"Martin?" Timothy asked. "Do you...miss Dad?"

Martin looked over at his brother in surprise. "'Course I do," he
said. Then his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What makes you think I
don't?"

"Nothing," Timothy said hurriedly. He hesitated. "It's
just...well, I've been wondering why you don't talk about him much." He
pointed. "Neither does Teresa. Cynthia was too little. She hardly
remembers him. But you two..."

There was a long pause, during which Martin looked down at his own,
mostly-submerged feet. He wriggled his toes, sending eight tiny ripples across
the swimming hole. Finally he said, slowly, "I guess...we just don't have
that much to say. I mean, sure, we loved him, but he's gone, and, well...what
else can we say?"

The four of them had the swimming hole almost to themselves that morning,
except for Carla the lifeguard, and a few adult rats looking for exercise. The
water at that time of day was slightly chilly, but the air was warming rapidly
and the sun was already intense. Near the shore, Teresa and Cynthia were
splashing around, tossing a huge beach ball back and forth. For a time Timothy
and Martin had competed at diving; a little uncharacteristically, it was Martin
who called it quits first. The two of them sat on the rocks of the breakwater,
their hands behind their heads, letting the sun bake their upper bodies dry
while their legs and tails dangled in the cool water.

"What's got you thinking about Dad so much anyway, little
brother?" Martin asked a moment later, with just a hint of irritation in
his voice.

Timothy glanced down at his own, smaller feet. His siblings might not know
it, but Timothy Brisby was always thinking about his father. Not a day
had passed since Jonathan disappeared, that Timothy had not thought about him,
many times. But--like the others, perhaps--he usually kept those thoughts to
himself. He said, "Ever since we came up here it's been like I can feel
him." He waved an arm. "Everybody here knew him, and most of them
liked him. He worked so hard to help them build this place. Since we've been
here I've felt closer to him than I have since he's been gone." He peered
earnestly at Martin. "Don't you?"

This time it was Martin's turn to look away. He mumbled something; it might
have been "Yeah, I guess."

It was the morning of the Brisby family's fifth day in Thorn Valley; and to
some of them at least, that place already seemed more like home than the farm
ever had. For the past three days Timothy and Cynthia had attended school with
the young rats, and they would have done so again this morning, except for one
thing: Test Day. Even Robert, learning mostly via independent study, was not
entirely immune from the requirement to demonstrate, every once in a while,
what he had learned. And so Timothy and Cynthia, along with their brother and
sister, had found themselves thrown on their own resources. A dangerous thing,
sometimes; but after the events of three days ago, possibly not.

For several minutes Timothy watched his sisters chase the ball back and
forth across the pool. Most of the time Teresa had no patience at all with
Cynthia; but there were moments, and this was one of them, it seemed. Timothy
didn't know exactly what had been said to Teresa and Martin after the
mud-sluice incident; but whatever it was, the results were undeniable: both of
them were considerably subdued, considerably less adventurous, and--for the
moment at least--being considerably nicer to their younger brother and sister. Though
whether that would last was another question.

Finally Timothy said, "Martin, if Dad was here right now--if it was
possible--would you be glad to see him?"

For a moment Martin seemed to freeze, his wriggling toes and lazily-waving
tail coming to an abrupt halt; then he turned to his brother with a look of
profound disgust. "Timothy," he said, "sometimes you can say
really stupid things, you know that?" And with those words he slipped into
the water and swam off toward the girls.

Timothy watched him go, his face expressionless. Then, "Maybe
not," he whispered. He squinted up at the sun then--and jumped in alarm.
It was later than he'd thought. As his brother had a moment earlier, he slid
smoothly into the water; but unlike Martin, he headed straight for the shore.
He moved like a small grey torpedo, nose first, his arms pressed against his
sides, propelling himself with his feet and his tail. Once on the beach he
didn't pause; he grabbed his towel and his shirt and took off running toward
the main entrance, drying himself as he jogged. He had an appointment, whether
he liked it or not; and if he didn't hurry, he was going to be late.

"Justin," Elizabeth said quietly, "I'm afraid I have to
report a robbery."

The leader of the rats looked up sharply over the top of his clipboard...and
then, as he saw her, his initial alarm gave way to a small, secret smile. Mission
accomplished, he thought. "Really?" he said blandly. He scooted
over on the wide sofa, and waved a hand. "You'd better have a seat and
tell me about it."

There were times when Justin's office, as spacious as it was, became
entirely too claustrophobic; and that morning was one of those times. It was
early in the day--not long after breakfast--and the lounge was all but
deserted; there were just a few other rats present, quietly conversing,
reading, or just sitting and thinking. Justin--as he often did--had staked
himself out a position in the southwest corner, near the windows; he sat with
his feet up on the coffee table, and the contents of several file folders
spread out around him. The other rats who saw him there merely smiled and went
about their business; it was, they knew, just another of their leader's little
idiosyncrasies.

Elizabeth pulled herself up onto the sofa beside him. For someone who
claimed to have been robbed she seemed remarkably composed; and the reason for
that, Justin could readily see. As it happened, the word "robbery"
wasn't quite accurate; "criminal exchangery" (if there was such a
thing) might come closer.

"This morning I went to take a bath," Elizabeth began. "I
left my cape with my towel, on the bench outside the tub enclosure. When I got
out of the tub my cape was gone." She spread out her arms. "And this
was in its place."

This time Justin smiled openly. "This," as she had put it,
was in fact a brand-new cape, fresh out of the community's sewing department.
Made of soft cotton cloth, dark green in color, the cape was a little longer
than her old one, and was impeccably tailored, all four edges straight and neatly
hemmed. The collar had been turned over and sewn, creating a kind of tunnel;
and through that a "cord" made of the same material had been passed;
Elizabeth had tied it in a neat bow-knot under her chin. Justin had grown used
to seeing her dressed in red (and, very briefly, in nothing at all), and so the
change was somewhat startling; but on the whole, he had to agree that the
sewing staff had made the right choice. She does look good in green,
he thought. More important to his eye, though, was the fact that this garment
was entirely whole, with no ragged edges, and not a patch to be seen. No longer
did she look like a ragamuffin; in fact she looked almost...regal. If the Stone
had been hanging around her neck instead of his, she could have passed for the
Queen of Thorn Valley.

With an effort--knowing full well that she was playing with him--he managed
to keep a straight face. "That's a very serious allegation," he
intoned. "Do you have any suspects?"

"Only one," she said. "And he seems to have an...alibi."
She spoke that last word hesitantly, looking up at him; he nodded. Yes,
that's the correct term. "But even if he didn't commit the crime, I
have a feeling he planned it."

"I see," he said. "And what do you think his motive
was?"

She shook her head. "I couldn't say."

"Maybe," Justin suggested, dead-pan, "he thought that having
honored guests running around looking like bag ladies was bad for the
community's image."

At that point she couldn't keep up the charade any longer; she burst out
laughing. "Oh, come on," she said, "it didn't look that
bad, did it?"

"Trust me, it did," he told her seriously. "I was a little
hurt. I mean, we left you all that cloth, and you didn't use any of it for
yourself. Yes," he added quickly, "I know you had growing kids to
keep clothed..."

She shook her head. "That's not quite true," she said. "I did
use some of the cloth for myself, and I do have other capes; they're in
our room right now."

He quirked an eye at her. "Then why--?"

"That one was...comfortable," she said. She paused and shook her
head. "No, that's not what I mean. I guess I mean it was comforting.
You see...Jonathan gave it to me, a long time ago. When we met, I didn't know a
thing about clothes, and he thought that was terrible."

"Oh," Justin said softly. Then his eyes widened. "Oh!"
He shook his head in dismay. "There I go again, jumping to conclusions.
Listen--if we hurry, we might be able to stop it being recycled into
dust-rags..."

She shook her head firmly. "No," she said. She gazed out the
window. "There's a time when you have to let some things go," she
went on softly. "Jonathan gave me many things." She smiled.
"Most of them are longer-lasting than just a piece of cloth." She
hesitated, peering up at him. "Was I right?" she asked. She lifted a
green fold. "Was this your idea?"

"I'm afraid so," he confessed. "Though I left the actual
execution to the sewing staff."

"Well, thank you," she said. "And you can thank them for me
too, if I don't get a chance first. This is lovely, and I will treasure
it." She smiled. "And the community does have standards to
keep up."

He grinned. "I'm afraid we might all be getting a little more ragged
than we'd like," he said ruefully. "It takes a lot of resources to
make clothing from scratch. There was a time when our kids didn't know the
meaning of the term 'hand me down.' They're finding out now."

"Believe me," she said, "I understand."

He peered down at her. Five days ago, when she and her children arrived in
the valley, he had instantly noticed--and approved--the changes in her. Now he
saw that those changes were just part of an ongoing process. Elizabeth Brisby
was evolving, changing, under his very eyes, it seemed. The serenity and
courage he had seen that first day were still there, still evident; and now
they had been joined by something he could only call confidence. Would
the Mrs. Brisby of three months ago have sought him out, as she had this
morning, to joke with him? Would she have walked boldly into the kitchens and
offered her services? Would she have walked into his office and all but
demanded that he let Sullivan out of prison? He didn't think so. And yet this
Mrs. Brisby--the very much improved model--had done all those things. This Mrs.
Brisby walked the corridors of the community at ease, returning greetings as if
she'd lived there all her life. And in fact--Justin realized to his
surprise--it was already getting hard to remember a time when she hadn't
been there. As hard as it was to contemplate a time when she no longer would.

