"Dad? Can you hear me?"

The voice that spoke those quiet words was instantly familiar: it belonged
to my younger daughter. Which meant, presumably at least, that the slim hand
which held a damp cloth to my forehead was hers as well. Slowly I managed to
pry my eyes open--and found myself looking directly up into another pair, as
large and brown as my own. I might have been gazing into a mirror--except that those
eyes were framed by a slightly round face covered with soft beige fur. A face
that wore an expression which was at once concerned and exhausted.

I smiled--or tried to, anyway. "Hello, sweetie," I said.

Instantly, Cynthia's eyes lit up with joy and relief. "How do you feel,
Dad?" she asked.

"I'm...not quite sure," I replied. Taking a rapid inventory, I found
myself lying flat on my back, wrapped to the chin in a coarse woolen blanket.
Another, tightly-rolled, was tucked beneath my head. Underneath that covering I
seemed to be naked, and someone had evidently removed my improvised
mountaineering harness. "Where are we, and how long was I out?" I
asked.

"We're still in the remains of the room where you found Arthur,"
Cynthia told me; and, as she rocked back onto her heels, I saw that this was
true. My field of view was somewhat limited, but directly above me I could see
a patch of pale-blue sky; behind my head the outer wall of that little ruined
space; and to my right, a comfortable six inches or so away, the brink I had
come so close to tumbling over.

"--And you were unconscious about twenty minutes, according to
Sullivan," Cynthia went on.

I tried to lever myself up onto my elbows for a better look around, but that
proved to be a serious mistake: my left arm wouldn't hold me, and the slightest
movement was enough to cause a sickening wave of pain to shoot through my
shoulder and down my side. I bit back a yelp, and Cynthia restrained me gently
with a hand on my chest. "You'd better lie still, Dad," she advised.
"Mr. Ages thinks you have a dislocated shoulder--"

"Ages?" I echoed incredulously. "He's up here too?"

She nodded and grinned briefly. "Not that he really wants to be,"
she said. "We came as soon as we heard that Arthur had been found
injured." She glanced back over her shoulder, looking at something which
was out of my view, and she nodded again, this time in satisfaction.
"They're getting ready to take him across the gap now," she went on.
"Then Mr. Ages will be with you. He treated Arthur first--he called it
'triage'."

I nodded. "I can't blame him," I said. "How is Arthur?"

"A fractured femur," Cynthia said, as casually as if she'd been
using such terminology all her life. "He's going to be off his feet for a
while, but he'll live."

"He will," I agreed. "He's too stubborn to die." The fog
had pretty well lifted from my brain by then, and as I peered up more closely
at my youngest child, what I saw alarmed me. She looked absolutely exhausted,
totally spent; her fur was disheveled, and her clothing--a white blouse and a
khaki skirt--was liberally spattered with what could only have been blood. The
blood, that is, of who knows how many injured rats. I reached up with my good
arm and clasped her hand. "And how are you, sweetie?" I asked
quietly.

She turned quickly aside, but not so far that I couldn't tell: she had
suddenly begun to cry, the tears running unchecked down her cheeks.
"I...don't think I can do this, Daddy," she whispered. She shook her
head in despair. "It was the worst thing I've ever seen. So many people
injured, in pain, bleeding...and I...I..."

"...And you didn't know how to help them," I finished.

She nodded. "That's right," she said. "I wanted to--but I
didn't even know how to begin. And Mr. Ages was shouting at me constantly, to
bring him this and that..." She turned again to look at me. "I...don't
think I can do this," she repeated. "I think I made the wrong
choice."

"Listen, sweetie," I began intently, but I was interrupted as Ages
stepped up beside us, wiping his hands on a scrap of towel. And as he did,
Cynthia turned away quickly, hiding her face from him. He appeared not to
notice--but appearances can be deceiving.

The older mouse looked exhausted too, even more so than Cynthia--which was
hardly surprising--and his clothing was also spotted with blood.
"Well," he said quietly, "that's that. I'll have to set and cast
that leg when we get him back to the infirmary, but at least he's stable. He's
one very lucky rat."

I craned my neck for a look, and what I saw heartened me. A kind of crude
litter or stretcher, made of poles and ropes, had been rigged to our system of
ropes and pulleys in place of the bosun's chair, and in that litter lay our
chief engineer. He was wrapped in a blanket, and several lengths of rope had been
passed around him, strapping him securely in place. His eyes were closed, but
whether he was unconscious again, or simply didn't care to look down, I don't
know. Two rats were already hard at work, hauling him across the gap: on our
side Sullivan, and on the opposite side Brutus. Across the way, standing beside
the big rat, Justin, Mary and Tucker watched and waited anxiously.

"He will be all right?" I asked, and Ages nodded.

"Yes, he will, in time. Now," he went on briskly, "let's see
what we can do for you, my boy. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting..."

"That's all right," I assured him. "If I'd been conscious, I
would have insisted that you treat of Arthur first anyway."

"Of that," Ages said with a smile, "I have no doubt. Hold
still, please."

He knelt down beside me then, and, folding back the blanket, took my left
arm in his hands, flexing it carefully. He was gentle, but still it hurt, and I
had to grit my teeth to keep from crying out. To distract myself from the pain
I asked, "How were the casualties?"

"Much lighter than I'd feared," Ages said, somewhat distractedly.
"About two dozen people in all were injured. There were a fair number of
lacerations and cases of rope-burn. Also some torn muscles and sprains, and
even a few broken bones. But nothing life-threatening or disfiguring. No one
was blinded or dismembered, thank God. Everyone's injuries will heal soon
enough."

I nodded in relief. "That's good." And when he said "soon
enough," he meant exactly that. It was another legacy of our altered
genes: the Rats of NIMH tended to heal very quickly, even from relatively major
injuries. And for us as well, scars were never permanent; after a time they
simply faded away.

