Fowler Schocken inclined his head. “Thank you, Matthew.” And he meant it. It took him a moment before he could go on. “We all know,” he said, “what put us where we are. We remember the Starrzelius Verily account, and how we put Indiastries on the map. The first spherical trust. Merging a whole subcontinent into a single manufacturing complex. Schocken Associates pioneered on both of them. Nobody can say we were floating with the tide. But that’s behind us. “Men! I want to know something. You can tell me truthfully-are we getting soft?” He took time to look at each of our faces search-ingly, ignoring the forest of hands in the air. God help me, mine was right up there too. Then he waved to the man at his right. “You first, Ben,” he said. Ben Winston stood up and baritoned: “Speaking for Industrial Anthropology, no! Listen to today’s progress report-you’ll get it in the noon bulletin, but let me brief you now: according to the midnight indices, all primary schools east of the Mississippi are now using our packaging recommendation for the school lunch program. Soyaburgers and regenerated steak”-there wasn’t a man around the table who didn’t shudder at the thought of soyaburgers and regenerated steak-“are packed in containers the same shade of green as the Universal products. But the candy, ice cream, and Kiddiebutt cigarette ration are wrapped in colorful Starrzelius red. When those kids grow up . . .”he lifted his eyes exultantly from his notes. “According to our extrapolation, fifteen years from now Universal products will be broke, bankrupt, and off the market entirely!” He sat down in a wave of applause. Schocken clapped too, and looked brightly at the rest of us. I leaned forward with Expression One-eagerness, intelligence, competence-all over my face. But I needn’t have bothered. Fowler pointed to the lean man next to Winston. Harvey Bruner. “I don’t have to tell you men that Point-of-Sale has its special problems,” Harvey said, puffing his thin cheeks. “I swear, the whole damned Government must be infiltrated with Consies! You know what they’ve done. They outlawed compulsive subsonics in our aural advertising-but we’ve bounced back with a list of semantic cue words that tie in with every basic trauma and neurosis in American life today. They listened to the safety cranks and stopped us from projecting our messages on aircar windows-but we bounced
back. Lab tells me,” he nodded to our Director of Research across the table, “that soon we’ll be testing a system that projects directly on the retina of the eye. “And not only that, but we’re going forward. As an example I want to mention the Coffiest pro-” He broke off. “Excuse me, Mr. Schocken,” he whispered. “Has Security checked this room?” Fowler Schocken nodded. “Absolutely clean. Nothing but the usual State Department and House of Representatives spy-mikes. And of course we’re feeding a canned playback into them.” Harvey relaxed again. “Well, about this Coffiest,” he said. “We’re sampling it in fifteen key cities. It’s the usual offer-a thirteen-week supply of Coffiest, one thousand dollars in cash, and a weekend vacation on the Ligurian Riviera to everybody who comes in. But-and here’s what makes this campaign truly great, in my estimation-each -sample of Coffiest contains three milligrams of a simple alkaloid. Nothing harmful. But definitely habit-forming. After ten weeks the customer is hooked for life. It would cost him at least five thousand dollars for a cure, so it’s simpler for him to go right on drinking Coffiest-three cups with every meal and a pot beside his bed at night, just as it says on the jar.” Fowler Schocken beamed, and I braced myself into Expression One again. Next to Harvey sat Tildy Mathis, Chief of Copy Services and handpicked by Schocken himself. But he didn’t ask women to speak at Board sessions, and next to Tildy sat me. I was composing my opening remarks in my head as Fowler Schocken let me down with a smile. He said: “I won’t ask every section to report. We haven’t the time. But you’ve given me your answer, gentlemen. It’s the answer I like. You’ve met every challenge up to now. And so now-I want to give you a new challenge.” He pressed a button on his monitor panel and swiveled his chair around. The lights went down in the room; the projected Picasso that hung behind Schocken’s chair faded and revealed the mottled surface of the screen. On it another picture began to form. I had seen the subject of that picture once before that day, in my news screen over my shaving mirror. It was the Venus rocket, a thousand-foot monster, the bloated child of the slim V-2s and stubby Moon rockets of the past. Around it was a scaffolding of steel and aluminum, acrawl with tiny figures that manipulated minute, blue-white welding flames. The picture