I check into a fading hotel with my aging boss and his middle-aged secretary. We are on deadline for the biweekly Atlas of the World. As he rips through another two-page spread of Central Asia, I go down to the hotel lobby to clean up. I gather a pile of large full-color proofs with suction cups on the back—from the phone booth, the urinal, the check-in desk, and from the stairwell—as a number of families with small children arrive. In the elevator, the secretary asks my boss whether we should mention the films of Robert Frost. He replies that Frost hated film. "Is that in Frost?" she asks meekly.