He said, "You and I haven't had as much time to talk as I'd hoped.
So--how have you been getting along?"

"We've been having a wonderful time," she said. "Even better
than I expected. Timothy and Cynthia have been going to school, you
know--except today, of course--and Teresa and Martin have actually been making
themselves useful..."

"So I've heard," Justin said. He rummaged through the papers that
surrounded him. "I've got the reports here somewhere...Oh, yes, here we are.
Martin Brisby spent yesterday running errands for Arthur's excavation crew up
on the fourth level. They send their gratitude. And Teresa Brisby has been seen
helping out in the day-care center, ditto." He glanced up. "Did you
have any inkling that they had these proclivities?"

"Well, I knew that Martin is interested in construction," she
said. "He's been making a lot of use of those tools you left us. But
Teresa..." She shook her head. "No, I don't know what put that idea
into her mind." She smiled. "Unless it's some of my genes at
work."

"She must have a few, at least," Justin agreed blandly.
"Where are the four of them this morning?"

"Out at the swimming hole, I think," Elizabeth said. "I
thought it might be a little chilly this early in the morning, but they
insisted it wouldn't." She shrugged helplessly.

Justin peered at her in some surprise. Here was another change, one which
she might not even be aware of herself. Five days ago, would she have let the
four of them go to the swimming hole by themselves? True, they were perfectly
safe, with the lifeguard on duty; but even that would not have prevented her
from supervising. Truly, Thorn Valley was having its effects on her. More and
more each day.

"What I really wanted to know," Justin said, "is how you
are doing. I know your kids love this place--but what about you?"

"I'm fine," she assured him. "I have to admit, this community
did take some getting used to, and there are some things that are still a
little strange to me. But so far at least I'm... comfortable. Yes, that's the
word: comfortable."

"That's all?" he asked, in mock dismay. "Just
'comfortable'?"

She shrugged. "When you've spent as much time as I have being uncomfortable,
it's enough. I've spent too much of my life being cold, hungry,
frightened...Jonathan did what he could, but even he couldn't always make it go
away. And since he's been gone..." She spread her arms. "But here, you have
made it go away."

"I'd wait until winter," he advised, "before I made
statements like that. But right this minute, I suppose you have a point."

"And I think that's going to be the hardest thing for me to give up,
when we leave."

Then why leave? The words almost slipped out, but he bit them back
just in time. Of course the Brisby family would have to leave eventually. This
was just a visit; their real home was back on the farm, and at some point they
would return to it. They had to, of course...didn't they?

"Did you and Jonathan ever fight?" Justin asked. "Forgive me
if I'm being too nosy," he added quickly.

"No, you're not," she said. She paused. "Of course we did,
once in a while," she went on. "Not much, and of course we always
made up soon enough. But there are times when it's cold and snowing, and you
have four hungry children, and you can't find dry firewood or food...and tempers
can get short." She shook her head. "Somehow it doesn't seem very
important any more." For a moment she was silent, gazing out at the
morning; then she chuckled. "You know, it's strange. Looking back, it
seems to me that Jonathan always won those arguments. Except when he let me
win, which is just as irritating. Now I finally understand why." She
glanced up at Justin. "I don't think that would happen any more."

He smiled. "No, I don't suppose it would." He couldn't quite
suppress the catch in his voice as he said that; but she appeared not to
notice. Probably--knowing that he missed Jonathan too--she would just chalk it
up to emotion.

"But there was one thing he never did," Elizabeth went on quietly.
"No matter how badly we fought. He never used words to hurt me. And he
absolutely never physically hurt me. He could have; he was smarter than me, and
stronger. But he always seemed to be afraid of that. In some ways I think he
was afraid of his own intelligence and his strength, when it came to me."
She paused. "I understand that now too," she finished wistfully.

Suddenly then, and to his extreme surprise, Justin realized that his left
arm, with a mind of its own, had somehow draped itself around Elizabeth's
shoulders, as she sat there beside him. That was embarrassing enough--but
doubly so was the fact that she didn't seem to mind. Rather the opposite, in
fact; she had moved in a little closer to him, so that her leg was actually
touching his.

And that quickly, he felt a sudden surge of panic grip him. No, he
thought desperately. Please, God, no! This wasn't right; any minute now
one or the other of them was going to say something that shouldn't be said...

Justin's salvation, when it arrived a few seconds later, came in the form of
a small grey shape that exploded into the lounge like a guided missile, out of
breath, disheveled, and still slightly damp. Timothy grinned hugely. "Hi,
Justin," he said. He turned. "Mom, it's time for my second
appointment with Julian. You said you wanted to be there."

"Yes I do, dear," Elizabeth said. Justin had already, in those few
seconds of confusion, removed his arm from around her. Now she stood--climbing
to her feet right there on the sofa, so that her head was on a level with
his--and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you again for the new cape,"
she said. And then she hopped down and departed, her arm around her son's
shoulders, leaving Justin to touch a spot on his cheek and wonder if the
temperature in the lounge really had just risen thirty degrees.

"I'm glad you brought Timothy to see me, Mrs. Brisby," Julian said
over his shoulder. "I think we'll be able to make him a great deal more
comfortable."

More than half of the community's second level was given over to
manufacturing. It was there, for example, that the spinning, weaving, dying,
cutting and sewing of clothing went on. But as large and busy as they were, the
cloth mill and the sewing department were entirely dwarfed by the vast complex
that was known collectively as the Workshop. Here every tangible physical item
in the community was produced, be it made of wood, metal, glass, ceramic, or a
combination thereof; and here too the larger construction projects, such as the
excavation of new tunnels, was planned. This was Arthur's domain, entirely and
absolutely--even Justin recognized his sovereignty--and a good twenty percent
of the adult population worked directly for him. Elizabeth and her children had
toured the shop briefly on their first day; very briefly, because the noise of
the water-driven power tools had made her a little dizzy. Martin had been
fascinated, which was predictable; and so too had Timothy, a little to
Elizabeth's surprise.

Julian's workspace occupied a very small part of his father's huge shop,
just two rooms. They were some distance away from the main shop, and,
consequently, were blissfully quiet. The outer, smaller room was windowless,
and was occupied mostly prominently by a large, couch-like reclining chair. The
inner room was Julian's personal workshop; at the bench there he ground lenses
and bent wire into frames. Timothy and his mother had gotten just a glimpse at
that bench; expecting chaos, they had been surprised by the almost obsessive
neatness.

Two days ago Timothy had spent more than an hour in that reclining chair,
looking and feeling extremely small, reading off letters from charts that were
affixed to the opposite wall; and also reading out passages from a book that
Julian placed in his lap: a book where the same paragraph was repeated over and
over in progressively smaller type, to the point where--for Timothy at
least--it became just a grey blur. A little to Timothy's surprise, he had
trouble not only with the small type in the book, but with the smaller lines on
the wall-chart as well. Until, that is, Julian held lenses--affixed to long
metal rods--in front of his eyes, singly and in combination. It took some
time--Julian was constantly asking him to choose which of two, or even three,
lenses made the letters appear sharpest, and the differences were often quite
small, making the choice difficult--but eventually the rat wrote a series of
cryptic numbers in a notebook, shook Timothy's hand, and told him to come back
in two days. Whether Timothy passed that time in eager anticipation or in
dread, is open to debate.

And now Timothy was seated in that chair again, waiting, while his mother
stood beside him, and Julian bent over a small desk in the corner of the room,
delicately bending wire with a pair of tiny pliers.

"Timothy's eyes are healthy, aren't they?" Elizabeth asked
anxiously.

"Oh yes," Julian assured her. "Very much so. There's no sign
of disease. But unfortunately not everyone's eyes are perfectly shaped."
He glanced back over his shoulder again, smiling as he reached up to touch his
own glasses. "There are a lot of us around, as I'm sure you've
noticed."

"Yes, I have," she said, smiling in return. She paused. "Do
you think you can explain exactly what the problem is? So that I can understand
it, I mean," she added quickly.

"I think so," he said. "Inside the eye there's a tiny, clear,
flexible capsule called the lens. Its job is to focus the light, which is
reflected from the objects we see, to a sharp point at the back of the eye,
which is called the retina. If for one reason or another the light isn't
focused to a point, then the objects appear blurry. In Timothy's case there's a
certain degree of hyperopia--meaning that his eyeballs are a little too short
back to front, and the lenses can't flex quite enough to focus the light from
very near objects, such as a book. There's also some astigmatism, which is an
irregularity in the shape of the cornea, the clear part of the surface of the
eye. That affects focus at all distances, near to far. Of course the degree of
correction needed is different in each eye. What I did two days ago was to try
sample lenses of various shapes and curvatures, to find the combination which
will give him the sharpest vision. It's always a compromise, of course, to a
certain degree. I then took that information and ground glass lenses to the
proper curvature. And here's the result."

He swiveled around on his stool then, and leaned over to place on Timothy's
face a small pair of glasses--in fact the smallest Julian had ever been called
upon to make. As tiny as they were, he had lavished every bit of his
considerable skill on them. The lenses were round, and had a slightly
magnifying effect, making Timothy's big blue eyes appear even larger. The
frames were silver wire, finely bent and soldered. Fortunately Timothy had his
father's ears--large, and mounted on the sides of his head--and so the
ear-pieces could be nearly perpendicular to the lenses. Julian sat back,
frowning slightly as he examined his work, and then he said, "How do they
feel?"

