Cal said sonorously: “This is J. Albert LaRue, Professor of Plant Metabolism.” Albert was positively proud of his name, the way Cal said it.
The most beautiful girl in the world whispered meltingly: “Go out this door and down the corridor to Mr. Blick’s office. He’ll be expecting you.”
Albert chose this moment to try to look at her. And she smiled! Albert, completely routed, rushed to the door. He was grateful she hadn’t done that before! Cal, with his greater experience and higher position in life, could linger a moment, leaning on the desk, to leer at her.
But all the same, when they reached the corridor, he was sweating.
Albert said carefully, “She wasn’t an executive, was she?”
“No,” said Cal, a little scornfully. “She’s an Agency Model, what else? Of course, you probably don’t see them much at the University, except at the Corporation Representative’s Office and maybe the President’s Office.” Albert had never been near either. “She doesn’t have much to do except to impress visitors, and of course stop the ones that don’t belong here.”
Albert hesitated. “She was impressive.”
“She’s impressive, all right,” Cal agreed. “When you consider the Agency rates, and then realize that any member of the public who comes to the Regional Executive Building on business sees an Agency Model receptionist —then you know you’re dealing with power, Albert.”
Albert had a sudden idea. He ventured: “Would we have done better to have brought an Agency Model with us?”
Cal stared. “To go through the whole afternoon with us? Impossible, Albert! It’d cost you a year’s salary.”
Albert said eagerly: “No, that’s the beauty of it, Cal! You see, I have a young cousin—I haven’t seen her recently, of course, but she was drafted by the Agency, and I might have been able to get her to—” He faltered. Boersma was looking scandalized.
“Albert—excuse me. If your cousin had so much as walked into any business office with makeup on, she’d have had to collect Agency rates—or she’d have been out of the Agency like that. And owing them plenty.” He finished consolingly, “A Model wouldn’t have done the trick anyway.”
II
Mr. Blick looked more like a scientist than a businessman, and his desk was a bit of a laboratory. At his left hand was an elaborate switchboard, curved so all parts would be in easy reach; most of the switches were in rows, the handles color-coded. As he nodded Cal to a seat his fingers flicked over three switches. The earphones and microphone clamped on his head had several switches too, and his right hand quivered beside a stenotype machine of unfamiliar complexity.
He spoke in an undertone into his mike, then his hand whizzed almost invisibly over the stenotype.
“Hello, Mr. Boersma,” he said, flicking one last switch but not removing the earphones. “Please excuse my idiosyncrasies, it seems I actually work better this way.” His voice was firm, resonant and persuasive.
Cal took over again. He opened with a round compliment for Mr. Blick’s battery of gadgets, and then flowed smoothly on to an even more glowing series of compliments —which Albert realized with a qualm of embarrassment referred to him.
After the first minute or so, though, Albert found the talk less interesting than the interruptions. Mr. Blick would raise a forefinger apologetically but fast; switches would tumble; he would listen to the earphones, whisper into the mike, and perform incredibly on the absolutely silent stenotype. Shifting lights touched his face, and Albert realized the desk top contained at least one TV screen, as well as a bank of blinking colored lights. The moment the interruption was disposed of, Mr. Blick’s faultless diction and pleasant voice would return Cal exactly to where he’d been. Albert was impressed.
Cal’s peroration was an urgent appeal that Mr. Blick
consider the importance to The Corporation, financially, of what he was about to learn. Then he turned to Albert, a little too abruptly.
“One single thought is uppermost in my mind,” Albert stuttered, caught off guard. “Oxidase epsilon. I am resolved that The Corporation shall be made to see the importance—”
“Just a moment, Professor LaRue,” came Mr. Blick’s smooth Corporation voice. “You’ll have to explain this to me. I don’t have the background or the brains that you people in the academic line have. Now in layman’s terms, just what is oxidase epsilon?” He grinned handsomely.
