Elizabeth Brisby felt restless; but she didn't know why.

It had become her habit, these past few weeks, to spend a few minutes each
morning by herself, sitting or lying quietly in a small patch of grass and
flowers, tucked between her cinder-block house and the big boulder that
sheltered it. (Her children--who had of course noticed this habit--jokingly
called it "Mom's Secret Spot.") It was pleasant just to be there,
alone with her own thoughts, smelling the grass and the flowers, listening to
the birds and the distant buzz of farm machinery. The weather was growing
warmer every day, and very soon she might have to find a shadier spot; but for
now that was pleasant too: to spread out her cape and let the sunshine soak
into her fur.

In the past, no doubt, she would have felt guilty for the waste of time, or
anxious for what her children might be getting into while they were out of her
sight; but no more. Circumstances had given her--or rather allowed her to find
within herself--a serenity she didn't even know she possessed. Courage of
the heart, it had been called. Whether that was true or not she didn't
know--she had never felt especially courageous--but it was certainly true that
her capacity for worry was not half what it had been, just a few months ago.

And yet...even as she lay there that summer day, with bees buzzing softly in
the flowers all around her, she was aware that something, somehow, wasn't quite
right. In some way she could hardly begin to define, something
seemed...incomplete.

Why that should be she didn't know. Certainly her life was more settled now
than it had been in months. She had her home, so secure now that she had not
even bothered with Moving Day; she had her children, growing quickly--even
Timothy, thank God--and at long last she had some answers. She had lived with
her husband so long without really knowing him; knowing where he had come from,
or why he had always seemed so, well, different. She had loved him in
spite of that; now, finally, through his friends, she had begun to understand
him. So much that had made no sense now did; there were so many memories she
could re-explore, finding new significance in each. That is, if doing so didn't
hurt so much.

And yet...if there was indeed one single cause for her unease, it was that.
One word, one strange word, which she had never even heard before three months
ago: NIMH. Her time with the rats had been so terribly brief. They had
explained much, but so much more remained unexplained. Time and again, these
last three months, she'd wished that she'd been able to have a longer talk with
Nicodemus; or perhaps Justin, who was--frankly--easier to understand. Justin
had been Jonathan's friend, that was clear; there were so many things she could
have asked him. So many questions her children had asked her, which she was
unable to answer.

Her children...that was another subject entirely, she thought as she turned
over onto her stomach. Mr. Ages had tried to explain it to her, weeks ago when
he'd come to check on Timothy's lungs, and Elizabeth's burned hands. (In fact
it was amazing how candid Ages had been, now that the need for secrecy was
over.) What was the word he'd used? Genetics, that was it. Every person--so he'd
said--had inside of them a plan, a set of instructions for the growth of that
particular person and no other. When a male and female mated (and here
Elizabeth's ears had gone bright red in embarrassment) a part of his
instructions mixed with a part of hers, mostly at random, so that the new
person who resulted was a mixture of both. That much had been easy enough to
understand: she need only look at her children. Martin and Cynthia had
Jonathan's brown eyes; Teresa and Timothy had her blue. Martin had Jonathan's
build and strength; Timothy had his father's impish smile and his wry sense of
humor. And so on.

...But some of Jonathan's instructions--his genes, that was the word--had been
changed by NIMH. And in some ways, it appeared, those genes had been the stronger.
The "dominant," Ages had said. It was too early yet to tell whether
those genes would affect her children's lifespans; but it was not to
early to tell that their intelligence had definitely been affected. The ease
with which they'd picked up reading--which Elizabeth still struggled with--and
math--which she couldn't cope with at all--was proof enough. Every day, it
seemed, they would say something, accomplish something, which would astound
her. She lived in fear that they would someday reject her, cast her aside as
foolish and unimportant...but so far at least, that didn't seem to be happening.
And Timothy at least--she felt--would never do so. Not him.

All of that applied to the older three at least; especially Timothy, who
made up for his still slightly under-sized and under-strength body with
breathtaking intelligence. But then there was poor Cynthia. Youngest, smallest,
the tagalong, the last to be included, the last to be allowed to do
anything...Elizabeth had come to wonder lately what would happen to her. Teresa
and Martin, at least, were inclined to be impatient with her; Elizabeth had
even caught them calling her "slow."

But not Timothy. He grew quite angry with his older brother and sister when
they teased Cynthia; and he spent many hours with her, teaching her to read,
teaching her math...leading her through the books he himself had devoured.
"She's not slow," he'd told his mother recently. "She just
needs...focus. Yeah, that's it, focus."

Focus. Lying there in the sunshine, Elizabeth shook her head
ruefully. How could any of them find focus, where they were? There was so much
potential in the four of them. Jonathan had seen that, even though they'd all
been so young when he...when he...And now that they knew a bit more about their
heritage, now what? When the four of them had finished the books the rats had
left them, where would they get more? Where would they find challenges equal to
their abilities? She had no idea. Or rather she did; but it seemed so
impossible she scarcely dared think about it.

Well--this wasn't getting her work done. Elizabeth rose, retrieved her cape,
and knotted it firmly around her neck. Teresa and Martin would be finished with
their chores soon, and if she didn't have Martin's lunch ready, she'd hear
about it. Just like his father, that young man was: always hungry.

Justin was writing. Finally.

For nearly three months the huge leather-bound book had sat on his desk,
untouched. Many times, his eye passing over it, he had promised himself that
today was the day: that he would finally open the book to the first blank page,
ink his pen...and begin writing. It was his duty, part of this job he'd somehow
managed to get himself elected to; he knew that. But somehow the days continued
to pass, and the book remained where it was, gathering dust. Not because he'd
had no time--though his days certainly had been full enough for several
rats--no; it remained untouched, unwritten-in, because Justin didn't believe
himself worthy to touch it.

