Free The Space Merchants by Frederik Pohl, C. M. Kornbluth

swung off the ramp at New York, and Hester was right there. "Good girl," I told her. "When's the Pole rocket shoot off?"
    "Twelve minutes, from Strip Six, Mr. Courtenay. Here are your ticket and the reservation. And some lunch in case—"
    "Fine. I did miss a meal." We headed for Strip Six, with me chewing a regenerated cheese sandwich as I walked. "What's up at the office?" I asked indistinctly.
    "Big excitement about you firing the San Diego people. Personnel sent up a complaint to Mr. Schocken and he upheld you— approximately Force Four."
    That wasn't too good. Force Twelve—hurricane—would have been a blast from his office on the order of: "How dare you housekeepers question the decision of a Board man working on his own project? Never let me catch you—" and so on. Force Four—rising gale, small craft make for harbor—was something like: "Gentlemen, I'm sure Mr. Courtenay had perfectly good reasons for doing what he did. Often the Big Picture is lost to the purely routine workers in our organization—"
    I asked Hester: "Is Runstead's secretary just a hired hand or one of his—" I was going to say "stooges" but smoothly reversed my field "—one of his confidants?"
    "She's pretty close to him," Hester said cautiously.
    "What was her reaction to the San Diego business?"
    "Somebody told me she laughed her head off, Mr. Courtenay."
    I didn't push it any harder. Finding out where I stood with respect to the big guns was legitimate. Asking about the help was asking her to rat on them. Not that there weren't girls who did. "I expect to be right back," I told her. "All I want to do is straighten something out with Runstead."
    "Your wife won't be along?" she asked.
    "No. She's a doctor. I'm going to tear Runstead into five or six pieces; if Dr. Nevin were along she might try to put them back together again."
    Hester laughed politely and said: "Have a pleasant trip, Mr. Courtenay." We were at the ramp on Strip Six.
    It wasn't a pleasant trip; it was a miserable trip on a miserable, undersized tourist rocket. We flew low, and there were prism windows at all seats, which never fail to make me airsick. You turn your head and look out and you're looking straight down. Worse, all the ads were Taunton Associates jobs. You look out the window and just as you convince your stomach that everything's all right and yourself that it's interesting country below, wham: a sleazy, over-sexed Taunton ad for some crummy product opaques the window and one of their nagging, stupid jingles drills into your ear.
    Over the Amazon valley we were running into some very interesting stuff, and I was inspecting Electric Three, which happens to be the world's biggest power dam, when, wham:
    BolsterBra, BolsterBra,
    Bolsters all the way;
    Don't you crumple, don't you slumple;
    Keep them up to slay!
    The accompanying before-and-after live pix were in the worst possible taste, and I found myself thanking God again that I worked for Fowler Schocken Associates.
    It was the same off Tierra del Fuego. We went off the great circle course for a look at the whale fisheries, vast sea areas enclosed by booms that let the plankton in and didn't let the whales out. I was watching with fascination as a cow whale gave suck to her calf—it looked something like an aerial refueling operation—when the window opaqued again for another dose of Taunton shock treatment:
    Sister, do you smell like this to your mister?
    The olfactory went on, and it was the very last straw. I had to use my carton while the ad chirped:
    No wonder he's hard to get! Use Swett! and one of those heavenly-harmony trios caroled in waltz time:
    Perspire, perspire, perspire, But don't—kill off his desire—
    and then a gruff, prose, medical pitch:
    DON'T TRY TO STOP PERSPIRATION.
    IT'S SUICIDE. DOCTORS ADVISE
    A DEODORANT AND NOT AN ASTRINGENT.
    and then back to the first line and the olfactory. This time it made no difference; I had nothing more to give.
    Taunton's was great on the gruff