Part 24 (2/2)
”Aha! Say, what do they do with face cream on Sirloin Twelve? Polish their chitin?”
”I beg your pardon? Oh, actually I believe they want to use it more as a cooking oil.”
”Wonder what they cook? Well, this looks like a pretty easy route, Miss Kripp. Straight through the Sirius station, one transfer, right?”
”I believe so, Mr. Benedict. And I do hope we can get this little paper in a hurry, because we have rather an early date on our order.”
”We'll try. Now, what does your cream look like? Are you s.h.i.+pping more than one kind, or all the same? Does it gurgle, or ripple, I mean rattle? How about odor? I imagine it's perfumed?”
”All just like this.” She produced a gold and orchid jar from her attache case.
”Hm-m-m. No gurgle, no rattle-quite a smell though. You realize, Miss Krisp, that what might smell lovely to us often has very different, even harmful effects on alien life forms? I don't mean the Sirloin customers, evidently they know the product. I mean the transmitter crews on the Sirius station. Do you have any kind of vaportight wrap for this?”
The speak flashed on, revealing his receptionist engaged in blowing on her nail polish.
”There are, uh, three thousand and seventeen little black boxes here, Mr. Benedict. From Mr.
Marmon.”
”Send 'em up to Jim right now quick, Jackie. Wait, transcribe this to go with: Jim, we have a product variation problem with these, on Candlepower. Gas somethings, variation unknown. Some will be O.K., some not, note serial numbers. Show them to Freggle but go very easy. Don't let him faint, start outside the door, comprenday? And Jim, make it fast. Client's hung up at station. I promised answers today.... Yes, 'scuse me, Miss Klasp?”
”It so happens, Mr. Benedict, that we do have a s.p.a.cewrap for our Joanna Lovebody Creme.” She held up a golden egg. ”Those lovely s.p.a.ce-girls have to keep their beauty glowing-fresh too, you know.”
”Never been off-planet. Well, that's pretty but it doesn't look too practical. Miss Cameera!
Where's Cameera, Jackie?”
A very young kitten tiptoed in.
”Sweetie, you take these jars up to our Sirius representative. Mr. Splinx, you know.”
”Oh, Mr. Benedict!” Her chin quivered. ”Can't you send them up by the tube? You remember what happened last time!”
”Splinx won't open his tube since we sent him that Martian Mau-Mau kit. Cameera, honey, you'll be all right. Just stand about ten feet away. Tell him I want a verbal report as soon as he's satisfied, comprenday? And remember, no humming or whistling. And don't tap your feet.”
Miss Cameera tiptoed out, slowly. ”New girl,” said Benedict. ”Now what I had in mind, Miss Kling, is one of our all-null s.h.i.+pping packs. As a public service we've had some small sizes made up-” He was pulling plastic ovoids out of his desk. ”If your product can be s.h.i.+pped in these it'll save you time. And money.”
”What happened last time?” breathed Miss Krupp. ”I mean, to your a.s.sistant?”
”Oh, just a little administrative misunderstanding, Miss Kupp. Different cultures, different ways.
Now look. If your cream checks out O.K. with Splinx, and you can use the approved pack, we can give you a provisional clearance today on the Sirius route and you can s.h.i.+p tomorrow. How's that?”
The phone chimed.
”Exceegeecee-what? Oh, no!” Benedict flung himself back in his chair. ”Well, but that's not ourskin, the clinet's in the clear. That's Galactic Transfer's problem... O.K., sure I'll tell him. He can cover it. But it's not his fault, comprenday? O.K.-you just look those packs over, Miss Kreem, I'll be right with you. Jackie! Get me Murgatroyd, Terran Dynamics, will you?”
His intercom screen was flas.h.i.+ng but no image appeared.
”Splinx here,” intoned a deep woodwind voice. ”I cannot see you, Mr. Benedict.”
