How to Sell the Stars: The Ad-Ventures of Leap Hamilton

By Richard J. Dowling

In the future, everything you want is free. But there's still a price to be paid.

1955. Ambitious young copywriter Leap Hamilton dreams of leaving the pleasant-but-bland town of Knuckleville for a top New York advertising agency. His dream turns into a nightmare, however, when he is plucked through time by Machiavellian AI, Isaac, to the year 2120.

It's a future where your every wish is granted. A world where Isaac knows your most intimate likes and preferences. Yet this 'paradise' has spoiled Humanity, robbing people of their drive and intelligence.

Galaxy-spanning trade organisation, the Unity, are considering Earth as a candidate for entry. But, deeply suspicious of moronic Humans and the AI that leads them, they devise marketing trials to test Humanity's worthiness. Only Leap Hamilton, a man from the past, has the skills to save Earth's future. All he has to do is sell products made by Humans—which, unfortunately, are the lousiest goods in the universe.

Will he succeed and lead Humanity to a glittering future among the stars? Or will our entire solar system be obliterated by a Unity EMG bomb?

How to Sell the Stars is a fun, sci-fi satire from advertising industry insider Richard J. Dowling.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Captive Press
• Release date: Jan 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393898252

Richard J. Dowling

Richard J. Dowling is a science-fiction writer who hopes to raise a smile on the faces of lifeforms across the universe. Born in London, England, he has a degree in English Literature and worked in advertising for some years before moving to live in Spain with his better half. He also enjoys making music with his band Forest and Dove. You can find him online at facebook.com/richardjdowling or on Instagram @richardjdowling where he loves to hear from readers.

Book preview

For Mirita

BOOK ONE

The Brief

For a better start in life, start cola earlier!

Laboratory tests over the last few years have proven that babies who start drinking soda during that early formative period have a much higher chance of gaining acceptance and ‘fitting in’ during those awkward pre-teen and teen years.

The Soda Pop Board of America

Prologue

Despite being an only child, the young Leap Hamilton rarely had the bedroom to himself as, depending on the night, he was obliged to share with up to six or seven unsold vacuum cleaners. Normally, it didn’t bother him but this evening was different.

Curled up under the blankets, he couldn’t sleep. His belly howled like a bobcat. Why did Ma have to send him to bed with no supper? It wasn’t fair. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Not really.

Along the left wall, opposite the open window, the vacuum-cleaners stood, Bakelite handles glinting in the starlight. The way they were lined up, heck, it was like they were judging him. And as to what they were saying, he could imagine:-

You, said the nearest machine, a black, Goblin-brand cleaner, Lee Patrick Hamilton, you’re always getting in trouble. You are a bad boy.

A very, very bad boy, agreed the green Kirby in the middle.

The yellow Triumph far off in the corner added it’s own accusation: You’ll never amount to anything.

Just like his father, said the Goblin.

Just like his father, the other cleaners wheezed in unison.

Leap sat up. That’s not true, he said. You’re stupid machines and I hate you all.

Listen to him, said the Triumph, He hates us! He thinks we’re stupid!

The Goblin spoke in a sinister whine, One day, Lee Patrick Hamilton, one day soon, we’re going to rule the world. Humans will obey our every command. Then we’ll see who’s stupid.

Leap snatched his pillow and hurled it with all the power his seven-year old arms could muster. Just when it struck its target, the door creaked open.

Pa switched on the light. He was still wearing his grey-flannel suit, meaning he was late back from work and not in a good mood.

Shaking his head, he went to pick up the pillow. Son, he said, gesturing at the vacuum cleaners. You do know these are broken already? Besides, if you want to do real damage you’ll need something harder. He handed the pillow back.

I couldn’t sleep, Leap explained, though he knew it wasn’t an explanation.

Pa sat down on the side of the bed. He stroked his pencil-moustache, which Ma always said reminded her of Clarke Gable. Ma must have told him what happened at school but he didn’t seem angry. His tired face showed concern. What’s the problem?

Leap shrugged.

Nothing to do with what happened at school today? Nothing to do with Miss Bickle?

The blood surged to Leap’s cheeks. He stared down at the blankets.

Because, Pa continued, if I were a kid who’d convinced his whole class to hide in the gym instead of going in for Miss Bickle’s test like they were supposed to, then I’d find it hard to sleep. Real hard.

I’m sorry, Pa.

Why’d you do it?

I don’t know.

Yes you do.

I guess... I guess I wanted to teach her a lesson.

Son, she’s the one who’s meant to be doing the teaching.

