The fact was, he liked to walk.
Perry sighed, discouraged, as he waited for the fluorescent scanner to identify his insides and open his front door.
It opened. The lights came on. Recorded music, somewhat tuned to his mood, poured from concealed amplifiers.
And then he noticed the note clipped to the door.
His hand trembled as he took it down. The beautiful pastel gray of the enclosing envelope was an anachronism itself, and therefore marked unmistakably its almost priestly origin.
The platinum engraved card inside said simply:
A Master Salesman has chosen you for his next call.
Perry placed the note carefully on a plastic table. He inhaled deeply and held it for a moment to steady his nerves.
A Master salesman. No one of that stature had ever called upon him before. It was an honor like—like a mayor or a bishop. It meant he had attained top level on the universal measuring stick—an A-number-1-plus-plus credit rating.
The prospect should have saturated him with pleasure. But, like the sharp new music, it didn't.