So that was the pitch. "We all have to take chances, as you pointed out," Fisk said briefly. "I should think that if your expenses go up your prices would follow—to compensate. So I should buy now."
"Er—yes," Bondman admitted. "Still, it looks bad. I wouldn't want you to be left holding title to a worthless lot, Mr. Centers. Until this thing settles down—"
"One lot?" Fisk interjected with mock dismay. "Lots. I signed up for ten."
For a moment even the supersalesman was at a loss for words. "T-ten?"
"Why not, for such a good investment? Leverage, you know."
"Leverage! Let me tell you something—" Bondman caught himself. He sighed. He put on a smile of rueful admiration. "You certainly know your business, Mr. Centers. I only hope you aren't taking a terrible chance with a great deal of money. Are you sure?" But, observing Fisk's expression, he capitulated. "Well, then, just make out your first monthly payment for three thousand two hundred and fifty dollars and we'll—"
"Thanks, no. I'm paying cash."
Bondman looked so woebegone that Fisk felt sorry for him, though he knew the salesman would still receive a handsome commission along with his reprimand for letting so many underpriced lots go. "Cash? The entire amount?"
"Yes. Here is my check for three hundred thousand dollars, certified against the escrow liquidation of my total holdings. That saves you the annoyance of time payments and gives you a good chunk of the working capital you need. Your boss should be well pleased, considering your rising expenses."
"Uh, yes." Bondman agreed faintly as Fisk faxed check and contract back to him. The originals remained with him for his records, but the faxes were legal, too. The deal was closed. He owned the lots outright and could not lose them by payments default. If he needed working capital himself, he could sell one at the fifty-thousand-dollar price tomorrow.
Bondman stared bleakly at the documents, then pulled himself together. "It has been a real pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Centers," he said with a brave smile. "I'm sure you'll never regret your purchase. Uh, bye-bye."
"Bye-bye!" Fisk returned cheerily as the connection broke.
But something about the salesman's expression just as the picture faded bothered him. It reminded him of what Bondman had said during the morning calclass="underline" The biggest sucker is the one who thinks he knows it all...
The library information on Mars, Ltd. was general and, of course, bland. Any negative remarks would have made it vulnerable for a liable suit regardless of the truth. It had provided him with essentially the Mars, Ltd. publicity release, but added the cautionary note: SEE GOVERNMENT PROPERTY REPORT.
Fisk had been about to look at that report when Bondman's boss had interrupted and the privacy switch had coincidentally malfunctioned. Interesting timing.
After the price-increase call Bondman had been nervous and stuttery, hardly a supersalesman. His facade had disintegrated—yet he had known the word was coming. And a salesman of that caliber should have been able to cover better than that. Unless the whole thing had been an act to puff up the confidence of a sucker who thought he knew it all.
Fisk's hand shook as he lifted the property report, for now he knew what he would find.
Plainly printed in red ink:
This property is not adaptable for terraforming purposes. The lots are unimproved, unsurveyed and without roads, landing facilities or other improvements. Access is extremely poor. Site is subject to frequent ground tremors prohibiting construction of permanent buildings or erection of static-dome generators. Approximate value per lot is $300.00...
HURDLE
I've already commented, but will add this note: I've always been intrigued by alternate sources of power, and it shows here. Perhaps I would have come up with some additional notions, had I written this story a decade later; science keeps advancing, but stories remain fixed in their firmament the moment they see print.
"Up, Fisk," Yola said "Earn your daily bonus and commission or else."
Fisk Centers rolled over groggily. "Else what?"
"This." An avalanche of icy foam descended on his head.
He struggled up, gasping for breath, suddenly wide awake. "What was that for?"
"Well, I did warn you," she said contritely. "You look like a walrus surfacing."
"Nonsense. I don't have tusks."
"A toothless walrus, then. Fat, wet, stupid—"
"You're about to look like a spanked brat."
"No time," she said. "Bolt your food, Fisky. Today you go to work for your living."
"What makes you so sure I'll have any better luck today than I've had all week?"
"Because you handled the week. I set up today. While you snored."
"I should have stayed single," Fisk muttered as he stumbled to the suiter and let it dry and dress him. "Or at least gotten married. The last thing any sane man would do is become an adoptive father to a pre-teen hellion."
"Right," she agreed. "Especially when he has to live off her money."
"That's my money! Twenty percent commission just for—"
"For selling an innocent child on the black mar—"
"Shut up." He stepped out of the suiter, resplendent in blue jeans, checkered shirt and goggles. "What did you do to the setting?" he roared.
"You look just right for your job," she said. "Hurry up."
He tore off the goggles. "My job—doing what?"
"Selling cars, of course."
"Cars? I'm no mechanic—"
"That's all you know, Dad. Salesmen don't have to know anything about the workings. Just believe in your product and sell, sell, sell!"
Fisk punched a soyomelet. "Believe in my product? I haven't even driven a car for five years." He took a bite, but paused before masticating it. "What car am I supposed to sell?"
"Fusion. They've got a real nice commission deal—"
The mouthful of omelet sprayed over the table. "The atomic racer? The radioactive juggernaut that makes the obituary headlines every other week? The—"
"The same. They're making a play for the middle-class market and they need middle-class salesmen. Hot chance for you."
"Hot? Listen, Yola—do you realize that my annuities don't mature for another twenty-five years and are voided in the event of deliberate suicide? If I die tomorrow in a Fusion you inherit nothing."
"Term life insurance," she answered. "That's their bonus. Life and commissions. You live off the commissions, of course. But if you die—"
"Enough, child. The longer I listen to you the worse I feel. I'm not going near any—"
"Suit yourself," she said. "We'll run out of money tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? There's enough for at least another week."
"You forget you have a family to support. Two don't live as cheaply as one, you know." She paused, serious and for the moment rather pretty in her brown-faced way. "Fisk, it's a good chance for you. I thought you'd really go for a decent income—"
Fisk sighed. "I'll talk to the man. But it had better be strictly salesroom. If I have to go near a living Fusion I'll resign on the spot."
"Sure," she said. "Come on—you're due to report in twenty minutes."
"Fisk Centers? Right," the executive at Fusion Motors said briskly as Fisk introduced himself. "Your daughter here set it up. Glad to have a man of your experience with us."
"Experience? I haven't—"
Yola tromped his toe and Fisk realized that she had invented suitable qualifications for him. Time to set that straight right now. He took a breath.