“I think we’ll just wear suits, Elizabeth,” said Cameron firmly. “Ian doesn’t seem terribly taken with the idea of donning a kilt.”
The brisk tone of Cameron’s voice finally registered with his fiancée. “Is anything the matter, Cameron?” she asked. “You seem awfully strange.”
Cameron sighed. “Oh, nothing major. I just have to ring up the police in a moment.”
“The police!” cried Elizabeth. “What’s wrong!”
“Nothing like last time you were in Edinburgh,” Cameron assured her, remembering the evening that had ended with a murder in Tanner’s Close. “Just a kidnapping this time. Someone has gone and stolen our garden gnome.”
“Your what?”
“A plaster statue of a dwarf that used to stand in the garden in lieu of anything actually ornamental. Someone has taken it, apparently. Ugly thing. Our first impulse was to dash off a thank-you note to the thief, but Mother is actually fond of the thing, and Ian-the-Estate-Agent-Extraordinaire seems rather annoyed by the principle of the thing. Violation of property and all that. I suppose he’s right. Next time it could be something valuable that is stolen. So I said I’d report it.”
“Good luck,” said Elizabeth. “I suppose things are going well with you if that garden gnome is your biggest worry at the moment.”
“Well, it makes for a change anyway,” said Cameron.
In the Chandler Grove Shrine to the U.S. Navy (also known as his study), Captain Grandfather was taking his afternoon nap, his swivel chair tilted back at a precarious angle and his feet propped up on the pine coffee table. Any lurching of the chair caused by the restless sleeper was translated by his dreams into the pitch of a ship at sea.
Soundlessly the study door opened, and the old man’s grandson Charles crept in, moving in the exaggerated slow motion of one who is afraid of disturbing a sleeper. He was holding his breath as well. For a few seconds he looked about the room, exhaling slowly, and then breathing again, normally but quietly. His gaze slid past the ship models, the black-framed photographs, and the pile of unanswered letters, and finally lit upon the object of his quest: the current issue of The Georgian Highlander, an upscale local magazine, full of restaurant ads and notices of cultural events, neither of which interested Charles in the least. Nevertheless, it was vital that he get hold of the magazine, which was at present lying on the coffee table under Captain Grandfather’s left foot.
After a few moments of deliberation, during which he tried to think of an excuse for wanting the magazine should he be caught filching it, Charles gently lifted the old man’s foot just enough to slide the Highlander out. That accomplished, he replaced the foot on the coffee table and crept out of the room.
He stopped by the kitchen for a glass of fruit juice to fortify him as he worked, and then he hurried upstairs to his room with the purloined magazine. Charles was inept at acting nonchalant and he was sure he would look guiltier reading the innocuous Highlander than a bishop would with a copy of Hustler.
Once safely barricaded behind the door of his bedroom, Charles sat down at his desk and opened the magazine. Flipping past the film reviews, the symphony schedule, and the restaurant ads, he turned to a part of the magazine that he had heretofore only glanced at: the personals column. The editors called this feature DSS, which apparently stood for Desperately Seeking Someone, and it was placed well toward the back of each issue. It had once been a source of amusement to Charles that people could be so desperate for companionship that they would advertise for a blind date, but now he felt the need to consult the listings for reasons of his own. Of course, he would have to check with the family attorney before doing anything rash, but surely he could commit himself to the extent of composing a letter.
Charles skimmed the list of ads and discovered that his first task would be to decipher the code in which they were written. A closer examination proved that this was not difficult. It was just a local singles column, after all, not the Nobel Prize Winners’ Sperm Bank. The initials SWF meant single, white female. He would begin with that category, and if he found nothing helpful there, he could go on to DWF, WWF, and whatever else the alphabet had to offer. He turned to the first entry.
SWF, the ad began, Bible college grad, 32, seeks-Charles stopped there. He didn’t care what she sought; he wasn’t about to contemplate a relationship with somebody who insisted that the world was created on a Tuesday in October in 2846 B.C.
What else was there?
WWF, 62, full-figured-Next!
… Professional, stable, enjoys movies, outdoor activities, quiet times… That sounded promising. Charles read the entry again. Oh. SWM. He might have known.
SWF, 22, out for a good time. Seeks laughs, travel, good dancer. Not ready to settle down-
Charles sighed in disgust. Where were all the eligible women in the world when he needed one? Here he was a veritable prize: he could cook; he could arrange flowers; he could show an intelligent interest in their careers. And did anyone care? No. All girls seemed to want these days were cheap, casual relationships with no responsibilities.
Charles read on. DWF, likes movies… Why did they all start by saying they liked movies? Surely no one was so pitiful as to need a companion just to sit in the dark and stare at a screen. Wasn’t there anybody whose company would be preferable to a movie?
He stopped and took a gulp of fruit juice. It was, appropriately enough, passion punch. Maybe he was being too choosy with the personal ads. How much can one reveal about oneself in a one-inch box, after all? Besides, it wasn’t as if he had much time to complete his plan. He stared up at the poster on the wall above his desk: a photograph of Albert Einstein against a background of the Horseshoe nebula. The caption, a quote from the great scientist, read: God Does Not Play Dice with the Universe. Charles wondered if that applied to biology as well as quantum physics. On an individual level, he doubted it. With a renewed sense of desperation, he returned to the DSS column.
This one looked promising. Blonde SWF, 26, 5’7,” 118 lbs. Good career in scientific field. Pretty, but no time to meet men. No married creeps. No serial killers. Someday my prince will come, but he’ll have to find me. DSS-5-270690. The Georgia Highlander.
That was more like it, thought Charles with a nod of satisfaction. He certainly seemed to fit most of her requirements-i.e., he hadn’t been married and he had never murdered anyone. He wasn’t so sure about the rest of her specifications, but nevertheless he allowed himself to fantasize about this perfect woman and found himself, as usual, picturing Sally Ride. Unfortunately, Dr. Ride (wherever she was these days) had better things to do than to be courted by a floundering physicist with not a single journal article to his credit. Perhaps this younger, obviously lonely young woman would recognize his potential and encourage him. Perhaps she would even be a physicist and could share his dreams!
Perhaps she would be Jane Goodall and think he was a perfect chimpanzee when she read his letter.
Charles tried not to give in to his natural pessimism. There was nothing to do but write a letter in response to her ad. He must try to sound intelligent, charming, sophisticated. (Is that what glamorous blondes were after these days?) Unfortunately, Charles had very little practice in two-thirds of those attributes. Intelligent he could be. He had been reading Popular Electronics since second grade, and his grades (except in literature) were effortlessly good. He didn’t see why everybody made such a fuss about things like calculus; mathematics seemed perfectly straightforward to him. But perhaps his intellectual good qualities would not be endearing to this modern Athena. Charming and sophisticated he had never tried to be. That was Geoffrey’s department. For a fleeting moment, Charles considered enlisting Geoffrey’s help in composing the letter reply, but he dismissed the thought almost at once. If he told Geoffrey why he was doing it, it would spoil the whole plan, and if he pretended to be in search of a lady love, Geoffrey would laugh like a drain. The potential humiliation wasn’t worth it.