"That's me," I said under my breath. "Brilliant, if only by accident."

"There's a longstanding scientific tradition of never doing that," Caroline said. "Once the name is approved, the world is stuck with it. Although some people are arguing that it's foolish to insist on observing a tradition that endangers an entire species."
"So who decides the name?" Rose Noire asked.
"Whoever discovers the species," Caroline said. "It has to follow a set of rules, of course. And as I said, it's not always an honor. Some researchers at Cornell recently named three slime-mold beetles after a bunch of politicians. Not sure that was intended as an honor."
"David Attenborough has a dozen species named after him." Grandfather sounded curiously testy. "Including a dragonfly and two spiders."
"How many--" I began. I was intending to ask Grandfather how many species were named after him, but suddenly remembered that this was a sensitive issue. "How many things were named after Hitler?" I asked instead.
"Just the blind cave beetle and a very primitive Paleozoic fly that was already extinct when they named it," Caroline said.
"I would rather like a spider," Grandfather mused. "Quite the most extraordinary people have spiders. Buddy Holly. Johnny Cash. Bono. Angelina Jolie..."
"Nelson Mandela and Terry Pratchett have spiders," Caroline pointed out. "And Edward Abbey."
"Penn Jillette," Grandfather continued. "Harrison Ford."
"That should have been a snake," Caroline suggested. "Given how much Indiana Jones hated them."
"Alan Alda." Grandfather went on. "Pancho Villa. Lou Reed. David Bowie. John Lennon. Bob Marley. Neil Young. Orson Welles. Elvis Presley. Pink Floyd. Frank Zappa, for heaven's sake."
"The people who are discovering spiders seem very interested in rock and roll," I said to Grandfather. "Perhaps you should form a band."
"There are even spiders named after fictional characters," Grandfather said. "Pimoa cthulhu."
"John Cleese has a lemur," Caroline said. "Avahi cleesei."
"Hmph." Clearly in the throes of acute lemur envy, Grandfather snorted and strode off to stand near Wim and Guillermo.

"Weren't you worried when the Coast Guard ran in?" Janet asked the next morning. "Worried they'd shoot you or arrest you or something?"
"A little," I said. "But I figured with the other two rolling on the floor in a puddle of wine and broken glass, trying to choke each other and shrieking things I wouldn't have wanted the boys to hear, I looked pretty sane and trustworthy by comparison. Not to mention the fact that I opened the door and greeted them with 'Thank heavens you're here.'"

We all beamed at each other. Well, except for Grandfather, who was leaning closer so he could inspect the tern. I'd have been afraid the thing would peck out my eyes, but Grandfather's confidence that animals would know he was their friend was usually justified. And when it wasn't -- well, he had the most interesting collection of scars of anyone I knew.