In Moose County, four hundred miles north of everywhere, it always starts to snow in November, and it snows — and snows — and snows.

First, all the front steps disappear under two feet of snow. Then fences and shrubs are no longer visible. Utility poles keep getting shorter until the lines are low enough for limbo dancing. Listening to the hourly weather reports on the radio is everyone's winter hobby in Moose County, and snowplowing becomes the chief industry. Plows and blowers throw up mountains of white that hide whole buildings and require the occupants to tunnel through to the street. In Pickax City, the county seat, it's not unusual to see cross-country skis in the downtown shopping area. If the airport closes down — and it often does — Moose County is an island of snow and ice. It all starts in November, with a storm that the residents call the Big One.

On the evening of November fifth, Jim Qwilleran was relaxing in his comfortable library in the company of friends. A mood of contentment prevailed. They had dined well, the housekeeper having prepared clam chowder and escalopes of veal Casimir. The houseman had piled fragrant logs of applewood in the fireplace, and the blaze projected dancing highlights on the leather-bound books that filled four walls of library shelves. From softly shaded lamps came a golden glow that warmed the leather furniture and Bokhara rugs.

Qwilleran, a large middle-aged man with a bushy moustache, sat at his antique English desk and tuned in the nine o'clock weather report on the radio — one of numerous small portables deployed about the house for this purpose.

"Colder tonight, with lows about twenty-five degrees," the WPKX meteorologist predicted. "High winds and a good chance of snow tonight and tomorrow."

Qwilleran flipped off the radio. "If you guys don't object," he said to the other two, "I'd like to leave town for a few days. It's six months since my last trip Down Below, and my cronies at the newspaper think I'm dead. Mrs. Cobb will serve your meals, and I'll be back before the snow flies — I hope. Just keep your paws crossed."

Four brown ears swiveled alertly at the announcement. Two brown masks with long white whiskers and incredibly blue eyes turned away from the blazing logs and toward the man seated at the desk.

The more you talk to cats, Qwilleran had been told, the smarter they become. An occasional "nice kitty" will have no measurable effect; intelligent conversation is required.

The system, he had found, seemed to be working; the pair of Siamese on the hearth rug reacted as if they knew exactly what he was saying. Yum Yum, the affectionate little female, gazed at him with an expression that looked like reproach. Koko, the handsome and muscular male, rose from the spot where he had been lounging in leonine majesty, walked stiffly to the desk, and scolded with earsplitting yowls. "Yow-ow-OW!"

"I was expecting a little more understanding and consideration," the man told them.

Qwilleran, at the age of fifty or so, was coping with a unique midlife crisis. After a lifetime of living in large metropolitan areas, he was now a resident of Pickax City, population 3,000. After a career as a hardworking journalist getting by with a modest salary, he was now a millionaire — or billionaire; he was not quite sure. At any rate, he was the sole heir to the Klingenschoen fortune founded in Moose County in the nineteenth century. The bequest included a mansion on Main Street, a staff of three, a four-car garage, and a limousine. Even after a year or more he found his new lifestyle strange. As a newsman he had been concerned chiefly with getting the story, checking the facts, meeting the deadline, and protecting his sources. Now his chief concern, like that of every other Moose County adult, seemed to be the weather, especially in November.

When the Siamese reacted negatively to his proposal, Qwilleran tamped his moustache thoughtfully for a moment. "Nevertheless," he said, "it's imperative that I go. Arch Riker is leaving the Daily Fluxion, and I'm hosting his retirement party Friday night."

In his days of frugal bachelorhood in a one-room apartment, Qwilleran had never hungered for money or possessions, and among his fellow staffers he was not noted for his generosity. But when the Klingenschoen estate finally stumbled through probate court, he astonished the media of the Western world by inviting the entire staff of the Daily Fluxion to a dinner at the Press Club.

He planned to take a guest: Junior Goodwinter, the young managing editor of the Pickax Picayune, Moose County's only newspaper. Dialing the newspaper office, he said, "Hi, Junior! How would you like to goof off for a couple of days and fly Down Below for a party? My treat. Cocktails and dinner at the Press Club."

"Oh, wow! I've never seen a Press Club except in the movies," said the editor. "Could we visit the Daily Fluxion offices, too?"

Junior looked and dressed like a high school sophomore and exhibited an innocent enthusiasm that was rare in a journalist with a cum laude degree from a state university.

"We might sneak in a hockey game and a couple of shows, too," Qwilleran said, "but we'll have to keep an eye on the weather reports and get back here before snow flies."

"There's a low-pressure front moving down from Canada, but I think we're safe for a while," Junior said. "What's the party all about?"

"A retirement bash for Arch Riker, and here's what I want you to do: Bring a Picayune newscarrier's sack and a hundred copies of your latest issue. After the dinner I'll say a few words about Moose County and the Picayune, and that'll be your cue to jump up and start distributing the papers."

"I'll wear a baseball cap sideways and yell, 'Extra! Extra!' Is that what you want?"

"You've got it!" Qwilleran said. "But the authentic pronunciation is 'Wuxtree!' Be ready at nine o'clock Friday morning. I'll pick you up at your office."

The early-morning weather broadcast on Friday was not encouraging: "A low-pressure front hovering over Canada increases the possibility of heavy snow tonight and tomorrow, with winds shifting to the northeast."

Qwilleran's housekeeper expressed her fears. "What will you do, Mr. Q, if you can't get back here before snow flies? If the storm is the Big One, the airport will be closed for goodness knows how long."

"Well, I'll tell you, Mrs. Cobb. I'll rent a dogsled and a pack of huskies and mush back to Pickax."

"Oh, Mr. Q!" she laughed. "I never know whether to believe you or not."

She was preparing an attractive plate of sautéed chicken livers with a garnish of hard-cooked egg yolk and bacon crumbles, which she placed on the floor. Yum Yum gobbled her share hungrily, but Koko declined to eat. Something was bothering him.

Both cats had the shaded fawn bodies and brown points of pedigreed seal-point Siamese: brown masks accentuating the blueness of their eyes; alert brown ears worn like royal crowns; brown legs elegantly long and slender; brown tails that lashed and curled and waved to express emotions and opinions. But Koko had something more: a disconcerting degree of intelligence and an uncanny knack of knowing when something was... wrong!

That morning he had knocked a book off a shelf in the library .

"That's bad form!" Qwilleran had told him, appealing to his intelligence. "These are old, rare, and valuable books — to be treated with respect, if not reverence." He examined the book. It was a slender leather-bound copy of The Tempest — one of a thirty-seven-volume set of Shakespeare's plays that had come with the house.

Experiencing slight qualms, Qwilleran replaced the book on the shelf. It was an unfortunate choice of title. He was determined, however, to fly Down Below for the party, despite Koko and Mrs. Cobb and the WPKX meteorologist.