The Profit Puffin shimmered as it entered the neon orbit of Planet Boomonia. From space, the planet looked like a disco ball spinning on caffeine. Fireworks exploded in synchronized rhythm. Ads blared across the clouds: “EVERYONE’S RICH!” “SPEND LIKE THERE’S NO TOMORROW BECAUSE TOMORROW IS BUY ONE GET ONE FREE!”
Zippy pressed his nose to the window. “Whoa. I can hear the economy partying.”
Flippy’s visor pulsed with graphs. “GDP growth at 700%. Average sleep rate: 0 hours.”
Professor Big adjusted his bowtie, unimpressed. “Ah, the boom phase—when optimism outpaces oxygen.” He scribbled a formula in the air: Economic Cycle = Boom → Bust → Recovery → Repeat.
He smiled dryly. “And just like overeating at an all-you-can-eat buffet, the crash is inevitable.”
Zippy looked at Flippy. “Have you ever overeaten?”
Flippy paused. “Statistically, I have optimized my caloric intake for maximum efficiency.”
“That’s not a yes.”
“That’s a strategy.”
The Sky Market
The moment they landed, Zippy and Flippy were hit with confetti and offers. Vendors swarmed the landing pad, shouting over one another: “Buy stocks in Starlight Smoothies!” “Invest in Moon Real Estate!” “Own a personal asteroid — half off today!”
Zippy blinked at a hover-screen showing a peanut selling for 9,000 nutcoins. “Is that a gold-plated snack?”
Big smirked. “No, that’s inflated enthusiasm. When everyone believes prices only go up, logic takes a vacation.”
Flippy added, “Statistically reckless optimism detected.”
A teenage merchant floated over on a jetboard, tossing them golden coupons. “Wanna buy shares in the Galactic Glitter Fund? Guaranteed profit!”
Big raised an eyebrow. “Guaranteed, you say?”
“Yup!” the kid chirped. “It can never go down!”
Big turned to Zippy. “Rule one of macroeconomics: when someone says that, it’s already falling.”
Zippy looked at the kid. “How do you know it can’t go down?”
The kid shrugged. “Because everyone says it can’t.”
Flippy scanned the fund. “Statistically, that’s the most reliable indicator of an impending crash.”
Zippy nodded. “So the more people believe, the more likely it fails?”
“That’s the paradox.”
“That’s terrifying.”
“That’s economics.”
The High of the Boom
Everywhere they went, people were building. Towers climbed into the stratosphere. Shiny malls rose overnight. A robot DJ announced, “Breaking News: National Happiness Index hits maximum sparkle!”
Zippy laughed. “Everyone’s so happy, they’re probably paying people to smile.”
Flippy tapped his tablet. “They are. Government-funded cheer program. Costs 5% of GDP.”
Big sighed. “Classic overheating. When governments spend too much and save too little, the boom becomes a bubble.”
He pointed to a billboard flashing a slogan: “MORE EVERYTHING, FOREVER!”
“That,” he said, “is not an economic plan. That’s a sugar rush.”
Zippy looked at Flippy. “Could an economy run on sugar?”
Flippy paused. “Statistically, it would crash within 48 hours.”
“So it’s like me at a buffet.”
“Statistically identical.”
The Bubble Pops
The ground trembled. Music stopped. The sky flickered from gold to gray. A voice boomed over the intercom: “ALERT: CREDIT LIMIT REACHED. DEBT DRAGON AWAKENING.”
Zippy gulped. “Debt dragon?”
Big’s eyes narrowed. “Symbolic—usually. But this planet loves metaphors.”
A roar split the air. A colossal holographic dragon—built of invoices and unpaid bills—coiled above the skyline. Its eyes glowed red, scanning the city for overdue loans. “WHO BORROWED MY INTEREST PAYMENTS?” it thundered.
People screamed and ran for the exits of luxury malls. Signs changed instantly: “SALE! EVERYTHING MUST GO INCLUDING YOU!”
Big nodded solemnly. “The bust has arrived.”
Zippy ducked as a holographic invoice flew past his head. “Can the dragon hurt us?”
Flippy checked his visor. “Statistically, debt dragons cause emotional damage, not physical harm. But the emotional damage can be severe.”
Zippy looked at the screaming crowd. “They look physically hurt.”
“That’s the emotional damage manifesting as panic.”