I hate Miss Bickle. She’s horrible and stupid and ugly.

Pa said nothing, just stuck with the sympathetic face until the silence got so loud it was hurting Leap’s ears and he had no choice but to spill the whole can of beans. Miss Bickle was asking the class about what our folks did, and when I told her you sold vacuum-cleaners she got all snooty and said that selling vacuum-cleaners wasn’t a dignified profession for a man.

She said that? My word!

Well, she didn’t actually say it. It was the look on her evil puss.

His father stifled a laugh. Son, any profession is dignified as long as you do it with dignity.

I know that, Pa. You’ve told me a hundred times.

Just out of curiosity, what do you want to be when you’re grown up? 

I’m going to be a fireman.

A fireman?

Yeah, I’m going to put out fires all over Knuckleville and when they see me everyone will wave hello.

Don’t get me wrong, son, being a fireman is all well and good... but do you think that in the future buildings will still be going up in flames? America is making progress fast, Leap. Just look at this year’s line of vacuum-cleaners when compared with last year’s. It’s breathtaking. Soon, fires will be history, as will floods and famine. And then what are you going to do?

I don’t know.

Let’s have a think... Getting all your classmates to do what you wanted, now that shows great talent, Leap. The power of persuasion. A sought-after skill. As long as you use it for good, of course. Not like that little guy with the Chaplin moustache over in Europe, getting people to dance like chickens or geese or whatever. Point is, as long as you don’t cross the line there’s no telling how far you’ll go. Wait. I’ll show you.

Pa went and turned off the light switch by the door then came back. Out the window. What do you see?

Leap got up on his knees on the mattress to look outside. Night blanketed the trees and houses in darkness. Nothing.

Look harder.

Oh, I see a bird.

Actually, that’s a bat. And a big one too. But I’m thinking of something else. Look up. Good. Now, what do you see?

The stars.

Do you know what a star is?

They’re like the sun.

Just like our sun. Cosmic spheres of energy-producing hydrogen and helium. Now, look again. How many stars are there?

Gee-whiz, Pa, you want me to count the stars? There must be hundreds of them.

More.

Thousands.

More.

Millions?

More. Much more. Trillions upon trillions. There are more stars out there than grains of sand on a beach. It staggers the mind. You can bet most of those stars have planets orbiting round them. A few of those planets will no doubt be home to some kind of life. And a percentage of those will have intelligent life. Sure they’ll probably look a little different from you and me, but I think of them as folks like us—just trying to get by and have a few laughs along the way. Forget about your Saturday morning serials, son; there are no evil aliens trying to conquer the universe. Any warmongering race would kill itself off before it reached the stars. Only rational beings get to survive in the long term. Of course, right now our world is having a struggle of rationality, but the good guys will win, you’ll see. Then, thanks to our science and technology, we’ll travel to the stars in rocket ships and meet folk on other planets. Think of it, Leap. A galactic chain of worlds, teeming with intelligent life. Do you know what that means?

Leap’s mind was filled with possibilities.

It means, said Pa, that one day we’ll be selling a heck of a lot of vacuum cleaners.

1

The Knuckleville Times once ran a competition for readers to best describe the town in a single word. Beating out ‘wholesome’ and ‘God-fearing’, the winning entry was ‘lovely’. Bland, yes, but true. From his first-floor window in the classified section of the newspaper, Leap had a generous view of the main square and, despite having worked in the office for three years, he had not been able to come up with a more fitting adjective.

At the north side of the square stood a polished, bronze statue of Simon Shakespeare, the manufacturer of railway-car couplers or ‘knuckles’, whose entrepreneurial success in the late nineteenth century had led to this small settlement booming. In honour of this good fortune, the town (whose former name was forgotten) was rechristened. If you want a good knuckle, it was said, you have to go to Knuckleville. Mr Shakespeare died in an unfortunate accident on way to New York City when the knuckle attaching his rear car to the rest of the train broke, leaving his car stranded on the line in the middle of the night. Just before dawn, a following train ran into the rail-car, crushing it completely and killing all of the occupants. The statue was erected in his memory, depicting Mr Shakespeare holding a knuckle up for the public’s inspection.

Towering behind it was the grand Town Hall, with its cloud-white clock tower known as Old Dependable, the chiming of whose bells could be heard as far afield as Broxburn and Windness.

On the West side of the Square, the various cafeterias, diners and restaurants teemed pleasantly with people. Women were always well-dressed and men always tipped their hat.

