"You scrape a fender on these models," Wheeler said doggedly, "and you have to get a whole new paint job. It costs money."
Manning looked coldly at the fat man sitting next to him.
"The government's got money; it can afford it."
The fat man shrugged and changed the subject. "How did the biopsy come out?"
"I don't know." Somewhere deep inside Manning a dozen tiny hands plucked a pain nerve. "The doctor will send me a report in a couple of days." The doctor had already told him that morning but he didn't want Wheeler to know. "Let's forget it. Who's on the list this time?"
Wheeler pulled a crumpled newspaper ad out of his pocket. "The Forsythe Company. They make carburetors."
Manning leaned back in the seat and stared a long time at the faded store fronts that lined the street. He was only half listening to Wheeler. Malignancy, the doctor had said. He knew what that meant. Curtains. Humpty Dumpty was splashed all over the pavement and all the high voltage x-ray machines and all the little isotope capsules from the AEC weren't going to help a bit.
He forced the thought into the back of his mind and locked and barred the mental door.
"What's the sales pitch?"
"A hundred miles to the gallon."