"I'd put money behind it." Acidly Percy said, "You can't win the public opinion by being reasonable. You gave a nice smooth speech. Bland ... folksy. You laid everything on the line where they could see it."
"And that's wrong, is it?" Walton closed his eyes for a moment. "Why?"
"Because they won't listen! You gave them a sermon when you should have been punching at them! Sweet reason! You can't be sweet if you want to sell your product to seven billion morons!"
"Is that all they are?" Walton asked. "Just morons?"
Percy chuckled. "In the long run, yes. Give them their daily bread and their one room to live in, and they won't give a damn what happens to the world. FitzMaugham sold them Popeek the way you'd sell a car without turbines. He hoodwinked them into buying something they hadn't thought about or wanted."
"They needed Popeek, whether they wanted it or not. No one needs a car without turbines."
"Bad analogy, then," Percy said. "But it's true. They don't care a blast about Popeek, except where it affects them. If you'd told them that these aliens would kill them all if they didn't act nice, you'd have gotten across. But this sweetness and light business—oh, no, Roy. It just doesn't work."
"Is that all you have to tell me?" Walton asked.
"I guess so. I just wanted to show you where you had a big chance and muffed it. Where we could have helped you out if you'd let us. I don't want you to think I'm being rude or critical, Roy; I'm just trying to be helpful."
"Okay, Lee. Get out."