Rat, Bat, Alligator-God

(this action suspense comedy rated something not unlike PG-13 for [fairly non-graphic, but heavy for a piece of Rescue Rangers fanfiction] violence, lots of glowing eyes, and heavy use of quotations.)

N.B.

Anyone who hasn't read "Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH," but has seen the film version "The Secret of NIMH" should be advised there are substantial differences--the film version excises the moral complexity almost completely. Otherwise 'loyal opposition' is going to sound like an unlikely moniker for Jenner. I went with the book, although I did lift from the film those cool glowing eyes--which were a large part of my private childhood mythology, and let me add that it caused me quite I shock when I saw the film in spring of '99 for the first time in years and learned that there weren't nearly as many glowing eyes as I recalled. And my favorite scene never happened, which I'm still bitter about. To very briefly summarize the changes: in the book Nicodemus survived the moving of the cinder-block house (which was done with electric winches, not no stinking magic amulet) and led the rats to Thorn Valley only hours before NIMH arrived at the Rosebush. Jenner was not present, because he disagreed so vehemently with the Plan of his friend-since-childhood (Nicodemus had many fond memories of Jenner which he related to Mrs. Frisby) that he left the rats months before. I know, I know...

DRAMATIS PERSONAE:

Friday.

"I think it's a good idea. I think it can work, and I think we can make it work well. But there's something bothering you. Something's bothering you, I can tell. What's the matter? What's the problem, Herb?" Rapid and staccato, Luwini's voice echoed through the empty space of their converted washer-dryer. Several two-by-fours had been laid down in the center of the main compartment, creating two rooms: the upper chamber with a rounded ceiling and the lower with a rounded floor. They used the lower level for storage. Luwini had been sleeping down there, with the dried foodstuffs, but her husband had on arrival insisted on acquiring a bed. He had also frittered money on chairs and a table for the coffee-maker he had made for her. Herb had been back from New York and Staten City for nearly six months. His sabbatical now counted for less than half their "married" life.

"I'm fine." Herb had brought back with him nearly thirty thousand Staten City dollars. It was enough, in Rodent Paris, for a very pleasant lifestyle for them both for half a year, hence the current discussion. The cavernous space of the washer-dryer was unpleasantly acoustic; his voice resounded through the tiny room. "I just think it's not that great an idea."

"Why? What's the problem? What haven't you told me? What is it about Staten City that you don't want me to know?" Her voice didn't echo nearly as much as her husband's. She could modulate her tone better than he. Luwini had met Herb in San Francisco, long after developing irreconcilable differences with Shaka-baka. She later told him she had first seen him as the dumb muscle Shaka had been, and had found it pleasantly surprising that he was, in fact, smarter than toast.

"All right. All right. I'll tell you." For his part, Herb had been more or less swept off his feet by Luwini. She was, admittedly, a third his size, but she was also the verbal and literate rodent he had ever encountered outside the old firm. That did, of course, imply certain things, but Herb didn't really care. And she had a very unusual set of personal habits, but again, it didn't matter to him. "First off, I left the US under a sort of dark cloud."

"That's right. Sewer Al. You said you didn't think he would take no for an answer." Herb sighed. She didn't really understand what Sewer Al was. Herb didn't either, of course, but at least he realized it. He had suspicions, of course; dropped hints now and then had led him to wonder if the truth wasn't both more and less than the obvious, but...

"It, Luwini, not he. And that doesn't really apply either. I didn't, and don't, think Sewer Al would take no for an answer. That's why I left as quickly as I did." The tall rat wished, not for the first time, that she would take his word for it, would take his word for anything.

"But that's no problem. We can make a deal. And Sewer Al paid well." Luwini sounded confident.

"The principal's not the only problem. When I left New York, I didn't plan on coming back. Ever. There are a couple of other people there who also want me dead." Berlin was booming. Or London. Or the West Coast. They could even carve a chunk out of Moscow and make it their own. He'd heard that parts of the former "Union of Socialist Soviet Rodents" were in a state of anarchy. Why New York? It was true that the Staten City dollar was the only hard currency in the animal kingdom, but precisely for that reason you could get them almost anywhere.

"Who? We can take care of them. We can turn them around. They're idiots. We can take care of them." Luwini didn't know who her husband was talking about, of course, but it didn't matter. In her estimation, Herb knew, everyone on the planet not currently in the room was an idiot.

"Yeah, I guess." Herb admitted to himself that a large part of him wanted to go back to Staten City if for no other reason than to punish the boss and the principal and the fearless leader and the creepy one, to make them suffer for the unforgivable crime of slightly inconveniencing him. "But it wouldn't be easy."

"Easy? When was the last time something wasn't easy? Everything's easy. It's a piece of cake, a piece of pie. Easy- peasy." Luwini nearly raised her voice, something she never did. Herb had touched a nerve. "All my life, I have found everything very, very easy. 'Everybody has their moment of great opportunity in life. If you happen to miss the one you care about, then everything else in life becomes eerily easy.' [01]"

He ignored the outburst. "Two other groups. I played one against the other when I left, but that wouldn't work a second time." Herb wondered if he could get around describing the creepy female to her. Probably. He could also, probably, talk her into going to Russia. Did he really want to? They were soft and weak in Staten City, easily broken.

"All right. It's no problem; it'll be easy. We'll crush them. Who are they?" She sounded like she was starting to get impatient. That didn't really mean anything, though. Luwini could turn her emotions on and off like a... Herb searched for the precise phrase. 'Like a size nine HP-analytical pump with Teflon tape around the norprene tubing to keep it from wearing -- and don't forget the Teflon, Herbert. My modeling indicates it is a crucial part of the system, as it prevents wear on the threads of the... Herbert! You're not listening!' bubbled up from the depths into his mind. He cursed Arthur and the rest of them. 'Faucet.' Like a faucet.

"One group's a cat and his gang. Fat Cat, the boss, owns a casino and a large part of Staten City's organized crime. The boss's underlings are stupid, though. Not much of a problem, just a lot of money." Herb rose from his chair and started pacing around the room. "It's the others that I'm worried about."

Luwini poured herself a cup of coffee, gulped it down. "Describe them."

"They're a team of freelance police. Private detectives. There's five of them: two mice, two chipmunks, and a fly." Herb had stopped. He faced away from Luwini and stared at a Guatemalan stamp he had pasted to a wall after his return from New York. "It's strange, you know," he began, changing the subject. "When I got here there wasn't a stick of furniture in this apartment. You never put up any pictures or a rug or anything. How could you live like that? It's like living in a laboratory cage. And another thing, all of your clothing is the exact same shade of blue. You have no sense of style."

"'Spartan' and 'minimalist' are accepted styles, dear." Luwini wasn't going to take the bait. "Now, tell me about this group of police, guardians, do-gooders, activists, wardens, marshals, sheriffs, agents, watchmen... 'who watches the watchmen?'" she mused.

"One mouse is middle-aged, a big guy. Muscle. Almost as big as I am. Not as tall, but very wide."

Luwini's eyes narrowed.

"The two chipmunks -- I never got their story, but they acted like brothers. One of them was the leader, the other wasn't very bright. Fearless leader in a leather jacket -- his behavior was almost psychotic."

"Chirp? Chop? It was something like that, something silly," Herb barely heard Luwini mutter to herself. He winced. "What about the second mouse?" she asked evenly. "What did she look like, Herb? What was her name?"

Herb sighed. Luwini knew; somehow she knew. "She looked like you, with blonde hair--"

"That's my natural color. I dye it. You know that." Luwini glanced at the watch hung on the wall. "What time does the Concorde leave?"

"Her name's Gadget. She's a bright girl. Inventor. Built a Dalek that almost killed me." Herb closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The decision, he knew, was already made.

"We're going. We're going now. Why didn't you tell me you'd found her?!" Luwini very nearly shouted. Quickly she regained composure. "It's why I'm not Queen of Hawaii. I don't think I told you about this, so it's okay. You didn't know there was a duplicate. A second me. I don't know why, but there's a girl who looks just like me. 'The same eyes, the same lips...' [02] You met her. I'd almost conned a tribe of Hawaiian mice into making me their ruler. She stopped me. I was going to track her down; I was going to punish her. I couldn't find her. That's why I was in San Francisco. I was looking for her there. I knew she was from the US. I should have realized Staten City. We're going. We have to go, and we have to go now."

It'd be fun. Herb was starting to find life without enemies dull. And after all, they deserved it. All of them. "Okay, we're going back to New York. What are we going to do when we get there?"

"'Who travels widely needs his wits about him; the stupid should stay at home,'" Luwini quoted flatly as she started rooting through her chest of drawers. "'Seldom do those who are silent make mistakes; mother wit is ever a faithful friend.' [03]" She turned her head and smiled sunnily at him for about three seconds, then went back to her searching.

"Well, that doesn't really apply." Herb was sold on the plan, but he couldn't let it lie. "You're talking about going into a known danger zone. We'll have a lot of work to do." "We'll think of something. You worry too much. You should relax. We'll improvise. We'll play it by ear. 'His ears attentive, his eyes alert: so he protects himself.' [04]"

They packed lightly.

The iguana that entered into the Presence seemed woefully unprepared. No sacrifice, for instance. And he didn't know enough to not bring a flashlight. It was almost too much for Nemeniah [05]. The short mouse in the red turtleneck sweater peered down at the ostentatiously dressed lizard through mouse-sized binoculars, recognizing him as Wart, Fat Cat's Trusted Lieutenant. Nemeniah had been one of the first of the Hands, and in Sewer Al's service for nearly half a year, but it still galled him, no matter how many times he saw it. You had to go into the Presence with a certain amount of respect.

"Hello? Hello? Mister Strange Giant Lizard? Hello?" Wart remembered to at least turn his flashlight off as he called down to the still pool under him.

"WART."

That was Sewer Al for you. Always knew exactly who was there before they identified themselves, even if Sewer Al didn't always let on. Nemeniah smirked at Wart, although he knew the lizard couldn't see him.

"Hello, Mister Sewer Al. Fat Cat has sent me here with a question." Wart was being nominally polite, at least. That Sewer Al had known it was him surprised him, Nemeniah could tell.

"PAYMENT IS REQUIRED." How could Wart and Fat Cat not have known that? Nemeniah sighed and ran his fingers through the short-cropped fur between his ears. The lizard looked anxious.

