"Sell Throatduster?" Blahrog was indignant. "It would be a breach of hospitality. Besides, Felix II can't produce enough second-rate stuff, let alone first-rate. Sometimes, in a bad year, we have to greet guests with water."
"What a pity," said Miss Featherpenny.
She became increasingly unsympathetic as Andy swallowed another Throatduster at the door of the Palace (a one-story building similar to a small barn), and yet another in the presence of the Everking (an eighteen-inch Felician with a beard-warmed paunch).
Andy watched the Everking dim and blur on his wooden throne. Swaying slightly, he muttered, "I wonder what proof this stuff is?"
"In short, Mr. Stephens," Blahrog was translating, "we cannot think of a single product which we could sell. Have you any immediate suggestions?"
Blahrog's expression indicated that he ought to say something, but Andy couldn't think of a thing, except that he didn't need any more Throatduster. "No," he said firmly, if faintly. "Thank you very much, but no." He passed out cold.