Timothy reached up and adjusted the frames; then he shook his head.
"Weird," he said. "They make me kind of dizzy."

Julian smiled. "Not unexpected," he said. "You've gotten used
to seeing everything blurry, and to squinting. But what I really meant was, how
do they fit?"

"I think," Timothy said slowly, "they could be just a
little bit tighter."

Julian nodded. "I think you might be right," he said. He lifted
the glasses gently from Timothy's face, made the adjustment, and resettled
them. "Better?"

"Yes," Timothy agreed. "A lot." He peered across at
Elizabeth. "What do you think, Mom?" he asked anxiously.

What Elizabeth thought at that moment was that she was going to burst out
crying. She had no idea why; there was no logical reason for it; but for some
reason, with those things perched on his nose her son looked smaller and more
vulnerable than ever. Which of course was ridiculous; in fact Timothy was
growing taller and stronger every day. And those glasses were nothing more or
less than tools; they helped him do a better job of seeing. She swallowed hard,
and somehow her voice remained steady as she said, "They look fine,
honey."

"Now," Julian said, "let's see how well they work." He
nodded across the room, at the chart tacked to the far wall. "As I recall
you got as far as line six without them. How far can you get now?"

Timothy peered across the room, for once not squinting; and he jumped in
surprise. "I can get all the way down to line nine," he said. And to
prove it, he read off the tiny letters: "E, F, M, O, G, H, L." He
looked up at Julian. "Was that right?"

"Absolutely," Julian assured him. "That's very good; better
than 20-20. Now let's try this." He laid the book in Timothy's lap and
opened to a page at random. "You got only as far as the third
sample," he said. "Now what can you get?"

Timothy peered down at the page. "All the way to the sixth," he
said excitedly. "'It was the best of times, it was the worst of
times...'"

"That's exceptionally good," Julian said in satisfaction.
"Even I have trouble with that one at times." He removed the book
from Timothy's lap and set it aside. Then he smiled at the both of them,
Elizabeth as well as Timothy. "Well," he said, "that's all there
is to it. You might find over the next few days that they need adjustment. If
so, you know where to find me. Oh--one more thing." He turned to the desk,
and handed Timothy a small, oblong item: a glasses case, made of
beautifully-worked and polished light-colored wood, fastened with a tiny hook,
and lined inside with red velvet. "This will keep them from getting scratched."

"Thank you," Timothy said.

Elizabeth nodded. "Yes," she said. "Thank you, Julian. Very
much You've been extremely kind." Especially since we're not really
members of this community, she added silently.

Julian smiled broadly and leaned back. "You're quite welcome," he
said. "I'm glad to be able to help." He paused, and crossed his arms
over his chest. "Now," he said, peering down at Timothy, "I
understand that you've been expressing some interest in my other profession:
music. My mother tells me you're interested in learning the guitar."

Timothy's face lit up for a few seconds; then he sighed and turned away.
"I was," he said. "But I was talking to Robert yesterday. He
says it takes a long time to learn any instrument--months and months."

"I'm afraid that's true," Julian said. "At least to learn it
well."

Timothy shook his head. "That's the problem," he said. "We're
only going to be here for another three weeks or so."

Julian nodded in sympathy. "I understand," he said. "And I'm
sorry to have to admit, there isn't much we could do in that short a time. It
would take almost that long just to have a guitar built to your size."

"I know," Timothy said sadly. "Robert told me that too."

"But," Julian said, "if circumstances should change, I want
you to know that I will be available. I always have time for an eager
student."

Timothy looked quickly at his mother; but Elizabeth turned away. Once
again, she thought sadly. More proof that their lives here would be much
better than anything I can give them. There's only one thing I can do; but am I
brave enough to do it?

Timothy pushed himself out of the chair. "Are we done here?" he
asked, and at Julian's nod, he headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Elizabeth asked.

"The library," Timothy told her. "Teresa, Martin and Cynthia
should be there by now--I told them I'd meet them there." He grinned.
"There's a lot of books I haven't looked at yet."

"Don't over--" Julian began; but by then he was talking to a door.
He grinned ruefully at Elizabeth. "--do," he finished.

Elizabeth Brisby had been drafted to run an errand. Not that she minded
especially.

In fact, over the past few days, she had several times deliberately offered
to do small jobs of one sort or another, jobs that took her out into the
community. She did so for several reasons: to pass the time usefully, was
certainly one; but she did so mainly to explore new places--the community was
much more extensive than she had realized at first--and to meet new people.
Both of those objectives she had achieved admirably; by the fifth day of her
visit she could not only find her away around with confidence, but she could
also call a majority of the rats by name. There were still opportunities for
surprise, however, and that afternoon provided her with one.

She had been told to look for a pair of white-painted, half-glass doors,
opening off the west side of the first-level main corridor, some distance to
the south of the dining hall. She remembered having seen those doors before,
several days ago, but at the time she had given them scarcely a glance. Now she
passed through them...and into another world.

The first things that struck her--almost literally--were the heat and the
bright light, both quite startling after the cool dimness of the hallways. For
a few seconds she wondered if she had somehow stepped outside; but no. The
light was strong--certainly sunlight. But the heat was combined with far too
much humidity. It had been more than a week since any rain had fallen in Thorn
Valley; outside the air was bone-dry, making the heat almost endurable. Here,
in this place, the atmosphere was thick with dampness, and there was a heavy
scent as well: the smell of many green growing things all mixed together.
Elizabeth took a step forward, letting the doors close behind her, and as she
did, she realized that she was indeed in an enclosed space; but one very
different from any she had seen before.

The room (for lack of a better term) was octagonal in shape, and some five
feet across at its widest. The walls rose straight for some two feet, and then
joined with a sharply-peaked roof that topped out at about three feet at the
center. Unlike the rest of the rats' community, this was not a tunnel or an
excavation, but rather a structure; walls and roof were a carefully-cut and
joined lattice of wood, which had been painted white, but had acquired a number
of spots of mildew, unavoidable in that damp atmosphere. The spaces in between
the timbers--and in fact the structure seemed to be mostly spaces--were filled
with glass. The panes were not absolutely transparent (mildew again, and dust
on the outside) but through them Elizabeth could see the sky, and, somewhat
more dimly, the valley's western rim. Entranced, she took a few more steps
forward.

Lining the walls all the way around the structure were stair-stepped tiers
of wooden benches, from floor level to far above her head. Another set of
benches had been built in a smaller octagon in the structure's center, creating
a wide circular path around the perimeter. Here the floor was not stone, but
rather smooth gravel, that crunched faintly under her small feet as she walked
slowly forward. All of the benches were lined, absolutely jam-packed, with
potted plants. Elizabeth had lived all her life between forest and farm; but
she could identify none of these specimens. Many of them had thick, woody stems
and wide, dark-green leaves; others seemed similar to ferns. Still others had
large, beautiful, totally unfamiliar blossoms. In the very center of the room a
huge plant was growing, reaching almost to the ceiling; it was so large, in
fact, that ropes had been affixed to the apex of the roof to help support it.

The place was beautiful--that much was undeniable--if a bit uncomfortable to
visit; but what was it for? The rats certainly appreciated beauty, but this
structure had taken a great deal of time and trouble to build. She could
scarcely believe it had been done simply to grow strange flowers. She took a
few more steps...and then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of
movement. She turned.

A little distance away, near the back of the room, stood a rat; one of the
very few that Elizabeth had not so far met. The rat was rather curiously
dressed, in a tunic made of blue denim, quite stained and much-patched, over a
plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up above the elbows; there was a red
bandanna tied as a sweatband around the brow. Low on the rat's hips was draped
a leather tool belt, not unlike Arthur's; on it hung a pair of gloves, a long
knife in a sheath, a pair of clippers, and other tools which Elizabeth could
not identify. The rat's fur was light beige, almost cream-colored; very
different from the dark brown, grey and black that predominated among the Rats
of NIMH. At the moment the rat was moving slowly around the structure, using a
long bamboo pole tipped with a metal hook to push open skylights on the lower
part of the roof. The skylights had stiff hinges, and once pushed open would
remain so, until the hook was used to close them.

For a few seconds Elizabeth remained unnoticed; but then the rat turned
toward her...and Elizabeth took a step backwards in surprise. The costume, the
rough tunic and the tool belt, had led her to expect a male...but this in fact
was a female. Obviously one of the second generation, she was tall and trim,
and--in other circumstances--would have been quite attractive. She gazed at
Elizabeth in frank, dispassionate appraisal for a few seconds; then she laid
down her pole and approached. She wiped her hand on her tunic before she offered
it. "Mrs. Brisby," she said; it was a statement, not a question.

Elizabeth found herself slightly tongue-tied in the fact of such directness;
it was a few seconds before she could reply. She clasped the proffered hand.
"Yes, that's right," she said. "But almost everyone calls me
Elizabeth."

The young rat smiled, finally, and nodded. "Fair enough," she said
briskly. "My name is Judith. What can I do for you?"

"I'm here on an errand for Margaret," Elizabeth explained. She
paused, and then waved a hand over her head. "But if you don't mind me
asking, what is this place?"