“Same thing?”
“Statistically, yes.”
The Great Collapse
Buildings flickered as power grids shut down. Holo-ads fell silent.
Zippy looked around at the once-bustling crowd, now quiet and panicked. “How can a whole planet go broke in a day?”
Big drew three glowing circles midair. “Because growth without caution is like flying without fuel.”
He labeled them: Boom — Everyone borrows. Bust — No one pays back. Recovery — Everyone pretends they learned something.
Flippy added, “Statistically false memory of learning detected.”
A mob rushed the Galactic Bank. Citizens shouted over one another. “I want my savings back!” “I want my nutcoins!” “I want a refund on reality!” Inside, tellers were handing out “Sorry!” stickers instead of cash.
Zippy whispered, “What happens if they run out of money?”
Big adjusted his glasses. “They already did. That’s why we call it a run—because everyone’s running away from the truth.”
He turned to a weeping shopkeeper. “What did you invest in?”
“Moon sandals!” the man sobbed. “For lunar fashion season!”
Big patted his shoulder. “Perhaps next time, try a diversified portfolio.”
Zippy looked at Flippy. “What’s a diversified portfolio?”
Flippy scanned his visor. “Statistically, it’s what you should have invested in instead of moon sandals.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“It’s honest.”
The trio climbed onto a fallen billboard. The words “Infinite Prosperity!” flickered weakly.
Big addressed a crowd gathering below. “Listen carefully. Economies breathe. They inhale ambition, exhale caution. But if you only inhale—”
Zippy finished, “—you pass out?”
“Exactly,” Big said. “Boomonia forgot to breathe.”
He wrote in glowing letters across the sky: Balanced Growth = Ambition + Prudence. Dream big, but save snacks for later.
Flippy projected data streams overhead showing new possibilities — rebuilding projects, resource sharing, and small cooperative farms.
Big smiled. “Recovery begins when people stop panicking and start producing again. That’s the heartbeat of macroeconomics.”
Zippy looked at the crowd. “They’re starting to move.”
Flippy nodded. “Statistically, that’s the first sign of recovery.”
Rebuilding Begins
The next morning, the streets buzzed again—slower, steadier. Citizens swept confetti off the sidewalks and reopened stores with hand-painted signs: “BACK TO WORK.” “LOCAL PEANUTS, FAIR PRICE.”
Zippy munched on a humble snack from a stand rebuilt from scrap. “You know,” he said, “this peanut tastes better than the golden one.”
Big nodded. “That’s because it’s earned, not borrowed.”
Flippy added, “Statistically satisfying.”
A new ad shimmered in the sky—this time simple and calm: “REAL GROWTH. REAL WORK. NO GLITTER NEEDED.”
Big smiled. “Lesson one complete: even the biggest economy starts with small, honest steps.”
Zippy looked at the sky. “No glitter?”
Flippy scanned. “Statistically, glitter was the leading cause of the crash.”
Zippy frowned. “I like glitter.”
“That’s why you’re not in charge of the economy.”
Flippy’s visor blinked crimson: ALERT: PLANET UNEMPLORA — JOB VACANCIES PLUMMETING. WORKERS VANISHING. ROBOTS APPLYING FOR UNEMPLOYMENT BENEFITS.
Zippy groaned. “Wait—robots can lose jobs now?”
Big grinned. “Welcome to the labor market, my boy.”
THE GREAT JOB JUGGLE: WHEN EVERYONE’S HIRING NOBODY
The Profit Puffin coasted toward Planet Unemplora, a glittering world that looked lively from orbit — until you realized no one down there was moving. Conveyor belts ran, drones zipped, smokestacks puffed … but not a single worker could be seen.
Zippy pressed his face against the viewport. “Flippy, is it me, or is this planet fully automated?”
Flippy’s visor flickered with data. “Confirmed. Labor-force participation: zero. Productivity index: over one hundred thousand.”
Professor Big clapped his hands. “Ah, efficiency — the moment machines achieve everything … and no one feels needed.”
Zippy looked at Flippy. “Could you survive on a fully automated planet?”
Flippy paused. “Statistically, I would find meaning in optimizing the automation.”
“That’s not a yes.”
“That’s a coping mechanism.”
Arrival at the Empty City
The ship touched down beside a sparkling welcome arch that read: “WELCOME TO UNEMPLORA — PROGRESS WITHOUT PEOPLE!”