"And by the way," Ages went on, as he continued to manipulate my
poor disconnected arm, "I'm sure you'll be pleased to hear what a
tremendous help your daughter has been to me today."

He didn't look up, and so he didn't see that Cynthia had turned to stare at
him in amazement. He went on, "What happened today was truly a trial by
fire--especially for someone whose training has barely begun." Finally he
glanced up and met her gaze. "But Cynthia held up much better than I'd
dared hope." He paused, and when he went on, he was finally speaking
directly to her. "Even I have seldom seen anything so bad, my dear. If you
can stand up to that, you can stand up to anything this job has in store for
you."

I don't know what Cynthia would have said in reply, because Ages didn't give
her the chance: he returned immediately to examining my arm, which she gaped in
amazement. "Hmm, yes," he said. "Definitely dislocated; but it
appears that the collateral damage is minor--little more than strained
ligaments, I'd say. You're very lucky too, my boy--injuries of this type are
all too often accompanied by fractures. We'd better put the joint back in
position here and now, before the swelling gets any worse. Cynthia?"

My daughter shook herself. "Yes, sir?"

"I'm going to need your help with this."

She hesitated, glancing wide-eyed from him to me and back again. She
swallowed hard. "Mine?" she asked. "But I don't--"

"Yours," he interrupted firmly. "And don't worry, I'll tell
you exactly what to do." He smiled wickedly. "When I hired you, my
dear, you assured me that you are stronger than you look. Now's your chance to
prove it. This is definitely going to require strength."

Once again Cynthia looked from Ages to me and back again; then she took a
deep breath, visibly centering herself. When she spoke again, a few seconds
later, her voice was quite calm, and almost a full octave lower.
"Right," she said. "What do I do?"

What followed was a remarkably unpleasant process, but fortunately it didn't
take long. They had me sit up--which was painful enough--and then both Cynthia
and Ages knelt down next to me, she on my left and he behind. At Ages'
direction, Cynthia placed her right hand flat against my side, just below my
armpit, and took hold of my arm with her left, between the wrist and the elbow.
Meanwhile Ages laid his hand on the back of my shoulder, his fingers resting on
the bulge of the dislocated joint. "All right, my dear," he said,
"pull. Don't jerk; be steady. But don't be afraid to pull hard."

With a quick glance at me she did so, pushing with her right hand and
pulling with her left. I took a deep breath, tried to relax--it was no good
fighting against them--and concentrated on not passing out again.

"Very good," Ages said encouragingly. He probed the joint with his
fingers. "Now turn your left hand clockwise very slowly--and don't stop
pulling. Easy now..."

She did as he directed, grunting with effort...and abruptly, with a sudden,
audible pop, almost as violent as the dislocation itself had been, my shoulder
fell back into its socket. And the pain...well, it would be an exaggeration to
say that it was gone; but it was instantly lessened. And so too was the
creepy feeling that my arm was about to fall off.

As soon as she felt the joint pop back into place, Cynthia ceased pulling,
and she gently lowered my arm into my lap. I leaned over and kissed her on the
cheek. "Thank you, sweetie," I said. I paused, and then went on
quietly, "See? You can do it. You haven't made a mistake, Cynthia.
Not at all. Don't ever let anybody tell you that you have."

She smiled. "Thank you, Daddy," she said. Then, abruptly, her
expression changed to one of alarm. She scrambled to her feet and retreated to
the edge of the precipice, where she knelt down with her back to me. I saw her
shoulders heaving up and down, and I started to rise, but I was prevented by
Ages' hand on my shoulder.

"I think," he said mildly, "we'd best leave her alone for a
minute or two."

I looked up at him in anguish. "But..."

"I'll take care of her, Jonathan," he promised. He glanced at her.
"Given everything she's seen today, that sort of reaction is hardly
unexpected. I don't imagine it will happen again, though. God willing, this day
was the most difficult she will ever face, and as soon as we've dealt with
Arthur's leg, it will be over."

"You're going to keep her, then?" I asked with a smile.

"I'd be a fool not to," he told me seriously. "All right, my
boy--let's see about getting you out of here."

With the joint back in position, the pain was indeed considerably
lessened--but my shoulder was extremely stiff, leaving the arm all but useless,
and the area around the joint was swollen ominously, as if a small cantaloupe
had somehow taken up residence there. With a wide strip of cloth bandage,
brought forth from his much-depleted medical bag, Ages rigged a sling, and with
another, narrower piece he bound my arm immovably across my chest. "The
swelling should go down in a day or so," he told me as he worked. "We
can hasten that along a bit with some of my willow-bark extract..."

Art by LordDirk

"Otherwise known as 'aspirin'," I said dryly.

"Basically, yes," he agreed with a smile. "And if there's any
ice available in the cold-storage lockers, that will help too. I'd suggest that
you use your arm as little as possible for the next week--"

I sighed tragically. "No wrist-wrestling with Brutus, then."

"No," he said archly. "But in a few days, you should be as
good as new."

Unless my wife kills me first, I thought darkly. She was going to
just love this one...

By this time, of course, Arthur had been taken down the hill, carried by his
daughter and Tucker; which meant that other than Cynthia, Ages and myself, the
only people left at the scene of the disaster were Sullivan, Brutus and Justin.
My daughter was sitting on the brink of the gash with her forehead resting on
her knees and a miserable expression on her face, drawing in slow, deep
breaths. As I glanced at her in concern, Ages patted my uninjured shoulder
reassuringly. "She'll be all right," he promised. "I'll talk to
her."

"Talk, or lecture?" I asked pointedly.

"Talk," he repeated firmly. "I've nothing to lecture her
about. I can't fault her for having emotions, heaven knows. Eventually she'll
learn to control them a bit better--but never, I hope, will she lose them. If
she did she'd be useless to me."

