Qwilleran wrenched himself from sleep in a fright and found himself sitting up in bed, sweating and shouting.

An orderly hurried into the room. "Mr. Q! Mr. Q! What's the problem? A bad dream?" Qwilleran shook himself in an effort to dispel the nightmare. "Sorry. Hope I didn't disturb the other patients." "Want a drink of water, Mr. Q?" "Thanks. And will you raise the bed? I'd better sit up for a while." Qwilleran leaned back against his pillow, reliving the dream. It was as graphic as the others. The sky was blue. The weeds around the deserted mine were poison green. The truck had a rusted grille.

Like the other dreams, it had actually happened, he realized, but there was no one he could phone for verification.

One thing was clear. What happened on Ittibittiwassee Road was no accident. He thought, I'm well liked in Pickax… but not by everyone.

It was midsummer when the richest man in Moose County fell off his antiquated bicycle. Two months before that incident he was far from affluent. He was an underpaid feature writer working for a large midwestem newspaper noted for its twenty-four-point bylines and meager wage scale. As a frugal bachelor he lived in a one-room furnished apartment and was making payments on a used car. He owned a fifty-year-old typewriter with a faulty shift key, and his library consisted of the odd titles found on the twenty-five-cent table in secondhand bookstores. His wardrobe, such as it was, fitted comfortably in two suitcases. He was perfectly content.

Jim Qwilleran's sole extravagance was the care and feeding of two Siamese cats who shunned catfood, preferring beef tenderloin, lobster, and oysters in season. Not only did they have aristocratic sensibilities and epicurean appetites, but Koko, the male, showed unusual intelligence. Tales of his extrasensory perception had made him legendary at the Daily Fluxion and the Press Club, although nothing of the cat's remarkable attribute was mentioned outside the profession.

Then, without ever buying a lottery ticket, Qwilleran became a multimillionaire virtually overnight. It was a freak inheritance, and he was the sole heir.

When the astonishing news reached him, Qwilleran and his feline companions were vacationing in Moose County, the northern outpost of the state. They were staying in a lake shore cabin near the resort town of Mooseville. As soon as he recovered from the shock he submitted his resignation to the Daily Fluxion and made arrangements to move to Pickax City, the county seat, thirty miles from Mooseville.

But first he had to clean out his desk at the Fluxion office, say goodbye to fellow staffers, and have one last lunch with Arch Riker at the Press Club.

The two men walked to the club, mopping their brows and complaining of the heat. It was the first hot spell of the season.

Qwilleran said: "I'm going to miss you and all the other guys, Arch, but I won't miss the hot weather. It's ninety-five degrees at City Hall." "I suppose the photographers are frying their annual egg on the sidewalk," Arch remarked.

"In Moose County there's always a pleasant breeze. No need for air-conditioning." "That may be, but how can you stand living four hundred miles from civilization?" "Are you under the impression that today' s cities are civilized?" "Qwill, you've spent less than a month in that northern wilderness," Arch said, "and already you're thinking like a sheep farmer… Okay, I'll rephrase that question. How can you stand living four hundred miles from the Press Club?" "It's a gamble," Qwilleran admitted, "but those are the terms of Miss Klingenschoen's will: Live in Moose County for five years or forfeit the inheritance." At the club, where the air conditioner was out of commission, they ordered corned beef sandwiches, gin and tonic for Riker, and iced tea for Qwilleran.

