"I don't care for Gigli," Pete said. "He sobs."

"A convention," Schilling said irritably. "He was an Italian; it's traditional."

"Schipa didn't."

"Schipa was self-taught," Schilling said.

The tall, skinny youth had approached, carrying the Gigli record. "I'd l-like to buy this, Mr. Schilling. H-how much?"

"One hundred and twenty-five dollars," Schilling said.

"Wow," the youth said, dismally. But nevertheless he got out his wallet.

"Very few of these survived the war with the vugs,"

Schilling explained, as he took the record and began wrapping it in heavy cardboard.

Two more customers entered the shop, then, a man and woman, both of them short, squat. Schilling greeted them. "Good morning, Les. Es." To Pete he said, "This is Mr. and Mrs. Sibley; like yourself vocal addicts. From Portland, Oregon." He indicated Pete. "Bindman Peter Garden."

Pete rose and shook hands with Les Sibley.

"Hi, Mr. Garden," Les Sibley said, in the deferential tone used by a non-B with a B. "Where do you bind, sir?"

"Berkeley," Pete said, and then remembered. Formerly Berkeley, now Marin County, California."

"How do you doo," Es Sibley said, in an ultra-fawning manner which Pete found—and always had found—objectionable. She held out her hand and when he shook it he found it soft and damp. "I'll bet you have a really fine collection; I mean, ours isn't anything. Just a few Supervia records.

"Supervia!" Pete said, interested, "What do you have?"

Joe Schilling said, "You can't eliminate me, Pete. It's an unwritten agreement that my customers do not trade among themselves. If they do, I stop selling to them. Anyhow, you have all the Supervia records that Les and Es have, and a couple more besides." He rang up the hundred and twenty-five dollars from the Gigli sale, and the tall, skinny youth departed.