Brent Lynch Coastal Drive

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Yes'm.Founder's Scroll."
Still flustered by my kiss, she fiddled with her hairpins and the switches of the CACAFILE. ". . .o-l-l,"she murmured, pressing buttons. "Who did you say the author was, dear?"
I hesitated. "The Founder."
She did not: ". . .n-d-e-r.No first name?"
"Just one name, Mother."
The CACAFILE seemed to purr at her touch. "Please step into the next room," she said, still in her office voice. "The volume or volumes you called for will be delivered to the Circulation Desk in approximately one minute."
As soon as I took her arm the manner vanished; she minced and colored like a shy schoolgirl. The CACAFILE-console gave a little snarl, then lapsed into its previous torpid blink.
"Let's go to the Circulation Desk, Mother."
"Oh. Well."
But at the empty Scroll-case we were arrested by a double commotion: from the Circulation Desk, next door to the Catalogue Room, feminine squeals as alarmed as merry; from behind us, at the door we'd first entered through, an angry male voice:"There you are, flunk you!"
A half-dozen scholars in the spokes of the card-file raised their heads