THE CENTRAL LIBRARY is a big, wide-open space, but it’s quickly filling up with people—they’re streaming in, grabbing tables and chairs, spreading out into the stacks of books to browse. Everyone seems to know exactly what they’re doing here, and where they’re going. Except us.
“Where should we look?” Liberty asks. “And what are we looking FOR?”
“Shh!” I say, looking around. “I don’t think that clue is about Commissioner Gordon. It’s about his daughter.”
“And who’s that?”
“Barbara Gordon. Batgirl.”
“Aha! Oookay. And . . . ?”
“She runs Gotham City Public Library. Barbara Gordon is a computer whiz who does a lot of research and detective work. She’s like the queen of data security for Batman.” I could go on and on with Batgirl factoids, but I check myself.
“Seems to me it could equally be the police station. The police hoard their information, too.”
“Well, yeah, but that’s so obvious. Let’s check this place out quickly, and if the answer’s not really Batgirl, we’ll try the police station. Deal?”
We head up to the first level. “So what’s this Barbara Gordon look like, anyway?” Liberty asks.
“It depends on what comic you’re reading, but she’s pretty much always got red hair and glasses.”
“Then let’s go scope out the employees. You heard what the Master said about Quest officials in costume. Maybe she’s pretending to be a librarian.”
We do a methodic sweep, every area, floor by floor, but there are no red-haired librarians with eyeglasses in sight. Then, in desperation, we go back through and check name tags. None of them read Gordon.
“Nothing seems out of the ordinary about this library, Stanley. It’s all business as usual. Are you sure this is right? Maybe we should ask someone,” Liberty says, frowning. “And don’t forget the time. If we still come up empty, we’ll have to go to the police station. Quick.”
We head over to the information desk, where an old librarian guy with a long gray ponytail sits reading.
“Hey, um, excuse me,” Liberty says. “Can you tell us where books and info about comics are located?”
He taps on his keyboard in a way that’s slower than humanly possible: one key every five seconds. Then he reaches for a pencil and carefully prints a number on a little card for us. I’m jumping up and down by the time that pencil starts forming the last number because we’ve already wasted too much time.
“Is there some meaning to that number? Do you think it’s a code or something?” Liberty says, frowning.
“I don’t know. Let’s check the stacks.” We wander until we find the right section.
“Here’s comics,” Liberty says. “But there’s no book or comic that’s just about Batgirl, or Barbara Gordon. Or hoarding information.”
The whirring motor of anxiety in my chest is starting to speed up. “We’re wasting time!” I hiss.
“I think we should have gone to the police station. This is wrong, Stan.”
I have to swallow hard and give myself a moment before I can finally admit defeat. “Okay.” I sigh. “Let’s try the police station now.”
We silently make our way toward the entrance. I’m miserable over how much time we’ve taken—we’re still on the first clue, and it’s already after eleven o’clock. This Trivia Quest is going to be even harder than I thought. It’s a big city—if all the clues are this vague, we’ll never get seven coins. There’s just no way.
Before we exit the library, Liberty stops to take a sip at the drinking fountain. While I wait for her, tapping my toe, I notice something—a flyer, pasted right above the fountain, printed with the following words:
SPECIAL EXHIBIT:
THE ART OF THE COMIC
ART GALLERY, TOP FLOOR
As Robin once said in the old 1960s TV series: “Holy Crucial Moment, Batman!”