The Cat Who Blew The Whistle

-2-

When Qwilleran wrote his thank-you note for the Kabibbles, he sat at his writing table in the library area - one side of the fireplace cube that was lined with bookshelves. For serious work there was a writing studio on the balcony, off- limits to the Siamese, but the bookish, friendly atmosphere of the library was more comfortable for writing notes and taking phone calls. For this brief letter to Celia Robinson he used a facetiously bombastic style that would send her into torrents of laughter. She laughed easily; it took very little to set the dear woman off.

Dear Celia, I find it appropriate to pen an effusive expression of gratitude for the succulent delights that arrived today to tantalize my taste buds and heighten my spirit. Your Kabibbles are receiving rave reviews from connoisseurs in this northern bastion of gastronomy. I suggest you copyright the name and market them. You could become the Betty Crocker of the twenty-first century! Perhaps you would grant me the distribution franchise for Moose and Lockmaster counties. Let me know your new address so I can order Kabibbles in ten-pound sacks or twenty- gallon barrels.

Gratefully, Q

No one in Pickax knew about Qwilleran's whimsical acquaintance with Celia Robinson, not even Polly Duncan - especially not Polly, who was inclined to resent the slightest intrusion on her territory. The cross-country acquaintance had begun when Junior Goodwinter's grandmother died suddenly in Florida. Through long-distance conversations with her next-door neighbor, Qwilleran conducted an investigation into the death, and he and Celia developed a chummy rapport. He called her his secret agent, and she called him Chief. He sent her boxes of chocolate-covered cherries and the paperback spy novels that she liked; she sent him homemade brownies. They had never met.

The case was closed now, but Qwilleran had an ulterior motive for continuing the connection: She enjoyed cooking. Fondly he envisioned her relocating in Pickax and catering meals for himself and the cats. It was not an improbability; she wanted to leave the retirement village in Florida. "Too many old people" was her complaint. Celia was only sixty-nine.

Qwilleran posted the letter in his rural mailbox the next morning, walking down the orchard wagon trail to the highway, Trevelyan Road. The trail was the length of a city block. It ran past the skeletons of neglected apple trees, between other trees planted by squirrels and birds in the last hundred years, alongside the remains of the old Trevelyan farmhouse that had burned down, and past the two acres where Polly would build her new house. After raising the red flag on the oversized mailbox, he took a few minutes to consider the construction site. The fieldstone foundation of the old house was barely visible in a field of waist-high weeds. An abandoned lilac bush was doing nicely on its own, having grown to the size of a two-story, three-bedroom house, and it still bloomed in season. When the wind direction was right, its fragrance wafted as far as the apple barn.

Polly wanted to preserve the old stone foundation - for what purpose she had not decided. She kept asking, "Shall I build in front of it, or behind it, or beyond it? I can't build on top of it."

Qwilleran had tried to make suggestions, but her questions were merely rhetorical; she was an independent person and had to make her own decisions. As head librarian she had a brilliant reputation. She was efficient and briskly decisive. She charmed the members of the library board, improved the collection, controlled the budget, coped with the quirks of an old library building, staged events, and solved the personal problems of her young assistants with kindness and common sense. In facing her own dilemmas, however, she melted into a puddle of bewilderment.

Returning from the mailbox, Qwilleran became aware of two pairs of blue eyes staring at him from an upper-level window of the barn. He waved to them and kept on walking through the Black Forest to the Park Circle, with its important buildings and multi-lane traffic. The proximity of town and country was one of the attractions of living in a small city (population 3,000). On the perimeter of the Park Circle were two churches, the courthouse, the K Theatre, and a building resembling a Greek temple: the public library.

