I looked at the picture that Lily had given me. Richard P. Feynman. Whatever makes an egghead, this guy had it in spades. Youngest guy to work on the A-Bomb, expert in quantum physics. Feynman was the egghead's egghead - an egghead, squared. But somehow young Doc Feynman was mixed up with Lily, and I didn't like it. I didn't like the way Lily's eyes looked when she talked about him. I didn't like the way I felt when I looked at Lily. All the warning signs were there. I'd met Lily once, and already I was going goofy on her.

     An hour later out on the lake, something moved in the fog. Then I saw a shining white shape emerge from the duller white. It was a sailboat, a large one. It had no running lights, or at least they weren't turned on. There was something eerie about the way it glided silently into the pier.

     "I hope you're better at the other phases of detection than you are at staking out a crime scene," a voice behind me said. It was a wiseguy's voice, with just a hint of a New York accent. I spun around and looked into a smiling face that somehow seemed very familiar. It was Feynman. "Why don't we at least hide behind this shed," he said.

     From our hiding place we watched as two sailors threw ropes toward the pier. "When it comes to detection, Doc, you're looking at the best in town," I told Feynman. "As a matter of fact, you're looking at the only detective in town."

     Feynman raised an eyebrow. "When in Rome," he said.

     "This is Dunkirk, Doc," I shot back, struggling for a comeback worthy of one of the smartest guys in the twentieth century. "Rome is between Syracuse and Utica."