I had a remarkably eventful day, all things considered; and I didn't even
begin the job Justin had assigned me.

The citizens of Thorn Valley awoke that morning to rain. And not one of the
soft summer showers that made our farmers happy, either; but rather a
full-blown and violent storm, complete with a lashing, almost gale-force wind,
driving before it a cold, drenching downpour.

I heard the storm long before I saw it. I woke a little after dawn (or what should
have been dawn; the room was still all but pitch-dark) with Elizabeth cuddled
up close against me, and with the fragments of a strange dream still hovering
on the edge of my consciousness. It took me a moment to realize that the thin
screaming sound I was hearing was real, not part of my dream; and that it was
coming from outside, clearly audible through thick slabs of stone and glass.
Carefully I extricated myself from the tangle of my wife's grasp, rose, and
padded over to the window, noting as I did that the room was uncomfortably
cold, though the stove was still burning. I parted the curtains a little and
peered out.

The outside of the west-facing window was covered with drops of water, and
more appeared even as I watched. Outside the sky was just beginning to lighten,
a dim, wan grey radiance. Objects on the valley floor were black shapes, still
darkly silhouetted, but there was just enough light for me to see that the
distant trees were lashing violently, some of the smaller ones bent nearly
double. The window was literally vibrating in its frame with the force of the
wind, and the raindrops pelted the glass in sharp bursts like machine-gun fire.

For a moment I stood staring in amazement. Then I became aware that
Elizabeth was standing beside me, and that she was draping my bathrobe over my
shoulders. As I slipped my arms through the sleeves and knotted the sash, I
leaned over to kiss her. "Just look at that, will you?" I said, indicating
the window with a nod.

She had donned her own robe, made of red, flower-printed silk; and she
huddled in it, her arms drawn tight around herself. "I'd heard that the
weather could get nasty up here," she said. She waved a hand. "No one
is going out in this today, that's for certain."

I nodded. "They'd be crazy if they did," I agreed. Whatever was
left on the farm, the few tired vegetables that hadn't been gleaned, would be a
write-off now: the rain would pound them to pulp. Ralph and his people still
had work to do, getting the farm bedded down for winter; but they wouldn't be
doing it today. It looked to me as if a rat would be hard-pressed just to stand
upright in that wind.

"How did he know?" I wondered out loud. "How on earth did he
know?"

"How did who know what?" Elizabeth asked, gazing at me in
perplexity.

"Justin," I said. I pointed. "Yesterday afternoon he and I
stood on that ridge, looking out over that farm, and he told me that we're in
for an early and rough winter. How could he possibly have known?"

She shook her head. "Couldn't tell you," she said. "Though
offhand I'd say that this is probably a coincidence." She smiled.
"Unless--are you sure he left Nicodemus' viewing globe back at the
old settlement?"

"I hope so," I said. "That thing always gave me the
creeps."

"Me too," she agreed. She shivered. "Can we turn up the heat
a little, dear? I'm freezing."

I had no intention of disobeying Justin, really I didn't; it's just that the
distractions which beset me that day were so...well, distracting.

The first and least of those struck just as I left the dining hall after
breakfast. My family and I always ate together--always--at our specially-built
table near the windows; but after breakfast we had a tendency to scatter like
fragments from a grenade, and this morning was no exception. Elizabeth was
headed for her office; Cynthia for a half-day of school; Teresa for the
library; and Timothy and Martin for the workshop, where they were working
part-time until they took the exams which would certify them as adults. Life
with the rats kept us all busy, that much was certain.

And as for me...My job as Justin's executive assistant was a logical, some
might say unavoidable, extension of his "hands-on" leadership style.
He spent a good part of each day out and about in the community, talking to
people, solving little crises before they became big ones; laying on the charm
a foot thick. But he'd found out long ago that he could only be one place at a
time, and that's where I came in. My job was to be an extra pair of eyes and
ears for our beloved leader; and I was even empowered to make some of the
smaller decisions myself, without having to consult him. Spending each day
moving around the community, talking to people I had known most of my life (and
I could lay on the charm too)...that was just about as close to a dream job as I
could imagine. It certainly beat being a spy. Usually I never knew where my
day's work would take me...but today I did; or I should say, I knew where it was supposed
to take me: the huge third-level storerooms. But unfortunately I was not fated
to get there anytime soon.

My first interruption, as I said, occurred just outside the dining hall, and
came in the form of a very large and very muddy rat: Arthur. The Chief Engineer
had a shovel over his shoulder and a deep, depressed frown on his face; and he
was plastered head to toe with thick black mud, still glistening wet. He
appeared not to notice me as I fell into step beside him; not until I cleared
my throat. "You haven't been outside, have you?" I asked.

Startled, he jumped slightly. "What?" Then he looked down and
smiled tiredly. "Oh--hello, Jonathan." He shook his head firmly.
"Out in that? You've got to be kidding. No, this came from inside:
up on the fourth level."

"More seepage?" I guessed.

"More seepage," he confirmed sadly. "It's starting to become
the bane of my existence." He sighed. "The good news is, after a
storm like this, I ought to have all the seeps located."

"Then what?"

"Well, obviously the water is coming down through cracks in the rock.
It would be worse than useless to plug the leaks down here, in the corridors.
If I do that, then the cracks will just fill up with water, and in a few weeks
when the temperature drops below freezing, the expanding ice will make them
worse. 'Frost wedging', geologists call it. We could even lose walls that way.
No, what I'll have to do--as soon as this storm clears--is to send some crews
up into the higher ridges and try to fill the crack up there. And try to
improve the drainage up there too. Until then--" he sighed again.
"All I can do is keep putting up sluices under the seeps as they appear.
And endure the griping."

I grinned. "Good luck."

"Thanks," he said. "I'll need it." He shifted his shovel
to his other shoulder then, and marched off toward the up-ramp.

Watching him go, I smiled and shook my head. With winter setting in, the
workload on the farm would be gradually diminishing: very soon, until spring
anyway, there would be less to do than there were people to do it. Those
temporarily-unemployed farm-workers didn't know it yet, maybe, but they were
about to become something very like what the British call "navvies."
Well, we had to do something to keep them busy through the winter.

