The corridor outside the infirmary was long, wide and straight, perfect for
pacing; and that was exactly the use to which the Captain of the Guard was
putting it, endlessly, as I sat on a bench opposite the big double doors. I
have no idea how many times Philip passed back and forth before me, his hands
clasped tightly behind his back; dozens, certainly. Finally, though, and with a
groan, he settled down on the bench next to me and buried his face in his
hands.

"I was wondering when you'd finally get tired," I observed.

Philip gazed at me through the bars of his fingers. "I want to thank
you for staying with me, Jonathan," he said, somewhat indistinctly.
"But you know you don't really have to."

"Yes I do," I told him quietly. "That scene in the dining
hall was my fault, and obviously that's what sent her into labor. Staying with
you now is the very least I can do."

He reached over and clasped my hand briefly. "I really do appreciate
it," he said. He paused. "What in the world was all that about,
anyway?"

Suddenly I was treading on very thin ice. "Eileen didn't tell
you?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Not really. I mean, I know she had some kind of
concern about her sister, but she didn't tell me any more than that. I assumed
it had something to do with Judith's relationship with Justin, but..."

I sighed. "Philip, you and I have been through a lot together, and I
count you as one of my very closest friends. But that situation started because
I couldn't keep my big mouth shut, so please forgive me if all I can say now
is: 'don't go there.'"

He looked perplexed, but he shrugged. "All right," he said.
"Just answer me one thing. Was Judith really about to hit you?"

"I honestly don't know," I said. "But I'm beginning to think
it might have been better if she had. I deserve a black eye--and then
some."

He shot me another brief confused glance; and then he turned his attention
to the infirmary doors, firmly closed and barred from the inside. "God,
what's taking so long?" he muttered in agony. "Please tell me that
nothing's going wrong!"

Having been in the exact same situation--four times, no less--I had nothing
but sympathy. And this was his first time too. Not--unfortunately--that it gets
much easier with repetition. And in this case I actually felt some of his
anxiety spilling over into me. Hacker, I thought, if anything has
gone wrong, I will never forgive myself. Judith was right; who was I--or
Eileen for that matter--to decide what was best for her? Why hadn't I just left
well enough alone?

Unfortunately, that last question was easy enough to answer: because you
never could.

Finally--I have no real idea how much later--the infirmary doors opened.
Philip and I both leapt to our feet as Mr. Ages emerged, drying his hands on a
fresh white towel. Ages was smiling, really, honestly beaming from ear to ear.
It was an expression which only one thing in the world could inspire: a
successful childbirth. Of all Ages' duties, the one he enjoyed the most.

"Philip my boy," Ages announced, "you have a fine healthy
daughter."

Philip's legs almost gave way beneath him, and it's a good thing they
didn't, because he would have crushed me. "And Eileen--?" he said,
half-fearfully.

"She's fine," Ages said. "Tired, of course. You can see them
now--but only for a few minutes."

He had to step hurriedly aside as Philip dashed past him into the infirmary.
I had a quick glimpse, no more than a second or so, as Philip pushed aside a
folding screen in the hospital section: a glimpse of Eileen, my Hacker, lying
in a bed holding a tightly-swaddled bundle in her arms and beaming with
exhausted joy. Then Philip closed the screen behind him.

I turned to Ages. "Congratulations," I said with a smile.
"Another notch in your belt."

"It is truly a joy," he said seriously. "If I did nothing
else but that, I would be content."

"Are they--are they really all right?" I asked.
"Wasn't the birth a little premature?"

"Three or four days, perhaps," Ages said. "With our females
it's not an exact science. But yes, they are both quite well. A good deal
easier birth than when Eileen and her sister were born. And a fine strong
infant." He peered up at me quizzically. "Why do you ask?"

I shook my head. "I don't know if you heard," I said. "There
was a little...incident in the dining hall a while ago. Eileen broke up an
argument between Judith and me. She had to get a little physical with Judith--I
was afraid it might have caused Eileen to go into labor."

"Possibly it did," he said. "Or possibly not; she was quite
far advanced. But yes, I did hear about the incident, from Eileen herself
between contractions. She made it clear to me that she doesn't blame you at
all."

Thanks, Hacker, I thought. That's another one I owe you.

"Well," I said, "at least Eileen's baby will have a
ready-made playmate."

"Pardon me?" Ages asked.

"Her cousin," I explained. "Judith's child. He or she will be
no more than three weeks or so younger--"

Ages shook his head sadly. "No," he said. "I'm sorry,
Jonathan. I thought you already knew. I examined Judith this morning. She isn't
pregnant, my boy. Not by Justin nor anyone else. In fact--if what I fear proves
to be true--she might not be able to bear children at all."

My entire family was waiting for me when I returned home, more than four
hours after my rudely-interrupted lunch. I was moving slowly now, feeling as if
someone had not just slugged me, but actually worked me over with a stick:
exhausted and sore all over, probably from the release of nervous tension.

As I said, they were all there, sitting on chair or sofa as the case may be,
reading, studying or working. All five of them looked up quickly as I entered,
their eyes full of questions. I forced a smile. "It's a girl," I
said. "Mother and child are doing fine. Father is...questionable."