The book was the Journal, or at least a part of it; the story of the Rats of
NIMH from their escape, through their exodus and settlement beneath the
rosebush, up to--almost--the culmination of the Plan. It was that part of the
story, their desperate flight to Thorn Valley, which remained untold; because
the author of the Journal had died before he could tell it.

More than two-thirds of the present volume--as well as all of its half-dozen
predecessors--was filled with Nicodemus' flowing, rounded, graceful
handwriting--if "hand" was indeed the correct word. To add his own,
much less attractive script to that record seemed almost...sacrilegious. Like
using a highlighter in a Bible, to use a phrase he'd once heard.

But...well, someone had to do it. Nicodemus had been quite clear on that
point: he wanted the story told. He wanted their descendants to know the truth.
Justin might have retired that book and started another, but a full third of
its pages were blank, and as the moment the community couldn't afford the waste
of paper. Starting a paper mill was on his "to do" list--they'd need
it for new schoolbooks, if nothing else--but with sufficient food still an
issue, that seemed at best a long-term goal. No, it was this book or nothing.
And so that morning, guided it seemed purely by impulse, he had opened the
book, found a pen and ink (he used pencil for everyday work) and sat down.

It hadn't helped his concentration, to read the last notation in Nicodemus'
writing, directly opposite the first blank page: "Mrs. Brisby has come to
us for help; her home must be moved to avoid the farmer's plow. I had feared
that Jenner would attempt to block the project, but unaccountably he has
endorsed the plan and pledged his help. Perhaps he has finally seen the wisdom
of cooperation. We will begin work at midnight." But eventually Justin
tore his eyes away and began to write.

"It has been some three months since our arrival in Thorn Valley,"
Justin wrote. "We arrived much earlier than was called for by our Plan,
but our previous home was threatened with destruction by NIMH, and we had no
choice. All arrived safely. The Thorn Valley community was not truly ready for
occupation, and we have had much hard work on our hands to make it so. We have
drawn somewhat more heavily on our food stores than I would have liked, but our
farm has begun to produce, the weather is promising, and I feel confident that
we can lay in sufficient supplies for the winter.

"I must make note here of the debt owed by the Rats of NIMH to Mrs.
Brisby, widow of our friend and associate Jonathan Brisby. Without her warning,
we might well have died, or been recaptured, without ever knowing our danger. I
wish that it were possible for me to see Mrs. Brisby again; the time we spent
together was both too brief and too anxious, and I would have very much enjoyed
having the time to share my memories of Jonathan with her."

He signed it, "Justin," just as Nicodemus had signed all of his
entries; and then he leaned back, staring at the bare stone ceiling. His hand,
almost with a will of its own, stole up to touch the gold and ruby pendant that
hung around his neck.

Three months. Amazing, how the time had passed so quickly. They'd
arrived to find their new home half-built at best; almost uninhabitable; had
the Plan been followed to the letter, the majority of the population would have
arrived in Thorn Valley some seven months later, in early autumn. Most of the
excavation had been done, but none of the doors or windows were in place,
Arthur's water system hadn't yet been working--that had taken weeks more--and
of course the farm hadn't even begun to be worked.

Justin had never worked so hard in his life, as he had then. His memory of
those first few days were a little hazy, but he did clearly remember working
for three solid days, straight through, with neither food nor sleep, until he
finally collapsed. Arthur the chief engineer, having it appeared more stamina,
had gone even longer, and finally had to be forced to stop. For a while it
seemed a tossup, whether they'd all freeze or starve first. The culture shock
had been enormous--especially among the younger rats, who had never known
anything other than the electrically-lit, running-water world of the old
settlement.

But somehow, they'd made it through. Teams of rats gathered firewood, others
formed a bucket brigade, bringing water from the lake; others, organized by
Arthur, turned bare excavations into living space; and still others, braving
drenching rain and even a little snow, went to work on the farm. The community
still had many rough edges--Arthur had big construction plans for the next
winter--but, if not exactly luxurious, the place was at least now livable.

But it was not those first frantic weeks that Justin's memory dwelled on
that morning; rather, it was the last night on the farm. Time and again he had
relived the scene, most often in his dreams: Nicodemus lying dead under a pile
of rubble; and Jenner, weeping his crocodile tears and speaking his false words
of sympathy, even as he moved to take over. And Justin himself, too shattered with
grief to oppose him. Until he had attacked Mrs. Brisby...that, finally, had been
the last straw.

I should have known, Justin thought bitterly, and not for the first
time. I should have known Jenner was up to something. Ages suspected; I
should have listened to him. But God help us, we never thought he'd resort to
murder!

He reached over and touched the book, running his fingers over the entry
previous to his. It should be you sitting here, he thought. Not me. I
was never meant to be leader. But now, heaven help him, he was; duly and
unanimously elected. Because somebody had to do it.

At that point--no doubt fortunately--Justin's flow of memories and
recriminations was interrupted by a knock on the door. Firmly he closed the
book and pushed it aside. "Come in!" he called.

The door opened an inch or so, and a young male rat peered nervously in.
"Sir?" he began hesitantly.

Justin sighed. "Oh, come in, Thomas," he said testily. He almost
added, "And stop calling me 'sir'!"; but he didn't; it wouldn't have done
any good. Not with Thomas.