As I ascended the spiral up-ramp to the second level, my thoughts were
filled with storms--and seepage. Mostly I was reflecting on how glad I was that
all of us were indoors today. In my old life, living on the edge of the
Fitzgibbons farm with Elizabeth and the kids, we would have had a devil of a
time staying warm and dry on a day like this. And what was worse, at least
one--and most likely all--of us would have had to go out into the weather, to
gather food and fuel. Trying to find wood dry enough to burn, I
remembered with a shudder. Coming home soaking wet, cold and hungry...and as
often as not, empty-handed. Timothy sick, the other three scared and cranky...
If Elizabeth and I had ever argued--and certainly, unfortunately, we had--it
was during those times, when food was scarce and comfort even scarcer.

But at least then I'd had a home to return to. Even earlier in my life,
before I met Elizabeth, during the rats' Wandering Days...a day like this would
have been sheer misery. To be forced to hole up wherever there was any kind of
shelter, not knowing how or if we could find food, fearing that at any minute
we might be discovered ...no wonder all of us had longed so deeply for a home. Any
kind of home, so long as it was ours.

And now we have one, I thought. As safe and secure as it could
possibly be. And what a difference it's made! Looking around at the rats
who passed me in the hallways--and who greeted me affably as they did--I saw no
trace of anxiety; to them this storm was just a novelty, a face of Thorn Valley
that they hadn't seen before. Most of them--with the notable exception of the
farmers--simply went on about their business, giving the weather scarcely a
thought. Which is, in my humble opinion, anyway, exactly how it should be. And
despite the difficulty it caused Arthur, I think a little seepage was a small
price to pay for that kind of security.

The layout of our community was such that I had to pass through a short
stretch of the second level's main corridor before reaching the up-ramp to the
third. That short stretch took me right past the infirmary; and that's where
the day's second interruption overtook me.

As I passed by, Mr. Ages was just beginning his day's work, blocking open
the big double doors; he had a broom and a dustpan in his hands. As he saw me
his face lit up with as near to a smile as anyone was likely to get from him.
"Ah, Jonathan," he said, so expansively that I immediately became
suspicious. "I was hoping you might happen by."

I stopped, and please forgive me if I confess that my eyes narrowed warily.
In my job--I had long since discovered--when I was addressed with words of that
sort, they were almost inevitably followed by a complaint of some kind, the
intention being that I then pass it along to Justin. And if that was especially
true of Ages, well... "What can I do for you?" I asked cautiously.

He gestured with his right hand, which happened to be the one holding the
dustpan. "Come inside," he said. "It's well past time for your
checkup."

I experienced an immediate sinking feeling. Mr. Ages was performing a valuable
public service with those physical exams; his only thought, I know, being to do
the job he had taken upon himself: that of keeping the community healthy. But
why did it have to be me again, and why now? "I'm--uh--kind of busy
right now," I told him.

He fixed me with a steely gaze over the rims of his thick glasses. "That,"
he said severely, "is one of the reasons why I worry about you, boy.
Because you're always busy. Justin works you far too hard. And himself
too. Come! This won't take but a few moments."

I hesitated; then I sighed and followed him inside. Resistance was futile,
it seemed; he'd just keep pestering me until I agreed. Before I really knew
what was happening I found myself sitting naked on an exam table, taking deep
breaths and trying to remain patient as Ages poked the cold business end of a
stethoscope into my chest and back. At least the room was warm, the big alcohol
stove in the corner burning full-blast. Beyond the infirmary's big bank of
windows the storm was still raging; it had, if anything, gained in intensity
since dawn. Arthur's wood-gathering crews would find downed trees and branches
in plenty when this was over.

My friend Mr. Ages--indeed, my oldest friend in the world, and the only one
of my own species--was currently entering the fourth month of his "brief
visit" to Thorn Valley. No one was so impolite as to bring up the subject,
of course, but I don't know anyone who really believed that he would be leaving
anytime soon. Nor, of course, anyone who really wanted him to.

He'd come flying, earlier that summer when word reached him that my mission
had succeeded. (And I do mean that literally: he enlisted the help of
Elizabeth's friend, the slightly demented crow, to bring him to the valley,
leaving the messengers sent to fetch him to straggle home as best they could.)
He had arrived with the intention of taking the NIMH materials back with him to
the Fitzgibbons farm for study; but he very soon discovered that there was too
much to easily transport, and that he'd be better off doing his work right
there in the community. Which necessitated that some of his lab equipment and
his personal effects be brought from the threshing machine, on the same wagons
that were bringing my family's property. Then he decided that he would have to
stay to supervise my wife's conversion; and that meant that the rest of his
equipment had to be brought over. And then there were the little medical
emergencies that plague any community: cuts, scrapes, burns, sprains, Teresa's
fractured ankle...well, you get the picture. By this time the infirmary was his
private precinct, he had reorganized it to suit his own ideas; and he had set
himself up a lab, an office and living quarters adjoining it. And of course it
would be far too much trouble now to dismantle all that equipment. His official
response--if anyone actually asked--was that he might stay through the winter;
just until he could train someone to take his place.

The truth--as he admitted to me and me alone, late one night over a cup of
tea in his new lab--was that he had found solitude to be not quite what it was
cracked up to be. Which is something I could have told him a long time ago, if
he'd been disposed to listen.

For a very long time Ages had lived for the day when the rats would leave
the Fitzgibbons farm and stop bothering him: stop calling him to Council
meetings, or for advice; stop asking him to treat their medical emergencies or
deliver their babies. Finally, of course, they had done exactly that; and Mr.
Ages had soon found--as the old saying goes--that the silence was deafening.
Worse was the fact that he suddenly had to gather his own food; previously he
had been generously supplied by the rats. The last straw, though, was his
broken leg, suffered while trying to do my old job. He recovered from it
quickly enough, but it left him worrying: what would happen if he managed to
injure himself badly? Before, one of the rats would have found him within a
day; but with them gone...That, of course, was something that didn't bear
thinking about. He had finally learned the truth behind the old adage about
"safety in numbers." Whatever happened, he would certainly never
leave Thorn Valley; and that ancient threshing machine, like the rats' old
settlement, would be left to rust in peace.

"I really don't know why you're bothering," I grumbled, as Ages
tapped my knee with a tiny rubber mallet. "I'm in perfect health."

