"You were always snooping into other kids' lunch boxes," He searched Qwilleran's face for a glimmer of recollection.

"Do you remember our first-grade teacher? She was thin at the top and fat at the bottom. You said, 'Old Miss Blair looks like a pear, Remember that?" There was a slight nod and half smile in response.

"You were always good with words, You were playing with words when the rest of us were playing with water pistols." With patience Riker went on with the nostalgic recital, hitting the highlights of his friend's life. "You were spelling champ for three years… In junior high school you discovered girls… In high school you played baseball-outfield, good slugger.

And you edited the school paper." "The North Wind," Qwilleran murmured. "That's it! That's the name!.. After graduation you went into the service and came out with a trick knee, so that was the end of baseball. In college you sang in the glee club and got interested in acting." The years rolled by in a matter of minutes. "We both went into journalism, but you got the glamour assignments.

You were tops as a crime reporter, and whenever there was any trouble overseas, they sent you to cover the hot spots." With each revelation Qwilleran' s mind became sharper, and he responded with more awareness.

"You won journalism prizes and wrote a book on urban crime. It actually got on the best-seller list." "For about ten minutes." Relief showed in Riker's face. His friend was beginning to sound normal. "You were my best man when I married Rosie." "It rained all day. I remember the wet confetti." "You were in Scotland when you married Miriam." Again Qwilleran felt the vague uneasiness. "Where is she? Why isn't she here?" "You were divorced about ten years ago. She's somewhere in Connecticut." The mournful eyes gazed into space. "And after that everything fell apart." "Okay, let's face it, Qwill. You developed a drinking problem and couldn't hold a job, but you snapped out of it and came to work for the Daily Fluxion, writing features. You turned out some good stuff. You could write about art, antiques, interior design — anything." "Even if I didn't know anything about it," Qwilleran put in.

"When you started writing restaurant reviews, you could make food sound as interesting as crime." "Wait a minute, Arch! How long have I been away from my desk? I've got to get back to work!" "Hey, man, you quit several weeks ago!" "What! Why did I quit? I need the job!" "Not anymore, my friend. You inherited money — a bundle of it — the Klingenschoen fortune." "I don't believe it! What am I doing? Where do I live?" "Here in Pickax City. Those were the terms of the will. You have to live in Moose County for five years. You inherited a big house in Pickax with a four-car garage and a limousine and — " Qwilleran grabbed the arms of his chair. "The cats! Where are the cats? I haven't fed the cats!" That was the thing that had been troubling the edges of his mind. "I've got to get out of here!" "Don't get excited. You'll split your stitches. The brats are okay. Your housekeeper is feeding them, and she's making up a room for me so I can stay overnight." "Housekeeper?" "Mrs. Cobb. I wouldn't mind going there right now for a little shut-eye. I've been up since four o'clock this morning." "I'll go with you. Where are my clothes?" "Sit down, sit down, Qwill. Melinda wants to run a few tests. I'll check back with you later." "Arch, no one but you could have dredged up all that ancient history." Riker grabbed his friend's hand. "Are you feeling like yourself now?" "I think so. Don't worry." "See you later, Qwill. God! I'm glad to see you functioning again. You gave me a bad scare." After Riker had left, Qwilleran tested himself. Sidekick, shut-eye, brekky. Now he knew the meaning of all the words.

He could remember his own telephone number. He could spell onomatopoeia. He knew the names of his cats: Koko and Yum Yum, a pair of beautiful but tyrannical Siamese.

Yet, there was a period of a few hours that remained a blank. No matter how intensely he concentrated, he could not recall anything immediately before or immediately after the accident. Why did he falloff his bike? Did he hit a pothole or some loose gravel? Or did he pass out while pedaling? Perhaps that was Melinda's reason for wanting to run tests.

He was too tired to concentrate further. Recollecting his entire past had been an exhausting chore. In a single morning he had relived more than forty years. He needed a nap. He needed some shut-eye. Smiling to himself because he now knew all the words, he fell asleep.

Qwilleran slept soundly, and he had a vivid dream. He was having lunch in a sunny room, all yellow and green. The housekeeper was serving macaroni-and-cheese flecked with green pepper and red pimiento. He could picture everything distinctly: the brown casserole, the housekeeper's bright pink sweater. In the dream the colors were so vibrant they were disturbing.

Qwilleran was telling Mrs. Cobb that he might take a bike ride on Ittibittiwassee Road.

"Be careful with that rusty old crate," she said in a cheerful voice. "You really ought to buy a ten-speed, Mr. Q… a ten-speed, Mr. Q… a ten-speed, Mr. Q…" Suddenly he was awake; his bandaged brow was cold and wet. The sequence had been so real, he refused to believe it was a dream. There was only one way to be sure.

He reached for the telephone and dialed his home number, and when he heard his housekeeper's cheery hello he marveled at the audio-fidelity of his dream. "Mrs. Cobb, how's everything at the house? How are the cats?" "Oh, it's you, Mr. Q," she squealed. "Thank goodness you're all in one piece! The cats? They miss you. Koko won't eat, and Yum Yum cries a lot. They know something's wrong. Mr. Riker is here, and I sent him upstairs to take a nap. Is there anything you want, Mr. Q? Anything I can send you?" "No, thanks. Not a thing. I'll be home tomorrow. But just answer a couple of questions, if you will. Did you serve macaroni-and-cheese yesterday?" "Oh Lord! I hope it wasn't the lunch that caused your spill." "Don't worry. Nothing like that. I'm just trying to recall something. Were you wearing a pink sweater yesterday?" "Yes, the one you gave me." "Did I discuss my plans for the afternoon?" "Oh, Mr. Q! This sounds like one of your investigations. Do you have some suspicions?" "No, just curious, Mrs. Cobb." "Well, let me think… You said you were going to take the old bike out for a ride, and I said you ought to buy a new ten-speed. You'll have to buy one now, Mr. Q. The sheriff found your old one in a ditch, and it's a wreck!" "In a ditch?" That's strange, Qwilleran thought, stroking his moustache thoughtfully. He thanked the housekeeper and suggested some delicacies to tempt Koko's appetite. "Where is he, Mrs. Cobb? Put him on the phone." "He's on top of the refrigerator," she said. "He's listening to every word I say. Let me see if the phone cord will reach." There was an interlude in which Mrs. Cobb could be heard making coaxing noises, while Koko's familiar yowl came through with piercing clarity. Then Qwilleran heard a snuffling sound coming from the receiver.

"Hello there, Koko old boy," he said. "Are you taking care of Yum Yum? Are you keeping the house safe from lions and tigers?" A throaty purr came over the line. Koko appreciated intelligent conversation.

"Be a good cat and eat your food. You've got to keep up your strength to fight off all those jaguars and black buffalos.

So long, Koko. I'll be home tomorrow." "YOW!" came a sharp cry that stabbed Qwilleran's eardrum.

He replaced the receiver and turned to find Mrs. Toodle standing there in wide-eyed astonishment. Her voice was wary. "I came to see… if you'd like to have… your lunch now, Mr. Q." "If there's no objection," he replied, "I'd prefer to go!down to the cafeteria. Do you suppose they're serving consomm‚ with poached plover eggs or a salpicon of mussels today?" Mrs. Toodle looked alarmed and hurried out. Qwilleran chuckled. He was feeling euphoric after his brief brush with amnesia.