"Erm, Fat Cat was hoping that you could answer his question as a personal favor, or rather, in exchange for one. He is a very powerful cat, after all..." Wart clearly didn't like the idea much himself, but you had to give him some credit. The lizard followed orders. From his peephole, Nemeniah chuckled. Sewer Al didn't need "favors:" Sewer Al had the Hands.

"I NEED NO FAVORS. YOU WILL BRING ME FAT CAT'S COPY OF SUN-TZU'S 'THE ART OF WAR.' YOU WILL BRING IT EIGHTY-FIVE MINUTES FROM NOW. GOOD-BYE." Nemeniah was moderately disappointed; Tobit would relieve him before Wart came back with his sacrifice. The third-most-senior Hand of Sewer Al leaned back in his little chair, and waited. Below him, a nervous Wart scuttled back into the tiny passages, fleeing the Presence and stopping only long enough to turn his flashlight back on. Peace returned under the Lions.

"You know," Dale said as he stared at the knotty ceiling of Ranger Headquarters' main chamber. "We could really use a hot tub. I'm in quite a bit of pain. I'd like hot, bubbling water to immerse myself in."

Foxglove, lying next to him on the sofa, opened one eye and looked his way. "A hot tub, cutie?"

"Oh, they're great, Foxy. All the fun and therapeutic healthfulness of boiling yourself, with none of the scalding. And it's cold outside. We used to have this teacup, but..." The chipmunk paused. "Somebody broke it. And anyway we had to use Alka-Seltzer to make the bubbles. Gunk was pretty bad after a while. I was thinking more along the lines of an actual, working hot tub." Dale tried flexing a few muscles. His legs were especially sore. "What do you think, Monty?"

Draped across the recliner on the far side of the room, Monterey Jack sighed. "No way we could get a hot tub, mate. Jes a pipe dream." He smiled at his own pun.

"I could ask Gadget..."

Monty sat up and glared at Dale. "Don't you dare!"

"I'm kidding, Monty, I'm kidding. My comic books would get water-damaged when she flooded the Tree."

Foxglove decided she had been lying down long enough, and stood. Dale watched her stretch. "Where did Chip and Gadget and Zipper go?" she asked.

Dale figured he might as well get up, and stretched as well. He regretted it. "Zipper went to bed, Gadget's in the garage, and Chip... where is Chip?"

"Chipper went out for a walk," Monty said. He yawned. "Can't imagine why. I think we all had enough exercise for one day." The big mouse was understandably tired.

"I feel fine." Foxglove shrugged, her wings describing an wide arc of motion. "I think I'll see what Gadget's up to. See you in the morning, Monty. Good-night, Dale." Foxglove turned her head and winked at the chipmunk before exiting the room, her long eyelashes a- batting.

Dale, robbed of any excuse to stay out of bed, sighed. It wasn't that he didn't like sleeping -- heck, he loved sleeping -- but ever since he was little, Dale had hated the act of getting into bed and turning out the light. Nonetheless, sleep was inevitable, so the chipmunk resigned the cause and retired.

Foxglove wandered away from the living quarters, towards the stairs. "Gadget! Whatcha doing?" she called. Foxglove, winged as she was, hadn't needed to run that day. She slowed as she approached the garage. "Aren't you tired? Can I help you? Gadget? I'd like to help! ...Gadget?" When she reached the bottom of the stairs, the bat stopped completely, cocking her head quizzically. She sighed.

In the garage Gadget had the new Rangermobile up on blocks. She had built it in the past few months, following the original's blueprints. At least, that had been the original plan; she had found herself Rewiring and Improving the basic design quite a bit, adding things like a steering mechanism which was more than cosmetic and a set of brakes that stayed on even at speed. Tonight she was concentrating on the portion of the vehicle which had been the first to fail earlier in the day: the suspension. Foxglove could hear all this, of course. She could hear Gadget quite clearly, climbing over the frame, a screwdriver in her hands. The large garage, hollowed out of the base of the tree, was filled to bursting with not only an assortment of parts and tools, but also the new Rangermobile, the Ranger Skate, and the pieces of the rarely-used Ranger Unicycle, Ranger Hang-Glider, Ranger Pogo Stick, Ranger Water-ski, Ranger Gyrocopter, and Ranger Armored Personnel Carrier. Gadget used the garage for working only on these large vehicles, but still she spent nearly as much time there as in her workshop. Foxglove knew it was Gadget, of course: the strange, bubbly noise the cerebrospinal fluid made as it went through her braincase was so distinctive as to be unique. What had given her pause was not that Gadget was working; it was that Gadget was singing.

"'Sparks are flying from electrical pylons/Snakes and ladders running up and down her nylons...' wrench, where's the wrench... 'Ready to experiment, you're ready to be burned...' now, was that three-sixteenths or one-eighth? i think it was three-sixteenths... 'If it wasn't for some accidents then some would never ever learn...' ooh! i know i know i know... [06]"

Gadget was just starting the chorus when Foxglove, who knew tone- deaf when she heard it, decided she had had enough. The bat bounced into the room. "Hiya, Gadget!" She leaned over the Rangermobile. "Can I help you? Hm? Please?"

The mouse had broken off her song as soon as she saw Foxglove. "Oh, oh, hi Foxy." The mouse normally would have welcomed the company, but she had just conceived of a mind-bashingly brilliant method for keeping the passenger seats level regardless of the angle of the frame and needed to either write it down or build it, before she forgot. "I'm really kind of in the middle of something--"

"Can I help?" Foxglove interrupted. "Hold something steady? Fetch something? Stand quietly by and listen to you swear at the defective pieces of junk you've been forced to work with? Anything?" Foxglove liked the garage, and liked Gadget's workshop too. They were full of amazing little thingys, like short-wave radios and screwdrivers and oxyacetylene torches and--

"No, that's all right, thanks anyway Foxglove." Gadget smiled nervously, then was struck with a thought. "Actually, there is something you can do for me, now that I think about it, if you're still interested, which if you're not is understandable since I just said no, I mean I wouldn't be offended if you didn't want to do it if you wanted to go out or something, you know?"

"Yes? What can I do?" The bat was distracted, scanning the large rack of tools along one wall. Some were full-sized, some painstakingly rendered in miniature. Oxyacetylene torch, adjustable wrenches, socket screwdrivers, pocket fisherman, picture of Gadget's father, claw hammer, picture of Widget, Juergen, and Gimcrack, ball- peen hammer, mallet, picture of Gadget and Chip, box of heavy masonry nails... She looked up. "Do you need something hammered into something else?" the bat asked eagerly. Foxglove liked helping people, too.

"Chip asked me to meet him down at the other end of the park. He wanted to do something, I guess. He was kind of vague. Could you fly over there and tell him that this is a little more engrossing than I expected and I'm not going to be able to make it? Please?" Gadget needed to get back to work quickly, before the clean, sharp lines of the design in her head began to blur. Inspiration came to Gadget only a few times a day, and it would not be denied. Foxglove looked slightly hesitant. "It would really help me out," she said sweetly. That always worked whenever she needed Chip to do something for her; a sincere request ought to work just as well on Foxglove.

"All right, Gadget. I was just going to go out and catch a bite to eat anyway." Foxglove smiled at her friend -- Gadget was a nice girl, although she couldn't sing to save her life -- and turned. She could hear clearly Gadget start singing to herself again as she made her way back up the stairs. The bat winced and, as she did on certain rare occasions, imagined wistfully what it must be like to be partially deaf, like all her friends.

Zipper was having trouble sleeping at night. Mostly it was the dream. Zipper was aware he was dreaming. Zipper couldn't usually tell, but this was a dream he'd had many times before, and it had become familiar to him. It wasn't a nightmare, exactly. In fact while it was going on, it seemed a pleasant and happy dream. Only at the end, and afterwards when Zipper woke up did the memory of it fill him with, if not despair, at least a little regret.

He was in his home, a small cottage he and his wife had built out of an old egg carton, in a heap of old garbage near a dumpster outside a fast food restaurant. Their surviving children, nine of the original fourteen and full-grown, crowded around them as Zipper described how he had met and fell in love with her, his wife of five years now. As his story finished, Zipper, as he had dreamed many times before, turned to her, and, as he had dreamed many times before, his wife was gone. In her place, as had been there many times before, was a photograph of Zipper with the other Rescue Rangers. He looked around in a panic, saw that he was alone in an empty house, and woke.

Sometimes he couldn't see where the restaurant was, but usually he could remember it as the "Dunkin' Donuts" nearest the French Quarter in New Orleans, just a few hundred yards from where he had met Monterey Jack. Usually he couldn't see his wife's face in the dream, but when he did it was always Iris. Iris, whom he had known a lifetime ago, before he had become a Rescue Ranger.

Zipper, better than any of his friends, was aware of the passage of time. As a fly, he had to. His lifespan was much briefer than that of any of the vertebrate members of the team, though he didn't envy their longer span of time. It was how you spent your life that mattered, not how long it was. And Zipper did not regret his decision in the slightest. But still...

He was getting older, for one thing. And lately it had been weighing on his mind. He wanted to see Iris again, to find out what had happened to her, and to tell her what had happened to him. He wanted other things, too...

Zipper was having trouble sleeping at night.

Under the Lions, Wart stumbled through the dark passageway, the flashlight slung over his shoulder. Behind him, Mole pushed Fat Cat's book, wrapped in cling-film, and muttered to himself.

"What are you babbling about back there, Mole?" Wart had a lot on his mind, and didn't welcome the distraction of the barely-audible noise his lackey was making.

"I was thinking 'bout these tunnels," Mole replied. "All these little dark little tunnels and, um, passageways... it's nice and homey."

"Homey?" Wart shot the mole an irritated glance before realizing the difference in their species made their definitions of homelike incompatible. "Then try to be quieter, will you?"

The two of them pressed on for perhaps another hundred yards underground, finally emerging into the great tank under the Lions. Wart hurriedly switched off the flashlight. Mole stood by impassively, thinking about dinosaurs, until Wart prodded him. With a sheepish grin invisible to the lizard, Mole shoved his book off the narrow ledge, into the still waters below.

"YOU ARE LATE, WART." Wart shuddered. The sound came from everywhere, and nowhere: it was impossible to determine the source. He sat down cross-legged, to keep from falling into the tank.

"I apologize for that, Mister Sewer Al. Fat Cat didn't much want to have to part with his favorite book. Are you ready to hear our question, sir?"

"IT IS NOT NECESSARY." A reddish glow suddenly filled the area over the tank. While Mole yelped and squatted down, his face in his hands, Wart scanned the chamber. The light was coming from a hole he hadn't noticed in the ceiling...

