[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Startling Stories, March 1948.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The President of the Chamber of Commerce of Wheedonville by the Seawas stately and rather terrifying in his measured wrath. Nor was hisperoration against the dapper young-old man who sat at the foot of thelong mahogany conference table lessened by the knowledge that he hadthe full support of the rest of that august body.
But Wiley Cordes, on whom all this anger was focussed, appearedsingularly uncowed by the disfavor in which he basked. As a seasonedresort promotion expert he was not unacquainted with municipal ire. Somany unforeseen factors could send resort trade swarming to the wrongresort—as had happened in this case.
Having talked himself into the fat job of putting Wheedonville on themap as the sea-side town where vacationers would have the amusementworld at their feet, he had been forced to sit by and watch the bulk ofthe available tourist vacation trade pass to Burden Bay, sixty milesto the south. It was too bad, of course, but a fellow could only do somuch.
"... and despite your definite assurance—in fact your promise—thatretail trade in Wheedonville by the Sea would pick up a minimum oftwenty-five per cent, in the year you entered the employment of thisChamber, it has decreased by more than thirty per cent. In thissame period the retail trade in Burden Bay has risen by almost fortyper cent. I and the Chamber whose spokesman I am would appreciate anexplanation."
Gathering the skirts of his morning coat carefully to avoid unsightlywrinkles, the President sat down. The silence which followed hissonorous harangue could have been scooped up with a spatula. Eightpairs of eyes remained fixed with suspicion upon the object of hisaddress.
With a sigh, Wiley Cordes got to his feet. Hands in pockets he leanedagainst the table, jingling the change and keys his fingers found. Hewas going to have to make this good or be out of a very soft, highpaying job. Fortunately, he had an idea.
"When I undertook to lift your resort trade here in Wheedonville by theSea above that of Burden Bay," he began with an air of good humor thatdrew no response from the grave men listening to him, "I could not, ofcourse, foresee that Mrs. Quinlan in our rival metropolis was going togive birth to quintuplets."
He paused, let it sink in. "Nor could I look into a crystal ball andlearn that Wheedonville by the Sea was going to be cursed with fivestraight weeks of fog and rain at the height of the season. And it ishardly my fault that the Burden Coastal Oil Refineries should bring infive gushers."
"Granted, Cordes," said the President, speaking without arising. "Butwe cannot continue indefinitely against such buffets of fortune—notand pay twenty-five thousand dollars a year for protection against illluck—without receiving an iota of protection."
"Your sentiments touch me deeply," said Cordes. "And I should not havebeen worthy of your more than generous salary if I had not studied theproblem thoroughly and come to this meeting with a plan which shouldspeedily put an end to the difficulties under which all of us have beenlaboring."
Cordes paused to let this sink in. He knew, as do all talented pitchmen, when he had his audience hooked. The expression in the eight pairsof eyes upon him was still uniform—but it flashed a uniformity of hope.
"Gentlemen," he went on, "the summer season draws rapidly to its close.It has not been successful. But Wheedonville by the Sea and Burden Bayhave both built their reputations as re