Robert Silverberg: Company Store

Unless, Winger thought gloomily, that lunatic robot brings some more giant toads over from the next continent.

Wingert opened the packing crate and bared the Matter-Transmitter. It looked, he thought, like an office desk with elephantiasis of the side drawers; they bulged grotesquely, aproning out into shovel-shaped platforms, one labeled “ Send ” and the other “ Receive .”

An imposing-looking array of dials and meters completed the machine’s face. Wingert located the red Activator Stud along the north perimeter and jammed it down.

The Matter-Transmitter came quiveringly to life.

Dials clicked; meters registered. The squarish device seemed to have taken on existence of its own. The view screen flickered polychromatically, then cleared.

A mild pudgy face stared out at Wingert.

“Hello. I’m Smathers, from the Earth Office. I’m the company contact man for Transmitters AZ-1061 right through BF-80. Can I have your name, registry number, and coordinates?”

“Roy Wingert, Number 76-032-100. The name of this planet is Quellac, and I don’t know the coordinates offhand. If you’ll give me a minute to check my contract—”

“No need of that,” Smathers said. “Just let me have the serial number of your Matter-Transmitter. It’s inscribed on the plate along the west perimeter.”

Wingert found it after a moment’s search. “AZ-1142.”

“That checks. W611, welcome to the Company, Colonist Wingert. How’s your planet?”

“Not so good,” Wingert said.

“How so?”

“It’s inhabited. By hostile aliens. And my contract said I was being sent to an uninhabited world.”

“Read it again, Colonist Wingert. As I recall, it simply said you would meet no hostile creatures where you were. Our survey team reported some difficulties on the wild continent to your west but—”

“You see these dead things here?”

“Yes.”

“I killed them. To save my own neck. They attacked me about a minute after the Company ship dropped me off here.”

“They’re obviously strays from that other continent,” Smathers said. “Most unusual. Be sure to report any further difficulties of this sort.”

“Sure,” Wingert said. “Big comfort that is.”

“To change the subject,” Smathers said frigidly, “I wish to remind you that the Company stands ready to serve you. In the words of the contract, ‘All necessities of life will be sent via Matter-Transmitter.’ That’s in the Manual too. Would you care to make your first order now? The Company is extremely anxious that its employees are well taken care of.”

Wingert frowned. “Well, I haven’t even unpacked, you know. I don’t think I need anything yet—except—yes! Send me some old fashioned razor blades, will you? And a tube of shaving cream. I forgot to pack mine, and I can’t stand these new vibroshaves.”

Smathers emitted a suppressed chuckle. “You’re not going to grow a beard?”

“No,” Wingert said stiffly. “They itch.”

“Very well, then. I’ll have the routing desk ship a supply of blades, and cream to Machine AZ-1142. So long for now, Colonist Wingert, and good luck. The Company sends its best wishes.”

“Thanks,” Wingert said sourly. “Same to you.”

He turned away from the blank screen and glanced beyond the confines of his force-field. All seemed quiet, so he snapped off the generator.

Quellac, he thought, had the makings of a damned fine world, except for the beasts on the western continent. The planet was Earth-type, sixth in orbit around a small yellow main-sequence star. The soil was red with iron salts, but looked fertile enough, judging from the thick vegetation pushing up all around. Not far away a sluggish little stream wound through a sloping valley and vanished in a hazy cloud of purple mist near the horizon. It would be a soft enough life, he thought, if no more toads showed up. Or worms with teeth.

The contract specified that his job was to “prepare and otherwise survey the world assigned, for the purpose of admitting future colonists under the auspices of Planetary Colonization, Inc.” He was an advance agent, sent out by the Company to smooth the bugs out of the planet before the regular colonists arrived.

For this they gave him $1000 a month, plus “necessities of life” via Matter-Transmitter.

There were worse ways of making a living, Wingert told himself.

A lazy green-edged cloud was drifting over the forest. He pushed aside a blackened alien husk and sprawled out on the warm red soil, leaning against the Matter-Transmitter’s comforting bulk. Before him were the eight or nine crates containing his equipment and possessions.

He had made the three-week journey from Earth to Quellac aboard the first-class liner Mogred. Matter-transmission would have been faster, but a Transmitter could handle a bulk of 150 pounds, which was Wingert’s weight, only in three 50-pound installments. That idea didn’t appeal to him. Besides, there had been no Matter-Transmitter set on Quellac to receive him, which made the whole problem fairly academic.

A bird sang softly. Wingert yawned. It was early afternoon, and he didn’t feel impatient to set up his shelter. The Manual said it took but an hour to unpack. Later, then, when the sun was sinking behind those cerise mountains, he would blow his bubble home and unpack his goods. Right now he just wanted to relax, to let the tension of that first fierce encounter drain away.

“Pardon me, sir,” said a familiar sharp voice. “I happened to overhear that order for razor blades, and I think it’s only fair to inform you that I carry a product of much greater face appeal.”

Wingert was on his feet in an instant, glaring at the robot. “I told you to go away. A-W-A-Y.”

Undisturbed, the robot produced a small translucent tube filled with a glossy green paste. “This,” XL-ad41 said, “is Gloglam’s Depilating Fluid, twelve units—ah, one dollar, that is—per tube.”

Wingert shook his head. “I get my goods free, from Terra. Besides, I like to shave with a razor. Please go away.”

The robot looked about as crestfallen as a robot could possibly look: “You don’t seem to understand that your refusal to purchase from me reflects adversely on my abilities, and may result in my being dismantled at the end of this test. Therefore I insist you approach my merchandise with an open mind.”

A sudden grin of salesman-like inspiration illuminated XL-ad41’s face. “I’ll take the liberty of offering you this free sample. Try Gloglam’s Depilating Fluid and I can guarantee you’ll never use a bladerazor again.”

The robot poured a small quantity of the green fluid into a smaller vial and handed it to Wingert. “Here. I’ll return shortly to hear your decision.”

The robot departed, trampling down the shrubbery with its massive treads. Wingert scratched his stubbly chin and regarded the vial quizzically.

Gloglam’s Depilating Fluid, eh? And XL-ad41, the robot traveling salesman. He smiled wryly. On Earth they bombarded you with singing commercials, and here in the wilds of deep space robots from Densobol came descending on you trying to sell shaving cream.

Well, if the robot salesman were anything like its Terran counterparts, the only way he’d be able to get rid of it would be by buying something from it. And particularly since the poor robot seemed to be on a trial run, and might be destroyed if it didn’t make sales. As a onetime salesman himself, Wingert felt sympathy.

Cautiously he squeezed a couple of drops of Gloglam’s Depilating Fluid into his palm and rubbed it against one cheek. The stuff was cool and slightly sharp, with a pleasant twang. He rubbed it in for a moment, wondering if it might be going to dissolve his jawbone, then pulled out his pocket mirror.