where it had been, but nothing happened.
What scared the Trader off? I’d give a lot to know. Meanwhile, there are some commercial prospects.
The rose-tinted glasses, for instance, that we call the Happiness Lenses. Put them on and you’re happy as a clam. Almost every person on the face of the Earth would like a pair of them, so they could forget their troubles for a while. They would probably play hob with the liquor business.
The trouble is that we don’t know how to make them and, now that the Trader’s gone, we can’t swop for them.
But there’s one thing that keeps worrying me. I know I shouldn’t let it bother me, but I can’t keep it out of mind.
Just what did the Trader do with those couple of million zebras we sent him?
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