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Updated: May 5, 2025
The receptionist announced him and Philon walked in to find Rakoff awaiting him behind his beautiful carved desk. Rakoff's dead-white cheeks never stirred and his stiff blond hair stood up in a rigid crew cut. He rolled his cigar in his big mouth. "Hello, Miller. What's on your mind?" Philon took a breath and it seemed to him now that this idea was a crazy one.
In his office he slouched into his chair and stared at the small calendar on his desk. Rakoff wanted the fifty-thousand before Royal Pastel Mink Monday. One week that wasn't very much time. Flinching from the unpleasant problem, he stared at the city skyline, his mind drifting lazily. He thought about Royal Pastel Mink Monday.
"I came to tell you I'm unable to raise my fifty grand quota, Rakoff." The man's brows moved slightly and his eyes narrowed significantly. With a rasp in his voice he said deliberately, "That's too bad, Mr. Miller for you." The rasping tongue put a faint quaver in Philon's voice but he went on. "However, I've brought you an idea that's worth more than fifty grand. It's worth millions."
Automatically he punched the button for No. 1. Oh, his visitors had made matters appear justifiable. The presidential election campaign was going badly, Rakoff the chairman said, and his poll-quota for the election had been upped from twenty-five grand to fifty. A stainless-steel capsule popped into the transparent wall dock.
Rakoff's eyes hardly blinked. "I'm listening you're talking." And Philon talked, talked rapidly and convincingly. When he finished Rakoff slapped his fat thigh in excitement. That evening Philon dropped in on Bill MacDonald, who was sitting in his slippers smoking an old fashioned wood pipe. "Come in, come in." MacDonald greeted him with a friendly smile. "I was just doing a little reading."
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