Qwilleran walked briskly up the stone steps of the library-steps. rounded into gentle concavities by a century of feet. Now added to the feet of booksubscribers were the feet of video-borrowers, and Qwilleran doubted that the steps would last another half-century. In the main room he headed directly toward the stairs to the mezzanine, nodding pleasantly to the young clerks who greeted him as Mr. Q. They also glanced mischievously at each other, amused at the sight of the middle-aged friend of their middle-aged boss paying a call in broad daylight. The relationship between the head librarian and the richest man in the northeast- central United States was a subject of constant conjecture in Pickax.

Qwilleran bounced up the stairs, noting the familiar sight of Homer Tibbitt at one of the reading tables, surrounded by books and pamphlets. Although well up in his nineties, the county historian spent every morning at the library, pursuing some esoteric

research project. Or perhaps he was avoiding his overly attentive wife, as the giggling clerks surmised. In her eighties, Rhoda Tibbitt could still drive, and she chauffeured her husband to and from his life's work.

Polly was seated in her glass-enclosed office in front of a deskful of paperwork. When she spoke, her serenely low-pitched voice gave Qwilleran a shudder of pleasure as it always did, no matter how often they met or how many hours they had spent together the evening before.

"Morning," he said with an intimate nuance.

He never used terms of endearment, except to Yum Yum, but he could infuse a two-syllable greeting with warmth and affection. He slid into a hard, varnished oak chair, library-style circa 1910.

Polly said, "You look especially vibrant this morning, dear."

"I'm a veritable fountain of news," he announced as he launched into his report on Dwight's new job, the Party Train, and the theatre club's decision to do A Midsummer Night's Dream. He avoided mentioning that the fairies might be updated. He even revealed Dwight's date with Hixie Rice as a kind of romantic milestone on the social scene. Outsiders might call it gossip, but in Pickax this was legitimate sharing of information. Good news, rumors, bad news, scandal, and other data somehow reached the library first, and Polly's assistant, Virginia Alstock, was tuned in to the Moose County grapevine for its dissemination.

Today Polly's reactions were subdued. She seemed preoccupied, glancing frequently at the stack of manuals on home building that occupied a corner of her desk.

The title on top of the pile was How to Build a Better House for Less Money, and he asked, "Are you making any progress with your house plans?"

"I don't know," she said with a world- weary sigh. "It's all so confusing. In Oregon, Susan did sketches for a one- story house that would integrate with the terrain. No basement. Heating equipment in a utility room next to the laundry.... But these books say that a two-story house is more economical to build and to heat, and it would give Bootsie a chance to run up and down stairs for exercise."

"Build a one-story house with a basement and let him run up and down the basement stairs," Qwilleran suggested with simple logic. Bootsie was the other male in Polly's life, a husky Siamese. He was grossly pampered, in Qwilleran's opinion.

"I'm not fond of basements. I've seen too many that leak," she objected. "I was thinking of a crawl space with good insulation. What do you think, Qwill?"

"You're asking the wrong person. I'm only a journalist; I leave the house building to the house builders. Why not

line up a professional firm like XYZ Enterprises?"

"But it's so large and commercial, and I've lost respect for them since the fiasco on Breakfast Island. It's my belief that a small builder gives more personal attention to one's needs and ideas. Mrs. Alstock's in-laws in Black Creek hired a young man. He finished on schedule and very close to the estimated cost. We should encourage young people in the trades, don't you think? He works out of Sawdust City."

"Hmmm," Qwilleran mused, having heard that the Sawdusters were all roughnecks who threw bottles through tavern windows on Saturday nights. "What is his name?"

"He's a Trevelyan - another of those 'hairy Welshmen,' as they're called, but I have no objection to long hair and a shaggy beard if he does a good job."

"Want me to check him out for you? The paper has a stringer in Sawdust City."

"Well... thank you, Qwill, but... Mrs. Alstock is taking me to see her in- laws' house tomorrow night, and Mr. Trevelyan will be there. I'll have my sketches with me, and if he impresses me favorably - "

"Find out if he eyeballs the construction from the sketches," Qwilleran suggested, remembering the underground builder he had encountered in Mooseville.