That earned me another hard look. "I'll be the judge of that, if you
don't mind," he said archly. "And if I'm being a trifle over-cautious,
well, I've got good reason to be."

I sighed again, and subsided, as he peered down my throat, using light from
a small oil lamp focused by a concave mirror. He did indeed have a point. When
I arrived in Thorn Valley early that summer I was a wreck. Nine months of
stress and depression had melted the weight off of me; my fur was patchy; I
scarcely had enough stamina to walk from the main entrance down to the swimming
hole; and I was having a hard time adjusting to being diurnal again. By the
time Ages arrived, I'd had nearly a week of good food and restful recuperation;
but still, the expression on his face when he first set eyes on me was one of
shock and dismay. Since then he had been hauling me in for checkups as often as
he could catch me. But that, as they say, was then; these days I felt better,
physically and emotionally, than perhaps I ever had.

Ages was nothing if not thorough, and he absolutely refused to be rushed. He
moved on to checking my ears and my eyes (thereby invading Julian's turf a
bit); and then to pressing on my abdomen and feeling my joints; he even
examined my fur, skin, teeth and nails. While he worked--while the minutes
ticked by on the clock above the doors--we spoke; I was one of the very few
people to whom he wouldn't give one-syllable replies. "I've been meaning
to tell you this for months," I said, as I lay flat on my back with his
fingers pressing into my stomach muscles. "Elizabeth says that you gave
Timothy the idea of building himself up with exercise. It's done him a world of
good, and I'm very grateful."

"You're quite welcome," he replied, a little distractedly.
"Though I really can't take much credit. It was his own dedication that
made all the difference. Trying to keep up with his friend Robert has helped
too. And your presence in his life again, if I may say."

That last was a subject which I didn't much care to discuss, because it was
my absence from his life, so it seemed, that had helped make Timothy
sick in the first place. "He seems to be in perfect health now," I
commented hopefully, and Ages nodded.

"Very nearly, yes. Better than we could have hoped for, in fact. I
honestly don't believe we need worry about him any more, so long as he is
diligent with his exercises and his nutrition. He will never be as big as his
brother, of course, but I wouldn't be surprised if he equals your height at
least."

As Timothy already just about looked me in the eye, I had no doubt but that
Ages was correct. Martin, however, towered over both his brother and me.
"And what about Teresa's ankle?" I asked.

"Healing nicely," Ages said. "She should be out of a cast in
three weeks or so. The rest will be a few weeks of physical therapy, to build
back the strength and flexibility. I foresee no difficulties."

I winced, just a little. My older daughter usually had all the patience of a
boiling teakettle; how she--and we--were going to get through another three
weeks plus physical therapy, I had no idea.

Finally Ages was finished, and he stepped back as I sat up. "I must
admit," he said grudgingly, "I don't believe you managed to do
yourself any permanent harm. Your weight is back where it should be, your bones
and joints appear sound, and I certainly can't fault your muscle tone, with all
the running around you do. Are you still taking your St. John's Wort, my
boy?"

I made a sour face. Not long after his arrival Ages had started me taking
those wretched little tablets, made from the dried, ground and pressed leaves
and flowers of a plant--not to say a "weed"--that grew profusely in
Judith's herb garden. The problem was, the tablets had a very strong taste, not
unlike sucking on a lavender blossom, though I must confess that I've never
actually tried that. "Yes I am," I told him, and truthfully too. "Twice
a day. But I don't really know why. I haven't been depressed a minute since I
came to this valley."

"That's good," he said. He patted my knee. "But I'm sorry to
say, my friend, that you do seem to be genetically predisposed to depression.
I've known that for years. Those tablets are a safe and natural way of keeping
it in check, and if they're working, you ought to be grateful."

For some reason, discussions about my mental health tend to make me
uncomfortable. It could not be denied, though, that he was right: it was
something I had battled off and on all my life. We were going to have to keep
an eye on my children too, especially--though I hated to say it--Timothy. He
and I shared too many other personality quirks for that not to be at least a
possibility; and in fact he had already shown some signs of it, brought on by
my departure. Like me, though, he had not been depressed at all since arriving
in Thorn Valley. At least not that we knew of. I glanced away and nodded.
"All right," I said. "I'll keep choking them down."

"Good boy," he said. He reached across to a nearby chair and
handed me my clothing. "That's all for now," he said. "As you
observed, you are indeed in perfect health. Fortunately for both of us."

I smiled. And a lot of other people too, I thought. Being depended
upon isn't that bad a thing, really; not if you are actually able to make good
on your promises.

As I dressed, pulling on my undershirt and sweater, and buttoning up my
tunic, I glanced around at the infirmary. It's strange, isn't it, how any
service, once offered, generates its own demand. For the first three months of
the community's existence, give or take, this place had sat almost idle,
because there had been nobody in the valley who really knew how to run it.
Alice came closest; but even her medical knowledge was spotty at best, the
result of a crash course with Ages some months before. But that had been all
right; the rats had remained healthy, everybody was careful, and Justin held
his breath, praying that there would be no serious accidents. But then Ages
took over; and now, I knew, there was hardly a day that went by when his
appointment book wasn't packed full. I don't think it was the case that people
were more careless now, or that they got sick more often. No; I think his presence
in the community made people less willing to doctor themselves. Where before
they might have said, "Oh, I'll just bandage this myself," now they
said "Hmm--better have Mr. Ages take a look at it." Which of course
caused him to grumble no end--at least in public. Privately, I have no doubt,
he was delighted to be needed.

He had remodeled the infirmary considerably since that terrible June day
when I first saw it, when I entered to find both my wife and my best friend
lying unconscious. His first innovation was to divide the cavernous room into
"clinic" and "hospital" sections. As one entered, the
hospital was to the right; there he had clustered six beds, three under the
windows and three against the opposite wall, with a wide aisle between them.
They could be isolated from the rest of the room, and from each other, by means
of curtains that hung from tracks on the ceiling. Over to the left, where I sat
now, was the clinic: here he had placed four examination tables, four large and
one small; here too were the glass-fronted cabinets full of supplies. Farther
to the left, in the room's southern wall, a door led into a maze of smaller
rooms, where Ages had set up his lab and his office, as well as his living
quarters. I had not been in the lab for some weeks, and so I didn't know if it
had achieved the same breathtaking state of disorganization as his old one; but
out here, in the infirmary itself, everything was absolutely spotless, in
perfect order, and smelled faintly of disinfectant.