That produced a wider smile. "This is my domain," she said. And
then, seeing Elizabeth's blank look, she explained. "Actually, if you want
to get technical, it's the community greenhouse. We use it to grow plants that
can't take the climate in this valley. As you've probably found out by now, it
can get a little chilly here at night; and in the winter there can be several
feet of snow on the ground at any given time. We also use it to get a head
start on the growing season; to start tomatoes, for example, while it's still
too cold to plant them outside. I also do my research here."

Elizabeth's eyes had been roving around the structure, as she rolled that
new word around in her head. Greenhouse, she thought. Yes, it fits.
"Research?" she said.

Judith nodded. "I'm the community botanist," she explained.
"My job is to keep this community fed--indirectly, at least. I research
plants, decide what crops we should be planting; and over time I try to improve
them by selective breeding. I'm also in charge of the seed warehouse."

"Oh?" Elizabeth said. "I thought Ralph--"

"The Master Farmer," Judith said with a half-serious frown,
"is my arch-nemesis."

"Why?"

She shook her head. "Different priorities," she said. "An
example. If Ralph finds a cornstalk that's producing ears twice the normal
size, his first impulse is to deliver those ears to the kitchens, because it
makes him look good. My first impulse, though, is to save those ears,
dry them, and store the seed away. Why? Because if we plant those seeds, maybe
next year we'll get a couple hundred cornstalks with larger than normal ears.
See?"

Elizabeth nodded. "So you and Ralph...?"

"Have had a few clashes, yes," she said. She glanced around, as if
looking for eavesdroppers, and then she bent down to whisper in Elizabeth's
ear. "I'll let you in on a secret," she said. "I'm widely
regarded as the nastiest person in Thorn Valley." She grinned. "And
I'll let you in on another: I like it that way." She straightened up.
"Now, how can I help you?"

Elizabeth shook her head. So overwhelmed was she by the force of this young
woman's personality, that she had quite forgotten her errand. "Margaret
sent me to pick up a basket of herbs for the kitchen," she said.

Judith nodded. "Oh, yes," she said. "Mom did tell me about
that. I've got them ready back in my office."

Elizabeth gazed up at her sharply. "'Mom'?" she echoed.

Judith glanced down at her in surprise. "Didn't she tell you?" she
asked. Then she smiled wryly and shook her head. "No, I suppose she
wouldn't have. That's one of the problems with living in a small community; you
always assume that everyone knows everything about everybody." She nodded.
"Yes, Margaret is my mother."

Elizabeth shook her head in wonder, as she followed Judith to the rear of
the greenhouse. She would never have guessed, not in a million years, that this
light-furred young rat could be the daughter of Margaret, the head of the
kitchen department, whose own fur was almost coal-black. Perhaps she took after
her father. But of course there was no accounting, as Elizabeth knew well, for
the way the genetic cards would fall. After all, how had she ended up
with a beige-furred daughter?

As they walked, Elizabeth pointed to the huge plant in the center of the
greenhouse. "What's that, Judith?"

Judith smiled fondly, and reached across to pat the fibrous trunk.
"That's Clyde," she said. "My pride and joy. He's a rubber tree.
He's not quite old enough to produce much latex, but I have high hopes. Pretty
soon he's going to outgrow this place, though. That's why I keep after Arthur
to build me a bigger greenhouse. Here we are."

At the rear of the greenhouse Judith had her office, a small shed, almost an
afterthought, tacked onto the main structure. Here there was just one small
window, facing west, a potting table, and a large desk strewn with papers. And
I thought Justin's was a mess, Elizabeth thought wryly. Hanging from a hook
in the ceiling was a wicker basket, which Judith brought down and handed to
Elizabeth. In the basket, individually wrapped in paper, were bundles of dried
herbs: basil, marjoram, dill, lavender and others. The small movement as Judith
took the basket down sent up a wonderful fragrance. The basket was a trifle
large, and Elizabeth took it in both arms. "Will you be able to handle
that?" Judith asked.

"I'll manage," Elizabeth said. "It's not heavy, just
bulky."

Together they stepped back out into the greenhouse. As they did, Judith
said, "So--how are you and your family liking Thorn Valley?"

"It's wonderful," Elizabeth told her. "Everything we dreamed
it would be, and more. And everyone here has been so kind to us..."

Judith nodded. "Good," she said firmly. "I'm glad to hear
that. You deserve the absolutely best we can give you, after what you did for
us. And after all Jonathan did."

"Did you know Jonathan very well?" Over the past five days,
Elizabeth had asked that question of many people, and had gotten a number of
very different answers, many of them surprisingly emotional.

Judith shook her head. "Only a little," she said. "He and I
didn't really move in the same circles." She smiled. "My mother
thought highly of him, though. Very highly."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"Back when my twin sister and I were born," Judith said. "We
were Mom's first kids, some of the first born to any of the Rats of NIMH, in
fact. She was scared to death, and Dad wasn't a lot of help, I'm afraid. Mr.
Ages gave your husband the job of keeping Mom calm...and somehow or other he
managed it. She never forgot it."

Elizabeth smiled. "Easy enough, maybe," she said, "when it's
somebody else's children. When ours were born he was an absolute wreck. Mr.
Ages had to throw him out of the house all four times." She paused then
and shook her head, as something she had entirely missed came clamoring for her
attention. "Did you say you have a twin sister?"

"Had," Judith said, so harshly that Elizabeth took a step
backwards. Judith turned away for a moment, and when she finally turned back,
Elizabeth was surprised to see that the young rat's eyes were bright with
tears. "I'm sorry," Judith said softly. "That was uncalled-for.
It certainly wasn't your fault, and I shouldn't have snapped at you. My twin
sister Eileen is...gone. Dead, we believe."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," Elizabeth said. "You mean
you don't know for certain?"

"No," Judith said. Angrily she wiped away the tears with the back
of her hand. "Eileen volunteered for a mission of some kind, a little more
than nine months ago. Her and three others, males; they were members of the
Guard. Philip, one of them was, and a pair of brothers named Mark and
David."

"What kind of mission?"

She shook her head. "We don't know," she said. "It was some
plan of Nicodemus', and he kept it secret, probably so Jenner wouldn't find
out. Though he probably did." A brief spasm of anger crossed her face.
"I have a feeling Justin knows, but if he does, he's not telling. Anyway,
they left, and they never came back. It's been so long...Mom and Dad, and the
parents of the other three...well, they've just about given up hope by now. All
four of them must be dead."

Elizabeth set down the basket, and reached out to grasp Judith's hand.
Despite the tough-as-nails facade she affected, it was obvious that Judith had
been very badly hurt by this, and no wonder. Elizabeth had lost siblings too;
that particular species of pain she knew very well indeed. Maybe that was the
reason for the facade. "I'm so sorry," she said. "Please believe
me, I understand how you feel."

Judith nodded. "I know you do," she said.

"I'm sorry to ask, but when did you say this happened?"

"About nine months ago," Judith said. Abruptly her eyes narrowed,
and she peered down at Elizabeth. "You know, it's strange. I never really
thought of it before. But the four of them vanished just about the same time
Jonathan died."

Elizabeth looked up at her sharply. "What are you--" she began,
but she got no further: at that moment she was interrupted.

Suddenly and inexplicably the entire greenhouse began to vibrate madly, as
if a giant fist was pounding on it rhythmically. The timber-frame structure
creaked and crackled; the potted plants danced on their shelves; and in
Judith's office, a stack of terra-cotta pots fell over with a terrific crash.
Above their heads, one of the propped-open skylights slammed closed, hard
enough to crack the glass.

"What the--?" Judith said, as she reached out a hand to steady
Elizabeth. "This isn't supposed to be earthquake country!"

Elizabeth spotted something then. Something moving, just a tiny dark speck;
barely visible through the hazy, west-facing windows. She pointed. "What's
that?"

Judith looked...and then Elizabeth felt the large hand resting on her shoulder
go suddenly tight. "Oh my God," Judith uttered in horror.

Timothy was waiting outside the school, early that afternoon when Robert
came straggling out, a notebook in his hand and a glazed look in his eyes.
"Hi," Timothy said.

Robert shook himself and looked down, smiling faintly. "Oh--hi,
Timothy," he said distractedly.

"How were your tests?"

Robert shook his head. "My brains are fried," he said. "I
don't know why Mom makes us take them all in one day." He clapped his
friend on the shoulder. "Let's go out to the track, huh? I think I need a
few laps."

"Works for me," Timothy said. He fell into step with Robert, and
together they headed for the main entrance. As they walked, Timothy said,
"So--what did they test you on, anyway?"

Robert shook his head again, tiredly. "Name it," he said.
"History, English, science, math...everything. The math was the easiest, of
course."

Timothy grinned. "Of course," he said. "And how'd you
do?"

"I don't know for certain yet," Robert said. "Not till
they're graded--two or three days." He paused, "But I think--I think--I
did okay. I hope so, anyway, or I'll hear about it." He grinned.
"That's what happens when your mother is in charge of the school
department."

"I hope you did okay too," Timothy said with a smile. Inwardly, though,
he was frowning. I wonder how I would have done? he thought. Maybe
I should have found out. That was one of his problems, he realized: he
didn't know how much he didn't know.

By this time they had reached the main entrance, and the passed through, circling
around the ever-phlegmatic Brutus, into the bright--and extremely
warm--afternoon sunshine. They cut obliquely across the grassy field toward the
track.

