Lucy Wilson: “Sh-h-h! Here they come.”
Smiling, charming—and still not an order form in sight—Ben and Betty got back to their guests. Another half hour. Barboy was passing around with nightcaps. Lucy Wilson nervously put a reducegar to her sophisticated, peppermint-striped lips.
Quickly Ben Tilman was on his feet. He pulled a small, [p 33] metal cylinder from his pocket with a flourish and held it out on his open palm toward Lucy. A tiny robot Statue of Liberty climbed from the cylinder, walked across Ben’s hand, smiled, curtsied and reached out to light the reducegar with her torch, piping in a high, thin voice, “Amalgamated reducegars are cooler, lighter, finer.”
“Ben! How simply darling!”
“Do you like it? It’s a new thing from Amalgamated NovelDiv. You can program it for up to a hundred selective sell phrases, audio or visio key. Every salesman should have one. Makes a marvelous gift, and surprisingly reasonable.”
“So that’s it, Ben. I just love it!”
“Good! It’s yours, compliments of Amalgamated.”
“But—then you’re not selling them? Well, what on earth—?”
“Damn it, Ben,” Fred Stoddard broke in, “come on, man, out with it. What in hell are you selling? You’ve given us the shakes. What is it? The Barboy set? It’s great. If I can scrape up the down payment, I’ll—”
“After we furnish a nursery with a decent Nana, Fred Stoddard,” Nancy snapped, “and get a second soar-kart. Ben isn’t selling Barboys anyway, are you. Ben? It is that sweet, sweet Nana, isn’t it? And I do want one, the whole nursery, Playmate and all,