_The foot-in-the-door technique would
work perfectly for any salesman--if
he had an invisible foot!_
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Infinity Science Fiction, October 1956.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"And that was Smoky Donahue's Western Swingsters, playing _Red Dust_
for all you Martian fans out there. Now let's take a look at the new
recordings, hot off the presses this week from all over the system.
Looks like we have a real treat for you tonight, folks! There's a
brand-new label from way out in outer space. Yes, sir, the very _first_
record put on wax by the Martian Recording Company, and it ought to
be a lulu. We'll spin it for you in just a minute, but first, here's a
message from our sponsor, the Oxygen Corporation of America--Earth's
oldest and finest manufacturers of compressed oxygen equipment.
"Friends, when you're scooting around in your little rocket roadster,
do you ever stop to think that your fine vehicle deserves nothing but
the best in equipment and accessories? Well, next time, take a look at
your oxygen tanks. Are you still using the cumbersome, old, outmoded
tank, with ugly valves and low capacity? Wouldn't you rather have the
new, streamlined Oxco tank that gives you months of service without
refilling? Models cost as low as four thousand dollars, and they're
guaranteed up to a full year. Call your local rocket supply store
today, and get all the facts. When you see the new Oxco, you'll know
why we say ... Oxco never leaves you breathless!
"Well, I see Jonesy, our control board operator, waving at me like
mad, folks. He wants to hear this new disc from Mars, too. So--without
further ado--here we go. It's on the Canal label, and it's called ...
_Melancholy_!"
* * * * *
The boss slammed the file drawer shut in disgust.
The Martian, standing before his desk, shuffled his feet and rotated
his cap with his third hand. "Displeasing you?" he said. "Come back
other time do?"
"No!" Huber pointed to the chair. "You sit down. We're going to
straighten this whole thing out right now."
He reached across the desk and snapped on the intercom. "Davis!" he
said. "We're going to have a foremen's meeting. This minute!" Davis, at
the other end, was inclined to argue, but the boss stopped him. "Don't
tell me we're busy! I know our production schedule better than you do.
Get the foremen up here right away!"
The foremen shuffled in ten minutes later. They looked sheepish, like
small boys caught in the jam pot.
Huber got right to the point.
"Your boys have been picking on Chafnu again. _And I won't stand for
it!_" He slapped the desk with a board-like palm for emphasis.
Curly, the foreman, said: "Aw, gee, boss. Just a little rhubarb, that's
all. Just a little kiddin' around. Boys didn't mean any harm."
"Mean any _harm_?" Huber's eyes went so wide they threatened to pop out
on the desk. "Chafnu! Show it to 'em."
The Martian looked embarrassed. Then he slowly lifted his rope-like
foot and displayed the quarter-sized burn on the heel.
"Kidding around!" Huber looked dangerous. "That's what you call
kidding around? They could have burned Chafnu to a crisp! You know how
sensitive he is!"
Burke, the small parts man, said placatingly: "Well, the boys are kinda
edgy, Mr. Huber. It must be the weather or something. They need a
little what-do-you-call-it, outlet."
"Besides," said Curly, "the Goons kinda provoke 'em, you know what I
mean--"
"_Don't ever use that word to me!_"
The irritation that had been brewing in Huber all day now boiled over.
He walked around the desk and shoved his big-jawed face up close to
Curly's chin. His small stature made no difference; Curly trembled
nervously.
"They're Martians," the boss said. "Not Goons. Understand? _Martians!_
Isn't that right, Chafnu?"
Chafnu looked as if he wished Earth had never been born. He glanced up
guiltily at the assembled foremen.
"All right," said Huber. "Now let's get this straight. One more
incident like today, and I'll hold you guys responsible. Chafnu and all
the other Martians in this plant are doing good work--better, if you
want to know, than most of you Earth guys--"
"Sure," mumbled Curly. "If we had three hands, we could--"
"That's enough, I said!" shouted the boss. He swabbed his forehead
with his hand. "We got Oxco tanks to turn out, so let's get to it. The
meeting's over!"
The foremen left, more crestfallen than when they had entered the
office. Chafnu looked uncertain as to what he should do next. The
Martian simply sat and watched Huber go back to his desk.
The boss went over to the musaphone and flipped the switch.
"My nerves are shot," he told Chafnu.
He sat back in his swivel chair, sighed, and closed his eyes. The
haunting strains of _Melancholy_ drifted through the office, and Huber
listened and slowly relaxed.
The Martian just sat there, miserably.
* * * * *
"Hi, there, fly-boys!
"Time to climb into the wild black yonder again, with your old skipper,
Vince Vanelli, bringing aid and comfort to all the ships in space. We
got a rocket chamber full of new notes and blue notes, all the latest
hits from the Bings of Earth to the Rings of Saturn. So buckle your
g-belts, and lend an ear to the biggest instrumental smash that's hit
the System in an eon.
"You asked for it, spacemen, so here it is again. That everloving
outer-space symphony--_Melancholy_!"
* * * * *
The _Pursuit_ was in orbit when the accident happened.
Earth's gravity gripped it like a giant hand and brought it plummeting
down into a granite quarry in Wisconsin. It was a Sunday, and the
explosion of the ship's reactors didn't kill anyone but the two pilots.
There was a routine investigation, but the evidence, as usual, was
spread across too many states to make it productive.
But when the _Marjorie_, a space freighter, got herself in trouble,
the pilot managed to reach the Earth Communication Center before
he disappeared forever into the Mediterranean. The voice cried out
something like "Ox on the bum!"
Then the _Pinafore_ registered an S.O.S. This time an accident was
avoided. A tug was dispatched to the site in a hurry, and the pilots
were transferred. The captain of the tug submitted his log to the Space
Commerce board, and the most pertinent page read:
"_Pinafore's_ oxygen tanks (mfr. Oxco, Serial #2853) were defective,
and were seriously endangering life aboard."
* * * * *
Diana Huber tilted the decanter and held it over the glass a little
too long for her husband's liking.
"Easy, easy," he cried from his chair. "How much of that stuff do you
think I can take?"
"This one's mine," she said, starting to pour another.
Huber shifted in his seat. "Aren't you overdoing it, honey?" he asked
uneasily. "I mean, do you really think you should drink so much?"
"It kills time," she said. "It makes the hours a little shorter. What
else have I got to do? You've got your job. What have I got?"
"Well, I only meant--I mean, if the kids--"
"The kids are pasted to the screen," she replied, meaning that they
were at the TV set. She flopped on the overstuffed sofa and yanked
her skirt almost up to her thighs. She still had lovely legs, Huber
thought, but she used them like an old frump. And she wasn't even
fifty--just forty-seven. Why did she have to flop around that way?
"Well, let's have it," she said, twirling the amber fluid in her glass.
"My Hard Day at the Office. By George Huber, Age Eleven."
He looked up, almost shyly. "Oh, nothing new," he said in a low voice.
"Same old stuff."
Diana swallowed half her Scotch. She gave a little cough, blinked, and
said harshly: "You know that's not so. Something's up. Some kind of
labor trouble. And your tanks are blowing out all over space. Is that
the 'same old stuff,' George, dear?"
Huber put down his paper. "It's the men!" he said. "They've gone nuts
or something! Mopin' around all day, singin' the blues, snapping your
head off if you make one little suggestion--"