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diff --git a/31038-h/31038-h.htm b/31038-h/31038-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6d19370 --- /dev/null +++ b/31038-h/31038-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1893 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Real Hard Sell, by Wiliam W. Stuart</title> +<style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ + /* slight differences for print and screen */ + @media print { + span.pgmark {border: 0 !important; } + hr.pg {display: none; visibility: hidden; } + .main p {margin-bottom: 0.25em; + text-indent: 2em; } + body {margin-right: 0; + margin-left: 0; } + ins.TN {text-decoration: none; + border-bottom: 0; } + } + @media screen { + span.pgmark {border-top: thin solid silver; + border-bottom: thin solid silver; + display: inline!important; + visibility: visible!important; + position: absolute; left: 1%; } + p {margin-bottom: 0.75em; + text-indent: 0; } + body {margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%;} + ins.TN {text-decoration: none; + border-bottom: thin dotted silver;} + } + + body {font-size: medium; } + + h1 {text-indent: 0; + text-align: left; + font-family: sans-serif; + font-weight: normal; + font-size: 320%; + margin: 0 auto; + word-spacing: 0.15em; + padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 0.5em; } + + div.main {margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + margin-top: 0; + padding-top: 3em; + padding-bottom: 3em; + max-width: 32em; } + div.main p {text-align: justify; + margin-top: 0; + line-height: 1.3; } + + /* for transcriber's note */ + div.tnote {border: dashed 1px; + padding: .5em; + margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 6em; + page-break-before: always; + page-break-after: always; } + div.tnote p {text-indent: 0; + margin-top: .5em; + font-size: 85%;} + div.tnote h3 {text-indent: 0; + text-align: left; + font-size: 110%; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: bold; + padding-top: 60px; + letter-spacing: 0;} + .clearup {clear: left; line-height: 0; } + + p.blurb {text-indent: 0!important; + text-align: justify!important; + font-family: sans-serif; + font-size: 110%; + margin: 2em auto 0 auto!important; + line-height: 2!important; } + p.author {text-indent: 0!important; + text-align: left!important; + font-family: sans-serif; + font-size: 110%; + margin: 0 auto 0 0!important; } + + div.illus {margin: 4em 0; + text-align: center; } + + span.pgmark {display: none; visibility: hidden; /* over-ridden for screen devices */ + font-size: x-small; + font-family: serif; + font-variant: normal; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + line-height: 1.2; + letter-spacing: 0; + text-indent: 0; text-align: left; + margin: 0; padding: .05em 0.5em !important; } + + hr {background-color: black; color: inherit; padding: 0;} + + .ns {display: none; visibility: hidden; } + em, cite {font-style: italic; } + .tb {padding-top: 1.7em; } + .noindent {text-indent: 0!important; } + .framed {border: thin solid black; } + .fltleft {float: left; width: auto; margin-right: 4em; } + .fltright {float: right; width: auto; margin-left: 4em; } + .nw {white-space: nowrap; } + .uc {text-transform: uppercase; margin-left: -4px; } + .drop {font-size: 275%; + float: left; width: auto; + line-height: 90%; + padding-right: 4px;} + + /* XML end ]]>*/ +</style> +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Real Hard Sell, by William W Stuart + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Real Hard Sell + +Author: William W Stuart + +Illustrator: Anonymous + +Release Date: January 21, 2010 [EBook #31038] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE REAL HARD SELL *** + + + + +Produced by Robert Cicconetti, David Wilson and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<hr class="pg" /> + +<div class="tnote"> +<img class="framed fltleft" src="images/cover61july.jpg" width="192" height="282" + alt="If: Worlds of Science Fiction" title="Magazine Cover" /> +<h3>Transcriber’s note:</h3> +<p>This story was published in <cite>If: Worlds of Science Fiction</cite>, July 1961. +Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.</p><p class="clearup"> </p> + + +</div> + +<div class="main"> + +<p class="blurb"><a name="png.001" id="png.001"></a><span class="ns">[p </span><span + class="pgmark">25</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>Naturally human work was more creative, more inspiring, +more important than robot drudgery. Naturally it was +the most important task in all the world … or was it?</p> + + + + +<h1>THE REAL HARD +SELL</h1> + +<p class="author">BY WILLIAM W. STUART</p> + + +<p class="noindent tb"><span class="drop">B</span><span class="uc">en Tilman</span> sat down in +the easiest of all easy +chairs. He picked up a magazine, +flipped pages; stood up, +snapped fingers; walked to +the view wall, walked back; +sat down, picked up the magazine.</p> + +<p>He was waiting, near the +end of the day, after hours, in +the lush, plush waiting room—“The +customer’s ease is the +Sales Manager’s please”—to +see the Old Man. He was fidgety, +but not about something. +About nothing. He was irritated +at nobody, at the world; +at himself.