazine,September1972Chapter3(originallytitled"Hurdle")inIfmagazine,Decemb...

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