. . . and this is the office. That's the twenty-five-cent tour. Have a seat. Care for a root beer? There you are. Professor Pathfinder? Well, let's see. We first met him three years ago. We were working at the map store, filing topos. A scholarly gentleman with a white mustache stalked in and flung a handful of maps around the room.
"Useless!" he cried. "I want to know where things are, not where the idiots at Map Central think they are! I want a map that doesn't offend my eye! And I want one map, not fifty! You could do a better job than the dunderheads who made these! Get to work!" And out he went. We looked at each other, and shrugged. What the heck . . . why not? The maps he'd left were of the university: some showed how to get to campus or where to park, some promoted shopping centers and hotels, and some labelled campus buildings. It was a mess.
We got to work.
