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idea, and that was that. Anything to take to the island with me? I opened desk drawers, and once again noticed yesteryear’s spectacles. Another thought occurred to me, a different usage than protection from Charlie Hillerman. I chuckled at the silliness of the idea, and put the glasses in my attaché case.

    I N THE NEWSPAPER LIBRARY on West Forty-third Street I read:
    ALBERT AND ELIZABETH KERNER
DEAD IN FREAK ACCIDENT
    Albert J. Kerner, prominent manufacturer and financier who was chairman of the board of Laurentian Lumber Mills, world’s third largest supplier of wood and wood products, and his wife Elizabeth Margaret Kerner, the former Elizabeth Margaret Grahame, both died yesterday in a freak automobile accident in this city. Mr. Kerner was 57 and his wife 53, and they lived here.
    Mr. Kerner, well known in Wall Street and social circles, inherited much of the family’s company holdings, but in recent years had engaged in expansion, leading to the acquisition of several other firms, including a television station in Indiana.
    The couple are survived by their daughters Elizabeth and Elisabeth.
    Hmmmmmm.

    â€œY OU MUST BE BETTY ,” I said, though I knew better.
    â€œNot on your life,” Liz said. “But I suppose you’re Bart. Come on in.”
    I stumbled slightly on the threshold. Damn glasses, how does anybody see with them? All my perceptions were just slightly off; objects I looked at were either a bit too close or a bit top far away, or in any event slightly distorted. It was like living in a Dali painting.
    â€œWatch your step,” Liz said.
    She led me into the living room. Without its party it seemed cozier, with comfortable chairs grouped around a stone fireplace. Portraits on the walls were undoubtedly Mom and Pop; he looked like the sort of fellow who makes illegal campaign contributions, and she looked like a Grahame.
    I have never been in this house before , I reminded myself, and said, “Nice place you have here.”
    â€œSorry,” she said, “we already got a buyer.”
    â€œOh, yes. Art told me you’re selling.”
    She gave me a sardonic look; I wasn’t being any fun. “I’ll tell Betty you’re here,” she said, and left before I could thank her.
    What was happening to me? I paced around the room, frowning inside my glasses. Usually I’m fairly good at casual chitchat, but just now I’d done a very good imitation of that entire party from the other night All I do is put on spectacles and I suddenly become a baby Frazier; why?
    I suppose partly it was the physical unease caused by the glasses themselves. If you’re constantly afraid you might lean just a bit too far to the left and do half a cartwheel you really can’t devote full attention to bon mots. And also there’s a certain tension involved in facing a girl you’ve recently screwed in the upstairs closet and convincing her she’s never met you before.
    Well, probably it was all to the good. I hadn’t thought in terms of a personality change when I’d decided to have a go at being Bart, but why not? It could only reinforce the physical changes I’d wrought.
    An oval mirror in an ornate frame hung on the wall near the dining room arch, and in it I studied again the new face I’d made for myself. The glasses made me seem more serious, perhaps a bit older, and I’d combed my hair straight back to reveal the receding hairline I usually camouflage. I am thirty now, and for the last year the hair has been retreating from my temples like the tide going out. Never to come in again, unfortunately.
    â€œWell, hello.”
    I turned around, and Betty had entered, wearing the same white dress and the same hostess smile as the other night. “Now,” I said, “ you must be Betty.”
    â€œWhy, you don’t look like your brother at all,” she said, and through the artificial smile it seemed to me I detected