Уильямс Джон Эдвард

No Sale

John Edward Williams

No Sale

Smythe-Browne wandered up and down past the showroom, peering into the windows, until he plucked up enough courage to enter.

Once inside, he walked slowly through the rows of vehicles, looking around at the little knots of salesmen, all studiously ignoring him. He halted irresolute in the open space in the centre of the floor and concentrated on his feet. After five minutes a salesman came rushing over with an obsequious smile.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I want to buy a tank.”

“Of course, sir. Have you any preference in trim or colour?”

“I was thinking of something in the cheaper price range— below about a million dollars. I want something light and manoeuvrable.”

The salesman’s lips curled a little. “I am afraid that we have very few in that range in stock at present.” He paused tellingly. “Most customers, you will understand, prefer a more up-to-date styling, with heavy armour and rockets, which is, if I may say so, a little less tinny. Maybe you would like me to demonstrate one of those.”

Smythe-Browne shook his head firmly. “I must have a light tank. Something no bigger than the old Centurion.”

The salesman’s face hardened. “In that case, I am afraid that I will have to check your credit rating.”

“But I want to pay cash.”

There was a long silence.

The salesman led Smythe-Browne through the back of the showroom, along a long, dingy corridor and into a huge warehouse which was lit only by a diffuse grey light from two skylights set high in the roof. Dust lay inches deep over a vast expanse of slowly rusting machinery.

“This is the part of our stock that we do not show to the public, in case it should cause offence,” Smythe-Browne was informed. “It is something of a museum to the time when many people could afford little better than an armoured car.”

The salesman pointed to a dingy grey tank with short tracks and a small revolving turret. “This might suit you, sir.” The last word was overstressed almost imperceptibly. “It is the Vapid Vampire, a product of the now-exterminated British Tank Corporation. It comes with two thousand rounds of ammunition, a polaris missile and a tool kit consisting of a heavy wrench, a sub-machine gun and two automatic pistols.” He climbed up and opened the hatch, motioning Smythe-Browne to join him. “The interior decor is austere, might I say, too austere, for modern conditions, although I dare say that it is likely that the rose-pink hangings and the mauve upholstery would suit your taste, sir. The refrigerator is also rather small and I would not recommend the cushioning of the glasses in the bar. We would be able to arrange for any of the necessary modifications, however, at the customer’s expense. Seat-belts and first-aid kit are, of course, optional extras.”

Smythe-Browne’s heart sank as the inspection went on and on. There was obviously nothing even vaguely suitable.

Eventually they reached the far end and the salesman paused for breath. “Can we do business now?” he suggested, a veiled snarl in his voice.

Smythe-Browne wracked his brains for the name of the least unsuitable tank he had seen. “Can you give me a price on the Creeping Chunder-heap, please?” he asked finally.

“Of course. Have you a vehicle which you wish to exchange?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“A Foulcar.”

The salesman looked dumbfounded. “A car!”

Smythe-Browne nodded.

“It is at least bullet-proof, I presume.” The salesman’s voice was still hushed with shock.

Smythe-Browne shook his head. “But it’s in very good mechanical condition and it’s got no large bullet holes at all — only a couple of twenty-two’s.”

A look of disgust appeared on the salesman’s face. “I suppose we might be able to give you something on it, but I’d have to confirm it with the manager.” He paused. “Have you got it here?”

“It’s parked outside.”

“In the street?” asked the salesman incredulously. A look of relief appeared. “It will have been run over by now.”

Smythe-Browne shook his head gravely. “I haven’t heard it explode yet, so I don’t think so.”

The salesman vanished, to reappear after about ten minutes. He walked straight up to Smythe-Browne. “The manager and I have inspected your vehicle,” he said briskly, “and we are prepared to permit you to pay us a thousand dollars to dispose of it.”

“In that case, I won’t trade it in.”

“It is too late now. You have already tried to do so. If you will come to the office now, the documents are ready to sign. You may collect your tank in half-an-hour’s time. We are proud of our quick delivery times.”

“But I don’t know if I want to buy from you yet. I would like to look around.”

“That is not possible, I am afraid.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Smythe-Browne could see four men closing in on him. He turned and ran, diving under tanks and between the tracks, until he reached the door. The guard tried to grab him, but he twisted under his arm and out into the street.

* * *

Five minutes later, Smythe-Browne drove up to another dealer. He paused outside the door for a moment and then walked in. A salesman came up to him almost immediately. “I want to buy a tank,” Smythe-Browne said.

The salesman shook his head. “I am sorry, sir. I cannot help you. Swyndles have informed us that a customer answering to your description has already made inquiries from them. As such, we are, of course, unable to have any dealings with you.”

Smythe-Browne looked dazed. “But why not?”

“It is for the good of the customer, sir. If we were to quote you a price after Swyndles have, it would involve revealing to you, and hence possibly to potential customers, information about our business methods which could only be harmful to all concerned, and which would severely hamper us in our task of giving to our clients the best deal possible. We exist only to help you, sir, and you must let us do it in the way that we know is best.”

* * *

Two days and thirty cold shoulders later, Smythe-Browne returned to Swyndles. The same salesman greeted him and led him into the manager’s office, where the documents were awaiting his signature. The manager stood up and shook his hand, smiling benignly.

“I am glad you have returned, sir. We were almost going to send our people out to fetch you.”

He sat down, leaving Smythe-Browne standing, and his voice became brisk. “The appropriate forms are here for your signature. The prices, for you only of course, have risen rather steeply in the last two days. You need not be surprised. It often happens in cases like this. In addition, we feel obliged to modify our original trade-in offer by an additional payment by you of nine thousand dollars.”

He pulled a brochure from his desk and pushed it towards Smythe-Browne. “You will be buying, of course, a Specially Extraordinary Premier Deluxe Metallic Man-mincer, which this week is the only vehicle which we feel would be suitable for a person of your tastes and ability, and which will cost you a mere fifty million dollars. This will put you in the top two percent of the tank-size bracket.”

Smythe-Browne looked aghast. The Metallic Man-mincer was under-engined, under-armed, and hopelessly outclassed by everything else on the quagmire. All it did was to look pretty. “But…”

The manager smiled. “It is all the rage at the moment. You must let us decide what is best for you.”

Smythe-Browne looked around him: at the four hefty men in overalls leaning against the wall by the door, spanners balanced in their hands; at the rows of tanks, gun muzzles pointing straight at him; and at the manager and the salesman, with their little black automatics in their hands. He signed — even the no-deposit hire purchase form with the interest rate twice the annual repayments.

Content

Уильямс Джон Эдвард No Sale

John Edward Williams No Sale