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The blazing tune crackled and sparked, then settled into a long, burning ember; he could feel the thin layer of ash building up around the coals until it gradually settled into a warm mound of slow heat. The young woman appeared with a Coca-Cola in a tall glass Jurgen only glanced at her when she set it down, and returned his attention to the musicians.
The place was closing up, and Al sat with Jurgen and the other musicians around a table. They each coddled a tall Coca-Cola mixed with bourbon, and talked and talked, shooting answers and questions at each other like they were playing hot-potato. They were all semi-professional none of them were paid for playing at Calcutta.
According to Hollywood type-casting, he might have been a professor, or a judge, or a Boston Brahmin, but never a stockbroker. Irene Gresham wanted to know what everybody wanted to drink. Rand wanted Bourbon and plain water; MacBride voted for Jamaica rum; Trehearne and Cabot favored brandy and soda, and Pierre and the girls wanted Bacardi and Coca-Cola.
The people in the photo lab made a few calculations and measurements and came up with the answer, "A 20-foot balloon photographed from 30,000 feet away would be the same size as the UFO in the gun camera photos." Lieutenant Flues's Coca-Cola consumption had dropped from twenty bottles a day in mid-July to his normal five.
He looked in for a moment, but the sight of hard-faced houris revolving cheek to cheek with men in overalls and boots was nothing new. It did remind him of the march of progress, however, to notice that the bartenders served coca-cola instead of "hootch." Hygienic, but vain, he reflected. Not at all like the brave old days.
With three other boys he bought a rheumatic Ford chassis, built an amazing racer-body out of tin and pine, went skidding round corners in the perilous craft, and sold it at a profit. Babbitt gave him a motor-cycle, and every Saturday afternoon, with seven sandwiches and a bottle of Coca-Cola in his pockets, and Eunice perched eerily on the rumble seat, he went roaring off to distant towns.
"You've come about your final project," Prof. Sigger stated. "It's only mid-term," Alona reminded him. "Oh yes, yes," continued Prof. Sigger, without conscious embarrassment. "Mid-term grade. I think I have it here. Somewhere." His hands disappeared into the left side of his desk. "You told the class that we would all get a C if we maintained that Coca-Cola wasn't a crypto-fascist conspiracy."
Sigger finally sighed, sinking a little in his chair. "Did I say what for? I'm feeling a little low today," he said, hoping to elicit a small display of feminine attention. "Oh," came the succinct and neutral reply. Prof. Sigger sighed again. "It was about my book report," continued Alona. "On..." "Rush Limbaugh," interrupted Prof. Sigger. "No." "Coca-Cola?" "No." "I need to find my horoscope.
"Where's Mabel this evening?" he asked. "Huh?" The waitress seemed confused. She let one knee bend, and ran a hand quickly along the strap of her dress. "Oh," he stammered, "I thought Mabel would be here." "Oh, she's here," the waitress said, puzzled. "She don' work tables though." She leaned on the table with one hand. "Can I get you something to drink first?" "I'll have a Coca-Cola."
This is why firms find the mergers and acquisitions of their competitors worrisome. America's soft drink market is ruled by two firms Pepsi and Coca-Cola. Yet, it has been the scene of ferocious price competition for decades.
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