THE spy came in from the damp, striding briskly from his chauffeur-driven Rover 2000, whuppa-da-whupp through the revolving door into the Victorian lobby of Brown's Hotel, Dover Street, London W.I. To an experienced counterespionage agent, his disguise probably would have appeared too perfect, and therefore suspicious. But there were no M15 types on duty at Brown's —only a myopic receptionist too vain to wear her National Health Service spectacles and a concierge who had been with the house for 43 years and certainly knew a well-to-do Yank tourist when he saw one: blue suit, rep tie, white handkerchief folded so that exactly half an inch protruded from the breast pocket; razor-cut hair, a bit dark for his age, and well-manicured fingers and lacquered nails clutching a copy of Fielding's Travel Guide to Europe.
In the lobby, the spy paused to scuff at a frayed carpet edge with the toe of one glossy, custom-made Irish brogan. He sniffed the air. His glance shifted to the flowers on the coffee tables, skipped from ashtray to ashtray around the small room. Tilting his head back, he peered at the ceiling plaster and moldings. Finally, almost diffidently, he walked up to the counter and cleared his throat. "Yes, sir? What can I do for you?" inquired the receptionist. The spy plunked Fielding's Travel Guide down on the counter. "My name," he announced, "is Temple Fielding. I happen to write this book here. Perhaps you've heard of it. I wonder if I could see the manager."
Temple Fielding! The receptionist turned and fled to an inner office, looking for someone in authority. Fielding had blown his cover. In the multilingual world of espionage, the professionals call it hosen herunterlassen—literally, dropping one's trousers. Fielding could hardly have caused more of a flurry at Brown's if he had literally done so. No wonder. An estimated 2,000,000 Americans will visit Europe this year, and an impressive number of them will follow a trail carefully blazed in advance by Temple Hornaday Fielding, at 55 the archon of U.S. guidebook writers.
More than 100,000 will pay $7.95 for the latest edition of his Guide, a 1,485-page, 909,000-word primer for peripatetics that weighs 2 lbs. 3½oz. Another 100,000 budget-minded tourists will spend $2.25 for Fielding's Super-Economy Europe; the rest of the Fielding five-foot shelf (he is his own publisher) includes a European shopping guide, time and currency converters and a guidebook to the Caribbean. Temp operates Temple Fielding's Epicure Club —which, for $15.50 a year, guarantees the insecure traveler a somewhat phony VIP welcome at any of 29 top European restaurants, plus free cocktails for two. Other business deals are in the offing, including a possible U.S. television series on travel, to be hosted by himself. All of this earns Fielding a yearly income that is over $100,000, and climbing.
The G.P. Who Understands
In the 22 years since his first Guide was published, "the normal Mr. and Mrs. Smith of Middletown, U.S.A." to whom it is frankly addressed, have come to regard Temple Fielding as a sort of traveler's Dr. Spock—a role he relishes. "If Temp has a cause, and I think he has one," says his chief assistant, Joe Raff, "it is to ease the passage of the traveler, to assuage his doubts. He's