Produced by Robert Cicconetti, David Wilson and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
+--------------------------------------------------------------+| || Transcriber's note: || || This story was published in _If: Worlds of Science Fiction_, || July 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence || that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. || |+--------------------------------------------------------------+
Naturally human work was more creative, more inspiring, more importantthan robot drudgery. Naturally it was the most important task in all theworld ... or was it?
THE REAL HARD SELL
By William W. Stuart
Ben Tilman sat down in the easiest of all easy chairs. He picked up amagazine, flipped pages; stood up, snapped fingers; walked to the viewwall, walked back; sat down, picked up the magazine.
He was waiting, near the end of the day, after hours, in the lush, plushwaiting room--"The customer's ease is the Sales Manager's please"--tosee the Old Man. He was fidgety, but not about something. About nothing.He was irritated at nobody, at the world; at himself.
He was irritated at himself because there was no clear reason for him tobe irritated at anything.
There he sat, Ben Tilman, normally a cheerful, pleasant young man. Hewas a salesman like any modern man and a far better salesman than most.He had a sweet little wife, blonde and pretty. He had a fine, huskytwo-year-old boy, smart, a real future National Sales Manager. He lovedthem both. He had every reason to be contented with his highlydesirable, comfortable lot.
And yet he had been getting more sour and edgy ever since about sixmonths after the baby came home from the Center and the novelty ofresponsibility for wife and child had worn off. He had now quit threejobs, good enough sales jobs where he was doing well, in a year. For noreason? For petty, pointless reasons.
With Ancestral Insurance, "Generations of Protection," he'd made theBillion Dollar Club--and immediately begun to feel dissatisfied withit--just before cute, sexy, blonde Betty had suddenly come from nowhereinto his life and he had married her. That had helped, sure. But as soonafter that as he had started paying serious attention to his job again,he was fed up with it. "Too much paper work. All those forms. It's workfor a robot, not a man," he'd told Betty when he quit. A lie. The paperwork was, as he looked back on it, not bad at all; pleasant even, in away. It was just--nothing. Anything.
Indoor-Outdoor Climatizers--sniffles, he said, kept killing his salespresentation even though his record was good enough. Ultra-sonictoothbrushes, then, were a fine product. Only the vibration, with hisgold inlay, seemed to give him headaches after every demonstration. Hedidn't _have_ a gold inlay. But the headaches were real enough. So hequit.
So now he had a great new job with a great organization, AmalgamatedProduction for Living--ALPRODLIV. He was about to take on his first bigassignment.
For that he had felt a spark of the old enthusiasm and it had carriedhim into working out a bright new sales approach for the deal tonight.The Old Man himself had taken a personal interest, which was a terrificbreak. And still Ben Tilman felt that uneasy dissatisfaction. Damn.
"Mr. Robb will see you now, Mr. Tilman," said the cool robot voice fromthe Elec-Sec Desk. It was after customer hours and the charming humanreceptionist had gone. The robot secretary, like most working robots,was functional in form--circuits and wires, mike, speaker, extensionarms to type and to reach any file in the room, wheels for intra-officemobility.
"Thanks, hon," said Ben. Nevertheless, robot secretaries were allprogrammed and rated female--and it was wise to be polite to them. Afterall, they could think and had feelings. There were a lot of importantthings they could do for a salesman--or, sometimes, not do. This one,being helpful, stretched out a long metal arm to open the door to theinner office for Ben. He smiled his appreciation and went in.
* * * * *
The Old Man, Amalgamated's grand old salesman, was billiard bald, aging,a little stout and a little slower now. But he was still a fine salesmanager. He sat at his huge, old fashioned oak desk as Ben walked acrossthe office.
"Evening, sir." No response. Louder, "Good evening, Mr. Robb. Mr. Robb,it's Ben, sir. Ben Tilman. You memo'd me to come--" Still no sign. Theeyes, under the great, beetling brows, seemed closed.
Ben grinned and reached out across the wide desk toward the small,plastic box hanging on the Old Man's chest. The Old Man glanced up asBen tapped the plastic lightly with his fingernail.
"Oh, Ben. It's you." The Old Man raised his hand to adjust the ancientstyle hearing aid he affected as Ben sank into a chair. "Sorry Ben. Ijust had old Brannic Z-IX in here. A fine old robot, yes, but like mostof that model, long-winded. So--" He gestured at the hearing aid.
Ben smiled. Everyone knew the Old Man used that crude old rig so hecould pointedly tune out conversations he didn't care to hear. Any timeyou were talking to him and that distant look came into his half closedeyes, you could be sure that you were cut off.
"Sorry, Ben. Well now. I simply wanted to check with you, boy.Everything all set for tonight?"
"Well, yes, sir. Everything is set and programmed. Betty and I will playit all evening for the suspense, let them wonder, build it up--and then,instead of the big pitch they'll be looking for, we'll let it go easy."
"A new twist on the old change-up. Ben, boy, it's going to go. I feelit. It's in the air, things are just ripe for a new, super-soft-sellpitch. Selling you've got to do by feel, eh Ben? By sales genius and theold seat of the pants. Good. After tonight I'm going all out, ahemisphere-wide, thirty day campaign. I'll put the top sales artist ofevery regional office on it. They can train on your test pattern tapes.I believe we can turn over billions before everybody picks up the signaland it senilesces. You give an old man a new faith in sales, Ben! You'rea _salesman_."
"Well, sir--" But the Old Man's knack with the youthful-enthusiasmapproach was contagious. For the moment Ben caught it and he felt prettygood about the coming night's work. He and Betty together would put thedeal over. That would be something.
Sure it would...
"How do you and your wife like the place, Ben?" It was some place, forsure, the brand new house that Amalgamated had installed Ben, Betty andBennie in the day after he had signed up.
"It's--uh--just fine, sir. Betty likes it very much, really. We bothdo." He hoped his tone was right.
"Good, Ben. Well, be sure to stop by in the morning. I'll have thetapes, of course, but I'll want your analysis. Might be a littlevacation bonus in it for you, too."
"Sir, I don't know how to thank you."
The Old Man waved a hand. "Nothing you won't have earned, my boy. Robotscan't sell." That was the set dismissal.
"Yes, sir. Robots can't manage sales, or--" He winked. The Old Manchuckled. An old joke was never too old for the Old Man. The same oldbromides every time; and the same hearty chuckle. Ben left on the end ofit.
* * * * *
Dialing home on his new, Company-owned, convertible soar-kart, he feltnot too bad. Some of the old lift in spirits came as the kart-pilotcircuits digested the directions, selected a route and zipped up into anorth-north-west traffic pattern. The Old Man was a wonderful salesmanager and boss. The new house-warming pitch that he and Betty wouldtry tonight was smart. He could feel he had done something.
Exercising his sales ability with fair success, he fed himself thispitch all along the two hundred mile, twenty-minute hop home from thecity. The time and distance didn't bother him. "Gives me ti
me to think,"he had told Betty. Whether or not this seemed to her an advantage, shedidn't say. At least she liked the place, "Amalgamated's CountryGentleman Estate--Spacious, Yet fully Automated."
"We are," the Old Man told Ben when he was given the Company-assignedquarters, "starting a new trend. With the terrific decline in birth rateduring the past 90 to 100 years, you'll be astonished at how much roomthere is out there. No reason for everyone to live in the suburbancenters any more. With millions of empty apartments in them, high timewe built something else, eh? Trouble with people today, no initiative inobsolescing. But we'll move them."
Home, Ben left the kart out and conveyed up the walk. The front dooropened. Betty had been watching for him. He walked to the familyvueroom, as usual declining to