I was able to rise to my feet, more or less under my own power, and it was
only a short climb up to the little platform where I'd rigged the rope and
pulley. Sullivan was waiting there; he grasped my good hand and hoisted me up
beside him. Naked, I was beginning to shiver; the wind has acquired a definite
edge by then, and my clothes were still across the gap. The litter had been
brought back across by then, empty of course, and I allowed Sullivan to lift me
up into it and wrap the blanket around me. "Thank you for saving my
life," I told him, as he passed a rope around my waist and tied it firmly
underneath the stretcher.

For a second he looked puzzled; then he smiled. "You're welcome,"
he said, "but I'm afraid you're only half right. I pulled you back from
the brink--but I'm not the one who stopped you from going over. I couldn't get
there quick enough."

I frowned. "Who did, then?"

"Arthur," Sullivan told me simply. He shook his head in wonder.
"How he managed to move so fast with a broken leg, I'll never know."

Arthur, I thought incredulously. It was a little hard to believe--the
big rat would have had to throw himself, somehow or other, at least half his
body length, and with only one usable leg. But someone had caught me,
and if it wasn't Sullivan...It's tempting to say something like "now Arthur
and I were even"; but that was by no means true. The fact is, the Rats of
NIMH had been saving each other's lives for so long, we'd long since stopped
counting. We took care of each other: that was more than sufficient.

"Hang on," Sullivan told me. "Heading out!"

As the litter began to make its way slowly and steadily across the gap,
propelled by the strong arms of Sullivan and Brutus, I risked one quick glance
before I closed my eyes. Not down, though--I knew well enough what was beneath
me--but back. What I saw was Ages crouched on the brink beside Cynthia, his arm
draped consolingly across her shoulders as he spoke quietly to her. I smiled,
and as I settled in to enjoy the ride, I made a mental note never to think of
him as "unsympathetic" again.

Despite my protests--which were entirely ineffectual anyway, under the
circumstances--our dauntless leader carried me all the way down into the
community in his own arms.

"I can walk," I assured him, as he knelt down to unfasten the rope
from around the litter; but in response he merely grinned and shook his head.

"Maybe you can, Jonnymouse," he told me, "but you're
not going to." And with that he scooped me up, blanket and all. There was
very little I could do to prevent it: he was bigger than me, and I had no
particular desire to be dropped. That first step was a little steep. And so,
embarrassed beyond words but utterly helpless, I relaxed and allowed myself to
be carried. "Jonnymouse" indeed...

Art by LordDirk

Before we left the scene of the disaster, Justin turned to Brutus.
"You're in charge," he told the big rat. "Make sure Sullivan,
Ages and Cynthia get across safely. And after that..." He sighed and shook
his head. "I guess we'll have to figure out what to do about this mess
later. After they're across, secure the ropes, and then go get something to
eat. Lord knows you've earned it."

Brutus nodded and flashed a quick smile; and then Justin turned. He paused
for just a second, to gather up the small bundle of my clothing, which I hung
onto with my good hand. Then he started down the trail, picking his way
carefully, obviously very aware how top-heavy he was with me clutched tight to
his chest like a somewhat oversized infant. "I imagine that's it for the
fourth level," I commented a minute later, and Justin sighed again.

"For the foreseeable future, anyway," he agreed. "Until next
spring at the very least. I'm certainly not going to let anyone work up here in
the rain or snow." He glanced back up at the ragged gap. "You were
right all along, Jonathan," he said. "It never should have been
built. It's just dumb luck that no one was killed today."

"Somebody or something was watching out for us, that's for sure,"
I agreed. I paused. "But we might end up with one fatality after
all, if we're not careful."

He frowned down at me. "Who?"

"Not so much who as what," I said. "This is
sure to be a heavy blow to Arthur's confidence in himself and his abilities.
His leg will heal--but his confidence might never recover. And we need it--and
him."

Justin nodded grimly. "We all take him for granted," he said
quietly. "Myself included." He nodded at the fallen remains of the
fourth level; by that time the trail had carried us down almost level with that
jumbled mass of broken rock. "For a while today, when we were afraid that
he was buried under all that ...I found myself wondering how we'd possibly get
along without him. I've heard it said that no one is indispensable--but he
comes about as close as anyone I've ever known."

"I've heard that said too," I said. "But I've never believed
it. I've always preferred to believe just the opposite--that everyone is
indispensable."

Justin nodded slowly, thoughtfully; then he paused and adjusted his grip,
grunting with effort as he hitched my sore body a little closer to his chest.
"You, my friend," he announced, "are going on a diet."

Elizabeth was waiting. Naturally.

As Justin pushed open the apartment door with his foot, she looked up
sharply from her perch on the smaller sofa. She was sitting rigid, upright, her
shoulders not even touching the back of the couch; her expression was perfectly
composed, but the damp handkerchief she held in her hands had been worried and
knotted into a rag. As we entered she rose swiftly to her feet, her eyes
widening in horror and her hands flying to her mouth to stifle either a gasp or
a scream. Seeing that, I cursed myself soundly for not insisting that Justin
put me down while we were still out in the corridor. My wife knew that something
had happened to me--that much was instantly clear--but she could not possibly
have known the details, not that quickly, and seeing me being carried in like
that...well, God only knows what she thought. "I'm all right," I
assured her quickly. I glanced up. "Do you mind?" I asked pointedly.

A little shame-faced--realizing, now, how badly his act of chivalry had
backfired--Justin set me on my feet, and unwrapped the blanket from around my
battered body. Elizabeth started forward, paused for an instant when she saw my
sling and my hugely-swollen shoulder, and then, adjusting her trajectory a
trifle, threw her arms around my uninjured side. "I was so worried,"
she whispered brokenly into my ear. "I heard that you'd been hurt while
rescuing Sullivan and his crew--but nobody knew anything definite. I was afraid
that...that..."

