Toffee turns the trick

In his private office in the Pillsworth Advertising Agency, Marc Pillsworth stared fixedly at the little man as though trying to will him out of existence. The fellow had been yammering at him steadily for half an hour and had yet to show the first signs of weakening. Marc's gaze wavered and moved wearily to the small green bottle standing before him on the desk. He sighed.

"Just think of it!" the little man was saying. "All humanity will be fairly trampling itself, trying to get Fixage. And you will be in on the ground floor for a whole twenty-five percent! Think of it!"

"I don't want to think of it," Marc muttered, then, realizing with a start that he had actually managed to get a word in edgewise, he pressed his advantage. "As I understand it, Mr. Culpepper, you want me to bring this ... uh ... this ..." he waggled a finger at the bottle on the desk "... to the attention of the manufacturers in the interests of gaining a backer. In exchange for this service you will make me a quarter owner of the invention." He fixed the little man with a severe gaze. "In other words, you haven't been able to slither through a single door with the thing ... except mine. And no wonder, if you ask me. Pills that are supposed to make a person immortal are just too...."

The little man held up an arresting hand. "You misunderstand!" he cried. "They don't make you immortal. Mercy, no! Nothing as fantastic as that. Oh, they might prolong your life twenty years or so, but their main effect is to arrest physical deterioration. In other words.... How old are you, Mr. Pillsworth?"

"Thirty-two," Marc sighed. "But it seems more like fifty."

"Thirty-two! You're right at the peak!"

"If I were at the peak," Marc said, "I would jump off."

"Just think!" the man continued. "Just think what it would mean if you could remain thirty-two for the rest of your life! Even if you live to be a hundred and thirty-two! See what I mean? No loss of faculties. No decrease in vigor. Thirty-two till the day you die! And look at the commercial value of the thing. The women. My word, the women! There isn't a woman alive who wouldn't pauperize her husband and family for a thing like Fixage. They'd be young and beautiful forever!"

"Or young and ugly," Marc murmured. With an air of finality he gripped the edge of his desk and boosted himself to his feet. "And besides, Mr. Culpepper, this agency is not interested in ventures of this sort. Frankly, I don't see why you came to me at all. When you've a proven product, fully backed and on the market, I will be happy to do business with you. But not until. It's my job to sell things to the public, not the manufacturers."

Seemingly out of nowhere, the little man's finger darted toward Marc's face. "Those wrinkles, Mr. Pillsworth!" the little man rasped. He looked as though he'd just opened the door on a closet full of vampires. "Those marks of worry and age around your eyes! They can be stopped! Permanently!"

Marc backed away, affrighted. For a moment he was very close to hiding his face in his hands. He recovered his poise just in time however.

"This is incredible," he said with hostile dignity. "My wrinkles were come by honestly, Mr. Culpepper, and if you don't mind, I'd prefer not to have them pointed at. Also, I'll thank you to stop talking in headlines and get out of my life and my office. You've already talked me out of my lunch hour and I've a great deal of work to do."

At last Mr. Culpepper seemed to get the idea. He shrugged and turned partly away.

"Oh, well," he said. "I'm willing to wait until you've made up your mind. In the meantime, I'll just leave that bottle with you, and you can think it over. You could even try it yourself and see how it works. You'll be surprised what it will do for you."

"You'll be surprised what I'll do for it," Marc said, "if you leave it here." He picked the bottle up and started around the desk with it. "Here, take it with you. I don't want you to have any excuse to come creeping back in here. Do you have your hat?"

But now the little man was as anxious to leave as Marc was to have him leave. He raced to the door and threw it open.

"Just keep it," he called back. "I'll drop back in a few days." And just before closing the door, he added, "I don't wear a hat."

Marc returned to the desk and sank into his chair. He deposited the bottle before him and regarded it thoughtfully. "Holy smoke," he murmured, "where do they come from, these crackpot ideas?"

The door opened and Memphis McGuire, Marc's secretary, bounded into the room. She was a large, healthy girl with an equally large and healthy contempt for formal office procedures. She hadn't had a decent girdle since the war.

"Hi, boss man," she said airily. "You look awful. What's the big beef?"

"I feel awful," Marc said. "Whatever possessed you to let that little creep in here? Or is this Ground Hog Day?"

"He talked so loud and so fast and so crazy," Memphis said, "I thought he might be a genius. Besides, he kept pointing at my wrinkles in front of the rest of the girls, and a lady can take just so much of that sort of thing. I had to get rid of him somehow. Get on your nerves?"

Marc nodded. "Got on 'em and stayed on 'em. My head is splitting."

"That's bad," Memphis said. "Old man Wheeler just called about his soft drink account. He's on his way over. If you're in bad shape now you'll be in ruins when he gets through with you. We'll have to get you in condition for the attack. Here, come over and stretch out on the lounge and close your eyes."

Marc did as he was told. No use arguing when Memphis was in a Nightingale mood. The secretary made retreating and returning noises and then, without warning, shocked Marc's brow with a damp cloth. She pressed a glass of water into one of his hands and two pills into the other.

"Swallow those down," she commanded. "I'll take the glass when you've finished."

Marc obeyed. "Thanks," he said.

"Glad you had some aspirin handy," Memphis said, starting to move away. "I was plum out."