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preservation of the English language. When he mentioned his interest in hovercraft and told me he was actually building one on the ground floor of the boathouse, I casually offered, “Ah, Christopher Cockerell’s contribution to the world.” Home run.
    Professor McLintock called back that night to give me the good news and let slip that he’d cancelled two interviews scheduled for the next day. Grand slam. I moved out of the Cumberland Motor Inn the next day.
    Upon arrival at the boathouse, I carefully placed my newly purchased, wooden chess set on the coffee table. Anyone who carries
Chess Life
magazine around in his back pocket must have a board set up and ready to go. The classic Staunton-style pieces stood ready to advance. The set brought a welcome, old-world charm to the room. I was careful to orient the board appropriately, with a white square in the bottom, right-hand corner. I’d seen too many movies, TV commercials, and magazine ads, featuring chess players deep in thought over boards set up incorrectly. Politics teaches you to sweat the small stuff.
    I was still thinking about Muriel Parkinson. I looked forward to spending more time with her. She had seen it all during a period of unprecedented Liberal dominance and unparalleled change in Canada and the world. In the Liberal Party, and in society in general, we have a nasty tendency to cast older people aside and then to repeat their mistakes as if we’re exploring uncharted waters. I made a pledge that night to plumb the depths of Muriel’s knowledge as a way of inflicting historical perspective. While Parkinson’s disease may have slowed her down physically, her intelligence, wit, and reasoning seemed undimmed. She also had a heart to balance her brain – my kind of Liberal. Unfortunately, she was not my candidate, but she was my kind of Liberal.
    I put the twelve postdated rent cheques into an envelope and ambled up the slope to the McLintock house about 30 metres away. As I raised my hand to knock, I heard from behind the door a pseudohuman cry of anguish that seemed to cross an air-raid siren with a water buffalo in labour. My inner voice suggested a hasty retreat, but curiosity mugged my better judgment, and I rapped on the door. I heard Angus McLintock’s footfalls charging from within, and far too soon for me, the door opened with considerable violence. Note to self: Next time, listen to inner voice, idiot.

CHAPTER TWO
    “Whaaaaaaaaat!” Angus McLintock screamed as he materialized in the doorway, intimidation incarnate.
    “Er, hello, Professor, sorry to bother you, but I … I just wanted to give you my rent cheques for the year if I … I’m not catching you at a bad time,” I stammered, wishing I were at the dentist’s on the wrong end of a root canal.
    In his right hand, I saw a crumpled letter on university letterhead that I reckoned had prompted his meltdown. His knuckles were white and his face, well, it was almost purple. The folks at Crayola might have called it “Violent Violet.”
    “I’m happy to come back later,” I persevered. Perhaps, much later. He took a moment to collect himself and dialed back his facial hue to “Crazed Crimson.”
    Through grinding teeth, Angus grunted, “You’re lucky you’re not the dean of engineerin’ or you’d not still be standin’.” He paused as if deciding what to do and then continued.
    “You might as well come in and sit down. I could use the distraction.” With that, he turned and stomped down the hallway as expletives ricocheted off the walls.
    I entered the house like James Bond infiltrating Blofeld’s lair – minus the tuxedo and shapely accomplice. I found him flopped on a fluffy chintz couch, hands on forehead, with his eyes – no, it was really his whole face – clenched. The mangled letter, finally freefrom his choke hold, convalesced on the coffee table. I placed the envelope of rent cheques next to it and confirmed that the letter was from the dean of engineering. On