"Mister," said Fred over his shoulder as they went down the stairs, "if you're trying to sell me something—"
"I don't want a penny from you, Mr. Williams."
"Then what—"
"We would merely appreciate a few hours of your time, at your convenience."
"A few hours?" Fred said, distressed. By working double shift in the automation-parts supply house, he could just keep going, financially and physically. The question of mental fatigue was exclusively Elsie's province and there he had a rough working technique for responding without really listening. His job called for no mental effort greater than reading a shipping list, and his home life certainly didn't. Most of the time he had nothing in his mind at all; the days passed faster that way. But Elsie and the job kept him tired. Odd how just not listening wrung you out and drained you off.
"We are, of course, very glad to offer you compensation for your time, Mr. Williams," said the man.
Elsie would just drink it away. He'd have to haul crates of bourbon instead of cans of beer, that's all.
"Not interested," he said.
That was it. That was the way to keep a salesman stalled. Just "not interested." Keep saying it and nothing else. They all said they were not salesmen and weren't selling anything. Every salesman he had ever met at the door said that. Galactic Encyclopedia, Nuclear Brush, Your Venus Vacation, video subscriptions, even the Federal numbers game, they all started out by offering you a special opportunity and were not selling you anything. The man was still talking.
"Not interested," Fred said.