"Oh, no! In Pickax the plans and specifications must be drawn up by an architect in order to obtain a building permit."

Changing the subject abruptly, Qwilleran said, "I'm keeping you from your work. How about dinner tonight at the Old Stone Mill?"

"I'd love to, dear, but I've called a special meeting of the library board. We'll have dinner at the hotel, then come back here to discuss the paving of the parking lot. We've had it out for bids."

Teasingly he said, "I hope your literary ladies enjoy the inevitable chicken pot pie and lemon sherbet, spelled 'sherbert' on the menu."

Polly smiled, recognizing his genial thrust at the hotel's cuisine and the library's frugal allowance for board members' meals. "You're welcome to join us," she said coyly.

"No thanks, but why don't you get the board to budget a few dollars for cushions for these chairs?"

"Go away," she said affectionately, waving him out of her office. She was wearing the ring he had given her for Christmas - a fiery black opal rimmed with tiny diamonds. He knew that she was wearing it to impress the "literary ladies."

Leaving Polly's office, Qwilleran stopped to say hello to Homer Tibbitt. The old man's eyes were glazed after poring over his books, and he blinked a few times before he could recognize the face.

"Tell me, Homer. How can you sit on these hard chairs for so many hours?" Qwilleran asked.

"I bring an inflated cushion," said the historian. "Also a thermos of decaf, but don't tell Polly. The sign says: No food or beverages. I take my brown bag into the restroom every hour or so and have a swig."

Qwilleran nodded with understanding, knowing there was a shot of brandy in Homer's decaffeinated coffee. "How are you feeling these days?" The old man was wheezing audibly.

"I suffer the usual tweaks and twinges of advancing age, plus a touch of bronchitis from these dusty, mildewed records." He slapped his chest. "My tubes whistle. You can hear me all over the building. I'm trying to do a paper (whistle) on Moose County mines, 1850 to 1915."

"What do you know about the Trevelyan family?"

"They go back six generations, all descended from two brothers who came from Wales (whistle) to supervise the mines. Second generation built sawmills and founded Sawdust City." Mr. Tibbitt stopped for a coughing spell, and Qwilleran rushed to the water cooler for a cup of water. "Sorry about that," the old man apologized when the coughing was relieved. "Now, where was I?"

"Sawdust City," Qwilleran reminded him. "The Trevelyans."

"Believe it or not, that ugly little town was the county seat originally, when Pickax was only a bump in the road. When they switched government functions to Pickax because of (whistle) its central location, the Sawdusters rose up in arms and tried to secede from Moose County. All they accomplished was an independent school system."

"Do you know a Floyd Trevelyan, Homer? He's president of the Lumbertown Credit Union in Sawdust City."

"Can't say that I do. We Pickaxians are unmitigated snobs, you know. Are you aware you're living (whistle) in the old Trevelyan orchard? No one would touch the property for generations until you came along - a greenhorn from Down Below, heh heh heh."

"Because of snobbery?" Qwilleran asked.

"Because of the Trevelyan curse," the historian corrected him. "The apple trees withered, the farmhouse was struck by lightning, and the farmer hanged himself."

"Who pronounced the curse?"

"Nobody knows."

"For your information, Homer, Polly is building a house where the farmhouse used to be."

"Well, don't tell her (whistle) what I said."

"That's all right. She's not superstitious."

"Just the same, don't tell her," the old man warned.

After leaving the library, Qwilleran continued his walk downtown, making a few unscheduled visits for the purpose of sharing information:

To Scottie's Men's Store to look at summer shirts. Nothing caught his fancy, but he chatted with the proprietor and told him about the Party Train. To Edd's Editions, a shop specializing in pre-owned books from estate libraries. Eddington Smith was interested to hear about the Party Train because he had several books on railroads. Qwilleran bought one on the digging of the Panama Canal.