A bit of string dropped down out of the hole, extending to the ledge on which the lizard and mole stood. A mouse dressed entirely in apple-red, face covered by something like a miniature ski mask, climbed down it. Mutely, the mouse nodded to the pair, then handed Wart a thick envelope.

"THIS IS THE INFORMATION YOU REQUIRE." For an instant, Wart thought the mouse had said the words. But no, the messenger was silent. As Wart examined the envelope (about an inch square, felt like it had about ten sheets the same size inside, no writing on the outside) by the red light, the mouse turned and climbed back up the line. The light winked out a moment later.

"This is how Fat Cat can destroy the Rescue Rangers? A detailed plan?" Wart resisted the urge to cackle madly. Sewer Al might take it the wrong way.

"IT IS. GOOD-BYE." The voice echoed with finality.

Mole was already halfway out the doorway. Wart needed no encouragement to follow him. He'd have to tell Noah about this, the lizard reflected as he hurried away. Noah was a nice guy and listened to his problems.

In the narrow gallery above, Tobit removed his mask and rubbed his eyes. Sewer Al insisted on the red light, but it really disagreed with the Hand's ocular system. The small mouse in red returned to his watch.

Chip tried to estimate the time. Probably about eight-thirty. It was warm for November, but still cold enough he was grateful for the repair job Hannover the tailor had done on his jacket, and almost cold enough he wished he'd been able to buy a new fedora from him. All summer and autumn he'd spent his limited free time searching through Staten City and the rest of civilized New York, but he hadn't been able to find a source for size 1/16 hats. An outfit in Chinatown made hats ranging from 1/8 to 2/5 size: hats for big rats, cats, and exotica. Chip suspected they were the original source of his old fedora, but nonetheless they had refused a custom job. Mice and chipmunks seemed to be totally without hatters.

Maybe I should ask Sewer Al to give it back, Chip thought. Maybe Sewer Al would come up out of Sewer Al's pool and allow Chip to pluck his fedora out of Sewer Al's jaws. Maybe Dale would turn out to be the long-lost King of Sweden. Maybe he would wake up in the middle of the night and find a warm and friendly Gadget in his bed. It was a depressing line of thought. The chipmunk in the bomber jacket paced back and forth in the light reflected off the fountain. He was beginning to think this wasn't a particularly intelligent way to behave. After all, Gadget's reaction could be pretty easily predicted from her past behavior, and while his gut instinct wasn't 100% reliable, it didn't really bode all that well. On the other hand, he doubted he could continue on like this for another five years.

Chip heard a flutter of wings behind him. He turned, not quite surprised to see Foxglove, swathed in a Gore-Tex vest. A concerned look was on her face.

"There you are, Chip. I was looking for you. What's the matter? There's something bothering you, Chip. Your blood pressure is elevated, I can tell from your heartbeat." There was no hiding anything from Foxglove. More than once Chip had found himself resenting her natural sensory abilities. He made an effort to repress such unworthy notions.

"Oh, hello Foxglove." Chip smiled. "I was just, eh, waiting for Gadget. I wanted to talk to her about... the Rangermobile."

"The Rangermobile? She was just working on that when I left her -- why do you want to talk to her about the Rangermobile?" Foxglove's eyes, large and inquisitive, scanned him, eager for a chance to be helpful.

'It's not a lie if you believe it,' Chip thought desperately. What was there about the Rangermobile he needed to know? Technical information? Estimated repair time? How useful the old one might be to...

Foxglove wondered what was making the flow of cerebrospinal fluid through Chip's brain so irregular. Were the chipmunk a tasty snack, she would have assumed that he had just spotted Foxglove on his tail and was trying (futilely, of course... bugs had such little brains) to come up with some kind of clever plan which would result in her losing him. Chip was too tall to be a snack, though, so it had to be something else, and she had no idea what.

"I wanted to know if, in her expert opinion, we should be worried about the loss of the old Rangermobile. After all, it's a pretty useful vehicle, even if it does tend to start falling apart at high speeds. A group of criminals as mobile as that could spell trouble for us--Gadget's inventions are our ace in the hole, after all." Absently, Chip adjusted his jacket, which jingled reassuringly with his hidden collection of useful presents from Gadget.

"Oh. Well, that makes sense." Something was bothering Chip, but Foxglove didn't really want to stay out here and find out what. "Aren't you cold? It's chilly out here!" The bat flapped her wings, to keep the circulation going. She was grateful for the Gore-Tex. "And it's dark, isn't it? I mean, the fountain is pretty, and it's quiet, with no one else around, but --"

"Yes, well," Chip interrupted hastily. "It's a nice night. Now, why were you looking for me, Foxy?"

"Ooh! I forgot." Foxglove looked apologetic. "Gadget asked me to fly out here and tell you that she was busy fixing up the Rangermobile -- the new one, not the one we don't have -- and wouldn't be able to come out and talk to you." Chip's pulse rate spiked again. Hmm. Maybe he wanted to be left alone. Maybe she should go...

Chip had opened his mouth, and was about to speak, when suddenly a net of thick nylon dropped down on them from above. Foxglove had 'seen' the net, draped carefully between a tree and a streetlamp, but hadn't paid any attention to it. Nor had she paid sufficiently close attention to the vital signs of the lizard and the porcupine she now heard and saw climbing out of a trench several yards away.

Prickles whistled to himself as he pulled the net around a stunned Chip and a frightened Foxglove. Wart, wrapped in a lime green overcoat, giggled, trying not to sound maniacal. The plan had worked perfectly, and proved well-worth the price. The four of them began the long trek to the Happy Tom cat food factory, the annoying little chipmunk swearing all the way.

Herb sighed as he climbed out of the luggage compartment of the Concorde, carrying two bags. Second thoughts had begun to creep in during the flight, and Luwini had woodenly refused to make plans.

There was an empty rectangle of air where the "Rangermobile" he had stolen six months ago should have been, in one corner of the sparsely-furnished hangar. Herb wasn't surprised to see it gone, however; even if it escaped the cleaning crew for half a year, chances were some mouse or rat had picked it up. It was a handy little device, after all, despite its propensity for driving itself into trees.

"Someone's taken the car," he called over his shoulder to his wife. "We'll have to hoof it." It would be a long walk from the airport to... well, anywhere.

"I am not walking," Luwini said primly as she stepped through the bay door into the crisp late autumn day. Herb was struck with a sudden mental image: Luwini bursting into flame, the raw sunlight igniting her, as if she were a vampire. He pushed the disturbing thought away. "I am not walking," she said again. "It's too far to walk. We'll have to get some other means. We can't walk all the way to Lake Haha."

"You want to go to Lake Haha? Why? It's a dump." It seemed Luwini had been making plans after all.

"It's quiet. You said that yourself: it's a nice, quiet place. We can stay at the Dock Inn. 'We must avoid hotels, but if we must stay in a hotel, we shall stay in an inexpensive hotel.' [07] It will be cheap." Luwini sounded firm.

Herb sighed. "And how will we be getting to Lake Haha, your majesty?"

"That is your department. I found us a place to stay. Getting us there can be your job. Look on it as a challenge." Luwini smiled brightly. She sat down on her suitcase, waiting patiently for Herb to find her a ride. "'There is nothing on earth so exciting as finding transportation.' [08]"

"Hello, Mister Obsessive Chipmunk and Miss Stupid Bat Person," Wart cackled. He leered at his two prisoners. "So nice to see you... HANGING AROUND!" The iguana broke off into more maniacal laughter.

Chip, tied and gagged, glared at Wart. He was suspended about a foot in the air, hung from the ceiling with twine. A similarly-bound Foxglove swung forlornly on her line, back and forth.

"If your ugly little friends come to visit, I'll have to tell them you're ALL TIED UP!" Wart laughed some more, slapping a countertop with his hand as he did so.

"You might say they're 'fit to be tied,' huh Wart? Huh? Wart?" Mepps, eager to get in on the fun, elbowed the lizard.

"Shut up!" Wart snarled at Mepps. "That doesn't even make any sense, you idiot! We already tied them up! They're not 'fit to be tied,' they are tied, you moron!" Wart took his hat off and began hitting Mepps with it. "Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!" The mangy alley- cat retreated under the blows, whining incomprehensibly, as Fat Cat emerged from the main floor of the casino.

"Is there a problem, Wart?" The big cat's tone made the correct answer clear.

"Of course not, boss. I was just showing Mepps my new hat." Wart smiled at Fat Cat, trying and failing to make his face look more friendly and less leering.

"That's good, Wart. Share and share alike, I always say." Fat Cat turned his attention away from his underlings and toward the two captive Rescue Rangers on the wall. "This was some good work, boys," he said magnanimously. "How are you, 'Chirp?' Doing better, I hope, than when we last met." Fat Cat wondered if the chipmunk would bite through the gag and spit a rejoinder.

Chip indeed considered biting the gag off and spouting some kind of retort at Fat Cat, but decided that it wouldn't be a good idea to demonstrate his capacity to free his mouth in the presence of his enemies (not realizing Fat Cat was aware of this ability). He settled for a muffled answer.

"Oh? That's too bad," Fat Cat answered him sweetly, pretending he could understand what Chip was saying. "We'll just have to keep you here until your friends come, then. You did leave the clue, didn't you, Wart?"

"Yessir," Wart said immediately. "They will be coming, there is no doubt of that."

"Excellent. I'll be in my office. Keep someone in here at all times. And there'll be an applicant for the staff opening in conference room three in a little while." Fat Cat returned to his office, leaving the casino in Wart's semicapable hands.

"Mepps, I want you to stay in here until Snout arrives. Don't let them do anything," Wart ordered. "You stupid," he muttered. Then he, too, left the room.

Chip and Mepps eyed one another while Foxglove wondered at the distinct sensation of deja vu she was feeling.

"I don't think this will work."

"It's going to work, trust me. You sound like Arthur. Gods, he always went on about his bloody numerical analysis. 'I think you neglected to include the damping effects of the mass of the Earth in your calculations, Herbert.'" Herb mimicked a tired, plaintive voice. "'Herbert, we only have a few spools of copper wire available for this project; you shouldn't be using it so extravagantly. My projections indicate you could get the job done with a quarter that much wire.' 'Herbert, that's the fifth motor I've had to rebuild this month.' 'Herbert, you've broken both my legs; how am I supposed to oversee the construction of the water wheel now?' Bloody idiot." Herb checked the folds a third time. The paper airplane was a work of art. Easily thirty-six inches from tip to tail, with swept-back wings and a slight asymmetry to the design that, Herb was convinced, would make it handle like a fish. Made from the wreckage of two in-flight magazines, the vehicle glittered with images of Greek beaches and expensive desserts. "It's going to work," he repeated. "We ride this down to the shuttle- bus, and that will take us most of the way to Lake Haha."

