[Illustration]
* * * * *
Huckster Heaven, in Hollywood, set out to fulfill the adman's dream in
every particular. It recognized more credit cards than it offered
entrees on the menu. Various atmospheres, complete with authentic decor,
were offered: Tahitian, Parisian, even Afro-Cuban for the delectation of
the Off-Beat Client. In every case, houris glided to and fro in
appropriate native costume, bearing viands calculated to quell, at least
for the nonce, harsh thoughts of the combative marketplace. Instead,
beamish advertisers and their account executive hosts were plied so
lavishly that soon the sounds of competitive strife were but a memory;
and in the postprandial torpor, dormant dreams of largesse on the
Lucullan scale came alive. In these surroundings, droppers of such names
as the Four Seasons, George V, and the Stadium Club were notably silent.
Campbell ("Cam") Schofft was ostentatiously honored as one of the
Huckster Heaven "in-group." His business card (die-bumped and
gold-dusted, of course) was one of those enshrined, under glass as it
were, in the foyer. His advice concerning California land speculation
was sought by the maitre d', a worthy who had sold his own posh oasis in
Escondido in order to preside at H. H., as the communications fraternity
affectionately styled the restaurant. Today, however, Cam was aware of
Michel's subtle disapproval as they glided into the Caribbean milieu.
And little wonder: The character awaiting Cam in the booth was
definitely not the H. H. type. Far from being cast in the approved lean,
sickly, bespectacled mold, Everett O'Toole featured jowls wider than
Cam's natural shoulders; and his gut threatened to thrust their tiny
table into the houris' concourse. Manhattan innkeepers often confused
Everett with Ralph Kramden, a classic comic character of the Sixties
still cast occasionally for the _cognoscenti_.
Cam viewed this great flow of flesh with dispassionate eyes. The
behemoth spoke:
"Can't resist a fast megabuck, eh, Cam?"
"As you know, hippo, I agreed to meet you here in the naive hope that
you had something to contribute to the science of marketing," said Cam.
"Science! Hah!" Everett sucked on his goblet. "I do have something to
sell, but it's probably over your head."
"Very possibly. In which event, I'll whirl on to something more
productive, and you can pick up your own tab for those half-gallons of
equatirial garbage you've been gulping."
Sobered by this threat, Everett looked about with a conspiratorial air
and leaned across the table.
"You and that giggle gang you call the Market Research Group have been
groping around like so many blind mice. How would you like to know in
advance, beyond any cavil, the exact future reaction to any product,
new, old or sea-changed--or to any campaign to be inflicted on the
peasantry?"
"How would _you_ like to be Duke of the Western World, with your castle
in Acapulco?"
"That's what keeps alive my faith in you," said Everett. "You _do_
understand, a little bit. That's what we call Empathy."
* * * * *
Cam signalled for a Bellafonte Sunrise to fortify himself for the
forthcoming adventure in non-Aristotelian ratiocination.
"Empathy is our merchandise," Everett continued, looking around again.
"My associates and I have discovered our propensity for experiencing
vicariously--with unfortunate intensity--the emotional reactions of
others."
"I have encountered many ridiculous routines," Cam advised the Dominican
beauty placing new potables before them. "But this wins the Freberg."
"Exhibit A coming up." Everett lapsed into a pose of deep concentration,
like a two-bit swami. Cam noticed a tiny, rodent-type nose thrusting
itself up from Everett's side pocket. "Fear ... I detect great
apprehension--panic--hysteria verging on the loss of reason ... third
booth this side of the runes ... Valhalla."
Cam rose and went to the Nordic banquet hall. Vikings with groaning
platters and great horns of mead almost knocked him down, but he fought
his way to the curtained stall described, and eavesdropped.
"He ain't gonna take no for an answer this time, Quiverton," rasped the
guttural tones of one occupant. "Gable has to host the new series, with
Jean Harlow for the first guest star--or, he gets a new agency."
"Bu-but Fred, they're both dead."
"He ain't gonna stand still for any more alibis. It's up to
you--produce, or else! You got a week."
There was a sound of blubbering from within, interspersed with piteous
cries like those emitted by a rabbit transfixed by headlights. They
sounded to Cam like an account man he knew over at GFR&O; and this in
turn meant that the ultimatum was probably proceeding from the fabled
throne room of Occidental Tobacco itself, which billed more in one week
than some of Cam's clients knew had been printed. Cam even had a
blinding inspiration as to the means by which Occidental's megalomaniac
prexy, William McKinley Krog, might be satisfied in this latest
necrophiliac whim: Spectaculars built around the classics of the Golden
Age of the Silver Screen ... (By Godfrey! Not a bad series title!) ...
using film clips of deceased movie greats, and emceed by Stanislaus Von
Gort, who everybody thought was dead and therefore might as well be.
With this melee raging in his skull, Cam dodged back to Everett. He
found that worthy sliding liquidly from the booth, his side-pocket
familiar now half-emerged and regarding his gross symbiote with
more-than-animal concern.
"Quickly," cried Cam to the slave-girl. "Stimulants!"
