"But what do you want me to sell?"
"Anything. Everything."
"I don't—" lamely—"understand."
"Whatever is needed. Wherever it is needed. We've already rented a warehouse in your home city. It's stocked to meet almost any contingency. You sell anything, Heck. You sell it, though, when and where it is absolutely needed. It's a salesman's paradise: no one can refuse you. No one."
"But—Patty! I'll have to quit Weatherby. And Patty—"
"You're a salesman, aren't you? A passionate salesman? Don't you love Patty? Sell her the idea of coming along as your secretary. You can do it—if anyone can."
"But, but—"
"Be firm, Heck! Believe in yourself. Here." The little man held out something. It was a business card. "Your business card," the little man said. The card said: HECTOR FINCH, Inc. We Sell Anything, Anywhere, Anytime. There was an address and a telephone number on the card. Like it or not, unless the little fellow were insane, Heck was in business.
Hector Finch blinked. The little man was gone. Hector spent the next hour wandering around the convention floor, seeking him. He was nowhere. It was as if the floor had swallowed him up. Maybe I imagined the whole thing, Heck thought. He'd heard of people getting the DT's, even if they didn't drink excessively....
Just then the blonde of last night came undulating across the convention floor. She was a sales analyst for Jason Spooner, Inc., Weatherby's chief competitor. She had a figure which Heck could only regard as fantastic. She looked like a calendar pin-up girl in three dimensions. Bite-size, Heck thought. I mean, life-size. Bite-size and ready to eat. That was an ad.... Hooo, I'm high. I'm high as the proverbial kite.