Jackson, Braun Lilian

When Qwilleran hesitated, Arch Riker, his lifelong friend, hazarded a guess. "He's going to buy a string of newspapers and a TV network and start a media revolution."

"Or buy a castle in Scotland and go in for bird watching," Larry Lanspeak contributed with tongue in cheek.

"Not likely," said Polly Duncan, who had given Qwilleran a bird book and binoculars in vain. "He'll buy an island in the Caribbean and write that book he's always talking about." She spoke blithely to conceal her feelings; as the chief woman in his life for the last few years Polly would feel the keenest regret if he should leave the north country.

Qwilleran chuckled at their suggestions. "Seriously," he said as he loaded his plate for the third time with canned cocktail sausages and processed cheese slices, "the last few years have been the richest in my entire life, and I mean it! Until coming here I'd always lived in cities with a population of two million or more. Now I'm content to live in a town of three thousand, four hundred miles north of everywhere. And yet . . ."

"You're not living up to your potential," Polly said bravely.

"I don't know about that, but I'll tell you one thing: Taking it easy is not my idea of the good life. I don't play golf. I'd rather go to jail than go fishing. Expensive cars and custom-made suits are not for me. What I do need is a goal—a worthwhile direction."

"Have you thought of getting married?" asked Moira MacDiarmid.

"No!" Qwilleran stated vehemently.

"It wouldn't be too late to start producing heirs."

Patiently he explained, as he had done many times before, "Several years ago I discovered I'm a washout as a husband, and I might as well face the truth. As for heirs, I've established the Klingenschoen Foundation to distribute my money—both while I'm alive and after I've gone. But . . ." He stroked his moustache thoughtfully, "I'd like to get away from it all for a while and rethink my purpose in life—on top of a mountain somewhere—or on a desert island, if there are any left without tourists."

"What about your cats?" asked Carol Lanspeak. "Larry and I would be glad to board them in the luxury to which they're accustomed."

"I'd take them along. The presence of a cat is conducive to meditation."

"Do you like mountains?" Kip MacDiarmid asked.

"To tell the truth, I haven't had much experience with mountains. The Alps impressed me when my paper sent me to Switzerland on assignment, and my honeymoon was spent in the Scottish Highlands . . . Yes, I like the idea of altitude. Mountains have a sense of mystery, whether you're up there looking down or down here looking up."

Moira said, "Last summer we had a great vacation in the Potato Mountains—didn't we, Kip? We took the kids and the camper. Beautiful scenery! Wonderful mountain air! And so peaceful! Even with four kids and two dogs it was peaceful."

"I've never heard of the Potato Mountains," Qwilleran said.

"They're just being developed. You should get there before the influx of tourists," Kip advised. "If you'd like to borrow our camper for a couple of weeks, you're welcome to it."

Arch Riker said, "I don't picture Qwill in a camper unless it has twenty-four-hour room service. We used to be in scouting together, and he was the only kid who hated campouts and cookouts."

Qwilleran was quaking inwardly at the thought of condensed living in an RV with a pair of restless indoor cats. "I appreciate the offer," he said, "but it would be better for me to rent a cabin for a couple of months—something Thoreau-esque but with indoor plumbing, you know. I don't need any frills, just the basic comforts."

"They have cabins for rent in the Potato Mountains," Moira said. "We saw lots of vacancy signs—didn't we, Kip? And there's a nice little town in the valley with restaurants and stores. The kids went down there for movies and the video arcade."

"Do they have a public library? Do you suppose there's a veterinarian?"

"Sure to be," said Kip. "There's a courthouse, so it's obviously the county seat. Neat little burg! A river runs right along the main street."

"What's the name of the town?"

"Spudsboro!" the MacDiarmids said in unison with wide grins as they waited for Qwilleran's incredulous reaction.

"We're not kidding," said Moira. "That's what it's called on the map. It's right between two ranges of mountains. We camped in a national forest in the West Potatoes. On the east side there's Big Potato Mountain and Little Potato Mountain."

"And I suppose the Gravy River runs through the valley," Qwilleran quipped.

"The river is the Yellyhoo, I'm sorry to say," said Kip. "It's great for white-water rafting—not the Colorado by a long shot, but the kids got a thrill out of it. There are caves if you're interested in spelunking, but the locals discourage it, and Moira is chicken, anyway."

"Where do the Potato Mountains get their name?"