"We only serve rum drinks in this section," unctuously responded the
Nefertiti of the Horse Latitudes; but a blazing glance from Cam sent her
scurrying, every cheek a-dance.
"You can see what this takes out of me," said the patient, treating
himself with deep draughts of Cam's Sunrise. "I don't know how many more
of these I--we--can take."
"Take it easy, boy. I conditionally buy your bit. Save your strength."
The small inhabitant of the side pocket was regarding him with some
asperity. "Who's your little chum?"
"I'm hep to your devious mind," giggled Everett. "You charlatan, you've
got it figured that he's one of my associates."
"You're stoned," said Cam, leading his obese charge stumbling and
falling out of the Caribbean grotto, past the Michael Mouse shrine and
the framed Exceptional T & E Vouchers (to which no exception had been
taken, thus attesting to the achievement of their authors).
"Get this, you call-boy of the communications complex," shrilled Everett
hilariously in the muted beauty of the business-card foyer. "You're
right; he is one of our _Gestalt_; but there's a couple more. And Our
Gang will cost you, Schofft, cost like crazy.... But you'll pay, through
the nose; because your clients will pay through the nose and ears! He,
he, he!" The pained features of the maitre d' reflected exquisite pain
as he ushered them into the sunlight.
Cam's car materialized at the curb, and he hustled the sodden Ev into
its dark, merciful confines.
"Granted that this entire affair is not some outre hoax ... a
possibility on which I don't entirely close the door ... your
'merchandise' might better be labelled _Tel_empathy," said Cam.
"Button-down lingo," sneered Ev.
"What is that miniature monster in your pocket ... Marmoset? Mutated
rat?"
"Super-mongoose. The result of certain esoteric nuclear experiments off
Madagascar."
They hove to at "MAB"--the Merchandising Arts Building, West Coast hub
of influence on the docile consumer.
They floated up the exterior tube to the 39th Floor (Socio-Economic)
which was actually the hotbed of the political efforts of Cam and his
associates. Entry through the wall-port brought them face-to-fang with
Father Sowles ("Save Your Souls With Sowles"). The lank, fiery
pulpit-pounder had been tabbed as a political natural by certain elders
whose money was known as wise; and in consequence, his campaign for the
Directorship of North America's Western Zone was being master-minded by
Pacific Persuaders, Inc., a pseudopod of the MAB complex.
The crusader struck a Charlton Heston pose and snarled: "In the name of
Christendom, what peculiar intruder bring you before me?"
Everett meticulously assayed the gaunt, fanatic figure before him, clad
in apostolic robes. "I'll do a lot for a dollar, as the girl said to the
soldier, but this is ludicrous. Who needs Telempathy? This cat is so
phony, any gossoon can peg him."
Sowles motioned to a monkish aide at a desk, who scribbled furiously in
a drab notebook. Cam walked to the aides' side and read: "Gossoons."
"I don't have to look, Cam," said Everett. "I have just issued the death
warrant for gossoons, if this vampire ever comes to power, and if he
ever finds out what they are."
"Down, boy," said Cam. "Father Sowles, this man and his group appear to
possess an instinct or faculty that could make the difference between
success and failure. Everett, belay the commentary and look sharp: This
is your chance at the large dinero."
"Curt!" Cam called the wall-com. On its screen appeared Curt Andrews,
bright young assistant account man, reflexively simulating activity at
his desk. "Bring in the Name-O-Scope, please."
* * * * *
Cam turned to explain to the waiting group: "This gadget coming up is
another of our recent triumphs in the application of the scientific
method to marketing. Just as a computer solves problems in a split
second that would take human mathematicians months, the Name-O-Scope
arrives at and presents all the bewildering array of possible cognomens
for a given thing in a matter of hours. The proliferating combinations
of possible name components are reeled off in a rapid fire for our
evaluation."
Curt came in with what appeared to be a portable rear-screen
presentation projector, with dials and an extra lead; which he attached
to the conference table.
"With this device," continued Cam, "Edgar Rice Burroughs would not have
to have spent weeks playing with nonsense syllables before styling his
hero 'Tarzan'." He guided Ev to a specially constructed chair at the
table, rolled up one sleeve, applied the clamp to his bicep. "The
machine provided evaluation of alternate names on the basis of
blood-pressure fluctuation. Till now, we've had to operate on the basis
of a cumulative group reaction, with the obvious disadvantages of all
group samples. With Everett & Associates, we may well have a
single-unit, perfectly representative sounding board."
"Roll 'em, Curt. Ev, if this works, you've made the consultant roster."
"I trust that involves geetus," replied Ev.
Curt dimmed the lights. On the screen, three heraldic cornets sang a
fanfare, followed by floating banners:
"POSSIBLE TITLES FOR THE SOWLES MOVEMENT"
This dissolved to an aerial view of the 20th Century war (mostly clips
of the Normandy landings). The camera picked out one brave, clean column
(new footage) and zoomed in on the device at its fore: A Cross of
Lorraine with a Star of David at its center. Superimposed wavy letters
faded in:
"THE NEW CHURCH MILITANT"
Curt studied the dial with the aid of a pocketlite, and made a notation.