Amid their smiles and murmurs of relief I crossed the room and sank down
into my favorite chair. Elizabeth rose from the desk and perched herself on the
arm, one hand covering mine and the other pressed against my forehead.
"Are you all right, dear?" she asked.

I plucked her hand from my brow and kissed it. "Yes I am," I said.
"Just a little tired. What--uh--what happened after I left the dining
hall?"

"Things calmed down very quickly," Elizabeth said. "Judith
all but collapsed after you and Philip took Eileen out. Margaret took Judith
back into her office, and that's the last I saw of her." She smiled
faintly. "After that, it was all over except for the cleaning up."

I grimaced. "What about Justin?"

She frowned and shook her head. "He...left. He didn't say another word.
After Margaret took Judith away, he simply turned and walked out. He didn't
even finish his lunch."

And what does that mean? I wondered darkly. I rubbed my aching
eyes. I couldn't figure it out now; I simply didn't have the strength.
"Judith isn't pregnant," I said quietly.

Elizabeth nearly tumbled off the chair-arm. "What?"

"Ages examined her earlier," I said. "He's not completely
sure what her condition is yet--he needs to do some more tests, if she'll let
him--but he thinks she's suffering from some kind of a hormonal problem."
I paused, stoking my whiskers. "Which could explain quite a bit, now that
I come to think about it. But one thing is for certain: she's not, and never
has been, expecting a child."

"Oh, the poor girl!" Elizabeth said, and I looked up at her
quizzically.

"Pardon me?" I said. "Just last night you said--"

She shook her head. "You wouldn't understand," she said pointedly.
"No male can. It's a terrible thing to be so certain, and then to find out
that you're wrong. Almost as bad as actually losing a child."

"You're right," I told her. "I don't understand."

"Never mind," she said. She paused, frowning. "So now
what do we do?" she murmured.

I drew her down into my lap and held her tight. "Nothing," I told
her firmly. "We are going to do nothing. What you do is your
own business--but what I am going to do is sit here and appreciate what
it feels like not to have a broken nose."

Later that evening Elizabeth and I visited Eileen.

Neither Justin nor Judith showed up for dinner that night, which was hardly
a surprise. It was bad enough when my family and I walked into the dining hall.
Conversations stilled as I entered, and every eye in the place was on me as I
picked up a tray and got in line. I'm sorry if that sounds egotistical; but it
was the plain fact. They weren't watching Elizabeth, nor our children; it was
me who felt like a bug under glass. The eyes followed me until I sat down; I
deliberately turned my back to as much of the hall as I could manage. Then new,
whispered, behind-the-hand conversations began to spring up. As much as I
usually enjoyed being the center of attention, I was sorely tempted to take my
tray and go home. Only Elizabeth's warning glance prevented me from turning
around and screaming at all those staring eyes to mind their own business. It
was, in short, not the most enjoyable meal I'd ever had. At least the food was
good.

As Elizabeth and I entered the infirmary a little later, we found that
mother and child were alone, except for a young female rat who was quietly
puttering around, sweeping and cleaning. One of Ages' volunteer nurses, she
(and others, in shifts) would spend the night there in case Eileen or the new
arrival needed anything. The young woman responded to my questioning look with
a nod, a smile and a "go ahead" gesture.

Eileen was sitting up in bed, and had apparently just finished her dinner,
if the covered tray on the night-table was any indication. She smiled a welcome
as Elizabeth and I cautiously peeked around the curtain. "Come in,"
she said softly. "You're just the people I've been wanting to see."

We did. Hacker looked tired and a little haggard--more so than I'd seen her
since the end of the NIMH expedition, in fact--but there was a certain strange,
indefinable "glow" about her too. I knew that look very well; I had
seen it a number of times before, most memorably in my own beloved wife. On a
low table beside Eileen's bed a cradle had been arranged, and in it, wrapped
carefully in a pink blanket, was her baby. Elizabeth, drawn as if by a magnetic
force, drifted over for a look, and I followed.

To some eyes (but not ours) a newborn rat or mouse might perhaps not be an
especially attractive thing, and it is true that even our infants were born
much less developed than those of humans. What lay in the cradle, fast asleep
apparently, was a small, pink creature that at first glance seemed to be all
head. The hands and feet were only half-developed, the fingers and toes barely
separated (though much more so than in normal newborn rat) and the tail just a
stub; the eyes were dark spots, and wouldn't open for several days yet. She did
have a dusting of fur, though; unless it changed color later (which often
happened) she would be light reddish brown, almost coppery. I had seen my share
of newborn Rats of NIMH--including the one who now lay in bed smiling down at
me--and I could see at a glance that Ages had been correct: this was a strong
and healthy child.

Art by LordDirk

"Eileen," Elizabeth breathed, "she is beautiful."

"She is, isn't she?" Eileen said proudly. "I fed her just
before they fed me; that's why she looks so contented."

"Do you have a name for her yet?" I asked.

Eileen nodded. "Yes we do," she said. "We're going to call
her Jeanette."

I nodded. "That's a lovely name," I said. I paused, and then the
words tumbled out of me in a rush. "Hacker, I am sorry, terribly sorry,
for what happened today..."

She waved that off. "Don't be," she said. "None of it was
your fault, Jonathan. Nor yours either, Elizabeth. I'm still glad you
told me about Judith, and she should be too. For all we know even now, there
might be something seriously wrong with her. And it might never have been
discovered if I hadn't dragged her to see Ages."

