"Young man," the Master said thinly. "You don't realize what dangerous ground you're on. If you do not cease this rudeness at once, I'll report you to the council."
"Report and be damned! I don't need your gadget and I'm not going to buy it. Now get out!"
Marlboro was blue with rage. He backed uncertainly toward the door and stopped.
"This borders on sacrilege," he whispered. "You'll hear from me again. Soon."
Perry slammed that door, too, and walked jauntily to work.
He heard from the Master Salesman again—exactly two hours later. The message tube delivered a summons ordering him into City Court. That afternoon.
Perry went. He had never been in court before. He was frightened and regretful that he had been so abrupt with Marlboro. But he resented the invasion of his privacy and to bolster his courage, he built that anger into a fair rage by the time he reached the courtroom.
Marlboro was there. A judge was there. And on each of two tables squatted a metal box with voice tubes. A bailiff guided him to his table and placed the voice tube in his hand.
"You're late Mr. Mansfield," the judge snapped. "Justice must be swift and you're impeding it." He lifted a printed card and scanned it near-sightedly for a moment. "You're here charged with violating the public interest by failing to purchase an item which you are able to consume and which you can afford to buy."