“It’s a thought,” Munn acknowledged.
Mike Soaring Eagle said, “I’ll stick to my crossbreeds in the hydroponic gardens. I can raise beefsteak-mushrooms to taste of Worcester-shire sauce or something. An appeal to the palate, you know—”
“Fair enough. Steve?”
Thirkell rumpled his hair. “I’ll think of an angle. Don’t rush me.”
Munn looked at tJnderhill. “Any flashes of intellect, chum?”
The youngster grimaced. “Not just now. All I can think of is manipulating the stock market.”
“Without money?”
“That’s the trouble.”
Munn nodded. “Well, my own idea is advertising. As a physicist, it’s in my line.”
“How?” Bronson wanted to know. “Demonstrating atom-smashing? A strong-man act?”
“Pipe down. Advertising isn’t known on Venus, though commerce is. That’s funny. I should think the retailers would jump at the chance.”
“They’ve got radio commercials.”
“Stylized and ritualistic. Their televisors are ready-made for splash advertising. A visual blurb…
yeah. Trick gadgets I could make to demonstrate the products. Why not?”
“I think I’ll build an X-ray machine,” Thirkell said suddenly, “if you’ll help me, skipper.”
Munn said sure. “We’ve got the equipment-and the blueprints. Tomorrow we’ll start. It must be pretty late.”
It was, though there was no sunset on Venus. The quintet retired, to dream of full-course dinners-all but Thirkell, who dreamed he was eating a roast chicken that abruptly turned into a Venusian and began to devour him, starting at the feet. He woke up sweating arid cursing, took some nembutal, and finally slept again.
The next morning they scattered. Mike Soaring Eagle took a microscope and other gadgets to the nearest hydroponic center and went to work. He wasn’t allowed to carry spores back to the Goodwill, but there was no objection to his experimenting in Vyring itself. He made cultures and used forced-growth vitamin complexes and hoped for the best.
Pat Bronson went to see Skottery, head of Water Power. Skottery was a tall, saturnine Venusian who knew a lot about engineering and insisted on showing Bronson the models in his office before they settled down to a talk.
“How many power stations do you have?” Bronson asked.
“Third power twelve times four dozens. Forty-two dozen in this district.”
Nearly a million altogether, Bronson made it. “How many in actual operation now?” he carried on.
“About seventeen dozen.”
“That means three hundred idle-twenty-five dozen, that is. Isn’t the upkeep a factor?”
“Quite a factor,” Skottery acknowledged. “Aside from the fact that some of those stations are now permanently inoperable. The terrain changes rapidly. Erosion, you know. We’ll build one station on a gorge one year, and the next the water will be taking a different route. We build about a dozen a day.
But we salvage something from the old ones, of course.”
Bronson had a brainstorm. “No watershed?”
“Eh?”
The Earthman explained. Skottery shook his shoulders in negation. “We have a different type of vegetation here. There’s so much water that roots don’t have to strike deeply.”
“But they need soil?”
“No. The elements they need are in suspension in the water.”
Bronson described how watersheds worked. “Suppose you imported Earth plants and trees and forested the mountains. And built dams to retain your water. You’d have power all the time, and you’d need only a few big stations. And they’d be permanent.”
Skottery thought that over. “We have all the power we need.”
“But look at the expense!”
“Our rates cover that.”
“You could make more money-difals and sofals—”
“We have made exactly the same profits for three hundred years,” Skottery explained. “Our net remains constant. It works perfectly. You fail to understand our economic system, I see. Since we have everything we need, there’s no use making more money-not even a fal more.”
“Your competitors—”
“We have only three, and they are satisfied with their profits.”
“Suppose I interest them in my plan?”
“But you couldn’t,” Skottery said patiently. “They wouldn’t be interested any more than I am. I’m glad you dropped in. May you be worthy of your father’s name.”
“Ye soulless fish!” Bronson yelled, losing his temper. “Is there no red blood in your green-skinned carcass? Does no one on this world know what fight means?” He hammered a fist into his palm. “I wouldn’t be worthy of the old Seumas Bronson’s name unless I took a poke at that ugly phiz of yours right now—”
Skottery had pressed a button. Two large Venusians appeared. The head of Water Power pointed to Bronson.
“Remove it,” he said.
Captain Rufus Munn was in one of the telecasting studios with Bart Underhill. They were sitting beside Hakkapuy, owner of Veetsy-which might be freely translated as Wet Tingles. They were watching the telecast commercial plug for Hakkapuy’s product, on the ‘visor screen high on the wall.
A Venusian faded in, legs wide apart, arms akimbo. He raised one hand, six fingers spread wide.
“All men drink water. Water is good. Life needs water. Veetsy is good also. Four fals buys a globe of Veetsy. That is all.”
He vanished. Colors rippled across the screen and music played in off-beat rhythm. Munn turned to Hakkapuy.
“That isn’t advertising. You can’t get customers that way.”
“Well, it’s traditional,” Hakkapuy said weakly.
Munn opened the pack at his feet, brought out a tall glass beaker, and asked for a globe of Veetsy. It was given him, and he emptied the green fluid into his beaker. After that, he dropped in a half dozen colored balls and added a chunk of dry ice, which sank to the bottom. The balls went up and down rapidly.
“See?” Munn said. “Visual effect. The marbles are only slightly heavier than Veetsy. It’s the visual equivalent of Wet Tingles. Show that on the televisor, with a good sales talk, and see how your sales curve jumps.”
Hakkapuy looked interested. “I’m not sure—”
Munn dragged out a sheaf of papers and hammered at the breach in the wall. After a time a fat Venusian came in and said, “May you be worthy of your ancestors’ names.” Haklcapuy introduced him as Lorish.
“I thought Lorish had better see this. Would you mind going over it again?”
“Sure,” Munn said. “Now the principle of display windows—” When he had finished, Hakkapuy looked at Lorish, who shook his shoulders slowly.
“No,” he said.
Hakkapuy blew out his lips. “It would sell more Veetsy.”
“And upset the economy charts,” Lorish said. “No.”
Munn glared at him. “Why not? Hakkapuy owns Veetsy, doesn’t he? Who are you, anyhow-a censor?”
“I represent the advertisers’ tarkomar,” Lorish explained. “You see, advertising on Venus is strongly ritual. It is never changed. Why should it be? If we let Hakkapuy use your ideas, it would be unfair to other makers of soft drinks.”
“They could do the same thing,” Munn pointed out.
“A pyramiding competition leading to ultimate collapse. Hakkapuy makes enough money. Don’t you, Hakkapuy?”
“I suppose so.”
“Are you questioning the motives of the tarkomars?”
Hakkapuy gulped. “No,” he said hastily. “No, no, no! You’re perfectly right.”
Lorish looked at him. “Very well. As for you, Earthman, you had better not waste your time pursuing this-scheme-further.”