"She wasn't at dinner tonight," I said. "Neither was
Justin."

"Interesting," Eileen said with a grin. "But I very much
doubt that they're together. Unfortunately, I think it's much more likely that
they're sulking separately."

"You're probably right," I said. I perched myself on the foot of
her bed; Elizabeth was still gazing entranced at the small creature who was now
stirring slightly. "But as of now," I went on, "that is
officially their problem. I'm bowing out."

"That might be the safest course," Eileen agreed wryly. She gazed
down at her child. "In a way I'm sorry Judith's not pregnant," she
said softly. "Though I'm sure Jeanette will have other playmates. But on
the whole I suppose I have to be glad she isn't. I don't know what kind of life
the poor kid would have had. I'm beginning to think that my sister really isn't
capable of love."

Elizabeth looked up sharply, but before she could speak I quickly changed
the subject. "Where's that husband of yours?" I asked Hacker.

She grinned. "I sent him to get some food and rest a little while
ago," she said. She shook her head. "Honestly, the way he was
hovering over the both of us was enough to drive me crazy. I've never seen
anything like it."

Elizabeth stepped over and grasped my hand. "I have," she told
Eileen. "Believe me, I have."

For some reason that I wasn't quite able to fathom, my most important
conversations with my wife seemed to take place late at night, in bed.

It was that way in our old life too. There are some thing you just don't say
in front of kids, some worries that you don't air because it might frighten
them to overhear. And so you wait until you're sure they're asleep. In previous
times it was that sort of conversation which we'd had most often, as we lay
huddled close together for warmth; but it wasn't the only sort. In fact
our topics ranged far and wide. It was those late-night talks which very
quickly convinced me, beyond any doubt, that Elizabeth was absolutely,
emphatically not the dumb animal that her slanderers--such as my dear
friend Jenner--often said she was. In fact, even in the early days of our
marriage, she had demonstrated a level of understanding that often surprised
me. I remembered those conversations very clearly, and--I am sorry to say--not
always with unalloyed joy, because they often came close to subjects that I was
incapable of discussing with her. Such as my past, and the identity of the mysterious
"friends" I visited every few days. It was during those talks that I
honed my most shameful and best-forgotten talents, those of evasiveness and
outright lying.

But those days were gone, and--for several reasons--when we talked in bed
now I found it utterly impossible for me to either evade or prevaricate. Which
in the long run is a good thing, I suppose.

Elizabeth and I both retired fairly early that night, but we didn't have
much luck trying to sleep. I felt exhausted, worn out, though in truth I had
scarcely done a thing, physically speaking, all day. But my mind was still
running a hundred miles an hour, replaying the day's events over and over, and
it wouldn't let me rest quite yet. And Elizabeth was too full of the sight of
Eileen's beautiful baby. We sat up, half-facing each other with our pillows
bulked behind us, and one bedside lamp, burning very low, making shadows dance
on the smooth stone walls.

I started to tell her about Cynthia, but she almost immediately brought me
to a halt. "Oh, I know about that already," she said. "I have
for days."

"That is without a doubt the most open secret in the history of the
world," I said bitterly. "And how did you find out, may I
ask?"

"Timothy told me," she said. "He knew that I was worried
about Cynthia--I thought she was studying too hard. So he told me why she's
doing it."

"And you kept it a secret."

"Of course," she said. "That's the way she wanted it, wasn't
it?"

That's the way Judith wanted it too, is what I might have said; but
it would have been pointless. My dear wife now had a measured IQ among the
highest in the community, but the flow of logic through her brain remained for
me as incomprehensible as ever. I can only assume that it was a female thing.
"And I take it you approve?" I asked.

She gazed at me as if I had just dropped in from Mars. "Of course I
do," she said. "How could I not?"

"And you think she's...capable?"

"Certainly she is," Elizabeth told me firmly. "She's capable
of anything. But," she went on in menacing tones, "the first time Mr.
Ages is mean to her will be the last. Or he'll be hearing from me."

I believed that; I honestly did. "And would you care to know what I've
done to help Teresa, or have you deduced that too?" I asked.

She looked at me sharply. "Last night you didn't seem to think she needed
any help."

"That was my sleepiness talking," I replied with a sheepish grin.
"And that was before she came to me in the lounge, practically in
tears."

Elizabeth glanced at me again, and opened her mouth as if to speak; but then
she turned away. "What is it?" I asked.

"Nothing, really," she said. "It's just...well, how can I put
this? I find it interesting that she went to you for help. I'm sorry to
say so, dear, but not too many weeks ago I don't think that would have
happened."

"You're right, it wouldn't," I agreed soberly. "And believe
me, darling, the significance wasn't lost on me. Not at all."

"So--what did you do?"

I told her. By the time I finished she was nodding thoughtfully. "I
like it," she said, to my infinite relief. She grinned. "Of course
I'd like it better if you had discussed it with me before you did it," she
went on pointedly. "But I honestly believe you might be on to something
there. She was enjoying working with the children in the day-care center,
more than anything else she's tried. They were just too much for her to handle.
But you haven't spoken to her yet?"

I shook my head. "Haven't had a chance, with one thing and another.
Would you like to be there when I do?"