As they walked Timothy glanced repeatedly up and his friend...but Robert was
staring straight ahead, his face expressionless. Finally Timothy could stand it
no more. "Robert," he said plaintively, "didn't you notice
something...different about me?"

The young rat grinned hugely. "Of course I did," he said.
"I'm not blind. I was just waiting to see how long it would take before
you asked."

"Oh, real funny," Timothy growled. He paused. Then, anxiously, he
asked, "How--uh--how do they look?"

Robert peered down at him and shrugged. "They look like glasses,"
he said. "Just like the ones my brother has made for a lot of other people
here." He smiled. "More important, how do they work?"

For a few seconds Timothy was silent, gazing across the farm and up the
length of Thorn Valley. "It's funny," he said finally. "I used
to think that I could see pretty good, far away." He shook his head.
"But I guess that wasn't really true." He removed his glasses, and
blinked; and then he put them back on. "Yeah," he decided. "It's
definitely better with them."

"Then that's all anybody has to know," Robert said with finality.

They had reached the running track by then. That large oval of crushed stone
was the first thing the Brisby family had seen, entering Thorn Valley five days
before; and in fact it was the most immediately visible part of the rats'
habitation. A fact that was perhaps unfortunate. The wide, flat oval was
well-tended, the surface firm, and smooth enough for bare feet. The track's
infield was carefully-mown grass, marked with the lines and semicircles of a
soccer field. Timothy had not yet seen that sport played; but he had heard it
described; and had come rather reluctantly to the conclusion that he and his
siblings were too small play it--at least with rats. On the track's east side a
wooden grandstand had been built; on the west side a little curving ridge
formed natural bleachers. They had the place to themselves that hot afternoon;
most of the rats preferred to take their exercise in the cool of the early
morning, or at dusk. Robert removed his dark blue vest, leaving it and his
notebook on the lowest tier of the grandstand; and then he and Timothy began to
jog, counterclockwise around the track.

There was a time--not very long ago--when neither of them could have done
that; when they would have collapsed, out of breath, less than halfway around.
Those days were gone. For Timothy they were longer gone than for Robert; and
that was why Timothy has no difficulty keeping up with his friend. As Robert
continued to gain strength, though--as he had, rapidly, these last two months--that
might no longer be true. As they jogged, as Timothy enjoyed his first really
clear look at Thorn Valley, as well as the free and easy flow of air in and out
of his lungs, he said, "Robert? You're going to be out of school soon,
aren't you?"

Robert was puffing a tiny bit by then; but nowhere near stopping.
"Pretty soon, I guess," he said. "About four months. Why?"

"I was wondering," Timothy said. "Do you know what you're
going to do afterwards?"

"Sure do," Robert said proudly. "That's easy. I'm going to
work for my dad."

"You mean--building things?"

Robert shook his head. "Not quite," he said. "Drawing things.
He's going to teach me how to be a draftsman. Maybe even an architect,
someday."

Timothy looked up at him curiously. "What does that mean?"

"It means that I might design the things we build," Robert
explained. He grinned. "Dad's getting tired of doing it all by
himself." He looked down. "So--what are you going to do?"

For a moment Timothy was silent. Then he said quietly, "Right now--it
looks like I'm going to be a field mouse."

"Hey--" Robert said, reaching out to pat his shoulder. "I'm
sorry, Tim. That was a dumb question."

Timothy shook his head. "That's okay." Deep inside him, though,
Robert's words had set off a chain of thoughts...one that was not, it must be
said, entirely new. For the second time that day, he was comparing the life he
would have on the farm with what he saw in Thorn Valley... and finding the
comparison somewhat less than favorable. An architect, he thought, in
frustration mixed with growing excitement. Designing the things they build.
There must be a way I can get a piece of that. There's gotta be. But if we
leave...

For perhaps half a lap they were silent; then Timothy said, "What were
you saying yesterday, about the rats who vanished about the same time my father
died?"

"Oh yeah," Robert said. "That was really strange. There were
four of them. Three of them were guards--they worked for Justin. The other one
worked for my father."

"You said they went on a mission and never came back?"

"That's what they say," Robert said. "Nobody knows what kind
of mission, though." He smiled secretively. "Except maybe Justin and
Dad. All four of them are supposed to be dead. But sometimes I wonder."

"Yeah," Timothy said softly. "Me too."

"I've asked Dad about it, but he just keeps changing the..." Robert
trailed off then, and came to an abrupt halt, reaching out an arm to stop
Timothy as well. "Hey," he said. "What's that?"

"What's what?"

Robert frowned. "That noise," he said. "Can't you hear
it?"

Timothy stood still for a few seconds, straining his ears; and then he did
hear it. It was less a sound than a vibration; something felt rather than
heard: a rapid pounding that he at first mistook for his own heartbeat. But
even as the two of them stood, looking around in perplexity, it was growing
stronger, until the entire valley seemed to be shaking; and it was gaining a
definite direction as well: it was coming from the west. Suddenly Robert
grabbed Timothy's arm and pointed toward the high ridge. "Look!"

Timothy looked...and he felt his jaw drop open in astonishment. For a few
seconds they both stood gaping...then Robert grabbed Timothy, literally lifting
him off the ground, and dashed across the track and the soccer field. Robert
threw himself and his friend into the deep shadows beneath the grandstand,
burying Timothy beneath his own larger body.

"What's going on?" Timothy said breathlessly. He looked up at
Robert...and was astonished to see that his friend's face had gone paper-white,
as if he had seen a ghost. When Robert spoke again it was in tones of sheer
horror.

"We're dead, Tim," he whispered. "We're dead."

Justin was in a bad mood. A really bad mood.

As he walked the paths of the farm that hot afternoon, ostensibly on a tour
of inspection, he was scowling deeply and muttering to himself; those who saw
him, farmers all, did their best to keep out of his way. Justin was not often
seen in a bad mood--it took a great deal to make him mad--but when he did
get angry, it was better to be elsewhere. Several of his department heads had
found that out the hard way.

How could they know, however, that he was mad at himself, not them? How
could they know that the scowl, the muttered curses, were not directed toward
them or their work, but rather inward? The reason why he had left the community
that afternoon was not because he had the slightest interest in touring the
farm, but rather to reduce his chances of running into one particular person;
the person who had--albeit indirectly, and innocently--caused his anger. In
fact they could not; and as he stalked down the paths, his hands clasped
tightly behind his back, the other rats vanished like wraiths before him. He
scarcely noticed.

You are an idiot, he told himself savagely. You know that, don't
you? A certified, grade-A, USDA-inspected idiot. You should have known this
would happen; you should have felt it in yourself three months ago. But you
didn't, and now how on earth are you going to get through the next three weeks?

He paused then, where the trail topped a small rise, giving him a panoramic
view of more than half of the cultivated fields. Directly behind him was a
waist-high wall, dry-fit from the stones that had been plowed from the fields.
He grabbed a fist-sized rock from the top of the wall and hurled it with all
his strength into the adjacent--fortunately fallow--field. The situation was
entirely of his own making; there was no one else he could possibly blame. And
yes, it had been almost exactly three months in forming. In fact Justin, leader
by election of the Rats of NIMH, was finding himself falling hopelessly in love
with Elizabeth Brisby. And that could not be allowed to happen.

The problem was not--absolutely not--that they were of different species,
nor even that she did not have the NIMH genes; they could have worked that out
somehow. Nor was it the fact that she had four almost-grown children; that was
immaterial to him. Nor the fact that he would be breaking the hearts of almost
every unattached female in the community; he was, always had been, oblivious to
that. No; the reason why it was impossible, the reason why he walked the farm
that afternoon cursing his idiocy, was that he knew--he was one of only two people
in the valley who did know--that Mrs. Elizabeth Brisby was not
available.

Justin leaned against the wall and sighed, gazing out across the farm,
squinting into the hot sunlight. "Jonathan my friend," he muttered in
despair, "where are you when I need you?" It had been more than three
months since he had last had news of the NIMH expedition. Unfortunate, that,
but unavoidable; and Mr. Ages had sworn to get word to him, somehow, if
anything important happened. The last news Justin had received, not long before
the Exodus, was that the information Jonathan and his companions sought was
taking longer to ferret out than they'd hoped, and that they might be gone
months longer. Justin clearly remembered the sinking feeling he had experienced
when he heard that news. A feeling that had redoubled when he'd finally met
Mrs. Brisby, and saw what her husband's absence was doing to her.

At least now I know why he loves her, Justin thought wryly. Quite
apart from her physical attractiveness--which was by no means inconsiderable--Elizabeth
was possessed of such an essential sweetness that it was almost impossible not
to love her. Nicodemus had seen it too, and that was one reason why he had
given her the Stone: above all else she was a good person, right down to her
very core. It was that more than anything else, which Justin found gripping his
heart; that, and her terrible vulnerability. Jonathan's departure--his death,
so far as she knew--had left a tremendous hole in her heart; seeing that, how
could Justin help but want to be the one to fill it? It would be so easy just
to take her into his arms, to let her know that someone cared...

Except that he could not bring himself to do so. Justin's concept of loyalty
was severe and unswerving; as long as he had reason to believe that Jonathan
was still alive, he could not allow himself to act on his emotions.
Somehow--though God only knew how--he could have to hide them inside; for her
sake, for Jonathan's...and for his own.