"Don't imagine that you were singled out, by the way," Ages said
over his shoulder, as he washed his hands. "I'm trying, Lord willing, to
give a thorough exam to everyone in the community before winter sets in. We're
isolated up here, but by no means are we absolutely immune to viruses. If there
is anything floating around, I'd like to catch it before we have an
epidemic."

I hopped down off the table. "Everyone in the community," I
commented. "That sounds like a tall order."

He sighed and reached for a towel. "It is," he admitted. "I
do have my volunteer nurses, and they help me immeasurably with the cleaning
and so on; but there is only so much they can do. Yes, it is indeed a very tall
order." He gazed up at me then, and he actually smiled, just a little.
"But perhaps not for very much longer, eh?"

I hesitated, frowning in confusion. From the tone in his voice it was clear
that he thought he was sharing something with me; a private joke, perhaps, or
some bit of information known only to the two of us. The problem was, though,
whatever the joke or information was, I didn't know it. "Pardon
me?" I said.

Suddenly his expression became one of alarm. "Oh, nothing," he
said quickly. He turned away, and began to busy himself putting away his
equipment. "Nothing at all." He glanced back over his shoulder.
"That's all for today, Jonathan," he said briskly. "Thank you
for taking the time. You can get back to work now."

"Thank you," I said. "Thank you very much." Still
mystified, I made my way out into the corridor. I had known Mr. Ages longer
than any other living person, that was true; but God knows I'd never yet
learned to understand him.

The next interruption was even harder to ignore, because it came from my
lady wife.

Somehow or other I had managed to become almost an hour late in starting my
job. Which wasn't fatal, I suppose; but taking an inventory of our entire
winter food stores was going to be a long and tedious undertaking. I'd hoped to
have some figures for Justin by quitting time that afternoon; and if I was to
make good on that, I was going to have to haul tail. Once again I headed for
the up-ramp...

I had gone no more than ten paces when I heard the patter of rapid footsteps
behind me, and then the voice calling my name: "Jonathan! Darling, please
wait!"

Once again I came to a halt, and once again I sighed. Usually that voice was
the most welcome sound in my universe; I could listen to it all day. But
unfortunately this wasn't the time. I turned.

Elizabeth was dressed somewhat more autumnal that day, in a dark-brown skirt,
a rust-colored turtleneck pullover, and a vest that matched the skirt. She had
a large notebook in her hands, twin to my own; that and her reading glasses,
which hung around her neck on a cord, gave her a faintly
"schoolmarmish" look. (But you didn't hear that from me.) The
lamplight glittered redly from the little ruby pendant she had recently taken
to wearing, as a kind of stand-in for the Stone. She flashed a brief, bright
smile as she drew up before me, panting a little; then she said quietly and
seriously, "Jonathan--dear--I need your help."

Those few words were enough to grab my instant attention, because they--like
"I don't understand"--were ones she almost never spoke any more. That
meant that it had to be a problem of major proportions; and that meant
it was unlikely to be solved with just a few words of sage wisdom. "What's
wrong, darling?" I asked her. I don't think she noticed that my teeth were
clenched.

"Soap," she said.

"Soap?"

"Soap," she repeated sadly. "I've been trying for days to
make the figures add up--what the factory says they can produce, versus what
the department heads say they need. And I just can't make it balance. I know
someone is going to have to get shorted--but I can't figure how who or
how." She smiled. "I think I need some--what does Justin call
it?--'lateral thinking.'"

"And I'm as lateral as they come."

"Exactly," she said. "I have the figures in my office. Would
you please come take a look, dear? It shouldn't take more than a few
minutes..."

I hesitated...but then I looked into those big blue eyes, and I was helpless.
As usual. I sighed. "Okay," I said. "I will. But," I went
on, shaking a warning finger, "you're going to owe me big for this one, I
hope you realize."

She grinned as we turned and headed up the corridor. "And just how
would you like that to be paid?" she asked. "As if I didn't
know."

On the way to her office, a small space on the second level not too far from
the infirmary, I thought about my wife, and the changes, mental and physical,
which had occurred in her these last four months. Changes which, by and large,
were for the good.

The NIMH treatments had found very fertile ground in Elizabeth Brisby. Her
physical reaction to the first dose was violent--I still had terrible memories
of watching her spike a frighteningly high fever, twisting and moaning in
delirium for five straight hours, until the fever finally broke, leaving her
exhausted and drenched with sweat. But once the first dose was given there was
no turning back; and, as Ages had predicted, the second and subsequent doses
were much easier. Today, a little more than three months after that first dose,
she was the very picture of vigorous good health. In fact, though I'm hardly an
unbiased observer, it seemed to me that those treatments had actually turned
back time somewhat; or perhaps what I was seeing was the effects of our new
lifestyle; something, at least, had erased many of the lines of anxiety and
stress from her face. Emotionally she was still a little fragile--for a time
after the treatments began she'd been given to abrupt and inexplicable fits of
crying--but that was smoothing out too. And her fear that the treatments would
somehow turn her into a different person had proved unfounded, as I knew it
would. Our friend Hacker put it best when she said that what we had now was
"Elizabeth Brisby Version 1.2." In all important details she was
still the woman I married; but with improvements: she was calmer, less liable
to panic, more self-sufficient; she was more thoughtful and quicker-witted too.
Things that had once been all but beyond her, such as reading and math, were
becoming increasingly easy. And what was best of all, these days she understood
most of my jokes. I had never had any cause to question her intelligence--she
had known quite a bit more than me, about survival in our old environment--but
I could join with her, now, in celebrating her improvements; because I could so
clearly see that they pleased her.

"Here we are," Elizabeth said, as she opened a narrow door and
ushered me inside. "Sorry about the mess..."