She looked at me for a long moment, then she shook her head. "No,"
she said. "No, Jonathan, I think it might be best if you did this
yourself."

"Thank you," I said. "Will she want the job, do you
think?"

Elizabeth smiled wryly. "To be honest, I doubt it," she said.
"At least not at first. But maybe after she's thought about it a little,
she'll be willing to give it a try."

"I hope so," I said. For a moment we were silent, then I said,
"You know, darling, seeing Eileen's baby this evening brought back a lot
of memories..."

"Yes," she agreed. "It certainly did."

"It got me to thinking, too," I went on. "Now that we're
living here, where we're safe and secure, and now that we're both going
to stay young and strong indefinitely...I was wondering if you'd be willing to
consider--"

"No," she said, quickly and with finality. "I wouldn't."

The next morning Justin was nowhere to be found.

He wasn't in the dining hall when my family and I arrived for breakfast,
which didn't really surprise me much. Judith was, though, and that did surprise
me a little. She was sitting alone at a table in the far back corner, picking
rather disinterestedly at her food. I noticed instantly that she was dressed
not in her usual work outfit, but in a skirt and a sweater. To the best of my
knowledge Judith never took a day off; what was going on here?

Elizabeth caught me staring. "Jonathan," she said warningly, and I
shrugged.

"It's a public dining hall," I said.

"Yes," she agreed. "Maybe a little too public."

Even as Elizabeth said that, Judith looked up...and across the room our eyes
locked. For thirty seconds or more we stared at each other...and then she looked
away, somewhat shame-faced. I wondered just what her mother had said to her
yesterday. Something about "respect for your elders," mayhap? Not that
I'd ever tried to get much mileage out of that Original 22 business...

"I do hope nothing is seriously wrong with her," Elizabeth
murmured. "She deserves better. She's never been a very happy
person..."

If so, I thought, a big part of it is her own fault. But of
course I didn't say so; no good starting the day with an argument.

As we ate, I couldn't help but notice that Cynthia looked a little nervous,
and that she was dressed somewhat unusually for her, in a very plain, very
beige skirt and short-sleeved blouse. "Is everything okay, sweetie?"
I asked her.

"Yes," she said, just a little too quickly. Her eyes darted around
the table. Then she went on, "I hope so, anyway. It's Career Day at
school. I'm signed up to spend the entire day with Mr. Ages."

If she expected a big stir, she was disappointed. In fact there was only one
person at the table to whom that statement meant nothing, and that was Martin.
He looked over at his little sister in amazement. "So that's why
you've been reading those weird books..." he said.

Her whiskers bristled pugnaciously as she stared across at him. "Yeah,
that's right," she said. "Any problems?"

"Who, me?" Martin protested. "I don't have any
problems." He looked around. "Except that it looks like I'm the last
to know." He reached across and clasped her hand. "Good luck,
Sis," he said. "I know you'll do great."

Cynthia's jaw dropped, almost into her cereal. "Thanks," she said
faintly.

I hid my grin behind a mug of tea. She had wanted her career plans kept
secret, I knew, because she'd been afraid that her brothers and sister would
make fun of her. No--strike that. Not "brothers", plural, but
"brother," singular. To the best of my knowledge Timothy had never
made fun of her for any reason. The other two, though, had a rather unfortunate
reputation in that regard. At least they used to; yes, they were definitely all
growing up.

"You should have an interesting time," I told Cynthia.
"Especially after yesterday. And Ages ought to still be in a good mood,
too."

"He'd better be," Elizabeth muttered around her spoon. "Or
else."

After breakfast I went in search of my boss. I went first, as I usually did,
to his office; but he wasn't there. I knocked, and I even dared to open the
door and peek inside; but no one was at home. His bedroom door was open, and
that space too was unoccupied, except by his neatly-made bed. His absence was
strange but not unprecedented; he occasionally had business which took him out
of the office early. What was strange, though, and totally unprecedented,
was that he had left me no instructions. Always before, if he knew he wouldn't
be able to do so personally, he would leave me a list of assignments tacked to
a cork-board outside his office door. Today that board was bare.

Well, there seemed to be very little else I could do except to look for him,
and I did so, feeling somewhat irritated. Far too much of my time on the job
was spent tracking people down or otherwise playing "office tag." If
only Arthur could come up with some kind of two-way radios or pagers, was a
thought I'd often had. The total impossibility of it, given our current level
of technology, didn't prevent me from dreaming, as my friend Hacker still
dreamed of her very own computer. Maybe someday.

A quick search of the corridors failed to locate our leader, or indeed
anyone who had seen him that morning. Finally I found myself at the main
entrance. Philip was on guard duty there, and he looked terrible, leaning on
the (largely ceremonial) pikestaff as if he would collapse without its support.
And perhaps he would have. His uniform was rumpled, which was a first, and his
fur disheveled, which was another; his eyes were red-rimmed and three-quarters
closed.

"I didn't sleep a wink last night," he told me indistinctly.
"Not a wink."

I looked up at him curiously. "They're both doing fine, you know,"
I said, and he nodded.

"I know," he said. "Intellectually, I know. But every time I
was about to drop off last night, some new worry would hit me. Some new
'what-if.'"