</p> + +<p>He was irritated at himself +because there was no clear +reason for him to be irritated +at anything.</p> + +<p>There he sat, Ben Tilman, +normally a cheerful, pleasant +young man. He was a salesman +like any modern man and +a far better salesman than +most. He had a sweet little +wife, blonde and pretty. He +had a fine, husky two-year-old +boy, smart, a real future National +Sales Manager. He +loved them both. He had every +reason to be contented with +his highly desirable, comfortable +lot.</p> + +<p>And yet he had been getting +more sour and edgy ever since +about six months after the +baby came home from the +Center and the novelty of responsibility +for wife and child +had worn off. He had now +quit three jobs, good enough +sales jobs where he was doing +well, in a year. For no reason? +<a name="png.002" id="png.002"></a><span class="ns">[p </span><span + class="pgmark">26</span><span class="ns">] + </span>For petty, pointless reasons.</p> + +<p>With Ancestral Insurance, +“Generations of Protection,” +he’d made the Billion Dollar +Club—and immediately begun +to feel dissatisfied with it—just +before cute, sexy, blonde +Betty had suddenly come from +nowhere into his life and he +had married her. That had +helped, sure. But as soon after +that as he had started paying +serious attention to his job +again, he was fed up with it. +“Too much paper work. All +those forms. It’s work for a +robot, not a man,” he’d told +Betty when he quit. A lie. The +paper work was, as he looked +back on it, not bad at all; +pleasant even, in a way. It +was just—nothing. Anything.</p> + +<p>Indoor-Outdoor Climatizers—sniffles, +he said, kept killing +his sales presentation even +though his record was good +enough. Ultra-sonic toothbrushes, +then, were a fine +product. Only the vibration, +with his gold inlay, seemed to +give him headaches after every +demonstration. He didn’t +<em>have</em> a gold inlay. But the +headaches were real enough. +So he quit.</p> + +<p>So now he had a great new +job with a great organization, +Amalgamated<!-- original reads 'Almagamated' --> Production for +Living—ALPRODLIV. He +was about to take on his first +big assignment.</p> + +<p>For that he had felt a spark +of the old enthusiasm and it +had carried him into working +out a bright new sales +<!-- 003.png p26 column 2 -->approach for the deal tonight. +The Old Man himself had +taken a personal interest, +which was a terrific break. +And still Ben Tilman felt that +uneasy dissatisfaction. Damn.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Robb will see you now, +Mr. Tilman,” said the cool robot +voice from the Elec-Sec +Desk. It was after customer +hours and the charming human +receptionist had gone. +The robot secretary, like most +working robots, was functional +in form—circuits and +wires, mike, speaker, extension +arms to type and to reach +any file in the room, wheels +for intra-office mobility.</p> + +<p>“Thanks, hon,” said Ben. +Nevertheless, robot secretaries +were all programmed +and rated female—and it was +wise to be polite to them. After +all, they could think and +had feelings. There were a lot +of important things they could +do for a salesman—or, sometimes, +not do. This one, being +helpful, stretched out a long +metal arm to open the door to +the inner office for Ben. He +smiled his appreciation and +went in.<br class="ns" /></p> + + +<p class="noindent tb"><span class="drop">T</span><span class="uc">he</span> Old Man, Amalgamated’s +grand old salesman, +was billiard bald, aging, a little +stout and a little slower +now. But he was still a fine +sales manager. He sat at his +huge, old fashioned oak desk +as Ben walked across the +office.</p> + +<p>“Evening, sir.” No +<a name="png.004" id="png.004"></a><span class="ns">[p </span><span + class="pgmark">27</span><span class="ns">] + </span>response. Louder, “Good evening, +Mr. Robb. Mr. Robb, it’s +Ben, sir. Ben Tilman. You +memo’d me to <span class="nw">come—</span>” Still +no sign. The eyes, under the +great, beetling brows, seemed +closed.</p> + +<p>Ben grinned and reached +out across the wide desk toward +the small, plastic box +hanging on the Old Man’s +chest. The Old Man glanced +up as Ben tapped the plastic +lightly with his fingernail.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Ben. It’s you.” The Old +Man raised his hand to adjust +the ancient style hearing aid +he affected as Ben sank into +a chair. “Sorry Ben. I just +had old Brannic Z-IX in here. +A fine old robot, yes, but like +most of that model, long-winded. +<span class="nw">So—</span>” He gestured at the +hearing aid.</p> + +<p>Ben smiled. Everyone knew +the Old Man used that crude +old rig so he could pointedly +tune out conversations he +didn’t care to hear. Any time +you were talking to him and +that distant look came into his +half closed eyes, you could be +sure that you were cut off.</p> + +<p>“Sorry, Ben. Well now. I +simply wanted to check with +you, boy. Everything all set +for tonight?”</p> + +<p>“Well, yes, sir. Everything +is set and programmed. Betty +and I will play it all evening +for the suspense, let them +wonder, build it up—and +then, instead of the big pitch +they’ll be looking for, we’ll let +it go easy.”