BIRTH OF A SALESMAN

The heavy citizen swept by the kitten at the desk and bashed through the inner door. The door read: T. BENEDICT, X.C.G.C. Behind the desk, T. Benedict took his head out of his hands and rolled big, sorrowful blue eyes up at his visitor. The heavy man opened his mouth and the phone chimed.

“Exceegeecee,” said Benedict into the phone, flapping his hand at the fat man. “Yeah, you need a clearance from us if your product is going to be shipped outplanet.... Yeah, you need it even if it’s for outplanet goods processed here. If they’ve been touched in any way... That’s right, Xeno-Cultural Gestalt Clearance. I know it’s a horrible name, I didn’t pick it. We’ll send you the forms.... Now, wait a minute, the name may be silly, but the function, no. What are you shipping?... Monomolecular coated bearings? How are they packed?... I said, how are they packed? What kind of cartons? Sperical? O.K., so you’re shipping into the Deneb sector. Going through the Deneb Gamma transfer point, right?... Well, look it up, you’ll find it has to go through there. So, the minute those spheres of yours come rolling through the transfer, the whole Gamma station crew squats down on its operculi and nobody budges a tentacle, because spheres are religious effigies on Gamma, see? And the transmitter stays open at your expense per microsecond, and your product doesn’t move until a local atheist relief squad—at triple pay, your expense—is brought in to move it, right? It’s to prevent foul-ups like that that you’re supposed to get our clearance on your prototype pack. Not after the shipment is sealed to go! Right?... I’ll send you the forms, and you get your samples up here fast. We’ll do what we can.”

Benedict cradled the still-squawking phone and turned his sad blue gaze on the fat man, who promptly exploded.

“That’s the merde you gave me! How wonderful your clearances! Changes to make—the picture to take off the box—the color to be not pink, not red, some lobster on Capella gets itchy—everything you said, we did! And now look! Five thousand Hapichlor Underfin Gasators I have lying on Candlepower Seven, nobody will move them! For what do I pay my taxes? Incompetent! Parasite! Harrghh!”

T. Benedict closed his eyes, pulled his hand down his nose, and looked up again.

“Look, Mr. Marmot—”

“Marmon!”

“Mr. Marmon, our clearance isn’t a guarantee. It can’t protect you against unknown factors, only against those we know about. With transmitter shipping linking new cultures every week, we get new factors all the tune. The picture-label you had, the red lettering, those are known factors on your route. Your product would have been severely damaged by nibbling on Capella if those cartons had gone through—that, we know. You’d have had a right to blame us if we’d let them go. But you shouldn’t have trouble on Candlepower. We have a Candlepower native on our alien panel, he passed your product. There’re only two possibilities: either it’s a transport problem, malfunction or wage-strike, in which case it has nothing to do with us—or you’ve changed the product.”

“The product has been in no way changed. Look!” Marmon slammed a black cube and a crumpled message form onto the desk. Benedict read:

“Six cases acute depressive fugue among transfer crew. Relief crew affected, refuse handle. Held pending. You’ve changed the product.”

“I have NOT changed the product!”

“And they’re all exactly alike? Every one?”

“Every single one to half-micromill tolerance. What do you think we make?”

“Who knows? But there’s variance somewhere. Miss Boots!”

A kitten in an aqua lab coat toddled through the side door.

“Take this upstairs and get Freggle to vet it again. Tell him a shipment has been held up at Candlepower station, acute depressive effect.” They both watched her toddle out.

“Now listen, Marner, we’ll help you all we can. Either the sample you gave us isn’t representative, or our Candlepower representative isn’t representative, I mean, typical. It’s cheaper to check your sample first, so get me some more of them—a gross, a couple gross at least. If you get them here today, I’ll put them right through. That’s step one. Meanwhile, you have a choice: either wait, in hopes we find something you can fix, or get on the horn and get an itinerant emergency crew down to Candlepower to run your shipment as is. My advice is to get the crew; whatever’s wrong is apt to be tough to fix at this distance. Comprenday?

“But my costs! My costs! While you just sit there! Faker!”

“Markle, I’m helping you all I can—Yes, Miss Boots?”

