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Hard Sell by Piers AnthonyPiers Anthony

HARD SELL

Portions of this book originally appeared in slightly different form in the

following magazines:

Chapter 1 (originally titled "Hard Sell") in If magazine, August 1972

Chapter 2 (originally titled "Black Baby") in If magazine, September 1972

Chapter 3 (originally titled "Hurdle") in If magazine, December 1972

Chapter 5 (originally titled "Life") in Twilight Zone magazine, December 1987

CHAPTER 1

"Interplanetary call for Mr. Fisk Centers," the cute operator said.

Fisk almost dropped his sandwich. "There must be some mistake! I don't know

anybody offplanet!"

The girl looked at him with polite annoyance, as though nobody should be

startled by such an event. "Are you Mr. Fisk Centers?"

"Yes, of course," he said. "But—"

Her face sifted out, smiling professionally. The screen bleeped, went blank,

and

finally produced a man. He had handsome gray hair and wore the traditional

Mars-resident uniform: a cross between a spacesuit and a tuxedo. He was seated

behind a large plastifoam desk, and a tremendous color map of classical Mars

covered the wall beyond.

"Welcome to Mars, Mr. Centers!" the man said, putting on a contagious grin. "I

am Bondman, of Mars Ltd." Somehow he managed to pronounce "Ltd." the way it

looked.

Fisk was fifty and had been around, but he had never been treated to an

interplanetary call before. It wasn't just the expense, though he knew that

was

extraordinary. He just happened to be one of the several billion who had never

had occasion to deal offplanet. Probably Mars Ltd. was economizing by using

OVTS—Open Volume Telephone Service—but it was still impressive. "Are you sure—

"Now, Mr. Centers, let's not let modesty interfere with business," Bondman

said,

frowning briefly. "You're far too sensible a man for that. That's why you're

one

of the privileged few to be selected as eligible for this project."

"Project? I don't—"

The Marsman's brow wrinkled elegantly. "Naturally it isn't available to the

common run. Mars is too fine a planet to ruin by indiscriminate development,

don't you agree?"

Fisk found himself nodding to the persuasive tone before the meaning

registered.

"Development? I thought Mars was uninhabitable! Not enough water, air—"

"Most astute, Mr. Centers," Bondman said, bathing him with a glance of honest

admiration. "Indeed there is not enough water or air. Not for every person who

might want to settle. Selectivity is the key—the vital key—for what can be a

very good life indeed. Mars, you see, has space—but what is space without

air?"

"Right. There's no good life in a spacesuit. I—"

"Of course not, Mr. Centers. The ignorant person believes that man must live

Mars in a cumbersome suit, and so he has a low regard for Mars realty. How

fortunate that you and I know better!" And before Fisk could protest, he

continued: "You and I know that the new static domes conserve air, water and

heat, utilizing the greenhouse effect to make an otherwise barren land burst

into splendor! Within that invisible protective hemisphere it is completely

Earthlike! Not Earth as it is today, but as it was a century ago. Think of it,

Mr. Centers—pure clean air, gentle sunshine, fresh running water! Horses and

carriages—automobiles, guns, hallucinogenic drugs, and similar evils

prohibited!

A haven for retirement in absolute security and comfort!"

Something was bothering Fisk, but the smooth sales patter distracted him and

compelled his half-reluctant attention. "But they don't have such domes on

Mars!

That technique was developed only a few months ago, and is still in the

testing

stage."

"Brilliant, Mr. Centers!" Bondman exclaimed sincerely. "You certainly keep

abreast of the times! Of course there are no domes on Mars now, as you so

astutely point out. Why, it will be years before they are set up—perhaps even

long as a decade! This is what makes it such a superlative investment now,

before the news gets out. Provided we restrict it to intelligent men such as

yourself. Now I'm sure—"

"Investment? Now hold on!" Fisk protested. "I'm not in the market for

investment. I'm comfortably set up right now, and—"

"I quite understand. Naturally you're not interested in a mediocre investment,

Mr. Centers," Bondman said, frowning skillfully. "Do you think I would insult

your intelligence by wasting your time? No, you have the discernment to

identify

the superior value when you encounter it, unlike the common—"

"What investment?" Fisk demanded, annoyed by the too-heavy flattery. The

intrigue of the interplanetary call was wearing thin, and the objection he

couldn't quite formulate still nagged—and he wanted to finish his sandwich

before it got stale.

The man leaned forward to whisper confidentially. "Marsland!" he breathed, as

though it were the secret of the ages. His voice was so charged with

excitement

and rapture that Fisk had to struggle to maintain his emotional equilibrium.

Could there be something in it?