Elizabeth's office was, as I mentioned, rather small; but it was more than
adequate for her to do the job which she had almost literally created for
herself. Formerly used for storage, the room was oddly-shaped, almost
triangular, and up until very recently it had not even possessed a window. It
was tucked in between two larger offices--one of them belonging to Julian, the
optician--and existed only because the second-level ridge jutted out rather
awkwardly at that point. Some weeks ago when Arthur--who had long since
committed to memory every square inch of the community--learned that my wife
was in need of an office, he immediately thought of that little forgotten
space. Within a day the room was cleaned out, and was equipped with a large
window, a stove, a carpet, a file cabinet or two, and a desk and chairs. And
then, of course, Elizabeth added her own touches. Actually that odd little room
didn't make a bad office; it was quite cozy, even.

Elizabeth's desk was on the outer wall, which was the widest; she had
positioned it just as I would have, right under the window. As we entered,
almost the only light came from the desk lamp; outside, the morning (mid-morning
now, by no means early any longer) was still murky, the sky all but
black with scudding clouds. The lamp illuminated the "mess" to which
she had referred: which is to say a number of neat piles of paper spread out
over the desk. Perched on the far right corner was a thick book: a
transcription of Webster's Dictionary. She liked to have it handy. On our left,
on top of the file cabinets, a copper kettle contained an arrangement of dried
flowers. And hanging on the right wall was one of her most highly-prized
possessions: a family portrait. A pencil sketch on white paper, it depicted all
six of us, head and shoulders. Every time I looked at it I shook my head in
amazement, to see how the artist had captured us with such stunning accuracy.
The artist in question was our son Timothy; and yes, he had drawn himself too,
glasses and all. He had aspirations to be a draftsman and architect in Arthur's
shop; and if he was capable of work like that portrait, without ever having had
a single formal lesson, I had no doubt whatsoever that he would succeed. He
certainly knew how to handle a pencil.

Elizabeth closed the door behind us and sat down at her desk. I pulled over
the room's only other chair and settled down next to her. I was very aware of
what this was costing her, to have to ask for anyone's help, even mine; and so
I kept my tone serious and matter-of-fact as I said, "All right, let's
have a look at those figures."

I rather suspected that my caution wouldn't be lost on her; very little was
these days. And in fact I was right. She smiled briefly, then she slipped on
her glasses and reached for a stack of papers. "It's these here," she
said. "All the department heads tell me they can't possibly get along with
less than their full allotments..."

I eyed the thickness of that sheaf, and inwardly I sighed. Goodbye,
morning, I thought. "That's what they'll always tell you,"
I said. "And the factory will always underestimate what they can produce,
by at least twenty percent."

She looked at me curiously over the top of her glasses. "Why?" she
asked.

"I have no idea," I said. "But it's the way the game is
played. Even in a so-called 'cooperative' economy. The trick is knowing how to
translate their figures into reality."

"That's terrible!"

"Maybe so," I said with a grin. "But it's also the way it
works."

She sighed and shook her head. Then she handed the papers to me. "All
right," she said. "Show me the trick."

In many ways it could be said that this soap issue typified Elizabeth's new
job, and the responsibilities that came with it. She took those
responsibilities very seriously, and she genuinely wanted to do the best
possible job, which in fact she had been doing, very earnestly; but it was past
time now for her to learn the tricks of the expert schmoozer. A subject on
which--at the risk of being immodest--I was an acknowledged expert.

But anyway, this soap business. Up on the community's third level there was
a small factory employing half a dozen rats. Their only job was to make soap,
by boiling together wood ashes, vegetable oil and lye. That soap--in slightly
different formulations--was used to clean our dishes, our floors, our laundry,
and ourselves. But the resources to make it with, raw materials, energy and
labor, were necessarily limited; and how much of each formulation should be
made? Nobody seemed to know for certain; and as a result, there might be a
shortage of bath bars, while the floor cleaners were almost literally swimming
in the harsher stuff that they used.

Of course that's only one example. A great many of our departments were
interconnected, the products of one being used as the raw materials of another
one, or even two or three. There were plenty of areas where supply could meet
demand more efficiently. It was something which no one had noticed...until
Elizabeth did. My wife had been uniquely situated to do so, because during her
first few months in the community, she had worked for most of the internal
departments. She had cooked and cleaned and sewed, sometimes all on the same
day, bouncing from job to job with an uncanny knack for knowing just where she
was needed. In that way she had noticed inefficiency when no one else had. She
reported these facts to me, eventually; and then, at my suggestion, the both of
us took the matter to Justin. And Justin, absolutely typically for him, simply
looked at her, smiled, and said, "Okay. Do something about it."

The results were several: every supply requisition for the community's
"internal" departments now crossed her desk for approval; she'd had
to improve her reading and math skills right quick; and she occasionally cursed
the day she brought the problem to Justin's attention.

As for me, I was far happier seeing her doing this than cooking or sweeping
floors, though I wouldn't have wanted to tell her that in exactly those words.
Justin had worked very hard to foster a belief that all kinds of work
had equal importance and dignity, and for the most part I agreed with him; but she
deserved better. I believed that this job had done wonders for her
self-confidence and self-reliance. And I very strongly doubt that there was
anyone better suited for it: there was nobody, I mean nobody, in Thorn Valley
who would not listen to Elizabeth Brisby.

But everyone needs a little help sometimes, I suppose; which is why I accepted
the big sheaf of papers from her, and spread them out over my lap.
"Okay," I said, as she drew up closer beside me. "Let's see who
really needs what."

What else was there to say? I could refuse nothing to the owner of those big
blue eyes.

Well, my morning was shot; and now, it seemed, people were determined to do
in my afternoon as well.

After Elizabeth and I had finished taking a look at her soap problem--and a
few others of similar complexity--I glanced up at her wall clock, and was
amazed to see that the hands stood at ten minutes to twelve. I mean, the hours
usually flew by when I was with her; but this seemed just a little ridiculous.
I can only blame the day itself: the unchanging, cloud-induced twilight outside
gave us no clue as to the passage of time. And that left us with just two
choices: to go have lunch, or to do without.

Now, I don't want to give the impression that I came sailing in and solved
all of Elizabeth's problems with one sweep of my magnificent wisdom, because
that certainly isn't true. As I said, all she needed was to learn a few tricks
of the trade. And how not to be quite so credulous. Once she realized that the
figures given to her by the department heads, the "bare minimums"
below which they couldn't possibly survive, were considerably inflated, it was
easy enough for her to see that she could safely cut them all down. And it was
safe as well to tell the factory that they would raise their production.
That much worked out, the only problem remaining was for her to get up the
chutzpah to do it. And in that, I fear, she would have to help herself. Oh, the
department heads would scream of course, and tear out their fur; but in the end
they would live with their reduced allotments. And in the future they would
realize that she knew how to play the game too.