On the intercom screen Miss Boots appeared to be replacing her wig.

“Mr. Freggleglegg has just faulted—I guess,” she said timidly.

“Get that product away from him!” yelled Benedict. “Call Doc! Wait, Bootsie, sprinkle some sugar on him. Yeah, sugar, you’ll see the can on his desk. On his feet, stupid, those green things, he metabolizes there in emergencies!”

Miss Boots dove off-screen.

“Well, Marvin, your product is the trouble, all right! Now! On your samples, first get me some of the originals —the ones we passed. You have ’em? Good. And then get some from different batches up to the time you shipped, comprenday? I don’t care how many, send plenty. We’ll work on it here as soon as Freggle comes to. Method of approximation. Wait! Next, you write down everything—I mean every little thing—that’s changed in your plant since that first batch. Different molds or dies, different plastic catalyst, different soldering flux, change in subcontractors, any and every—”

“He’s kicking the sugar!” Miss Boots wailed from the screen.

“GET DOC, Bootsie!... All right, Marple. Series of samples, list of differences, schnell-schnell. Go!”

The fat man charged out. Benedict dropped his head into his hands while the intercom screen emitted gargles and flashes of aqua lab coat. His phone chimed just as the office door opened, revealing what appeared to be a red-haired gazelle in silver tights.

Benedict grabbed the phone, rolling startled eyes up at his visitor, whom he now perceived as a girl in silver peekaboos, carrying an orchid attache case. His eyes grew rounder, while the phone boomed busily at his ear.

Suddenly a gigantic maroon walrus rose into sight on the intercom screen, leaning on Miss Boots’ head. The gazelle-girl gasped.

“You O.K, Freggle!” Benedict demanded of the walrus. “No, not you, ’scuse me. Go ahead.”

The walrus wavered off the screen, followed by a shingle-haired man who made a thumb-and-finger O.K. sign at Benedict. Benedict nodded, still listening to the phone as he swiveled round to observe the effect of deep respiration on his visitor’s silver contours.

“Got it,” he told the phone. “I’ll repeat. The Pansolar wine shipment can go through as routed, provided (a) they take the grape picture off so the Fomalhaut transfer crew won’t think we’re bottling their larvae. And (b), the bottles must not gurgle above thirteen thousand cps to stay below the mating range for amphibians running Pegasus Zeta Four. If the overtones can’t be fixed he has to ship the long way via Algol. That right? Transcribed, will notify. Thanks, Tom.... ’Scuse me, Miss, what can I do for you?”

“I am Joanna Lovebody, Inc.,” the girl announced sweetly.

“How do, Miss uh, Inc.?”

“Well, Miss Krupp, actually.” She smiled. “We at Joanna Lovebody are so thrilled because we now have our first extra-solar clientele! Yes, there is a new, enthusiastic demand for Joanna Lovebody Cremes on a romantic, alien world. And we understand, Mr. Benedict, that in order to ship our lovely Joanna Lovebody Cremes we need one of your little government permits?”

Benedict pulled himself together. “You do indeed, Miss Krupp. Tell me, what planet are you shipping to?”

“Sirloin Twelve.” She chuckled, generating a silver undulance. “Such a quaint name.”

“Some survey crew got tired of tube food,” Benedict muttered, distractedly riffling his Locater. “Aha! Say, what do they do with face cream on Sirloin Twelve? Polish their chitin?”

“I beg your pardon? Oh, actually I believe they want to use it more as a cooking oil.”

“Wonder what they cook? Well, this looks like a pretty easy route, Miss Kripp. Straight through the Sirius station, one transfer, right?”

“I believe so, Mr. Benedict. And I do hope we can get this little paper in a hurry, because we have rather an early date on our order.”

“We’ll try. Now, what does your cream look like? Are you shipping more than one kind, or all the same? Does it gurgle, or ripple, I mean rattle? How about odor? I imagine it’s perfumed?”

“All just like this.” She produced a gold and orchid jar from her attache case.

“Hm-m-m. No gurgle, no rattle—quite a smell though. You realize, Miss Krisp, that what might smell lovely to us often has very different, even harmful effects on alien life forms? I don’t mean the Sirloin customers, evidently they know the product. I mean the transmitter crews on the Sirius station. Do you have any kind of vaportight wrap for this?”