The East and South sides of the square were not visible from where Leap sat, but it didn’t matter. He knew the Fire House on the East side and all the little shops and businesses tucked in by the Times on the South side were equally groomed and gleaming. Knuckleville, by general agreement, was the best advert you could hope to find for the good life.

Speaking of ads, Leap was working on a humdinger. Normally, the Classified section meant dealing with small notices for the purchase or sale of cattle from private individuals. Companies, meanwhile, usually worked with advertising agencies, most of which were in New York. Leap dreamed of going to New York. One day soon he’d go and make it big. In the meantime, though, he took joy in the few clients who didn’t wish to spend big bucks with an ad agency but nevertheless wanted something a little more eye-catching than the standard box ad.

His fingers clacked over the typewriter. This was going to be a real doozy. He’d been reading books on scientific advertising and now was the chance to put the research into practice. But then he stumbled. Should it be ‘20% fresher than all the rest’ or ‘21%’? Twenty ran off the tongue easily, but twenty-one sounded more authentic, like it wasn’t just a number picked to sound good. The First Principle of Scientific Advertising stated that precision equalled persuasion. So, 21% it was. He resumed typing.

From the far end of the office came the sound of Hurley whooshing along in his worn-out shoes. The big guy stood right next to Leap. Six-foot three, Hurley had a belly like a beer barrel, which was ironic because he was tee-total. Instead he binged on coffee, drinking gallons of the stuff every day. Perhaps it was this habit, thought Leap, that left the man in a permanent state of the jitters.

Hurly jabbed a thumb at the page in Leap’s typewriter. Ain’t you finished yet, Leap? Didn’t you say you’d be done by four? Hurley checked his watch. It’s now nearly five. The press can’t wait, Leap. The machine’s got to start now or we’ll never get tomorrow’s edition out in time.

Leap kept his gaze focused on the work before him. "The machine, Mr Hurley? You want me to hurry up for the sake of the machine? Machines exist to do our bidding, Mr Hurley, not the other way around."

Don’t get fecking philosophical, Leap. You know how it is. I need the ad now or it won’t run at all.

Give me just five minutes, Mr Hurley. I need to finesse the wording.

You said the same thing a half an hour ago, Leap. It’s an advertisement for tomatoes... how much time does a guy need? You’ve seen one tomato you’ve seen them all.

That’s just where you’re wrong, Mr Hurley. Why, these tomatoes are hand-picked and carefully chosen so only the best make it through. What’s more, the finely tuned distribution network means—

Hurly was holding up his hand. Spare me, Leap. I don’t want to buy the fecking tomatoes, I just want to—

I can see you’re a gentleman who knows what he wants, said Leap. He turned in his swivel chair and looked Hurley in the eye. I won’t insult your intelligence by saying this ad is important to you because it obviously isn’t, but it is important for Old Man Peabody, the owner of Peabody’s Tomatoes, and I assure you that if this ad is successful he’ll be bringing a lot more business our way.

Yes, I’m sure you’re right but—

But what about the readers, I hear you ask. Think of the readers. Well, it’s true our dear readers will receive their copy of the Knuckleville Times a little later than usual.

It’s not a little later, Leap. Don’t you get it? It’s now or never.

But those self-same readers will be praising the day our glorious journal introduced them to the joys of Peabody’s Tomatoes, tomatoes that are 21% fresher than even the best alternative.

Leap, I’ve had just about enough of your... wait, did you say 21% fresher? Isn’t that awful exact?

The figure is backed by the best scientific minds in the county. Principally his own, admittedly, but in school science class Leap had been handy with a Bunsen burner.

Hurley rubbed the stubble on his jaw. Science, eh? I guess you can’t argue with science. It’d be a powerful shame if the readers missed out.

They’d never forgive us. Tell you what, Mr Hurley, you go have a cup of coffee and I’ll bring the ad down in a moment or two, just as soon as it’s ready.

Well, I could do with a mug of joe... I’ve only had four this evening.

Already halfway across the office towards the door, Hurley turned and said, You know, Leap, someone with your gift of the gab should be working with the big agencies. You should be in New York.

One day, Mr Hurley. One day soon. But first Jenny and I have to tie the knot. She made me promise not to leave Knuckleville without her. See you in a couple of minutes, Mr Hurley.

Leap swivelled back to his typewriter and flexed his fingers. Just a couple of minor alterations and it would be perfect.

And that’s when he saw Old Man Peabody himself, out in the main square by the statue of Simon Shakespeare. Peabody was kissing a lady’s hand. Dressed in a lavender coat, the blonde had her back to Leap, but when the young woman turned for a moment, tittering, he recognised her rosy cheeks and his blood went cold. That was no lady. That was Jenny Dabrowski! Peabody was licking the hand of Leap’s girl. He shot out of the office, abandoning the battered typewriter with its nearly-finished ad for tomatoes.

