The clerk clucked sympathetically. "You wouldn't want to do that ... Plus five percent sales tax. Thank you, sir. Full instructions are inside."
Caswell thanked him, lifted the Regenerator in both arms and hurried out.
After figuring his commission, the clerk smiled to himself and lighted a cigarette. His enjoyment was spoiled when the manager, a large man impressively equipped with pince-nez, marched out of his office.
"Haskins," the manager said, "I thought I asked you to rid yourself of that filthy habit."
"Yes, Mr. Follansby, sorry, sir," Haskins apologized, snubbing out the cigarette. "I'll use the display Denicotinizer at once. Made rather a good sale, Mr. Follansby. One of the big Rex Regenerators."
"Really?" said the manager, impressed. "It isn't often we--wait a minute! You didn't sell the floor model, did you?"
"Why--why, I'm afraid I did, Mr. Follansby. The customer was in such a terrible hurry. Was there any reason--"
Mr. Follansby gripped his prominent white forehead in both hands, as though he wished to rip it off. "Haskins, I told you. I must have told you! That display Regenerator was a Martian model. For giving mechanotherapy to Martians."
"Oh," Haskins said. He thought for a moment. "Oh."
Mr. Follansby stared at his clerk in grim silence.