"You can show me whatever it is you're selling," Mary-Jean heard herself saying. "But please let's get one thing straight. I didn't call. I didn't send for you. You must be a cold-canvasser. Aren't you?" * * * * * The peddler rubbed plump hands together, shaking his head. "We Happiness Salesmen never canvass without being called." "Hap-happiness salesmen?" "I--" here the peddler returned the Tyrolean hat rakishly to his bald head--"am a Happiness Salesman." "But what--exactly what--do you sell? Can I see?" Mary-Jean asked, edging toward the enormous suitcase. "Specifically?" chirped the peddler. "I--I can't seem to see anything in your bag. That's strange." It certainly was strange, Mary-Jean thought. The suitcase was crowded with various items, she could sense that. Yet try as she might to see them, an eerie kind of haze seemed to be hanging over the suitcase. She could see nothing through it. Absolutely nothing. "Naturally," said the peddler. "But to answer your question. I sell people." "No. I don't want to know whom you sell. I want to know _what_ you sell to them." "I told you, madam. I made it quite clear. I sell people." "People?" "People." "Really, if this is some kind of an elaborate sales pitch--" "May I ask you a question, madam?" * * * * * Almost, Mary-Jean was disappointed. It was coming now. After the snappy beginning to hook her interest, the sales routine was sinking into its familiar pattern. Are you satisfied with your present vacuum cleaner, madam? Did you know that I am the new Fill-strip Brushman in your community? Have you ever thought of owning your own encyclopedia, for when the children grow up? I have here in this suitcase, madam.... Mary-Jean nodded. "When you were thinking, some ten minutes ago," said the little old man, "that it would be so nice if something unexpected, something thrilling, came into your life--did you have anything specific in mind?" Mary-Jean's eyes widened and she felt the same icy fear race up her spine. How had the peddler known that? A shrewd guess because Mary-Jean looked like the typical late-twenties housewife who would be thinking such thoughts almost constantly? Or--something else, something Mary-Jean couldn't possibly explain. Instead of answering, she stood there open-mouthed as the peddler went on: "Usually, it isn't anything specific. Usually, it's vague and general. Although--" here he smiled, revealing yellowed, wide-spaced teeth which made it look as if the healthy pink old-man's skin had been superimposed on a rotting skull--"although sometimes the specific nature of the daydream would startle you. When they're specific, though, they're atypical. I have had specific requests--granted, of course, for that is my function--for some mighty peculiar items. Are you interested? Come, come, are you interested?" "In any peculiar--peculiar items, you mean?" "Naturally."