Think of it!
Frank, the rascally, old bachelor playwright living alone on the wild of the Nebraska savannah and Bainsbane, frosty man hating quazi-intellectual who is really a nympho, finding love and each other through to power of the interwebs...
But really, I'm truly busy at the moment, and I still have to refine the final three chapters of "hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer comes for Memorial Day," an oft-interrupted project. I'm sure that Lamond is chomping at the bit, impatient to learn his fate in the third, the final, chapter.
However.
While that's still on the stove cooking, I'm germinating a new idea, "the BainsBane primitive and Skippy visit franksolich." I'll get to it, but give me time.