Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net sales resistance BY HENRY STILL _When Consumption means prosperity, when the Pulitzer Prize is awarded to advertising copy, when the Salesman is the most respected citizen in the land.... What chance has a non-consumer?_ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, August 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] On his way home from the concert, Perry Mansfield whistled a pleasant melody from an old Stravinsky classic. But then, troubled by his conscience and that of his psychiatrist, he stopped to study the program again. What was that modern symphony? Oh yes, "The Flivver". The music was supposed to have its roots in antiquity when someone started converting the metal wealth of the earth on an assembly line. Those screeching noises were drill presses and lathes and automatic hammers. The syrupy melody was the saintly salesman who disbursed the wealth of gadget and machine like melted butter across the bread of the land. Perry tried to like it. But he didn't. And that disturbed him. It meant his psychotherapy wasn't working. Dr. Stone would run him through the mechanical analyzer again and scold over the results. His simple act of walking home instead of riding an anti-gravity putterseat labeled him as a misfit. But it seemed silly to rent a flying stool just to travel two blocks. The fact was, he liked to walk. Perry sighed, discouraged, as he waited for the fluorescent scanner to identify his insides and open his front door. It opened. The lights came on. Recorded music, somewhat tuned to his mood, poured from concealed amplifiers. And then he noticed the note clipped to the door. His hand trembled as he took it down. The beautiful pastel gray of the enclosing envelope was an anachronism itself, and therefore marked unmistakably its almost priestly origin. The platinum engraved card inside said simply: _A Master Salesman has chosen you for his next call._ Perry placed the note carefully on a plastic table. He inhaled deeply and held it for a moment to steady his nerves. A _Master_ salesman. No one of that stature had ever called upon him before. It was an honor like--like a mayor or a bishop. It meant he had attained top level on the universal measuring stick--an A-number-1-plus-plus credit rating. The prospect should have saturated him with pleasure. But, like the sharp new music, it didn't. This card also meant he was expected to buy something. Something big and expensive. And he didn't want or need something big and expensive. He wished they'd leave him alone. Perry clapped his hand to his mouth as though someone might have heard the thought.