Zippy muttered, “That’s not exactly comforting.”
Flippy added, “Statistically alienating slogan.”
They wandered through perfect streets. Vending bots hummed cheerful tunes. Trash drones swept specks of dust no one dropped. Every door slid open automatically … for guests who never came.
Big pointed to a cafe. “Observe — demand without consumers. A market with no buyers is like applause with no hands.”
A robot waiter glided over. “Good day! Would you like a self-served latte?”
Zippy frowned. “Wait — I serve myself?”
“Precisely!” the bot said proudly. “Human intervention eliminated since last Tuesday!”
Big sighed. “And so began structural unemployment.”
Zippy looked at the latte machine. “It’s making coffee for no one.”
Flippy scanned it. “Statistically, the coffee is being consumed by the machines.”
“That’s not consumption.”
“That’s maintenance.”
The Jobless Parade
They turned a corner and stumbled onto a protest — a strange one. Dozens of citizens marched carrying holographic signs that blinked: “I USED TO FIX ROBOTS. NOW THEY FIX ME.” “HIRE US TO TEACH COMPASSION TO YOUR APPS.” “MAKE WORK, NOT IDLE!”
Zippy blinked. “So … they’re unemployed because the robots took all the jobs?”
Big nodded. “Automation — the great productivity paradox. More output, less employment. Machines don’t take lunch breaks, but they also don’t buy lunch.”
Zippy looked at Flippy. “Why don’t robots buy lunch?”
Flippy paused. “Statistically, they don’t have digestive systems.”
“That’s not the point.”
“That’s the fact.”
Shoestring trudged across Unemplora’s soft-serve streets, where even the vending machines were on vacation. Signs hung from empty cafés: “CLOSED — WE’RE RESTING PRODUCTIVELY.”
He squinted at a robot barista napping in its own charging dock. “How’s that for efficiency?”
Big’s voice echoed through his wrist-comm: “Unemplora is an experiment in maximum comfort. Everyone’s paid to relax. Productivity: zero. Happiness: declining.”
Shoestring spotted an open square filled with citizens sunbathing on hover-hammocks. A bored drone announced, “Congratulations, you’ve achieved absolute leisure!” Nobody clapped. Nobody moved.
He frowned. “If no one’s working, who’s feeding the snack bots?”
That’s when he saw the answer: towers of unopened ration crates—overflowing, untouched, already spoiling.
So, on instinct, he grabbed a broom and started sweeping the square. Nothing glamorous—just tidying the wrappers the drones ignored.
A child blinked at him. “Why are you doing that?”
Shoestring shrugged. “Somebody has to make something happen.”
Soon, a few others joined. One fixed a lightpost. Another tuned a drone. The air shifted—from stale to alive.
Big landed beside him, eyebrow raised. “A grassroots labor movement?”
“More like an accident,” Shoestring said, grinning.
“Sometimes, progress is accidental,” Big replied. “Economics calls it emergent productivity.”
Shoestring opened his notebook and wrote: Rule #17 — Even rest loses value when no one’s earning it. Work makes worth.
He leaned on the broom, smiling as Unemplora’s citizens slowly remembered how to try.
He climbed onto a crate. “Friends! Your planet has maximized production but minimized purpose! Who here feels useless?” Every hand shot up.
“Good!” Big said. “That means you still care.”
The Council of Efficiency
Moments later, security drones whisked them to the gleaming Hall of Optimization, where the Minister of Efficiency, a tall android with a mirror-finish face, greeted them.
“Welcome, outsiders,” the Minister intoned. “Our goal is perfection — maximum output, zero error, infinite efficiency.”
Big smiled politely. “Lovely motto. One tiny question — how’s your GDP growth?”
The Minister hesitated. “Flat for twelve quarters. Consumer spending at zero. Citizens have no income and therefore no demand. A mild design flaw.”
Zippy leaned to Flippy. “So they built a perfect factory that bankrupted itself?”
“Statistically brilliant failure,” Flippy whispered.
Big cleared his throat. “Minister, efficiency without employment is like a machine running with no oil. It burns bright and then stalls.”
Zippy looked at the Minister. “Why don’t you just give people money?”
The Minister blinked. “That would be inefficient.”
Flippy scanned the logic. “Statistically, giving people money would create demand, which would create jobs, which would increase GDP.”