Thomas entered and immediately snapped to attention, much to Justin's
annoyance. The younger rat wore a dark blue tunic and a white shirt, identical
to Justin's: the uniform of the Guard, of which--until recently--Justin had
been the captain. Now--by default--this young man was the captain, and he was
utterly, hopelessly unsuited for the job. Even he seemed to know it. If only
Philip hadn't...but there was no use pursuing that line of thought, and
Justin dropped it. "What's up?" he asked.

Thomas hesitated, looking rather aghast at Justin's informality. (Justin had
the feeling Thomas would have been more comfortable if he--Justin--had instead
barked, "Report, solider!") Then he said, "Sir, we appear to
have a...visitor."

Justin rose hurriedly. "A visitor?" he asked. Who in the
world--? "You mean a stranger?"

"Yes, sir," Thomas said. "It appears to be a bird. A crow, to
be more specific. And he's asking for you by name."

If Thomas had suddenly sprouted an extra tail, Justin couldn't have been
much more surprised. "A crow is asking for me," he repeated slowly.

"Yes, sir," Thomas confirmed, dead-pan. "And he says he has a
message for you--from one Timothy Brisby."

"You did what?" Elizabeth exploded.

The four younger members of the Brisby family exchanged a glance across the
table; then, almost in unison, Teresa and Martin said, "It was Timothy's
idea!"

Timothy shot his brother and sister a look promising mayhem; then he turned
his best utterly-innocent, blue-eyed gaze upon his mother. "Well?"
she prompted sharply. Jonathan had often tried to beguile her with that exact
same look; she'd never bought it from him, either.

Amazing, really, how fast the four of them were growing. She'd had all she
could do, with the rats' parting gift of cloth, needles and thread, to keep
them in clothes. Teresa and Martin were already on the edge of adolescence
(what a human would call teenage; with everything that implied); Timothy
and Cynthia weren't all that far behind.

Martin...already he was the very image of his father, and would probably end
up even larger and stronger than poor Jonathan. Like Jonathan he was
inventive--he was making good use of the tools the rats had left--and he also
had a full measure of his father's brashness and occasional impatience. That
last, hopefully, he would learn to control eventually.

Teresa...she was already shaping up to be a real beauty. Like her mother,
others had said; but that was not a comparison it would have occurred to
Elizabeth to make. Teresa also had an unfortunate tendency toward vanity, which
Elizabeth devoutly hoped was just a phase. Her rivalry with Martin was still
the stuff of legend, although--for both of them--it seemed to have become more
a game than anything serious. And--though at times she complained bitterly
about it--Teresa did do the jobs Elizabeth wanted her to do; and did them well.

Timothy...in many ways he reminded Elizabeth of Jonathan even more strongly
than Martin did. Certainly Timothy would never be as large or strong as his
brother or father--he seemed to have accepted that fact himself--but he more
than made up for it in brain power. In his intelligence, his quick wit,
Elizabeth saw Jonathan; and especially in the slightly quirky sense of humor
and impish grin he had inherited intact. Timothy had taken Mr. Ages'
post-pneumonia advice to heart: "Exercise, boy, exercise!" and these
days he spent almost as much time at that as at his reading. Recently,
measuring him for a new shirt, Elizabeth had been surprised to feel the
whipcord muscles in his upper arm. Not large--more than a head shorter than his
brother--but wiry, and agile; he had even occasionally been known to defeat
Martin at wrestling.

And Cynthia. Exactly what combination of genes had produced that girl,
Elizabeth didn't know, with her cream-colored fur; but as she grew older and
taller, losing her baby roundness, Elizabeth was beginning to see the
similarities. Cynthia had Jonathan's eyes and ears--that much was clear--and
Elizabeth's own shape. When the time had come to put her in a dress, her
sister's hand-me-downs wouldn't fit; everything Cynthia wore was brand-new.
Which was fine with her. "Slow" wasn't a word which Elizabeth liked
to use either, but, unfortunately, "scatterbrained" was accurate.
That too, hopefully, was a phase; she just needed focus.

Timothy wilted under his mother's gaze, and he cleared his throat several
times before he could speak. Finally he said, "I asked Jeremy to find
Thorn Valley. I didn't think I was doing anything wrong," he went on
hurriedly. "He said he was glad to do it. He says his wife won't let him
near the nest until her eggs have hatched..." He trailed off then, while
Cynthia giggled behind her hand.

"That's not the point," Elizabeth told him sternly. "Although
you did take advantage of him." She held up her hand to forestall his
protest. "I know, I know, he agreed. We won't worry about that. But,
Timothy"--he was starting to prefer that, or "Tim," rather than
"Timmy"--"Thorn Valley is supposed to be secret."

"Even from us?" Timothy said challengingly. "After what Dad
did for them?"

"And what you did?" Teresa added.

"That might be true," Elizabeth admitted. "But that's not the
point either. The rats are nervous about being discovered--we can't blame them
for that. They know us--but they don't know Jeremy. I don't know what
they might do to him."

Timothy looked shocked. "They wouldn't hurt him, would
they?"

Elizabeth shook her head, remembering her own first encounter with the Rats
of NIMH--or, more specifically, with an over-zealous guard named Brutus. No
intruders, he'd been ordered; not nobody, not nohow. "I hope
not," she said anxiously.

Timothy shook his head. "They won't," he said decisively. "I
told Jeremy to ask for Justin--and to mention our name right away."

Obviously he'd thought this through, which was typical; but privately,
Elizabeth still had doubts. They were talking about Jeremy, after all;
if he got nervous and forgot Timothy's instructions...but on the other hand, she
really couldn't imagine Justin harming anyone, not even a crazy crow. Assuming,
that is, that Justin was still there; obviously they had no way of being sure.