I smiled sympathetically. I'd been there too, indeed I had; and I didn't
have the heart to tell him that the fun had only just begun. "You haven't
by any chance seen Justin, have you?" I asked.

He didn't need to check his logbook. "Yes I have," he said.
"He went outside a little more than an hour ago. He said he was headed out
to inspect the farm."

Did he really, I thought. I stood for a moment in a state of
indecision, looking out through the main doors into a misty, glowing, and just
slightly chilly autumn morning. Should I follow him? Our farm was a big place,
and he could be anywhere on it. And I knew Justin; I knew that "inspecting
the farm" was often his excuse for solitary brooding. Should I search him
out?

No, I decided a moment later. He had not "forgotten" to
leave me any instructions, I was sure of that. I wasn't quite certain
exactly what kind of game he was playing; but I knew that I didn't care to
participate.

And so I turned back inside. "Good luck," I told Philip, and
received an indecipherable mumble in return.

I really don't know what I would have done, in the absence of any direct
orders; I suppose I would have found some way to benefit the community. But I
was spared the necessity of choosing, because some minutes later I passed the
down-ramp from the second level and saw Alice exiting there. I fell into step
beside her as she headed for the school.

"Jonathan!" she said. "I was hoping I'd run into you this
morning. I was just escorting Cynthia up to the infirmary for her Career Day
with Mr. Ages."

I smiled. "Forgive me for saying so," I said, "but that's a
half-truth if I ever heard one."

"Pardon me?"

"I think my daughter knows the way to the infirmary," I said
dryly. "I have feeling you went so you could get a look at our new
arrival."

She smiled sheepishly. "Guilty as charged, I'm afraid," she said.
"I never can resist. Jeanette is lovely, isn't she?"

"Yes she is," I agreed. "And if she's inherited her mother's
brains and her father's courage, we're all in deep trouble." I paused.
"You said you were hoping to see me, Alice?"

"Yes," she said. "I thought you might like to know--I had a
talk with my staff yesterday afternoon--about Teresa."

"And?"

Art by LordDirk

Her smile widened. "Not only do they have no objections, but they all
argued over who gets the job of training her. It's unanimous--we give her a
try."

I reached up and clasped her hand. "Thanks, Alice," I said.
"Thank you very much."

And with that I started off at a brisk and mildly illegal jog down the
corridor. All of a sudden my morning had a definite and urgent purpose: finding
my older daughter.

As it turned out, Teresa wasn't too difficult to locate. I just had to
follow the giggling.

Upon my arrival in Thorn Valley I was extremely gratified to see how well my
children had been accepted into the society of the Rats of NIMH--especially
because it might have gone far otherwise. My kids were of course every bit as
intelligent as the children of the rats. As far as we could tell those genes
always bred true. But there was the difference in species to consider, and
consequently size and strength; and there was also the fact that my four had
not enjoyed the same advantages as the rats, in terms of education and
experience. The young rats might have rejected them, ridiculing them as if they
were the proverbial poor country cousins. Or--worse, in my view--those
youngsters might have allowed my kids to hang around with them, but only so
they could be the butt of cruel jokes and torment. As much as it pains me to
say so, even hyper-intelligent civilized rats are not totally immune to that
sort of thing.

But fortunately, neither of those things happened. Quite the opposite, in
fact: my children were welcomed into the community faster and more thoroughly
than I would have believed possible. To a certain extent I think they could
thank their family name for that. I can't take much credit, though; these days
it was Elizabeth Brisby, not Jonathan, whom the rats most revered as a
hero and savior. But whatever the reason, family fame or natural charm, my kids
were well-supplied with friends; and good friends too, not youngsters
whose chief delight was teasing them.

I'd also been gratified to see that each of my kids had managed to acquire
one particular "best" friend, of their own ages and genders. In
Timothy's case--as everyone in the community well knew--it was Arthur's
youngest son Robert. The two of them sometimes seemed nothing short of grafted
together at the hip. (Though a complication had recently begun to rear its very
attractive head: her name was Kim.) For Martin it was a large and strong rat,
an aspiring Guardsman, named Jake. They worked out together in the gym almost
daily. In Cynthia's case it was an attractive and very serious young rat named
Rachel, with whom she studied. And--last but not least--Teresa's best friend
was a striking dark-furred rat named Flea.

I must hasten to explain, lest you get the wrong idea: that name had nothing
at all to do with her grooming habits. (Such thing were not tolerated in Thorn
Valley anyway.) In fact it was a nickname; partially a pun on her given name
(which was "Felicia") and partly a wry comment on the fact that as a
small child she had been very...active, shall we say, seldom staying in one spot
longer than five seconds. Exactly who gave her that nickname no one remembered;
but it had stuck like glue, and was still used by adults and youngsters alike.
Mostly because it was still accurate.

Felicia, being almost exactly the same age as Teresa, was theoretically an
adult. But unlike my daughter, she was well settled into a job, if not indeed a
career. A living demonstration of Justin's belief that all work had equal
dignity, Flea toiled quite happily on the cleaning crew, the people who swept and
mopped our hallways, scrubbed and sanitized our restrooms, and did other,
somewhat less attractive jobs as well. A very necessary line of work--but (just
between you and me) I'm glad that none of my kids went into it
full-time.