I disengaged her clinging arms from around me, just a little; enough so that
I could gaze deeply into her eyes. "I'm sorry," I said. "Sorry
that I worried you."

"--But you were just doing what needed to be done," she said with
a wan smile and watery eyes. "I know. Believe me, I know."

I started to draw her a little closer, but at that moment Justin cleared his
throat, and my wife and I both turned. "I think I'd better leave the two
of you alone for a while," he observed with a smile. He handed my clothing
to Elizabeth, and he folded the blanket neatly and draped it over his arm.
"I'll be wanting to discuss what happened with both of you, but there's no
particular hurry. You ought to get some rest, Jonathan. I've got to check on
Arthur anyway--"

"Arthur?" Elizabeth echoed in astonishment. "You mean--he's
alive?"

"You hadn't heard?" Justin asked. "He is indeed--thanks to
your husband here." His grin widened. "So don't be too hard on him,
Elizabeth: he's a hero. Again."

With that he departed. Even as the door was closing behind him, I suddenly
realized that I wasn't quite as strong as I'd thought I was. A wave of
dizziness passed through me, and I staggered and almost fell. Elizabeth had to
support me with a hand under my elbow. "Something tells me," I said,
"that I'd better lie down for a little while."

"Something tells me you're right," she replied in concern.
"You're as white as a sheet."

She helped me into our room, and eased me into bed; as I'd hoped, as soon as
I was horizontal the dizziness faded. No position was truly comfortable, but
with our softest pillow under my shoulder, I could just about stand to lie flat
on my back. For a few moments Elizabeth bustled about, pulling the blankets up
over me, hanging up my clothes, bringing me a glass of water....but then,
abruptly, she stopped short turned away. A few seconds later I realized that
she was once again crying.

I reached out and touched her arm. "Hey," I said. "There's no
need for that. I'm going to be fine. Everybody is."

She spoke without turning, dabbing at her eyes with the remains of her
handkerchief. "I know you will," she said in choked tones.
"That's not the reason I'm crying."

"No? Why, then?"

Finally she turned, and she plunked herself down on the edge of the bed,
peering at me through swollen and red-rimmed eyes. She sighed. "I suppose
you'll think it's silly..." she began.

Smiling, I reached up and brushed her cheek. "I won't know until you
tell me."

For a few seconds she sat staring into space. Then she went on, quietly,
"In our old life, before I knew about NIMH, before I knew who and what you
really are...all that time you were leading a double life. You did things for the
rats, dangerous things, but at the time I didn't know anything about it."
She sighed. "I was living in a fool's paradise--but in a way that was
preferable, because what I didn't know I couldn't worry about. And now...in some
ways you're still leading a double life. You're not just my husband--you're an
important member of the Rats of NIMH, someone who is looked up to and
respected. And someone who is still called upon to do dangerous things on
behalf of the rats. Before, when you were out drugging the cat, I could just go
on blithely with my housework, because I had no real idea what you were doing
when you weren't home. But today...I knew. And all I could do was sit and wait
until they brought you back inside, in who knows what condition. I don't think
I'm a selfish person, Jonathan. I have no trouble sharing you with your
friends--especially since they have given us a home and a life here. But I'm
afraid I can't get used to the thought of you giving your life for them. I...just
don't think they have that much claim on you. Not quite."

For a long moment I was silent. Then I grasped her hand and brought it to my
lips. "You're right," I said softly. "You're absolutely right.
But please don't blame Justin or any of the others for what happened today. The
fault was entirely mine. I saw what needed to be done, and I did it. I don't
know if it's any consolation, but the fact is: if I hadn't, Sullivan and his
crew would probably still be trapped, and Arthur would probably be dead from
shock. But you're right, darling. I should have been thinking about my
responsibility to you and our children. The five of you should be uppermost in
my mind, whenever I'm tempted to engage in a harebrained stunt like that. But
if you ask me, this--" I indicated my swollen shoulder-- "was a small
price to pay for Arthur's life."

"I...suppose you're right," she agreed reluctantly. She leaned down
and kissed me on the cheek, then settled in beside me on the bed. "All
right," she went on briskly. "I may regret asking this, but what
exactly happened?"

And so I told her, narrating my entire experience from when Justin and I
arrived on the shelf to when Ages and Cynthia popped my shoulder back into its
socket. By the time I was finished, Elizabeth was shaking her head in amazement
and vicarious terror. I expected that; but what I didn't expect was for
her eyes to suddenly blaze with anger. "Jonathan Brisby," she said,
shaking an admonishing finger, "if you ever do anything like that
again, I'll...I'll..."

I smiled and wrapped my good arm around her, pulling her closer.
"You'll what?" I asked challengingly.

"I don't know, exactly," she admitted. "But I'm warning
you--whatever it is, it'll be pretty dire."

That evening I was able to join my family for dinner--more or less.

Several hours of sleep had served to restore my strength, at least to a
certain extent; and a dose of Ages' unpleasantly bitter willow-bark powder
helped take down the swelling some, aided by thirty minutes or so under an
ice-pack. My arm was still all but useless, though, and my entire body felt
stiff and sore, as Elizabeth helped me into my clothes and re-settled my sling.
She was careful and gentle--as always--but still, the process hurt. I'm not
sure, though, which of us it hurt worse--because every time I winced or bit my
lip, so did she. It was quite a while before we finally stepped out into the
living room.