I should have known something like this would happen, she thought.
For the past three months her children had been plaguing her with questions
about the rats. Especially Timothy. She couldn't blame them, of course. They'd
known their father such a terribly short time; to learn anything about him,
anything at all, was to bring him closer. And obviously the rats had known
Jonathan better than anyone, even Elizabeth. Most of the questions she had been
unable to answer; but that didn't stop them from asking. The fact that she'd
spent only an hour or two with the rats that terrible day, and thus had learned
precious little about them, made no difference. She'd always felt, somewhere
deep inside, that her children's curiosity would drive them to seek out the
rats someday. When you're older, she had said. Frankly, she hadn't
expected it to happen during her lifetime. Now, though...

She sighed. "Well," she said, "there's nothing we can do
about it now, of course. I suppose the worst they could do is chase him out of
the valley and tell him not to come back." If he even finds it; he's
hardly the world's greatest navigator. "We'll just have to wait until he
gets back." She rose. "Timothy," she said briskly, "it's
your turn to do the dishes."

"Aw, Mom," Timothy began, but she raised her hand, bringing him to
a halt.

"You're in quite enough trouble right now, young man," she
cautioned him. "I wouldn't add to it if I were you." He grumbled a
little, but he obeyed, and began to clear away the lunch-time dishes. Once
again--as Jonathan would have said--Parental Authority had triumphed; just how
long she could count on that, though, she didn't dare wonder.

They didn't have long to wait.

It was a little past three in the afternoon--according to their wall clock,
really a wristwatch without a band, which Jonathan had brought home a long time
ago--when they heard the commotion, and suddenly their front door was eclipsed
by a large dark body. From outside their heard the familiar raucous, excited
voice: "Hey, Mrs. B! Are you home? I've got a message for ya!"

At that time, as usual, the five of them were working. Thanks, in fact, to
the rats.

On their way off the farm, three months ago, the rats had paused long enough
to leave the Brisby family a number of gifts. The fact that the items were most
likely cast-offs, left behind to save weight on their overloaded wagons, hadn't
diminished their usefulness. Several bolts of cloth, of different colors and
materials. A number of small spools of thread and packs of tiny needles. A set
of smallish (but usable) carpenter's tools. And books. A great load of books,
printed and bound by the rats themselves. Schoolbooks, mainly, but also some
storybooks and novels. All of them were worn, and some had torn pages or
covers--that was no doubt the reason why they were being left--but all were
readable.

When Jeremy arrived, Martin, was in his corner of the living room, building
something--the rest of them had no idea what, yet--Elizabeth was sewing, and
Teresa mending; and near the window, Timothy and Cynthia were bent over their
books. Cynthia, it seemed, was stuck on a math problem, and Timothy was
explaining, for the third or perhaps fourth time. From the look on his face,
even his saintly patience with her was beginning to wear thin. (And from the
way he squinted at the books, Elizabeth was beginning to wonder if he needed
glasses.) At the sound of the crow's cheerful voice the five of them looked up
from their tasks...and then, in a flurry of fur and tails, they dashed for the
door.

Standing outside their home, in all his disheveled magnificence, was Jeremy
the Crow. Absolutely and utterly loyal to Mrs. Brisby, since she had saved him
from the cat, not even marriage and impending fatherhood had kept him away from
his new friends for long. (Jeremy a father? Elizabeth's mind boggled, every
time she contemplated that.) As the family emerged he drew himself to his full
height "I just flew in from Thorn Valley," he announced. "And
boy, are my wings tired!" And then he flopped down onto the ground as the
children swarmed over him. "Hiya, Briz," he said. "Hiya, kids.
Watch the feathers, willya?"

"Did you find it?" Timothy demanded, climbing up onto his beak.
"Did you?"

"Of course I did," Jeremy said. "And they've got quite a
setup going up there." He shook his head. "Rats with a farm. Who
knew?"

"You were gone a long time," Teresa said teasingly. "You
didn't get lost, did you?"

Jeremy stood suddenly, tumbling the children in every direction, and puffed
out his feathers. "Lost!" he said, sounding insulted. "Me? Lost?
Ha!" He paused. "Well--maybe a little. An hour or two. Or three. But
hey--" he made a sweeping gesture with his wing, scattering black
feathers. "I know how to get there now, I tell ya. Straight line all the
way. Zoom!"

"Did you meet Justin?" Timothy asked.

"Oh yeah," Jeremy said, nodding vigorously. "I gave him your
message. Nice guy too, for a rat, I mean."

"And what did he say?" Cynthia demanded.

"Not much," Jeremy said. "He said he didn't want me to have
to remember a whole big long message. He wrote it out instead." He stuck
his right leg straight out before him, and they saw, fastened there, a small
piece of paper. It had been rolled into a tight cylinder and tied in place with
a length of Jeremy's ever-present string. "A rat who can write!"
Jeremy said. "What'll they think of next? Hey Briz," he continued,
"what's a carrier pigeon? I mean, I know what a pigeon is, of course,
but..."

Half eager and half reluctant, Elizabeth stepped forward and untied the
string. Her children gathered around her eagerly as she unrolled the paper and
smoothed it out. Its inner surface, which had been inside the roll, was covered
with words, the writing neat but not graceful. She recognized her own name at
the top of the page, and at the bottom, the flamboyant signature. But in
between...she tried, she really tried; but despite her best efforts, reading was
a skill that was still all but beyond her. A little ashamed, she passed the
paper to Timothy. He accepted it eagerly and without comment; and he squinted
as he peered at it. (He definitely needed glasses.) A few seconds later
he cleared his throat and began.

