He sat in the waiting-room of the offices of Pugilists, Inc., on a plush powder-blue lounge chair chewing gum languidly. From time to time he shot a glance at the secretary sitting inside a totally enclosed desk, operating a Mento-Writer Machine, the electrical contact-buttons fixed to her temples. He watched in sleepy fascination as, every so often, she leaned over and pushed the button marked corrector, and there would follow an electrical hiss as the tape on the machine slid back, eliminating wrongly-formed thoughts. Charlie knew that somewhere in the room there was machinery observing him, measuring his pulse, emotional balance, probable intelligence, habits, and massing and digesting the general information so that Pugilists, Inc., would know what kind of man they were dealing with, and what approach would be best.
Somewhere in this building another machine was probably purring, feeding information from memory-banks, relating all known facts and incidents regarding Charlie Jingle, his birth, environment, social and political connections, moral status, business ethics, and bank account.... Not that Charlie Jingle was so important to them, this he knew. But Pugilists, Inc., kept records and histories of every and any individual having even the remotest connection with the fight game.
As Charlie Jingle sat there a smile twitched across his face. Let them figure that out, he thought, and then sank into a reverie. Over in the other part of the room, across the prairie of rug, the secretary Mento wrote efficiently, the machine going ZZZ CLK SSHHHH CLK CLK ZZZZ, hypnotic in it's well-oiled quietness.
"Jingle?"
Charlie Jingle looked across the room to the secretary. "What?" he asked.
"Would you go in please, Mister Jingle?"
Charlie followed the direction of the girl's gesture to a panel in the wall. He got up and started to cross suspiciously toward it. As he slowed down, nearing it, he looked back at her, and she smiled and encouraged him on sympathetically toward the doorless wall. Just as Charlie thought It'd be funny if I break my nose on that goddam wall ... the panel swung in quietly.
Charlie walked through it into a room. In it there was another veldt of rug, at the far end of which was a bar, a lounge chair, a tremendous sofa, and a low, knee-high table. The walls were decorated with modern paintings in a colorful, tasteful, executive way. Standing near the knee-high table were three men, one distinguished looking, the other two looking as if they'd stepped out of a Young Collegiate Magazine ad.
The elegant one crossed to Charlie, his face a big, pleasant, well-groomed smile, hand extended.
"Allow me, Mister Jingle. I'm Kort Gassel. These two gentlemen are Jerome Rupp and Eugene White. Would you like a drink, Mister Jingle?"
Charlie Jingle shook their hands and sat down, crossing his legs comfortably.
"You got gin, Mister ahhh—"
"Gassel," said Kort Gassel, and crossed the three feet to the bar. "Soda?" he asked.
"Straight," said Charlie Jingle, and watched the other two sit down slowly as Gassel came back with his drink.
"That's quite a drink. I know few men who enjoy straight gin, Mister Jingle. It always comes as a surprise when I—"
"You gonna give us the fight, Mister Gassel?" interrupted Charlie.
"The fight? You mean with Iron-Man Pugg?"
"That's right, with Iron-Man Pugg."
"Well Mister Jingle. Since you put the matter so straightforwardly. Pugilists Incorporated only owns a small block of stock in Iron-Man Pugg, as you know. Mister Rupp and Mister White here represent the other interests involved. As you must know, Pugilists Incorporated is a large-scale business, designed to function on a large-scale basis. Now, we, the stockholders in Iron-Man Pugg, have thought this thing out. We've come to the conclusion that it would rather—well, embarrass the Company to agree to such a match as you propose."
"So you won't fight?"
"No, no, Mister Jingle, don't jump to hasty conclusions. I'm trying to explain something to you. It's not simply a matter of matching your—ah—boy against ours. But we are concerned with the overall effect of such a bout. Frankly, our reputation as a manufacturing concern is more important to us than the outcome of any single bout—"
"Whadda you say you get to the point?"
"Certainly. Tanker Bell, as we understand it, has a fighting history of forty-seven years. Now, I'm afraid we'd be made a laughing-stock if Tanker Bell were set into motion against one of our products."
"Especially if he won, is that it?"
"Particularly then. But we rest secure in the fact that that outcome is highly improbable, not to state impossible."
Charlie Jingle sipped his gin, looking from one face to the other.
"So?" he asked, anticipating what was about to come.
"Suppose, Mister Jingle, you were offered a price for Tanker Bell, price far in excess of his actual worth. A price big enough to even make it possible for you to perhaps buy a second-rate fighter in good second-class condition."
Charlie Jingle closed his eyes and tapped his foot with horny, grease-monkey fingers. In a moment he opened them and slowly took in the three representatives of the champ, Iron-Man Pugg.
"Lemme get this straight. You want me to sell Tanker for much more than he's worth because you'd be humiliated at having to put one of your products in the same ring with him?"
"Exactly," said Kort Gassel.
"But you're sure your boy'd whip him in the ring?"
"Well obviously we all know the knockout victory he scored over the Contender was an accident."
Charlie Jingle nodded.
"We all know it. But there's one guy in the world who don't. You know who? Tanker Bell himself."
Kort Gassel laughed.
"A robot, Mister Jingle? Surely you must be—"
Charlie Jingle shook his head.
"Can't do it, boys. I gotta consider the Tanker. You see, Mister Gassel, Tanker thinks he could take your boy. And not only does he wanna take him, but he won't take no for an answer!"
"Listen, Jingle, is this some kind of joke? What are you holding out for? A price? When I said I'd make it worth your—"
Charlie Jingle shook his head, stubbornly and firmly.
"No price, Gassel. Just an agreement-contract."
"Listen, you fool, don't you realize what's at stake here? We're big business! We can't afford to play around with lucky independents like you!"
"Can't take any chances, huh?"
"Exactly that! Can't, and won't!"
"Wanna bet?"
"If you try to—"
Charlie Jingle got up from his seat.
"Gassel ... I've been in this racket so long I've got oil in my veins instead of blood, and a Reflex-Pattern Analysis for a brain. I know every angle there is to know. If I want a fight, I'll get one. So don't go try putting your big business pressure on me. I'm too old for college-boy antics."
Kort Gassel stared at him for a long, hostile moment. Then his face broke into a smile.
"My friend, do you know what you're bucking? These are the offices of Pugilists Incorporated you're in. Don't you realize what that means?"
"Sure," said Charlie Jingle. "It means that if Tanker Bell whips Iron-Man Pugg, Charlie Jingle will one day have as big a factory and as many orders for Fighting-Machines as Pug, Inc...."
Charlie Jingle crossed the desert of rug toward the exit-panel.
"See you at Ring-side, Kids." And he went out.