"You misunderstand me," Luwini said. She was arranging the luggage on the back of the airplane, positioning it carefully. She was placing it such that although it was not tied down, it would nonetheless refrain from falling off in flight. It would do this partly out of clever design, and partly out of fear of what Luwini would do to naughty luggage which allowed itself to fall. "You misunderstand me. I'm not disagreeing with the concept. It's a good idea. You're very clever. But cleverness is not the end of everything. You need to figure out which bus we're aiming for, so we can time the descent appropriately. That has to be worked out in advance."

"Are you cold?" Herb asked suddenly. The two of them were high above the terminal, up on the roof of a four-story warehouse or hangar, Herb wasn't sure which. It was a straight shot to the loading area where the shuttle-buses lurked from there. "It's, what, about ten degrees below?"

"Fahrenheit or Centigrade?" Luwini asked automatically. "No, I'm not cold. I haven't been cold since... Do you know which bus we want?"

"Centigrade, of course. Chelsea. Lake Haha is in Chelsea." Herb scanned the buses, then pointed. "Third one from the right. Since when? Are you sure you wouldn't like a coat or something?" Herb was pointing at a dilapidated vehicle which didn't look heated. "It'll be leaving in about fifteen minutes. The ride will be about an hour and a half, I'm guessing, and then it'll be another half an hour walking to Lake Haha. We should get there this side of midnight." He began shifting the track he was building towards the bus.

"'It does not move me, even though I've seen the movie. I don't want to check your pulse; I don't want nobody else. I don't want to go to Chelsea.' [09]" Luwini sighed in a way Herb had never heard her sigh before -- genuinely. "Since Dr. Pulse found me again. I don't want to talk about it."

"All right, I won't press my luck." The rat hoped that what she said didn't quite mean what he thought it meant. It wasn't something he wanted to talk about, or think about, but he vaguely remembered the name. Herb glanced over at Luwini, wondering if she was a lightning calculator. In the spirit of giving Arthur a mental bird, the rat decided to wing it. "Let's go ahead and go, then. It'll be a nice little trip. Then we can decide how best to deal with our problems." He realized he'd made a pun and was about to apologize when he remembered he hadn't said anything out loud. Herb closed his mouth and turned back to his work.

"All right, then. Get on." Herb aimed the glider carefully on its improvised track as Luwini primly sat in the center of the keel. He gave it a single, solid shove, then leapt on as it rattled down the rooftop and lurched into the air.

"See? I told you this would work!" Herb shouted as the air rushed past them. They sailed smoothly over half a parking lot, towards the loading area. "Get ready to jump!"

Luwini did not believe in jumping. Jumping was for the masses, not the elite cream. She simply grasped her suitcase firmly and leaned far to the left, unbalancing the airplane, which lost all lift and crashed to the top of the bus. She rolled neatly away. Herb, who had jumped a split second before Luwini took matters into her own hands, found himself in a tangle of carefully folded articles on Egyptian tourism and the economics of Scandinavia. But they were on the bus.

"'Get on the bus,' [10]" Luwini said as she placed her suitcase in a central position on the bus's roof. She sat down and crossed her legs, watching Herb extricate himself from the pile.

"You could have jumped," he said a little sullenly. "The glider would have looped around that streetlight there, then come back here and landed in that trash can." He pointed to a green barrel with a small hole in its lid.

"In there? That sounds unlikely, Herb. I think it probably would have just crashed. It would have ended up on the ground. And it doesn't matter. Don't complain."

Foxglove wasn't the sort to complain. Life was hard, she knew, and no one liked a complainer. You took your lumps, and if that meant getting captured by your new team's traditional nemesis and left as bait for a lethal trap your friends were probably even now falling into, so be it. Complaining never helped anyone, she thought stoutly.

All the same, she would have been enjoying herself much more if she had had time to catch a little dinner before being strung up like this. Foxglove was hungry and tired, and probably would have been irritable if she wasn't gagged. As it was, she couldn't talk, so she wasn't sure.

A few inches below and about a foot to the left, Mepps sat with his back to a wall. The gamy alley cat had been taught about chairs, but didn't hold much truck with them. He was staring off into space. Lost in his own little world, probably, Foxglove thought. She envied him, since his little world probably was nice and comfortable and Mepps could sleep and get some nice bugs and not...

No one likes a complainer, Foxglove interrupted herself. It would be better to do something constructive. Tied up upside down next to her, Chip sounded like he was thinking very hard: his vital signs were fluctuating quite a bit. He was staring intently at Mepps.

Foxy tried swinging back and forth on the rope. Before too long she had worked up quite a little arc of motion. This was good. Now, all she had to do was think of something clever to do with it...

The bus lurched to a stop in front of a small but dirty plastic shelter. A light snow was just starting, and the thin woman sitting on the bench under the sodium light was shivering as she muttered to herself. A few large men in badly-fitted suits got off, as did a small mouse and a large rat.

"Which way now?" asked Luwini. She had decided to sound a little grumpy, perhaps because she had lost the poker game they'd played while on the bus. "How do we get to Lake Haha from here?"

Herb looked around as the three suits hurried into a building. It was dark, and snowing, and all the buildings looked much the same. "I don't know," he admitted. "Are you sure you don't want a coat?"

"No, I don't want a coat. Shall we ask for directions?" Luwini glanced around. "That hole looks promising."

"Well... all right. I suppose we may as well." Herb rubbed his hands together. Luwini might not have felt the acute cold, but he certainly did. They tramped across the street, to a hole in a low brick wall which Luwini correctly guessed led to a domicile.

The place was hopping. No, that was an understatement, Jiffy thought to himself as he wandered through the casino floor. The place was taking big running jumps. Around him, mice and rats and squirrels and other things the young waiter couldn't easily identify scampered about, spending large sums of Staten City and human money, getting drunk, and generally having a good time. In the past, the casino had been purely the province of gangsters and other tough-mouse types, but in the past year or so, a change not unlike the corporate takeover of Las Vegas had turned Fat Cat's Casino and Themed Entertainment Complex into a far more cosmopolitan place.

Jiffy carefully made his way through the mob, trying to find the conference room in which he was supposed to meet Mr. Wart. Room 3, the letter had said. He made it to a wall and checked the closest door. No label. Door next to it, no label. Door next to that, labeled "Males." Jiffy sighed. He started making his way along the wall, looking for an elusive number three, wondering as he went why the place had no maps.

He rather wished Claire had come along. He'd asked her, of course, although he'd known what her answer would be. She didn't approve of Fat Cat, or gambling, or commuting. In fact she had, reflexively of course, punched him in the face. She did that a lot.

All around him rats and mice and cats displayed an admirable amount of self-restraint; rather than chasing one another around the roulette tables in a comical, slapstick fashion, they merely shouted at one another about the relative merits of betting on red or on black. Jiffy wondered if they had to pay for the drinks the scantily-clad cocktail waitresses were distributing, or if they were complementary. On the whole, the environment seemed... exciting. Not conducive to a positive dining experience. Jiffy reminded himself why he was here.

"Excuse me," Jiffy said to a dignified-looking young rat in a tuxedo, standing near a potted plant. "Can you direct me to room number three?"

Elwood scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Room number three, hm?"

"Yes," agreed Jiffy. "Number three."

"You want directions, then?"

"Yes," agreed Jiffy. "Directions to room number three, as tickety-boo as possible."

"Hmmm."

If all his potential coworkers were like this, Jiffy could see why the casino was so keen to hire him. The rat in the tux closed his eyes and scowled, perhaps to indicate how hard he was thinking. The squirrel stood patiently by, waiting for Elwood to finish. Time passed.

"Jiffy!" The squirrel whirled around, trying to spot the source of the call in the dimly-lit, crowded casino. The red fieldmouse had almost run into him before he spotted her. "There you are! Man, I've been running all around trying to find you! This place is insane!" She leaned against the pot and panted, out of breath.

"I'm pleased you decided to come after all, Claire," Jiffy said.

"Well, if you go down those stairs and... no, sorry, that's the way to the kitchen..." Elwood coughed, then resumed his look of intense concentration.

"What's he doing?" Claire turned on Jiffy. "Nobody's... done anything... to him, have they?" Her already-red face darkened.

"No, he's giving me directions to room number three, where we're supposed to meet a Mister Wart."

"Oh, now, I'm just coming along to... how long is he going to take?" Her wide eyes stared at Elwood, who had adopted a pose not unlike Rodin's 'Thinker.' "He's not moving, or anything..."

"I don't know. He's been thinking like that for about ten minutes now." Jiffy was disconcerted but unsurprised to see Claire reflexively punch Elwood in the face.

"Oooh! I'm sorry sir, sometimes I get carried away with my bottled-up rage!" Claire helped Elwood to his feet as the much larger rat grasped at his head and shook it. "See, I was raised by ninja, but always I dreamed of coming to the Big Acorn and making my fortune..."

"You were raised by ninja?" Jiffy asked her.

"Well, not ninja per se, I guess, but I have watched an awful lot of television." Claire gave him a sidelong glance. "Nothing like the Ratisson, of course..."

"Um, right," Jiffy said. He thought about the old rotating restaurant, the finest in Staten City. He was proud of the place; when he had started working there, it had been the seventh-most-popular dining establishment in the city, and now it was the fifth. And that was in part thanks to him. Although he couldn't take all the credit, he had been employee of the month for ten of the past thirteen months... Jiffy realized Claire was still talking.

"...and I don't really see it, you understand? I mean, the lighting is dreadful, there's all this gambling going on, distracting people from eating, and I mean really, a buffet?" Claire elbowed Jiffy meaningfully. "A booo-faaay?!"

"They still need service personnel," the squirrel replied. "There but for the grace of God go I. And it'll be a really top-notch up-up-the-glass-ziggurat sort of buffet, too. A real Bingo Little sort of place."

Claire sighed. She had made this not-completely-undangerous trip (she had accidentally broken one chipmunk's nose on the way over, and now she'd decked this poor fool) not because she was interested in the casino's headhunting offer, but to try to talk Jiffy out of it. She wasn't, fundamentally, service personnel. She was an actress. She just hadn't managed to appear in anything yet. Jiffy, on the other hand, was practically the Platonic Form of the Waiter, and he needed a guiding hand to keep him out of trouble. The jibe about the "booo- faaay" had been her strongest argument...

