THE SPACE MERCHANTS C M Kornbluth
THE SPACE MERCHANTS C M Kornbluth
one As I dressed that morning I ran over in my mind the long list of statistics, evasions, and exaggerations that they would expect in my report. My section-Production-had been plagued with a long series of illnesses and resignations, and you can’t get work done without people to do it. But the Board wasn’t likely to take that as an excuse. I rubbed depilatory soap over my face and rinsed it with the trickle from the fresh-water tap. Wasteful, of course, but I pay taxes and salt water always leaves my face itchy. Before the last of the greasy stubble was quite washed away the trickle stopped and didn’t start again. I swore a little and finished rinsing with salt. It had been happening lately; some people blamed Consie saboteurs. Loyalty raids were being held throughout the New York Water Supply Corporation; so far they hadn’t done any good. The morning newscast above the shaving mirror caught me for a moment . . . the President’s speech of last night, a brief glimpse of the Venus rocket squat and silvery on the Arizona sand, rioting in Panama … I switched it off when the quarter-hour time signal chimed over the audio band. It looked as though I was going to be late again. Which certainly would not help mollify the Board. I saved five minutes by wearing yesterday’s shirt instead of studding a clean one and by leaving my breakfast juice to grow warm and sticky on the table. But I lost the five minutes again by trying to call Kathy. She didn’t answer the phone and I was late getting into the office.
Fortunately-and unprecedentedly-Fowler Schocken was late too. In our office it is Fowler’s custom to hold the weekly Board conference fifteen minutes before the regular opening of the business day. It keeps the clerks and stenos on their toes, and it’s no hardship to Fowler. He spends every morning in the office anyway, and “morning” to him begins with the rising of the sun. Today, though, I had time to get my secretary’s summary off my desk before the meeting. When Fowler Schocken walked in with a courteous apology for his tardiness I was sitting in my place at the foot of the table, reasonably relaxed and as sure of myself as a Fowler Schocken Associate is ever likely to be. “Good morning,” Fowler said, and the eleven of us made the usual idiot murmur. He didn’t sit down; he stood gazing paternally at us for about a minute and a half. Then, with the air of a daytripper in Xanadu, he looked carefully and delightedly about the room. “I’ve been thinking about our conference room,” he said, and we all looked around at it. The room isn’t big, it isn’t small: say ten by twelve. But it’s cool, well-lighted, and most imposingly furnished. The air recirculators are cleverly hidden behind animated friezes; the carpeting is thick and soft; and every piece of furniture is constructed from top to bottom of authentic, expertized, genuine tree-grown wood. Fowler Schocken said: “We have a nice conference room here, men. As we should have, since Fowler Schocken Associates is the largest advertising agency in the city. We bill a megabuck a year more than anybody else around. And-” he looked around at all of us, “I think you’ll agree that we all find it worthwhile. I don’t think there’s a person in this room who has less than a two-room apartment.” He twinkled at me. “Even the bachelors. Speaking for myself, I’ve done well. My summer place looks right over one of the largest parks on Long Island. I haven’t tasted any protein but new meat for years, and when I go out for a spin I pedal a Cadillac. The wolf is a long way from my door. And I think any one of you can say the same. Right?” The hand of our Director of Market Research shot up and Fowler nodded at him: “Yes, Matthew?” Matt Runstead knows which side his bread is oiled on. He glared belligerently around the table. “I just want to go on record as agreeing with Mr. Schocken-one hundred percent-all the way!” he snapped.