"Interplanetary call for Mr. Fisk Centers," the cute operator said.
Fisk almost dropped his sandwich. "There must be some mistake. I don't know anybody offplanet."
The girl looked at him with polite annoyance, as though nobody should be startled by such an event. "Are you Mr. Fisk Centers?"
"Yes, of course," he said. "But..."
Her face sifted out, smiling professionally. The screen bleeped, went blank and finally produced a man. He had handsome gray hair and wore the traditional Mars-resident uniform—a cross between a spacesuit and a tuxedo. He was seated behind a large plastifoam desk and a tremendous color map of classical Mars covered the wall beyond.
"Welcome to Mars, Mr. Centers," the man said, putting on a contagious grin. "I am Bondman, of Mars, Limited." Somehow he had managed to pronounce "Limited" the way it looked on the map on the office wall behind him: "Ltd."
Fisk was fifty and had been around, but he had never been treated to an interplanetary call before. The reason was not only the expense, though he knew that was extraordinary. He simply happened to be one of the several billion who had never had occasion to deal offplanet. Probably Mars, Ltd. was economizing by using OVTS—Open Volume Telephone Service—but the call was still impressive.
"Are you sure—"
"Now, Mr. Centers, let's not let modesty interfere with business," Bondman said, frowning briefly. "You're far too sensible a man for that. That's why you're one of the privileged few to be selected as eligible for this project."
"Project? I don't—"
The Marsman's brow wrinkled elegantly. "Naturally it isn't available to the common run. Mars is too fine a planet to ruin by indiscriminate development, don't you agree?"
Fisk found himself nodding to the persuasive tone before the meaning registered. "Development? I thought Mars was uninhabitable. Not enough water, air—"
"Most astute, Mr. Centers," Bondman said, bathing him with a glance of honest admiration. "Indeed there is not enough water or air. Not for every person who might want to settle. Selectivity is the key—the vital key—for what can be a very good life indeed. Mars, you see, has space—but what is space without air?"
"Right. There's no good life in a spacesuit. I—"
"Of course not, Mr. Centers. The ignorant person believes that man must live on Mars in a cumbersome suit and so he has a low regard for Mars realty. How fortunate that you and I know better." And before Fisk could protest Bondman continued: "You and I know that the new static domes conserve air, water and heat, utilizing the greenhouse effect to make an otherwise barren land burst into splendor. Within that invisible protective hemisphere it is completely Earthlike. Not Earth as it is today, but as it was a century ago. Think of it, Mr. Centers—pure clean air, gentle sunshine, fresh running water. Horses and carriages—automobiles, guns, hallucinogenic drugs and similar evils prohibited. A haven for retirement in absolute security and comfort."
Something was bothering Fisk, but the smooth sales patter distracted him and compelled his half-reluctant attention. He certainly was not going to Mars. "But they don't have such domes on Mars. That technique was developed only a few months ago and is still in the testing stage."
"Brilliant, Mr. Centers," Bondman exclaimed sincerely. "You certainly keep abreast of the times. Of course there are no domes on Mars now, as you so astutely point out. Why, it will be years before they are set up, perhaps even as long as a decade. This is what makes it such a superlative investment now, before the news gets out. Provided we restrict it to intelligent men such as yourself. I'm sure—"
"Investment? Now hold on," Fisk protested. "I'm not in the market for investment. I'm comfortably set up right now and—"
"I quite understand. Naturally you're not interested in a mediocre investment, Mr. Centers," Bondman said, frowning at his own failure in not having made the point clear. "Do you think I would insult your intelligence by wasting your time? No, you have the discernment to identify the superior value when you encounter it, unlike the common—"
"What investment?" Fisk demanded, annoyed by the too-heavy flattery. The intrigue of the interplanetary call was wearing thin and the objection he couldn't quite formulate still nagged—and he wanted to finish his sandwich before it got stale.
The man leaned forward to whisper confidentially. "Marsland," he breathed, as though it were the secret of the ages. His voice was so charged with excitement and rapture that Fisk had to struggle to maintain his emotional equilibrium. Could there be something in it?
After a pregnant pause Bondman resumed. "I see you understand. I was sure you would. You comprehend the phenomenal potential in Marsland realty, the incredible opportunity—"
"I don't comprehend it," Fisk snapped, gesturing with his neglected sandwich. "I have no use for land on Mars and I would consider it an extremely risky investment. That dome technique is still in the prototype stage; it may not even work on Mars. So if that's what you're—"
"Yes, of course you want to see the brochure," the salesman agreed irrelevantly. "And you shall have it, Mr. Centers. I will put it in the slot for you immediately, first class. I'm sure you will examine it most—"
Suddenly, facilitated by some devious mental process, Fisk's nagging question came into focus.
"You aren't on Mars," he said angrily. "Its orbit is fifty million miles outside Earth's. Even when Mars is closest it should take a good ten minutes to get an answer by phone."
"Congratulations!" Bondman cried jubilantly. "You have just qualified for our exclusive genius-intellect bonus certificate. Of course I'm not calling from that Mars you see in the sky—I'm here at the Mars, Limited promotion office. Mr. Centers, I'm so glad you were sharp enough to solve our little riddle within the time limit. You're the very kind of investor we prefer. I'll insert the certificate right now. And I'll be seeing you again soon. Bye-bye."
And while Fisk was marveling at the peculiarly childish "bye-bye" the image faded.
He lifted his sandwich, a fine torula-steak on soyrye with enriched onion sauce, but found he was no longer hungry. He was sure this was a sales gimmick for something worthless, but Bondman's contagious excitement had gotten to him. Maybe there was a good investment on Mars.
Well, no harm in looking at the literature. He certainly didn't have to buy.
He didn't have long to wait, either. His mail receiver was already chiming with an arrival.
He picked up the bulky printing and spread it out. It was a first-class presentation, all right, with color photographs and glossy surfacing that must have cost dearly to transmit. If he had not been present when it arrived he would have suspected a physical delivery rather than the normal mailfax. Mars, Ltd. must have oiled the right palms in the post office.
Well, he had to admit it—he was intrigued. He probably would not buy, but he would enjoy looking.
First there was the bonus certificate, entitling him to a twenty percent reduction. Fair enough—but hardly sufficient to induce him to buy without his knowing the actual price. Then a spread on Mars—its discovery in prehistoric times, its variable distance from Earth (35-235 million miles), its long year (687 days—Earth days or Mars days, he wondered—or were they the same?), low surface gravity (one-third Earth's), pretty moons (ten-mile diameter Phobos, six-mile Deimos), scenic craters—all familiar material, but calculated to whet the appetite for investment and retirement.