Allicat

"I’m only a salesman, Mister Poman-not a scientist. I can’t tell you exactly how the technology works but, boy, does it ever! It’s the biggest thing in home security since the moat and drawbridge. I think I’m a darn good salesman, but I don’t have to be all that good to sell these things-they practically sell themselves."

The salesman didn’t really believe that anything was capable of selling itself. That’s why they paid him the big commissions, after all. His job was to build faith. He fancied it a calling and himself a commercial missionary to the materially heathen. Even so, he had never found it so easy to peddle a product.

"Yeah, I’ve heard only great things," said Poman as he rubbed his clean-shaven cheek and stared at the dead Allicat head mounted on the wall behind the courtesy counter of Advanced Animal Security, LLC. "That is, from the folks who own one. The animal rights people complain that its inhumane, of course, and the religious community has weighed-in against it from the beginning, when it was all just theoretical-"

"Right," the salesman interjected dismissively. "You know who else has a problem with these animals, Mister Poman?"

"Who’s that?"

"Every burglar, rapist and murderer in Chicago."

"Still-"

"I know you want to see it for yourself. I would too. But the city’s looking like a war zone these days, Mr. Poman, and there are no philosophers in foxholes. How about a look at the showroom and a demonstration?" The salesman placed a presumptuously familiar hand upon Poman’s shoulder and motioned with the other, more evangelistic hand, toward a steel door marked Authorized Personnel Only.

Poman hacked at the heavy sleeve of his wool overcoat, almost making it look as if he were checking his watch. "I guess I have just a couple more minutes before I have to get back."

The salesman said nothing more to his customer as he led him marching toward the door. He could appreciate no purpose for chit-chat now. First, it was already 1:15 in the afternoon. Clearly, Polman had a straight job and a pretty good one too, judging from his privately tailored suit and the Beemer he had parked a block south of the store. Second, the guy hadn’t even bothered to seriously consider, much less research, even the most obvious ethical objections before he came in. When he had expressed concern, he did so vicariously and dispassionately. It was a weak display-particularly when compared to the show.

The salesman knew that his time with Poman would not be wasted. He submitted to the retina scan, waited for the dry, mechanical click and pushed the door open for his customer.

Poman crossed the threshold and entered as little of the room as possible before sidestepping to the left. He was visibly startled when the salesman closed the door and when it locked automatically behind them. He was perspiring, but his hands remained hidden in the wool pockets.

Unlike the lobby, the intimate showroom was illuminated softly by incandescent fixtures, strategically placed on ceiling tracks to emphasize a covered box in the center of the room and an area of the floor just right of the box from where Poman stood. There were no windows. Nevertheless, the air smelled fresh, like wild flowers and pine needles.

The showroom was vacant, save the box. It was about four feet high and five feet wide-spacious enough for two seated men or, perhaps, a Bengal tiger. The box had been covered with a black, silky drapery, so as to reveal nothing beneath.