</p> + +<p><!-- 005.png p27 column 2 -->“A new twist on the old +change-up. Ben, boy, it’s going +to go. I feel it. It’s in the air, +things are just ripe for a new, +super-soft-sell pitch. Selling +you’ve got to do by feel, eh +Ben? By sales genius and the +old seat of the pants. Good. +After tonight I’m going all +out, a hemisphere-wide, thirty +day campaign.<!-- original lacks period --> I’ll put the top +sales artist of every regional +office on it. They can train on +your test pattern tapes. I believe +we can turn over billions +before everybody picks up the +signal and it senilesces. You +give an old man a new faith +in sales, Ben! You’re a <em>salesman</em>.”</p> + +<p>“Well, <span class="nw">sir—</span>” But the Old +Man’s knack with the youthful-enthusiasm +approach was +contagious. For the moment +Ben caught it and he felt +pretty good about the coming +night’s work. He and Betty +together would put the deal +over. That would be something.</p> + +<p>Sure it would…</p> + +<p>“How do you and your wife +like the place, Ben?” It was +some place, for sure, the brand +new house that Amalgamated +had installed Ben, Betty and +Bennie in the day after he had +signed up.</p> + +<p>“It’s—uh—just fine, sir. +Betty likes it very much, +really. We both do.” He hoped +his tone was right.</p> + +<p>“Good, Ben. Well, be sure +to stop by in the morning. +I’ll have the tapes, of course, +<a name="png.006" id="png.006"></a><span class="ns">[p </span><span + class="pgmark">28</span><span class="ns">] + </span>but I’ll want your analysis. +Might be a little vacation +bonus in it for you, too.”</p> + +<p>“Sir, I don’t know how to +thank you.”</p> + +<p>The Old Man waved a hand. +“Nothing you won’t have +earned, my boy. Robots can’t +sell.” That was the set dismissal.</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir. Robots can’t manage +sales, <span class="nw">or—</span>” He winked. +The Old Man chuckled. An old +joke was never too old for the +Old Man. The same old bromides +every time; and the +same hearty chuckle. Ben left +on the end of it.<br class="ns" /></p> + + +<p class="noindent tb"><span class="drop">D</span><span class="uc">ialing</span> home on his new, +Company-owned, convertible +soar-kart, he felt not too +bad. Some of the old lift in +spirits came as the kart-pilot +circuits digested the directions, +selected a route and +zipped up into a north-north-west +traffic pattern. The Old +Man was a wonderful sales +manager and boss. The new +house-warming pitch that he +and Betty would try tonight +was smart. He could feel he +had done something.</p> + +<p>Exercising his sales ability +with fair success, he fed himself +this pitch all along the +two hundred mile, twenty-minute +hop home from the +city. The time and distance +didn’t bother him. “Gives me +time to think,” he had told +Betty. Whether or not this +seemed to her an advantage, +she didn’t say. At least she +<!-- 007.png p28 column 2 -->liked the place, + “Amalgamated’s<!-- original reads "Almalgamated's" --> +Country Gentleman +Estate—Spacious, Yet fully +Automated.”</p> + +<p>“We are,” the Old Man told +Ben when he was given the +Company-assigned quarters, +“starting a new trend. With +the terrific decline in birth +rate during the past 90 to 100 +years, you’ll be astonished at +how much room there is out +there. No reason for everyone +to live in the suburban centers +any more. With millions +of empty apartments in them, +high time we built something +else, eh? Trouble with people +today, no initiative in obsolescing. +But we’ll move them.”</p> + +<p>Home, Ben left the kart out +and conveyed up the walk. The +front door opened. Betty had +been watching for him. He +walked to the family vueroom, +as usual declining to convey +in the house. The hell with +the conveyor’s feelings, if so +simple a robot really had any. +He <em>liked</em> to walk.</p> + +<p>“Color pattern,” Betty ordered +the vuescreen as he +came in, “robot audio out.” +With people talking in the +house it was still necessary to +put the machines under master +automatic and manual +control. Some of the less +sophisticated robots might +pick up some chance phrase of +conversation and interpret it +as an order if left on audio.</p> + +<p>“Ben,” said Betty, getting +up to meet him, “you’re late.”</p> + +<p>Ben was too good a salesman +<a name="png.008" id="png.008"></a><span class="ns">[p </span><span + class="pgmark">29</span><span class="ns">] + </span>to argue that. Instead, +he took her in his arms and +kissed her. It was a very good +sixty seconds later that she +pushed him away with a +severeness destroyed by a +blush and a giggle to say, +“Late but making up for lost +time, huh? And sober, too. +You must be feeling good for +a change.”</p> + +<p>“Sure—and you feel even +better, sugar.” He reached for +her again. She slipped away +from him, laughing, but his +wrist tel-timer caught on the +locket she always wore, her +only memento<!-- original reads 'momento' --> from her parents, +dead in the old moon-orb +crash disaster. She stood still, +slightly annoyed, as he unhooked +and his mood was, not +broken, but set back a little. +“What’s got into you tonight +anyway, Ben?