Kao K'o Kung was no ordinary cat, and Qwilleran hardly knew how to address him. Sahib? Your Highness? On impulse he decided to treat the cat as an equal, so he merely said, "Won't you come in?" and stood aside, unaware that he was making a slight bow.

Kao K'o Kung advanced to the threshold and surveyed the apartment carefully before accepting the invitation. This took some time. Then he stalked haughtily across the red carpet and made a routine inspection of the fireplace, the ashtray, the remains of some cheese and crackers on the table, Qwilleran's corduroy coat hanging on the back of a chair, the book on modem art, and an unidentified and almost invisible spot on the carpet. Finally satisfied with everything, he selected a place in the middle of the floor — at a carefully computed distance from the gas fire — and stretched out in a leonine pose.

"Can I get you something?" Qwilleran inquired.

The cat made no reply but looked at his host with a squeezing of the eyes that seemed to denote contentment.

"Koko, you're a very fine fellow," said Qwilleran. "Make yourself comfortable. Do you mind if I finish my reaing?"

Kao K'o Kung stayed half an hour, and Qwilleran relished the picture they made — a man, a pipe, a book, an expensive looking cat — and he was disappointed when his guest arose, stretched, uttered a sharp adieu, and went upstairs to his own apartment.

Qwilleran spent the rest of the weekend anticipating his Monday lunch date with Sandra Halapay. He was circumventing the problem of interviewing her husband by writing a profile of Cal Halapay through the eyes of his family and friends." Sandy was going to steer him to the right people, and she had promised to bring candid snapshots of her husband teaching the children to ski, feeding turkeys on the Oregon farm, and training a Kerry blue to sit up.

All day Sunday Qwilleran felt that his moustache was transmitting messages to him — or perhaps it merely needed clipping. Just the same, its owner sensed that the coming week would be significant. Whether significantly good or significantly bad, the informed source did not reveal.

Monday morning arrived, and with it came an unexpected communication from upstairs.

Qwilleran was dressing and selecting a tie that Sandy might approve (a navy and green wool tartan, made in Scotland) when he first noticed the folded paper on the floor, half pushed under the door.

He picked it up. The handwriting was poor — like a child's scrawl — and the message was terse and abbreviated:

"Mr. Q — Pls del tapes to A.R. Save mess a trip — GBM."

Qwilleran had not seen his landlord since Friday evening. At that time he had moved his two suitcases from the "hotel to the apartment and had paid a month's rent. A vague hope that Mountclemens would invite him to Sunday breakfast — perhaps eggs Benedict or a chicken liver omelet — had evaporated. It appeared that only the cat was going to be sociable.

After deciphering the note, Qwilleran opened the door and found the reels of tape waiting for him on the hall floor. He delivered them to Arch Riker, but he thought the request strange — and unnecessary. The Dispatch Room at the Fluxion had a benchful of messengers who sat around pitching pennies most of the time.

Arch said, "Making any headway with the Halapay profile?"

"I'm taking Mrs. Halapay to lunch today. Will the Flux be willing to pick up the check?"

"Sure, they'll go for a couple of bucks."

"Where's a good place to take her? Somewhere special."

"Why don't you ask the Hungry Photographers? They're always getting people to buy lunch on expense accounts."

In the Photo Lab Qwilleran found six pairs of feet propped on desks, tables, wastebaskets, and filing cabinets — waiting for assignments, or waiting for prints to come off the dryer, or waiting for the dark room buzzer.

Qwilleran said, "Where's a good place to take someone to lunch for an interview?"

"Who's paying?"

"The Flux."

"Sitting Bull's Chop House," the photographers said in unison.

"The chopped sirloin weighs a pound," said one. "The cheese cake's four inches thick."

"They have a double lamb chop as big as my shoe." It sounded good to Qwilleran.

Sitting Bull's Chop House was located in the packing, house district, and a characteristic odor seeped into the dining room to compete with the cigar smoke.

"Oh, what a fun place," Sandy Halapay squealed. "How clever of you to bring me here. So many men! I adore men."

The men adored Sandy, too. Her red hat topped with a proud black rooster tail was the center of attention. She ordered oysters, which the chop house could not supply, so she contented herself with champagne. But with each sip her laughter grew more shrill, rebounding from the antiseptic white tile walls of the restaurant, and the enthusiasm of her audience dwindled.

"Jim, dear, you must fly down to the Caribbean with me when Cal goes to Europe next week. I'll have the plane all to myself. Wouldn't it be fun?"

But she had forgotten to bring the information Qwilleran needed, and the snapshots of her husband were unusable. The lamb chop was indeed as big as a photographer's shoe and as flavorful. The waitresses, uniformed like registered nurses, were more efficient than cordial.

The luncheon was not a success. Back in the office that afternoon, Qwilleran had to listen to telephone complaints about Mountclemens' review in Sunday's paper. The critic had called a watercolorist a frustrated interior decorator, and the watercolorist's friends and relatives were calling to castigate the Daily Fluxion and cancel their subscriptions.

All together, Monday was not a halcyon day for Qwilleran. At the end of the tedious afternoon he fled to the Press Club for dinner, and Bruno, setting up a tomato juice, said, "I hear you've moved in with Mountclemens."

"I've rented one of his vacant apartments," Qwilleran snapped. "Anything wrong with that?"

"Not until he starts pushing you around, I guess." Then Odd Bunsen stopped long enough to give the newsman an informed grin and say, "I hear old Monty's got you running errands for him already."

When Qwilleran returned home to 26 Blenheim Place, he was in no mood for what he found. There was another note under his door.

"Mr. Q," it read, "Apprec pick up plane ticket — reserv Wed 3 P.M. NY — chg my acct — GBM."

Qwilleran's moustache bristled. It was true that the airline office was across the street from the Daily Fluxion Building, and picking up a plane ticket was a small favor for his landlord to ask in return for a good dinner. What irked him was the abruptness of the request. Or was it an order? Did Mountclemens think he was Qwilleran's boss?

Tomorrow was Tuesday. The plane reservation was for Wednesday. There was no time to make an issue of it, so Qwilleran grumbled to himself and picked up the ticket the following morning on his way to work.

Later in the day Odd Bunsen met him on the elevator and said, "Going away somewhere?"

"No. Why?"

"Saw you going into the airline office. Thought you were skipping town." He added a taunting grin. "Don't tell me you're running errands for Monty again!"

Qwilleran groomed his moustache with his knuckles and tried to reflect calmly that curiosity and a keen sense of observation make a good news photographer.

When he arrived home that evening, the third note was waiting under his door. It was more to his liking:

"Mr. Q — Pls bkfst w me Wed 8:30 — GBM."

Wednesday morning Qwilleran went upstairs with the plane ticket and knocked on Mountclemens' door.

"Good morning, Mr. Qwilleran," said the critic, extending a thin white hand, his left. "I hope you are not in a hurry. I have a ramekin of eggs with herbs and sour cream, ready to put in the oven, if you can wait. And some chicken livers and bacon en brochette."