To the office of the newspaper which, for strange reasons, was named the Moose County Something. His longtime friend from Down Below, Arch Riker, was publisher and editor-in-chief and was pleased to hear about the Party Train.

To Toodle's Market to buy six ounces of sliced roast beef from the deli counter and two packages of macaroni and cheese from the frozen food chest. In the checkout line he stood behind Wally Toddwhistle's mother, who made costumes for the theatre club. She asked if he'd heard about A Midsummer Night's Dream, and he asked if she'd heard about the Party Train.

Returning to the barn, he found it good to be greeted by importunate yowls and waving tails, even though he knew the cats' real motive. He diced roast beef for them and heated both packages of macaroni and cheese for himself. Dicing, thawing, and pressing the button on the computerized coffeemaker were his only kitchen skills.

After dinner the three of them gravitated to the library area for a session of reading.

Qwilleran's growing collection of old books was organized according to category: biography, classic fiction, drama, and so forth. He added his new purchase to the history shelf. Yum Yum waited patiently for him to sit down and make a lap; Koko was alert and awaiting his cue.

"Book! Book!" It was one of several words understood by Kao K'o Kung, among them: treat, brush, leash, and NO! The cat surveyed the expanse of shelving before jumping up and teetering on the edge of the classic fiction collection. He sniffed the bindings critically, then pawed Swiss Family Robinson with enthusiasm.

A curious choice, Qwilleran thought. He realized it was mere coincidence but a provocative one, Koko having a unique sense of association. Yet, the connection between an 1813 Swiss novel and the inventor of Kabibbles was too absurd even for a willing believer like Qwilleran.

He sprawled in his favorite lounge chair and propped his feet on the ottoman. Yum Yum hopped lightly into his lap and turned around three times counterclockwise before settling down. Koko took his usual position on the arm of the chair, sitting tall.

Qwilleran opened the book, which he had; bought for its illustrations, and said, "This is a book primarily for young people but is suitable for cats of any age. There are chapters on... let's see... whales, turtles, ostriches, and bears. You'll like it. Chapter One: Shipwrecked and Alone."

Yum Yum was the first one to sigh and close her eyes; then Koko started swaying drowsily; finally Qwilleran, mesmerized by the sound of his own voice, read himself to sleep.

One afternoon, before his appointment

with the president of the Lumbertown Credit Union, Qwilleran drove to Sawdust City out of sheer curiosity. The town itself might be material for the "Qwill Pen" column. He knew only that it was the industrial hub of the county, straddling the mouth of the Ittibittiwassee River, where pollution was an ongoing problem. Although freight trains made regular runs to points Down Below, most manufactures were shipped by truck. Their tires constantly tracked mud from unpaved side streets onto the highway, giving the town the nickname of Mudville. Nevertheless, there was a healthy job market there, and Sawdust City was home to 5,000 working- class residents whose soccer team regularly trounced others in the county.

Outside the town limits Qwilleran noticed an athletic field with a running track, one softball diamond, and three soccer fields with goal nets - no tennis courts. There was also an extensive consolidated school complex with its own football stadium.

