the Face of Everyman had received an express shipment of Ambergris from an old friend at the Arctic whaling station.  In his laboratory he created irresistible fragrances to be sold to exclusive clients in the arcade shopping entrance to the Foggy Bottoms Resort and Spa.  A select group of mature Does were his best sniff testers.  Yet, often they were his harshest critics.  “Did you burn this batch?”  “Don’t you have something with a hint of lemon?  Musk at least.” “I ain’t putting no whale b**f on me, anywhere!”