All of my offspring looked tired--which is entirely understandable. Though
the three older ones hadn't had quite as stressful a day as their little
sister, they certainly had not been idle. Far from it, in fact. Martin and
Timothy had spent most of the day up on the fourth level--or what remained of
it--helping to clear up the debris, and to shore up the ceiling to prevent
further collapses until a more permanent solution could be found. Teresa had
spent her day in the infirmary; but unlike Cynthia, who had been run back and
forth nearly to the point of exhaustion, my older daughter's broken ankle had
relegated her to jobs which she could accomplish while remaining fairly
stationary: rolling bandages, changing the coverings on examination tables,
that sort of thing.

Early that morning when news of the disaster reached us, Justin had called
upon my children to help out, and they had done so instantly and without
hesitation. At the time I'd given that fact scarcely a thought, but now, looking
back, I felt a vast sense of pride swelling my chest. Truly, the three older
ones were adults now, free and equal citizens of the community; in
Justin's eyes, and--more importantly--in their own. And if that was true of
them, could their little sister be far behind?

As Elizabeth and I stepped out of our bedroom, the four of them leaped up
from the sofa to cluster around me, reaching out to embrace me or clasp my
hand. I saw the concern in their eyes, and heard it in their quiet voices:
"Father, how are you?"; "Does it hurt a lot, Dad?";
"Good thing you're right-handed, Dad"; and "Did the ice take
down the swelling any, Daddy?"

Clearly they knew what had happened to me, a fact which surprised me not at
all. Cynthia would certainly have told her brothers and sister the whole story,
hours ago. I was amused to note that my youngest daughter was not looking at me
in quite the same way as her siblings. Their expressions were ones of
concern and sympathy, seeking reassurance; but the look on her face
seemed more like professional interest. She peered at my shoulder with narrowed
eyes; no doubt she was gauging to what extent the swelling had come down.

As usual, the worried look was most obvious in Timothy's big blue
eyes--unless that was just the magnifying effect of his glasses--and it was
around his shoulders that I draped my good arm. "I'm fine," I assured
them all. "But I'm starving to death. Let's go, while they've still got
something left, eh?"

Timothy reached up to cover my hand with his own. "I doubt they'd let you
go hungry, Dad," he said with a grin.

As the six of us made our way down the corridor, moving at something less
than full speed, I fell in beside Cynthia and linked my arm with hers.
"How are you feeling, sweetie?" I asked softly.

She smiled up at me. She had bathed and changed clothes since I saw her
last--so had they all--and I rather suspected that she had caught a quick nap
too. At very least she no longer looked as if she was riding the very edge of
her endurance, and her eyes had regained their customary sparkle. "Much
better," she said. She paused, glancing at her mother and her siblings,
then she went on quietly, "Thank you, Daddy."

"What for?"

"For proving to me that I can do the job."

I quirked an eye. "And how did I do that?"

She nodded at my shoulder. "With that," she explained. She smiled.
"If I can handle treating my own father...I can handle anything."

"I understand," I said. "And I'm happy to have been able to
help, believe me." I paused. "There's a more important question,
though. I know you can do the job; I never doubted that for a second.
What you've got to ask yourself is, do you want to?"

For a few seconds she stared into space; then finally, she nodded.
"Yes," she said softly. "Yes, I do."

One-armed, I hugged her. "Then that's all that matters."

In my present condition, there was of course no way I could have carried a
tray; and so, as we entered the dining hall I crossed immediately to our table
and sat down, while the remainder of my family stepped into line. There was an
absolutely heavenly scent drifting in from the kitchen--it smelled like lentil
soup and fresh bread--and it made my stomach growl so loudly that I glanced
around in embarrassment. I had not eaten a thing since my interrupted
breakfast, and after the day I'd had, I was absolutely ravenous. The real
tragedy was that I'd be restricted to eating with only one hand.

As I waited, I looked around. The dining hall was full that evening, and
even as I watched more and more people were piling in. But as crowded as it
was, the place was strangely quiet, the usual hum of conversation almost
entirely absent. The rats ate in silence, staring into space, looking glum and
sad. I suppose disasters do have that tendency, even ones that don't actually
kill anybody: in their aftermath people tend to dwell on their own mortality,
and that is never a comfortable or cheerful line of thought. We were a
close-knit community; we could scarcely be otherwise, with only twenty-two
founding members. Everyone in the community had at least one relative who'd
been involved in the day's events; everyone knew someone who had been injured,
to a greater or lesser degree, when the walls came a-tumbling down. Looking
around at those morose faces, I could clearly read the thought running through
each and every mind: we were lucky. And indeed we were: to come through
such an event without even one single fatality was almost beyond belief.

A little distance away, at a table near the windows, I noticed Timothy's
friend Robert. The young rat had been one of the fortunate ones: his arm was
thickly bandaged, but other than that he seemed to be little the worse for
wear, an observation which pleased me almost as much as it would please my son.
Robert noticed my gaze upon him; he reached across the table and touched his
mother's arm. Alice looked over at me, her eyes locking with mine; and then, to
my vast surprise, she abandoned her half-finished dinner, stood, and wound her
way patiently through the crowd directly over to me. As she stepped up before
me she bent down and grasped my hand. Her eyes were dry, but were somewhat
puffy and red; obviously she had been weeping for a long time, and quite
recently too.

"Alice--" I began, but she shook her head firmly, cutting me off.

"Jonathan, please," she said. Her voice was low and intense, and
very slightly hoarse. "I know exactly what you're going to say--that it
was 'nothing', or that it was 'no more than he would have done for you.' And
certainly that much is true. Any of us would have done the same for any
other. But that isn't enough. My husband is alive right now because of you...and
that is something which neither I, nor any other member of my family, will ever
forget. I know it's scarcely adequate, but...thank you."

There are times when a wisecrack simply isn't appropriate, as I'd discovered
over the course of a long and varied life. I gripped her hand. "You're
welcome," I told her seriously. I paused. "So...how is Arthur?"