After a pregnant pause, Bondman resumed. "I see you understand. I was sure you

would! You comprehend the phenomenal potential in Marsland realty, the

incredible opportunity—"

"I don't comprehend it!" Fisk snapped, gesturing with his neglected sandwich.

have no use for land on Mars, and I'd consider it an extremely risky

investment.

That dome technique is still in the prototype stage; it may not even work on

Mars! So if that's what you're—"

"Yes, of course you want to see the brochure," the salesman agreed

irrelevantly.

"And you shall have it, Mr. Centers! I will put it in the slot for you

immediately, first class. I'm sure you will examine it most—"

Suddenly, facilitated by some devious mental process, Fisk's nagging question

came into focus. "You aren't on Mars!" he cried angrily. "Mars orbit is fifty

million miles outside Earth's even when Mars is closest, it should take a good

ten minutes to get an answer by phone."

"Congratulations," Bondman cried jubilantly. "You have just qualified for our

exclusive genius-intellect bonus certificate! Of course I'm not calling from

that Mars you see in the sky! I'm here at the Mars Ltd. promotion office. Mr.

Centers, I'm so glad you were sharp enough to solve our little riddle within

the

time limit! You're the very kind of investor we prefer! I'll insert the

certificate right now! And I'll be seeing you again soon. Bye-bye!"

And while Fisk was marveling at the peculiarly childish "bye-bye," the image

faded.

He lifted his sandwich, a fine torula-steak on soyrye with enriched onion

sauce,

but found he was no longer hungry. He was sure this was a sales gimmick for

something worthless, but Bondman's contagious excitement had gotten to him.

Maybe there was a good investment on Mars!

Well, no harm in looking at the literature. He certainly didn't have to buy!

He didn't have long to wait, either. His mail receiver was already chiming

with

an arrival.

He picked up the bulky printing and spread it out. It was a first-class

presentation, all right, with color photographs and glossy surfacing that must

have cost dearly to transmit. If he hadn't been present when it arrived, he

would have suspected a physical delivery rather than the normal mailfax. Mars

Ltd. must have oiled the right palms in the post office.

Well, he had to admit it: he was intrigued. He probably would not buy, but he

would enjoy looking.

First there was the bonus certificate, entitling him to a twenty percent

reduction. Fair enough—but hardly sufficient to induce him to buy without

knowing the actual price. Then a spread on Mars: its discovery in prehistoric

times, its variable distance from Earth (35-235 million miles), its long year

(687 days) (Earth days or Mars days, he wondered... or were they the same?),

low

surface gravity (one third of Earth's), pretty moons (ten mile diameter

Phobos,

six mile Deimos), scenic craters, legendary canals—all familiar material, but

calculated to whet the appetite for investment and retirement.

Then down to pay dirt: the proposed colony, "Elysium Acres," located on a map

dramatically colored and named. An electrostatic dome a hundred miles in

diameter, almost fifty miles high, enclosing a greenhouse atmosphere at

Earth-normal pressure and temperature. Suitable for homesites, with carefully

laid out horse trails and a delightful crater lake. Guaranteed weather,

pollutant-free.

Fisk was middle aged and cynical, but this gripped him. Earth was such a

sweatbox now. He hated having to take weekly shots to protect his system

against

environmental contamination, and the constantly increasing restrictions

invoked

in the name of the growing pressure on worldly resources made him rage at

times

like an imprisoned tiger. (What other kind of tiger was there, today?) Perhaps

if he had married, found someone to share his—but that was another entire

dimension of frustration, hardly relevant now.

This Marsdome pitch catered to these very frustrations, he realized. There

must

be millions like himself: well enough to do, intelligent, and sick of

uselessness. What a beacon it was: an escape to an unspoiled planet... in

comfort!

But of course he was old enough to control his foolish fancies. He knew

intellectually that no such development existed on Mars—and probably never

would

exist. The sheer expense would be prohibitive! All that technology, all that

shipment from Earth... why, passenger fare for one person one way would amount

to two hundred thousand dollars or more, assuming emigration could even be

arranged. And for him it was completely out of the question.

Yet he couldn't help studying it. Elysium Acres—such suggestion of bliss!

Could

it possibly be true—by the time he turned sixty? Why not, if they were able to

finance it?

There was the real rub. Money. How much to establish the dome, stock it with

good atmosphere, import vegetation, calculate and maintain a closed-system

ecological balance, construct access highways, lakes, houses, service

facilities? There would have to be hospitals, libraries, administrative

buildings, emergency staffs—all the accoutrements of civilization, in short.

Billions of dollars to maintain; perhaps trillions to construct. Naturally the

brochure did not provide the price list.

But if it were affordable, and if it were possible for him to go—what a

temptation!