Art by Saul Moran
Robin's Reader's Choice Awards 1998 Winner--Best
Illustration in a Story

"'Dear Mrs. Brisby,'" Timothy read. "'Greetings from the Rats
of NIMH! Your friend the crow delivered Timothy's message to me today, and I
can't tell you how pleased I was to receive it. In fact I have lately been
wracking my brain trying to figure out some say to contact you. I'm glad you
saved me the trouble.

"'There is more happening here than I have room to tell you in this
letter. We arrived safely--thanks to you! It took a lot of very hard work to
make our new home livable, but we are settled in now and doing well. Our farm
is beginning to produce, and we have high hopes for a good harvest.

"'Now the important part. You and your family are hereby invited to
visit Thorn Valley as soon as possible. I'll give you fair warning--we won't
take "no" for an answer! And I personally won't hear of you staying
any less than a month. Don't worry much about packing; we can provide most
anything you'll need.

"'I hope to be seeing you all very soon.

"'Your friend,

"'Justin,

"'Leader (by election), the Rats of NIMH'"

In the silence that followed, Martin shook his head in disbelief. "You
were right, little brother," he said.

"Of course I was," Timothy said. He gazed up at his mother.
"Mom--can we go?"

"Yeah, Mom, can we?"

"Can we, Mother?"

"Can we, Momma?"

That was the very question Elizabeth had been asking herself, ever since
Timothy's lunch-time confession. Can we? She asked herself. Justin, clearly,
wanted them to; and not just for a quick hello, either. And what was it he'd
written? "We won't take 'no' for an answer." Meaning that the rest of
the rats also wanted them to come? But they'd almost kicked her out before...

That was then, she reminded herself sharply. They were listening to Jenner
then, and only Jenner. He's gone now, and Justin's in charge. And she could
not, in her wildest dreams, imagine Justin allowing any harm to come to her or
her children. Not him. If he was inviting them, it was safe. And to see him
again, to speak to him, to hear all his memories...

With an effort she blinked herself back to reality. Her children, and
Jeremy, stood silent, looking at her expectantly. She cleared her throat and
smiled up at the crow. "Jeremy," she said, "if it's not too much
trouble, would you please come back here tomorrow morning? I think...I'd like you
to take us all on a little trip, if you will."

It was a little before sunset when Justin finally laid down his pencil.
Paperwork, he thought, as he leaned back and rubbed his eyes tiredly. I hate
paperwork! Sometimes it was all he could do to prevent himself from just
chucking it all into the fireplace. But if he did--he feared--the community
would come to a grinding halt. "That's what we get for learning to
read," Jonathan had often said. "Paperwork." He hadn't known the
half of it.

Oh well, Justin thought. I knew the job was dangerous when I took it. He
spent a few moments to filing it all away, or shoveling it into the
"out" tray, as the case may be; and then he stood, cracking his
cramped back, and crossed to the window.

Like all the windows in the community this one faced west, and was
positioned (accidentally, of course) so that it gave a particularly lovely view
of the sunset. As he watched the sun sink behind the distant mountains, tinting
the peaks with red and throwing long fingers of black shadow across the valley,
Justin found himself smiling. He'd had many busier days since he became
leader--but rarely one more interesting. If someone had told him that morning
that he'd end up interrogating a bird...

Jeremy, his name was. The conversation had required every ounce of patience
Justin possessed, and then some. The crow had been somewhere between nervous
and scared to death, and was apparently not too quick on the uptake in the best
of situations. It had taken Justin the better part of half an hour just to get
that: the bird's name. Beyond that...Justin still had no clear understanding what
the connection was between Jeremy and the Brisby family, but the crow spoke of
Mrs. Brisby with obvious affection and respect, and Justin could appreciate
that, at least. Finally, after much questioning, Justin had gathered that
Jeremy had been sent to find the rats; but not by Mrs. Brisby (the crow called
her "Briz" or "Mrs. B.") Rather, he'd been sent by Timothy.
That in itself had been good news, at least; that Timothy had survived his
illness, and was apparently thriving. In the end--having seen how hopeless it
would be to ask Jeremy to remember a lengthy message--Justin had sent Thomas to
fetch pen and paper. He'd tied the message in place himself; he only hoped that
it would actually make it back to the farm.

Will they come? Justin wondered, as the shadows lengthened. He was--he
knew--not the only one who hoped they would. News of his strange visitor had
spread through the community like wildfire; he couldn't count how many times,
as he'd made his rounds that afternoon, he'd been accosted by citizens seeking
confirmation of the rumors. They wanted to mount a full-scale celebration,
complete with speeches, marching bands and a feast; the works. Gently but
firmly Justin had vetoed that. She was, he figured, going to be intimidated
enough; no use adding to it.

But to see her again...their time together had been so terribly brief. Later
he'd thought of a millions things he might have told her, or asked her. To have
the chance to sit down with her, here in his office, and hang out the "Do
Not Disturb Under Penalty of Death" sign...and then talk. Talk for hours on
end. Talk until they really knew each other.

And then there were her children. If Jonathan had been right about them--and
Justin had no reason to doubt it--then there was a great deal the community
could offer them. At very least they'd have their minds expanded. Justin had
barely met them, that night on the farm; he'd had only moments to spare. He
looked forward to getting to know them too--especially this audacious Timothy.
He was turning out much like his father, it seemed.

