Guaranteed—Forever!

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 million things, all of them bad, Manning thought. Bumpy paving bricks rutted with street car tracks and bordered on both sides by cheap saloons and quarter-a-night flop houses. Hot summer nights when the drunks clustered like flies on the sidewalks and Newberry Park was crowded with cranks trying to save the world and floozies just trying to make a living in it. Old magazine stores where a nickle bought a copy of an old comic magazine and a five spot bought photographs guaranteed to make a high school kid's eyes pop out.

Clark Street, where a thousand and one manufacturing gyp artists had office space.

He slowed the car and went through the motions of parking. He jockeyed it in towards the curb. There was a scraping sound, and he cut the motor.

"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 you have 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 come out?"

"I don't know." Somewhere deep inside Manning a dozen tiny hands plucked a pain nerve. "The doctor will send me a report in a couple of days." The doctor had already told him that morning but he didn't want Wheeler to know. "Let's forget it. Who's on the list this time?"

Wheeler pulled a crumpled newspaper ad out of his pocket. "The Forsythe Company. They make carburetors."

Manning leaned back in the seat and stared a long time at the faded store fronts that lined the street. He was only half listening to Wheeler. Malignancy, the doctor had said. He knew what that meant. Curtains. Humpty Dumpty was splashed all over the pavement and all the high voltage x-ray machines and all the little isotope capsules from the AEC weren't going to help a bit.

He forced the thought into the back of his mind and locked and barred the 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 a hundred 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. It was the usual ad, complete with the enthusiastic testimonials signed by "A. Z." of Salt Lake City and "Mrs. D. F." of Podunk Corners. After running end around all the glowing adjectives in the body of the ad, you got the idea you could get a hundred miles from a gallon of ordinary 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 price was right in there. Three forty-nine, with a double-your-money-back guarantee if not absolutely satisfied. The typical gyp ad. Something that promised a hell of a lot in the way of savings and mileage with a low enough price so the suckers would be willing to risk it.

"Let's go." Manning got out of the car, on the street side because of the high curb, and glanced at the numbers on the buildings. A few doors down, on the other side.