The Everking, backed by his Debators and ministers, issued public thanks to one Andrew Stephens, restorer of hope, and propagator of economic equality. The ladies' auxiliary gave a tea in Miss Featherpenny's honor. They were both showered with gifts from a grateful and admiring populace. The reply to the message was signed by Crumbly himself. "Forlorn hope," it said unsympathetically. "Try something else. Computer indicates ad intensity of 0.94." An ad intensity of 0.0001 means you sell someone something he wants anyway. An intensity of 1.0 means you have to make the consumer love something he thinks he hates. * * * * * Andy sent a young Felician on the run for Blahrog, and retired to the storeroom of Blahrog's dwelling, which housed two fair-sized plastic barrels of Throatduster. "But you have to try," Blahrog insisted, finishing his second mug of hospitality. "Snow good," Andy said, deep into his fifth. "Even Gray Flannel, ad man in legend, only got to 0.87. Simpossible." Blahrog, who knew little about advertising or computers, repeated, "You must try. No member of the Cobbler's Guild has ever quit without trying." Andy had been accepted as an apprentice of the Guild the night before. "Dunno," he said. "Tell you simpossible." Blahrog climbed off the barrel of Throatduster. "I'll go get Miss Featherpenny," he said. "Perhaps she can help you." "Miss Featherpenny. Bah," Andy snorted. "What good would she be? Dumb steno." He tried to be fair. "Nice legs, I admit. But no brains." "I'll go get Miss Featherpenny," Blahrog repeated firmly, closing the door behind him.... "What frame of mind is he in?" Miss Featherpenny looked uncertainly at the heavy door to Andy's store room. "Drunk," Blahrog informed her coldly. It takes an enormous quantity of Throatduster to intoxicate a Felician. Intoxication is therefore considered bad form. "And belligerent," the Minister of Finance added. "Oh, dear." Miss Featherpenny looked at the door again. "But what can I do?" she asked in a helpless voice. "I'm not a promoter." "He said," Blahrog indicated the door, "that you were a dumb steno." "Well!" Hrom exclaimed. Miss Featherpenny's hackles invisibly rose. Her mouth visibly tightened. She turned away from the door. Hrom said, "You ought to try to show him." Miss Featherpenny looked at them, and at the surrounding examples of Felician landscape and architecture. "Mr. Blahrog," she said suddenly, "you don't mind looking like a leprechaun, do you? As long as you don't have to meet people?" Blahrog's silence was more than dignified. "What do you mean?" Hrom asked. "You wouldn't mind if we used a picture of a Master Cobbler in the ad, would you?" Blahrog thawed abruptly. "You have an idea?" "If you don't mind the picture." "He doesn't mind," Hrom said, adding in Felician, "After all, Papa, we don't have to let any ships but the freighters land." "Go ahead, then," Blahrog consented. "Good luck," Hrom added.