over to HB and B."
Qwilleran said, "She also left me a looseleaf notebook containing all her personal recipes, but you don't need to mention that in the story."
"I thought you were opposed to censorship," said Riker. "I see it as a provocative headline: MILLIONAIRE WIDOW BEQUEATHS COOKBOOK TO BILLIONAIRE BACHELOR. That has all kinds of interesting implications."
The intercom buzzer sounded, and a voice squawked, "Is Qwill there? Ask if he has any copy for us. We've used up his backlog."
"Did you hear that?" Riker asked. "Has the Qwill Pen run dry?"
"Straight from the Qwill Pen" was the name of the column that Qwilleran had agreed to write for the Something. "It's like this," he explained to Riker. "I planned some interviews, but Iris's death has kept me off the beat for a few days."
"That's okay. Just give us a quick think-piece for tomorrow," Riker said. "Remember Mrs. Fisheye."
Driving back to North Middle Hummock Qwilleran did his quick thinking. Both he and Riker remembered their high school English teacher who regularly assigned the class to write a thousand words on such subjects as the weather, or breakfast, or the color green. Fisheye was not her name, but it was her misfortune to have large, round, pale, watery eyes. As a student Qwilleran had done his share of groaning and protesting, but now he could write a thousand words on any subject at a moment's notice.
Surveying the landscape as he drove out on Ittibittiwassee Road and through the Hummocks he decided on his topic: fences! Moose County was crisscrossed with picket fences, hand-split snake fences, barbed wire, four-bar corral, even root fences, each delivering its own message ranging from Welcome to Keep Out. In the fashionable Hummocks there were low stone walls by the mile as well as six-foot grapestake stockades around swimming pools. In the blighted town of Chipmunk there was a fence constructed of old bedsprings. Qwilleran was prepared—if those observations added up to fewer than a thousand words—to quote Robert Frost, allude to Cole Porter, and trace "fence" to its Latin root. He might even dedicate the column to Mrs. Fisheye.
As he drove past the Fugtree farm he noticed that their white fence needed a coat of paint, and he regretted that he had not adequately thanked the woman who had notified him about his headlights. He would like to buy her a paint job for the fence, but such largess might give the wrong impression. Perhaps, he decided, he should simply write a note of thanks.
Turning into Black Creek Lane he spotted two vehicles parked in the museum yard. One was a conservative dark blue four-door, about ten years old. The other was a van from Pickax Power Problems, Inc. The electrician was preparing to leave, and Homer Tibbitt was accepting his bill.
"Get the lights fixed?" Qwilleran called out to them.
"Nothin' wrong but loose lightbulbs," said the electrician. "If you get a lotta vibration it can shake the bulbs loose—make 'em flickr on and off—'specially them flame types. Screw 'em in tight—no problem."
"What could cause vibration?" Qwilleran asked.
"Who knows? Furnace, pump, appliances-any blame thing that's off-balance. Well, so long! Call me again when you gotta soft job like this."
Qwilleran frowned. He could imagine what Pickax Power Problems would charge for a run all the way out to North Middle Hummock. When he unlocked his door and the cats came to greet him, he said, "You heavyweights have got to stop stamping your feet!"
The Siamese were unusually alert and active for mid-afternoon, which was their scheduled naptime, but that was understandable. Koko as chief security officer had been keeping a wary eye on the electrician, and Yum Yum had been inspecting his shoelaces. In addition, Homer Tibbitt had accompanied the repairman, and the cats' had never seen a human who walked like a robot. The chairman of maintenance, remarkably agile for his age, walked briskly with angular flailing movements of arms and
Qwilleran said, "She also left me a looseleaf notebook containing all her personal recipes, but you don't need to mention that in the story."
"I thought you were opposed to censorship," said Riker. "I see it as a provocative headline: MILLIONAIRE WIDOW BEQUEATHS COOKBOOK TO BILLIONAIRE BACHELOR. That has all kinds of interesting implications."
The intercom buzzer sounded, and a voice squawked, "Is Qwill there? Ask if he has any copy for us. We've used up his backlog."
"Did you hear that?" Riker asked. "Has the Qwill Pen run dry?"
"Straight from the Qwill Pen" was the name of the column that Qwilleran had agreed to write for the Something. "It's like this," he explained to Riker. "I planned some interviews, but Iris's death has kept me off the beat for a few days."
"That's okay. Just give us a quick think-piece for tomorrow," Riker said. "Remember Mrs. Fisheye."
Driving back to North Middle Hummock Qwilleran did his quick thinking. Both he and Riker remembered their high school English teacher who regularly assigned the class to write a thousand words on such subjects as the weather, or breakfast, or the color green. Fisheye was not her name, but it was her misfortune to have large, round, pale, watery eyes. As a student Qwilleran had done his share of groaning and protesting, but now he could write a thousand words on any subject at a moment's notice.
Surveying the landscape as he drove out on Ittibittiwassee Road and through the Hummocks he decided on his topic: fences! Moose County was crisscrossed with picket fences, hand-split snake fences, barbed wire, four-bar corral, even root fences, each delivering its own message ranging from Welcome to Keep Out. In the fashionable Hummocks there were low stone walls by the mile as well as six-foot grapestake stockades around swimming pools. In the blighted town of Chipmunk there was a fence constructed of old bedsprings. Qwilleran was prepared—if those observations added up to fewer than a thousand words—to quote Robert Frost, allude to Cole Porter, and trace "fence" to its Latin root. He might even dedicate the column to Mrs. Fisheye.
As he drove past the Fugtree farm he noticed that their white fence needed a coat of paint, and he regretted that he had not adequately thanked the woman who had notified him about his headlights. He would like to buy her a paint job for the fence, but such largess might give the wrong impression. Perhaps, he decided, he should simply write a note of thanks.
Turning into Black Creek Lane he spotted two vehicles parked in the museum yard. One was a conservative dark blue four-door, about ten years old. The other was a van from Pickax Power Problems, Inc. The electrician was preparing to leave, and Homer Tibbitt was accepting his bill.
"Get the lights fixed?" Qwilleran called out to them.
"Nothin' wrong but loose lightbulbs," said the electrician. "If you get a lotta vibration it can shake the bulbs loose—make 'em flickr on and off—'specially them flame types. Screw 'em in tight—no problem."
"What could cause vibration?" Qwilleran asked.
"Who knows? Furnace, pump, appliances-any blame thing that's off-balance. Well, so long! Call me again when you gotta soft job like this."
Qwilleran frowned. He could imagine what Pickax Power Problems would charge for a run all the way out to North Middle Hummock. When he unlocked his door and the cats came to greet him, he said, "You heavyweights have got to stop stamping your feet!"
The Siamese were unusually alert and active for mid-afternoon, which was their scheduled naptime, but that was understandable. Koko as chief security officer had been keeping a wary eye on the electrician, and Yum Yum had been inspecting his shoelaces. In addition, Homer Tibbitt had accompanied the repairman, and the cats' had never seen a human who walked like a robot. The chairman of maintenance, remarkably agile for his age, walked briskly with angular flailing movements of arms and
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