The Kiwi Target

which was obviously correct for Queenstown. He had two days to wait for his appointment with O’Malley, but in this restful vacation spot that would be no hardship. And there was always the chance that the attorney might call him and move up the time of their meeting.
    Once more he walked over toward the shoreline, sat on the same bench, and wondered what it would be like to live in a place like this. To him, New Zealand had always been the distant and dimly imagined place from which his mother had come. Now it was a vivid reality, toward which he felt a certain affinity that was part of his birthright.
    Not ready to eat, Peter walked toward the Travelodge purely out of curiosity. As he entered the lobby, he discovered that it was a center of tourist activity. A huge pile of luggage had been built up in the lobby, scores of people were being herded into the coffee shop for an assembly-line breakfast, and the girls at the check-out counter were furiously busy.
    Outside, several large tourist buses were waiting for their loads. Since all this was new to him, he found a place to sit where he could watch without being in the way.
    Within the next few minutes, bellhops began to move part of the massive stack of luggage. An announcement was made; in response, a large group of people began to flow outside toward the waiting buses.
    After that, it was much calmer. An attractive girl behind a small Mount Cook travel desk began gathering up her papers. He glanced at his watch; it was seven forty-eight, and the coffee shop was clear enough for him to go in now for his own breakfast.
    He yielded first to a strong temptation. He got up and walked over to the girl at the travel desk. “I’m going in for some breakfast. Will you join me—at least for a cup of coffee?” he asked.
    To his surprise, she accepted. “A cup of tea would be nice.”
    As she led the way into the coffee shop, Peter noted her figure and her walk and approved of both.
    A waitress who was busy clearing up paused at their table. “What’ll it be, Jenny?”
    “Tea, and maybe a pastry to go with it.” She looked at Peter to be sure it was all right.
    “And you, sir?”
    “I’d like some breakfast.”
    The waitress glanced at Jenny, who nodded, then she left. Peter looked at his companion and received a smile that was warm and appealing. “This is very nice of you,” she said. “Believe me, it’s my pleasure.”
    Jenny paused before she spoke again. “Louise McHugh told me about you. She drove you in from the airport.”
    “I met her father on the plane.”
    “I know. Jack is very well liked by everybody.”
    "How did you know me?”
    Jenny toyed with a spoon. “This is a very small town. When someone like you comes in, we generally hear about it.”
    He had a strong feeling that she was holding something back, but he had no idea what it could be. He put it into words. “And what makes me so different?”
    The question seemed to disturb her. She looked at him carefully, appraising him, before she answered. “You’re FIT, for one thing. Then Louise said that after you were rude to her, you apologized. Most tourists wouldn’t.”
    “What does FIT mean?” he asked.
    “Foreign Independent Travel. It means you can afford to travel at full rates, not on a group fare.”
    He decided to change the tack. “What’s your full name?”
    “Jenny Holbrook.”
    “A Queenstown girl?”
    “I’ve lived here all my life.”
    The waitress arrived carrying a tray. She served Jenny tea and a sweet roll. In front of Peter she put down a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, fried potatoes, and sliced tomatoes. To that she added a pot of coffee. “Will that do?” she asked.
    “It’s great,” Peter answered. “How did you get it so fast?”
    “It’s the employees’ breakfast; we had it ready.”
    When she had gone, Jenny broke her roll and ate a small Piece. “And your name?” she asked.
    “Ferguson, Peter Ferguson.” As he spoke, he sensed she had already known what his answer would be.
    “Married?”
    “Divorced.” He quickly changed the subject. “What should I see in Queenstown?” he asked.
    “Take the steamer trip up the lake to Walter Peak Station. In the afternoon, take one of the jet boat rides; you’ll really like that. I can book for you, if you want me to.”
    “Thank you,” Peter said.
    Hardly an hour later, he was on a venerable old steamer plowing a steady trail up the wonderfully clear water of the lake. At the station he