But, he told himself, if--God forbid!--if something has
happened to Jonathan, or if his mission fails, and he makes good on his oath
not to return empty-handed...if Justin had proof positive that either of
those things had happened, well, then...

At that moment--as Justin stood there helplessly beating his brains out
against his dilemma--he suddenly became aware that something was not right. He
felt his ears quite literally prick up; and then, his black mood entirely
forgotten, he started across the trail, frowning in concern. What in the
world--?

He wasn't the only one, he saw. In the fields spread out before him, the
farmers had paused in their work, downing tools as they looked around in
confusion. And then, finally, it registered. It was a sound, an almost subsonic
thumping that seemed to entirely bypass his ears and go straight to his skull
and his gut. Soft at first, the thudding was growing rapidly stronger; then
someone down in the fields dropped his shovel and pointed, up and to the west.
Justin looked, shading his eyes with his hand...and his heart tried to stop
beating. A flying object, darkly silhouetted against the bright sky, had just
entered the valley over the western ridge...and as it did, the subsonic thumping
became an ear-shattering clatter. It was an object the likes of which Justin
had seen only a few times in his life, and never close-up; and had hoped not to
see again for a very, very long time. It was a helicopter.

For an endless second Justin stood frozen. Then he leaped to the top of the
stone wall. He cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, hoping that his
voice was just a little louder than the helicopter's roar. "Everybody
under cover! Now!"

He watched to see that he was being obeyed, that the farm-workers were
dropping their tools and diving for the shelter of the brush and walls that
bordered the fields. God willing, all the rats who were too far away to hear
his shout would have sense enough to do the same. Then Justin half-jumped,
half-fell into the dense band of shadow in the sheltered side of the wall.
Hunkered down as small as he could make himself, he peered up at this...thing,
this apparition, this impossibility, which was unfortunately all too real.

The machine was flying low--much lower than Justin had been led to believe
was legal in a wilderness area. It was good-sized, presumably built for
distance, though Justin's knowledge of helicopter design was virtually nil.
Arthur might have known. The fuselage and enclosed tail were painted white,
with a long turquoise stripe and black registration numbers; on the doors was painted
a circular logo of some kind, which Justin could not read. It appeared--though
he could not be certain--that there were two people on board; a pilot and a
passenger, both visible through the bubble windshield. If there was anyone
sitting behind them, he could not tell, though there seemed to be room.

The machine topped the western ridge and swept across the valley obliquely,
passing directly over the farm and heading toward the community's main
entrance. At the speed it was making it would be gone over the east rim in less
than a minute. Justin, peering up from the shelter of the wall, found two
distinct thoughts running through his mind simultaneously. The first was: This
is not happening. Not now. Not yet. And the other, directed at the copter's
occupants, was, you don't see a thing. This is just an uninhabited valley.
Just fly right over. There's nothing interesting here. Nothing at all.

For a few seconds it seemed that his prayers might be answered. The
helicopter swept across the valley, neither gaining nor losing altitude;
perhaps it would indeed vanish over the eastern ridge. Justin watched it go
with a growing sense of hopefulness...but then, when the aircraft was beginning
to rise to clear the ridge, it seemed to pause; and then performed a sudden
sweeping turn, back into the valley. As Justin watched, cursing luridly under
his breath, the machine dropped lower. Justin could feel the wind of it now, as
it kicked up dust and whipped the brush around him; the sound of the engine and
the blades was little short of deafening. It seemed to be drifting slowly over
the grassy area, not far from the main entrance...

They've seen the running track, Justin realized abruptly. No
wonder; you could see that a thousand feet up. Why oh why did I let them talk
me into authorizing that damn thing?

The helicopter was hovering how, and dropping even lower, until it seemed to
be less than a hundred feet off the ground. Justin rose to his knees, peering
carefully over the wall, as the machine slowly turned on its axis. The
passenger-side window was open, and protruding from it was a stubby black
cylinder: obviously, a telephoto camera lens. For a minute or so the passenger
clicked pictures at every angle: toward the farm, the beach, the playing field,
the community itself. Then he lowered the camera into his lap and stuck his
head out the window, peering around in very evident excitement. Justin's eyes
locked on that face...and for the second time in less than five minutes he felt
his heart skip a beat. His legs tried to buckle beneath him; he had to grip the
top of the wall hard to keep from collapsing. Even at that distance he knew the
face that leaned out of the helicopter's window; the memory of it had been
burned into his mind by many months of captivity and pain. The copter's
passenger was Dr. Schultz of NIMH.

Justin felt himself curling into a ball, his hands over his head, his mind
descending into chaos. This is not happening, he repeated to himself,
over and over. But the pounding in his head was not entirely his heart. This was
real; this was happening. He forced himself to look up again.

The pilot was no one Justin knew; all he could see of that man was a pair of
mirrored sunglasses and a dark cap pulled low over his brow. Justin spared him
no more than a glance. The helicopter hovered for a few seconds more, and
Justin was certain that its next move would be to land; but then, inexplicably,
it began to rise. Instantly Dr. Schultz pulled his head inside, and he appeared
to be shouting at the pilot, his hands gesturing wildly. The argument went on
for almost a minute, and ended with the pilot pointing at something on his
control panel. Dr. Schultz sat back, his arms crossed over his chest; and that
was the last Justin saw of him, as the copter spun, rose, and finally vanished
the way it had come, over the western ridge.

As the engine's thudding slowly faded into the distance, Justin rose shakily
to his feet. His mind was whirling, his thought running a hundred miles an
hour; but two things were crystal clear. Once again the Rats of NIMH were in
deep trouble; and once again he, Justin, was the one who had to deal with it.

"People!" Justin shouted, above the clamor of voices. He spread
his arms. "People, quiet, please! We don't have time for this!"

He looks terrible, Elizabeth thought. And no wonder. Sitting
there on the meeting hall's top tier, she looked down at the leader of the rats
far below...and even in the midst of her fear, her heart went out to him in
sympathy. He looked...haggard, was probably the best word; drawn, exhausted,
drained...and old. Justin was one of the Original 22, and thus was much older
than her; exactly how much older, she'd never dared guess. Usually it didn't
show. But now--in the middle of this terrible afternoon--it did.

The meeting hall was the largest enclosed space in the community, and the
only one that had not truly been constructed, merely improved. Arthur had
started with a deep pit, conical in shape, some six feet deep and five wide at
the top, tapering down to less than two at the bottom. He had roofed it with a
massive, buttressed stone dome, and had cut tiers into the sides, lining them
with wooden benches. The entrances into the community's first-level corridor
were at the top tier; the speaker's platform, a circular stage of cut stone,
was at the very bottom. Lamps hung from chains affixed to the ceiling. The hall
could accommodate the entire population of the community--only just--and this
afternoon it was packed full, almost three hundred rats jamming the benches.
All of them were talking at once; every one of them was scared half to death. And
who can blame them? Elizabeth thought.

Down below, Justin's arms were crossed over his chest, and he turned in a
slow circle, glaring up at them all. Gradually, under the force of his stare,
the babble of voices stilled. "That's better," Justin said. He spoke
in normal tones, not shouting; the shape of the hall was such that it amplified
his voice. "All of you, please, listen to me. I realize that you're all
concerned, even frightened, by what happened today. So am I. We've got good
reason to be. But panicking will do absolutely no good at all. What we have to
do--and right now--is to calmly assess the situation and try to decide what
we're going to do about it. All right?"

He paused for a second, looking around. All through the hall, the rats
looked at each other, shuffling feet and tails. With just those few words
Justin had calmed them, and more: he even had them feeling a little ashamed at
their fear. He does have the knack, Elizabeth thought. Thank God he
does.

Beside her, leaning quite heavily on her right arm, Timothy had finally
stopped trembling. She glanced down at him, and saw that his eyes were
half-closed behind his new glasses. "Timothy?" she whispered in his
ear. "Are you all right now, dear?"

"Um-hmmm," he murmured indistinctly. One row down, Robert was also
listing decidedly to port, his mother's arm around his shoulders, steadying
him. Whatever it was Alice had given the two of them had apparently begun to
kick in. A tranquilizer of some kind, that much was clear; perhaps a weaker
version of the herbal potion that the rats used to feed to the cat. Ordinarily
Elizabeth would not have approved such a thing, but in this case she'd been forced
to agree: after what they'd been through, they needed it.

It was Justin himself who had found Timothy and Robert, still hiding under
the grandstand by the track, both of them half-deafened by the helicopter's
roar. Neither of them had been hurt--Robert had been found holding Timothy
beneath him, protecting his friend with his own body--but they had both been
frightened out of their wits. And no wonder: as Justin said, they had been as
close to ground zero as they could get, with the helicopter hovering directly
over them. Fortunately--very fortunately--the grandstand had been well-built,
had protected them from flying debris, and had not collapsed around them.
Robert's vest and school notebook were still missing in action.

Elizabeth's other children were seated beside Timothy. All of them looked
worried, going on frightened; Martin, somewhat uncharacteristically, had his
arm around Cynthia, whose eyes were bright with tears. Teresa glanced over and
saw that her mother was beginning to buckle under the strain of supporting
Timothy's limp form; without a word she slipped an arm around her brother,
taking some of his weight onto herself. Elizabeth looked over and smiled
gratefully. "Thank you, dear," she said, as she rearranged her
cramped body.

