The Pitch

by K. S. Dearsley

“It’s perfect!”

Cyril winced as Zak flung himself back in the swivel chair and surveyed their newly furnished office. He was wearing an expensive designer suit that Cyril feared was the real thing, unlike the rest of the decor. He had probably blown the last of their capital on it.

“Got to look successful, Cy. Money attracts money,” Zak had said when he had arrived that morning.

Cyril had been too preoccupied trying to make sure everything would go smoothly at the meeting with James Boardman to worry about his own appearance. The financier could change their fate with one small signature.

He snapped: “I wish you wouldn’t call me Cy.”

Zak shook his head. “We’ve been through this. Cyril just doesn’t sound cool, and we need this Boardman guy to think that we, and therefore Flexi-cubes, are the coolest thing since chili ice-cream.”

“Being called Albert never did Einstein any harm,” Cyril muttered, aware that it was not only his name that lacked cool’. He worried too much for that.

The money Zak had spent on clothes with a label could have gone to making denser cubes, but the budget had been stretched and so the cubes had to be too. Cyril eyed the product of two years’ hard work in the laboratory lined
up on the desk (Please God, Boardman won’t lean on it, Cyril thought.). The Flexi-cubes looked like a pyramid of giant die the size of children’s building bricks, except they were matt black with a pattern of dimples on
one side. The comparison pleased Cyril, as it had been chance that had led him to the discovery of the special capabilities of the molecule he had engineered. Made into Flexi-cubes, the programmed molecules realigned,
expanding or contracting to form a new object when the dimples were pressed in sequence. Cyril stared at their new furniture, as if seeing it properly for the first time.

“My molecule really could revolutionize life as we know it.” Once he had worked out one or two glitches. He almost sank into one of the chairs, before he remembered.

“Our lives, at any rate.” Zak’s eyes shone with the glint of coins.

“I still think we should tell this Boardman about... “ Cyril began.

Zak bounded from the chair, scattering Flexi-cubes in a way that made Cyril wince again, and straightened the inventor’s tie. “Now, you know what we agreed. You can dazzle him with the scientific bits, but leave the sales
pitch to me.”

“There’s no need to be dishonest,” Cyril objected. “Once we’ve got backing, I’m sure I can find the answer.”

“And I’m sure you can too.” Zak patted Cyril on the shoulder as if he was a schoolboy who had just found out that Santa Claus did not exist. “That’s why we don’t need to tell Boardman about these minor details.” He turned
away to start restacking the cubes, so Cyril could not see his face, but his tone sounded rehearsed. “I’ve no intention of lying. I’ll simply emphasize all the benefits Flexi-cubes can offer. As long as we make sure he sits
here... “ Zak moved a deep leather chair into a more strategic position. “There’ll be no need for him ever to know.”

Cyril did not argue, but he kept his frown as he helped rebuild the display. A buzz from the door intercom almost made him topple it again.

“This is it!” Zak all but skipped to the door. Cyril took up his position, carefully worked out by Zak to offer the maximum view of the office while making actually wandering around it difficult. He barely had time to clear
the lump of nerves in his throat before Zak was ushering the financier in.

“Good of you to come to see us, Mr. Boardman. We could have brought our project to you, but, frankly, we don’t want to take any unnecessary risks of our discovery falling into the wrong hands at this stage.” He smiled the
financier into the allotted chair, and Cyril felt the constriction at his collar ease. “Can we get you a coffee?”

“Black, two sugars.” James Boardman spoke as if used to directing troops.

Zak’s smile did not falter. “You heard the man, Cy; black, two sugars.”

Cyril switched on the percolator. He might have been irritated at being reduced to the tea-boy were it not for the pleasure of pouring the smoking liquid into a Flexi-cube cup. The financier leaned back, steepling his fingers. His eyes skimmed over the pyramid of Flexi-cubes and narrowed on the antique’ vase on the shelves opposite him.

Zak jumped at the opening. “You like our porcelain?”

“I was wondering what someone with a Meissen vase needed with a backer.” Boardman held Zak’s gaze.

Zak picked up the vase and held it to the light as if admiring its exquisite translucency, then handed it to Boardman. “I’ve heard you’re quite a connoisseur, Mr. Boardman. How would you like to add this to your collection?”

The financier set the vase down. Cyril could not read his expression, but the gesture did not bode well.

“So, you set up this meeting to impress me.” Boardman sounded anything but. He leaned back in the chair, steepling his fingers again in an attitude that made Cyril want to urge Zak on with a kick. This was not a man who was used
to being kept waiting. Zak merely gave a conjurer’s smile and extracted one of the cubes from the pyramid.