On Main Street there was plenty of downtown traffic as well as cafes, gas stations, churches, a storefront library, gun shops, pawn-brokers, apparel shops with racks of clothing on the sidewalk, taverns, and a video store. The Lumbertown Credit Union occupied a new version of an old depot, while the real railway station was a neglected relic on the outskirts of town, surrounded by tracks, boxcars, trucks, and warehouses. The residential neighborhoods were notable for their neat lawns, swarms of schoolchildren on summer vacation, basketball hoops, barbecues, and satellite saucers. In every sense it was a thriving town. Whether it would be material for the "Qwill Pen" was questionable. Qwilleran knew only that Sawdust City stood in sharp contrast to West Middle Hummock, where the Lumbertown president lived. This was the most fashionable of the Hummocks with the largest estates, owned by families like the Lanspeaks, the Wilmots, and - in happier days - the Fitches. When Qwilleran set out to interview Floyd Trevelyan his route lay out Ittibittiwassee Road between stony pastures and dark woods, past abandoned mines and ghostlike shafthouses. After passing the Buckshot Mine, where he had suffered a nasty tumble from his bike, he reached a fork in the road. Ahead was Indian Village, a more or less swanky complex of apartments and condominiums. Hummock Road branched off to the left, forming a triangular meadow where car- poolers left their vehicles. Share-the- ride had been a Moose County custom long before the first energy crisis; it was the neighborly thing to do and an opportunity to keep abreast of rumors. Beyond the meadow the road passed a blighted hamlet or two before emerging in a landscape of knobby hills, bucolic vistas, architect-designed farmhouses, and no utility poles. All cables were underground, and the road curved to avoid cutting down ancient trees.

Then there was a rural mailbox shaped like a locomotive and a sign hanging between railroad ties announcing "The Roundhouse." There was nothing round about the residence that perched on a hill at the end of the drive. It was a long, low contemporary building with wide overhangs and large chimneys - almost brutal in its boldness - and the rough cedar exterior was stained a gloomy brownish-green.

Qwilleran parked at the foot of a terraced walkway and climbed wide steps formed from railroad ties, then rang the doorbell and waited in the usual state of suspense: Would this interview make a great story? Or would it be a waste of his time? The man who came to the door, wearing crumpled shorts and a tank top, was obviously one of the "hairy Welshmen" for whom Sawdust City was famous. Although seriously balding toward the brow, his head was rimmed with hair that was black and bushy, and although his jutting jaw was clean-shaven, his arms and legs were thickly furred. So also was his back, Qwilleran discovered upon following him into the foyer.

His initial greeting had been curt. "You from the paper?"

"Jim Qwilleran. Dwight Somers tells me you have a railroad empire on the premises."

"Downstairs. Want a shot or a beer?"

"Not right now, thanks. Let's have a look at the trains first. I'm completely ignorant about model railroading, so this visit will be an education." Following the collector toward a broad staircase to the lower level, Qwilleran quickly appraised the main floor: architecturally impressive, poorly furnished. On the way downstairs he tossed off a few warm-up questions: How long have you been collecting? How did you get started? Do you still have your first train?

The answers were as vapid as the

queries: "Long time... Dunno... Yep."

The staircase opened into a large light room with glass walls overlooking a paved patio and grassy hillside. The opposite wall formed a background. for a table-height diorama of landscape and cityscape. There were buildings, roadways, rivers, hills, and a complexity of train tracks running through towns, up grades, across bridges, and around curves. A passenger train waited at a depot; a freight train had been shunted to a siding; the nose of a locomotive could be seen in the mouth of a tunnel.

"How many trains do you' have?" Qwilleran asked, producing a pocket tape recorder.

"Six trains. Thousand feet of track." The hobbyist started toying with a bank of controls at the front edge of the layout, and the scene was instantly illuminated: the headlight of the locomotive in the tunnel, the interior of the passenger coaches, and all street lights and railway signals. Then the trains began to move, slowly at first, and gradually picking up speed. One train stopped to let another pass. A locomotive chugged around a curve, with white smoke pouring from its smokestack. It blew its whistle as it approached a grade crossing and stopped at the station with a hiss of steam.

Qwilleran was impressed but said coolly, "Quite realistic!"

An engine pulled cars up a grade to cross a bridge while another passed underneath. Trains backed up as cars were coupled. A train of boxcars, tank cars, and gondolas stopped to give right-of-way to a diesel speeding through with passenger coaches and an observation car.

"Watch 'em take those curves," Trevelyan said proudly. He operated the remote controls with practiced skill, switching tracks, unloading coal from hopper cars, and dumping logs from a flatcar. In a freight yard with seven parallel tracks he had a switch engine shifting boxcars. "You hafta be quick to figure how fast they go, what route to take and which turnouts to switch... wanna try it?"