The rat in the tuxedo, who had been sitting against the potted plant and taking things easy, pointed. "Room number three. Straight down that hallway. Marked on the door. Can't miss it. Good-bye." Elwood picked himself up and scampered off.

Jiffy smiled at Claire, then started making his way through the crowd in the direction Elwood had pointed, pausing only to give the retreating rat a quick "toodle-pipski." The fieldmouse scowled, then hurried after him.

"Well, they were helpful. Eventually." Luwini consulted her notes. "Four blocks east, seven blocks north. Not too far. But we'll get in late."

"I don't like the way she was looking at you," Herb said as he hefted their suitcases. "I think she recognized you."

"Recognized me? Don't be silly, Herb. There's nothing to recognize." Luwini sniffed disdainfully and adjusted the lapels of the extremely blue jacket she had finally consented to wear.

"Perhaps she thought you were Gadget Hackwrench," mused Herb as they tramped through the thin layer of snow towards Lake Haha. "The Rescue Rangers are fairly well-known in this area."

"You want to go back? You want to go back and beat it out of her? It would only take a couple of minutes," Luwini said flatly. "If it's going to be bothering you like this." She didn't so much trail off as deliberately speak in a sentence fragment.

"Nah. It's not important. I'm tired." The big rat shrugged. "It's no big deal."

Cheap twine.

That's what it was, Foxglove suddenly realized. She wasn't being held with anything particularly high-quality. It was practically dental floss. She could hear each individual strand of the string react to the tension and pressure she was putting it under, as she swung gently back and forth, back and forth. Slowly these constituent strands were snapping, one by one. She could hear them clearly. Below her, Mepps was staring up at her and Chip, his eyes half-focused. His vital signs suggested he was thinking about nectar. Nectar? Oh, yes -- he was a mammal. Food. He was probably thinking about food.

She was going to have to time this very, very carefully.

As the last strands of the twine chafed against the metal edge of the bracket in the ceiling and broke, Foxglove's 'hands' shot out of their confinement and rapidly undid her gag. Snarling in a fashion those who didn't know her well would call intimidating, the bat fell upon Mepps like an arrow loosed from the string, or at least like a hungry and tired bat loosed on an underweight alley-cat.

She hadn't needed to be that careful, after all.

"I surrender I surrender I surrender!" Mepps whined as pitifully as he could to the monstrous creature on top of him. His eyes were squeezed shut and he clutched at the floor desperately. Piece of cake, Foxy thought, pleased with herself.

Chip did something with his mouth and his gag fell to the floor. "That was great, Foxy," he said with enthusiasm. "Couldn't have done it better myself... Now, could you get me down?"

"Ooh! Right!" Foxglove flew up to the ceiling and pulled at the string for a few seconds. Chip felt the string loosen, and then fell fully a foot onto Mepps, who groaned at the indignity, but said nothing.

Chip, more grateful than mere words could express to be once more right-side-up, just sat still for almost a minute, letting the blood return to his extremities. Then he stood, still on Mepps.

"All right," the chipmunk said to Foxglove, who was undergoing a variety of stretching exercises Dale would be sorry to learn he'd missed, "We need to find my jacket and your vest. Cold out there. Mepps?"

"In the closet, Mister Chipmunk." The alley cat didn't so much speak the words as whimper them.

Foxglove hurried to the closet door and began rooting through the crowded storage space. "Here we are!" she said after a few seconds. "Oof! What's in this thing, lead weights?"

"Only one," Chip replied as he used a few scraps of twine to immobilize Mepps. "You never know when a lead weight might come in handy."

"Psst!" The sound came from the dark space under a newspaper machine. Herb paused, and examined it carefully. There was someone under there.

"Yes?" he asked, studying the darkness.

A tall, gray mouse in an overcoat stepped out from the shelter. "Is your name Herbie?" he asked cautiously.

Herb glanced at Luwini. She shrugged. "Why do you want to know?" he asked the stranger.

"Ah, so you are Herbie." The stranger looked pleased.

"I didn't say that," Herb said quickly. "But it's possible. Why do you want to know?"

"Oh, come on -- you're in sunglasses in the middle of a November night and you're in the company of a mouse who looks like Gadget Hackwrench, the Rescue Ranger. You're Herbie!" The stranger spoke with an air of finality.

"Yeah, I guess I am," Herb admitted. "Now for the last time, why do you ask?"

Two more mice stepped out of the darkness behind the stranger. Big mice, with knives. "Fat Cat has a large bounty on your head, Herbie," the stranger said as they charged.

Herb had just enough time to set the suitcases down. Luwini carried them a few feet from the melee, and sat on one while she watched her "husband." They were delayed about fifteen extra minutes.

Room number three was like any other conference room: drab and generic. Unlike most, however, it was scaled for small animals. The table was large enough to comfortably serve three medium-sized cats or as many as eight mice, although there were no chairs. A set of chairs capable of seating both mice and cats in comfort was too much for Fat Cat to imagine.

Claire was leaning against the table, watching Jiffy pace back and forth, when Wart arrived. The lizard adjusted his hat and leered at Claire as he entered. Claire almost reflexively kicked him in the head before she realized he was trying to smile, all friendly-like.

Jiffy didn't notice the shifting of her stance, and shook Wart's hand enthusiastically. "Hello, Mister Wart, and may I say you have a lovely, top-notch, glass ziggurat of an establishment here! We spoke earlier -- I am Jiffy, and this is my friend and coworker, Claire Dupont." He gestured vaguely in Claire's direction.

"Yes, of course, Jiffy, of course. I am the manager here," Wart said with some pride, "and, although it's really just a formality in your case, because your resume is so, er, good and... speaks for itself, I, er..." Wart's tongue stumbled, and the lizard trailed off. Claire was giving him a very hard look.

"Need to ask him a few questions?" Claire asked. "I think I'd like to ask you a couple of questions, as well."

"Uh, yes, sir, Claire here isn't quite sold on the idea, although she really is quite a hard worker, and would certainly be a strong asset to your establishment." Jiffy spoke in the same well-rehearsed manner that he used when he questioned custom. He was very good at steering people away from potential indigestion and heartburn. "I'm sure you don't take offense?"

"Oh, no, of course not, sir." Wart realized he was sucking up to a squirrel who wasn't even working under him yet, much less the other way around. "Fat Cat's Casino and Themed Entertainment Complex has nothing to hide, nothing."

"Hmm, yes." Claire straightened up and prepared to give it her all. This was likely her last chance to keep Jiffy at the Ratisson, where she knew he belonged. "Well, I suppose my first question would be something along the lines of 'isn't gambling illegal?'"

Wart's expression didn't change. "In Staten City, yes it is illegal and immoral, Miss Lawyer Hostess Fieldmouse Person. However, the astute among us..." Wart liked that expression. He'd heard Fat Cat use it once, and, after looking 'astute' up in a dictionary, been amazed at the way it placed the speaker and his target into a special elite so casually [11]. Wart considered the beauty of that particular turn of phrase for almost three seconds before he realized he'd stopped talking. "The astute in with you would see that the casino isn't in Staten, though. Nope, we are well outside the Big Acorn's boundary. Out here the laws of Staten City don't apply, even, Miss Needlessly Hostile Applicant, even the really, er, er, unnecessarily restrictive and right-infringing ones."

Jiffy had perked a bit at that 'illegal and immoral,' so Claire went in for the kill. "And also not the ones protecting citizens from various forms of physical violence, assault, robbery, battery, et cetera and so on? You're saying you reside in -- this casino is located in -- Jiffy and I are foolhardy enough to blunder around in -- a zone of total anarchy, without even the most basic of police protection?" The fieldmouse tried hard not to look smug. Police protection was Jiffy's third favorite thing, she knew [12].

"Ah... I wouldn't say that," replied Wart after a moment's thought. He wanted Jiffy. The casino needed him. "Police protection surely exists. There's the security here at the casino, for example --"

"And we all know just how famous your security is, don't we? 'As safe as Fat Cat's Casino,' that's the expression, right, Jiffy?" Claire elbowed the squirrel, who appeared lost in thought.

"Oh, um, yeah." Jiffy tried to remember if he had ever heard that particular expression before. He was pretty sure he hadn't, but he went along with Claire anyway. She watched a lot more television than he did, and would know about that kind of thing. "'Safe as a casino,' sure."

Claire (reflexively) slammed her fist down on the conference table. Her attempt at subtlety had sort of backfired. "But the casino security can hardly guard everywhere, can they?" she tried.

"Well, no," Wart was forced to admit. "We are on a budget, after all--"

"And isn't it also true that IF Jiffy and me were to take the job we'd be going at our own risk to our own personal bodies through unregulated, unpoliced areas of the Outside-Staten-City Region? Realms full of... chipmunks... and worse?" Claire shivered slightly at the thought of The Chipmunk in the Bomber Jacket. The only positive aspect to working at the casino would be getting away from somewhere it was known the Chipmunk and the Albino Mouse in a Cape frequented. "It sounds awfully... exciting."

"Exciting?!" Jiffy suddenly looked frantic. She'd gotten through to him! Yes!

"Well, that's not really true, see, because you see, there's this thing, see, that--" Wart flailed about desperately, and was about to put his foot entirely in his mouth when, in an action that both panicked and relieved him, the lights flickered and died. Again...

"I don't like what happened back there," Herb said as they entered the narrow archway into the warehouse containing Lake Haha. "Fat Cat's obviously put the word out about me. He's clearly nursing a grudge."

"What on earth did you ever do to Fat Cat?" Luwini asked. "I thought you were successful. On the last job you did for him, you easily captured the Rangers. Which one of these is the Dock Inn?"

"He offered me a job as Trusted Lieutenant, and when I turned him down he took it as a personal insult. Besides, the boss is loaded. That casino makes huge amounts--if he didn't spend so much on his bizarre side projects he'd be able to buy ten percent of Staten City. Fifth crate down. A bounty big enough for mice is nothing to him."

"One ran off. He will be telling where we are. More of them will come." Luwini stepped carefully around the lichen which grew near the lake. "'Others will come to take my place. You can't kill us all!'" "Let them," Herb said shortly. "Besides, they won't know where we are, only where we were."

"That couple knows. They could tell. They could say to anyone that we wanted directions," Luwini pointed out. "They might."

