An hour before flight: time he drove his energy-efficient compact to the office of the Picayune to pick up Junior and the sack of newspapers. All the buildings on Main Street were more than a century old, constructed of gray stone in a variety of inappropriate architectural styles. The Picayune headquarters — squeezed between the imitation Viennese lodge hall and the imitation Roman post office — resembled an ancient Spanish monastery.
A satisfying smell of ink pervaded the newspaper office, but the premises had the embalmed look of a museum. There was no ad taker at the scarred front counter. There was no alert and smiling receptionist-only a bell to ring for service.
Qwilleran perused the silent scene: wooden filing cabinets and well-worn desks of golden oak ... dangerous-looking spindles for spiking ad orders and subscriptions... old copies of the Picayune. yellow and brittle, plastered on walls that had not been painted since the Great Depression. Beyond the low partition of golden oak and unwashed glass was the composing room. A lone man stood before the typecases, oblivious to everything except the line of type he was setting with darting movements of his hand.
Unlike the Daily Fluxion, which had a metropolitan circulation approaching a million, the antiquated presses of the Picayune clanked out thirty-two hundred copies of each issue. While the Fluxion adopted every technological advance and journalistic trend, the Picayune still resembled the newspaper founded by Junior's great-grandfather. Four pages, printed from hand-set type, carried classified ads and social gossip on the front page. Pancake breakfasts, ice cream socials, and funerals were covered in depth, while brief mentions of local politics, police news, and accidents were relegated to the back page or omitted entirely.
Qwilleran banged his fist on the bell, and Junior Goodwinter came pelting down the wooden stairs from the editorial office above, followed by a large white cat.
"Who's your well-fed friend?" Qwilleran asked.
"He's William Allen, our staff mouser ," said Junior casually, as if all newspapers had a mouser on the staff.
As managing editor he wrote most of the copy and sold most of the ads, Senior Goodwinter, owner and publisher, spent his time in the composing room, wearing a leather apron and a square paper hat folded from newsprint, setting foundry type in a composing stick while wearing an expression of concentration and rapture. He had been setting type since the age of eight.
Junior called out to him, "S'long, Dad, Back in a few days."
The preoccupied man in the composing room turned and said kindly, "Have a good time, Junior, and be careful."
"If you want to drive my Jag while I'm gone, the keys are on my desk."
"Thanks, Son, but I don't think I'll need it. The garage said my car should be ready by five o'clock, Be careful, now."
"Okay, Dad, and you take care!" A look of warmth and mutual appreciation passed between the two, and Qwilleran momentarily regretted that he had never had a son. He would have wanted one exactly like Junior. But perhaps a little taller and a little huskier.
Junior grabbed a sack of newspapers and his duffel bag, and the two men drove to the airport. Together they were; a study in generation gap: Qwilleran a sober-faced man with graying hair, luxuriant moustache, and mournful eyes; Junior a fresh-faced excited kid in running shoes. Junior opened the conversation with an abrupt question:
"Do you think I look too young, Qwill?"
"Too young for what?"
"I mean, Jody thinks no one will ever take me seriously."
"With your build and your youthful face, you'll still look like fourteen when you're seventy-five," Qwilleran told him, "and that's not all bad. After that, you'll change overnight and suddenly look like a hundred and two."
"Jody thinks it would help if I grew a beard."
"Not a bad idea! Your girl comes up with some good ones."
"My grandmother says I'd look like one of the Seven Dwarfs."
"Your grandmother sounds like a sweet person, Junior."
"Grandma Gage is a character! My mother's mother, you know. You must have seen her around town. She drives a Mercedes and honks the horn at every intersection."
Qwilleran showed no surprise. He had learned that longtime residents of Moose County were militant individualists.
"Have you heard from Melinda since she left Pickax?" Junior asked.
"A couple of times. They keep her pretty busy at the hospital. She'll be better off in Boston. She'll be able to specialize."
"Melinda never really wanted to be a country doctor, but she was hot to marry you, Qwill, and move into your mansion."
"Sorry, I'm not good husband material. I discovered that once before, and it wouldn't be fair to Melinda to make the same mistake again. I hope she meets a good man her own age in Boston."
"I hear you've got something going with the head librarian now."
Qwilleran huffed into his pepper-and-salt moustache. "I don't know what your picturesque expression implies, but let me state that I enjoy Mrs. Duncan's company. In this age of video-everything, it's good to meet someone who shares my interest in literature. We get together and read aloud."
"Oh, sure," said the younger man with a wide grin. "When are you and Jody thinking of marrying?"
"On the salary Dad pays me I can't even afford an apartment of my own. I'm still living with my parents at the farmhouse, you know. Jody makes twice what I do, and she's only a dental hygienist."
"But you own a Jaguar."
"That was a graduation present from Grandma Gage. She's the only one in the family with dough anymore. I'll inherit when she goes, but it won't be soon. At eighty-two she still stands on her head every day, and she can beat me at push-ups. People in Moose County live a long time, barring accident. One of my ancestors was killed when his horse was spooked by a big flock of blackbirds. My Grandpa Gage was struck by lightning. I had an aunt and uncle that were killed when their car hit a deer. It was November-rutting season, you know — and this eight-point buck went right through the windshield. The sheriff said it looked like an amateur ax murder. Right now, according to official estimates, there are ten thousand deer in this county."
Qwilleran slowed his speed and starting looking for signs of wildlife.
"It's bow-and-arrow season, and the hunters are making them nervous," Junior went on. "Early morning or dusk — that's when the deer bound across the highway."
"All ten thousand of them?" Qwilleran reduced his speed to forty-five.
"It sure is a gloomy day," Junior observed. "The sky looks heavy."
"What's the earliest the snow ever flies?"
"Earliest storm on record was November 2, 1919, but the Big One usually doesn't hit until midmonth. The worst on record was November 13, 1931. Three low-pressure fronts — from Alaska, the Rockies, and the Gulf-slammed into each other over Moose County. Lots of people lost their way in the whiteout and froze to death. When the Big One hits, you better stay indoors! Or if you're caught driving, don't get out of the car."
Despite the hazards of the north country, Qwilleran was beginning to envy the natives. They had roots! Families like the Goodwinters went back five generations — to the time when fortunes were being made in mining and lumbering. The most vital organizations in Pickax were the Historical Society and the Genealogical Club. On the Airport Road, history was unreeling: abandoned shaft houses and slag heaps at the old mine sites... ghost towns identifiable only by a few lonely stone chimneys... a crumbling railroad depot in the middle of nowhere... the stark remains of trees blackened by forest fires.
After a few minutes of silence Qwilleran ventured to ask Junior a personal question. "As a graduate of J-school, cum laude, how do you feel about the Picayune? Are you living up to your potential? Do you think it's right to hang back in the nineteenth century?"