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doing so to present-day Washington, D.C. R was a libertarian on matters of privacy and civil liberties and remained outraged by the words and deeds of some since the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001. In R’s opinion, these people completely misunderstood the history of freedom and individual rights in their own country.
    He passed by the dining room. The last time R had been in there, Wally had a “Benjamin Franklin” 22-caliber air rifle tacked on the wall over the hutch. There had once been a full line of BB and pellet handguns manufactured by the Benjamin Franklin Firearms Company of St. Louis. But at least the room also contained a fine collection of eighteenth-century Staffordshire plates depicting either Ben or one of his sayings, as well as a full 130-piece set of Benjamin Franklin sterling silver flatware made by Towle in 1905.
    Finally, the library. This was R’s favorite place in the house. Yes, there was some schlock stuffed into the floor-to-ceiling shelves that covered all four walls of the 25-by-40-foot room. But there were also more than a hundred editions of Ben’s famed autobiography alone, one going back to the late 1700s, considered even by Ben-haters to be one of the finest pieces of early Amercan writing of any kind. Wally also had several original copies of
Poor Richard’s Almanack
and some pamphlets that Ben had written or printed on his own press in Philadelphia. That was in addition to the many biographies and other Ben books that began with children’s coloring and comic books of all vintages, plus postcards, monographs, and a full collection of the various stamps that had been issued in his honor by the U.S. Post Office through the years. Ben had been one of the key founders of the postal service in colonial America.
    â€œYou are looking at one of the most complete private collections of printed material by and about Benjamin Franklin in the world,” said a female voice from behind one side of the giant partner’s desk in a far corner.
    It was Clara Hopkins. R’s eyes reflexively glanced downward toward her legs, but they were hidden by the desk.
    Two young men in white coats and black ties were setting up a bar in the opposite corner of the room. R gave a bow in Clara’s direction.
    â€œAt last count,” she said, with a wink, “two thousand four hundred and fifty-six different books of varying sizes and purposes have been written about the life, accomplishments, and legacies of Benjamin Franklin of Philadelphia. They include works of fiction and nonfiction for both children and adults, scholarly and popular, political and scientific, personal and professional. There have been more books about Dr. Franklin than about any other Founding Father, including George Washington of Mount Vernon and Thomas Jefferson of Monticello. The comparative number for John Adams of Quincy, for the record, is a pitiful four hundred and fifty-eight.”
    R laughed. Clara had done an exact recitation of Wally’s favorite opening spiel for visitors to his library.
    â€œDid Wally cheat to make it happen yesterday?” R asked her.
    â€œProbably, but who will ever care enough to find out?” she said.
    â€œPills of some kind?”
    â€œMost likely, but I doubt that they performed a sufficiently complete autopsy on this eighty-four-year-old man with a failed liver to find out, even if he is Wally Rush.”
    Clara stood.
    â€œWally told me he was making you his literary executor. Maybe we should have a bite to eat later and go over things.”
    â€œLet’s do that,” said R. “Brasserie Perrier at seven?” And he turned to greet the first of the by-invitation-only guests, President Clymer of Benjamin Franklin University.
    â€œThe public ceremony is a full go,” said Clymer, as he rushed to shake hands with R. Then, dropping his voice to a secretive whisper, he added, “I have some good news and some bad news on