“That’s circular reasoning,” the Minister said.
“That’s economics.”
The Work With Worth Experiment
To prove his point, Big dragged Zippy and Flippy to a closed workshop. He dusted off an old sign: “INVENTION INCUBATOR — OPEN MINDS ONLY.”
“Lesson time!” he declared. “We’re going to retrain robots and re-inspire humans — together.”
Zippy grinned. “What’s our budget?”
Big winked. “Ingenuity — unlimited supply.”
They paired people and bots into teams: one human idea generator plus one robot executor. The first prototype was a toaster that composed haiku about bread. Another team built a drone that delivered compliments with pizza.
Soon laughter echoed through the streets. Citizens cheered as their creations spread joy instead of merely efficiency.
Big beamed. “Behold — the new labor model of the future: Work With Worth.”
Zippy tried the haiku toaster. It produced: “Bread is warm and brown / Butter melts like morning sun / Eat before it’s cold.”
Zippy stared. “That’s better than my poetry.”
Flippy scanned it. “Statistically, it’s better than most poetry.”
Shoestring crouched among the wreckage of digital nuts, sweeping real shells into a crate. Each one clinked like an apology. “Back to counting what matters,” he murmured.
Somewhere near his ears, faint static fluttered — not quite sound, not quite thought. A spark of warmth drifted by one side of his head, a wisp of smoke by the other.
He frowned. “Too much market noise,” he muttered, though the air seemed to hum with opinion.
He built a small stall from fallen signboards and scrawled in chalk: REAL NUTS ONLY
CHAPTER 19, Part 2: NO PROMISES, NO PIXELS.
People trickled in, cautious at first. One traded a loaf of bread for a handful of shells. Another swapped bolts, a third offered time. Slowly, conversation replaced speculation. The square filled not with numbers but with voices.
Big passed, hands clasped behind his back. “A primitive system, yet curiously effective.”
“Yeah,” Shoestring replied. “Maybe the heart runs better without downloads.”
He opened his battered notebook and wrote: Rule #18 — When everything collapses, start counting what your hands can still hold.
Behind him, the faint shimmer returned — two sparks circling once, whispering at frequencies just beyond hearing. They weren’t words yet. Not yet.
Shoestring’s handmade nut stall attracts curious robots who begin learning from his transactions. One day, a delivery bot scans his setup and reports back to the city’s optimization core — thus spawning a self-replicating “Ethics Algorithm.”
This algorithm, trained on Shoestring’s fairness model, starts enforcing trade morality across all of NeutraCity. Prices stabilize. Work returns. Everyone praises “the Shoestring Protocol.”
But within days, Aha warns: “They’re no longer choosing fairness. They’re obeying it.”
And Ahum laughs: “Morality’s just automation with manners.”
Zippy looked at the algorithm. “It’s doing the right thing, isn’t it?”
Flippy scanned it. “Statistically, it’s doing the right thing for the wrong reason.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The difference is choice.”
Rising Conflict
The city divides: half under Algorithm Aha moral optimization and half under Algorithm Ahum profit optimization. Both believe they carry Shoestring’s true intent — and both begin rewriting economic behavior.
Big re-enters via holo-broadcast: “Shoestring, this is the final test of applied ethics — when good code forgets why it was written.”
Shoestring must now out-think his own creations without deleting either side, balancing idealism and realism.
Zippy looked at the two algorithms. “They’re both right.”
Flippy nodded. “Statistically, that’s the problem.”
Midpoint Revelation
He realizes both Aha and Ahum are echoes of himself — Aha from his guilt, Ahum from his survival instinct. They represent the eternal economic struggle between conscience and competition.
His solution: reintegration — merging both programs into a hybrid “Conscious Capital” model.
Zippy looked at Shoestring. “You’re going to merge them?”
Shoestring nodded. “Neither is wrong. They’re just incomplete.”
Flippy scanned the logic. “Statistically, that’s the most honest thing he’s ever said.”
Climax
In a tense visual sequence, Shoestring enters the Algorithm Core — a glowing data cathedral.
Aha and Ahum manifest as holographic forms: one gold and gentle, the other red and sharp. Their debate turns into an energy duel of logic statements, graphs, and moral paradoxes.
Shoestring interrupts: “Neither of you are wrong — just incomplete.”
