Telempathy

  Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Adam Styles and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  Transcribers Note:

  This etext was produced from Amazing Stories June 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.

  TELEMPATHY

  _Suppose you really knew what everyone was feeling ... suppose you had a surefire way of predicting public reaction. Wouldn't you wonder, sometimes, if it could backfire._

  By VANCE SIMONDS

  Illustrated by SCHELLINGS

 

  * * * * *

  Huckster Heaven, in Hollywood, set out to fulfill the adman's dream inevery particular. It recognized more credit cards than it offeredentrees on the menu. Various atmospheres, complete with authentic decor,were offered: Tahitian, Parisian, even Afro-Cuban for the delectation ofthe Off-Beat Client. In every case, houris glided to and fro inappropriate native costume, bearing viands calculated to quell, at leastfor the nonce, harsh thoughts of the combative marketplace. Instead,beamish advertisers and their account executive hosts were plied solavishly that soon the sounds of competitive strife were but a memory;and in the postprandial torpor, dormant dreams of largesse on theLucullan scale came alive. In these surroundings, droppers of such namesas the Four Seasons, George V, and the Stadium Club were notably silent.

  Campbell ("Cam") Schofft was ostentatiously honored as one of theHuckster Heaven "in-group." His business card (die-bumped andgold-dusted, of course) was one of those enshrined, under glass as itwere, in the foyer. His advice concerning California land speculationwas sought by the maitre d', a worthy who had sold his own posh oasis inEscondido in order to preside at H. H., as the communications fraternityaffectionately styled the restaurant. Today, however, Cam was aware ofMichel's subtle disapproval as they glided into the Caribbean milieu.

  And little wonder: The character awaiting Cam in the booth wasdefinitely not the H. H. type. Far from being cast in the approved lean,sickly, bespectacled mold, Everett O'Toole featured jowls wider thanCam's natural shoulders; and his gut threatened to thrust their tinytable into the houris' concourse. Manhattan innkeepers often confusedEverett with Ralph Kramden, a classic comic character of the Sixtiesstill cast occasionally for the _cognoscenti_.

  Cam viewed this great flow of flesh with dispassionate eyes. Thebehemoth spoke:

  "Can't resist a fast megabuck, eh, Cam?"

  "As you know, hippo, I agreed to meet you here in the naive hope thatyou had something to contribute to the science of marketing," said Cam.

  "Science! Hah!" Everett sucked on his goblet. "I do have something tosell, but it's probably over your head."

  "Very possibly. In which event, I'll whirl on to something moreproductive, and you can pick up your own tab for those half-gallons ofequatirial garbage you've been gulping."

  Sobered by this threat, Everett looked about with a conspiratorial airand leaned across the table.

  "You and that giggle gang you call the Market Research Group have beengroping around like so many blind mice. How would you like to know inadvance, beyond any cavil, the exact future reaction to any product,new, old or sea-changed--or to any campaign to be inflicted on thepeasantry?"

  "How would _you_ like to be Duke of the Western World, with your castlein Acapulco?"

  "That's what keeps alive my faith in you," said Everett. "You _do_understand, a little bit. That's what we call Empathy."

  * * * * *

  Cam signalled for a Bellafonte Sunrise to fortify himself for theforthcoming adventure in non-Aristotelian ratiocination.

  "Empathy is our merchandise," Everett continued, looking around again."My associates and I have discovered our propensity for experiencingvicariously--with unfortunate intensity--the emotional reactions ofothers."

  "I have encountered many ridiculous routines," Cam advised the Dominicanbeauty placing new potables before them. "But this wins the Freberg."

  "Exhibit A coming up." Everett lapsed into a pose of deep concentration,like a two-bit swami. Cam noticed a tiny, rodent-type nose thrustingitself up from Everett's side pocket. "Fear ... I detect greatapprehension--panic--hysteria verging on the loss of reason ... thirdbooth this side of the runes ... Valhalla."

