Landen leaned toward me and whispered in my ear. “What’s Chinese for ‘Fetch me a straitjacket’?”

“Ssh. Well,” I began, “here’s my view as head of the Wessex All-You-Can-eat at Fatso’s Drink Not Included Library Service: Enid Blyton’s work is a force for good in children’s literature because of its simple readability and exciting basic concepts of adventure, independence and the incontrovertible notion that adults are pretty useless and good only for supplying meals and calling the police. Yes, the books should be revised and modernized to more fully embrace modern society, and yes, they have shortcomings, but the essential truth about Blyton is that the books get children into the habit of reading—and reading is a habit worth having. I utterly reject your proposals and your politics, and what’s more, I think you’re dangerously insane.”

The smiled dropped from Mrs. Hilly’s face.

“Modern life is not perfect,” I went on, “but at least it attempts to reflect the tolerance of diversity and social inclusiveness that much of fifties England lacked. I will battle your every attempt to malign the books to suit your own twisted ideology.”

There was silence. We all stared at Mrs. Hilly to see what she would say, and I saw Phoebe’s hand move toward her pistol. When it came to fundamentalism, stakes were high.

“It’s like that, is it?” said Mrs. Hilly, standing up.

“Yes, it is.”

“The chief librarian’s role is nonpolitical,” she warned me. “We will petition Commander Hicks to have you removed at the soonest opportunity.”

“You may try,” I replied coolly, “but his negative views on literary extremism are well known.”

We stared at one another for a few seconds.

“Then we have no more to say,” she ennounced in a haughty tone of voice. “You haven’t heard the last of me. Good day.”

And she threw her napkin on the table.

“You haven’t finished your dim sum,” said Landen.

And with an almighty harrumph! that rattled the windows and is still spoken of down at the Happy Wok, she was gone. “That was a shame,” said Phoebe.

“I don’t think it was a shame at all,” I said. “Perverting the texts for their own political ends. I’ve a mind to make the Blyton Fundamentalists a Banned Association Within Library Boundaries, along with the paramilitary arm of the Anti-Farquitt Brigade and those idiots who like to dress as Zharkian storm troopers.”

“No,” said Phoebe, “I mean it was a shame because I was hoping for another go in her Austin-Maserati. I haven’t had so much fun since I took my brother’s Reliant-Bugatti Veyrobin for a burn up the M4—great fun, although that single wheel at the front wobbles something dreadful when you hit a hundred eighty mph.”

“Wouldn’t it have been more stable with the single wheel at the back?” I asked.