t
Weener. As I am Albert Weener.

ONE

_Albert Weener Begins_

_1._ I always knew I should write a book. Something to help tired minds
lay aside the cares of the day. But I always say you never can tell
what's around the corner till you turn it, and everyone has become so
accustomed to fantastic occurrences in the last twenty one years that
the inspiring and relaxing novel I used to dream about would be today as
unreal as Atlantis. Instead, I find I must write of the things which
have happened to me in that time.

It all began with the word itself.

"Grass. Gramina. The family Gramineae. Grasses."

"Oh," I responded doubtfully. The picture in my mind was only of a vague
area in parks edged with benches for the idle.

Anyway, I was far too resentful to pay strict attention. I had set out
in good faith, not for the first time in my career as a salesman, to
answer an ad offering "$50 or more daily to top producers," naturally
expecting the searching onceover of an alert salesmanager, back to the
light, behind a shinytopped desk. When youve handled as many products as
I had an ad like that has the right sound. But the world is full of
crackpots and some of the most pernicious are those who hoodwink
unsuspecting canvassers into anticipating a sizzling deal where there is
actually only a warm hope. No genuinely highclass proposition ever came
from a layout without aggressiveness enough to put on some kind of
front; working out of an office, for instance, not an outdated, rundown
apartment in the wrong part of Hollywood.

"It's only a temporary drawback, Weener, which restricts the
Metamorphizer's efficacy to grasses."

The wheeling syllables, coming in a deep voice from the middleaged
woman, emphasized the absurdity of the whole business. The snuffy
apartment, the unhomelike livingroom--dust and books its only
furniture--the unbelievable kitchen, looking like a pictured warning to
housewives, were only guffaws before the final buffoonery of discovering
the J S Francis who'd inserted that promising ad to be Josephine Spencer
Francis. Wrong location, wrong atmosphere, wrong gender.

Now I'm not the sort of man who would restrict women to a place in the
nursery. No indeed, I believe they are in some ways just as capable as I
am. If Miss Francis had been one of those wellgroomed, efficient ladies
who have earned their place in the business world without at the same
time sacrificing femininity, I'm sure I woul