She took a deep breath and glanced away. "He's in a great deal of pain,
of course," she said flatly, obviously fighting to keep her emotions under
control. "But Ages was able to set the bone cleanly. He'll recover."
She quirked a tiny smile. "Though he'll be impossible to live with until
he does, of course."

I smiled in return. "I can imagine, believe me," I assured her. I
paused, peering up into her face. "And how are you holding
up?"

She sighed and glanced across Robert. "My husband and two of my
children were injured today," she pointed out. "In the case of my
husband, for more than two hours I was certain he was dead. I'm...coping."

"One day at a time," I said, and she smiled and nodded.

"Yes," she agreed. "One day at a time." She glanced up
then, and she patted my shoulder. "Looks like your dinner is on its
way," she noted. "And mine is getting cold. Good night,
Jonathan."

She started to go; but then she turned back. "Oh, Jonathan?"

"Yes?"

"Would you please tell Cynthia that I'd like to see her in my office
tomorrow morning?"

I quirked an eyebrow. "I'll do that," I promised. "Good
night, Alice."

She departed, making her way through the crowd back to her own table and her
son; and I watched her go, with an equal mix of pity and admiration. She would
make it through this; that much I knew. Too many people depended on her for it
to be otherwise. Arthur most of all, certainly; but also their very large and
extended family. Not to mention her staff of teachers and their students. For
all their sakes, somehow she would find the strength to carry on. That had been
true as long as I had known her, and it would continue to be true as long as
she lived.

At that moment the flow of my thoughts--and memories--was interrupted by the
arrival of my family, bearing trays. Following close behind them was a young
kitchen worker named Andrea, who deposited my dinner before me, smiled, and
withdrew. Seldom in my life had I seen anything as attractive as that bowl of
soup, loaf of bread, and cup of tea, and I wasted no time in attacking all
three.

As she stirred some pepper into her soup, my lady wife observed dryly,
"I think I'm beginning to understand why you decided to play hero
today."

I paused in the act of stuffing my face to glance up at her sharply.
"Pardon me?"

She smiled and waved a hand. "Take a look around, my darling," she
suggested.

I did--and was astounded. The dining hall was quite crowded, as I mentioned;
and it appeared that every person there was staring directly at me. Not all at
once, I hasten to add, but rather in ones and twos, surreptitiously, and for no
more than a few seconds at a time. That had happened before, and quite
recently, too: but then I'd been a pariah, suspended from my job after a very
public scene, and the stares had been ones of voyeuristic curiosity. Not so
this time; very much the opposite, in fact. In these glances I saw a
degree of unabashed admiration which I found more embarrassing than anything
else. Apparently the news of my day's work had spread--and had, no doubt, been
embroidered upon with each retelling. By now, some of the citizenry of Thorn
Valley probably believed that I had injured my shoulder when I lifted Arthur
onto my back and leaped across the chasm in a single bound. Not, of course,
that I'd ever minded being the center of attention--certainly not--but there is
a limit.

The full significance of Elizabeth's words sunk in then, and I turned
quickly. "Wait a minute," I protested. "You can't possibly
believe that I planned this--?"

"Oh no," she said. She smiled wickedly. "Why on earth would
anyone think that? Just because there's an election coming up in a few
days, and you and I are the only declared candidates, why would I possibly
think that you'd do something to attract attention?"

For a few seconds I stared at her, absolutely stricken; then she began to
laugh, and I realized that she was teasing me. My answering chuckle was a tiny
bit shaky. "Well," I said, "just don't go falling off a cliff
for the sake of a few votes. Believe me, it isn't worth it."

She fixed me with her gaze. "Believe me," she said, "I
already know that."

The next morning I went to see Arthur--and in retrospect, I'm very glad I
did.

The first thing I found when I entered the infirmary was Cynthia, humming
quietly to herself as she bustled around the sunlit room, sweeping, cleaning
and rearranging. At first glance she appeared to be alone. As I passed through
the double doors she turned quickly, and then she smiled brightly and laid
aside her broom. "Hello, Dad," she said.

"Hello, sweetie," I replied, with a frown of confusion.
"Uh--what are you doing here, Cynthia?" I went on slowly. "I
thought you went to school this morning."

Incredibly, her smile widened. "I did," she said. "For the
last time. That's why Alice wanted to see me. I'm graduated, Dad. As of today
I'm an adult."

One-armed, I hugged her. "That's wonderful, sweetie!" I said.
"I am really, really proud of you--and I know your mother will be
too."

She flashed a brief, slightly embarrassed grin. "Thank you," she
said. She peered around quickly--as if assuring herself that we truly were
alone--and then her voice sunk to a conspiratorial whisper. "Of course it
was mainly Mr. Ages' doing. He talked Alice into it. Apparently what happened
yesterday convinced her that I'd be more use here than in a classroom."

I smiled. "And obviously you agreed with that," I observed dryly.

"Yes," she said simply. "I did. Of course I'll still be
studying for a long time--just with a different teacher."

And a sterner one, I thought; but I didn't say so. She'd find that
out for herself soon enough--if indeed she hadn't already.

"--Now," Cynthia went on, her tone suddenly brisk and
businesslike, "what can we do for you? Mr. Ages is in his lab, but he's
available for consultations." Her gaze shifted. "It's not your
shoulder, I hope--?"

Carefully, I shifted my arm in its sling. "No," I assure her.
"Actually it feels much better today. I was even able to dress myself this
morning. No, there's nothing wrong with me. I was just wondering if I'd be allowed
to visit Arthur for a few minutes."

Instantly her face fell. "I...suppose you can, yes," she said
reluctantly. "Mr. Ages didn't say that he's not allowed visitors. But...I'm
not sure if you'd really want to."