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I don’t know. Did I +tell you, the O.M. may give +us a vacation? Remember +some of those nights up at +that new ‘Do It Yourself’ +Camp last summer?”</p> + +<p>“Ben!” She blushed, smiled. +“We won’t get any vacation +if we blow our house-warming +pitch tonight, you know. And +we have three couples due +here in less than a half hour. +Besides, I have to talk to you +about Nana.”<br class="ns" /></p> + + +<p class="noindent tb"><span class="drop">“T</span><span class="uc">hat</span> damned new CD-IX +model. Now what?”</p> + +<p>“She’s very upset about +Bennie. I’m not sure I blame +her. This afternoon he simply +<!-- 009.png p29 column 2 -->refused his indoctrination. All +the time he should have been +playing store with Playmate +he insisted on <em>drawing</em> things—himself, +mind you, not +Playmate. On the walls, with +an old pencil of yours he +found someplace in your +things. Nana couldn’t do a +thing with him. She says +you’ve got to give him a spanking.”</p> + +<p>“Why me? Why not you?”</p> + +<p>“Now Ben, we’ve been over +that and over it. Discipline is +the father’s job.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I won’t do it. Bennie’s +just a baby. Let him do +a few things himself. Won’t +hurt him.”</p> + +<p>“Ben!”</p> + +<p>“That Nana is an officious +busybody, trying to run our +lives.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Ben! You know Nana +loves little Bennie. She only +wants to help him.”</p> + +<p>“But to what?”</p> + +<p>“She’d never dream of lifting +a finger against Bennie no +matter what he did. And she +lives in terror that he’ll cut +her switch in some temper tantrum.”</p> + +<p>“Hmph! Well, I’m going up +right now and tell her if I +hear another word from her +about spanking Bennie, I’ll +cut her switch myself. Then +she can go back to Central for +reprogramming and see how +she likes it.”</p> + +<p>“Ben! You wouldn’t.”</p> + +<p>“Why not? Maybe she needs +a new personality?”</p> + +<p><a name="png.010" id="png.010"></a><span class="ns">[p </span><span + class="pgmark">30</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“You won’t say a thing to +her. You’re too soft-hearted.”</p> + +<p>“This time I won’t be.”</p> + +<p>This time he wasn’t. He met +Nana CD-IX in the hallway +outside Bennie’s room. Like +all nurse, teaching, and children’s +personal service robots, +she was human in form, except +for her control dial safely +out of baby’s reach, top, center.</p> + +<p>The human form was reassuring +to children, kept +them from feeling strange +with parents<!-- original reads "parent's" --> back. Nana was +big, gray-haired, stout, buxom, +motherly, to reassure parents.</p> + +<p>“Now, Mr. Tilman,” she +said with weary impatience, +“you are too late. Surely you +don’t intend to burst in and +disturb your son now.”</p> + +<p>“Surely I do.”</p> + +<p>“But he is having his supper. +You will upset him. Can’t +you understand that you +should arrange to be here between +5:30 and 6 if you wish +to interview the child?”</p> + +<p>“Did he miss me? Sorry, I +couldn’t make it earlier. But +now I am going to see him a +minute.”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Tilman!”</p> + +<p>“Nana! And what’s this +about your wanting Bennie +spanked because he drew a +few pictures?”</p> + +<p>“Surely you realize these +are the child’s formative +years, Mr. Tilman. He should +be learning to think in terms +of selling now—not <em>doing</em> +things. That’s robot work, Mr. +<!-- 011.png p30 column 2 --> +Tilman. Robots can’t sell, you +know, and what will people, +let alone robots think if you +let your boy grow <span class="nw">up—</span>”<br class="ns" /></p> + + +<p class="noindent tb"><span class="drop">“H</span><span class="uc">e</span>’s growing up fine; and +I am going in to see +him.”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Tilman!”</p> + +<p>“<em>And</em> for two credits, Nana, +I’d cut your switch. You hear +me?”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Tilman—no! No, +please. I’m sorry. Let the boy +scrawl a bit; perhaps it won’t +hurt him. Go in and see him +if you must, but do try not to +upset him <span class="nw">or—</span> All right, all +right. But please Mr. Tilman, +my <span class="nw">switch—</span>”</p> + +<p>“Very well Nana. I’ll leave +it. This time.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, Mr. Tilman.”</p> + +<p>“So we understand each +other, Nana. Though, matter +of fact, I’m hanged if I ever +did quite see why you senior-level +robots get so worked up +about your identities.”</p> + +<p>“Wouldn’t you, Mr. Tilman?”</p> + +<p>“Of course. But—well, yes, +I suppose I do see, in a way. +Let’s go see Bennie-boy.”</p> + +<p>So Ben Tilman went into +the nursery and enjoyed every +second of a fast fifteen-minute +roughhouse with his round-faced, +laughing, chubby son +and heir. No doubt it was +very bad, just after supper. +But Nana, with a rather humanly +anxious restraint, confined +herself to an unobtrusive +look of disapproval.