Manning had spent his life exposing mail
order frauds. But Forsythe's outfit topped them
all. Its products were too good to exist—yet!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
November 1953
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Clark Street, just north of Chicago's Loop, was the symbol of a millionthings, all of them bad, Manning thought. Bumpy paving bricks ruttedwith street car tracks and bordered on both sides by cheap saloonsand quarter-a-night flop houses. Hot summer nights when the drunksclustered like flies on the sidewalks and Newberry Park was crowdedwith cranks trying to save the world and floozies just trying to makea living in it. Old magazine stores where a nickle bought a copy of anold comic magazine and a five spot bought photographs guaranteed tomake a high school kid's eyes pop out.
Clark Street, where a thousand and one manufacturing gyp artists hadoffice space.
He slowed the car and went through the motions of parking. He jockeyedit in towards the curb. There was a scraping sound, and he cut themotor.
"You ought to watch it, Fred," Wheeler said. "You scraped the paint."
"It's just a scratch," Manning said quietly. "Just the fender."
"You scrape a fender on these models," Wheeler said doggedly, "and youhave to get a whole new paint job. It costs money."
Manning looked coldly at the fat man sitting next to him.
"The government's got money; it can afford it."
The fat man shrugged and changed the subject. "How did the biopsy comeout?"
"I don't know." Somewhere deep inside Manning a dozen tiny handsplucked a pain nerve. "The doctor will send me a report in a couple ofdays." The doctor had already told him that morning but he didn't wantWheeler to know. "Let's forget it. Who's on the list this time?"
Wheeler pulled a crumpled newspaper ad out of his pocket. "The ForsytheCompany. They make carburetors."
Manning leaned back in the seat and stared a long time at the fadedstore fronts that lined the street. He was only half listening toWheeler. Malignancy, the doctor had said. He knew what that meant.Curtains. Humpty Dumpty was splashed all over the pavement and all thehigh voltage x-ray machines and all the little isotope capsules fromthe AEC weren't going to help a bit.
He forced the thought into the back of his mind and locked and barredthe mental door.
"What's the sales pitch?"
"A hundred miles to the gallon."
"That's rather high. Most of them are content with fifty."
Wheeler grunted. "That's not all. This guy doesn't use gas. He gets ahundred to a gallon of water."
"What's he pricing it at?"
"About the usual range. Three forty-nine."
Manning frowned. "Let me see that."
The fat man handed it over and Manning ran his eyes down the ad. Itwas the usual ad, complete with the enthusiastic testimonials signedby "A. Z." of Salt Lake City and "Mrs. D. F." of Podunk Corners. Afterrunning end around all the glowing adjectives in the body of thead, you got the idea you could get a hundred miles from a gallon ofordinary tap water when you used the Forsythe Carburetor.
The trade name was bad, of course. Simply, the "Forsythe Carburetor."Not the "Jiffy" or the "E-Z" or the "Little Marvel." But the pricewas right in there. Three forty-nine, with a double-your-money-backguarantee if not absolutely satisfied. The typical gyp ad. Somethingthat promised a hell of a lot in the way of savings and mileage with alow enough price so the suckers would be willing to risk it.
...