"If you forfeit the inheritance," Riker went on, "who gets it?" "Some outfit in New Jersey. I don't mind telling you, Arch, it was a tough decision for me to make. I wasn't sure I wanted to give up a job on a major newspaper for any amount of money." "Qwill, you're unique — if not demented. No one in his right mind would turn down millions." "Well, you know me, Arch. I like to work. I like newspapering and press clubs. I've never needed a lot of dough, and I've never wanted to be encumbered by possessions. It remains to be seen if I'll be comfortable with money — I mean Money with a capital M." "Try!" Riker advised. "Try real hard. What are the encumbrances that might ruin your life?" "Some complicated investments. Office buildings and hotels on the East Coast. A couple of shopping malls. Acreage in Moose County. Half of Main Street in Pickax City. Also the Klingenschoen mansion in Pickax and the log cabin in Mooseville where we spent our vacation." "Rotten luck." "Do you realize I'll need a housekeeping staff, gardeners, maintenance men, and probably a secretary? Not to mention an accountant, a financial adviser, two attorneys, and a property management firm? That's not my style! They'll expect me to join the country club and wear tailor-made suits!" "I'm not worried about you, Qwill. You'll always be your own man. Anyone who's convinced his cat is psychic will never conform to conventional folkways… Here's the mustard. Want horseradish?" Qwilleran grunted and squirted a question mark of mustard on his corned beef.

Riker went on. "You'll never be anything but what you are, Qwill — a lovable slob. Do you realize every one of your ties is full of moth holes?" "I happen to like my ties," Qwilleran countered. "They were all woven in Scotland, and they're not moth-eaten. Before Yum Yum came to live with us, Koko was frustrated and started chewing wool." "Are those two cats playing house? I thought they were both neutered." "Yes, but Siamese crave companionship. Otherwise they get neurotic. They do strange things." "If you ask me," Riker said, "Koko is still doing some very strange things." At that moment two photographers from the Fluxion stopped at the table to commiserate with Qwilleran. "Man, do you know what you're getting into up north?" one of them said. "Moose County is a low-crime area!" "No problem," Qwilleran replied. "They import an occasional felon from down here, just so the cops won't get bored." He was accustomed to being ribbed about his interest in crime. Everyone at the Press Club knew he had helped the police crack a few cases, and everyone knew that it was Koko who actually sniffed out the clues.

Qwilleran applied his attention to his sandwich again, and Riker resumed his questioning. "What's the population of Pickax?" "Three thousand persons and four thousand pickup trucks. I call it Pickup City. The town has one traffic light, fourteen mediocre restaurants, a nineteenth-century newspaper, and more churches than bars." "You could open a good restaurant and start your own paper, now that you're in the bucks." "No thanks. I'm going to write a book." "Any interesting people up there?" "Contrary to what you think, Arch, they're not all sheep farmers. During my vacation I met some teachers and an engineer and a lively blond postmistress (married, unfortunately) and a couple of attorneys — brother and sister, very classy type. Also there's a young doctor I've started dating. She has the greenest eyes and longest eyelashes you ever saw, and she's giving me the come-on, if I'm reading the signals right." "How come you always attract women half your age? Must be the overgrown moustache." Qwilleran stroked his upper lip smugly. "Dr. Melinda Goodwinter, M.D… not bad for a Saturday night date." "Sounds like a character in a TV series." "Goodwinter is the big name in Moose County. There's half a page of them in the telephone directory, and the whole phone book is only fourteen pages thick. The Goodwinters go back to the days when fortunes were being made in mining." "What supports the economy now?" "Commercial fishing and tourism. A little farming. Some light industry." Riker chewed his sandwich in somber silence for a while. He was losing his best writer as well as his lunchtime companion. "Suppose you move up there, Qwill, and then change your mind before the five years are up? What happens then?" "Everything goes to the people in New Jersey. The estate is held in trust for five years, and during that time all I get is the income…" "Which amounts to…" "After taxes, upwards of a million, annually." Riker choked on the dill pickle. "Anyone should… be able to… scrape by with that." "You and Rosie ought to come up for a week. Fresh air — no hustle — safe environment. I mean, they don't have street crime and random killings in Pickax." He signaled the waitress for the check. "Don't expect me to pay for your lunch today, Arch. I haven't seen a penny of that inheritance yet. Sorry I can't stay for coffee. Gotta get to the airport." "How long does it take to fly up there?" "Forever! You have to change planes twice, and the last one is a hedgehopper." After some quick handshaking and backslapping with denizen of the Press Club, Qwilleran accepted a sizable doggie bag from the kitchen and said a reluctant farewell to his old hangout. Then he caught the three o'clock plane.