</p> + +<p><a name="png.012" id="png.012"></a><span class="ns">[p </span><span + class="pgmark">31</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>He left Bennie giggling and +doubtless upset, at least to a +point of uneagerness for +Nana’s bedtime story about +Billie the oldtime newsboy, +who sold the Brooklyn Bridge.</p> + +<p>So then he was run through +a fast ten-minute shower, +shave and change by Valet. +He floated downstairs just as +Betty came out of the cocktail +lounge to say, “Code 462112 +on the approach indicator. +Must be the Stoddards. They +always get every place first, +in time for an extra drink.”</p> + +<p>“Fred and Alice, yes. But +damn their taste for gin, don’t +let Barboy keep the cork in +the vermouth all evening. I +like a touch of vermouth. I +wonder if maybe I <span class="nw">shouldn’t—</span>”</p> + +<p>“No, you shouldn’t mix the +cocktails yourself and scandalize +everybody. You know +perfectly well Barboy really +does do better anyway.”</p> + +<p>“Well, maybe. Everything +all set, hon? Sorry I was late.”</p> + +<p>“No trouble here. I just fed +Robutler the base program +this morning and spent the +rest of the day planning my +side of our Sell. How to tantalize +the girls, pique the curiosity +without giving it away. +But you <span class="nw">know—</span>” she laughed +a little ruefully—“I sort of +miss not having even the +shopping to do. Sometimes it +hardly seems as though you +need a wife at all.”</p> + +<p>Ben slid an arm around her +waist. “Selling isn’t the only +<!-- 013.png p31 column 2 -->thing robots can’t do, sugar.” +He pulled her close.</p> + +<p>“Ben! They’re at the door.”</p> + +<p>They were, and then in the +door, oh-ing and ah-ing over +this and that. And complimenting +Barboy on the martinis. +Then the Wilsons came +and the Bartletts and that +was it.</p> + +<p>“Three couples will be +right,” Ben had analyzed it. +“Enough so we can let them +get together and build up each +others’ curiosity but not too +many for easy control. People +that don’t know us so well +they might be likely to guess +the gimmick. We’ll let them +stew all evening while they +enjoy the Country Gentleman +House-Warming hospitality. +Then, very casually, we toss +it out and let it lie there in +front of them. They will be +sniffing, ready to nibble. The +clincher will drive them right +in. I’d stake my sales reputation +on it.” If it matters a +damn, he added. But silently.</p> + +<p>They entertained three couples +at their house-warming +party. It was a delightful party, +a credit to Ben, Betty and +the finest built-in house robots +the mind of Amalgamated +could devise.</p> + +<p>By ten o’clock they had +dropped a dozen or more random +hints, but never a sales +pitch. Suspense was building +nicely when Betty put down +an empty glass and unobtrusively +pushed the button to +cue Nana. Perfect timing. +<a name="png.014" id="png.014"></a><span class="ns">[p </span><span + class="pgmark">32</span><span class="ns">] + </span>They apologized to the guests, +“We’re ashamed to be so old-fashioned +but we feel better +if we look in on the boy when +he wakes in the night. It keeps +him from forgetting us.”</p> + +<p>Then they floated off upstairs +together, ostensibly to +see Nana and little Bennie.</p> + +<p>Fred Stoddard: “Some place +they have here, eh? Off-beat. +A little too advanced for my +taste, this single dwelling +idea, but maybe—Ben sure +must have landed something +juicy with Amalgamated to +afford this. What the devil is +he pushing, anyway?”</p> + +<p>Scoville Wilson (shrug): +“Beats me. You know, before +dinner I cornered him at the +bar to see if I could slip in a +word or two of sell. Damned +if he didn’t sign an order for +my Cyclo-sell Junior Tape Library +without<!-- original reads 'with out' --> even a C level +resistance. Then he talked a +bit about the drinks and I +thought sure he was pushing +that new model Barboy. I was +all set to come back with a +sincere ‘think it over’—and +then he took a bottle from the +Barboy, added a dash of vermouth +to his drink and walked +off without a word of sell. He +always was an odd one.”</p> + +<p>Lucy Wilson (turns from +woman talk with the other +two wives): “Oh no! I knew +it wasn’t the Barboy set. They +wouldn’t have him set so slow. +Besides didn’t you hear the +way she carried on about the +nursery and that lovely Nana? +<!-- 015.png p32 column 2 -->That must have been a build-up, +but Ben goofed his cue to +move in on Sco and me for a +close. Doesn’t Amalgamated +handle those nurseries?”</p> + +<p>Tom Bartlett: “Amalgamated +makes almost anything. +That’s the puzzle. I dunno—but +it must be something big. +He has to hit us with something, +doesn’t he?”</p> + +<p>Belle Bartlett: “Who ever +heard of a party without a +sell?”</p> + +<p>Nancy Stoddard: “Who ever +heard of a party going past +ten without at least a warm-up +pitch? And Betty promised +Fred to send both Ben +and Bennie to the Clinic for +their Medchecks. You know +we have the newest, finest +<span class="nw">diagnosticians—</span>”</p> + +<p>Fred Stoddard: “Nancy!”</p> + +<p>Nancy Stoddard: “Oh, I’m +sorry. I shouldn’t be selling +you folks at <em>their</em> party, +should I? Come to think, +you’re all signed with Fred +anyway, aren’t you? Well, +about Ben, <em>I</em> <span class="nw">think—</span>”</p> + +<p>Lucy Wilson: “Sh-h-h! +Here they come.”