Herb shook his head. He was confident he had put the fear of God into them. "They won't."

"They probably already have," Luwini mused. "Those mice weren't just hanging around. I mean, just sitting there, on the off chance we'd wander by? No. 'Your theory is crazy, sir, but it is not crazy enough to be true.' [13]"

Herb shrugged as he held the Dock Inn's door open for Luwini. He wondered how Fat Cat had known he would appear with Luwini, once he did appear.

Seth studied the circuit-breaker box carefully. He was not, by nature, a mechanically inclined mouse, but time and study had taught him many things. "Avoid rats with glowing eyes; it'll all end in tears" was one of these things, "Never eat Mexican food that comes to you in a little plastic sombrero" was another. The aphorism which applied in this case, however, was "FAT CAT'S CASINO IS POWERED THROUGH ONE BREAKER, WHICH WILL BE MARKED 'BACKUP EXHAUST FANS.'" Study, or more accurately, an impromptu audience with the Presence, had taught him that earlier that same night. He reached up and flipped a switch.

"Easy as pie," Tobit said. The slightly smaller mouse had his back to Seth, but he could see the results of the senior Hand's action: the lights from the casino, on the other side of the factory roof, went out. "Time to rock."

"I advise you to comport yourself in a more serious manner!" Seth turned and glared at his assistant. "We have serious work--the Al's work--to do tonight."

"Right, right. The bottle rockets are in place, and I have the ignition system completely prepared. Timer's set to 7:30... 7:29... 7:28..." Tobit [14] was consulting a backlit LCD strapped to one leg. "The explosives should be set off by the rockets."

"Then we go, and quick. Do not forget to shout." Seth hefted a heavy, soft, gray bundle.

The two mice in red jumpsuits ran into the casino and began to wreak havoc.

"I don't think I... hey!" Foxglove noticed the lights went out. She prided herself on being fairly perceptive. "The lights have gone out, Chip!"

"Yes, they have." Chip, of course, dependent on vision as he was, would be acutely aware of this. Foxglove bit her lip. The chipmunk sounded surprisingly upbeat, though. "I'm guessing it's... Dale and the others, come to rescue us. Let's meet them out on the main floor of the casino."

"Okay! Wow, I didn't realize we were so competent!" Foxglove was elated to know that her new team was so together. It was so unlike Winifred's nasty little crew of little nasties that she had to pinch herself. "Uh, Chip..."

"Yes, Foxglove?"

"You're about to walk into a wall. The door is about... six inches to your... shoot, which is which? The side with your stomach on it, tip of my tongue, Dale is that kind of handed..."

"Left?"

"Right! I mean, yes! Here, take my wing... no, that's my nose."

"Ah. Here we go."

Carefully, the two of them navigated their way to the casino's main floor, where a wide variety of rats and sundry were in a panicky state. It was, however, more a sit-tight-and-maybe-the-bat-will- mistake-me-for-a-falling-leaf kind of panic than an i-bet-if-i-fly- right-at-her-the-bat-will-be-afraid-of-me-and-i'll-be-safe-safe-i- tell-you-don't-call-me-insane-it-drives-me-crazy-when-people-call-me- that-i'll-show-you-all-of-you kind of panic, which was probably for the best. Foxglove didn't hear Dale around anywhere, which was a disappointment. The main floor was lit, a little, by holes in the walls up near the ceiling, through which ambient street light filtered down. But there were no rotund or blond-with-bubbly-cerebrospinal- fluid mice, and no tasty fly, and no dreamy chipmunk... Chip sounded a little disconcerted when she told him.

"Hmm. Well, let's try out near the entrance. Maybe they're by the circuit box." Chip ducked through the uneasy, milling crowd. Foxglove had little choice but to follow.

"For Rat Capone!" someone shouted suddenly, and it triggered something. The mood of the crowd shifted, and it ceased being a crowd. Foxglove and Chip found themselves in the middle of a mob. There were shrieks and howls, shouts that Rat Capone was raiding the casino, shouts that the Staten City Police were raiding the casino (at which Chip snorted derisively) and somewhat nonsensical shouts that Fat Cat was raiding the casino. The mood was not helped much by a series of loud pops coming from outside. Foxglove winced at the noise, which to her sensitive ears drowned out everything else, effectively blinding her. Chip, his explosion-identifying skills honed by five years living with Gadget, recognized the sound as a dozen bottle rockets. Someone was firing artillery at the casino. The mob, which had gone from milling uneasily to surging towards the exits, found escape cut off. Claustrophobia set in, and the smaller mice were getting trampled.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we are experiencing Technical Difficulties," Foxglove could just hear Fat Cat shouting from an upper deck, despite the ringing in her ears. She was fairly certain she was the only one to hear him. "If you will just remain calm, I've already sent one of my best men out to--"

Chip had wiped his brow, straightened his shoulders, and was about to attempt to calm the crowd through sheer force of personality when the lights returned with the same suddenness they had gone off. Everyone who had been shouting was quiet. For several seconds the assembled casino patrons stared at one another, blinking. Then everyone began talking at once.

Chip turned to the exit as Foxglove scanned the room, wondering what had happened. She gasped, then grabbed Chip's arm and pointed. "Look!"

In the center of the casino, hung from the grand chandelier Fat Cat had no doubt liberated from some historic site, was an effigy: a Garfield doll, dyed gray, wrapped in a small, purple sports jacket. It was stuck through in a dozen places with pins, and a note was affixed to one lapel.

"What the... could you fly up there and get that note before someone sees it?" Chip glanced around, trying to take in everything. Fat Cat, up on his balcony, berated Wart while most of the patrons, taking the event in stride, turned back to their games. A squirrel and a russet fieldmouse (both wearing black slacks and white shirts, the squirrel in a black jacket), a small iguana Chip dimly recognized from somewhere, and Prickles, Fat Cat's largest bouncer, were all making their ways to the entrance. Two mice in red jumpsuits were exiting through a high, draped window. No one appeared to have noticed the effigy, although it was only a matter of seconds. "Quick!"

"Sure, Chip." The bat hopped onto a slot machine ("Woo-hoo!" cried the rat manning it. "Bats are extra-lucky!") spread her wings, and flew up and down in barely a second. Grateful for the anonymity of the crowd, the two of them examined the brief note:

"I DID THIS, FATTY, AND I'LL DO IT TO YOU. --RAT CAPONE."

"Hmm. Seems fairly straightforward. There's probably more to it. Let's go outside and look around." While evidence was now pointing away from the blackout being a Ranger-caused event, the irrational part of Chip, the same part that had applied to the Staten City Police Academy and remained in the school for nearly three weeks before the rest of him had given up in disgust and taken up lighter- than-air-flight as a more effective way of preparing to fight crime [15], the nonsensical and emotional part of Chip hadn't given up hope that Gadget was somewhere on the roof, possibly near that fusebox.

"Right. Just let me take this, and..." Foxglove plucked the note from Chip's hands.

"Huh? What are you going to do with it?" Chip didn't like being confused. He went through a great deal of work to avoid it.

"Well, we can't just leave with this! That would be stealing!" Foxglove hopped onto the nearest slot machine again ("Woo-hoo!") and returned the note to its place of prominence on the effigy's lapel.

"You know, we could have kept that. It was a clue!" Chip was barely able to keep his bonking mechanism in check. Foxglove meant well. "Now. Outside."

"Okay!" Foxglove agreed enthusiastically. She noticed Chip's irritation but, coached in this matter by Dale, she gave no outward sign of it.

Prickles nodded to Chip and Foxglove as they passed him. Chip had his head down and turned the other way, but it wasn't necessary. Prickles knew who they were, of course, but he wasn't paid to deal with the Rescue Rangers. He was to paid stand near the entrance to the casino, look frightening, and chase off anyone who got too drunk.

Outside Chip was moderately disappointed to see no Gadget. He really had hoped she would appear, but Foxglove repeated that she couldn't hear any of their teammates. He glanced around. The pair in red were walking towards the fire escape, and the two who were dressed like volunteer ushers were running madly for the shadowy far end of the rooftop, where various ducts, chimneys, and other less identifiable extremities allowed them to hide. The iguana, who Chip now recognized as the little old lady who lived under the fountain in the park, was slowly walking behind the two mice in red.

"Look! They're running! Let's chase them," he said agitatedly to Foxglove, pointing in the direction of the ushers.

"Chase them? Why? Do you think they did something? They look like grocery-store cashiers." Foxglove examined the two forms receding into the distance. Wow. One of them had watched an awful lot of television.

"They're running," Chip repeated. "They run, we chase! Like yesterday. Come on! Quickly, must get mouse and squirrel!"

Foxglove wondered if a lifetime of exposure to Dale's general superiority had warped Chip in some way. But he was the leader... the bat flapped her wings and flew towards the young mouse and squirrel. She could hear Chip running beneath her.

Jiffy and Claire were not fools [16]. They were service personnel, but they were far from stupid. When the lights had gone out, they had been nervous. When their host excused himself and people outside the conference room started shrieking, they had been worried. When they exited the conference room and saw The Chipmunk in the Bomber Jacket silhouetted by the light of an exploding bottle rocket, they did the most sensible thing they could think of.

Jiffy didn't look back until he and Claire were safely hiding behind an exhaust duct of some kind, on the roof outside the casino. Not too far off, a medium-sized rat wearing a hat low over his eyes studied a fusebox, concentrating.

"Hey, look," panted Claire. "That guy's thinking hard enough to work for the casino."

"Oh," Jiffy said, disgusted. "Always you denigrate the casino."

"It's a bad idea, Jiffy. I mean--"

"What it is is the opportunity to create a wholly new kind of dining experience!" Jiffy interrupted her, speaking with surprising vehemence. "We can start over, get rid of the mistakes of the past! It will be an incredible adventure in customer service, and yet you sit here, and you say 'why must it be done?' I stand here--"

"You're sitting, too, actually."

"I stand here," Jiffy repeated firmly as he rose to his feet, "And I see the chance of a lifetime! Sure, the Ratisson is a wonderful cradle of delights... but one cannot stay in the cradle forever. It is time we made our mark on the world, by making Fat Cat's Casino and Themed Entertainment Complex the greatest dining experience of all time!"

"But--"

"Budget, Claire, budget: only the huge cash flow of the casino can possibly float the tremendous dining experience that you and I will together--"

"Now, why do you keep saying 'we?!'" Claire had just about had enough.

"What? But--"

"Hi There!"