The speak flashed on, revealing his receptionist engaged in blowing on her nail polish.

“There are, uh, three thousand and seventeen little black boxes here, Mr. Benedict. From Mr. Marmon.”

“Send ’em up to Jim right now quick, Jackie. Wait, transcribe this to go with: Jim, we have a product variation problem with these, on Candlepower. Gas somethings, variation unknown. Some will be O.K., some not, note serial numbers. Show them to Freggle but go very easy. Don’t let him faint, start outside the door, comprenday? And Jim, make it fast. Client’s hung up at station. I promised answers today.... Yes, ’scuse me, Miss Klasp?”

“It so happens, Mr. Benedict, that we do have a spacewrap for our Joanna Lovebody Creme.” She held up a golden egg. “Those lovely space-girls have to keep their beauty glowing-fresh too, you know.”

“Never been off-planet. Well, that’s pretty but it doesn’t look too practical. Miss Cameera! Where’s Cameera, Jackie?”

A very young kitten tiptoed in.

“Sweetie, you take these jars up to our Sirius representative. Mr. Splinx, you know.”

“Oh, Mr. Benedict!” Her chin quivered. “Can’t you send them up by the tube? You remember what happened last time!”

“Splinx won’t open his tube since we sent him that Martian Mau-Mau kit. Cameera, honey, you’ll be all right. Just stand about ten feet away. Tell him I want a verbal report as soon as he’s satisfied, comprenday? And remember, no humming or whistling. And don’t tap your feet.”

Miss Cameera tiptoed out, slowly. “New girl,” said Benedict. “Now what I had in mind, Miss Kling, is one of our all-null shipping packs. As a public service we’ve had some small sizes made up—” He was pulling plastic ovoids out of his desk. “If your product can be shipped in these it’ll save you time. And money.”

“What happened last time?” breathed Miss Krupp. “I mean, to your assistant?”

“Oh, just a little administrative misunderstanding, Miss Kupp. Different cultures, different ways. Now look. If your cream checks out O.K. with Splinx, and you can use the approved pack, we can give you a provisional clearance today on the Sirius route and you can ship tomorrow. How’s that?”

The phone chimed.

“Exceegeecee—what? Oh, no!” Benedict flung himself back in his chair. “Well, but that’s not our skin, the clinet’s in the clear. That’s Galactic Transfer’s problem... O.K., sure I’ll tell him. He can cover it. But it’s not his fault, comprenday? O.K.—you just look those packs over, Miss Kreem, I’ll be right with you. Jackie! Get me Murgatroyd, Terran Dynamics, will you?”

His intercom screen was flashing but no image appeared.

“Splinx here,” intoned a deep woodwind voice. “I cannot see you, Mr. Benedict.”

“Something’s blocking your visuals,” Benedict told the voice. “Wait—hello, Murgatroyd? This is Benedict over at Exceegeecee. Listen, on that shipment of power-packs through Nutmeat Nine, you know that fiber plate you have on the back? Can you cover it with an insulating layer from here in?... No, not your problem, your shipment got through fine. What happened, the crew on Nutmeat had some females standing around when your shipment came through and there’s some kind of electrowhoosis effect—electrostatic, electrophoretic, whatever. Anyway it turns out those plates are very sexy for Nutmeat Nine females. Not the males, we cleared them. The girls’ feelers are charged different. So they got in the crates—you know they’re teensy—and your machines arrived in the Icerock terminal with scads of these little girl mice plastered all over them. The Icerock crew are big herbivores and they got scared and stampeded. And Nutmeat is suing Galactic Transfer for involuntary concubinage and violation of the Narcotics Pact or something. Not your problem, absolutely not—those girls had no business being there. But I said we’d ask you if you could cover those plates. Just as a precautionary courtesy, comprenday? Great, thanks!... Yes, Mr. Splinx?”

The intercom screen had now cleared to reveal a large warty head featuring a single, benevolent-appearing eye.

“I woould say, ookay, friend Benedict,” Splinx announced. “Boot the wrapper is noot vapoor-tight. Noot at all. Hoowever, the fragrance is noot unattractive. Resembling perchance an eel-farm by moonlight.”

