“We haven’t a thing to worry about now,” I said, “except getting these things sold.”
“But the dust must go somewhere,” he fretted.
“The dust?”
“Sure, the dust these things collect. Remember we picked up an entire pile of cement dust? What I want to know is where it all went. The gadget itself isn’t big enough to hold it. It isn’t big enough to hold even a week’s collection of dust from the average house. That’s what worries me—where does it go?”
“I don’t care where. It goes, doesn’t it?”
“That’s the pragmatic view,” he said scornfully.
It turned out that Lewis hadn’t done a thing about marketing, so I got busy.
But I ran into the same trouble we’d had trying to sell the emotion gauge.
The dust collector wasn’t patented and it didn’t have a brand name. There was no fancy label stuck on it and it didn’t bear a manufacturer’s imprint. And when anybody asked me how it worked, I couldn’t answer.
One wholesaler did make me a ridiculous offer. I laughed in his face and walked out.