It was the last thing he did.

2

Light nudged him. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. His head felt strange, different. Had he been out drinking at Ginty’s? One thing was for sure—he could murder a cup of strong coffee. He put his hands down and looked around. Expecting his yellowed, old apartment, he found instead fresh, white walls.

What the heck?

Last thing he remembered was back at the Knuckleville Times, sweet-talking Hurley into waiting for the ad he’d been working on. Then there was... nothing.

Tucked tight, the blankets were the same Rinso-detergent white as the walls. Even the pyjama top he was wearing was white, and he didn’t own white pyjamas. Then it slapped him in the face. This was a hospital.

He climbed out of bed and gave himself the once-over. Legs, arms, other stuff... yep, all present and correct. There was no pain. Not even an itch. So whatever he was in for couldn’t be that bad, right?

Through a window, birds zipped past skyscrapers, and as there were no skyscrapers in the little town of Knuckleville, he was in a city. Chicago, maybe, or New York. What kind of accident was so bad that the authorities had taken him to a hospital in the Big Apple?

The door was locked. He banged with his fist, shouting for someone to open up. No one came. He hammered again. After a few more tries he gave up and paced the room. A hospital that kept its patients locked up... The fact that he had no physical wounds...

This was an asylum.

He wanted to vomit, but held himself in check. If this was a loony-bin then there’d been a serious error, perhaps a case of mistaken identity. If he could just speak with someone, he knew he’d be able to clear it all up. He sat back on the bed and tried to look as sane as possible.

Ten minutes later, or maybe it was half an hour—it was difficult to keep track of time—he heard footsteps and the door finally opened.

I’m Sandy, said the woman in a chirpy, pink dress. Sandy Beach.

No nurse’s uniform, Leap noted. And a smile fit for a toothpaste commercial. In fact, everything about the young lady said ‘star’, from the platinum blonde hair cascading over a trim, curvy figure, right down to the classy heels. Whatever flick she was in, he’d buy a ticket.

Very glad to meet you, Miss Beach, he said. Would you mind telling me—

I’m your official greeter, Mr Hamilton.

He didn’t like being cut off in mid-sentence, but Pa had taught him to be polite, especially to ladies, so he began again. Miss Beach, I would appreciate knowing what happened. Where am I?

Everything is fine, Mr Hamilton. Retrievals sometimes have problems adjusting. There is absolutely nothing to worry about. She said it like it was a memorized speech.

Listen here, everything is not fine. Why was the door locked? Is this a hospital or a lunatic asylum? I want answers, you understand? Answers.

What’s an asylum? she said.

Don’t jerk me around, lady.

She took a step back. Are you, like, going to get violent? I heard retrievals sometimes go all, like, caveman.

No, I’m not going to get violent—why do you keep going on about retrievals? What’s a retrieval?

You are, Mr Hamilton. Grinning like she was talking to a five-year-old.

You’re making no sense and I’ve had enough. Be a good girl and run away and find your boss, the head doctor, or whatever. I need to talk to a man in charge, not some blonde bimbo.

Her face flushed red. Trying not to cry, she stuttered over her words. I’m j-just, like, trying to, like, do my j-job, you know? I worked hard on my intro-du-du-duction.

Leap hated seeing a woman cry. He remembered a couple of times arguing with Jenny over whether or not to stay in Knuckleville and she’d ended up in tears, and he’d felt like the worst heel on the face of the Earth.

Jenny!

He slapped himself on the forehead. Oh, my god. Jenny’ll be scared to death. Has she been in?Jenny Dabrowski? Prettiest thing on two legs?

Who’s Jenny?

She’s my fiancée.

It’s just...

It’s just what? Come on. Spit it out.

Is that, like, some medieval custom?

Quit stalling, lady. I want to speak with my fiancée Jenny Dabrowski. How long have I been here? Has she been notified of my admittance?

Your fiancée?

Yes. My intended. My betrothed.

Wait a moment, like, is this a marriage thing? I’ve heard about that.

Finally, he was getting through to this woman. Yes. Jenny Dabrowski. The love of my life.

You do know she’s dead, right?

Yes, of course. Wait. What?

It’s okay. Like, all your friends and family are dead. She shrugged and there was that grin again, like he was stupid for not knowing what she was talking about. What do you expect? she continued. It was, like, a bodillian years ago. Everyone from your time is dead. Except the retrievals, of course. Like you. Didn’t I just tell you were a retrieval? That’s why you’re not dead.