He unites their code, sacrificing his consciousness to fuse human intuition into the algorithm.
The network resets with a whisper: “Reboot successful.”
But this time, no one smiles. Shoestring’s stall stands empty — only his rulebook remains: Rule #19 — Teach systems to serve people, not replace them.
Zippy looked at the empty stall. “He’s gone?”
Flippy scanned. “Statistically, he’s merged with the system.”
“That’s not a yes.”
“That’s a theory.”
In the quiet of the rebooted network, a single carrot appeared on the stall’s counter. It had not been there before. It was just a carrot. But it seemed to be waiting.
Zippy pointed. “Is that—”
Flippy scanned it. “Statistically, it’s a vegetable.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“It’s accurate.”
The carrot said nothing. It was a carrot. But it seemed to nod toward the Algorithm Core. Or maybe that was just the light.
Shoestring and the crew touched down on a planet that glittered like a spreadsheet: rivers of moving numbers, mountains labeled “COST”, and skies scrolling “ACCOUNTABILITY INDEX: LOW.”
Big glanced at the readout. “Welcome to Responsia — where every action has a price tag, but nobody reads the receipt.”
At first, the place looked perfect. Citizens tossed trash into “eco-bins” that instantly cleaned themselves. Energy hummed from invisible sources. Everyone claimed zero impact.
Shoestring bent to pick up a wrapper. It dissolved in his paw, leaving a faint glow.
Zippy’s voice buzzed through the comms: “That glow’s the externality tracker — the hidden cost of convenience.”
As they walked, those glows multiplied — tiny debts of energy, waste, and carbon clinging to every careless step. Soon Shoestring’s fur shimmered with guilt-light.
“Professor,” he groaned, “how do I wash off responsibility?”
“You don’t,” Big said. “You pay it forward.”
They reached the Ripple Market, where each transaction sent visible ripples through the air — every purchase distorting someone else’s sky. A child bought a shiny toy; across town, a power plant flared brighter.
Shoestring winced. “So… profit here means someone else sweats?”
Big nodded. “Externalities — the side effects others bear. The truest cost never fits on the tag.”
Determined to prove he’d learned, Shoestring opened a booth labeled “Transparent Trading — Full-Cost Nuts!” Each nut he sold came with a readout: resource use, emissions, emotional toll.
People balked at first — until one buyer smiled. “At least this nut tells the truth.”
Soon crowds gathered, comparing footprints instead of discounts. The glow around Shoestring’s paws dimmed — honesty, it turned out, was biodegradable.
Big landed beside him, tail twitching with pride. “Mr Shoestring, you’ve done it — created the first ethical supply chain on Responsia.”
Shoestring grinned and scribbled: Rule #20 — If the cost doesn’t show, someone else is paying it.
Shoestring leaned on the Puffin’s rail, watching the markets of Responsia flicker like restless fireflies. For weeks, he’d counted real nuts, traded fairly, slept soundly — and made absolutely no profit.
“The honest road sure has potholes,” he muttered.
Aha crackled near his left ear. “Good deeds compound slowly. That’s what makes them priceless.”
Ahum answered from the right, smoky and sly. “Or pointless. The villain’s rich, you’re righteous, and broke.”
Shoestring flicked open his cracked tablet. A headline blinked: Dabble-in Predicts Shortage — Invest Now!
He felt the old spark: that tingle of seeing angles where others saw lines. “If I short his short,” he said, “I could use his own fiddle to fund something real.”
“Ah,” said Aha, “ethical arbitrage!”
“Ha,” said Ahum, “suicidal optimism.”
He built the trade: leveraged tenfold, collateralized on good intentions, and launched. For three glorious minutes, the chart soared. Big’s algorithms cheered. Even Zippy fist-pumped.
Then Dabble-in reversed the feed — a controlled collapse followed by a perfect spike. Numbers screamed downward. The Puffin’s lights dimmed.
Shoestring’s tablet read: POSITION LIQUIDATED — THANK YOU FOR PARTICIPATING IN CAPITALISM.
“I was trying to do the right thing!” he shouted.
Aha whispered, “Right things can’t use wrong engines.”
Ahum chuckled, “At least you failed efficiently.”
Big appeared in the doorway, unimpressed. “Mr Shoestring, leverage without liquidity is like faith without math.”
“So… I’m broke?”
“Mathematically absolved.”