“Not too attractive, I hope. Pilferage?”

“Perchance. Joost a little. Boot the woorkers will noot be soo chemoo-sensitive as I.” He flicked his domed brow with a tentacle, elegantly.

“Thanks, Splinx. Well, there you are, Miss Ktess. Splinx means you have to use our wrapper. And seal it tight; when he says there may be pilferage, you’ll lose half the shipment. That big squid thinks he can smell better because he’s an aristocrat, but we don’t find any difference. Insure them, too. Now, are you certain you’ve told me everything—about the product, I mean? This sample is exactly like them all? It doesn’t have any latent effects or qualities, say heat-generation for example?”

Miss Krupp reflected charmingly, studying her slim silver toes.

“No, Mr. Benedict. That’s our standard Joanna Lovebody Creme, known to millions of delighted users.”

“O.K. Here’s your provisional clearance, signed. I’ve marked the pilferage warning, comprenday? Hand this to Jackie outside, she’ll have the wrappers sent over.”

“Oh, thank you so much, Mr. Benedict!” Her hand lingered warmly in his. “I couldn’t help noticing you speak French. How very recherché!”

Benedict beamed. “I want to thank you for your cooperation, Miss Klutch, I only wish all our clients were as gracious as you.”

The phone chimed.

“Benedict here.” He looked regretfully after the departing peekaboos. “Oh, hello, Mr. Bronk. Well, yes, I certainly did appreciate the offer Montgomery Roebuck made me. But as I told you, I think my job is here.... No, it isn’t really the money, of course that’s a lot more than the government pays me, about three times.... Yeah, the work sounds very attractive, Outplanet Sales Coordinator sounds great. It’s just that I’ve been building up this department here and it’s hard to quit. I’m sure you’ll find somebody else.... Oh, sure, if I change my mind. Well, thanks a lot, Mr. Bronk, yeah, same to you. ’Bye.”

Benedict turned to his intercom screen, where a man in a lab coat was waiting.

“How’re you coming with Freggle and those gas gizmos, Jim?”

“Just wanted to tell you, T.B., we’ve run through a couple of hundred of Marmon’s samples, and we’re not getting just two types. More like five. Neutral, acutely noxious, mildly euphoric, soporific, and something else he can’t or won’t describe. Funny thing is, I think I get a little of it myself. Does that remind you of anything?”

“Hm-m-m. Well, I suppose it’s possible. Keep at it— skip the staff meeting. Thanks a lot, Jim.”

“Oh, by the way, Freggle wants to register a complaint about the chow. Those last sturgeons were below par, he says, and the seaweed sauce stinks. He likes the Russian stuff better. Can we get him some?”

“He would, twice as expensive. Well, we’ll see. It’s spring now, maybe we can get local salad for the herbivores and use the savings for Freggle. But give him a pep talk. Keep the galaxy spinning, where would Candlepower be without the transmitter, tra-la-la.... Hey, what happened to your clothes? Not you, Jim, ’scuse me.”

Miss Cameera had burst in through a side door, clutching the two cold-cream jars.

“That awful Mr. Splinx, he got my kiltie.”

“Teh, tch, Cameera sweetie, you know it’s, not sex with Splinx—at least, Doc says it’s not. Sometimes I wonder. Now look, you can’t run around like that. Couldn’t you get your skirtie—I mean, your skirt?”

“He threw it over the intercom and I couldn’t go close!”

“I see. That figures. Well, get Jim to get it for you—he’s on the floor.”

“Oh Mr. Benedict, I couldn’t talk to Mr. Eisenstein like this!”

“Huh? Oh, so.” Benedict squinted at her. “Is Jim a married man? No, he’s not. Here, take my lab coat and run along out now. Wait! On your way back get me another batch of standard small shipping packs from Supply, comprenday?”

Two men and a woman had come into the office. Benedict waved at them shouting “Jackie honey, get some sandwiches and coffee, will you? You folks eaten? Oh, any kind, it’s all roast cardboard. Hal, you look like trouble. Shoot.”

