The olfactory went on, and it was the very last straw. I had to use my carton while the ad chirped: No wonder he’s hard to get! Use Swett! and one of those heavenly-harmony trios caroled in waltz time: Perspire, perspire, perspire, But don’t-kill off his desire- and then a gruff, prose, medical pitch: DON’T TRY TO STOP PERSPIRATION. IT’S SUICIDE. DOCTORS ADVISE A DEODORANT AND NOT AN ASTRINGENT. and then back to the first line and the olfactory. This time it made no difference; I had nothing more to give. Taunton’s was great on the gruff medical pitch; you’d think they ‘invented it. My seatmate, a nondescript customer in Universal apparel, watched with a little amusement as I retched. “Too much for you, friend?” he asked, showing the maddening superiority people who suffer from motion-sickness know too well. “Uh,” I said. “Some of those ads are enough to make anybody sick,” he said, greatly encouraged by my brilliant riposte. Well, I couldn’t let that get by. “Exactly what do you mean by that remark?” I asked evenly. It frightened him. “I only meant that it smelled a little strong,” he said hastily. “Just that particular ad. I didn’t mean ads in general. There’s nothing wrong with me, my friend!” “Good for you,” I said, and turned away. He was still worried, and told me: “I’m perfectly sound, friend. I come from a good family, I went to a good school. I’m in the production end myself-die-maker in Philly-but I know the stuffs got to be sold. Channels of distribution. Building markets. Vertical integration. See? I’m perfectly sound!” “Okay,” I grunted. “Then watch your mouth.”
He shriveled into his half of the seat. I hadn’t enjoyed squelching him, but it was a matter of principle. He should have known better. We were held up over Little America while a couple of other tourist craft touched down. One of them was Indian and I mellowed at the sight. That ship, from nose to tail, was Indiastry-built. The crewmen were Indiastry-trained and Indiastry-employed. The passengers, waking and sleeping, paid tribute minute by minute to Indiastry. And Indiastry paid tribute to Fowler Schocken Associates. A tow truck hauled us into the great double-walled plastic doughnut that is Little America. There was only one check point. Little America is an invisible export-a dollar trap for the tourists of the world, with no military aspects. (There are Polar military bases, but they are small, scattered, and far under the ice.) A small thorium reactor heats and powers the place. Even if some nation desperate for fissionable material were to try and get it, they wouldn’t have anything of military value. Windmills eke out the thorium reactor, and there’s some “heat pump” arrangement that I don’t understand which ekes out the windmills. At the check point I asked about Runstead. The officer looked him up and said: “He’s on the two-day tour out of New York. Thomas Cook and Son. His quarters are III-C-2205.” He pulled out a map of the place and showed me that this meant third ring in, third floor up, fifth sector, twenty-second room. “You can’t miss it. I can accommodate you with a nearby room, Mr. Courtenay-” “Thanks. Later.” I shoved off and elbowed my way through crowds chattering in a dozen languages to III-C-2205 and rang the bell. No answer. A pleasant young man said to me: “I’m Mr. Cameron, the tour director. Can I help you?” “Where’s Mr. Runstead? I want to see him on business.” “Dear me. We try to get away from all that-I’ll look in my register if you’ll just wait a moment.” He took me to his office-bedroom-bath up the sector a way and pawed through a register. “The Starrzelius Glacier climb,” he said. “Dear me. He went alone. Left at 0700, checked out in electric suit with R.D.F. and rations. He should be back in five hours or so. Have you arranged for quarters yet, Mr.-?” “Not yet. I want to go after Runstead. It’s urgent.” And it was. I was going to burst a blood vessel if I didn’t get my hands on him. The slightly fluttery tour director spent about five minutes con-