"No?" I asked. "Why not?"

She shook her head. "He isn't in the best of moods today--" she
began, and I grinned.

"I know all about his temper," I assured her; but once again she
shook her head.

"No," she said. "It isn't that. Very much the opposite, in
fact. Mr. Ages was saying this morning that he wishes Arthur would lose
his temper. No--this is...different."

I saw the look in her eye, and I nodded. "I understand," I told
her. Cynthia knew, just as her brothers and sister did, all about my recurring
bouts of the dreaded "D-word"; and she understood, better than her
siblings, why I choked down those St. John's Wort tablets every day.
"Believe me, I understand. But I'd like to try anyway. May I?"

"Certainly," she said. She nodded across to the hospital section.
"He's our only in-patient right now. But," she went on with a wry
smile, "don't say I didn't warn you."

I smiled and patted her on the shoulder; and then, slowly and thoughtfully,
I made my way across the room.

It surprised me a little that Arthur was the only patient still in
residence; not because his injuries weren't severe enough--they certainly
were--but because Ages had decided that all the other victims were well enough
to be released. He knew his business best, though, and I suppose that he did
have a point: sometimes being in one's own home, one's own private room, is
much more conducive to healing than being stuck in a cold and impersonal
hospital. The majority of the injuries had involved broken bones, strains,
sprains, cuts and contusions. Almost certainly Ages' primary prescription for
all his patients had been bed rest. That, they could get at home as easily as
in the infirmary.

And so it was that in the hospital section all the beds stood empty and
neatly made, save one. That one--the third in line, near the big windows--was
surrounded on three sides with folding screens, white cloth stretched over
wooden frames. I peeked in through a gap--and what I saw dismayed me.

Arthur's bed had been arranged so that he could look out through the windows,
out over a wide swath of Thorn Valley, a view that included the farming fields,
a tiny sliver of the lake, and the woods beyond. He lay on his back, but not
quite flat: the upper part of the bed had been raised slightly. His torso and
left leg were loosely covered with a rumpled blanket. His right leg was a solid
mass of white plaster bandages, from his waist to his ankle; and it had been
elevated above the surface of the bed by a traction rig, suspended from the
high ceiling. None of that was either unusual or alarming, given what I knew
about his injuries. What was--what caused my heart to sink instantly--was the
fact that the bedside table was entirely bare, except for a glass of water, and
so too was the chair. By this time, twenty-four hours after the accident, I
would have expected Arthur to be running his department from his hospital bed.
The table, the chair--even the floor--ought to have been covered hip-deep with
papers, reports, plans, blueprints, you name it. But they were not, and that
simple fact proved to me that Cynthia had been right, even before I got a good
look at the Chief Engineer's face.

Arthur lay on his back, as I said, and he was awake; he stared out through
the windows with no apparent interest, his arms hanging limp at his sides and
his eyes dull and lifeless. I suppose that could have been the effect of the
painkillers--certainly Ages would have had him on codeine, at very least, if
not indeed morphine--but somehow I didn't think so. Somehow, I knew that the
physical pain he was experiencing was only a small part of his troubles.
Probably because I recognized that hopeless expression: I had seen it in the
mirror too many times.

For a moment I stood and stared, fighting down pangs of vicarious despair;
then I quietly cleared my throat. Arthur glanced over at me quickly; but just
as quickly his gaze shifted back to the windows. "Hello, Jonathan,"
he said quietly.

"May I come in?" I asked. In response he lifted his right arm and
let it flop, a gesture which seemed to be an invitation to enter and sit down.
At least I chose to interpret it as such.

As I pulled myself up into the chair, he spoke again, without turning.
"It's going to snow," he said.

"Pardon me?"

He nodded out at the sunlit, somewhat windy day. Far below, on the floor of
the valley, Ralph and his crew were hard at work, getting in the winter wheat.
Their task was being hampered slightly, I saw, by the necessity of removing
boulders from the fields--boulders which, up until recently, had been part of
the fourth level. "Take a look at the ridge-top," he told me.

I did, but what I saw seemed like nothing much: a thin line of grey clouds,
so far away that their shape was indistinct, lost in the autumn haze. "I'm
afraid I don't--" I began.

"I've spent more time up in this valley than anyone," Arthur said.
"More than Nicodemus--and certainly more than Justin. I know what the
combination of clouds and a wind from that direction means. Mark my words,
Jonathan: within three days--four at the outside--there will be snow falling."

The day had dawned somewhat chilly, that much was true: there'd been frost
on the dry grass outside my bedroom window, before a touch of the sun's rays
melted it away. And Ralph's crew seemed to be well-bundled. But snow within
four days--? It seemed unlikely at best. "I'll have to take your word for
that," I said with a smile. "But I'm not here to discuss the
weather."

"No," he agreed. "No, I don't suppose you are." He
chuckled bitterly. "It's actually rather ironic that you stopped by now,
Jonathan. As it happens I was just thinking about you. I was trying to decide
whether or not to be grateful that you saved my life. I'd just about come to
the conclusion that I wish you hadn't found me."

I frowned and shook my head. "You don't mean that."

Finally he turned, and gazed at me through large, dark, sad eyes. "I
wish I didn't," he said. "In many ways it would have been a good deal
simpler--simpler, at least, than living through what's to come."

"Meaning what, exactly?"

"The inquest," he said heavily. "I imagine Justin already has
it scheduled."

"What inquest?"

"Into what happened up on the fourth level, of course--and why."

I hesitated for a long moment before I replied. One of the worst things
about deep depression--as I knew far too well--is its inherent illogic. What I
mean is this: a person in such a state doesn't want to hear the facts;
or, more specifically, doesn't want to hear anything which might tend to break
him out of his funk. In the depths of a depression such as Arthur was clearly
experiencing, the victim will almost automatically gainsay anything he is
told--even if, in doing so, he commits wild leaps of illogic. It's not that he
means to be contrary, not really; it's something almost akin to a reflex, a
knee-jerk reaction if you will. Whatever I said, Arthur would no doubt throw
back in my face; still, I had to try.

