Then down to paydirt. The proposed colony, Elysium Acres, was located on a map dramatically colored and named. An electrostatic dome a hundred miles in diameter, almost fifty miles high, enclosed a greenhouse atmosphere at Earth-normal pressure and temperature. The development was suitable for homesites, with carefully laid out horse trails and a delightful crater lake. Guaranteed weather, pollution-free atmosphere.
Fisk was middle-aged and cynical, but this gripped him. Earth was such a sweatbox now. He hated having to take weekly shots to protect his system against environmental contamination, and the constantly increasing restrictions invoked in the name of the growing pressure on worldly resources made him rage at times like a prisoned tiger. (What other kind of tiger was there today?) Perhaps if he had married, found someone to share his—but that was another entire dimension of frustration, hardly relevant now.
This Marsdome pitch catered to these very frustrations, he realized. There must be millions like himself, men well enough to do, intelligent and sick of their own lack of purpose. What a beacon it was, an escape to an unspoiled planet—in comfort.
But of course he was old enough to control his foolish fancies. He knew, intellectually, that no such development existed on Mars and probably never would exist. The sheer expense would be prohibitive. All that technology, all that shipment from Earth—why, passenger fare for one person one way would amount to twenty or thirty thousand dollars, assuming emigration could even be arranged. And for him it was out of the question.
Yet he could not help studying the brochure. Elysium Acres—such a suggestion of bliss! Could it possibly come true by the time he turned sixty? Why not, if they were able to finance it?
There was the real rub. Money. How much to establish the dome, stock it with good atmosphere, import vegetation, calculate and maintain a closed-system ecological balance, construct access highways, lakes, houses, service facilities? There would have to be hospitals, libraries, administrative buildings, emergency staffs—all the accouterments of civilization, in short. It would cost billions of dollars to maintain—perhaps trillions to construct. Naturally the brochure did not provide the price list.
But if it were affordable and if it were possible for him to go—what a temptation!
He punched his personal info number for his net worth, just checking. The totals flashed on the screen after he had provided his identification code: liquid assets just over fifty thousand dollars; investments at current quotations just under two hundred thousand; miscellaneous properties and options sixty to eighty thousand, pending urgency of sale. Grand total—a generous three hundred thousand.
Enough, with proper management, to tide him through the twenty-five years until his retirement annuities matured. He was hardly fool enough to jeopardize any of it by investing in pie-on-Mars. Still, it had been fun dreaming.
The dream lingered next morning, a welcome guest staying beyond courteous hours. Fisk showered in the sonic booth, depilitated and dressed. As he arranged and set his graying locks he wondered irrelevantly whether he and the salesman, Bondman, used the same brand of hair tint. He studied his face in the mirror, picturing himself as a hard-sell agent, lifting his brow artfully to augment a pregnant pause. Yes, he did look the part—perhaps he would be good at it.
But then, subjectively, he saw the signs of what he knew was there—the circulatory malady that bound him to Earth for life. His quarterly medication kept it under control—but a trip to Mars, with the necessary accelerations and drugstates, was out of the question. That was why Mars would never be more than a dream for Fisk Centers, no matter how alluring the sales pitch. He would always be a portly, subdued Earthman.
So it was time to end it. He filed the Mars, Ltd. literature in the recycle bin and watched it disintegrate. Then he punched breakfast. He felt lonely.
The phone lighted. "Yes?" he said automatically.
"Interplanetary call for Mr. Fisk Centers," the cute operator said. She had changed her hairdo, but she was the same one who had placed the call yesterday.
"Come off it, girl," he snapped, aware that there was nothing more useless than taking out a personal peeve on an impersonal employee. "It is not interplanetary."
Bondman of Mars phased into view. "Of course it is, Mr. Centers," he said genially. "The Mars, Limited office is legally Mars soil, you know. An enclave. We have to undergo quarantine before reporting for work, ha-ha! I trust you have studied our brochure—"
"Yes. I'm not buying."
Bondman looked hurt. "But you haven't even heard our price, Mr. Centers. I know a man as fair-minded as you—"
"I'll never go to Mars."
"Remember, you get a special bonus price because of your intelligence and judgment. I'm sure you'll recognize—"
"I have a circulatory disorder. Inoperable. Sorry."
Bondman laughed with a finely crafted lack of affectation. "You don't have to go to Mars, Mr. Centers. We're talking about investment."
"I told you I wasn't looking for—"
"You've studied the plans for Elysium Acres? The phenomenal hundred-mile dome, the luxurious facilities, the nineteenth-century atmosphere—literally—the scenic lots? Of course you have. Mr. Centers, you know values. What do you figure it will cost? I mean the entire setup on Mars, gross?"
"A trillion dollars," Fisk said, believing it. "Plus upkeep of billions per year."
"Would you believe three trillion? But you're remarkably close, Mr. Centers. You certainly understand investment. You merely underestimated the importance of this development to us—and to the world. We're putting everything into it, Mr. Centers. Another developer might do it for one trillion, but we put quality first. Three trillion—but we know we'll make a profit in the end and of course we have to consider profit, Mr. Centers. We're businessmen, like you—and believe me, sir, there is a demand. In ten years Earth will be a veritable nightmare and Elysium Acres will be an incredible bargain at any price." Bondman held up a hand to forestall Fisk's possible objection. "I'm not forgetting that you can't go, Mr. Centers. I'm merely pointing out what an attractive investment this is going to be. Some will have the incalculable privilege of retiring to Elysium Acres—others will merely make a fortune from it. I"—here the voice dropped to its supercharged confidential tone—"hope to do both." Bondman paused long enough for that affirmation of faith to penetrate, but not long enough for Fisk to generate an interjection. "Now, we're subdividing E.A. into lots of one hundred feet square, give or take a foot—enough for a comfortable cottage and garden. Twenty million of them—yes, that's correct, Mr. Centers. That dome is a hundred miles across and there will be eight thousand square miles inside and two and a half thousand lots per mile—but I don't need to do elementary mathematics for you, Mr. Centers. Twenty million lots for three trillion dollars. That comes to a hundred and fifty thousand dollars per lot. A bit high for Earth, considering they're undeveloped—but this is Mars! Those lots are priceless, Mr. Centers, priceless—yet they will be put on the market at a price any successful man can afford." He held up his hand again, though Fisk had made no motion to interrupt. "But Mars, Limited needs operating capital, Mr. Centers, and we need it now. So we are offering for a limited time only a very, very special investment opportunity. You can buy these lots as investment real estate today for a tiny fraction of their actual value. Later—any time you wish—you may sell for a handsome profit. So although you may never have the privilege of going to Mars yourself—and please accept my heartfelt condolences, Mr. Centers, for I know how much you would have liked to retire to Elysium Acres—you can still benefit materially while advancing a noble cause through your investment."