And yet...by now the first stars were appearing, and Justin, standing in the
darkened room, sighed. In one sense he was not looking forward to the visit.
Oh, he would make them welcome--the entire community would--and as comfortable
as the rats' somewhat depleted resources could manage. But as long as the
Brisbys were in the valley, Justin would have to be constantly on
guard--against himself. He was the keeper of a terrible secret. Of all the rats
only one other knew what Justin did: Arthur. And Mr. Ages, of course; but Ages
was not there. And Arthur could be trusted. But Justin was not at all sure that
he could trust himself. In his brief acquaintance with Mrs. Brisby he had grown
quite fond of her--indeed, in other circumstances, he might have been sorely
tempted--and he feared that his affection might loosen his tongue. It would be
a strain; but he would have to think about every word before he spoke it. If
only Nicodemus had been firmer...but that line of thought wasn't worth pursuing
either.

Finally Justin turned away from the darkened window. After his long day
behind his desk he heard the gym calling; perhaps he could sweat away some of
his troubles.

Philip was worried.

As he moved swiftly through the grimy ductwork he considered what he had
just overheard--and the more he did, the less he liked it. Clearly something
was going on; and if his guesses were correct...then they were in serious trouble
indeed. And not only them, but everyone.

By any definition of the word Philip was a handsome rat, his fur dark grey
and his eyes unusually large and bright. Tall and broad-shouldered; but
unfortunately--like his friends--he had recently lost a certain amount of
weight to stress and poor nutrition, so that his stained, ragged and
much-patched blue tunic and white shirt hung loose on him. At one time--not so
very long ago, actually--Philip had been Justin's number one-lieutenant, when
Justin had been Captain of the Guard; and in fact Philip would have himself
been captain now, had circumstances--in the form of this endless mission--not
intervened. Maybe someday.

Outside (not that they saw a lot of the outside these days) the sun was just
setting over the complex. The work day had been over for some time, though, the
offices and labs all but deserted, except by the die-hards. Another day,
passing like a kidney stone (where had he heard that? Philip wondered); another
day to pass into another week, and then into another month. Nine months they'd
spent here already, or nearly; nine months in the very stronghold of the enemy.
Nine months in NIMH.

Philip reached the end of the duct and swung himself onto a rope ladder that
he and his companions had strung months ago. Swiftly he climbed down, two
floors in all; slipped past a diverter into a narrower duct, continued a few
more yards...and stopped, finally, at a dusty grille. He pushed with his
shoulders, sliding the right side of the vent out of its socket a few inches;
and then he dropped onto a hard, cold concrete floor. Honey, I'm home...!

"Home"--such as it was--was a storeroom, a tiny, neglected closet
stuffed nearly full of cardboard boxes; the boxes contained manila folders by
the thousands, computer tapes for obsolete systems...many things that no one had
much use for any more. In fact it was a place long overdue for cleaning out, a
job that somehow never seemed to get done. Which Philip and his friends counted
on.

Behind a tall stack of boxes was a small area of bare floor, perhaps two
feet square; and in that space, a kind of camp had been set up. Five beds, made
of paper right out of the office shredder, held together with rubber bands. A
flashlight; they scrounged batteries when and where they could. A makeshift
cardboard table, and a few plastic squeeze-bottles, straight from the lab, full
of water. And in the corner, elevated off the floor and carefully wrapped in
plastic as if it was very precious, several good-sized bundles of closely-written
paper. The sum total of nine months' work.

Four of the beds were in use, their occupants fast asleep and wrapped
loosely in threadbare, dark green blankets, cut long ago from army surplus. The
clothing that lay in neat piles at the foots of their beds was similar to
Philip's own: dark-colored tunics and long-sleeved shirts, ragged and patched.

Three of the sleepers were rats. Two of them, male, slim of build and with
dark-brown fur, were brothers: Mark and David. They were not twins, but were so
similar, at first glance, that they almost seemed to be. The third, smaller and
with light, almost cream-colored fur, was female: Eileen. "Hacker,"
they called her, because she knew more about computers, and how to get into
them, than the other four put together. Philip couldn't suppress a smile as his
gaze touched her.

The fourth sleeper was a mouse. Male, he had medium-grey fur, with large
patches of darker, charcoal grey over his right shoulder and left hip. Once
quite large and strong, the stresses of this mission seemed to have affected
him most of all: he lay with his back to Philip, and the blanket around his
waist; and the rat could clearly see his vertebrae, like beads on a string. God
help them all if this mission didn't end soon, but especially him: there'd be
nothing left.

Philip knelt down beside the mouse. He was asleep, but hardly relaxed: he
tossed and turned, moaning softly, clearly in the grips of a bad dream. Again.
Philip laid a hand on his shoulder. "Jonathan," he said.
"Jonathan, wake up. We've got problems."

Jonathan Brisby woke with a start, his brown eyes wide and searching,
sitting up so violently that Philip, alarmed, grabbed at his shoulders.
"Take it easy," Philip said.

Jonathan took a deep breath and let it out slowly; as he did, Philip could
clearly see the narrow stripes of his ribs, standing out clearly beneath the
fur. Finally he smiled, just a ghost of his old impish grin. "Sorry about
that," he told Philip.

"That's all right," Philip assured him. "Another
nightmare?"

Jonathan nodded. "Afraid so," he said shortly. Obviously he didn't
want to talk about it; he never did, no matter how much the others cajoled him.
"What time is it?"

"About seven p.m.," Philip told him. "Just after dark."

Jonathan's eyes narrowed, as he saw that his friend was fully clothed.
"What's up?" he asked.

By now their voices had woken the other three, and they clustered around,
rubbing sleep out of their eyes. Philip exchanged a smile with Eileen before he
continued. She hadn't bothered to dress--none of them had--but he couldn't let
that distract him. "I couldn't sleep," Philip said. "So I
decided to take a look around. On the way back I went past Dr. Schultz's
office." He paused. "Jonathan, why would Schultz be hiring a helicopter?"