Below, Justin was speaking again. "I don't need to tell you what we all
saw--" he began, but he was interrupted.

"What did we see?" someone demanded. "We know it was a
helicopter--but are we absolutely sure it was Dr. Schultz?"

"Yes we are," another voice said. Glancing across the hall,
Elizabeth recognized the speaker: Ralph, the Master Farmer; another of the
Original 22. "I saw him as clearly as Justin did. And believe me, that's a
face I'm not likely to forget any time soon. It was him."

"Ralph," Justin said, "were you able to read the logo on the
helicopter?"

The farmer shook his head. "Not too clearly," he said. "That
wasn't what I was looking at. But I'm pretty sure it said 'Charter.' 'Midland
Charter,' something like that."

Justin nodded. "That makes sense." He looked around "Do we
really need to debate this?" he demanded. "It was Dr. Schultz;
he hired a helicopter, and he got some kind of special permit to fly low over a
wilderness area. Either that or he was breaking the law. I suspect the former.
And let's not kid ourselves, people. He did it for one reason. It wasn't a
sightseeing tour. He was looking for us. And God help us, he's found us."

"But why didn't he land?" someone else called out.

Justin shook his head. "I don't know," he said. He paused. "I
think he wanted to; he seemed to be arguing with the pilot, just before they
left. Perhaps they were low on fuel; or perhaps they didn't have permission to
land. Or maybe it was some of both. It doesn't really matter, though. What
matters is this: we had better thank our lucky stars that he didn't
land--because it's given us a chance to live." He took a deep breath.
"He is going to be back, people. You all know that as well as I do.
There's no use in debating that either. He will be back. Exactly when, I
can't say; nor with what kind of force. I think we can safely assume that he'll
come by air again, because there are no roads to this valley. But in my opinion
our only chance is to believe that he'll be back tomorrow morning, and
to make use of that time. The fact that he didn't land cost him his major
advantage: surprise." He grinned slightly. "That's twice now. The
first time we had advance warning from Elizabeth Brisby." He glanced up at
her fondly. "This time Dr. Schultz was kind enough to warn us himself. And
like last time, we've got to take advantage of that warning. The only question
is how."

"Get out," someone said. "We've got to get out of this
valley."

Justin held up his hands, stilling the rush of agreement. "Get out to
where?" he demanded gently. He shook his head. "No," he went on,
"this time that isn't an option. Last time--three months ago--we had
someplace to go: this valley. It wasn't finished, it was barely habitable...but
it was a definite place to go. This time we have no such ready-made
refuge." He shook his head again. "Maybe we should," he said.
"Maybe we should have prepared a fall-back position. But there's no use
worrying about that now. What I say is this: if we leave this valley, if we
retreat, it can't be as a group. Because then he'll track us down again. If we
leave we will have to scatter into small parties, family groups perhaps, or
smaller. And if we do that, I see very little chance that the Rats of NIMH
would ever be reunited. I for one am willing to do that only as an absolutely
last resort."

"Then what do you want us to do?" another voice demanded
peevishly.

"My friends," Justin said, "this valley is our home.
Everything we have here, we've worked for, and worked hard. That is a claim we
could not make for our old home on the farm. It is my belief that our only
choice is to defend this place. I say that we make our stand here."

There were a few seconds of stunned silence; and then a sudden barrage of
voices, all shouting together in tones of outrage. Elizabeth, watching with a
strong current of admiration underlying her fear, abruptly found herself
wondering, what would Jonathan be doing now? The answer to that required
almost no thought at all. He'd be down there on that platform supporting
Justin. And afterward he would do whatever Justin asked of him--after
getting the children and me to safety.

Once again Justin raised his hands, and once again quiet returned.
"Hear me out, please," he said. "First of all I have to ask you
to accept a gut feeling of mine--but not without evidence. I have a very strong
feeling that Dr. Schultz is acting alone in this, or nearly. I don't believe he
has the full backing of NIMH. That charter helicopter is my number-one clue.
NIMH has the resources of the United States Government behind it--and those
resources must certainly include helicopters. No; I believe this to be a
personal vendetta. For that reason I also believe he is staking his reputation
on the outcome of this expedition. Now, it may very well be that I am totally
wrong. But if I'm right, then all we need do is hold him off, until he runs out
of resources."

There was a brief murmur of assent, somewhat reluctant, and then Justin went
on, "So--what is he likely to do? He could carry another two people in
that helicopter, maybe, and some light equipment; hand tools, picks and shovels
perhaps. Explosives? Possible, but doubtful. The worst thing we would have to
fear is gas. We had reports from the scouts we left behind, that NIMH pumped
some kind of poison gas into our old home under the rosebush. They can't bring
a tanker truck here, but Dr. Schultz could bring in canisters of gas.

"What I propose is this," Justin went on. "We will barricade
all of our windows and all doors that open to the outside. We will also
disguise them as much as we are able. We will transport as much food and other
necessities as we can into the deepest parts of our community, and there we
will go ourselves, when he arrives." He turned to a large rat sitting on
the lowest tier. "Arthur, what about ventilation?"

The engineers cleared his throat. "Covering the windows and doors might
make it stuffy," he said. "But it won't be dangerous--as long as we
don't block any of the ventilation shafts up in the rocks. What I can do is to
turn up the speed on the fans. If Schultz does use gas, the airflow will tend
to force it back out of the halls, and it might not even reach the lower
levels. The major danger is that he will find the ventilation shafts. If he
does, and if he sends gas down through them..." He shook his head.
"Then it's all over. The gas would be sucked through the whole community
in minutes."

"How big a risk is it, that he'll find them?"

"Low," Arthur said, with a tight smile. "I disguised them
pretty well, if I do say so myself, for just that reason. And they're up on
ridges that are too narrow for a human to walk on comfortably. Chances are he
won't even go looking."

"And what is the status of the escape tunnel?"

Escape tunnel? Elizabeth thought, frowning. What escape tunnel?

"I heard about that," Martin whispered to her. "It's a way
out of the community. It starts way down in the ground below the first
level--down in the corridors where the water pipes and the drains are--and it
comes up out in the farm, almost to the woods."

"Well," Arthur said dubiously, "frankly it's not as well
supported as I'd like. I'm afraid it's been back-burnered lately, along with a
lot of other things. But it is usable."

"Good enough," Justin said. He looked around beseechingly.
"Nobody is more conscious than I am of the fact that this is a democracy.
You elected me to be your leader, but I have no pretensions of being a dictator
or an absolute monarch." He paused. "Three months ago, you trusted me
to bring you here safe and alive. You trusted me enough to obey my orders without
question. I am sorry to have to say this, but now is not the time for
democracy. It is the time for action. We have a huge amount of work before us,
and very little time to accomplish it. What I'm asking is this: that you trust
me again, as you did three months ago. I will bring us through this
alive. I swear it. So--what's it to be?"

For a long moment he looked up at them challengingly, his gaze slowly moving
around the hall, seeking out and briefly touching each face in turn. Not a word
was spoken; no objections raised, no alternate plans proposed. Finally Justin
nodded and smiled grimly. "All right," he said. "Let's get to
work."

Dr. Schultz was on the phone. Again.

Jonathan Brisby, crouched down in the dusty space behind the wall vent,
shook his head in amazement. He had never seen a human so obsessed with talking
on the telephone--or one with so obvious a dislike for it. He could only be
glad that Schultz did spend so much time that way--because Jonathan and
his friends had picked up a good deal of useful information these last nine
months, eavesdropping on his conversations.

Jonathan, along with David and Mark, had been waiting hours for Dr. Schultz
to return. Tired and hungry, they had been just about ready to give up and join
their friends for dinner, when--a little before sunset--the office door
suddenly opened and Schultz exploded in.

The scientist's mood could only be described as "foul," Jonathan
decided clinically. The man stalked into the office, muttering under his
breath; he hung his leather jacket on the coat-rack with almost enough force to
break off the hook; and he threw his camera bag and binoculars into the guest
chair. Wait a minute, Jonathan thought, as he watched Schultz pace and mutter.
I didn't hear the helicopter land. What's going on?

For nearly ten minutes the scientist stalked back and forth in the
semi-darkness--he hadn't bothered to turn on the lights--his hands behind his
back and a deep scowl on his face. Jonathan and his friends watched with
growing confusion. Obviously the day's operations hadn't gone entirely to
plan--but exactly what had happened?

Finally, inevitably, the phone rang. Dr. Schultz turned, all but snarling;
then, with a sigh, he dropped into his chair and lifted the receiver. Behind
the vent Jonathan's ears pricked up, and his friends crowded closer. He felt
Mark's large hand resting across his shoulders.

"Yes," Dr. Schultz was saying. "Yes, they're there, in that
little valley. Just as I expected. I found them."

Jonathan felt the hand resting on his shoulder clench, and suddenly his
stomach was an icy knot. Mark started to say something, but Jonathan waved him
to silence; Dr. Schultz was speaking again.

"They've got a regular little farm going," he said.
"Vegetables, grains, you name it. Even cotton. And get this: they've got a
running track and a soccer field, complete with goal posts. I tell you they've
got quite a civilization in progress up there."

He listened for a moment, then went on, "Tunnels. They've tunneled
under the rocks at the east side of the valley, near the shore of the pond. I
could see windows and doors... and one big open archway. Obviously a main
entrance."