He punched his personal info number for his net worth, just checking. The

totals

flashed on the screen after he had provided his identification code: liquid

assets just over five hundred thousand dollars sterling; investments at

current

quotations just under two million; miscellaneous properties and options six to

eight hundred thousand, pending urgency of sale. Grand total: a generous three

million.

Enough, with proper management, to tide him through the twenty-five years

until

his retirement annuities matured. He was hardly fool enough to jeopardize any

it by investing in pie-on-Mars! But it had been fun dreaming.

The dream lingered next morning, a welcome guest staying beyond courteous

hours.

Fisk showered in the sonic booth, depilitated, and dressed. As he arranged and

set his graying locks he wondered irrelevantly whether the salesman Bondman

used

the same brand of hair tint he did. He studied his face in the mirror,

picturing

himself as a hard-sell agent, lifting his brow artfully to augment a pregnant

pause. Yes, he did look the part; perhaps he would be good at it.

But then, subjectively, he saw the signs of what he knew was there: the

circulatory malady that bound him to Earth for life. His quarterly medication

kept it under control—but a trip to Mars, with the necessary accelerations and

drugstates, was out of the question. That was why Mars would never be more

than

a dream for Fisk Centers, no matter how conducive the sales pitch. He would

always be a portly, subdued Earthman.

So it was time to end it. He filed the Mars Ltd. literature in the recycle bin

and watched it disintegrate. Then he punched breakfast. He felt lonely.

The phone lighted. "Yes?" he said automatically.

"Interplanetary call for Mr. Fisk Centers," the cute operator said. She had

changed her hairdo, but it was the same one who had placed the call yesterday.

"Come off it, girl!" he snapped, aware that there was nothing more useless

than

taking out a personal peeve on an impersonal employee. "It is not

interplanetary!"

Bondman of Mars phased into view. "Of course it is, Mr. Centers," he said

genially. "The Mars Ltd. office is legally Mars soil, you know. An enclave. We

have to undergo quarantine before reporting for work, ha-ha! Now I trust you

have studied our brochure—"

"Yes. I'm not buying."

Bondman looked hurt. "But you haven't even heard our price, Mr. Centers. I

know

a man as fair-minded as you—"

"I'll never go to Mars."

"Remember, you get a special bonus price, because of your intelligence and

judgment. I'm sure you'll recognize—"

"I have a circulatory disorder. Inoperable. Sorry."

Bondman laughed with a finely crafted lack of affectation. "You don't have to

to Mars, Mr. Centers! We're talking about investment!"

"I told you I wasn't looking for—"

"You've studied the plans for Elysium Acres? The phenomenal hundred mile dome,

the luxurious facilities, the nineteenth century atmosphere—literally!—the

scenic lots? Of course you have! Mr. Centers, you know the value of things.

What

do you figure it will cost? I mean the entire setup on Mars, gross?"

"Ten trillion dollars," Fisk said, believing it. "Plus upkeep of billions per

year."

"Would you believe thirty trillion? But you're remarkably close, Mr. Centers!

You certainly comprehend investment! You merely underestimated the importance

this development to us—and to the world. We're putting everything into it, Mr.

Centers! Another developer might do it for ten trillion, but we put quality

first! Thirty trillion! But we know we'll make a profit in the end—and of

course

we have to consider profit, Mr. Centers! We're businessmen, like you!—because

believe me, sir, there is a demand! Earth is crowded, and in ten years Earth

will be a veritable nightmare! Elysium Acres will be an incredible bargain at

any price!" Bondman held up a hand to forestall Fisk's possible objection.

"Now

I'm not forgetting that you can't go, Mr. Centers. I'm merely pointing out

what

an attractive investment this is going to be. Some will have the incalculable

privilege of retiring in Elysium Acres; others will merely make a fortune from

it." And here he dropped to his supercharged confidential tone. "I hope to do

both!" He paused just long enough for that affirmation of faith to penetrate,

but not long enough for Fisk to generate an interjection. "Now we're

subdividing

E.A. into lots of one hundred feet square, give or take a foot, ha-ha! Enough

for a comfortable cottage and garden. Twenty million of them—yes, that's

correct, Mr. Centers! That dome is a hundred miles across, and there'll be

eight

thousand square miles inside, and two and a half thousand lots per mile—but I

don't need to do elementary mathematics for you, Mr. Centers. Twenty million

lots for thirty trillion dollars. That comes to one million five hundred

thousand dollars per lot. A bit high for Earth, considering they're

undeveloped—but this is Mars! Those lots are priceless, Mr. Centers,

priceless—yet they will be put on the market at a price any successful man can

afford." He held up his hand again, though Fisk had made no motion to

interrupt.

"But Mars Ltd. needs operating capital, Mr. Centers, and we need it now. So we

are offering, for a limited time only, a very, very special investment

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