The scene and the martial music faded out, to be replaced by stock
footage from medieval epics: Peter the Hermit exhorting knights to smite
the Saracen, the clash of Mediterranean men o' war, chivalric pageantry
featuring again the cross-and-star:
"CRUSADE FOR OUR TIME"
The eyes of the super-mongoose gleamed in the shadows as Curt took the
reading.
Next came a montage of heroic scenes from two millennia of history: from
Agincourt to Iwo, from the villagers marching on Frankenstein's castle
to the Four Freedoms conference at sea. One familiar strain underscored
all the stirring action; its key words flamed to life:
"SOWLES' CHRISTIAN SOLDIERS"
Everett's familiar emitted a shrill squeak. Curt gasped, "Cam! Right off
the dial!"
"All right, Curt! Hit the lights.... We won't bother with the rest."
"What devil's work _is_ this?" demanded the cadaverous Sowles, blinking
as the lights went on.
"Father, for the first time in the history of mass opinion manipulation,
we are scientifically certain, in advance, of optimum response. Everett
and his Telempathetic _Gestalt_ have proved to be the equivalent of the
world's largest survey sample. In the past, whenever a product was about
to be launched on the board waters of the American mercantile ocean, but
lacked for a sobriquet, prides of copywriters and other creative people
huddled late into the night fashioning Names, from which the entire
marketing strategy would flow. Remember the Ocelot, Curt?"
"Lord, will I ever forget it. 18,000 names!"
"On behalf of our airplane account, gentlemen. Of those 18,000 names we
dreamed up for the 1981 model, some truly ridiculous labels crept in
when fatigue and inbred mental circumlocution weakened our defenses."
"The Dawn Play Air Coupe," recalled Curt, with a shudder. "The Pterrible
Pterodactyl.... The Crimson Inca...."
"Spare us, Curt. The point is that as a result of this grisly
experience, we invented the Name-O-Scope. The name 'Ocelot' was
ultimately selected, and worked out superbly--through sheer good fortune
alone. For your campaign, Father, the Name-O-Scope came up with 3,248
possible slogan-names."
"I saw only three," Sowles said, dourly. His aide scribbled something in
the notebook.
"I wouldn't inflict the whole wild roster on you, sir--or even on your
adjutant there. But we did expose them to selected samples in thirty
major markets; and the cumulative finding put these three in a class by
themselves, at the top. Furthermore, these random tests agreed 100% with
Everett in the selection of 'SOWLES' CHRISTIAN SOLDIERS' as the ideal
motif, out of those pre-eminent three.... So we are doubly, even triply
checked out before take-off; since these findings confirm the humble
opinion of our own staff."
The eagle-eyed leader bent his probing gaze on Cam. "So you say, wizard
of words. But while you're rejoicing in these strange devices and
stranger accomplices, the enemy draws nigh. The primary is but weeks
away, and already the invective of the political jackal beats on the
ears of the electorate like a stormy sea."
Everett lifted his shaggy head. "You mix a hirsute metaphor,
Charlemagne, but my li'l friends tell me that that's the sort of chatter
that the idiot voters will lap up like a friendly Frostee."
"You see, Father--this is the break we needed," pitched Cam. "With this
weird talent of Everett _et al_., we can pre-test every element of the
great campaign. The pieces of the jigsaw will drop into place overnight,
and we can kick off the Big Push next week.... Like with a monster rally
by torchlight and Kleig in Hollywood Bowl.... Singing our hymn under the
stars while millions view.... How 'bout that, Ev?"
The impresario of the impalpable nodded. "Should be great. Monstrous, in
fact."
* * * * *
In the day that followed, Cam and all his cohorts in MAB let themselves
go in a good old-fashioned creative orgy. With one large difference. In
the past, copy, layouts, and other campaign ingredients were threshed
out in endless conferences, and decisions were made on the basis of an
informed group guess. Now, each new idea was exposed at infancy like a
Spartan baby to the elemental reaction of Ev & Co., and instantly given
the yea or nay.
The rotund oracle was kept under lock and latch in the "Think-Box." This
room had been scientifically designed for sequestering agency people who
had to give birth to slogans and such under deadline pressure. The walls
were sound-proofed, the couch pulled out into a properly uncomfortable
bed, and a refrigerator was stocked with snack makings. It was also
served by dumbwaiter. Phones were banished, of course; as was 3-D and
all other distraction--even windows. Visual motion was, however,
provided by a giant clock. The only concessions to Ev were a special
little hutch for the super-mongoose; and a bar, carefully regulated to
make certain he never completely blotted out the hypothetical brainwave
"network."
Cam did his best to pump Ev for the identity of his "Associates", but
the old sack of iniquity was wise to his game. He'd rear back and squint
at Cam like a Lebanese fruit vendor and thoughtfully pick his nose.
"Like to know me confederates, is it?" he'd ask. Then, with a great show
of candor: "Well, one of them is a sea creature, but I'll say no more
than that. I know you'd never be able to live with the thought of being
in business with a squid."