All sorts of thoughts were jostling my brain.
But I was bone-weary. I hadn't slept since we hit Alvarla and the ride last night had been a tremendous strain, because I wasn't in the habit of getting any exercise at all.
Therefore, I fell asleep in mid-thought.
It was the noon sun that woke me. I wasn't just warm. I was hot.
And I was very reluctant to let go of my dream; I kept grabbing at the tag ends of it with both hands. It was the most exciting dream I'd had since the one about succeeding Mr. Picks. Only very different.
I'd made a fortune cultivating perfume trees. My dream was full of perfume. Some of it came from the exotic plants of my African estate. Some of it was from a long-legged, pink-haired girl, the kind African millionaires have.
It was the sort of dream, I mused, unable to keep it in mood any longer, as large-minded men have. Men like—Uncle Isadore!
I sat up suddenly. Uncle Isadore—large-minded? Why hadn't he had the avuncular decency to leave me his fortune the usual way?
Why?