<br class="ns" /></p> + + +<p class="noindent tb"><span class="drop">S</span><span class="uc">miling</span>, charming—and +still not an order form in +sight—Ben and Betty got +back to their guests. Another +half hour. Barboy was passing +around with nightcaps. +Lucy Wilson nervously put a +reducegar to her sophisticated, +peppermint-striped lips.</p> + +<p>Quickly Ben Tilman was on +his feet. He pulled a small, +<a name="png.016" id="png.016"></a><span class="ns">[p </span><span + class="pgmark">33</span><span class="ns">] + </span>metal cylinder from his pocket +with a flourish and held it +out on his open palm toward +Lucy. A tiny robot Statue of +Liberty climbed from the cylinder, +walked across Ben’s +hand, smiled, curtsied and +reached out to light the reducegar +with her torch, piping +in a high, thin voice, +“Amalgamated reducegars are +cooler, lighter, finer.”</p> + +<p>“Ben! How simply darling!”</p> + +<p>“Do you like it? It’s a new +thing from Amalgamated NovelDiv. +You can program it for +up to a hundred selective sell +phrases, audio or visio key. +Every salesman should have +one. Makes a marvelous gift, +and surprisingly reasonable.”</p> + +<p>“So that’s it, Ben. I just +love it!”</p> + +<p>“Good! It’s yours, compliments +of Amalgamated.”</p> + +<p>“But—then you’re not selling +them? Well, what on +earth—?”</p> + +<p>“Damn it, Ben,” Fred Stoddard +broke in, “come on, +man, out with it. What in hell +<em>are</em> you selling? You’ve given +us the shakes. What is it? The +Barboy set? It’s great. If I +can scrape up the down payment, +<span class="nw">I’ll—</span>”</p> + +<p>“<em>After</em> we furnish a nursery +with a decent Nana, Fred +Stoddard,” Nancy snapped, +“and get a second soar-kart. +Ben isn’t selling Barboys anyway, +are you. Ben? It <em>is</em> that +sweet, sweet Nana, isn’t it? +And I do want one, the whole +nursery, Playmate and all, +<!-- 017.png p33 column 2 -->girl-programmed of course, +for our Polly.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Is</em> it the nursery, Betty?” +Lucy pitched in her credit’s +worth. “Make him tell us, +darling. We have enjoyed +everything so much, the dinner, +the Tri-deo, this whole +lovely, lovely place of yours. +Certainly the house warming +has been perfectly charming.”</p> + +<p>“And that’s it,” said Ben +smiling, a sheaf of paper +forms suddenly in his hand.</p> + +<p>“What? Not—?”</p> + +<p>“The house, yes. Amalgamated’s +Country Gentleman +Estate, complete, everything +in it except Bennie, Betty and +me. Your equity in your Center +co-op can serve as down +payment, easy three-generation +terms, issue insurance. +Actually, I can show you how, +counting in your entertainment, +vacation, incidental, and +living expenses, the Country +Gentleman will honestly cost +you less.”</p> + +<p>“Ben!”</p> + +<p>“How simply too clever!”</p> + +<p>Ben let it rest there. It was +enough. Fred Stoddard, after +a short scuffle with Scoville +Wilson for the pen, signed the +contract with a flourish. Sco +followed.</p> + +<p>“There!”</p> + +<p>“There now, Ben,” said Betty, +holding Bennie a little +awkwardly in her arms in the +soar-kart. They had moved +out so the Stoddards could +move right in. Now they were +on their way in to their +<a name="png.018" id="png.018"></a><span class="ns">[p </span><span + class="pgmark">34</span><span class="ns">] + </span>reserved suite at Amalgamated’s +Guest-ville. “You were absolutely +marvellous. Imagine +selling all three of them!”</p> + +<p>“There wasn’t anything to +it, actually.”</p> + +<p>“Ben, how can you say +that? Nobody else could have +done it. It was a sales masterpiece. +And just think. Now +salesmen all over the hemisphere +are going to follow your +sales plan. Doesn’t it make +you proud? Happy? Ben, you +aren’t going to be like <em>that</em> +again?”</p> + +<p>No, of course he wasn’t. He +was pleased and proud. Anyway, +the Old Man would be, +and that, certainly, was something. +A man had to feel good +about winning the approval of +Amalgamated’s grand Old +Man. And it did seem to make +Betty happy.</p> + +<p>But the actual selling of the +fool house and even the two +other, identical houses on the +other side of the hill—he just +couldn’t seem to get much of +a glow over it. He had done +it; and what had he done? It +was the insurance and the +toothbrushes all over again, +and the old nervous, sour feeling +inside.</p> + +<p>“At least we do have a vacation +trip coming out of it, +hon. The O.M. practically +promised it yesterday, if our +sell sold. We <span class="nw">could—</span>”</p> + +<p>“—go back to that queer +new ‘Do It Yourself’ camp up +on the lake you insisted on +dragging me to the last week +<!-- 019.png p34 column 2 -->of our vacation last summer. +Ben, really!” He <em>was</em> going to +be like that. She knew it.</p> + +<p>“Well, even you admitted it +was some fun.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, sort of, I suppose. For +a little while. Once you got +used to the whole place without +one single machine that +could think or do even the +simplest little thing by itself. +So, well, almost like being +savages. Do you think it +would be safe for Bennie? We +can’t watch him all the time, +you know.”