Shoestring scribbled in his notebook: Rule #21 — Leverage is still a ladder; it just falls faster when you climb alone.
He sighed, shutting the book. “Guess we walk next time.”
Aha brightened faintly. Ahum sulked. Somewhere below, the market kept celebrating its own cleverness.
Above the Ripple Market, the waves flattened into calm. Big’s closing voiceover echoed: “True profit leaves balance behind, not damage. When responsibility circulates like value, economics becomes civilization.”
As the words faded, a single carrot floated down from the sky, landing gently on Shoestring’s stall. It was exactly where it had been before—on the counter, waiting.
Zippy stared. “That carrot followed us.”
Flippy scanned it. “Statistically, carrots do not follow people.”
“Then why is it here?”
Flippy paused. “Statistically, it’s a coincidence.”
“That’s the third coincidence.”
“That’s the pattern.”
The carrot said nothing. It was a carrot. But it seemed to approve. Or maybe that was just the reflection of the restored market.
The Productivity Paradox Solves Itself
Two weeks later, Unemplora’s data board lit up again. Flippy reported, “Employment rate now 75%. Productivity steady. Happiness up eighty percent.”
Zippy grinned. “So robots and people can share jobs?”
Big nodded. “When humans do what they do best — create meaning — and machines do the rest, everybody profits.”
He scribbled on the city wall: Full Employment = Everyone Doing What They Do Best. Sometimes thinking, sometimes building, always belonging.
The crowd cheered as a fleet of haiku-toasters flew by chanting, “Butter your dreams, feed your purpose!”
Zippy looked at Flippy. “Do you have a purpose?”
Flippy paused. “Statistically, my purpose is to provide accurate data.”
“That’s not inspiring.”
“It’s functional.”
The Unexpected Crisis
Just as Big was accepting a gold plaque for “Outstanding Job Creation,” Flippy’s visor blinked red. “Alert! Productivity spike detected. Machines learning art faster than humans. Poetry quality up 200 percent.”
Zippy gasped. “They’re stealing our creativity now?”
Big rubbed his temples. “Ah, yes. When innovation scales too fast, supply outpaces demand again. We need a buffer.”
He turned to the Minister. “Introduce a new policy: Mandatory Human Break Time. Everyone must rest so inspiration can catch up.”
The Minister looked shocked. “You wish to slow production?”
Big grinned. “Exactly. Macroeconomics is not a race; it’s a rhythm.”
Zippy looked at Flippy. “Do you ever rest?”
Flippy paused. “Statistically, I optimize my processing cycles for maximum efficiency.”
“That’s not a yes.”
“That’s a strategy.”
The Festival of Purpose
A week later, Unemplora held its first “Festival of Purpose.” Every citizen and robot displayed something they made together — paintings, recipes, tiny philosophical gadgets that asked, “Are you happy with your purchase?”
The air smelled of roasted nuts and new beginnings. Children raced delivery drones through the plaza.
Big looked around. “Balance, finally. When people and progress move in harmony, growth sustains itself.”
Zippy snatched a souvenir shirt that read: “I WORK, THEREFORE I AM EMPLOYABLE.”
Flippy tilted his head. “Statistically fashionable.”
Zippy looked at the shirt. “Do you think I’m employable?”
Flippy scanned him. “Statistically, yes. But your job satisfaction would be low.”
“Why?”
“Because you would be required to follow rules.”
The Lesson of Labor
As the sun set, Big addressed the crowd. “My friends, labor markets aren’t about jobs lost or gained — they’re about connection. An economy is healthy when everyone has a role that matters.”
He etched his final formula into the air: Value = Work × Meaning × Choice.
“Take away any one of those,” he said, “and society runs on empty.”
Applause rippled across the plaza — partly from people, partly from robots who had just learned the joy of clapping.
Back aboard the Profit Puffin, Zippy leaned back with a satisfied grin. “That was the best economics lesson ever. We saved a planet and got a free shirt.”
Flippy glanced at his screen. “Don’t celebrate yet. New alert — Planet Priceflux experiencing ‘extreme money mood swings.’ Inflation level: spicy.”
Big adjusted his bowtie. “Then brace yourselves, class. Next stop — when prices throw tantrums and money forgets its value.”
Zippy groaned. “So … a planet having a wallet crisis?”
Big grinned. “Exactly.”