“Oh, don’t feel bad,” said Albert hastily. “Lots of my colleagues haven’t heard of it, either.” This was only a half-truth. Every one of his colleagues that Albert met at the University in a normal working month had certainly heard of oxidase epsilon—from Albert. “It’s an enzyme found in many plants but recognized only recently. You see, many of the laboratory species created during the last few decades have been unable to produce ordinary oxidase, or oxidase alpha, but surprisingly enough some of these have survived. This is due to the presence of a series of related compounds, of which oxidases beta, gamma, delta, and epsilon have been isolated, and beta and epsilon have been prepared in the laboratory.”
Mr. Blick shifted uncertainly in his seat. Albert hurried on so he would see how simple it all was. “I have been studying the reactions catalyzed by oxidase epsilon in several species of Triticum. I found quite unexpectedly that none of them produce the enzyme themselves. Amazing, isn’t it? All the oxidase epsilon in those plants comes from a fungus, Puccinia triticina, which infects them. This, of course, explains the failure of Hinshaw’s group to produce viable Triticum kaci following—”
Mr. Blick smiled handsomely again. “Well now, Professor LaRue, you’ll have to tell me what this means. In my terms—you understand.”
Cal boomed portentously, “It may mean the saving of the economies of three of The Corporation’s richest colonies.” Rather dramatic, Albert thought.
Mr. Blick said appreciatively, “Very good. Very good. Tell me more. Which colonies—and why?” His right hand left its crouch to spring restlessly to the stenotype.
Albert resumed, buoyed by this flattering show of interest. “West Lapland in Europe, and Great Slave and Churchill on this continent. They’re all Corporation colonies, recently opened up for wheat-growing by Triticum witti, and I’ve been told they’re extremely productive.”
“Who is Triticum Witti?”
Albert, shocked, explained patiently, “Triticum witti is one of the new species of wheat which depend on oxidase epsilon. And if the fungus Puccinia triticina on that wheat becomes a pest, sprays may be used to get rid of it. And a whole year’s wheat crop in those colonies may be destroyed.”
“Destroyed,” Mr. Blick repeated wonderingly. His forefinger silenced Albert like a conductor’s baton; then both his hands danced over keys and switches, and he was muttering into his microphone again.
Another interruption, thought Albert. He felt proper reverence for the undoubted importance of whatever Mr. Blick was settling, still he was bothered a little, too. Actually (he remembered suddenly) he had a reason to be so presumptuous: oxidase epsilon was important, too. Over five hundred million dollars had gone into those three colonies already, and no doubt a good many people.
However, it turned out this particular interruption must have been devoted to West Lapland, Great Slave, and Churchill after all. Mr. Blick abandoned his instrument panel and announced his congratulations to them: “Mr.
Boersma, the decision has been made to assign an expediter to your case!” And he smiled heartily.
This was a high point for Albert.
He wasn’t sure he knew what an expediter was, but he was sure from Mr. Blick’s manner that an unparalleled honor had been given him. It almost made him dizzy to think of all this glittering building, all the attendants and Models and executives, bowing to him, as Mr. Blick’s manner implied they must.
A red light flicked on and off on Mr. Blick’s desk. As he turned to it he said, “Excuse me, gentlemen.” Of course, Albert pardoned him mentally, you have to work.
He whispere
d to Cal, “Well, I guess we’re doing pretty well.”
“Huh? Oh, yes, very well,” Cal whispered back. “So far.”
“So far? Doesn’t Mr. Blick understand the problem? All we have to do is give him the details now.”
“Oh, no, Albert! I’m sure he can’t make the decision. He’ll have to send us to someone higher up.”
“Higher up? Why? Do we have to explain it all over again?”
Cal turned in his chair so he could whisper to Albert less conspicuously. “Albert, an enterprise the size of The Corporation can’t give consideration to every crackpot suggestion anyone tries to sell it. There have to be regular channels. Now the Plant Metabolism Department doesn’t have any connections here (maybe we can do something about that), so we have to run a sort of obstacle course. It’s survival of the fittest, Albert! Only the most worthwhile survive to see the Regional Director. Of course the Regional Director selects which of those to accept, but he doesn’t have to sift through a lot of crackpot propositions.”
