of them stood together, receiving the mental impulses emanating from the Martian creature which had come here to Earth with no hostile plans, no capacity to cause trouble. The papoola loved them, too, just as they loved it; it told them so right now—it conveyed to them the gentleness, the warm hospitality which it was accustomed to on its own planet.
What a wonderful place Mars must be, the man and woman were no doubt thinking, as the papoola poured out its recollections, its attitude. Gosh, it’s not cold and schizoid, like Earth society; nobody spies on anybody else, grades their endless relpol tests, reports on them to building Security Committees week in, week out. Think of it, the papoola was telling them as they stood rooted to the sidewalk, unable to pass on. You’re your own boss, there, free to work your farm land, believe your own beliefs, become
yourself.
Look at you, afraid even to stand here listening. Afraid to—
In a nervous voice the man said to his wife, “We’d better . . . go.”
“Oh no,” the boy said pleadingly. “I mean, gee, how often do you get to talk to a papoola? It must belong to that jalopy jungle, there.” The boy pointed, and Al found himself under the man’s keen, observing scrutiny.
The man said, “Of course. They brought it here to sell jalopies. It’s working on us right now, softening us up.” The enchantment visibly faded from his face. “There’s the fellow sitting in there operating it.”
But, the papoola thought, what I tell you is still true. Even if it is a sales pitch. You could go there, to Mars, yourself. You and your family can see with your own eyes—if you have the courage to break free. Can you do it? Are you a real man? Buy a Loony Luke jalopy; buy it while you still have the chance, because you know that someday, maybe not so long from now, the NP is going to crack down. And there will be no more jalopy jungles. No more crack in the wall of the authoritarian society through which a few—a few lucky people—can escape.
Fiddling with the controls at his midsection. Al turned up the gain. The force of the papoola’s psyche increased, drawing the man in, taking control of him. You must buy a jalopy, the papoola urged. Easy payment plan, service warranty, many models to choose from. This is the time to sign; don’t delay. The man took a step toward the lot. Hurry, the papoola told him. Any second now the authorities may close down the lot and your opportunity will be gone forever.
“This—is how they work it,” the man said with difficulty. “The animal snares people. Hypnosis. We have to leave.” But he did not leave; it was too late: he was going to buy a jalopy, and Al, in the office with his control box, was reeling the man in.
Leisurely, Al rose to his feet. Time to go out and close the deal. He shut off the papoola, opened the office door and stepped outside onto the lot—
And saw a once-familiar figure threading its way among the jalopies, toward him. It was his onetime buddy Ian Duncan and he had not seen him in years. Good grief, Al thought. What’s he want? And at a time like this!
“Al,” Ian Duncan called, gesturing. “Can I talk with you a second? You’re not too busy, are you?” Perspiring and pale, he came closer, looking about in a frightened way. He had deteriorated since Al had last seen him.
“Listen,” Al said, with anger. But already it was too late; the couple and their boy had broken away and were moving rapidly on down the sidewalk.
“I didn’t, um, mean to bother you,” Ian mumbled.
“You’re not bothering me,” Al said as he gloomily watched the three prospects depart. “Well, what’s the trouble, Ian? You sure as hell don’t look very well. Are you sick? Come on inside the office.” He led him inside and shut the door.
Ian said, “I came across my jug. Remember when we were trying to make it to the White House? Al, we have to try once more. Honest to god, I can’t go on like this. I can’t
What a wonderful place Mars must be, the man and woman were no doubt thinking, as the papoola poured out its recollections, its attitude. Gosh, it’s not cold and schizoid, like Earth society; nobody spies on anybody else, grades their endless relpol tests, reports on them to building Security Committees week in, week out. Think of it, the papoola was telling them as they stood rooted to the sidewalk, unable to pass on. You’re your own boss, there, free to work your farm land, believe your own beliefs, become
yourself.
Look at you, afraid even to stand here listening. Afraid to—
In a nervous voice the man said to his wife, “We’d better . . . go.”
“Oh no,” the boy said pleadingly. “I mean, gee, how often do you get to talk to a papoola? It must belong to that jalopy jungle, there.” The boy pointed, and Al found himself under the man’s keen, observing scrutiny.
The man said, “Of course. They brought it here to sell jalopies. It’s working on us right now, softening us up.” The enchantment visibly faded from his face. “There’s the fellow sitting in there operating it.”
But, the papoola thought, what I tell you is still true. Even if it is a sales pitch. You could go there, to Mars, yourself. You and your family can see with your own eyes—if you have the courage to break free. Can you do it? Are you a real man? Buy a Loony Luke jalopy; buy it while you still have the chance, because you know that someday, maybe not so long from now, the NP is going to crack down. And there will be no more jalopy jungles. No more crack in the wall of the authoritarian society through which a few—a few lucky people—can escape.
Fiddling with the controls at his midsection. Al turned up the gain. The force of the papoola’s psyche increased, drawing the man in, taking control of him. You must buy a jalopy, the papoola urged. Easy payment plan, service warranty, many models to choose from. This is the time to sign; don’t delay. The man took a step toward the lot. Hurry, the papoola told him. Any second now the authorities may close down the lot and your opportunity will be gone forever.
“This—is how they work it,” the man said with difficulty. “The animal snares people. Hypnosis. We have to leave.” But he did not leave; it was too late: he was going to buy a jalopy, and Al, in the office with his control box, was reeling the man in.
Leisurely, Al rose to his feet. Time to go out and close the deal. He shut off the papoola, opened the office door and stepped outside onto the lot—
And saw a once-familiar figure threading its way among the jalopies, toward him. It was his onetime buddy Ian Duncan and he had not seen him in years. Good grief, Al thought. What’s he want? And at a time like this!
“Al,” Ian Duncan called, gesturing. “Can I talk with you a second? You’re not too busy, are you?” Perspiring and pale, he came closer, looking about in a frightened way. He had deteriorated since Al had last seen him.
“Listen,” Al said, with anger. But already it was too late; the couple and their boy had broken away and were moving rapidly on down the sidewalk.
“I didn’t, um, mean to bother you,” Ian mumbled.
“You’re not bothering me,” Al said as he gloomily watched the three prospects depart. “Well, what’s the trouble, Ian? You sure as hell don’t look very well. Are you sick? Come on inside the office.” He led him inside and shut the door.
Ian said, “I came across my jug. Remember when we were trying to make it to the White House? Al, we have to try once more. Honest to god, I can’t go on like this. I can’t
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