Listening, Jonathan felt the knot in his stomach grow harder and colder. It's
happened, he thought in horror. Just what we feared. It's finally
happened. He had never seen Thorn Valley in person--but he had seen the
plans, the drawings that both Nicodemus and Arthur had done. Dr. Schultz's
description fit well--all too well.

"No," Schultz said. "I didn't actually see any of them. Not
clearly, anyway. I'm sure they heard the helicopter miles off--they must have
run for cover." He chuckled. "Frankly I can't blame them."

He paused again. Then he sighed deeply. "No," he said reluctantly.
"No, we didn't land. That idiot pilot wouldn't do it--he said he only had
a permit to fly low over the place. He can't land in a wilderness area, he
said. I tried to argue with him, but he was short on fuel. We couldn't even
hover very long. We just barely made it back to the airport--he couldn't even
drop me here. I had to catch a cab. Cost me a fortune."

A pause. Then, "Pictures? Yes, of course I got pictures. Fewer than I
would have liked, though. As I said, we could only hover a few minutes. I was
only able to get about two-thirds of a roll shot--but I got everything
important. Their farm and all their structures."

Good grief, Jonathan thought in despair. Can this get any
worse? Pictures, now?

"What am I going to do?" Schultz said. "I'm going back,
of course. Tomorrow morning. We're going to head straight there, so we'll have
plenty of fuel. I've gathered up some tools to load on the copter too--picks,
shovels, a couple canisters of gas--and some explosives. No, just the two of
us. The copter won't hold any more, not with the equipment loaded. I think we
can do the job ourselves. That might be better anyway." He paused.
"Yes, of course they'll know we're coming. That's hardly my fault, is it?
Where can they go? Into the wilderness to starve? No--I think they'll try to
make a stand, try to save their home. Not that it will do them any good."

Too true, Jonathan thought miserably. Too true. The rats were
settled now, their Plan completed at last. As Dr. Schultz said, they had
nowhere else to go. Jonathan knew Justin, knew how his friend's mind worked. He
would make a stand. A hopeless stand.

"Permission?" Schultz was saying. "That's where you
come in, my friend. You're going to get me permission." A pause.
"How? I don't care how. Call everybody. I don't care who you have to wake
up. This is important--you know that. We've got to put a stop to this now.
Before it gets any bigger. Why? Because they're rats, for God's sake!
Think about it!" He sighed. "All right, all right, I won't do
anything until I hear from you. Right. Good-bye."

Dr. Schultz hung up the phone. For a moment he sat, staring out into space;
then he chuckled and shook his head. "Sure I won't," he said. He
stood then, grabbed his jacket, and left. Jonathan and his friends heard the jingle
of keys as he locked the door behind him.

A few minutes later, with a faint click, the ventilator grille popped a few
inches out from the wall, the carefully-shortened screws sliding smoothly out
of the enlarged holes. Jonathan and his companions dropped to the floor,
landing on their feet in the soft carpeting.

Mark's face was ashen, his expression anguished, as he turned to Jonathan.
"What are we going to do?" he demanded. "My God, he's found our
home! He's going to destroy our home!"

"I know," Jonathan said. "I understand. But--"

David interrupted him. "Jonathan, you don't understand! Everyone we
know is there! Our friends, our families, our parents...he's going to murder them
all! We've got to get back there. We've got to help them!"

The two rats were bigger than Jonathan; but he was older, and he faced them
down with his glare. "Just what do you suggest?" he asked.
"Warning them isn't an option; it's never been an option, since
this whole situation started. You know that." He turned. "Mark, how long
does it take you to get back to the farm?"

"Three days if we can catch the right busses," Mark said.

"And then it's--what?--another three days on foot to Thorn
Valley?"

"Just about."

Jonathan shook his head. "We can't help them," he said. "Not
like that. You heard Dr. Schultz--he's going back tomorrow morning. Permission
or no. We'd get there days too late."

"But we've got to do something!" David insisted.

"The first thing we've got to do is calm down," Jonathan said. He
gazed at them sternly. "Right?"

The two rats exchanged a glance, and then they nodded. "Right,"
Mark said.

They sat down, there in the middle of the floor. "Listen,"
Jonathan told them, "just because my family isn't in danger this
time, doesn't mean I don't care, or that I don't understand. Believe me, I do.
Those people are my friends too; you know that. But I honestly have not been
able to think of anything we can do to help them." He gazed at them in
turn. "Can we warn them? No. Do they need a warning? Evidently not.
Can we stop Dr. Schultz from going? Just the five of us? I don't think
so." Not unless we follow Hacker's plan, he added silently. And
I still refuse to consider that. He spread his hands helplessly. "If
any of you have any better ideas, I'd love to hear them."

For a moment they sat in gloomy silence. Then, suddenly, Jonathan looked up.
"Pictures," he said. He stood. "There is one thing," he
said. "I don't know exactly how much good it will do; but we're going to
do it anyway. Give me a hand, would you please?"

At Jonathan's direction the three of them scrambled up onto Dr. Schultz'
guest chair, where he had thrown both his binoculars and his camera bag, and
had left them when he departed. Together they squeezed the plastic toggles that
fastened the camera bag, and managed to fold the top flap back. "Either of
you know anything about photography?" Jonathan asked with a smile.

Once again they exchanged a glance, this time bewildered. "Not a
thing," Mark said.

"Neither do I," Jonathan said. "Let's see what we can
learn."

Inside the bag they found a camera, of the type called an SLR; and three
lenses, one of which was mounted on the camera body. Jonathan had indeed never
had anything to do with photography; but he had read magazines. Just by
looking, he could tell that this outfit had been expensive. One of the lenses
was a monstrous telephoto, which zoomed from 75mm to 300; from a hovering
helicopter, no doubt, it would have given nice detailed close-ups of the Thorn
Valley farms. It was not the lenses that interested him, though, but the camera
body itself. It was heavy--it took the full strength of all three of them to
lift it from the bag. On its top right surface a liquid-crystal display read
"22".

That's just about right, Jonathan thought. He seemed to remember that
the largest rolls of 35mm film had thirty-six pictures; and Dr. Schultz had
mentioned shooting about two-thirds of a roll. If they were fortunate, all of
his Thorn Valley shots were on that one roll.

"Jonathan, what are we doing?" Mark asked.

"If we're lucky, avoiding publicity," Jonathan said. "Let's
see..."

The camera bag had several outside pockets, fastened with zippers. In the
largest, on the back of the bag, Jonathan found exactly what he had been
looking for: the instruction manual, battered and dog-eared, its cover nearly
detached. In a patch of brightness from the parking lot lights outside, he
leafed quickly through the book, skipping impatiently past the Japanese, the
German, the French and the Spanish sections, and finally to the English. The
two rats watched, nonplused, as Jonathan read rapidly. Finally he jumped to his
feet. "That's it," he said. "Let's get to work."

He scrambled over the camera, peering closely at the various buttons and
wheels...and finally, on the right-hand side, he found what he was looking for: a
tiny, recessed button marked "rewind." It was meant to be pushed with
a pencil-point; he used his thumb. They waited until the motor stopped
whirring, and then Mark, using both hands, managed to press down the latch that
fastened the back. Together the three of them extracted the yellow metal
cartridge.

"What now?" Philip asked. "Into the dumpster?"

Jonathan paused. The rewind motor had not pulled the film entirely into the
cartridge; an inch or so of leader still protruded. Jonathan suddenly grinned.
"No," he said. "No, I've got a better idea. Dr. Schultz is about
to suffer a mysterious camera failure."

They carried the cartridge over to desk, and then, with David on one end and
Mark on the other, they pulled the full length of the film out. "ISO
1000," Jonathan observed.

"What does that mean?" David asked.

"Very sensitive to light," Jonathan said. "Too bad; he
probably got some nice clear shots. Mark, turn on the desk lamp, if you
please."

They were far from finished; over the next few minutes they laboriously
wound the film back into the cartridge, passing it close under the desk lamp as
they did. "And now," Jonathan said as they finished, "we re-load
the camera."

"Jonathan Brisby," Mark said admiringly, "you are truly
diabolical, you know that?"

Jonathan bowed low. "Thank you."

To complete the job took a while longer. First they re-threaded the ruined
film into the camera, and Mark leaned on the shutter release until the display
once again read "22." At the bottom of the camera bag there were two
more rolls in plastic cans, unused; in a very short time they had received the
same treatment, the film pulled from the cartridges under the desk lamp, and then
re-rolled. "You know," Jonathan commented as they finished,
"when this is all over I think I'll take up photography as a hobby."

After they had repacked everything into the bag they rested, leaning back in
the chair. "Jonathan, what did we just accomplish?" David asked.

Jonathan sighed. "A small victory in a large war," he said.
"It's possible that Justin might still pull something off. That escape
tunnel Arthur was always trying to sell Nicodemus, for example. If he does--if
he can bring our people through safely--then the only evidence Dr. Schultz
would have would be artifacts and photographs. We've just ruined his chances of
getting any photos. And artifacts are too easy to fake to be truly convincing.
Without solid evidence he might not get permission for another try. We can
hope, at least."

Philip shook his head. "It's not much."

"No," Jonathan said. "It's not much. But I think it's all we
can do." He stood. "Come on, you two--Eileen and Philip are probably
back with the food by now. I think we've all got some things to discuss."