“T.B., I want to make sure you’re briefed for that meeting with the Budget Bureau tomorrow. I’m afraid they’re quite serious about a twenty percent cut on our alien panel.”

“Gautama B. Buddha, how do they expect us to function without a full panel?” Benedict exploded, “What’re we supposed to do for the public, guess? You know we only have a sixty percent coverage of current transferpoint rife forms as it is.... Sorry, Hal, it’s not your fault. What should I do?”

“Well, the inside story I get from Timmons over there is that they’re getting pressure from this anti-alien organization. They keep yelling about hundreds of monsters being maintained in luxury at the taxpayer’s expense. Seems somebody got hold of a food bill with caviar on it.”

“That’s be Freggle. What do I do?”

“Well, I’ve prepared two alternate proposals, which technically comply with their reduction. I won’t go into them now, except that one complies money-wise, by adjusting the budge to get past the current fiscal year. After the elections, who can tell? The other complies by reduction of permanent personnel—wait, T.B.—while actually retaining them in various temporary and consultative slots. Considering contract expiration dates, we can avoid actual loss of any panel members for five months. I’ll be in to go over them with you before the meeting.”

“Hal, you’re a genius. Chester?”

“T.B., we have got to develop a little counter-pressure. Of course it’s not my business, but I’d like to poll our shippers and see if we can’t work up a group who endorse our service.”

Benedict sighed. “Ver-ry ticklish, soliciting public support from inside the government. Well, maybe, Chester. But very easy. A poll, comprenday?”

“Understood, T.B. Now look, I have to warn you that the annual report is going to be a couple days late again.” “Again?”

“That computer foul-up we had last morith really hurt. We’ve been working unpaid overtime to reconstruct, but there’s still a lot of incomplete and miskeyed case actions. Frankly, T.B., one big trouble is right here in your office. We’ve cross-keyed your bank every way we can to catch the original records but that doesn’t do any good if you don’t turn it on. I know how you feel, but... by the way, it doesn’t seem to be transcribing now.”

Benedict wheeled around to his input transcriber bank, gave it a glare and slammed the switch to On.

“Dammit, how can I talk to human beings with that thing going? All right, I’ll try, I’ll try. Mavis, any woe from you?”

“Not really, T.B., just the usual. Two cases of nostalgic apathy, one case of addiction to lunar lichens, and some sort of psychic disturbance Dr. Morris hasn’t been able to pin down yet with the Altairean. Doc says to tell you if you have to use Altair, call him first.”

“Is he still able to function? Altair is getting new branch lines, we’re bound to need him.”

“He’s all right, but Doc says, he has to get him in the mood first.”

“How does he get him in the mood?”

“With movies. Old Westerns. The horses seem to perk him up. Only thing is, there mustn’t be anything disturbing happening to a horse. Doc has been previewing them nights, he says he has saddle burns.”

“Give him my love, Mavis. Tell him I have some June Lovebody Creme for his burns. And listen, ask him to do something about Splinx and this undressing business, will you? He got Cameera’s skirt today.... That all, everybody? ’Bye.”

“Don’t forget you’re speaking to that Alien Nutrition meeting tonight right after work, Boss,” Jackie called through the open door as they trooped out. The pone chimed.

“Exceegeecee... oh, Hello, Marmon. Got that list of differences?... Nothing but a turret lathe, eh? Used on them all? Well, that shouldn’t do it. Now tell me, have you figured personnel changes?... What? Look, Marmot, I said everything. Don’t you count people as anything? People. They handle the product, don’t they?... I can’t help your records. Are the people the same?....Well, try to look.... Yes, I have reasons. My reasons aren’t definite, but they’re good enough so you better look. I’ll call you back in about an hour and maybe I can give you a better idea what to look for. But get those records so you can make sense when I call. Comprenday?”

He flicked the phone. In the momentary silence the transcriber bank hummed officiously. Benedict gave it a mean look, slammed the Off switch and rested his head in his hands. The phone chimed.