Abruptly a wide-eyed bat fell from the skies or possibly on top of the exhaust duct and joined them. She smiled broadly, in a manner that Claire found somewhat unsettling. "I'm Foxglove, and I'm very happy to meet you! I know it's kind of forward to ask a favor of someone you just met, but if you could tell me why you were in the casino, and why you ran away, I would appreciate so much I think I'd just burst with love and compassion for all non-armadillo creation!"

"Uh..."

"See, I'm part of a group of civic-minded individuals. We believe that everyone can make a difference, from the littlest fly to the most effervescent mouse! But at the same time we realize that there are many, many people in the world who don't share our ideals and values. And one of those people is the criminal mastermind creatively named Fat Cat! And you look like just a lovely couple of kids, so cute I could eat you both right up!"

"Well..."

"But I'm getting ahead of myself. We really ought to start with introductions. Now, I'm Foxglove--I said that already, so you ought to know it by now!" Foxglove giggled. "What are your names?"

"My name is Jiffy, and I'll be your... oh, sorry. My name is Jiffy, and I'm pleased to meet you." Claire was a little surprised to see Jiffy shake the bat's 'hand,' his best of-course-gazpacho-soup- should-be-served-hot,-I-don't-know-what-those-fools-in-the-kitchen- were-thinking,-heads-will-roll-I-assure-you-and-keep-in-mind-I'm-a- victim-here-as-much-as-you-I'm-completely-on-your-side-sir-or-ma'm expression on his face. She was even more surprised to see her own hand extend, and hear her voice introduce herself.

"That's super!" Foxglove gushed as she shook Claire's hand. "Boy, it sure is cold out here, isn't it? Well, I'm sure we'll all get to be really close friends, and if you could tell me--"

"Halt! Halt in the name of the... just halt!"

Ice ran up Claire's spine. She had heard that voice before. Twice. She spun around, and tried to spot him, so that she could run the other way. Next to her, Jiffy let out a little yelp and cowered down, instinctively trying to look like a furry rock.

He was there, come from behind the duct, his face ruddy under the fur from sprinting. "I have a few questions I need to ask you," he said.

"Chip!" Foxglove said indignantly as she gestured to her new friends. "You're frightening them!"

"Huh? I... oh, no." Chip started rubbing his temples with one hand. "I recognize these two... This again."

"Please sir I'll be happy to do anything you want sir please don't hurt me." Claire sunk to her knees without even thinking about it. Next to her, Jiffy had his eyes screwed shut and was in a duck- and-cover position.

"What on earth is all this about?!" It took a lot to make Foxglove mad at a friend, but it was pretty obvious Chip had Done Something to these two in the past. And they were nice people. "Have you been doing things that were... mean?" Her eyes narrowed.

"Eh, not exactly, see... You remember the time Gadget blew herself out an elevator shaft?"

"Oh, yes, Dale told me about it. You were in Muncie, and..."

"No, no, the other time."

"Oh, yeah! Hey, I thought Jiffy here looked familiar! He was our waiter! [17]" Foxglove brightened briefly, then frowned. "But why does he think you're a living avatar of dread, driven from the heavens in a gout of flames and cursed to forever walk the earth, punishing the guilty and causing the innocent to suffer in a bleak festival of the pain and the hurting, with the armadillos and the meanness and the little coat and everything? What's up with that? Huh?"

"Well, afterwards Widget and I interrogated the staff. You remember Widget, right?"

Dawn broke over Marblehead. "Oooooh." [18] Foxy clucked her tongue. "So...?"

"Exactly." Chip sighed. "I've tried to explain it to them, but..." Claire and Jiffy were trying to avert their eyes and still stare curiously at the chipmunk and bat. "Look, maybe you can tell them. I'm going to go check on the other two mice who ran, eh, walked off. Meet up with me after you're done here, all right?"

"All right!" Foxglove snapped a loose salute at Chip, then turned to the food services personnel. "Let's see..." she began as the chipmunk ran off. "Um, you can get up now, Jiffy."

The squirrel who loved only waiting tables nervously stood, still slightly shaken by his encounter with Chip. "He's... he's gone?" he asked Foxglove.

The bat smiled even more widely as she adjusted her Gore-Tex vest. "Oh, you poor dears. I'll tell you what, let's go find someplace nice and warm and I'll explain to you how you've been the victims of a string of sad coincidences." She took one in each partially articulated wingtip, and, explaining as she went, led them to an air duct leading from down in the factory, where warm air blew out.

"First," she began, "you have to understand Gadget's coffee- drinking habits."

"Gadget?" Jiffy thought for a moment. "Hackwrench. Had a plate of cheese bread in cheese sauce, and a glass of the cheese wine... slightly anxious, probably from close proximity to the Chipmunk... and one cup of black coffee... nice eyes... that Gadget?"

"Uh, yeah. That sounds like her. Anyway, she likes to drink coffee." Foxglove looked triumphant, than remembered that was only a piece of the puzzle. "Lots of coffee," she added. "And after she drank coffee she went insane, taking the Chipmunk with her to the brink of madness?" Claire guessed.

"No," Foxglove said, "she rode in an elevator."

"Elevator?" Claire said. "You mean..."

"Hey, yeah, I remember that now!" Jiffy ran his hand across his forehead. "That was the excuse the Chipmunk and... the other one... used to terrorize the staff!"

"Oh, don't mention the other one." Claire shuddered. "I had nightmares--"

"'Nightmares for weeks,' yeah." Foxglove considered the best way to break it to them. "See, the thing is, see, that Chip is very... protective of Gadget."

"The Chipmunk? Protective?" This was a bit much for Jiffy to swallow.

"Well... say 'Chip.'" Foxglove took a quick break from explaining to correct this little flaw. "His name is 'Chip.' He's not 'the Chipmunk.' I know 'the Chipmunk.' Dale'd say 'who's the Chipmunk?' and I'd say 'cutie, you the Chipmunk!' and he says 'no, you the Chipmunk!' and I say 'How can I be the Chipmunk? I'm a bat!' and he grabs me and hits me with a pillow and we..." Foxglove trailed off, her eyes lovesick. She sighed contentedly at the memory.

"Ahem," Claire said. Foxy snapped out of it, and returned to the waking world.

"But anyway, Chip has this kind of habit of overreacting..."

"Overreacting?!" Claire almost reflexively snapped Foxy's neck as if it were a twig, but resisted the impulse. "He... he... overreacting?! You call that overreacting?!"

"Now, now, Claire. I think, well, I mean, Foxglove here might have a needle-ended point." Jiffy was trying to go over the times he'd met the Chipm--Chip. From a certain, icingly-particular perspective...

"But... but my coat! The Albino--the other one, she--"

"Widget, yeah, well..." Foxglove shrugged helplessly. "She's not completely well. She's just as protective of Gadget as Chip is. Widget is Gadget's sister--"

"That makes sense. Claire, that makes tickety-boo sense, doesn't it?" Jiffy was almost beginning to see the light. His desire to see only the best in the custom he served was getting the better of his fear of chipmunks who wore jackets.

"But..." Claire sat down with her back to the side of the vent. "I just don't... I mean..."

"Look, I know you have a lot you're going to want to think and talk about." Foxglove could hear Chip, now about a hundred yards off, still following the two mice in red. "So here, I'll just give you one of our cards, and if you ever have any kind of problem at all, you just call us and we'll defend niceness for you. Bye-bye now!"

"Bye-bye Foxglove," Claire said mechanically as she took the small card from the departing bat. 'Rescue Rangers,' it read. 'No case too big, no case too small. If you need help just call! Providing quality private detection and world-saving services for five years. Ask about our pro bono policies!'

"Over... Re... Acting," Jiffy said meditatively. He examined the tiny business card, then grunted disapprovingly. "Sounds exciting. And excitement is--"

"'Just another word for indigestion,'" Claire mechanically said along with Jiffy, rolling her eyes.

"I bet they're always bursting in on people who are trying to eat a meal in peace," Jiffy continued, oblivious, "making all kinds of trouble and indigestion and keeping hard-working waiters from getting a decent tip."

"Like the men and girl from U.N.C.L.E." Claire shrugged. "The bat was nice," she said. "I liked her. Exciting, but nice." She leaned against the duct and yawned. It was very late. "All right," she said, and yawned. "All right, let's go over this again..."

The explosives hadn't gone off, which was a bit of a disappointment. Probably there had been something wrong with the timer. It had worked out all right, though. Seth had known it would. After all, they were doing Sewer Al's work. Nothing could harm them.

"The little rockets were a nice idea, I think," Tobit said as they rounded a corner. "Of course, they're all nice ideas," he added quickly.

"You would do well to remember that, Tobit." Seth spoke with the seriousness only a senior Hand lecturing a more junior one about the ineffable plans of Sewer Al could have. "The Al's work is not a matter to be taken lightly."

"I know, I know." Tobit meant well, of course -- Sewer Al would not have him on staff otherwise. "I'm just feeling good. It went off without a hitch. Except for the nitro."

"We are not done yet," Seth cautioned the younger mouse. "Don't celebrate the fulfillment of the plan until it has been done. We must properly complete our tasks as Hands."

"Yes." Tobit nodded solemnly.

"...and the younger one, Tobit, said 'yes,' and nodded solemnly." Foxglove finished relating the conversation to Chip. "I mean, I think it was solemnly. That's kind of an inference; it might have been gleeful, but the situation didn't really call for... Still, solemnly." Foxy knew her implication-analyzing skills tended to interpret things in an insect-oriented fashion, but she was fairly certain about this one.

"Right. 'The Al,' huh?" Foxglove wondered if Chip was missing his hat. It was nearly midnight, and devilishly cold. The only bugs she had seen tonight were indoors. "That could mean Rat Capone, I guess, but I doubt it. More likely it was Sewer Al."

"Sewer Al?" Foxglove spoke the name in awed, fearful tones.

"Sewer Al. What are they doing now?"

Foxglove made a noise Chip couldn't hear, checking the position of the targets. "They've stopped at a storm drain. The big one is telling Tobit that they're going underground to get to Capone's faster."

"So they are going to Capone's... I wonder whether it will be to check in with their boss, or blow the place up."

"Blow the place up?!" Foxglove was aghast. "But that would be mean! Rat Capone uses it!"

"I think they work either for Capone or Sewer Al. Either way they're not very nice people. If they work for Capone they're going to tell him the plan mostly successful. If they work for Sewer Al, as is more likely I think, then they're probably going to Capone's to stir up trouble for Fat Cat they way they did at the casino!" Chip sounded really irritable at having to explain something. Foxglove would have been upset if Dale hadn't told her all about Chip's temper already.