Albert could see the analogy to natural selection. Still, he asked humbly: “How do you know the best suggestions get through? Doesn’t it depend a lot on how good a salesman is handling them?”
“Very much so. Naturally!”
“But then— Suppose, for instance, I hadn’t happened to know you. My good idea wouldn’t have got past Mr. Blick.”
“It wouldn’t have got past the Model,” Cal corrected. “Maybe not that far. But you see in that case it wouldn’t have been a very important idea, because it wouldn’t have been put into effect” He said it with a very firm, practical jawline. “Unless of course someone else had had the initiative and resourcefulness to present the same idea better. Do you see now? Really important ideas attract the sales talent to put them across.”
Albert didn’t understand the reasoning, he had to admit. It was such an important point, and he was missing it. He reminded himself humbly that a scientist is no expert outside his own field.
So all Mr. Blick had been telling them was that they had not yet been turned down. Albert’s disappointment was sharp.
Still, he was curious. How had such a trivial announcement given him such euphoria? Could you produce that kind of effect just by your delivery? Mr. Blick could, apparently. The architecture, the Model, and all the rest had been build-up for him; and certainly they had helped the effect; but they didn’t explain it.
What was the key? Personality, Albert realized. This was what businessmen meant by their technical term “personality.” Personality was the asset Mr. Blick had exploited to rise to where he was—rather than becoming, say, a scientist.
The Blicks and Boersmas worked hard at it. Wistfully, Albert wondered how it was done. Of course the experts in this field didn’t publish their results, and anyhow he had never studied it. But it was the most important field of human culture, for on it hinged the policy decisions of government-even of The Corporation!
He couldn’t estimate whether Cal was as good as Mr. Blick, because he assumed Cal had never put forth a big effort on him, Albert. He wasn’t worth it.
He had one other question for Cal. “What is an expediter?”
“Oh, I thought you knew,” boomed Cal. “They can be a big help. That’s why we’re doing well to be assigned one. We’re going to get into the top levels, Albert, where only a salesman of true merit can hope to put across an idea. An expediter can do it if anyone can. The expediters are too young to hold Key Executive Positions, but they’re Men On The Way Up. They—”
Mr. Blick turned his head toward a door on his left, putting the force of his personality behind the gesture. “Mr. Demarest,” he announced as the expediter walked into the room.
III
Mr. Demarest had captivating red curly sideburns, striking brown eyes, and a one-piece coverall in a somewhat loud pattern of black and beige. He almost trembled with excess energy. It was contagious; it made you feel as if you were as abnormally fit as he was.
He grinned his welcome at Albert and Cal, and chuckled merrily: “How do you do, Mr. Boersma.”
It was as if Mr. Blick had been turned off. Albert hardly knew he was still in the room. Clearly Mr. Demarest was a Man On The Way Up indeed.
They rose and left the room with him—to a new corridor, very different from the last: weirdly lighted from a strip two feet above the floor, and lined with abstract statuary.
This, together with Mr. Demarest, made a formidable challenge.
Albert rose to it recklessly. “Oxidase epsilon,” he proclaimed, “may mean the saving of three of The Corporation’s richest colonies!”
Mr. Demarest responded with enthusiasm. “I agree one hundred per cent—our Corporation’s crop of Triticum witti must be saved! Mr. Blick sent me a playback of your explanation by interoffice tube, Professor LaRue. You’ve got me on your side one hundred per cent! I want to assure you both, very sincerely, that I’ll do my utmost to sell Mr. Southfield. Professor, you be ready to fill in the details when I’m through with what I know.”
There was no slightest condescension or reservation in his voice. He would take care of things, Albert knew. What a relief!
Cal came booming in: “Your Mr. Blick seems like a competent man.”
What a way to talk about a Corporation executive! Albert decided it was not just a simple faux pas, though. Apparently Cal had decided he had to be accepted by Mr. Demarest as an equal, and this was his opening. It seemed risky to Albert. In fact, it frightened him.
“There’s just one thing, now, about your Mr. Blick,” Cal was saying to Mr. Demarest, with a tiny wink that Albert was proud of having spotted. “I couldn’t help wondering how he manages to find so much to do with those switches of his.” Albert barely restrained a groan.