When I caught up with Teresa that morning, she was assisting Flea at her
most common job, that of re-supplying the restrooms on the first level. The
large cart that Felicia pushed was loaded with supplies, including such items
as jugs of liquid soap for the dispensers, and stacks of towels fresh from the
laundry. The restrooms--some of them just a WC, and some including a bathtub as
well--were fairly evenly-spaced along all our corridors, somewhat more
frequently in the residential sections. At each one along her route Flea would stop,
knock, enter if it was unoccupied, assess what was needed, and deliver it. On
the back of her cart hung a large canvas bag; into that went the used towels
for delivery back to the laundry. Like I said, a necessary line of work.

After I found the two of them I hung back for a moment, watching and
listening in some amusement. Felicia was by no means a bad worker; in fact she
was very good at what she did. But in combination with Teresa...I had to wonder
how Flea's boss (who was also her grandfather) would have felt about the low
percentage of work versus hilarity that I was observing.

That must have been on their minds too, at least subconsciously, because
when I cleared my throat they both jumped nearly high enough to hit the
ceiling, and the look on those two lovely faces as they turned was one of
abject terror. "Mr. Brisby!" Felicia squeaked.

My daughter, however, recovered a little more gracefully. "Hello,
Father," she said with dignity.

"Hello, ladies," I said blandly. "Working hard--?" I
don't know if either one of them knew the second half of that old cliché, but
they exchanged a guilty glance nonetheless.

Flea was undeniably a very attractive young woman. Rather tall even for our
females, she was slim and muscular; I had seen her do some rather spectacular
and alarming things on the gymnastic equipment. Her fur was a shade of dark
grey only slightly removed from jet black, a color that was accentuated by the
white shirtwaist dress and head-scarf of her uniform. When you got to know her
you realized that she was quite intelligent and well-spoken; but to find that
out you had to get past your first impression, and the fact that she had enough
energy for three or four rats tended to put some people off a little.

I smiled. "Flea," I said, "may I borrow my daughter for a
while?"

They exchanged another glance, a worried one this time. "Uh--okay,
sure," Felicia said. "I think I can manage on my own for a
while."

"Thank you," I said with a bow. I extended my hand to Teresa.
"Can I speak to you for a few minutes, honey?"

Teresa gazed at me curiously. "All right," she said, and she fell
into slightly wobbly step beside me as I started slowly up the corridor.
"Is everything...all right?" she asked.

"Everything's fine," I said. Which wasn't exactly true, but close
enough for the moment. We had reached a section of the hallway that was
momentarily deserted, some distance away from Felicia and her notoriously sharp
hearing. "Let's sit," I suggested, and we did. I reached over and
grasped her hand, and gazed earnestly into her rather confused blue eyes.

"I was wondering," I said, "if you'd made any decisions since
we spoke yesterday."

She glanced away and shook her head. "Not really," she said.
"Or maybe I should say only negative ones." She looked at me and half-smiled.
"I've made a list of the things I don't want to do. I don't want to
cook, or sew, or weave, or clean." She waved a hand back down the
corridor. "I was only helping Felicia today to make myself useful."

"Of course," I said, dead-pan.

"But I'm afraid that hasn't helped much," she went on. "I
know what I don't want--but I'm not any closer to deciding what I do."
She shook her head again. "And as hard as I try, Father, I can't seem to
come up with any ideas for a job to create, like Mother did."

I took a deep breath. "I had two reasons for asking," I said.
"First, because I'm concerned about you, and what's going to become of
you. But there's something else too. I want you to promise, Teresa, that you'll
really listen to what I'm about to say, and seriously consider it. All
right?"

"All right, Father," she said, mystified. "I will."

"Okay. Yesterday, after we spoke, I went and scouted out an opportunity
for you. I just found out a few minutes ago that the person I spoke to is
willing to give you a try. Now, before you say anything, honey, let me explain
two things. First, I didn't do this because I thought you wouldn't be able to
find anything yourself. Far from it. And second, nothing is written in stone.
No one is forcing you to take this job, least of all me. I wouldn't have the
right anyway. The opportunity is there for you--but only if you decide
you want it."

"I...don't quite know what to say," Teresa said. "Thank you.
What--uh--what is it?"

"As I said, it's just a suggestion, but it isn't a random one, and I
hope you'll give it some serious thought." I paused and smiled.
"Teresa, honey, how would you like to become a teacher's aide?"

For a full minute she gazed unblinkingly at me, and I could almost hear the
wheels turning in her head. Finally she said, "I--don't know. I mean,
after the day-care center..."

"No more of that," I promised. "I've talked this over with
Alice. She wants to put you to work with older kids." I grinned.
"Ones you'll never have to diaper. And that's not all, honey. If this does
appeal to you, you wouldn't have to stay an aide forever. Alice already has
thoughts of training you as a teacher."

There's a fine line, I know, between selling and pushing; and
with my older daughter it was often difficult to locate that line with
certainty. She hesitated, looking away. "I...I don't know," she said.
"It sounds tempting, but I'm not sure....It's so sudden."

Silently, I cursed myself. Too fast, I thought. Elizabeth was right
as usual. I'd have to try to back off a little. "As I said," I told
her, "no one is trying to pressure you into anything. I personally think
this could be good for you--but it's not my opinion that really
counts." I rose, and drew her to her feet. "Can I at least convince
you to speak to Alice about it? She can give you a much better idea of what
she's got in mind than I can."

