«Mister . . . Mister . . . Wimple," she said, glancing • tOr?" one of the other men said-

at a sheet on her desk.

7

against something lighter. But none of its details | , "WimPl£*;" he corrected He counted out the bills

could be made out It was an invisible paint. ¡ fromhs waUet' Somg slowly s0 he co^ l°6k a*

He touched the grill of the old car and felt the ripples and grooves of the once shiny metal. He took his hand away and leaned back. The grill was not visible.

He felt his heart pounding inside his chest. This was it. His big chance. No more dry cereal. No more living next door to Mr. and Mrs. Jock. No more trying to make do with old, worn-out equipment. No more working in a garage.

The invisible paint was his passport to a new life.

An hour later, he had his new paint compound in a spray can. Ignoring the hoots and calls of Curt and his wife, he walked quickly back into his house and called the FOI telephone number he had seen in a magazine—Friends of Inventors—a commercial group that would help him patent and sell his new paint.

The secretary told him that there was one opening later that afternoon, and he could make it if he hurried. The evaluation fee, payable in advance to FOI, was $500. Cash.

Elmo Wimpler dressed in his one suit, put his can of spray paint in a paper bag, and walked to the neighborhood bank. He had exactly $504 in his checking account, and he withdrew $502. Enough for the fee and bus fare both ways to FOI.

The pretty receptionist at FOI headquarters in New York City looked at him strangely as he arrived, clutching his paper bag under his arm.

"You have the five hundred dollars?" she asked.

big, sweater-clad bosom. She smiled at him, a professional bored smile. When he gave her the money, she counted it, put it into her desk drawer, and announced into the intercom, "Mister Wimple is here."