On Sunday morning Leo Auffmann moved slowly through his garage, expecting some wood, a curl of wire, a hammer or wrench to leap up crying, “Start here!” But nothing leaped, nothing cried for a beginning. Should a Happiness Machine, he wondered, be something you can carry in your pocket? Or, he went on, should it be something that carries you in its pocket? “One thing I absolutely know,” he said aloud. “It should be bright!” He set a can of orange paint in the center of the work-bench, picked up a dictionary, and wandered into the house.