But at any rate, for me to do without lunch was not even an option; and so
we went down to the dining hall together, hand in hand, for a bowl of soup, a
mug of tea, and endless slices of fresh warm bread. I kept a wary eye out for
Justin; but fortunately he didn't put in an appearance. That was often the
case, and it drove Mr. Ages crazy: our fearless leader didn't take nutrition as
seriously as I did, and rarely took time for lunch.

After lunch Elizabeth and I went our separate ways, she back to her office
to harden her heart, and me to once again attempt to reach the third level. Of
course I failed; probably there would have been something about it in my
horoscope, if there had been a newspaper within fifty miles in which to read
it.

There were three of them this time, ganged together in an all-out effort to
keep me from doing my job. Females all, they were walking close together as
they rounded a corner, and as a consequence I nearly ran headlong into them. I
should have turned and run.

One of the three was Eileen; her state of advanced pregnancy was becoming
more and more apparent every day, it seemed. Her companions were Alice--who,
after ten children, had sworn never to get pregnant again--and someone very
much younger than either of them: Marie, a small, slim rat with light grey fur;
she worked for Alice, and was in fact my younger daughter's schoolteacher.
Marie was not yet married; but I knew for a fact that she was seriously dating
my old traveling companion Mark.

It was Hacker who noticed me first, and she flashed a brilliant smile.
"Jonathan!" she said. "You're just the person we want to
see."

"Of course I am," I told her. "I'm just the person everybody
wants to see today."

They all three looked at me quizzically, and I shook my head. "Never
mind," I said. "What can I do for you, ladies?"

Alice cleared her throat. "If you have a few minutes, Jonathan..."

I started to shake my head. "Actually--" I began, but she
interrupted me.

"--We'd like to have a word with you about your children."

I was instantly alert. "Trouble?" I asked.

Alice shook her head. "Not at all," she said. "Or--well, not
really. In the case of the older three, there are some things we'd like to
discuss with you about their exams. Areas where we should make sure they're
prepared."

"But in Cynthia's case," Marie put in quietly, "we do have
a...concern."

I looked up at her sharply. Cynthia had not joined Elizabeth and me for
lunch, though the other three had. That wasn't terribly unusual, though: even
on her half-days, Cynthia usually took lunch with her friends in the school's
own cafeteria. She'd seemed all right at breakfast, but unfortunately that was
a relative thing: these days she was always a little distracted, and more than
a little tired. "What kind of concern?" I asked.

Marie opened her mouth to reply, but Alice interrupted her. "Let's go
to my office, shall we?" she suggested. "This might take a few
minutes."

Inwardly I groaned. Famous last words, I thought; but nonetheless I
fell into step with them. When something involved my children, everything--and
everyone--else could wait.

Cynthia was studying--as expected--when I knocked on her bedroom door later
that afternoon. Actually she hadn't been too hard to find. There were only two
places she could be, and since she wasn't in the library, well...

I should explain briefly here that in Thorn Valley our children went to
school five and a half days a week, all through the year. And lest to human
ears that sounds a bit harsh, please consider that our teachers had a very
short time to stuff knowledge into young heads, before those heads, and the
bodies attached, were no longer young. The children of the Rats of NIMH were
able to absorb knowledge at a truly phenomenal rate; and my children were right
up there with the best of them. But even that, unfortunately, isn't always
enough, as poor Cynthia had discovered.

My younger daughter was no longer a little girl, not by any means; in fact
she would be an adult, by the standards of our adopted home, just before the
first of the year. Almost overnight, so it seemed, the slightly chubby toddler
I remembered had become a young woman, and one who was--in my extremely biased
opinion--quite attractive. In a very different way, though, than her big
sister. Cynthia was destined to be shorter than her siblings, it appeared, and
her outline was still somewhat more rounded than Teresa's. Her fur had remained
light beige, defying my prediction that it would darken as she grew older;
exactly what combination of genes had produced that, I had no idea. Her eyes,
though, were an exact match for mine: dark brown, and soulful. She was also
many, many times more intelligent than most of us had been willing to give her
credit for--even me, to my everlasting shame. Only Timothy had seen the truth
there.

The room was all but dark when I opened the door and peered in, the only
light coming from a lamp hanging over the desk in the far right corner. The
window-curtains were closed, but even if they had been open, they would not
have admitted much light: the sky over Thorn Valley was still crowded with
thick black clouds, though the wind had died down somewhat. Cynthia was sitting
at the desk, bent over a large book; as I peeked in she glanced up and smiled.
"Hi, Dad," she said. "Come in. What's up?"

As I entered and closed the door behind me, I looked around quickly; but we
were alone. "Where's your sister?" I asked.

She made a sour face. "I don't know," she said. "Off with her
friends, I think."

I crossed the room and sat down close to her, perching myself on the blanket
chest at the foot of Teresa's bed. "You don't sound as if you miss
her," I observed with a smile.

She shook her head. "I don't, much," she admitted. "Ever
since she broke her leg she's been a real pill." She looked up at me.
"I mean, I thought she was bossy before..."

Inwardly I sighed. As much as it pained me, these little conflicts were
unfortunately somewhat inevitable. The three-bedroom apartment we occupied was
the best the community had to offer; in fact we had more space, relative to our
size, than anyone else in Thorn Valley. It was unavoidable that the girls
should share one room while the boys shared the other. Any other grouping would
have caused problems of another sort. But it was an unfortunate fact that while
Timothy and Martin usually got along pretty well, Teresa and Cynthia didn't. It
wasn't as if they hated each other, or anything so drastic as that; but Teresa,
the oldest, was having a hard time coming to terms with the fact that she
didn't need to be Cynthia's baby-sitter any more. And then there were her
upcoming exams, another rich source of stress. But yes, Teresa had been
undeniably grouchier since she fractured her ankle.

"Would you like me to talk to her about it, sweetie?" I asked.

Cynthia's eyes widened in horror. "No!" she said sharply; then she
swallowed. "I mean, no, thank you, Dad. I think it's something we have to
work out ourselves."

