SALES TALK By H. F. CENTE _Bennett, the salesman, gave a lot of thought to a world that was going to the dogs. But he gave more thought to the Cosmic salesman who could make it a reality._ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories July 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] There are two things to know about a salesman, the first being that his present job is just to tide him over until the position he is really fitted for comes along. Big Bill Bennett was no exception to this first rule. Nor was he an exception to the second, of which more later. Just back from the Moon on a block selling assignment, he lounged into his branch office an hour late and told his boss that, though it hurt his unmarred conscience to quit when the whole corporation would feel the loss, this was it. His boss, who knew that Bill was as indispensable to Always-Stitch Sewing Machines as a bent needle, pretended great sorrow and wanted to know what Bill was going to do. "Well," said Bill, throwing it at him, "I'm going into the future. I've inherited a time-machine." "An alarm clock, no doubt?" "Don't be funny," said Bill, emptying his pockets and dropping half-used spools of thread, zipper feet, needles, tension disks and stray parts of machinery on the desk. "You know that uncle of mine, the one that died a few weeks ago--" "Oh. Yeah. He hated your guts." "Oh, no, he didn't. That was just a front. Deep down, he must have admired my intelligence, even when I argued with him about his screwball ideas." Bill smiled modestly. "He left everybody else nothing but money. Me he left the time-machine. Molly and I and the foxes are going into the future about two million years--_and we aren't coming back_." That'll show him what I think of him and his stupid sewing machines. The boss didn't believe the story about the time-machine. Still, no harm in kidding the dope along. "Aw, come on, Bill. The world isn't that much of a mess." "_Not yet_," said Bill, with all the ominous portent he could muster. "The planets are arsenals. Spaceships loaded with weapons and men. Earth is liable to be blown off the map anytime. We're getting out, me, Molly and the foxes." The boss had never seen Bill so worked up, even after he'd muffed a sale. "So the world is going to the dogs," he mused. Then he grinned. "I bet you wish it would go to the dogs." "Not a bad idea," said Bill morosely. "They'd do a heck of a lot better than man ever did." The boss said cautiously, "What does Molly think about this?" "The wife?" Bill's eyes glazed. "Oh. She does anything I want her to." The boss went through the amenities. He shook hands warmly. "I don't know how we'll ever get a man to replace you--" "Yeah, I realize that--"