"Good dog! Good dog!" he said, keeping his hands in his pockets and making no sudden move.
In friendly fashion the Doberman came closer and leaned against his legs. The collar was studded with nail-heads, spelling a name: L-U-C-Y.
"Good dog, Lucy," he said. "Are you Lucy?" He patted the black head, and the overfed dog leaned harder, applying considerable pressure. She was pushing him to one side. Qwilleran stepped away, and Lucy pushed again.
My God! Qwilleran thought. She's a rescue dog! Where's her brandy keg?
When he started to move in the direction she indicated, she bounded ahead, looking back to be sure he was following. Lucy could penetrate the thicket better than he could, and when he made too little progress, she returned to investigate the delay.
Eventually they emerged onto a carpet of pine needles. "This is the trail!" Qwilleran exulted. "Good dog! Good Lucy!" She bounded ahead. Now he recognized a certain fallen tree and a certain giant oak circumvented by the path. When finally the great gray-green hulk loomed above the treetops, he let out an involuntary yelp, and Lucy raced for the inn. She arrived first and waited for him on the veranda, close by the kitchen door.
Incredible! Qwilleran thought; she wants food, and she knows exactly where to go. Two yowling voices could be heard indoors. "Too bad, Lucy," he said. "I can't invite you in, but I'll find you some chow. Stay here." On the porch she appeared much smaller than she had when first lumbering out of the dark woods. Gratefully he gave her four hot dogs he had bought for himself. The Siamese disdained hot dogs with withering contempt, but Lucy gobbled them and took off—on another errand of mercy or in search of another handout.
Indoors the Siamese sniffed Qwilleran's pantlegs and made unflattering grimaces.
"Don't curl your whiskers," he reproached them. "Lucy brought me home just in time." Rain was obviously on the way. The wind was rising, creating a menacing roar around the summit of Big Potato, and the dragon sky was raging.
For no reason at all, except relief at being rescued, Qwilleran felt a need to talk with someone in Moose County. This time he phoned Arch Riker, hoping he would be at home. It was Saturday night, and the middle-aged editor of the Moose County Something might be dining out with his cranky, middle-aged friend, Amanda— that is, if they were on speaking terms this week.
When Riker answered, Qwilleran said, "Just checking to see if Moose County is still on the map."
"I thought you were going to boycott us," Riker chided him. "What's the matter? Are you homesick?"
"Why aren't you out romancing the lovely Amanda? I thought this was national date night by act of Congress."
"None of your business."
The two men had been friends since boyhood, and their dialogue never needed to be polite or even sequential.
"How's your little cabin in the Potatoes?" the editor asked. "Does it meet your modest needs?"
"It's adequate. I have six bedrooms, and I can park ten cars and seat twelve for dinner. Right now the wind's roaring as if a locomotive is headed for the side of the building. But it was beautiful earlier in the day. I had lunch with the editor of the Spudsboro Gazette, and Fm sending you a copy of the paper. Note the column called 'Potato Peelings.' You might want to apply for syndication rights."
"Are you going to write anything for us?"
"I'm sending you my travel notes, and you can edit them if you think they're worth running. Also, I may write about the local conflict between the environmentalists and the proponents of economic growth. Moose County may get into the same kind of pitched battle before long."
"Good! There's nothing like a bloody controversy to bolster circulation. How do the cats like the mountains? Has Koko found any dead bodies yet?"
"No, but there was a murder here a year ago. . . OUCH!"
"What was that?" Riker asked in alarm.
"I thought I'd been shot! It was a clap of thunder right overhead. We're very close to the action up here on the mountaintop. Better hang up. There's a lot of lightning . . . Wow! There it goes again! Talk to you some other time."
Qwilleran felt better after chatting with his old friend, and he went upstairs to read. It had started to rain with ferocity, and between claps of thunder there was prolonged rumbling, echoing among the mountain peaks. With his feet on the new ottoman and with Yum Yum curled up on his lap, he was well into the second chapter before he realized that Koko was absent.
Any variance in the cats' usual behavior concerned him, and he rushed downstairs to investigate. As he reached the bottom stair he heard murmuring and mumbling in the living room; Koko was talking to himself as he always did when puzzled or frustrated.