I smiled. That was just about what I had expected to hear. At any rate I
didn't imagine their problems would last very much longer. As soon as they were
both adults, both settled into their careers--whatever those might end up
being--they would learn to appreciate each other more. I hoped. "Fair
enough," I said. I paused. "Actually I wasn't looking for
Teresa," I went on. "The person I really want to talk to is
you."

She gazed at me warily. "Oh?" she said. "What about?"

"Well," I said, "I happened to be talking earlier with Alice,
Eileen and Marie, and your name came up..."

Her spine stiffened, all the way down to the tip of her tail. "What
have I done now?" she asked.

Her tone was so aggrieved, I couldn't suppress a grin. "Nothing,"
I assured her. "They're all very happy with your progress. Amazed, I might
even say. They have no doubt that you'll be able to graduate with your
friends."

She frowned. "So what's the problem?"

"No problem," I said. "It's just...well, sweetie, they're all a
little concerned about you, and I have to agree with them. They're worried that
you might be working a little too hard. You've got friends too, just
like Teresa; but it seems that you don't spend any time with them. Any more it
seems that all you do is study."

I paused, but she didn't reply, and I went on: "We're all very proud of
what you've accomplished, Cynthia. And we do understand the reasons for your
dedication. But you deserve a social life too, sweetie. You deserve some time
away from your books. You didn't even come to the concert with us last night,
and you used to love hearing Julian play."

For a moment she sat still, staring down at her toes; then she sighed and
laid her book face down on the desk. She turned her chair around to face me.
"Papa," she said, "I understand what you're saying, and I appreciate
your concern. Really I do. But...I can't slow down now. I've told all my friends;
they understand. They know what I have to do."

I gazed at her curiously, seeing the earnestness in her eyes, and the way
her whiskers stuck out, bristling in determination. Finally I said, "I'm
not sure if I know what you mean, sweetie. If you mean that you have something
to prove...I can tell you that you don't. Not to your mother or me, and not to
Teresa or your brothers either."

"I know," she said smiling. "Timothy has told me the same
thing. But I do have something to prove to myself. And--to somebody else
too."

"Somebody else?" I echoed. "Who?"

By way of an answer she showed me the cover of the book she'd been studying:
Comparative Vertebrate Anatomy. That in itself didn't surprise me much;
I knew how interested she was in the natural sciences. Her grades proved that.
"I don't understand," I said.

"It was lent to me," she said softly, almost reluctantly, "by
Mr. Ages."

For a moment I sat perplexed. Then I felt my eyes widen. The memory of my
conversation with Ages that very morning, and especially its strange
conclusion, came back to me, and suddenly, finally, I began to understand.

"You know how he's been saying since he got here that he wants to train
someone to take his place," Cynthia went on. She smiled impishly.
"Not that he's ever going to leave. But he does need an
assistant--everybody knows that--and I've decided that I want it to be
me."

She spoke those last few words almost challengingly, gazing straight into my
eyes as if daring me to object. I reached over and grasped her hands.
"Cynthia," I said seriously, "I can't think of anything that
would make your mother and me prouder of you."

Her answering smile was huge and filled with relief. "Thank you, Papa,"
she said. "That's what I hoped you'd say."

"You're very welcome." I hesitated for a moment, then I went on,
"If I may be so bold as to ask, how did you come to this decision?"

She shrugged. "It wasn't very hard," she said. "A couple
weeks ago Marie gave my class a kind of aptitude test--to help us decide what
we want to do, and what we're most fit for. My scores came up highest on
science--just like my grades--and on public service, which kind of surprised
me. I started thinking about how I could combine those two...and that's what I
came up with."

"I take it Mr. Ages knows about your ambition?"

She nodded. "Yes, he does," she said. "I talked to him about
it a week ago." She paused. "We had quite a long discussion,
actually. He took me seriously too, which surprised me a little. He...didn't
actually promise anything. He agreed that he does need an assistant--that's the
word he used, not 'replacement'--but he said he hadn't really thought about who
it should be. But he wasn't discouraging either. He told me to come back
after I've graduated, and that we'll talk seriously then. He also swore he
wouldn't choose anybody before then." She pointed to the desk. "And
he lent me these books. That one, and one on medicinal herbs, and one on
organic chemistry." She spread out her hands. "So you see what I have
to do, Dad. I have to show him the best school record I possibly can--the
highest grades, and the best exam scores I can manage. I have to prove to him
that I'm really serious, and not the scatterbrain I used to be."

"That," I assured her, "you most certainly are
not." I paused. I didn't want to say so--I didn't want to jinx her--but
judging from what Ages had said to me earlier, I had a feeling his mind was
already made up. "Does anyone else know about this?"

"Only a very few," Cynthia said. "Mr. Ages, of course, and
Timothy, and my friend Rachel...and now you." Once again she flashed an
impish grin. "And pretty soon Mom, I suspect. And then everybody."

I smiled in return. Only too true, I thought; but of course I'd never
say so. Then I sobered. "But sweetie," I said, "Why didn't you
tell us sooner? Or at least your teacher?"

She shook her head. "I...couldn't," she said. "I really didn't
want to keep secrets...but this is something I want to accomplish on my own.
Except that I needed Timothy's help with math, and I didn't want Rachel to
think I was deliberately ignoring her."

I peered at her for a moment; then slowly I nodded. I understood her
dilemma, at least in part. Mr. Ages was my oldest friend, as I said; he'd been
so since we had adjoining cages at NIMH. If I had known what Cynthia was
planning, I might have been tempted to "lean" on him, to use our
friendship as a lever to persuade him to accept her. Or even to dissuade
him, should I not approve of her ambition for some strange reason. And in fact
(though I hardly want to admit it) she might be right: I might not have been
able to resist the temptation to put in a good word. Or ten. Clearly that's
what he'd expected that morning; it had utterly surprised him that I had no
idea what he was talking about. And even more clearly, that was not what
Cynthia wanted. If Ages decided to employ her, she wanted it to be because of
her own talent and ability. Of course there would be a few people in the
community who would still suspect nepotism; that was unavoidable. But at least she
would know the truth.