“Exceegeecee... yes. Hellow Mr. Tomlinson. Sure I remember you, you ship those miniclimatrons way out past the Hub. Fifteen tranfer points—indeed, I remember you, Mr. Tompkinson. Most complicated clearance we had since... What’s the problem?... You’ve found a cheaper shipping route? I see—yes, you certainly do need a new clearance. How many transfer points this time— thirteen? That new Lost & Gone station?... Yeah, we have to clear your product for those life forms there—my problem is that we haven’t been allocated a panel member flor Lost & Gone yet. I believe they’re pretty uh, recherchay, too, some kind of energy-matrix. No telling what your unit would do to them, or vice versa.... Yeah, I realize you’re losing money every time you ship by the old route, but Mr. Thomason, the public hasn’t given us the money to bring a native from there yet. If you don’t want to wait, the best thing is a government test trial shipment at your expense. I’m sorry. We monitor the shipment and testing procedure. We’ll need a representative—I mean, an absolutely typical sample of your product.... We went over that before, Mr. Thomason. No changes?... Oh, a little change. You didn’t notify us. You’ve been taking a chance, Mr. Thompkinson. Well, we’ll catch it now, but that means a recheck of the whole route.... Yeah, we’ll send you a cost sheet on the trial shipment to Lost & Gone tomorrow, say for ten units? If it goes through, yes, you can route them on to consumer, but we don’t guarantee they’ll go through. You could easily have trouble in your circuits with those energy-beings—probably need some nonconductive pack. You wouldn’t want to work out a pack first, would you?... I thought not. Well, it’s your risk, Mr. Tinkerson, I’ve warned you. We’re not responsible for loss or damage, that’s on record now. But we’ll do everything we can.... Sorry you feel that way. Right.”

As he flipped off, Benedict glanced guiltily at the dead transcriber bank and banged it to the On position.

Jim came to the speaker screen, holding one of Marmon’s black boxes.

“T.B., I think we’ve got a series. Freggle got cooperative and we’ve pinned down the unknown and two more. Working with the serial numbers as chronology, sample of five hundred, it adds up thusly: neutral; mild euphoria, type A; boredom; mild euphoria, type B; intense sex interest; intense dejection; intense homesickness. The last two types were what really threw Freggle, but the sex one is no better—he won’t touch it, just giggles. The homesickness type carries right through to the last number we tested.... Identification? Not too good. Probably young, maybe female by a slight edge. Earliest number that’s neutral— AGB-4367-L2.”

“Thanks Jim, thanks. That really helps. Jackie! Get me Marmot, I mean Marmon.” He bounced his chair. “Hello, Mr. Marmon? Benedict here. Got those lists? I think we’ve found your trouble. First, though, can you place the date of manufacture of a unit from its serial number? Well, roughly will help. Now: what you have to look for is a new employee, out of town—maybe foreign—hired about the time when, let’s see, AGB-4367-L2 went through. Got it?... This employee maybe female, less probably male, likely is young. At first she—or he—was happy and interested, then bored, that’s normal. Then she—or he—fell deeply in love.... Mr. Marvin, I’m not joking.... Wait, let me finish. Anyway, this employee got rejected, see? Off-chance the loved one died or moved away, but chances are they rejected your employee. Employee goes into a deep depression, almost suicidal, then starts violently longing for home. Got it?... Why? Marble, where have you been? You’ve hired a transmitting telepath. And this telepath is using your product as a K-object.... No, never mind that—the net effect is that every unit you process is impregnated with this emotional transmission, comprenday? Any life form that receives picks it up. That’s what knocked over the Candlepower crews. This stuff carries a big jolt, you’ve got a strong sender somewhere in the works who’s very, very unhappy. Probably young, doesn’t know they’re a Para. Comes from some place where there’s no testing station.... How do you find her or him? Well, one small clue—it’s evidently someone who handles every one of your products, at least all those you gave me.... Do? Get hold of them and send them over to the Para-P Bureau! They’re wasted with you, for Pete’s sake.... Well, if they don’t want to go, and they have a contract, either get them fixed up love-wise, or keep them away from the product—and I mean far away. But I think you’ll find they’ll gladly shift to Para-P when they find out; better pay. Matter of fact, you call Para-P, talk to Ilyitch there. Tell him Benedict says you have a strong sender. They’ll help you. Right?... I-l-y-i-t-c-h... No, I can’t help you with that pile-up on Candlepower, Mr. Marvel. I told you, best thing is to get an itinerant crew down there to move it. Nonsensitives.... Well, I warned you that was the best course. Yeah, I know. I’m sorry, too. We try. Right?”

