"What happened? Were the claims rejected?"
Bakr shook his head. "A native holding a fire insurance policy had a fire. The company offered a generous settlement, but he wouldn't accept it. He demanded - and got - his premium refunded. Then he proceeded to scream long and loudly that Galactic's insurance was no good."
"If we offered to pay the claim, I don't understand why -"
"He'd insured himself against fire, and he had a fire anyway. Why carry fire insurance if it doesn't keep you from having fires?"
Dudley protested, "But surely if the principles of insurance were properly explained -"
"Not on Maylor. People here don't want money. They want to not have fires. Same thing happened with our life insurance. A native insured his life with Galactic, and he died anyway. Clearly the insurance policy wasn't worth the paper it was printed on, and the offer of money in the face of such an obvious failure constituted a form of bribery. I could go on and on. When a native of Maylor insures his life, he expects not to die. When he insures his groundcar against accidents, he expects not to have accidents. If the insurance won't keep him from dying or from having accidents or from anything else it claims to insure him against, why carry insurance? There are perfectly sound reasons for this attitude. You can study the legal and social and historical backgrounds if you like - you will study them - but all you'll get out of it will be a slightly better understanding of why you can't sell insurance."
"I see," Dudley said.
"I'm leaving on the next ship. I'd suggest that you come along."
"I can't do that. I've had some miserable luck, and I've been relieved of my last eight assignments, but I've never quit. And McGivern -"
Dudley turned away morosely. The mere recollection of that last interview with McGivern was enough to cost him a night's sleep.
"Damn McGivern," Bakr said. "Damn Galactic, if it holds you responsible for things beyond your control. There are other insurance companies."
"Which don't hire failures. Not in positions of responsibility."
"Did McGivern give you a time limit?"
"Three months, which means nothing at all. Once he gave me six months, and then he showed up on his private space yacht, the Indemnity, when I'd only been on the job for two weeks, hung around for a couple of days looking over my shoulder, and relieved me. It wouldn't surprise me if he turned up tomorrow wanting to know why the problem isn't solved yet."
Bakr got to his feet. "That's what can happen when the boss has a private yacht. Well, you know what you're up against. Any help I can give you in the next seven days you're welcome to."
"I'll need a groundcar, I suppose."
"You can rent one. I'll take care of it for you."
"And insurance on it."
Bakr grinned. "Certainly. Fire insurance on your personal property, too. Liability, accident, theft, health - write yourself a batch of policies. You can double Galactic's business your first day on the job.
When I leave I'll be canceling my policies, but for a week you'll have a sensational record."
From the room's one window Dudley watched him drive away. At the corner his car brushed the robe of a woman pedestrian, and she halted in the midst of traffic to smile after him sweetly. Shaking his head, Dudley retreated to the desk.
He had three months - maybe. He had no advertising budget and wouldn't have one until he produced a volume of business to support it. Within those limitations he had to contrive nothing less than a massive campaign to educate the people of Maylor to the value of insurance.
Personal salesmanship was the only answer, and he'd have to apply it quickly - pinpoint the area of most obvious need, devise a dramatic gimmick to catch people's attention, and hammer away with it. He could begin by tabulating recent losses. A rash of fires always put the public in a wonderfully receptive state of mind for fire insurance, and a series of breakins never failed to soften a merchant's resistance to theft insurance.
He walked down the three flights of stairs to the general store that occupied the ground floor of the building and asked the clerk where he could buy a newspaper.
"I'm sorry, sir," the young man said. "We have none left."
"Is there someone else who'd have one?"
"I very much doubt it, sir. It's been out more than a week, you see."
"When will the next issue be available?"
The clerk looked surprised. "Why - not until next month!"
"Thank you."
Dudley introduced himself, and the clerk said blankly, "Galactic-Insurance? Oh, Galactic. You're upstairs."
Dudley agreed that when he was in his office he was upstairs. "Has this neighborhood been troubled by burglaries lately?" he asked.
"Burglaries? What is that?"
"Thefts, stealing -"
The clerk pondered this. "I'll ask," he said finally. He entered an office at the rear of the store. Through the open door Dudley watched him converse guardedly with an older man. A moment later the two of them bent over a book, the older man energetically flipping pages. Dudley moved closer and managed to identify the book. It was a dictionary.
The clerk returned and shook his head apologetically. "No, sir. We've never had anything like that."
On his way out, Dudley verified what he'd thought was a faulty observation when he entered. The store's street door had no lock. Neither were there locks on the entrances to the adjoining stores. Neither, now that he thought about it, was there a lock on the door of his office.
No insurance company managed by sane men would underwrite theft insurance on a business establishment that had no lock on its door, but the clerk claimed there were no losses by theft. He did not even know what the word meant!
Dudley dropped the subject of theft insurance and went back to his office to stand at the window and meditate on the perilous groundcar traffic.
Bakr returned, settled himself comfortably in the desk chair, and announced that Dudley's groundcar would be ready for him in a couple of days. "That's fast service for Maylor," he said.
"I'll need lessons," Dudley said. "I've never driven one before."
"That needn't worry you. The natives don't know how to drive, either."
"Even so -"
"Right. I'll supervise your instruction myself. It'll give me something to do. And tonight I want you and Eleanor to be my guests for dinner. Afterward I'll take you on a comprehensive tour of Maylor City's nightlife. About twenty minutes will do the job. Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"I'd like to see a newspaper."
Bakr scowled. "That is a problem. The thing only publishes once a month. I'll try to dig one up."
"I've never heard of a city of this size without a daily paper. Is there a shortage of newsprint?"
"There's a shortage of news. Nothing happens on Maylor."
"What about advertising?"
"It's limited to disgustingly polite announcements," Bakr said. " 'Thomas Peawinkle and Son are pleased to announce that they will have no imported shoes for sale until the next consignment arrives.' That sort of thing."
"I'm beginning to understand why you call the situation impossible."
"My friend, even now you have absolutely no idea how impossible it is!"
"I'll have to do some thinking."
"If you're a religious man, you might pray for divine guidance. That's the only thing that's likely to help. I'll call for you and Eleanor at seven."
He left Dudley to his despondent window gazing.
The restaurant was so spotlessly clean and so starkly unadorned that Dudley was reminded of a hospital ward. The young waitresses had a rosy, freshly scrubbed appearance.
"Bland is the word for it," Bakr said. "Everything and everybody on Maylor is bland. That includes the food."
"It smells delicious," Eleanor remarked, as a waitress moved gracefully past their table with a steaming tray.