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spotted him over near the bar. The room containing the bar was big in itself, but it was only really an entranceway to the Grand Ballroom at the Biltmore. The place was gradually beginning to fill with people, mingling in small groups, standing at the bar chatting, sitting at a few of the little tables scattered around the place.
    Barney put a firm hand on Max’s elbow and guided him away from a young girl in a mini-skirt. “Max, how about getting your picture taken? We’ve got an A.P. guy here. He wants some pictures of the nominees.”
    “Well … I don’t know about that. I’m not a winner yet.”
    “Come on, Max. Come on.”
    He corraled Rex Stout next—then posed them in a group. The A.P. photographer insisted he get in the picture, too, since the president of MWA was not attending. They took a few pictures and then he went off.
    Someone gave Barney a sheet of lighting cues, and he went in search of Mike Avallone, finally finding him at the table with his wife. “Mike … here are the lighting cues. You can handle it, can’t you?”
    “I’ve been doing it for years,” Mike said.
    He excused himself from the Avallones and moved over to greet Susan Veldt. “How are you tonight?’ Let me buy you a drink.” He led her by the arm, an arm nicely bared to the shoulder, as they squeezed their way through to a position at the bar. He waved to Larry Blochman further down, and ordered two scotch and waters. “I hope that’s okay. I should have asked what you drank.”
    “I drink scotch,” she said. “I drink just about anything.”
    “Do you have your notebook?”
    “Right here in the purse.”
    “What do you want to know? We’ve been giving these awards since 1945.”
    “Are any of these people editors?”
    “Quite a few,” Barney said, trying unobtrusively to-point them out “That man standing over there is Don Bensen from Pyramid Books. That’s his wife with him. Bruce Cassidy is the fiction editor of Argosy Magazine. Just about all of the book publishers are represented. I’ll point some more out to you later.”
    “Is Ellery Queen here?”
    “Manny Lee never gets down for these things. Fred Dannay usually does. We were hoping he’d be here tonight, but I haven’t seen him yet.”
    It was nearly seven-fifteen when Ross Craigthorn entered with a woman he introduced as his secretary. He had the same stiff authoritative manner that people liked to watch on their television screens, and he was immediately recognised by the line of writers and editors along the bar. There was much shaking of hands. Someone who knew him asked about his wife, a question he ignored, and went on to introduce his secretary again.
    “Miss Sweeney … Miss Sweeney, Barney Hamet This is Miss Sweeney, my secretary. No—my wife couldn’t make it tonight She’s tied up … Yes … Miss Sweeney is sort of filling in for her.”
    He mumbled something, indicated another man behind him. But apparently this was only an editor that he knew. Barney had seen the fellow around. His name was Frank Jesset and he edited a string of third-rate confession magazines. Somehow his connection with Ross Craigthorn seemed nebulous, to say the least.
    There was more stirring from the direction of the elevator, and Skinny Simon came in, shuffling along with sagging shoulders. His beard attracted little attention here, where perhaps ten per cent of the males wore them, but there was still something impressive in his presence. He made straight for Ross Craigthorn, obviously considering them to be brothers in the great fraternity of broadcasting. There was always something a little condescending about Skinny when he was with writers, as if the spoken word certainly carried more weight with people these days than the printed word.
    Craigthorn, for his part, had little to say to Skinny. He seemed embarrassed and at a loss for words. Skinny finally had to buy himself a drink when it became obvious that Craigthorn was gripping his glass with