</p> + +<p>“People used to manage in +the old days. And remember +those people, the Burleys, who +were staying up there?”</p> + +<p>“That queer, crazy bunch +who went there for a vacation +when the Camp was first +opened and then just stayed? +Honestly, Ben! Surely you’re +not thinking <span class="nw">of—</span>”</p> + +<p>“Oh, nothing like that. Just +a vacation. <span class="nw">Only—</span>”</p> + +<p>Only those queer, peculiar +people, the Burleys had seemed +so relaxed and cheerful. +Grandma and Ma Burley +cleaning, washing, cooking on +the ancient electric stove; +little Donnie, being a nuisance, +poking at the keys on his +father’s crude, manual typewriter, +a museum piece; Donnie +and his brothers wasting +away childhood digging and +piling sand on the beach, paddling +a boat and actually +building a play house. It was +mad. People playing robots. +And yet, they seemed to have +<a name="png.020" id="png.020"></a><span class="ns">[p </span><span + class="pgmark">35</span><span class="ns">] + </span>a wonderful time while they +were doing it.</p> + +<p>“But how do you keep staying +here?” he had asked Buck +Burley, “Why don’t they put +you out?”</p> + +<p>“Who?” asked Buck. “How? +Nobody can sell me on leaving. +We like it here. No robot +can force us out. Here we are. +Here we stay.”<br class="ns" /></p> + + +<p class="noindent tb"><span class="drop">T</span><span class="uc">hey</span> pulled into the Guest-ville +ramp. Bennie was +fussy; the nursery Nana was +strange to him. On impulse, +Betty took him in to sleep in +their room, ignoring the disapproving +stares of both the +Nana and the Roboy with +their things.</p> + +<p>They were tired, let down. +They went to bed quietly.</p> + +<p>In the morning Betty was +already up when Ben stumbled +out of bed. “Hi,” she said, +nervously cheerful. “The +house Nanas all had overload +this morning and I won’t +stand for any of those utility +components with Bennie. So +I’m taking care of him myself.”</p> + +<p>Bennie chortled and drooled +vita-meal at his high-chair, +unreprimanded. Ben mustered +a faint smile and turned to go +dial a shave, cool shower and +dress at Robather.</p> + +<p>That done, he had a bite of +breakfast. He felt less than +top-sale, but better. Last night +<em>had</em> gone well. The Old Man +would give them a pre-paid +vacation clearance to any +<!-- 021.png p35 column 2 -->resort in the world or out. Why +gloom?</p> + +<p>He rubbed Bennie’s unruly +hair, kissed Betty and conveyed +over from Guest-ville to +office.</p> + +<p>Message-sec, in tone respect-admiration +A, told him +the Old Man was waiting for +him. Susan, the human receptionist +in the outer office, favored +him with a dazzling +smile. There was a girl who +could sell; and had a product +of her own, too.</p> + +<p>The Old Man was at his +big, oak desk but, a signal +honor, he got up and came +half across the room to grab +Ben’s hand and shake it. “Got +the full report, son. Checked +the tapes already. That’s selling, +boy! I’m proud of you. +Tell you what, Ben. Instead +of waiting for a sales slack, +I’m going to move you and +that sweet little wife of yours +right into a spanking new, +special Country Gentleman +unit I had in mind for myself. +And a nice, fat boost in your +credit rating has already gone +down to accounting. Good? +Good. Now, Ben, I have a real, +<ins class="TN" title="Transcriber's note: + in the original, this line was printed between 'Good?' and 'Good.' + and has been moved to restore the sense">artistic sales challenge that is</ins> +crying for your talent.”</p> + +<p>“Sir? Thank you. But, sir, +there is the matter of the <span class="nw">vacation—</span>”</p> + +<p>“Vacation? Sure, Ben. Take +a vacation anytime. But right +now it seems to the Old Man +you’re on a hot selling streak. +I don’t want to see you get +off the track, son; your +<a name="png.023" id="png.023"></a><span class="ns">[p </span><span + class="pgmark">37</span><span class="ns">] + </span>interests are mine. And wait till +you get your teeth into this +one. Books, Ben boy. Books! +People are spending all their +time sitting in on Tri-deo, +not reading. People should +read more, Ben. Gives them +that healthy tired feeling. +Now we have the product. We +have senior Robo-writers with +more circuits than ever before. +All possible information, +every conceivable plot. Maybe +a saturation guilt type campaign +to start—but it’s up to +you, Ben. I don’t care how you +do it, but move books.”</p> + +<p>“Books, eh? Well, now.” +Ben was interested. “Funny +thing, sir, but that ties in +with something I was thinking +about just last night.”</p> + +<p>“You have an angle? Good +boy!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir. Well, it is a wild +thought maybe, but last summer +when I was on vacation I +met a man up at that new +camp and—well, I know it +sounds silly, but he was writing +a book.”</p> + +<p>“Nonsense!”</p> + +<p>“Just what I thought, sir. +But I read some of it and, I +don’t know, it had a sort of a +feel about it. Something new, +sir, it might catch on.”</p> + +<p>“All right, all right. That’s +enough. You’re a salesman. +You’ve sold me.”