speaking the language of genealogy’s next wave, the Next Big Thing in our specialty. Actually, there’s nothing ‘next’ about it: online genealogy is here now.”
Of course, Nick was well aware of the growing importance of the Internet for genealogical research, not to mention communication, but he knew that anything short of unbridled zealotry wouldn’t be good enough for Hawty. Like all fundamentalists, she saw only heathens and the saved elect.
“By the way, you have any objections to me reviewing new genealogical computer programs for a trade journal?” she asked.
Early on in her employment, she’d pointed out to Nick the erroneous computer-generated conclusions Tawpie’s plagiarism inquiry had reached. Part of her effort to drag him into the Information Age; but he still harbored a suspicion of the soulless microchip, and he had no burning desire to join the ranks of those who bowed down to Almighty Gizmo incarnate in the putty-colored box.
“If it’ll bring the firm some cash or publicity, go for it.” He walked over to the computer.
Hawty clicked rapidly through Web pages crammed with information. “I thought you’d say that.”
Nick watched, fascinated, over her shoulder. Her own thin laptop computer, mounted on her chair, chimed. She checked it, and her brown face broke into a victorious smile.
“There it is!” she exclaimed. “The Bristol stuff. We can order the microfilms from LDS in Salt Lake City … wait a second”—she scrolled more information onto the screen. “It’s a brand new release, but the Plutarch has it, right here in town.”
“Good deal,” Nick said. “Have we helped Angus and Mrs. Fadge lately?”
Angus Murot and Mrs. Fadge were the volunteers-in-charge at the Plutarch Foundation, a privately endowed historical and genealogicallibrary in a landmark antebellum house of characteristic New Orleans Uptown beauty. Nick served there as the informal-when-he-felt-like-it genealogical advisor. He did just enough gratis work to keep his welcome warm, because it was an excellent place to do research.
“Got a letter from Angus last month,” Hawty said. “You’ve been moving it to the bottom of your pile ever since.” She glanced disapprovingly at the unfiled stacks covering his desk. “You know, if you’d been a more systematic scholar, you might have had proof you thought up your own ideas for that Keats article.” An old argument she didn’t expect to win.
The small anteroom that clients entered by way of the office door was Hawty’s domain. Her furniture—which she’d scavenged with admirable economy from storerooms in the building—hugged the walls, to allow her maximum maneuverability. The anteroom was always perfectly, even aggressively, neat. Nick didn’t mind the favorable first impression Hawty’s efforts created, but he stopped her dictatorial orderliness at the boundaries of
his
room.
“Angus wants to know something about Ontario,” Hawty said, “and an ancestor who was a Loyalist during the revolutionary War.”
Nick thought a moment. “Yeah, I remember his question. Do you have any more classes today? No? Great. Find out what you can about this ancestor of his and give Angus a call.”
“No problem. I’ll hit the Internet and—”
Nick took down two hefty volumes dealing with claims for losses resulting from colonists’ loyalty to the English Crown, and later land grants in Canada to families who could prove such loyalty. He plunked them beside the office computer.
“You’d do better to start here, with a little conventional research.”
Hawty frowned and contemptuously pushed the books away. “Are you going somewhere? Must be nice to make your own hours.”
“I need a jog—of the mind,” he answered, heading for the tiny bathroom to change. “Call Detective Bartly, too. NOPD homicide. Tell him I’m working on the problem.”
“What problem? Thought you didn’t like the police.”
“I don’t, as a rule, but hey, it’s
Of course, Nick was well aware of the growing importance of the Internet for genealogical research, not to mention communication, but he knew that anything short of unbridled zealotry wouldn’t be good enough for Hawty. Like all fundamentalists, she saw only heathens and the saved elect.
“By the way, you have any objections to me reviewing new genealogical computer programs for a trade journal?” she asked.
Early on in her employment, she’d pointed out to Nick the erroneous computer-generated conclusions Tawpie’s plagiarism inquiry had reached. Part of her effort to drag him into the Information Age; but he still harbored a suspicion of the soulless microchip, and he had no burning desire to join the ranks of those who bowed down to Almighty Gizmo incarnate in the putty-colored box.
“If it’ll bring the firm some cash or publicity, go for it.” He walked over to the computer.
Hawty clicked rapidly through Web pages crammed with information. “I thought you’d say that.”
Nick watched, fascinated, over her shoulder. Her own thin laptop computer, mounted on her chair, chimed. She checked it, and her brown face broke into a victorious smile.
“There it is!” she exclaimed. “The Bristol stuff. We can order the microfilms from LDS in Salt Lake City … wait a second”—she scrolled more information onto the screen. “It’s a brand new release, but the Plutarch has it, right here in town.”
“Good deal,” Nick said. “Have we helped Angus and Mrs. Fadge lately?”
Angus Murot and Mrs. Fadge were the volunteers-in-charge at the Plutarch Foundation, a privately endowed historical and genealogicallibrary in a landmark antebellum house of characteristic New Orleans Uptown beauty. Nick served there as the informal-when-he-felt-like-it genealogical advisor. He did just enough gratis work to keep his welcome warm, because it was an excellent place to do research.
“Got a letter from Angus last month,” Hawty said. “You’ve been moving it to the bottom of your pile ever since.” She glanced disapprovingly at the unfiled stacks covering his desk. “You know, if you’d been a more systematic scholar, you might have had proof you thought up your own ideas for that Keats article.” An old argument she didn’t expect to win.
The small anteroom that clients entered by way of the office door was Hawty’s domain. Her furniture—which she’d scavenged with admirable economy from storerooms in the building—hugged the walls, to allow her maximum maneuverability. The anteroom was always perfectly, even aggressively, neat. Nick didn’t mind the favorable first impression Hawty’s efforts created, but he stopped her dictatorial orderliness at the boundaries of
his
room.
“Angus wants to know something about Ontario,” Hawty said, “and an ancestor who was a Loyalist during the revolutionary War.”
Nick thought a moment. “Yeah, I remember his question. Do you have any more classes today? No? Great. Find out what you can about this ancestor of his and give Angus a call.”
“No problem. I’ll hit the Internet and—”
Nick took down two hefty volumes dealing with claims for losses resulting from colonists’ loyalty to the English Crown, and later land grants in Canada to families who could prove such loyalty. He plunked them beside the office computer.
“You’d do better to start here, with a little conventional research.”
Hawty frowned and contemptuously pushed the books away. “Are you going somewhere? Must be nice to make your own hours.”
“I need a jog—of the mind,” he answered, heading for the tiny bathroom to change. “Call Detective Bartly, too. NOPD homicide. Tell him I’m working on the problem.”
“What problem? Thought you didn’t like the police.”
“I don’t, as a rule, but hey, it’s
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