Raymond F. Jones
Trade secret
Fashion model blondes wear mink in midsummer, magazine editors search for stories of snow and ice and old St. Nick, and Santa’s little helpers gather themselves for the annual show of the National Toymen’s Association.
Center lobby spots at the show are prize plums, and sometimes there’s quite a tussle among Santa’s jolly assistants to determine who gets the best spots. Dr. Martin Nagle, new to the trade, was somewhat dazed by the cutthroat techniques practiced among the builders of child-size death-ray guns and miniature furniture for little homemakers. But he had to have the center lobby space. Only in the open, away from the overhanging mezzanine, could he have adequate height for his own display. And so he got it, much to the astonishment of old and experienced hands in the rough and tumble toy business.
He had only one toy, too, a circumstance which further annoyed his neighbors with big lines. It was a simple rocketship which rose from the floor, circled twice near the lobby ceiling, then drifted gently down with ports glowing and fire spitting from the tail jets.
Sam Marvenstein, president of Samar Toys, came across from his company’s booth as the finishing touches were being put on the displays. He took the cigar from his mouth and glanced up as the miniature spaceship made its second turn and began descending.
“Makes a nice display,” said Sam critically, “but it’ll never sell. You can’t expect the merchandiser to put in a big, high-ceilinged display of this kind. A few of the big city places will rig up a set of wires like you got here, sure, but not the little stores, and that’s where you got to count on the big volume sales. And it’s a cinch that kids’ dads aren’t going to be fooled into any elaborate rigging like that.
“Yeah, it looks real pretty up there,” he admitted again. “You can hardly see the wires, even.”
“Maybe that’s because there aren’t any,” said Mart. “The ship rises and descends on its own self-contained power, and is pre-set for steering.”
“No wires, huh —” Sam entered the booth and passed a hand through the space beneath the descending ship. “Worse yet, then. Too bad, too. It could have been an awfully nice piece of merchandise.”
“What’s the matter with it now?” said Mart anxiously. “Why shouldn’t it sell?”
“Fire hazard. No parent is going to let his kid have something flying around the house with fire spitting out the end of it like that. What kind of fuel do you use, anyway? Whatever it is, the fire underwriters are going to clamp down on you quick.”
Sam Marvenstein shook his head sadly as the little rocket spun down to the floor with sparks pourly madly from its jets.
“Oh, that —” said Mart in relief. “That’s just for show. We borrowed it from the toy train people. By increasing the intensity we get a nice simulation of rocket fire.”
“Then how does it go? What kind of a trick are you selling, anyway?” said Sam almost belligerently.
Mart picked up a model lying on the counter and unscrewed the nose. A nest of three flashlight batteries could be seen side by side in the interior. “Battery power,” he said to Sam. “Three cells give approximately five hours of flying.”
“Yeah... but how does that —?”
“Antigravity,” said Mart. “A small antigravity unit is concealed in the tail under the batteries. The lever on the side of the ship is pre-set for the flight pattern desired. Very simple. Practically foolproof. We even guarantee them for three weeks.”
Sam Marvenstein replaced the cigar in his mouth slowly. He picked up one of the toys and turned it end for end, squinting into the dark interior.
“Antigravity. Whadya know? Now that’s really something. I used to read about that in the magazines my kid brings home, but I didn’t know they had it out yet.” He wandered away with the rocket in his hands to show his partners in his own booth. “Antigravity, that’s really something, now —”
It was really something, as things turned out. Sam’s comment was a feeble understatement, and the Nagle Rocket stole the show completely — along with quite a few thousands of dollars worth of orders that would have otherwise gone to the producers of more conventional toys.
By the second day of the show, the hotel lobby was somewhat like the interior of a poorly regulated beehive. Rockets were taking off at all angles from the hands of delighted toy buyers. They banged the ceiling and soared over the mezzanine to collisions with rival exhibitors and other patrons. And Martin Nagle’s pockets were stuffed with orders he couldn’t possibly fill.
On the fourth day, Sam Marvenstein strolled over from his own nearly deserted booth and pressed through the crowd. Traffic regulations had been imposed by the hotel people so that no more than two rocketships could be in flight at any one time, and one of these was required to be launched by the proprietor of the exhibit. It made it difficult for Mart to accept the buyers’ cash and write down the orders and fly the ships at the same time.
“Maybe I could help,” said Sam. “There’s not much doing over my way.”
“That would be swell, but I don’t want to take you away from your own show.”
“Ah, it’s nothing. People don’t want to buy a mere rocket-firing jet plane today, anyway.”
“All right. Just write down the people’s orders and take their deposits while I keep the ships going.”
The show closed at eleven that night. By then Sam was slightly staggered at the sum of the deposits he had taken in for Mart, and by the magnitude of the orders waiting to be filled. He multiplied that by the four days of the show gone by, and added the sum for the remaining five. He wiped his brow and looked glumly across the lobby to the deserted Samar Toy Town, stacked high with rocket-firing jet planes.
He turned to Mart, who was straightening up the last of the rockets on the counter. “I've been looking up some dope about you, Doc,” he said. "You’re Dr. Martin Nagle, lately of West Coast University, and more recently of ONR. You have within the past six months set up an office as Basic Research Consultants, in partnership with one Dr. Kenneth Berkeley, psychologist. You don’t own a toy factory, and have never been near one as far as I was able to find out. Now, your business is certainly your own, Doc, but I sure am interested in what you intend to do with orders for” — he glanced down at the paper on which he had done a little computing — “one million, four hundred and eighty-six thousand, one hundred and nineteen Nagle Rockets.”
Mart straightened soberly. “It just so happens, Sam, that I have also done a little checking on you. I discover that the Samar Toy Plant is probably the best equipped and most modern plant of its kind in the country for producing toys of the complexity of my little rocket. It is also financially sound and respected in the industry. I’m sorry that people aren’t buying rocket-firing jet fighters this season, but it seems to me that a little expansion could convert the Samar plant to production of Nagle Rockets with profit to both of us. In short, the patents on the rockets are available for licensing to interested parties. And the contracts you have in your hand are for sale.”
“I’m an interested party, Doc,” said Sam. “I don’t mind telling you that we counted on making it this year. We thought we had the merchandise that would do it. And we would have, if it hadn’t been for you. No hard feelings, you understand, that’s all part of the racket. How about a cup of coffee while we see if we can make a deal?”
Mart nodded. “Let me finish here. I think we can come to an agreement — but you should know, right from the start, that there is likely to be a rather large amount of contention stirred up by the appearance of the Nagle Rocket. It probably won’t take very long, either.”