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and Viking. Probably the most talented author of juveniles in the world.”
    “I’m in History and Literature.”
    “You should be familiar with kidlit as well. And I’ve written two books under another name—William Bread.”
    She shook her head. “Sorry.”
    “But that’s hilarious!”
    “What?”
    “Bread and Butters!”
    She opened the door wide enough to have a stare at me. I had compiled my wardrobe for the journey west with impeccable taste. This morning I wore a double-breasted suit of Glen Urquardt plaid in pink and gray with Duke of Windsor vents, tailored by Zegna of Italy. My silk jersey shirt was a shocking pink Pucci, my tie a mauve foulard silk with coordinated pocket square, my shoes black calf half-boots by Alan McAfee of London. Oh yes, and I had a hat—a Tyrolean velour with a badger brush.
    “My God,” she said.
    “New York,” I said.
    She let me in and relocked the door.
    “Here we are,” said I, looking round, then at her. “And well stacked we are, too. Municipally and personally.”
    “Thanks. What can I do for you, Mr. Butters?”
    “Marry me.”
    “But before that?”
    “Show me the juveniles. I want to see how many of my titles you have.”
    “Juveniles are downstairs.”
    “Down? They should be up,” I chided. “As accessible as possible. If you don’t hook a kid on books early, he’s lost for life. Marginally illiterate. Television.”
    “I’ll speak to the Board,” she said.
    Libraries are wonderful when there’s no one around but you and the books. “Good morning, everybody!” I cried, tipping my Tyrolean as we strolled. “Stretch your spines! Wash your jackets! Brush your typography!”
    She stopped.
    “I address the books, Miss Snackenberg. They’ve had a sound night’s sleep—now it’s time to let them know the world’s waiting for them. Gives ‘em a dandy start on the day.”
    She stared at me again.
    “Someone should wake the books in every library every morning.”
    I followed her downstairs. El Paso’s facilities were only adequate. Oh, they had open shelves and enough chairs and a story room with a stage, but chairs should be big and browsy and artificial light is never conducive. Kids and books need natural. I went directly to the B’s in Fiction and found myself and counted.
    “Only thirteen! I’ve published nineteen!”
    “You haven’t.”
    “I have so. I write two a year.” I was reading titles. “You don’t even have Jerome the Germ—that almost won the Newbery. The life story of a common childhood germ and how to defeat him—exciting, educational, marvelous.” I counted the Frisbys. “Only six of the Frisbys—how could you?”
    “Frisbys?”
    “My Frisby the Fly series. Frisby Flies to France, Frisby Flies to Italy, you know. The sophisticated fly who stows away on international flights and through his travels kids get to see foreign countries, meet the people, learn the customs, et cetera. Between tours Frisby hangs out in the TWA terminal at Kennedy—right now he’s about to embark for Africa. My girl, that series sells a hundred thousand copies a year here and abroad—and to think you have only six of the eight—”
    “Perhaps they’re out.”
    “Any self-respecting institution would have many of each—and absolutely every one of my titles. I trust you’ll remark this shameful omission to your juvenile buyer at the first–”
    “Now just a damn minute.” Her dimples disappeared. “I didn’t let you in here early, Mr. Butters, to take a damn ego trip with you. So catch your flies and pack up your germs and hit the jet to Africa or wherever the hell you’re—”
    “Harding.”
    “Harding? New Mexico?”
    “Yes. And I’m sorry. I apologize. I’m nervous. Where’s the lounge?”
    “Lounge?”
    “You know—where the staff smokes cigs and slugs caffeine all day. You always have one.”
    “Oh. Upstairs.”
    “I need coffee profoundly. Please?”
    She considered, glanced at a clock. “All right, one