And so, once again, I clasped her hands. "Cynthia," I said,
"you know--at least I hope you know--that your mother and I will be proud
of you no matter what career you choose to pursue, as long as it is your
choice, and as long as you give it everything you've got. The same goes for
your brothers and sister, of course. These last few months you've proven to
everyone that you can accomplish what you put your mind to. And if this
is what you want, sweetie, you have our full and absolute support. But,"
I went on, before she could interrupt, "I promise you I won't do anything
unless you ask me to. If you need help of any kind, it's available; but I won't
try to force it on you."

Once again her smile was filled with relief, and she threw her arms around
my neck. "Thank you, Papa," she said. "I won't let you
down."

I kissed her on the cheek. "I know you won't," I told her. She
would have to begin very much at the bottom, I knew, if Ages did decide to
employ her: she would get more than her fill, at first, of mopping floors,
rolling bandages, washing test tubes and grinding herbs. But at the same time
she would be learning from one of the best; and given time, who knew how far she
could go? Did I dare even think the words Doctor Cynthia Brisby?
"My daughter, the doctor." That did have a ring to it...

A moment later I disengaged her arms from around me, and set her back in her
chair. "There is one thing we need to discuss," I told her.
"Now, don't think I'm trying to dissuade you, because I'm most certainly
not. It's just..." I trailed off.

"Yes?" she prompted.

"Well...it's Ages himself," I said. "I'm sorry to have to say
it, but he might not be the most pleasant person in the world to work for. He's
certainly not cruel--actually he's a much kinder person than even he realizes.
But the fact is, sweetie, when things aren't going quite right he has a way of
taking it out on the first person he sees." I grinned ruefully. "A long
time ago that used to be me. That's one of the reasons I married your mother,
in fact. And if you go to work for him, I very much fear it will occasionally
be you. He always apologizes, eventually, but while the yelling is going
on, that fact is not very comforting."

She smiled wryly. "I know," she said. "We've already
discussed it. He said--if he decides to take me on--that when he yells
at me, I'm supposed to yell back. Unless, of course, it really is my
fault." Her grin widened. "He says that's what you used to do."

"He's right, I did," I agreed. Privately, though, I had my doubts.
Was my little girl tough enough to stand up to him, or would she come home from
her first day in tears, vowing never to go back? These last few months she had
surprised us all many times, though, with her new-found tenacity; maybe she would
develop a thick enough skin. I certainly hoped so, anyway. He'll treat her
well, I decided firmly. He'd better, or he'll have me to answer to!

Finally I shook myself. "Well," I said, "now I understand
your motivations a little better, at least, and of course I wish you the very
best of luck. But I'm afraid that it still doesn't change my mind."

She frowned. "What about?"

"About what I came here to discuss in the first place," I told
her. "Your social life." I held up my hand to forestall her protests.
"Now, please, Cynthia, just listen to me, all right? I understand
perfectly well what you're trying to accomplish, and I certainly agree that Mr.
Ages will look more favorably on you, the better prepared you are. But even so,
you still deserve a life outside of your books." I paused.
"No--not just deserve. You need it. For the sake of your
health, mental and physical. If we had Ages here right now, I know he'd say the
same thing."

She glanced away and opened her mouth to reply; but what she might have said
I don't know, because at that moment she was interrupted, as the door banged
open and Teresa entered, her crutches thumping on the tile floor.

My older daughter had a book-bag slung over her shoulders, apparently
heavily-laden and threatening to overbalance her; and a scowl disfigured her
otherwise lovely features. "Why is it so dark in here?" she muttered
to herself. Then she saw me, and her expression suddenly changed.
"Oh--hello, Father. How--uh--how are you?"

I smiled. "I'm fine," I said. I stood. "And I'm just leaving.
Think about what I said, please, Cynthia."

"I will, Dad," she promised.

Balancing on one crutch, Teresa managed to lever the pack off her back, and
she let it fall heavily onto her bed. She scowled at Cynthia. "I'm going
to need the desk," she announced.

Cynthia glanced at me, rolling her eyes; I winked in return. Then she
appeared to reach a decision. She closed her book firmly and shelved it, then
she stood, smoothing down her skirt. "It's all yours," she told her
sister. She glanced at me again. "I'm going to the gym."

I was in a remarkably good mood as I made my way down the corridor late that
afternoon--but unfortunately it didn't last.

Though various interruptions had consumed most of the day, I did still have
a little more than two hours left before dinner, and during that time I could
at least begin the job I was supposed to have started that morning. And this
time I was absolutely determined: nothing would stop me, not friends, nor wife,
nor daughters. Jonathan Brisby, the inventory machine: that was me.

Except that it still wasn't meant to be. I was just outside Justin's
quarters, heading once again for the up-ramp, when I almost ran headlong into
the Leader himself, striding down the hallway with a clipboard in his hands and
a faintly harassed look on his face. "Oh--Jonathan," he said.
"Good. I was just about to look for you. Do you have those figures for
me?"

"Er--no," I said. "Unfortunately I haven't had a chance to
begin the inventory yet. I'm sorry, but things kept cropping up all day--"

I broke off then, because a most extraordinary thing was happening. Justin
stood stock-still, gazing down at me with suddenly-blazing eyes. His hands
clutched the clipboard so hard I thought it would break in two. I watched a
crimson flush creep into his ears and the tip of his nose; and I realized to my
amazement that I was seeing something that very few others had: Justin angry.
And I don't mean "a little annoyed," either; I mean
"enraged." I actually took a step backwards, so hot was his glare.

"Jonathan," he said, his tone tight and clipped, "four months
ago you agreed to become my executive assistant. Meaning my employee. Is that
right?"

"Yes it is," I said. "And I've always tried to--"

He interrupted me sharply. "I am talking, Jonathan. When I give
you a job, I expect it to be done. And I expect it to be done immediately, not
when you think it's convenient."

By then it was my turn to begin getting mad. "If you'll just listen to
me for a minute, boss," I began, but he shook his head, cutting me
off again.

"I don't want to hear it, Jonathan. From now on when I give you an
order it will be obeyed. Is that clear? If you think you're going to
have any trouble with that, just let me know. I imagine I can find someone else
to do your job. Maybe somebody with less of a problem with his attention
span."

And with that he swept past me and into his office, slamming the door and
leaving me standing there gaping like the Catch of the Day.