"Oh, we're not that poor! My expense allowance assumes I will entertain quite a bit."
Doran's brows lifted a few minutes of arc. "You're here on business, then?"
"Yes. I told you we haven't any tourists. I was sent to hire a business manager for the Martian export trade."
"What's wrong with your own people? I mean, Pete, it is not your fault there are so many rackets—uh, taxes—and middlemen and agencies and et cetera. That is just the way Earth is set up these days."
Matheny's finger stabbed in the general direction of Doran's pajama top. "Exactly. And who set it up that way? Earthmen. We Martians are babes in the desert. What chance do we have to earn dollars on the scale we need them, in competition with corporations which could buy and sell our whole planet before breakfast? Why, we couldn't afford three seconds of commercial time on a Lullaby Pillow 'cast. What we need, what we have to hire, is an executive who knows Earth, who's an Earthman himself. Let him tell us what will appeal to your people, and how to dodge the tax bite and—and—well, you see how it goes, that sort of, uh, thing."
Matheny felt his eloquence running down and grabbed for the second bottle of beer.
"But where do I start?" he asked plaintively, for his loneliness smote him anew. "I'm just a college professor at home. How would I even get to see—"
"It might be arranged," said Doran in a thoughtful tone. "It just might. How much could you pay this fellow?"
"A hundred megabucks a year, if he'll sign a five-year contract. That's Earth years, mind you."