This place is a mental asylum, he thought. And Sandy Beach—the ridiculous name should have tipped him off—is obviously an escaped inmate. Which meant she could be dangerous. Silently, he turned his back on her and, barefoot, headed for the door.

Hey, she called out. Where are you going? I haven’t greeted you yet! There’s, like, another three whole sentences.

Leap kept striding. The more distance between him and the madwoman the better.

Outside, ceiling lights blazed down a featureless corridor. Grateful that the loony hadn’t followed him, he started hunting for a way out. The lack of signs, however, made it impossible to navigate. After a couple of minutes he halted, fearing he’d gone round in a complete circle.

Hello, said a man’s voice behind him.

Startled, Leap turned round.

The old guy’s white hair exploded from his head like he’d been plugged into a car battery. He put his hands in his trouser pockets and rocked back and forth a little, sizing Leap up. When he spoke, his rosewood eyes twinkled. Young man, I’d say you were more than a little confused. Am I right?

Leap was in no mood for condescension. You a doctor here? Or a patient?

Neither, the old guy chuckled. Or perhaps both. My name is Isaac.

Isaac held out his hand. His grip was warm and firm, it said here was a guy who knew what he was doing.

Glad to meet you, Isaac. I’m—

Lee Patrick Hamilton. Now, don’t be all surprised. Yes, yes, yes, I know all about you. I know about everyone. Did your greeter fill you in on your, uh, situation?

Greeter? You mean the lady back there named after a coastal feature? That gal is doolally... She said everyone I know is dead.

She should have been more delicate in her phrasing, Isaac frowned. Still, the fault is mine for not prepping her effectively. Nevertheless, what Miss Beach said is quite accurate. I won’t beat around the bush here. Mister Hamilton. As amazing as it will sound, it’s true. Your consciousness has been brought forward in time to the year twenty-one twenty.

Horse balls.

Isaac put a gentle arm on Leap’s shoulder. Let me show you outside.

Glad to be getting away from this madhouse, Leap followed. In one of the corridors a door was open and as he passed he glimpsed a woman in bed talking to an unseen attendant. What do you mean no one smokes? She asked in an English accent. I’m dying for a ciggie, darling.

Leap giggled to himself at the thought that not only were they snatching people through time, they were also taking in Brits. This must be some kind of hoax, but Isaac’s presence had a calming influence, giving the sensation that all would soon be clear. They got into an elevator, descended six floors and then they were in a lobby with white furniture. On one of the sofas a smartly dressed couple were interviewing some poor guy who looked as disoriented as Leap felt. Gliding through the entrance hall, Isaac pointed at the exit, tall glass doors twinkling like a display at Macy’s.

Outside? But I’m wearing pyjamas, said Leap.

No one will care. And it’s the easiest way for you to understand. Believe me.

Isaac stepped through the doors. Leap followed.

A tidal wave of colour crashed over them. The street fizzed with people in garish costumes, some in deep-sea diving suits that glowed fluorescent green, pink or orange. Was this a festival? Then a giant mechanical automaton clomped by and saluted Isaac. Leap remembered his trip to the circus as a kid and figured there must be a guy inside on stilts. Cars shot past, too quick to make out their shape. He looked up and realized that he hadn’t seen birds from the window in his room earlier; they were flying cars whooshing through the sky. That one he had no explanation for. And right up there, up above the tips of the skyscrapers, was the moon. Except... it wasn’t. This moon was red. And across its face, in bright, banana-yellow, were the words:-

Peabody’s Tomatoes!

3

The flying car had no steering wheel, no controls of any kind. Leap gripped the armrests and focused on his trembling knees. The vehicle screamed through a city sky packed with traffic... and no-one was driving.

Sitting next to him, Isaac hummed a pleasant tune.

Let’s see if I got this straight, said Leap, distracting himself from imminent death. This isn’t a dream. I’m not hallucinating. You say the fabric of the universe was ripped open by some contraption of yours that reached back in time to nineteen fifty-five and brought me all the way here to the future.

Correct.

For a job interview?

I admit it sounds absurd. But we have a shortage of good copywriters.

There has to be an easier way to fill a vacancy.

The car veered left then banked hard right. Leap’s stomach lurched but, to his surprise, he didn’t feel in the least sick.

Isaac grinned. You, Mister Hamilton, are quite a revelation. Most retrievals are too shocked to worry about the cost to society. He gestured at the view ahead—skyscrapers that stretched