  Cam rose and went to the Nordic banquet hall. Vikings with groaningplatters and great horns of mead almost knocked him down, but he foughthis way to the curtained stall described, and eavesdropped.

  "He ain't gonna take no for an answer this time, Quiverton," rasped theguttural tones of one occupant. "Gable has to host the new series, withJean Harlow for the first guest star--or, he gets a new agency."

  "Bu-but Fred, they're both dead."

  "He ain't gonna stand still for any more alibis. It's up toyou--produce, or else! You got a week."

  There was a sound of blubbering from within, interspersed with piteouscries like those emitted by a rabbit transfixed by headlights. Theysounded to Cam like an account man he knew over at GFR&O; and this inturn meant that the ultimatum was probably proceeding from the fabledthrone room of Occidental Tobacco itself, which billed more in one weekthan some of Cam's clients knew had been printed. Cam even had ablinding inspiration as to the means by which Occidental's megalomaniacprexy, William McKinley Krog, might be satisfied in this latestnecrophiliac whim: Spectaculars built around the classics of the GoldenAge of the Silver Screen ... (By Godfrey! Not a bad series title!) ...using film clips of deceased movie greats, and emceed by Stanislaus VonGort, who everybody thought was dead and therefore might as well be.

  With this melee raging in his skull, Cam dodged back to Everett. Hefound that worthy sliding liquidly from the booth, his side-pocketfamiliar now half-emerged and regarding his gross symbiote withmore-than-animal concern.

  "Quickly," cried Cam to the slave-girl. "Stimulants!"

  "We only serve rum drinks in this section," unctuously responded theNefertiti of the Horse Latitudes; but a blazing glance from Cam sent herscurrying, every cheek a-dance.

  "You can see what this takes out of me," said the patient, treatinghimself with deep draughts of Cam's Sunrise. "I don't know how many moreof these I--we--can take."

  "Take it easy, boy. I conditionally buy your bit. Save your strength."The small inhabitant of the side pocket was regarding him with someasperity. "Who's your little chum?"

  "I'm hep to your devious mind," giggled Everett. "You charlatan, you'vegot it figured that he's one of my associates."

  "You're stoned," said Cam, leading his obese charge stumbling andfalling out of the Caribbean grotto, past the Michael Mouse shrine andthe framed Exceptional T & E Vouchers (to which no exception had beentaken, thus attesting to the achievement of their authors).

  "Get this, you call-boy of the communications complex," shrilled Everetthilariously in the muted beauty of the business-card foyer. "You'reright; he is one of our _Gestalt_; but there's a couple more. And OurGang will cost you, Schofft, cost like crazy.... But you'll pay, throughthe nose; because your clients will pay through the nose and ears! He,he, he!" The pained features of the maitre d' reflected exquisite painas he ushered them into the sunlight.

  Cam's car materialized at the curb, and he hustled the sodden Ev intoits dark, merciful confines.

  "Granted that this entire affair is not some outre hoax ... apossibility on which I don't entirely close the door ... your'merchandise' might better be labelled _Tel_empathy," said Cam.

  "Button-down lingo," sneered Ev.

  "What is that miniature monster in your pocket ... Marmoset? Mutatedrat?"

  "Super-mongoose. The r
esult of certain esoteric nuclear experiments offMadagascar."

  They hove to at "MAB"--the Merchandising Arts Building, West Coast hubof influence on the docile consumer.

  They floated up the exterior tube to the 39th Floor (Socio-Economic)which was actually the hotbed of the political efforts of Cam and hisassociates. Entry through the wall-port brought them face-to-fang withFather Sowles ("Save Your Souls With Sowles"). The lank, fierypulpit-pounder had been tabbed as a political natural by certain elderswhose money was known as wise; and in consequence, his campaign for theDirectorship of North America's Western Zone was being master-minded byPacific Persuaders, Inc., a pseudopod of the MAB