"Wait'll you taste it. I come forearmed, though, and you're welcome to share." Bakr placed a small flask on the table in front of him.
"What is it?" Eleanor asked.
"Sauce. It's a special blend mixed to my specifications. It's hot. Most people think it blisters their mouths, but that's the way I like it."
He unscrewed the cap and passed the flask to Eleanor, who sniffed cautiously. "It smells - interesting."
She handed it to Dudley, and one quick whiff brought tears to his eyes. "Whew! Do you eat this stuff?"
Bakr laughed. "If you think it's strong, you should see how the natives react to it. For all their sturdy appearances, every one of them has a weak stomach. I suppose that accounts for the bland food."
Their order arrived, a large tureen of a thick, creamy stew. It had dumplings floating in it, and it looked and smelled delicious. Bakr deftly served the three of them, and then he applied his custom-made sauce to his portion with gusto. Dudley tasted the food, grimaced, and agreed that it lacked something.
"The commissary out at the port has some imported spices and sauces," Bakr said. "I should have told you to stock up. You can't buy such things anywhere else. Try a little of this."
Eleanor added a light dash of Bakr's sauce and praised the result enthusiastically. Dudley took the flask, miscalculated as he tilted it, and spilled a gush of sauce into his bowl. He regarded it with dismay as it stained the food an unappetizing brown.
"Clumsy!" Eleanor snapped.
Dudley shrugged, stirred the stew, tasted it. Instantly he doubled up, eyes watering, choking, gasping for breath, while Bakr pounded him on the back.
"You put twice as much on!" he said accusingly to Bakr.
"But I'm used to the stuff," Bakr said. "And I like it. You'd better have a fresh bowl and try again."
Dudley permitted Bakr to serve him a second time, but he flatly refused a second offer of the sauce. He ate glumly and finished his meal in silence. Eleanor mockingly added more sauce to her food and devoted her full attention to Bakr.
"Now, then," Bakr said, when they had finished eating. "A nightspot or two. Some dancing such as you've never seen before, where the partners exchange affectionate glances from across the room. Singing to a weird musical scale that approximates a banshee's howling. Comedians who have contests to see who can tell the most pointless story, and the more pointless it is, the louder the natives laugh. Nonalcoholic liquor that tastes like water laced with extract of prunes. Maylorian nightlife is about as wide open as a prison camp, but you might as well sample it now and see what you're in for."
"No, thank you," Dudley said. "I want to work on this insurance problem."
"I vote for the nightlife," Eleanor said. Dudley glared at her.
"We'll drop Walter at the apartment," Eleanor told Bakr. "He works better when I'm not around."
"I can understand that," Bakr said.
Bakr stopped his 'car at the apartment entrance, and Dudley walked away without a backward glance. His anger at Eleanor's transgressions long since had dulled to indifference. He was thinking, rather, about McGivern. How would McGivern go about selling insurance to the citizens of Maylor? Better - how would McGivern expect Dudley to proceed?
He made himself comfortable on the narrow sofa, his inhalator at his elbow, and confronted the problem through fragrant puffs of smoke. His objective, as he saw it, was to condition the natives to think of personal injury or property loss in monetary terms. Once they grasped the concept of financial compensation, their awareness of the need for insurance would follow inevitably. One claim, properly settled, would establish a precedent; two would set a pattern.
But how could he properly settle a claim if there was no insurance in force?
He dug Galactic's Underwriting Handbook from a suitcase and began listing endorsements to standard policy forms that might make them more appealing to the Maylorites. He found so few that seemed appropriate that he began to create his own endorsements. When Bakr and Eleanor finally returned, potently trailing alcoholic fumes, the floor of the small living room was littered with paper, and Dudley was nursing a headache.
"I thought there was no alcohol on Maylor," he said sourly.
"Officially there isn't," Bakr said. "It does such appalling things to those delicate Maylorian stomachs that it's banned as a poison. Fortunately the Maylorites are such innocent, trusting souls that smuggling is child's play. I brought my private stock with me. How are you making out?"
"I'm not," Dudley admitted.
"You'll have to face the facts, old man. Insurance, and the Maylorites, are absolutely incompatible. They're a disgustingly ethical race. They not only don't want something for nothing, but they positively refuse to accept it. They're also disgustingly well balanced. There isn't a mental hospital or a psychiatrist on Maylor. They aren't afraid of the future, or of fate, or of the so-called 'acts of God.' They aren't even superstitious. Take away greed and fear, and what motives do you have left for buying insurance?"
"That takes us back to lesson number one in the sales manual," Dudley mused. "Motivation. If the old standbys won't work, we'll have to think up some new motives."
"You'll have to think them up, old man. I resigned from thinking about the Maylor situation a long time ago. Naturally I wish you luck, and if I can help in any way except by thinking, let me know."
For the next two days Dudley spent most of his waking moments in futile thinking. He thought lying on the sofa, hands clapped to his ears to filter out some of the racket caused by the construction work going on just above his head. He thought leaning from the window, watching the tangle of traffic in the street below and waiting with bated breath for a load of brick to snap the slender rope and crush an innocent passerby. The load passed his window, and on one ascent he noticed that it bumped the side of the building frequently and that the bumping had frayed the rope sling on all four sides. If one strand parted - he turned away, shaking his head. No conscientious insurance underwriter would accept coverage on such a risk, and yet he would have to do so if he wanted to sell insurance on Maylor. There were no better risks.
When he tired of the apartment, he went to the Galactic office and spent tedious hours contemplating the lockless door. Bakr helped tremendously by entertaining Eleanor, but by the end of that second day she was complaining that she had seen all of Maylor City that she wanted or intended to see.
On the third day Dudley's rented groundcar was delivered, and Dudley and Bakr took it out for a driving lesson. Dudley drove slowly, horrified at the risks taken by the nonchalant pedestrians, and Bakr chuckled repeatedly at his discomfiture.
"How are you doing with the insurance situation?" Bakr asked.
"I haven't been able to come up with anything," Dudley confessed. "If I could manage a proper settlement of just one claim, I'd have a strong selling point to work with. But how can I settle a claim if there's no insurance in force?"
"One claim," Bakr said thoughtfully. "Yes, a claim would be a help - if you could talk the claimant into being a claimant."
They had turned into a quiet residential section, and the 'car was bouncing wildly on the irregular cobblestones. "One claim," Bakr said again. "You have insurance on yourself, don't you? Didn't you write a liability policy on this groundcar?"
"Of course. But a claim involving myself -"
"A claim is a claim, no matter who it involves. And -" Bakr grabbed at the steering wheel, "- here it is!"
The 'car veered crazily. A woman screamed, and Dudley frantically dug at the brake pedal. He brought the 'car to a halt inches short of a flimsy wood dwelling and leaped out to bend over the young woman who lay pinned under it.
"Why didn't you use your brake?" Bakr hissed. "You've killed her!"