A Message From Our Sponsor By HENRY SLESAR Illustrated by LEE _The foot-in-the-door technique would work perfectly for any salesman--if he had an invisible foot!_ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Infinity Science Fiction, October 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] "And that was Smoky Donahue's Western Swingsters, playing _Red Dust_ for all you Martian fans out there. Now let's take a look at the new recordings, hot off the presses this week from all over the system. Looks like we have a real treat for you tonight, folks! There's a brand-new label from way out in outer space. Yes, sir, the very _first_ record put on wax by the Martian Recording Company, and it ought to be a lulu. We'll spin it for you in just a minute, but first, here's a message from our sponsor, the Oxygen Corporation of America--Earth's oldest and finest manufacturers of compressed oxygen equipment. "Friends, when you're scooting around in your little rocket roadster, do you ever stop to think that your fine vehicle deserves nothing but the best in equipment and accessories? Well, next time, take a look at your oxygen tanks. Are you still using the cumbersome, old, outmoded tank, with ugly valves and low capacity? Wouldn't you rather have the new, streamlined Oxco tank that gives you months of service without refilling? Models cost as low as four thousand dollars, and they're guaranteed up to a full year. Call your local rocket supply store today, and get all the facts. When you see the new Oxco, you'll know why we say ... Oxco never leaves you breathless! "Well, I see Jonesy, our control board operator, waving at me like mad, folks. He wants to hear this new disc from Mars, too. So--without further ado--here we go. It's on the Canal label, and it's called ... _Melancholy_!" * * * * * The boss slammed the file drawer shut in disgust. The Martian, standing before his desk, shuffled his feet and rotated his cap with his third hand. "Displeasing you?" he said. "Come back other time do?" "No!" Huber pointed to the chair. "You sit down. We're going to straighten this whole thing out right now." He reached across the desk and snapped on the intercom. "Davis!" he said. "We're going to have a foremen's meeting. This minute!" Davis, at the other end, was inclined to argue, but the boss stopped him. "Don't tell me we're busy! I know our production schedule better than you do. Get the foremen up here right away!" The foremen shuffled in ten minutes later. They looked sheepish, like small boys caught in the jam pot. Huber got right to the point. "Your boys have been picking on Chafnu again. _And I won't stand for it!_" He slapped the desk with a board-like palm for emphasis.