</p> + +<p>“On the book?” Ben was +surprised.</p> + +<p>“Quit pulling an old man’s +leg, Ben. I’m sold on your +needing a vacation. I’ll fill out +<!-- 024.png p37 column 2 -->your vacation pass right +now.” The Old Man, still a +vigorous, vital figure, turned +and walked back to his Desk-sec. +“Yes sir,” said the secretarial +voice, “got it. Vacation +clearance for Tilman, Ben, +any resort.”</p> + +<p>“And family,” said Ben.</p> + +<p>“And family. Very good, +sir.”</p> + +<p>The Old Man made his sign +on the pass and said heavily, +“All right then, Ben. That’s it. +Maybe if you go back up to +that place for a few days and +see that psycho who was writing +a book again, perhaps +you’ll realize how impractical +it is.”</p> + +<p>“But sir! I’m serious about +that book. It really did <span class="nw">have—</span>” +he broke off.</p> + + +<div class="illus"><a name="png.022" id="png.022"></a><span class="ns">[p </span><span + class="pgmark">36</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span><img src="images/illo36.png" width="384" height="536" + alt="" title="he reached across toward the +hearing aid on the Old Man’s +chest" /></div> + +<p>The Old Man was sitting +there, face blank, withdrawn. +Ben could feel he wasn’t even +listening. That damned hearing +aid of his. The Old Man +had cut it off. Suddenly, unreasoningly, +Ben was furious. +He stood by the huge desk and +he reached across toward the +hearing aid on the Old Man’s +chest to turn up the volume. +The Old Man looked up and +saw Ben’s hand stretching out.</p> + +<p>A sudden look of fear came +into his china blue, clear eyes +but he made no move. He sat +frozen in his chair.</p> + +<p>Ben hesitated a second. +“What—?” But he didn’t have +to ask. He knew.</p> + +<p>And he also knew what he +was going to do.</p> + +<p><a name="png.025" id="png.025"></a><span class="ns">[p </span><span + class="pgmark">38</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“No!” said the Old Man. +“No, Ben. I’ve only been trying +to help; trying to serve +your best interests the best +way I know. Ben, you <span class="nw">mustn’t—</span>”</p> + +<p>But Ben moved forward.<br class="ns" /></p> + + +<p class="noindent tb"><span class="drop">H</span><span class="uc">e</span> took the plastic box on +the Old Man’s chest and +firmly cut the switch.</p> + +<p>The Old Man, the Robot Old +Man, went lifeless and slumped +back in his chair as Ben +stretched to cut off the Desk-sec. +Then he picked up his vacation +clearance.</p> + +<p>“Robots can’t sell, eh?” he +said to the dead machine behind +the desk. “Well, you +couldn’t sell me that time, +could you, Old Man?”<!-- original lacks closing quote --></p> + +<p>Clumsily, rustily, Ben whistled +a cheerful little off-key +tune to himself. Hell, they +could do anything at all—except +sell.</p> + +<p>“You can’t fool some of the +people all of the time,” he remarked +over his shoulder to +the still, silent figure of the +Old Man as he left the office, +“it was a man said that.” He +closed the door softly behind +him.</p> + +<p>Betty would be waiting.</p> + +<p>Betty was waiting. Her +head ached as she bounced +Bennie, the child of Ben, of +herself and of an unknown +egg cell from an anonymous +ovary, on her knees. Betty +3-RC-VIII, secret, wife-style +model, the highest development +of the art of Robotics +<!-- 026.png p38 column 2 -->had known instantly when +Ben cut the Old Man’s switch. +She had half expected it. But +it made her headache worse.</p> + +<p>“But damn my programming!” +She spoke abruptly, +aloud, nervously fingering the +locket around her neck. +“Damn it and shift circuit. +He’s right! He is my husband +and he is right and I’m glad. +I’m glad we’re going to the +camp and I’m going to help +him stay.”</p> + +<p>After all, why shouldn’t a +man want to do things just as +much as a robot? He had +energy, circuits, feelings too. +She knew he did.</p> + +<p>For herself, she loved her +Ben and Bennie. But still just +that wasn’t enough occupation. +She was glad they were +going to the new isolation +compound for non-psychotic +but unstable, hyper-active, +socially dangerous individual +humans. At the camp there +would be things to do.</p> + +<p>At the camp they would be +happy.</p> + +<p>All at once the headache +that had been bothering her +so these past months was +gone. She felt fine and she +smiled at little Bennie. “Bennie-boy,” +she said, kissing his +smooth, untroubled baby forehead. +“Daddy’s coming.” Bennie +laughed and started to +reach for the locket around +Mommy’s neck. But just then +the door opened and he jumped +down to run and meet his +daddy.</p> + + +<p class="fltright"><big><b>END</b></big></p> +<p class="clearup"> </p> +</div> + +<hr class="pg" /> + + + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Real Hard Sell, by William W Stuart + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE REAL HARD SELL *** + +***** This file should be named 31038-h.htm or 31038-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/0/3/31038/ + +Produced by Robert Cicconetti, David Wilson and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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