"And derail the whole railroad? No thanks," Qwilleran said. "Did you play with trains when you were a kid?"

"Me? Nah, my folks were too poor. But I had the real thing in the backyard. Our house, it was next to the track, and I knew every train schedule and all the crews. The engineers, they always clanged their bell and waved at me. Man! Did I feel like a big shot! Saturdays I'd go down to the yard and watch 'em switchin'." I wanted to stowaway in a boxcar, but I knew my pop would lick the devil outa me."

"I suppose you wanted to grow up to be

an engineer," Qwilleran said.

"Funny thing, I wanted to be a crossin' guard and sit in a little shack high up, lookin' down the tracks and workin' the gate. That's a kid for you!"

Above the confusion of mechanical noises in front of him, Qwilleran heard an elevator door open at the far end of the room and turned to see a frail woman in an electric wheelchair coming

hesitantly in their direction. Although she was in Trevelyan's line of vision, he ignored her. He was saying, "There was four of us kids. Pop worked in the plastic plant till the chemicals killed 'im. I took Vocational in school. English and that kinda stuff, you could shove it! I could build things and tinker with motors, so who needed English? Summers I got jobs with builders. Finally got to be a contractor myself, licensed and all that."

The woman in the wheelchair was fixing her gaze eagerly on Qwilleran, and he mumbled a polite good-afternoon.

In a faltering voice she said, "You're Mr. Q.I see your picture in the paper all the time."

It was the kind of ambiguous comment that beggared reply, but he bowed courteously.

Trevelyan went on talking. "Like I said, I went as far as I could go with model trains. I'm into somethin' bigger now. Did Dwight tell you we're gonna - "

The woman interrupted shrilly. "My pop was an engineer!"

The man scowled and waved her away with an impatient hand. Obediently she wheeled back to the elevator, leaving Qwilleran to wonder who she might be. Her age was difficult to guess, her face and figure being ravaged by some kind of disease. The trains were still running and performing their automatic ballet, but Qwilleran had all the information he could use and had even learned some railroad terms:

Roundhouse: a round building where locomotives were serviced in the Steam Era

Hog: locomotive

Hoghead:engineer

Wildcat: a runaway locomotive

Consist: a train of cars (accent on first syllable)

Gandy dancer: member of a section gang repairing rails

Whittling: taking a curve at high speed and braking the wheels

Rule G: the SC&L rule against drinking

Trevelyan said, "We don't worry about Rule G around this man's railroad yard.

How's about wettin' your whistle?" He opened the door to a well-stocked bar. "Whatever you want, we got it."

"What are you drinking?" Qwilleran asked.

"Whiskey and soda."

"I'll take the same without the whiskey."

His host gave him an incredulous glance, then shook his head as he poured plain soda. They carried their glasses outdoors and sat on the patio while the railroad buff talked about the Lumbertown Party Train and the $500 tickets.

"How many can you seat in the dining car?" Qwilleran asked.

"Thirty-six at a shot. We figure to have a double shift, two o'clock and six o'clock. We figure we can sell out."

"How long will the ride last?"

"We figure we can kill three hours on the rails, round trip, with a layover at Flapjack."

"How did you go about buying your rolling stock?"

"Went to train museums, read PV magazines, answered ads."

"PV meaning... ?"

"Private varnish - all about private railroads. But I found my hog in a scrapyard in Sawdust City. She was a mess! I almost cried. As soon as those SC&L sharpies saw I was hooked, they upped the price outasight. I didn't care. I hadda have that baby! Spent another bundle to fix 'er up. Diesels - you can have 'em. Steam is where it's at - for me anyway."

"What's the big attraction?" The collector shrugged. "A hog's nothin' but a firebox and a big boiler on wheels, but what a sight when she rolls! Raw power! My Engine No.9 is a 4-6-2."

