As we pointed out in previous works, the crime syndicate now owns so
much money, its chief problem is to find ways in which to invest it.
As a result, the Mafia and its allies control thousands of legitimate
enterprises ranging from hotel chains to railroads and from laundries
to distilleries.
And so it was on Mars. With all the rackets cornered, the gangsters
decided it was time to go into some straight businesses.
At the next get-together of the Grand Council, the following
conversation was heard:
"What do these mopes need that they ain't getting?"
"A big fat hole in the head."
"Cut it out. This is serious."
"A hole in the head ain't serious?"
"There's no profit in them one-shot deals."
"It's the repeat business you make the dough on."
"Maybe you got something there. You can kill a jerk only once."
"But a jerk can have relatives."
"We're talking about legit stuff. All the rest has been taken care
of."
[Illustration]
"With the Martians I've seen, a bar of soap could be a big thing."
From this random suggestion, there sprang up a major interplanetary
project. If the big soap companies are wondering where all that soap
went a few years ago, we can tell them.
It went to Mars.
Soap caught on immediately. It was snapped up as fast as it arrived.
But several questions popped into the minds of the Mafia soap
salesman.
Where was it all going? A Martian, in line for a bar in the evening,
was back again the following morning for another one.
And why did the Martians stay just as dirty as ever?
The answer was, the Martians stayed as dirty as ever because they
weren't using the soap to wash with. They were eating it!
It cured the hangover from sugar.
Another group cornered the undertaking business, adding a twist that
made for more activity. They added a Department of Elimination. The
men in charge of this end of the business circulate through the
chocolate and soap bars, politely inquiring, "Who would you like
killed?"
Struck with the novelty of the thing, quite a few Martians remember
other Martians they are mad at. The going price is one hundred carats
of diamonds to kill; which is cheap considering the average laborer
earns 10,000 carats a week.
Then the boys from the more dignified end of the business drop in at
the home of the victim and offer to bury him cheap. Two hundred and
fifty carats gets a Martian planted in style.
Inasmuch as Martians live underground, burying is done in reverse, by
tying a rocket to the tail of the deceased and shooting him out into
the stratosphere.