He stepped over to a cork-lined wall, pressed a concealed button, and
panels parted. An organizational chart, with designations that were
meaningless to Tom, appeared behind it.
"Speaking basically," Andrusco said, "Homelovers, Incorporated
represents the interests of the world's leading real estate concerns.
Land, you know, is still the number one commodity of Earth, the one
priceless possession that rarely deteriorates in value. In fact, with
the increase in the Earth's population, the one commodity that never
seems to be in excess supply."
"I see," Tom said, not wholly in truth.
"The stability of real estate is our prime concern. By unification of
our efforts, we have maintained these values over a good many years. But
as you know, a good business organization never rests on its laurels.
Sometimes, even basic human needs undergo unusual--alterations."
"I'm not following too well," Tom said frankly. "Just where does public
relations come into this? I can't see much connection."
* * * * *
Andrusco frowned, but without wrinkling his serene brow too much. He
went to the multipaned window and locked his hands behind his back.
"Let me put it this way, Mr. Blacker. With the Earth's population
approaching the three billion mark, you can imagine that real estate is
at a greater premium than ever--yes, even the remotest land areas have
gained in market value. But let me ask you this. If there were only a
hundred apples in the world, and you owned all of them, what would you
do if you learned that someone else had discovered a fruitful orchard,
which contains ten million apples?"
"I'd go out of the apple business."
"Precisely." Andrusco rocked on his heels. "In a sense, that's very much
the problem that Homelovers, Incorporated may have to face in the next
generation."
"Somebody swiping your apples?"
"In a way." The man chuckled. "Yes, in a way." He raised his arm slowly,
and pointed to the sky. "The apples," he said, "are up there."
"Huh?" Tom said.
* * * * *
"Space, Mr. Blacker. Space is opening its doors to us. Already, the UN
Space Commission has launched some two dozen manned vehicles into the
outer reaches. Already, the satellite-building colony on the moon is
well under way. The progress of our space program has been accelerating
month by month. The expert predictions have been more and more
optimistic of late. In another ten, twenty years, the solar system will
be beckoning the children of Earth ..."
Tom said nothing for a while. Then he cleared his throat.
"Well ... I'm no expert on these things. But maybe the population could
stand a little more real estate, Mr. Andrusco. In twenty years ..."
"Nonsense!" The voice was snappish. "The best authorities say it isn't
so. There's plenty of room on Earth. But if ever a mass exodus
begins--"
"That doesn't seem possible," Tom said. "Does it? I mean, only a handful
of guys have ever gone out there. A drop in the bucket. I mean, Mars and
all that may be fun to visit, but who'd want to live there?"
Andrusco turned to him slowly.
"The apples in the new orchard may be sour, Mr. Blacker. But if your
livelihood depended on your own little stack of fruit--would you be
willing to sit by and take the chance?"
Tom shrugged. "And is that the public relations job? To keep people out
of space?"
"Put in its crudest form, yes."
"A pretty tough job. You know that guff about Man's Pioneering Spirit."
"Yes. But we're worried about the public spirit, Mr. Blacker. If we can
dampen their ardor for space flight--only delay it, mind you, for
another few years--we can tighten our own lines of economic defense. Do
I make myself clear?"
"Not completely."
"Will you take the job?"
"What does it pay?"
"Fifty thousand."
"Where do I sit?"
* * * * *
By the afternoon, Tom Blacker was ensconced in a fair-sized office with
vaguely oriental furnishings and an ankle-deep rug. Livia's pretty
ankles visited it first.
"Here's an outline I began on the PR program," she told him briskly,
dropping a sheet of paper on his desk. "I didn't get very far with it.
I'm sure you can add a lot."
"Okay. I'll read it over this afternoon." He tipped the chair back. "How
about dinner tonight?"
"Sorry. Busy tonight. Maybe later this week."
But it wasn't until Friday, three days later, that he saw Livia Cord
again. He accomplished that by calling her in for a conference,
spreading his own typewritten notes on the desk in front of him.
"Got some rough ideas drafted on the program," he told her. "The
possibilities of this thing are really unlimited. Granted, of course,
that there's money in this picture."
"There's money all right," Livia said. "We don't have to worry about
that."
"Good. I've put down a list of leading citizens that might be enrolled
as backers for anything we might come up with, people who have been
outspoken about the expense or danger of space flight. We'll keep it on
file, and add to it as new names crop up in the press. Then here's a
listing of categories for us to develop subprograms around. Religious,
economic, social, medical--Medical's good. There's a heck of a lot of
scare-value in stories about cosmic rays, alien diseases, plagues, zero
gravity sickness, all that sort of thing. Sterility is a good gimmick;
impotence is even better."
* * * * *