Jonathan shook his head. "What?" he said. "A
helicopter?"

Philip nodded. "When I passed his office he was on the phone." He
smiled wryly. "Of course. I stopped to listen. He was talking to the owner
of a company that charters helicopters." He grinned. "I think they
were arguing about the price. But Dr. Schultz said something about 'six hours a
day for up to two weeks.' I heard that part clearly enough."

Jonathan rubbed the side of his nose; by now a familiar gesture to all of
them. "Now that is strange," he said. "That's an awfully long
time...It's almost as if...as if...," he trailed off then, and the four of them
watched the color drain from his ears and nose. "Oh my God," he
finally uttered, in tones of horror.

"What is it, Jonathan?" Eileen said.

He turned to her. "It sounds to me...like he's searching for
something."

"Searching," Mark echoed. "Searching for what?"

By then Eileen had picked it up; and she too turned pale. "He's
searching for Thorn Valley," she whispered.

"That's ridiculous," Mark said instantly. Then he paused, and
looked around at the four of them. "Isn't it?" he finished
uncertainly.

"No," Jonathan said. "No, it isn't. You remember what he was
like three months ago, when he tracked them to the farm. Finding the rats has
long since become an obsession with him. It's even gone beyond his reputation,
or his lost funding. He's utterly convinced that the Rats of NIMH are a threat
to humanity."

"But he didn't find anything at the farm," David protested.

"That's the problem," Eileen said softly. "He found nothing.
Justin didn't have a choice--but still, it's unfortunate. Dr. Schultz knew our
community was there, you see. How he knew we still don't know; but it doesn't
matter. He was convinced. But when he got there he found no trace at all; just
junk. There was only one conclusion he could draw--that he'd been outsmarted;
that the rats somehow had received advance warning and gotten out. Which of
course was correct. Never mind what Schultz's superiors think; that's what he
knows is true. And to someone like him, that only makes us--our people--seem
all the more threatening. Actually this is a quite logical development."

Jonathan nodded tiredly. "He can get his funding back, restore his
reputation, and save the world, all in one fell swoop," he said.
"Hacker's right--it's logical. Horrible, but logical."

"The only question is," Philip said, "what are we going to do
about it?"

Jonathan gazed at him, a haunted look on his face. "Philip," he
said seriously, "I'm frankly not sure there's anything we can do."

Elizabeth Brisby couldn't sleep.

She'd had a worse than usual time getting her children into bed that night;
finally, in fact, she had found herself wishing for some of the powder the rats
used to feed to Dragon. Their excitement was of course easy to understand; she
even felt a little herself. They were going to see the rats! All evening their
talk had been of nothing else: what they would see, what they would do, the
million questions they would ask. No wonder it had taken her so long to settle
them down.

But, having finally gotten them to sleep, Elizabeth found herself wide
awake. For a time she fought a losing battle, tossing and turning; then,
finally, she slipped from her bed and reached for her cape. Silently she passed
through the tunnel into the living room. The space was dim; but a shaft of
moonlight, lancing in through the round window, was enough for her eyes. She
crossed to the pile of cushions below the window and sat.

On the stairs near the door was stacked their luggage. Justin had told them
not to worry much about packing, and in fact they hadn't; stuffing just a few
changes of clothing and a few other items into the tight bundles. They
certainly didn't want to overload Jeremy, despite his claims that it couldn't
be done.

Too sudden, she thought. Sometimes it seemed that her entire life had been
like that: too sudden. First her parents had died, leaving her alone; then
there was Jonathan; and then he was gone. Then there were the rats. And now
this. Every time her life settled down a bit, someone kicked the chair out from
under her--to use one of Jonathan's sayings. Would her life ever be secure?

But...she knew very well she couldn't deny her children this trip. She owed it
to them. And to herself as well. Never in the last nine months had she stopped
missing Jonathan; his absence was a hole in her heart that could never be
filled. But in getting to know his friends, perhaps that hole could be patched
a little. None of them would be harmed; everything else she would have to take
as it came. It might even be fun.

She heard the soft patter of feet, and she looked up sharply. Directly in
front of her stood Timothy. In the shaft of moonlight his eyes glittered, and
his fur turned from grey to shining silver. "Mom?" he said softly.
"Are you okay?"

"You're supposed to be in bed, young man," she said sternly. He
was wearing nothing at all, other than his own fur, and though the night was
far from cold, old habits were hard to break. She drew him close beside her and
wrapped a fold of her cape around him, feeling and once again being amazed by
the new firm muscles in his arms and abdomen. He looked up at her and grinned
impishly.

"So are you," he said.

Inwardly she sighed. Just like his father. She'd never been able to win an
argument with Jonathan either. "I was just thinking about tomorrow,"
she told him.

"Me too," he said, moving a little closer. "Dad saved them,
didn't he? Without him they never would have gotten out of NIMH?"

"That's what Nicodemus told me, yes," she said. "And he did
many others things for them too."

"And you warned them that NIMH was coming."

"Yes, I did." Privately she didn't take much credit for that; it
had been pure chance that she'd overheard that phone call.

"I was just thinking," Timothy said. "After all that--I guess
they'll like us, huh?"

She smiled and hugged him. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I think
they will." She stood then, lifting him and depositing him on his feet.
"Come on," she said. "We're both going back to bed."

Nine months ago Jonathan Brisby had been a wreck; now, at least, he was a
wreck with a purpose.

They waited several hours--Dr. Schultz had been known to work very late on
occasion, and even to leave and return--and then the five of them pushed aside
the vent-cover and entered the scientist's office. Jonathan had lost count of
how many times they had done just that during the last nine months--dozens, at
least.