"To the best of my knowledge," I said carefully, "Justin is
not planning any kind of 'inquest'--at least not in the sense of a public
trial. I'm certain that he will want a report--of course he will--but
knowing him, I rather suspect he'll accept it in private."

"Maybe," Arthur said grudgingly. "But what about the people?
What will they demand?"

I shook my head. "I have no idea," I told him. "But one thing
I know for certain--what they will not want is your head on a platter,
or anything so melodramatic as that. We all make mistakes, Arthur. I'd need
that computer Hacker is always dreaming of to tabulate all of mine. I can't
speak for 'The People,' but as for myself, I'm willing to chalk it up to
experience, and move on." I grinned. "And in the future, maybe I'll
be listened to when I recommend against a particular building project."

For a minute or two Arthur lay silent, staring out at Ralph's workers,
watching as they tied lengths of rope around an oblong chunk of rock and began
to drag it out of the field. Then, once again without turning, he said,
"Jonathan? Why do you want to be vice-leader?"

I smiled wryly. "I'm not absolutely certain that I do." I sighed.
"But somebody has to. Elizabeth was right--it is a weakness
in our Constitution. After what happened yesterday, everyone in the community
should realize that. Accidents can happen anytime, and to anyone. Justin
included. As much as we don't want to admit that, still we have to be prepared
for it."

"I can't argue with you on that," Arthur said. "That
amendment should have been written a long time ago. The only reason it
wasn't--if we're to be brutally honest with ourselves--was Nicodemus, and the
cult of personality that surrounded him." He paused. "But that's not
really what I'm getting at." He trailed off. I waited, and a moment later
he went on, "What I mean is...what makes you think you'll be able to do the
job?"

I quirked an eyebrow, and he made an impatient, cutting gesture. "I
didn't mean that the way it sounded," he said. "What I should have
said was...well, are you absolutely certain that you want the responsibility that
comes with the job?"

It was my turn then to gaze out silently at the morning. Finally I said,
"No, I'm not certain. But I owe this community a great deal, and if they
decide they want me to have that responsibility, I'm willing to accept it. And
I think I'm able, too." I peered closely at him. "What's this really
about, Arthur?"

"What do you mean?"

I shrugged. "I get the feeling that these questions you're asking have
more to do with you than me."

He sighed. "Maybe they do," he confessed. "This may sound
strange--but the fact is, up until yesterday I never realized just how much
responsibility I carry. Most especially the responsibility to make sure that
the things I build remain standing. And quite frankly, Jonathan, that's a
responsibility I'm not sure I want any more--or am capable of living up
to."

"Arthur--" I began, but he cut me off.

"Jonathan, I could have killed almost two dozen people yesterday.
People who depend on me to make the right decisions, to give the right
orders." His voice lowered. "Two of them my own children. They might
all have been killed...and it would have been the fault of my own damned
arrogance."

I took a deep breath, and I leaned forward to grasp his arm. "Arthur my
friend," I said, "believe me, I'm an expert on arrogance. I can't
even begin to count the number of stupid things I've done in my life--some of
which I've gotten away with, and some I haven't. I don't need to tell you that.
I also don't need to tell you my opinion of the fourth level."

He smiled sadly. "No," he agreed. "You made that abundantly
clear a long time ago."

"...But that's only a tiny part of what you've built here," I
pointed out. "If not for you we'd be living in tents--and who knows what
we'd be using for tools, furniture...anything. The fourth level was a lapse in
judgment--but from where I stand, your track record is still pretty good."

"You may be right," he agreed. He turned away; and when he looked
back at me his expression was haunted. "But my own children, Jonathan. My
pride almost cost me my own son and daughter. They've forgiven me--of course
they have. But...I'm not at all sure that I can ever forgive myself."

"Eventually you'll have to," I told him. "Trust me on this
one--nobody knows more about that than I do." I paused. "Arthur, you're
an engineer, and you're used to 'bottom line' thinking: the practical and the
pragmatic. Am I right about that?"

He nodded. "I...suppose I am, yes."

"Then let's think about this logically," I said. "This
community needs you--it needs your strength, your energy, and your managerial
ability; but most of all, it needs the knowledge and experience that's in your
head. If you want to, you can quit; you can turn the workshop over to someone
else. But do you honestly think that would be the end of it? Whomever you
choose, he or she won't have anything approaching your experience or know-how.
I guarantee that. And so he or she would be coming to you constantly for advice
and suggestions. 'How do we do this?' 'How do we build that?' And I know you,
Arthur. I know that you couldn't possibly refuse. You'd be up and out of your
easy chair the minute your replacement came calling. Within a week you'd be de
facto Chief Engineer again. You know that as well as I do--so why even
bother pretending that you're going to quit? You and I both know that you're
not--not as long as you're still breathing."

He gazed at me for a long time, his expression shifting between despair and
uncertainty. Finally he shook his head. "I...don't know, Jonathan," he
said. "Maybe it's the pain pills talking...but right now I just don't
know."

I grinned and rapped my knuckles against the hard plaster shell that encased
his leg. "Nobody expects you to make any decisions right now," I told
him. "All we expect is for you to get back on your feet as soon as
possible."

He smiled faintly. His eyelids were beginning to droop; whatever Ages was
giving him for the pain, clearly the latest dose was beginning to kick in. He
reached across and found my hand; there was almost no strength in his grip.
"Thank you, Jonathan," he said softly. "You're a good
friend."

My grin widened. "I hope you'll remember that," I said. "Come
election day."