Again she hesitated for a long moment; but then she smiled broadly.
"Yes," she said firmly. "Yes, Father, I will."

"Good," I said. "I think we can find her in her office now,
if you're willing."

We turned and headed down the corridor toward the school. A minute or so
later she said, "I...didn't expect you to do something like this,
Father."

I smiled and squeezed her hand. "I know," I said. "But that's
what I'm here for."

Teresa was a little late for lunch that day, which isn't too surprising. The
rest of my family was there when I arrived, though. Including Cynthia; or--at
very least--a very determined young woman who answered to her name.

"What have you been up to this morning, dear?" Elizabeth asked as
I slipped in next to her, pausing to kiss her on the cheek.

"Not much," I said. "Justin didn't leave me any instructions,
and he went out to the farm before I could speak to him."

She frowned. "That's not like him," she said.

"No, it isn't," I agreed. "I suppose I'll have to look for
him again later. I did have that talk with Teresa, though."

Elizabeth looked over at me quickly. "And?"

"And," I said over the top of my sandwich, "I last saw her at
the door to Alice's office. I can't say she was absolutely sold on the
idea--but she was at least willing to talk it over with Alice and her
staff."

"That's something, anyway."

Across the table Timothy and Martin were listening; Martin with a look of
confusion, and Timothy with narrowed eyes, telling me that he was, as usual,
busy putting two and two together. Well, no need for me to explain; they'd hear
about it soon enough from Teresa herself. Cynthia, however, was most definitely
not listening. She was eating mechanically, evidently on automatic
pilot, while staring off into space. The look in her big brown eyes was at once
thoughtful, determined, and...serene, I guess I'd say. Like someone who has
achieved Nirvana.

I cleared my throat. "How did your morning with Mr. Ages go,
sweetie?" I asked.

Cynthia shook herself and looked across at her mother and me. "I've
found it," she told us seriously. "The minute I walked into to the
infirmary this morning I knew. That's what I'm going to do with the rest of my
life, Dad, Mom. It has to be."

I had never heard such a tone in her voice before: it was the sound of
utter, calm certainty. Beside me Elizabeth was gaping, no doubt wondering what
had happened to her scatterbrain younger daughter. "Mr. Ages thinks so
too," Cynthia went on. She looked around and leaned closer. "I'm not
really supposed to tell anyone yet," she whispered. "But I'm in. Mr.
Ages told me so. As soon as I graduate I go to work for him full-time--and I'll
be studying with him in my spare time starting now."

We all reached across the table to clasp her hand.
"Congratulations," I said. "I knew you could do it."

"And so did I," Elizabeth put in. There were murmurs of agreement
from Timothy and Martin too. Especially Timothy.

If it had been anyone else but Ages, I might have suspected that friendship
had played a part in the decision. But not him. Nor would I have wanted it to
be that way in any case. It was simply too important a job. His assistant would
share his responsibility for the health of the entire community; between the
two of them they would almost literally have the power of life and death. Only
the most qualified and dedicated individual could possibly be considered;
friendship could have no part in it.

"Eileen and her baby are doing fine," Cynthia told us. "Mr.
Ages thinks they can go home tomorrow."

I grimaced. Philip my friend, I thought, you'd better get some
sleep while you can!

"And Judith was in this morning too," Cynthia said, lowering her
voice even more.

"I don't suppose you're permitted to discuss your cases--" I said
casually, and Cynthia smiled impishly.

"No," she said. "And I didn't understand a quarter of what
Mr. Ages told her anyway. Not yet, at least. But it seems that what's wrong
with her isn't life-threatening. She was there for almost an hour. He finally
sent her off with a half-dozen different kinds of pills, and told her to make
an appointment in two weeks." She grimaced. "I've got a list of all
the herbs he gave her. I'm supposed to research the origin and use of each one
and report back to him this afternoon. My first lesson."

Elizabeth and I were scarcely listening to the last part of what Cynthia
said, I'm afraid; we were still stuck on the first part. We exchanged a
speculative glance; and then I risked a quick look over my shoulder. Judith was
indeed in the hall, sitting once again at the table in the back corner; and
arranged before her was a chorus line of small corked bottles, whose labels she
was examining one by one. "I hope," I said dryly, "that at least
one of those is a natural, herbal tranquilizer."

Just then--no doubt sparing me Elizabeth's wrath--Teresa entered the hall.
Ignoring the line at the counter, she hobbled directly over to our table; and
then, while the rest of the family watched in amazement, she threw her arms
around me and kissed me firmly on the cheek. "Thank you, Father," she
said. "You're the best."

I grinned in embarrassment as she turned and made her way to the line.
"It appears," I observed, "that Teresa may have finally found
her niche."

Someone once postulated that life has a kind of automatic balancing
mechanism: for every good thing that happens, something bad has to come along
to compensate. I'd always considered that to be fatalistic nonsense--but recent
events were turning me into a believer.