While they watched, sitting silent behind the vent until they were certain
they were alone. Jonathan thought back over the past year of his life. From the
very pinnacle of happiness he had plunged, slowly and inexorably, into depths
of despair. And now this. A nightmare; a nine-month continuous nightmare. Would
it ever end? Could it ever end? Or was this his punishment, for the horrible
thing he had done to his family?

Elizabeth. How many times he had thought of her, as the days lengthened into
months, he had no idea. In all that time no day, scarcely an hour, had gone by
without the memory of her beautiful face drifting unbidden into his mind,
tormenting him. He had known that it would be hard to leave her, leave their
children...but he had never dreamed just how hard it would be. If he had, if he'd
had even the slightest idea...he never could have done it. And maybe it would
have been better that way; he no longer knew.

And it hadn't had to happen--that was by far the worst of it. Nicodemus,
Justin., Ages...all of them had been against it; all of them had begged him not
to go. The other four were capable--so his friends told him--they could take
care of it; they could find the data. But Jonathan would not listen to their
advice. He had to go, had to participate, had to make sure they overlooked
nothing--but even that wasn't the entire story. For him the mission had been a
way out, a way of escaping the insoluble dilemma he found himself caught in. A
dilemma entirely of his own making. Elizabeth had to know, had to be told,
before it was too late; had to know that he was different from her, that she
would grow old and die while he remained young. She had to know; but he could
not force himself to tell her. It had driven him nearly mad, preying on his
mind more and more as time went on, until he had genuinely feared that the
stress might drive him to harm himself or his family.

Nicodemus had been sympathetic without really understanding. He had told
Jonathan of the mission he was organizing, as a way of giving Jonathan some
hope: perhaps his dilemma could be made to go away. Little had poor Nicodemus
know, what Jonathan would do with that knowledge; but once Jonathan had made up
his mind...Jonathan had made them all swear an oath, never to tell; Nicodemus, it
seemed, had taken the secret to the grave.

So long, Jonathan thought, as they crept out into the darkened office. Three
months, he'd thought when they started; four at the outside. How could they
have known it would take so long; how could they know that the knowledge they
sought would--sometime after the original escape--have been declared secret? It
was still available, they'd found; but it had to be ferreted out from a hundred
sources, but by painful bit. Only his resolve not to return empty-handed had
kept him from giving up in despair.

The office was dark, but enough light from the parking lot lamps filtered
through the venetian blinds for the eyes of a rat, or a mouse. Jonathan and his
companions made their way up onto the desk by way of the chair, the rats giving
Jonathan a boost at each stage. On the way up, once again, Jonathan gazed
longingly at one particular painting on the wall behind the desk. The painting
itself was of no interest to him; but it concealed a wall safe, and what that
contained...Someday, he promised himself. They already knew the combination; that
had been easy enough to discover. Someday, when they had nothing more to lose.

There was a large square of light-colored paper spread across the desk,
carelessly covering the phone, the pen and pencil set, and almost everything
else. "Topo map," Philip said, kneeling down to peer at it..

"Thank you Colin Fletcher," Eileen said, and was rewarded with an
elbow in the ribs. "The question is, a topo map of where?"

"I've got a bad feeling about this," Jonathan said. He crossed to
the middle of the map, his feet making a crinkling sound. He knelt down...and a
moment later he pointed. "Take a look," he said.

The four rats knelt down around him...and gasped. "I think we're in big
trouble," Eileen whispered.

Someone--who else but Dr. Schultz--had drawn on the map with a fine-point
black pen. Near its center, a tiny dot; and around that a widening set of
concentric circles, each one gridded off into segments. "That center
spot," Jonathan said. "That's the Fitzgibbons farm, isn't it?"

Mark and David peered closer. They had traveled those roads, several times
over the last nine months; if anyone would know, it would be them.
"Yes," Mark said a moment later. "Yes, I recognize the roads. It
is."

"Then this is his search radius," Jonathan said. "These
sections--that must be the area he thinks he--or rather his pilot--can cover in
a day."

"Some of it has been X'd out," Eileen observed. "Most of the
farmland to the north and east."

Jonathan nodded. "He's trying to think like us," he said. "He
knows that our friends got out of the rosebush before he arrived. So which way
would they go? Onto another farm? Unlikely. Into the dense woods? Also
unlikely. No--he'll be looking for someplace like Thorn Valley."

They exchanged a glance, ashen-faced. "And he'll find it too,"
Philip said in horror. "What's to stop him?"

"Maybe this," Mark said. "Take a look."

On the map Thorn Valley was astoundingly small, barely a blip in the midst
of a very large green area. That alone was comforting--but even more so was
what Mark had noted. The entire Thorn Mountain Wilderness Area had been
outlined with rough streaks of a yellow highlighter pen, and in the middle, in
Dr. Schultz's nearly indecipherable handwriting, was written:
"Restricted???!!!"

Philip rocked back on his heels, nodding slowly. "One of the reasons
Nicodemus chose Thorn Valley in the first place was that it's in a wilderness
area," he said. "Which means that it's illegal for the humans to fly
their aircraft low over it."

Jonathan also nodded. "Yes, Philip's right. Nicodemus spoke of that
often--he thought the rats would be safe there for just that reason."

"So there's hope," David said.

"Maybe," Jonathan told him. "Maybe."

At that moment Eileen cleared her throat. "Don't get too confident,
gentlemen," she said. She pointed. "Look at this."

There was another line of writing below the first, a little smaller and even
harder to read. They looked...and then they felt their stomachs sink through the
floor. That second line read, "We'll see about that!!!"