”Something's blocking your visuals,” Benedict told the voice. ”Wait-h.e.l.lo, Murgatroyd? This is Benedict over at Exceegeecee. Listen, on that s.h.i.+pment of power-packs through Nutmeat Nine, you know that fiber plate you have on the back? Can you cover it with an insulating layer from here in?... No, not your problem, your s.h.i.+pment got through fine. What happened, the crew on Nutmeat had some females standing around when your s.h.i.+pment came through and there's some kind of electrowhoosis effect-electrostatic, electroph.o.r.etic, whatever. Anyway it turns out those plates are very s.e.xy for Nutmeat Nine females. Not the males, we cleared them. The girls' feelers are charged different. So they got in the crates-you know they're teensy-and your machines arrived in the Icerock terminal with scads of these little girl mice plastered all over them. The Icerock crew are big herbivores and they got scared and stampeded. And Nutmeat is suing Galactic Transfer for involuntary concubinage and violation of the Narcotics Pact or something. Not your problem, absolutely not-those girls had no business being there. But I said we'd ask you if you could cover those plates. Just as a precautionary courtesy, comprenday? Great, thanks!... Yes, Mr. Splinx?”
The intercom screen had now cleared to reveal a large warty head featuring a single, benevolent-appearing eye.
”I woould say, ookay, friend Benedict,” Splinx announced. ”Boot the wrapper is noot vapoor-tight.
Noot at all. Hoowever, the fragrance is noot unattractive. Resembling perchance an eel-farm by moonlight.”
”Not too attractive, I hope. Pilferage?”
”Perchance. Joost a little. Boot the woorkers will noot be soo chemoo-sensitive as I.” He flicked his domed brow with a tentacle, elegantly.
”Thanks, Splinx. Well, there you are, Miss Ktess. Splinx means you have to use our wrapper. And seal it tight; when he says there may be pilferage, you'll lose half the s.h.i.+pment. That big squid thinks he can smell better because he's an aristocrat, but we don't find any difference. Insure them, too. Now, are you certain you've told me everything-about the product, I mean? This sample is exactly like them all?
It doesn't have any latent effects or qualities, say heat-generation for example?”
Miss Krupp reflected charmingly, studying her slim silver toes.
”No, Mr. Benedict. That's our standard Joanna Lovebody Creme, known to millions of delighted users.”
”O.K. Here's your provisional clearance, signed. I've marked the pilferage warning, comprenday?
Hand this to Jackie outside, she'll have the wrappers sent over.”
”Oh, thank you so much, Mr. Benedict!” Her hand lingered warmly in his. ”I couldn't help noticing you speak French. How very recherche!”
Benedict beamed. ”I want to thank you for your cooperation, Miss Klutch, I only wish all our clients were as gracious as you.”
The phone chimed.
”Benedict here.” He looked regretfully after the departing peekaboos. ”Oh, h.e.l.lo, Mr. Bronk. Well, yes, I certainly did appreciate the offer Montgomery Roebuck made me. But as I told you, I think my job is here.... No, it isn't really the money, of course that's a lot more than the government pays me, about three times.... Yeah, the work sounds very attractive, Outplanet Sales Coordinator sounds great. It's just that I've been building up this department here and it's hard to quit. I'm sure you'll find somebody else....
Oh, sure, if I change my mind. Well, thanks a lot, Mr. Bronk, yeah, same to you. 'Bye.”Benedict turned to his intercom screen, where a man in a lab coat was waiting.
”How're you coming with Freggle and those gas gizmos, Jim?”
”Just wanted to tell you, T.B., we've run through a couple of hundred of Marmon's samples, and we're not getting just two types. More like five. Neutral, acutely noxious, mildly euphoric, soporific, and something else he can't or won't describe. Funny thing is, I think I get a little of it myself. Does that remind you of anything?”
”Hm-m-m. Well, I suppose it's possible. Keep at it- skip the staff meeting. Thanks a lot, Jim.”
”Oh, by the way, Freggle wants to register a complaint about the chow. Those last sturgeons were below par, he says, and the seaweed sauce stinks. He likes the Russian stuff better. Can we get him some?”
”He would, twice as expensive. Well, we'll see. It's spring now, maybe we can get local salad for the herbivores and use the savings for Freggle. But give him a pep talk. Keep the galaxy spinning, where would Candlepower be without the transmitter, tra-la-la.... Hey, what happened to your clothes? Not you, Jim, 'scuse me.”
Miss Cameera had burst in through a side door, clutching the two cold-cream jars.
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