"What's wrong with your own people? I mean, Pete, it is not your fault there are so many rackets--uh, taxes--and middlemen and agencies and et cetera. That is just the way Earth is set up these days." * * * * * Matheny's finger stabbed in the general direction of Doran's pajama top. "Exactly. And who set it up that way? Earthmen. We Martians are babes in the desert. What chance do we have to earn dollars on the scale we need them, in competition with corporations which could buy and sell our whole planet before breakfast? Why, we couldn't afford three seconds of commercial time on a Lullaby Pillow 'cast. What we need, what we have to hire, is an executive who knows Earth, who's an Earthman himself. Let him tell us what will appeal to your people, and how to dodge the tax bite and--and--well, you see how it goes, that sort of, uh, thing." Matheny felt his eloquence running down and grabbed for the second bottle of beer. "But where do I start?" he asked plaintively, for his loneliness smote him anew. "I'm just a college professor at home. How would I even get to see--" "It might be arranged," said Doran in a thoughtful tone. "It just might. How much could you pay this fellow?" "A hundred megabucks a year, if he'll sign a five-year contract. That's Earth years, mind you." "I'm sorry to tell you this, Pete," said Doran, "but while that is not bad money, it is not what a high-powered sales scientist gets in Newer York. Plus his retirement benefits, which he would lose if he quit where he is now at. And I am sure he would not want to settle on Mars permanently." "I could offer a certain amount of, uh, lagniappe," said Matheny. "That is, well, I can draw up to a hundred megabucks myself for, uh, expenses and, well ... let me buy you a drink!" Doran's black eyes frogged at him. "You might at that," said the Earthman very softly. "Yes, you might at that." Matheny found himself warming. Gus Doran was an authentic bobber. A hell of a swell chap. He explained modestly that he was a free-lance business consultant and it was barely possible that he could arrange some contacts.... "No, no, no commission, all done in the interest of interplanetary friendship ... well, anyhow, let's not talk business now. If you have got to stick to beer, Pete, make it a chaser to akvavit. What is akvavit? Well, I will just take and show you." A hell of a good bloke. He knew some very funny stories, too, and he laughed at Matheny's, though they were probably too rustic for a big-city taste like his. "What I really want," said Matheny, "what I really want--I mean what Mars really needs, get me?--is a confidence man." "A what?" "The best and slickest one on Earth, to operate a world-size con game for us and make us some real money." "Con man? Oh. A slipstring." "A con by any other name," said Matheny, pouring down an akvavit. * * * * *