But Mr. Demarest grinned! “Frankly, Cal,” he answered, “I’m not just sure how many of old Blick’s switches are dummies.”
Cal had succeeded! That was the main content of Mr. Demarest’s remark.
But were Mr. Blick’s switches dummies? Things were much simpler back-way back—at the University, where people said what they meant.
They were near the end of the corridor. Mr. Demarest said softly, “Mr. Southfield’s Office.” Clearly Mr. Southfield’s presence was enough to curb even Mr. Demarest’s boyishness.
They turned through an archway into a large room, lighted like the corridor, with statuary wilder still.
Mr. Southfield was at one side, studying papers in a vast easy chair: an elderly man, fantastically dressed but with a surprisingly ordinary face peeping over the crystal ruff on his magenta leotards. He ignored them. Mr. Demarest made it clear they were supposed to wait until they were called on.
Cal and Albert chose two of the bed-sized chairs facing Mr. Southfield, and waited expectantly.
Mr. Demarest whispered, “I’ll be back in time to make the first presentation. Last-minute brush-up, you know.” He grinned and clapped Cal smartly on the shoulder. Albert was relieved that he didn’t do the same to him, but just shook his hand before leaving. It would have been too upsetting.
Albert sank back in his chair, tired from all he’d been through and relaxed by the soft lights.
It was the most comfortable chair he’d ever been in. It was more than comfortable, it was a deliciously irresistible invitation to relax completely. Albert was barely awake enough to notice that the chair was rocking him gently, tenderly massaging his neck and back.
He lay there, ecstatic. He didn’t quite go to sleep. If the chair had been designed just a little differently, no doubt, it could have put him to sleep, but this one just let him rest carefree and mindless.
Cal spoke (and even Cal’s quiet bass sounded harsh and urgent): “Sit up straighter, Albert!”
“Why?”
“Albert, any sales resistance you started with is going to be completely gone if you don’t sit up enough to shut off that chair!”
“Sales resistance?” Albert pondered comfortably. “What have we got to worry about? Mr
. Demarest is on our side, isn’t he?”
“Mr. Demarest.” Cal pointed out, “is not the Regional Director.”
So they still might have problems! So the marvelous chair was just another trap where the unfit got lost! Albert resolved to himself: “From now on, one single thought will be uppermost in my mind: defending my sales resistance.”
He repeated this to himself.
He repeated it again… .
“Albert!” There was genuine panic in Cal’s voice now.
A fine way to defend his sales resistance! He had let the chair get him again. Regretfully he shifted his weight forward, reaching for the arms of the chair.
“Watch it!” said Cal. “Okay now, but don’t use the arms. Just lean yourself forward. There.” He explained, “The surface on the arms is rough and moist, and I can’t think of any reason it should be—unless it’s to give you narcotic through the skin! Tiny amounts, of course. But we can’t afford any. First time I’ve ever seen that one in actual use,“ he admitted.
Albert was astonished, and in a moment he was more so. “Mr. Southfield’s chair is the same as ours, and he’s leaning back in it. Why, he’s even stroking the arm while he reads!”
“I know.” Cal shook his head. “Remarkable man, isn’t he? Remarkable. Remember this, Albert. The true salesman, the man on the very pinnacle of achievement, is also —a connoisseur. Mr. Southfield is a connoisseur. He wants to be presented with the most powerful appeals known, for the sake of the pleasure he gets from the appeal itself. Albert, there is a strong strain of the sensuous, the self-indulgent, in every really successful man like Mr. Southfield. Why? Because to be successful he must have the most profound understanding of self-indulgence.”
Albert noticed in passing that, just the same, Cal wasn’t self-indulgent enough to trust himself to that chair. He didn’t even make a show of doing so. Clearly in Mr. Southfield they had met somebody far above Cal’s level. It was unnerving. Oxidase epsilon seemed a terribly feeble straw to outweigh such a disadvantage.
The Expert Dreamers (1962) Anthology Page 14
