sales resistance
BY HENRY STILL
When Consumption means prosperity, when the
Pulitzer Prize is awarded to advertising copy,
when the Salesman is the most respected citizen
in the land.... What chance has a non-consumer?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, August 1956.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
On his way home from the concert, Perry Mansfield whistled a pleasantmelody from an old Stravinsky classic. But then, troubled by hisconscience and that of his psychiatrist, he stopped to study theprogram again.
What was that modern symphony? Oh yes, "The Flivver". The music wassupposed to have its roots in antiquity when someone started convertingthe metal wealth of the earth on an assembly line. Those screechingnoises were drill presses and lathes and automatic hammers. The syrupymelody was the saintly salesman who disbursed the wealth of gadget andmachine like melted butter across the bread of the land.
Perry tried to like it. But he didn't. And that disturbed him. It meanthis psychotherapy wasn't working. Dr. Stone would run him through themechanical analyzer again and scold over the results.
His simple act of walking home instead of riding an anti-gravityputterseat labeled him as a misfit. But it seemed silly to rent aflying stool just to travel two blocks.
The fact was, he liked to walk.
Perry sighed, discouraged, as he waited for the fluorescent scanner toidentify his insides and open his front door.
It opened. The lights came on. Recorded music, somewhat tuned to hismood, poured from concealed amplifiers.
And then he noticed the note clipped to the door.
His hand trembled as he took it down. The beautiful pastel gray of theenclosing envelope was an anachronism itself, and therefore markedunmistakably its almost priestly origin.
The platinum engraved card inside said simply:
A Master Salesman has chosen you for his next call.
Perry placed the note carefully on a plastic table. He inhaled deeplyand held it for a moment to steady his nerves.
A Master salesman. No one of that stature had ever called upon himbefore. It was an honor like—like a mayor or a bishop. It meanthe had attained top level on the universal measuring stick—anA-number-1-plus-plus credit rating.
The prospect should have saturated him with pleasure. But, like thesharp new music, it didn't.
This card also meant he was expected to buy something. Something bigand expensive. And he didn't want or need something big and expensive.
He wished they'd leave him alone.
Perry clapped his hand to his mouth as though someone might have heardthe thought.
What was wrong with him anyway? He wasn't a recluse. He wanted toindulge and enjoy the polished luxury of his world. He wanted to beconventional. He was young and handsome and tall and dark. He had agood job. He had a pleasant and comfortable legal arrangement with agirl in the next block.
But truly, what he had was all he wanted.
He glanced at the card on the table. He could always say no. Itwouldn't be easy, but he could say no.
Perry thumbed through the Pulitzer prize winning work for 2087 whichhad been delivered yesterday as part of his book club subscription.He had seen it already, of course, in a dozen magazines and a hundredcopies of his facsimile newspaper. It was the advertising copy forCo