Benedict dropped his chin to his fist, scowling at the humming transcriber bank. Outside, the sky darkened. Quitting time, and he had that speech to make. The phone chimed.

“How do, Mr. Oldmayer. Benedict speaking.... Well, didn’t my office send you the forms? It’s simple, really, you just send the forms back with your sample packs and we check them through our alien panel according to your routing.... What special problem?... Yes, I’m afraid you do have to have a clearance, Mr. Oldenham, music is one of our more sensitive shipping problems. You get actual damage with some life forms. It’s a question of packaging.... I realize it’s turned off, but you’d be surprised how things get accidentally activated in transit, especially with a long route like that.... Yeah, well, get hold of a good soundproofing firm and have them work out a muffler. Maybe you don’t have to do the whole box, just the audio part, right? And the power pickup, nonconductive, right?... I know it’s a nuisance, Mr. Oldershot, but that type of equipment can start picking up and sending suddenly and then there’s hell to pay. Conditions in transmission are for from Earth-normal, you know. We had a case where a beam-powered front-end-loader started operating spontaneously in the transit station on Piccolo Two, and they had to close the station for two years.... Well, you get the wrap designed and we’ll be expecting you, right? ’Bye.” As he clicked off, the aqua-clad form of Miss Boots tottered into the room, towing a loaded lab truck.

“Mr. Benedict, what’ll I do with these three thousand gas-things we tested on Mr. Freggleglegg?”

“You can’t leave ’em here, Boots, take ’em to Supply and tell Willi to make the owner pick ’em up. Marmot. Do I have to hand-feed that man? You look beat, Bootsie. Some kind of day with Freggle, was it? Did Cameera get her skirt?”

Miss Boots nodded Wearily, towing out.

“Some days,” Benedict muttered, rooting in his files. “Where’s that dumb speech? Jackie!”

“We have to close up now, Mr. Benedict,” his receptionist said from the doorway. “You know what Hal said about overtime.”

“Right.” Benedict grabbed a file and slammed his desk shut. “Turn off the lights, Jackie. Let’s go... holy entropy, what’s that?”

In the darkened room a man’s voice was singing Naked You. The next minute a soprano joined in with Love Me All Over.

“Light! What is it, Jackie! Help, lights!”

“Oh, Mr. Benedict, it’s just the skin scream,” Jackie told him, switching lights on. The room fell silent. “The Joanna Lovebody, see? It plays music. The one I have plays Yummy-Yummy-You, it’s neat.”

“What?” Benedict stared strickenly at the orchid jars on his desk.

“It does it when the light goes off at night and when it goes on again in the morning, to remind you. My toothpaste does Kissing Day. What’s the matter, Mr. Benedict?”

“Get that woman,” Benedict roared. “Klapp, Krapp, Krotch—if she isn’t at the office, fine her home! Don’t leave till you get her, Jackie. Tell her that her permit is revoked. Canceled! VOID! I don’t care if she’s at the bottom of the ocean, Jackie get her. Oh, sweet suffering Jesus, why didn’t she tell me? I asked her. Why? Why?”

“But Mr. Benedict, I’m sure she thought you knew—I mean, they all do it. It’s old.”

“How would I know, I’m a bachelor.” He groaned. “Jackie do you understand? Thousands of these things come whanging out of the transmitter all starting to play different tunes? Do you KNOW what Splinx does when he hears music? Why do you think we soundproof his room? Oh, oh, oh—”

They stared at each other; Jackie started backing out.

“Listen.” Benedict swallowed.

“Yes, sir?”

“First thing tomorrow—I mean, after Miss Krudd— I want you to get hold of a man named Cronk, Bronk. At Montgomery Roebuck, something chief of something sales. Male me a lunch date with him, Jackie. Tell him I want to buy him lunch. Just as soon as possible.”

“Yes sir.”

Benedict stalked from the office, slamming light switches.

“A good lunch,” he muttered. “I could use that—”

Behind him the two jars of skin cream started to sing while the transcriber hummed efficiently.