Suddenly--with a suddenness, in fact, that was nothing short of
breathtaking--my children were all taken care of. Oh, I had no doubt but that
they would have their bad days; they were starting very much at the bottom of
their chosen professions, and all of them, I was sure, would occasionally
become frustrated with their rate of progress. I had a feeling that Martin
might be especially vulnerable to that. All of them would come home once in a
while and announce that they hated their jobs. But I knew also that all of them
would stick to those jobs and excel. Of that we could all be certain.

Which left only one major problem yet to be addressed, so far as my offspring
were concerned. The problem of (as Hacker once put it in her own irrepressible
way) "going out and kidnapping some mates for them." And that was one
which I didn't yet feel myself capable of confronting.

And so it was that I was riding pretty high as I walked the corridors that
afternoon, intending--in the absence of any instructions pro or con--to see if
anyone else in the community was in need of my incredible wisdom.
Unfortunately, as was happening with distressing frequency lately, my good mood
wasn't destined to last very long; because I almost immediately ran into
Justin.

In my long association with the ex-Captain of the Guard and current elected
Leader, I had seen him in a really somber mood only half a dozen times or so;
and every time I did, it was bad news all around. When he found me in the
hallway near his quarters he spoke just a few quiet words: "Let's take a
walk." And then he turned and set off, not even bothering to see if I was
following. We headed slowly through the corridors, not to his office as I'd
expected, but to--and then through--the main entrance, under the watchful and
phlegmatic gaze of Brutus.

Outside it was indeed one of those autumn days that I loved so well. The sky
was pale blue, with a small line of clouds to the south. The western ridge was
visible but softened by the haze. The trees in the forest were turning color en
masse now, a riot of orange, yellow and red. A little closer, some two
dozen or so rats were working on the farm, clearing out or plowing under the
remains of the season's harvest.

Justin led me across the grassy area that fronted the main entrance, and
which was growing a little patchy and ragged now with the onset of fall. Near
the lake-shore he sat down cross-legged in the sparse shade of some half-bare
bushes, and I settled down across from him. A little distance away, out in the
middle of the running track, a group of youngsters were having a game of
soccer; their voices drifted over to us intermittently, carried by the soft
warn breeze.

Justin sat for several minutes looking sad and tired, gazing out over the
lake. Finally he sighed, turned his eyes upon me, and spoke quietly.
"Jonathan, a few days ago I told you something, in confidence, about a
relationship I was then having with Judith. I asked you to keep that
information to yourself, and you said that you would. Is that correct?"

"Yes, but--"

He shook his head. "No 'buts,' Jonathan. I told you that Judith
believed herself to be pregnant with my child, and you promised to keep it
confidential." He signed. "And yet, that very evening, you chose to
break that promise, and reveal that information. Is that also true?"

"It isn't as if I shouted it from the rooftops--" I began, but
once again he cut me off, a little more forcefully this time.

"Yes or no, Jonathan. Is it true that you broke your promise?"

I looked away. "Yes," I said. "When you put it that way,
yes."

"There are a number of other things I could say," Justin went on.
"Yes, it might be true that it was for her own good. No, you didn't make
it known to the general public, only to her sister. And yes, it did turn out
that Judith's problem wasn't pregnancy, but rather something else, which Ages
is still working to treat. All of this is true." He leaned forward.
"But none of it matters, Jonathan. Right now the only thing that
matters to me is the fact that you have damaged my trust in you. I can forgive
your unorthodox methods of doing your job, because I know that your work will
get done in good time, one way or another. I can overlook your irreverent
attitude, because I've been known to have one too. And I can understand your
independent streak, as well as what you've sacrificed in order to give your
family a safe home here.

"But what I can't overlook, or forgive, or even understand, is
your betrayal of my confidence. It doesn't matter whether you were right or
wrong, Jonathan. The only thing that matters is that it shouldn't have happened
at all. As my assistant you've had access to a great deal of information which
could be considered confidential. Up until now I've trusted you with it--but I
honestly don't know if I can any more."

"Justin," I said, "this is ridiculous..."

"Is it really?" he asked. "Tell me, how would you have
felt if I, months ago and for your own good, went to Elizabeth and told her
your little secret? I very nearly did, you know. I came within ten seconds of
telling her everything, as I lay under those rocks. But I didn't. And the
reason I didn't was that I had promised. And for me, Jonathan, that went
beyond any question of good or bad. You asked, and I promised. That was all I
needed to know. But when it was the other way around..." he shook his head
grimly. "I think you see my problem now."

"What do you want me to say?" I asked.

He shrugged. "I don't know," he replied. "Because no matter
what you say, I'm not sure if I can believe you any more."

"Does that mean," I began, and choked off. I tried again.
"Does that mean you're firing me?"

"No," he said. "I'm not. Jonathan, I am terribly tired right
now, and I'll be the first to admit that I'm more than a little confused too. I
thought I had things figured out--but now it seems that I don't any more. I
don't want to do something that I'll regret later. So no, you're not fired. Not
yet anyway. But I think it might be better for both of us if we didn't try to
work together for a few days."

"Suspended, then?"

He shrugged again. "If you like," he said. He rose. "I'll let
you know when I'm in need of your services again, Jonathan. Until then I think
it might be best if we stay out of each other's sight."

And with those quiet words he turned and walked away, leaving me sitting
there stunned. I would have made an absolutely terrible member of the debating
team, I suppose: I never could argue against anyone who I know is right.