"You'll have to explain that," Qwilleran said.

Without a word Trevelyan went into the train room and returned with a framed photo of No.9. "Four small wheels in front keep the engine on the rails. The six big babies with piston rods are the drivin' wheels; they deliver the power. The two in back hold up the firebox and the engineer's cab. Dwight tells me you signed up for the first run. Tell him to show you through my PV; it's a palace on wheels!... How long did you know Dwight?"

"Ever since he arrived from Down Below. He's a real pro - knows his job - good personality."

"Yeah, nice fella... How come he isn't married?"

"I don't know. Why don't you ask him?" Qwilleran replied in a genial tone that masked his annoyance at the prying question. Then he changed the subject. "There's a town south of Pickax called Wildcat, and I often wondered why. Any railroad connection?"

"Sure is! A runaway train was wrecked on the trestle bridge there in 1908 - worst wreck ever! Old railroaders still talk about it."

"Are their recollections being recorded?" Qwilleran asked. "Is there a railroad library in Sawdust City? Are any old engineers still living?" He was feeling an old familiar urge. With a little research and some oral histories from retired railroad personnel, plus stories handed down in their families, he could write a book! It would capture the horror of train wrecks as well as the nostalgia of the Steam Era when trains were the glamorous mode of transportation and locomotive engineers were the folk heroes. Homer Tibbitt, who had grown up on a farm, still remembered the haunting sound of a steam whistle in the middle of the night. He said it had filled him with loneliness and nameless desires. He doubted that it could be equaled today by the honking of a diesel, or the roar of a jet, or the whining tires of an eighteen- wheeler on a freeway.

"Ready for another drink?" the host asked. "I am."

Qwilleran declined, saying he had to meet a newspaper deadline, but on his way out of the house he asked casually, "Do you happen to know a Trevelyan who's a house builder?"

"My son," was the prompt reply. "Just starting out on his own."

"Does he know his stuff? A friend of mine is thinking of hiring him."

"Sure, he's a whizbang! learned the trade from me. I taught him the whole works. I said to both my kids: The trick is to start early and work hard. That's what I did."

"You have another son?"

"A girl. She took bookkeep in' in high school. Works in my office now."

Strange family situation, Qwilleran thought as he drove away from The Roundhouse. There was the unkempt president of a successful family business. Then there was the undistinguished furniture in a pretentious house. And how about the shabbily treated woman in a state-of-the- art wheelchair? Who was she? She seemed too old to be his wife, too young to be his mother. Was she a poor relative or former housekeeper living on his charity? In any case, the man should have made some sort of introduction or at least acknowledged her presence. The financial success that had vaulted him from Sawdust City to West Middle Hummock had hardly polished his rough edges.

On the way home Qwilleran stopped at Toodles' Market for a frozen dinner and six ounces of sliced turkey breast. He was not surprised when Yum Yum met him at the kitchen door, slinking flirtatiously, one dainty forepaw in front of the other.

"There she is! Miss Cat America!" he said. "Where's your sidekick? Where's Koko?"

The other cat came running, and the two of them sang for their supper - a duet of baritone yowls and coloratura trills, the latter more like shrieks. After Qwilleran had diced their favorite treat and arranged it on their favorite plate, Koko made a dive for it, but Yum Yum looked at the plate sourly and veered away with loweredhead.

Qwilleran was alarmed. Was she ill? Had she found a bug and eaten it? Was it a hair ball? Had she swallowed a rubber band? He picked her up gently and asked, "What's wrong with my little sweetheart?" She looked at him with large eyes filled with reproach.

Meanwhile, Koko had polished off two- thirds of the repast, leaving the usual one-third for his partner. Qwilleran, with Yum Yum still in his arms, picked up the plate and placed it on the kitchen counter. Immediately she squirmed from his grasp, landed on the counter, and devoured the turkey.

"Cats!" he muttered. "They drive you crazy!"