“I’m sure even in the brief moment you held it, you noted the vase’s texture, the fineness of the decoration, the authenticity of the marks on its base.” He paused before their impassive guest. “Well, here’s its twin.” He placed the cube beside the vase, pressed the dimples and stood back as another Meissen’ antique appeared, identical to the first. The financier sat forward with a snatched intake of breath. The movement fell short of actually reaching out for the object, but Cyril knew they had hooked him.

“And that’s not all.” Zak rapped the base of the twin vase on the desk and it reverted to a cube. “Unlike real porcelain, objects made from Flexi-cubes simply revert to the original when dropped.” He stood the cube
on the floor. “And... “ He pressed the next sequence of dimples, and the cube became a coffee table. “Think of it, Mr. Boardman. Each cube can be programmed with six transformations. You can redecorate your house with
different antiques and artworks every day, and all at the set price of a Flexi-cube. And it doesn’t stop there--this whole office is furnished with Flexi-cubes. They look and feel authentic, and they never wear out. Go
ahead--touch them, look closer.” Zak’s gesture encompassed the entire office. Cyril tried to shake his head at Zak without Boardman noticing, but the financier was already on his feet. He began to work his way along the
shelves, picking up boxes and paperweights, running his finger over the grain of the shelves. He looked questioningly at Zak.

“The shelves are Flexi-cubes too. Lightweight, easy to transport. Think how simple moving house could be in the future!” Zak’s face glowed.

Cyril’s own enthusiasm blossomed. “They’d be a great leveller--put things within the reach of everyone from cleaners to corporate heads, cut traffic congestion in half--the benefits to the environment and society--no more
haves’ and have-nots’. Even the crime rate would fall--what would be the point in stealing? Halve the envy and the anger.”

Boardman raised his eyebrows. He picked up a candle and sniffed.

“We’re working on the scent,” Zak said.

“But it’s not a priority,” Cyril butted in and earned a glare from his partner.

Boardman looked at him sharply. “What is?”

“Getting the production line going.” Zak began trying to steer Boardman back to his seat. “The raw materials and process aren’t expensive, but we need to do this on a big scale--at present all we have is the laboratory.”

“Yes, the more we can produce, the more cheaply we can sell them.” Cyril found himself following the pair around the office.

Boardman paused. “Unless we go for exclusivity. This could be the latest toy. First, we make them accessible only to the few who have to have the latest of everything--at a price. Limit production to a few transformations.”

Zak nodded. “Yes, some select luxury items.”

“But the applications are virtually limitless,” Cyril protested. “People need never have to live in squalor again.” He pushed past Zak. Boardman took a step backwards, knocking into a Flexi-cube chair, flailed his arms for balance and fell back into it. The chair, a modern chocolate and cream rattan design, vanished. Boardman found himself sitting on the floor.

“Ah,” Zak said into the sudden stillness. “That was one of the other things we wanted to discuss... “ His voice trailed off as Boardman raised a buttock and withdrew the Flexi-cube on which he had landed. Cyril extended a hand to help him rise and was ignored.

“It’s a minor problem. We hadn’t the resources to make the cubes dense enough. In production, this shouldn’t happen.”

Boardman straightened his suit in silence.

“All we need is a little money to get us started.” Zak’s voice had a pleading note that made Cyril’s lip curl.

“A little money?” Boardman spoke at last, with the finality of one sending an army to the front. “Hardly that. Contact me again when you have a product ready to sell.”

“But... “ Zak followed him to the door.

“Leave it,” Cyril said.

Zak rounded on him. “I told you to keep him away from the chairs.”

Cyril jutted out his chin. “If you ask me, we had a lucky escape. All he was interested in was how much money he’d make.”

Zak threw up his hands. He flung himself into the real leather chair and began pulling at his bottom lip.

Cyril recognized the gesture. “You’ll think of something else.”

Zak stopped mid pull. “Hold on--one of the Flexi-cubes has gone!”

They counted the cubes on the desk and searched the floor. They stared at each other, then rushed to the window. Cyril could just see Boardman striding down the pavement to his waiting transport.

The financier ran his finger over the edges of the cube in his pocket. No one would have known it from his expression, but he was extremely pleased with the morning’s events. He paused and looked at the cube. He would have a team of scientists start work on reproduction straight away. The inventor was right, the applications were endless. Unable to contain himself, Boardman tossed the cube in the air. As it hit his palm again, the cube
vanished and a three-seater sofa in sumptuous purple dralon appeared. It was partly surprise and partly the breeze catching the vastly expanded sofa’ that knocked Boardman into the path of the lorry. Brakes screeched
and a crowd gathered around the crushed body of the financier.

“It was the sofa... “ the lorry-driver babbled.

On Boardman’s chest there was merely a small pile of dust.

Cyril and Zak watched at the window.

“I thought you’d got that sorted out,” Zak said.

“So did I,” sighed Cyril.

They stared a moment longer, then turned away.