"I'm sorry; I'm a trainee," she reminded him. "Why do you think they work for Sewer Al?"

"They seem too competent to work for Capone," Chip said simply. "Besides," he added after a moment's thought, "who ever heard of a mouse named 'Tobit?'"

"Weird, Sewer Al kind of name, huh?" Foxglove made a mental note to remember that. Unusual name implies but does not prove criminality and connection with strange forces [19].

"Yes. Are they underground now?" Chip hopped up on a bench and peered down the dark street. "I can't seem them anywhere."

"Yep, they've gone down into the storm sewers. Are we going down into the storm sewers?" She didn't want to go down into the storm sewers. It was confined, and as a flier she found it uncomfortable.

"We are going down into the storm sewers, chop-chop." Chip sounded too decisive to argue with, so Foxy simply followed the leader. He had been doing this for years and years, after all. Chip probably knew what he was doing. She just wished Dale was there.

Saturday.

"I think we were followed," Tobit muttered to Seth as they walked quietly through the cavernous storm sewers which were Sewer Al's demesne. "I'm not sure, though."

"I am," Seth replied. "Don't worry. We've lost them."

"All right, if you say so." Tobit glanced over his shoulder, saw only darkness. "If you say so."

"I do say so." Seth's voice was firm. "Trust in the plans of Sewer Al, young one. Our followers have been confused by the labyrinthine passages and are no longer on our trail."

Frankly, Tobit was more than a little creeped out whenever Seth started talking like this. He was only about three years older than Tobit, after all. Four at the most. "So we're nearly there?" he asked, changing the subject. "I've only been to Capone a few times."

"Yes. It is only about three hundred feet more. You have the weapon ready?"

"I do," Tobit replied. Also, he tended to fall into the formalized speech patterns Seth used after only a few seconds of conversation. "It is still ready, Seth."

"Then we shall surprise him."

"Yes, we shall."

Rat Capone drowsed in his room, one of the four which had been converted from a dead-end pipe, and considered the events which had led him to this point: reduced to hiding in the sewers, known to be in the pay of a strange lizard, and unable to keep his 'speakeasy' in the same place for more than a few days without it being raided by the Staten City police.

"Whatcha doing, boss?" Mousenegger stuck his head into the room, making certain his employer hadn't been spirited away by wild donkeys or poisoned by a bad eclaire in his absence. The big mouse sat down on the floor near the doorway, preparing for another night of guarding Capone's body.

"Staten City is a peach, see? It's a big wide open peach, Arnie, a Big Acorn. That's why I always kept the speakeasy going, see?"

"Yeah, I see fine, boss," Mousenegger agreed placidly.

"They said to open up a regular bar, Arnie. They said I was crazy. But I'll tell one thing: gangsters don't apply for liquor licenses, see?"

Mousenegger nodded.

"I've seen plenty of old movies and I know that much, see? My visionary policies will play out in the end, you understand? Sure, sure, it wasn't easy to do, opening up a speakeasy in a city where they have regular bars. But I made money, see?"

"Yeah, boss," Mousenegger agreed. He was staring up at the section of pipe which formed the ceiling and wondering what it was made out of. Some kind of metal, he guessed.

"And I had plans, see? Big plans! Huge plans! A Golden Underground Empire, that was the plan, Arnie. With lots of gold! And lots of slaves! Bunch of slaves working for me, see?"

Mousenegger nodded. "Still seeing fine, boss." He closed one eye, then the other. "I can see with both eyes."

"Yeah, it was a good plan." Capone wasn't listening to a word Mousenegger said. "But the plan was changed, Arnie! And you know why!"

"Yeah, boss." Mousenegger wasn't listening either. He was wondering what kind of metal the ceiling was made out of.

"One word, see. One word: 'Sewer Al.'" Capone paused for dramatic effect, mulled over what he was saying, and realized 'Sewer Al' was two words. "Little red guy came in, slipped past you, Arnie! You just let him stroll on in! Oughta hit you again for that!"

"Yeah, boss." It looked like metal. Maybe it was one of those kinds of plastic that looked like metal but were secretly a certain kind of plastic.

"Little guy with red clothes, see?" Capone pointed to the door. "Came in there." He paused for drama again, and realized that at the time he hadn't been living there. "Just like there. Same kind of door, see?"

"Yeah, boss."

"Came in here and took me out!" Capone shook his fist at the mouse, wherever he was. "Made me go into this big dark room and talk to the water, see?"

Sewer Al had been brief. He would perform services for the beast, and in exchange Sewer Al would allow Capone free reign of the sewer system. At first, Capone had scoffed. The sewers were a big place, he argued. Surely no one animal, even Sewer Al, could claim to control the whole of the system!

A week later he had been dragged back and was on his knees, begging Sewer Al for permission to accept his offer. He was still being hounded wherever he went above ground, barely keeping one step ahead of either the police or the thrice-cursed Rescue Rangers. But below ground there were now eerie noises, flooding at irregular intervals, and a general threatening atmosphere.

"Then the noises stopped," Capone continued, not noticing he hadn't said anything out loud in minutes. "The noises just went phbbt, see? And it only flooded when it rained."

"Yeah, boss."

"So we stayed underground until the trail got too cold for the dicks, see? And after the coppers gave up we went right back to business, right, Arnie?"

"Yeah, boss. I see fine."

The only flaw, and what a flaw it was, was Sewer Al. From the first, Capone had been forced to do things for Al: little things, sometimes, like going to a particular address and turning on an electric light, or send Sugar Ray Lizard out to pick an envelope up from a storm grating and place it in a mailbox. Sometimes they were bigger things, like the time he'd been ordered to rob a Staten City bank. He'd barely escaped that one intact, but the city's police had been nicely occupied for hours by the hostage situation, allowing Sewer Al to... do something. Capone yawned, and adjusted his solid-gold-looking recliner. A bit of more of the gold paint scraped off as he did so; the chair would need to be refinished again in a week or two. He was nervous, and had been for months. It had been nearly half a year since Sewer Al had assigned a task to him. And word of the deal had somehow gotten out recently; slowly but surely the knowledge that Rat Capone was a stooge for Sewer Al was spreading. It all made Capone nervous.

Seth lowered his mask down over his face as they approached the bricked-up end of the pipe, and motioned for Tobit to do likewise. Tobit adjusted his satchel as Seth knocked on the wooden plank that served as a door.

No response. It was around two in the morning, after all. Seth knocked again, louder this time.

"Whaddya want?!" A thin but menacing anole stuck his head out a crack between the plank and bricks. Seeing Seth and Tobit, his sour expression immediately shifted to one of anxiety. "It's you! Come on in! I'll wake the boss!"

Silently, the two Hands of Sewer Al stepped into the outermost room of the hideout. It was sparsely decorated in a style Tobit assumed Capone had gleaned from gangster films of the '30s: a table and chairs, a faded poster (postcard, actually) on one wall.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, welcome to the humble abode." Rat Capone scurried into the room. "Can I get you something to drink?"

Seth shook his head. Tobit was under standing orders to let Seth do all the talking, so he just stood there.

"No drinky-drinky, eh? Well, I'm glad to see you, gentlemen. I've been wondering when you were going to come pay me a visit, see?" Capone paused. Seth still said nothing.

"Well, I've been wondering when you were going to show your faces here, boys." Capone tapped his foot. Nothing. "Spit it out! What do you want? I haven't got all night to be hanging around in here waiting for you to decide to talk, see?"

Suddenly Capone was flat on his back, with the Hands standing over him. Mousenegger, sitting in the corner, abruptly stopped thinking about cheese and remembered his job. "Ay, no hands on the boss, you are understanding?" One Hand turned and looked at him in an unfriendly manner. "I'm just saying, is all..." Mousenegger muttered as Capone rose to his feet.

"All right, all right, I deserved that," he said. "Shouldn't have been so rude; I'm sorry. But I'm a little jumpy here, see?"

"We Have Come To Warn You." The Hand spoke in slow, measured tones. Capone hated that sound. He didn't know whether it was affected to frighten him or what, but he hated it. "You Will Be Attacked."

"Warn me? You guys? That's pretty nice," Capone said. "But I've got Sugar Ray and Arnold, see? I can take anything the cops throw at me, see?"

"Fat Cat Will Attack You."

"What? Fat Cat? That's bad, see? Fat Cat's the big leagues, see? I don't deal with the big cat!" Capone stepped backwards and began to pace.

"Sewer Al Has Authorized This." The Hand removed from a pocket a glass bead. "This Ampoule Will Cause Sleep In Any Beast Near It When Broken. Good-Bye And Good Luck."

Capone accepted the ampoule gingerly. "I..."

"Sewer Al Can Not Assist You Further Regarding Fat Cat," the Hand continued. "However, Sewer Al Believes Your Associates To Be Sufficiently Competent To Ward Off Any Aggression On His Part."

"Oh, erh, yeah, see? That's just right, you bet."

The Hands turned and left. Mousenegger and Sugar Ray watched them go, but Capone was eagerly turning the glass bead over and over in his hands. He had no doubts that he would be attacked; Sewer Al wouldn't have given him such a treasure otherwise. Capone was easily impressed by gadgets.

"That went well," Tobit said to Seth as they stepped lively down the tunnel.

"Yes, I agree. Capone is doomed, and another millstone around the neck of the Al will be eliminated. Soon we shall enter into a glorious new era."

"Yes, we shall," the younger Hand said mechanically. Silently they returned to the Al's lair.

"'You're going to want me, want me bad. You're going to miss the best man you ever had...' [20] coffee coffee where coffee..." Singing under her breath, Gadget stumbled into the kitchen. She was in many ways a morning person, but it was a caffeine-fueled sort of morning which suited her best. Her natural cheeriness was in very real danger of being crushed, despite the song. Gadget, yawning and stretching, quickly poured herself a thimble of coffee and gulped it down. Breakfast was one of her favorite parts of the day, and the only favorite part which didn't involve ratchet screwdrivers and alum wrenches. She and Chip sat and talked while they waited for Dale, Monty, and Zipper to get up. Foxglove, of course, wouldn't be up for several hours. "Good morning, Chip."

Chip didn't reply. She turned, about to cheerfully tease him and his unusual morning grumpiness, and saw he hadn't replied was because he wasn't there. Her extremities went all numb and icy as her universe came crashing down around her. "Chip! CHIP!" Gadget dropped her empty thimble of coffee, ignoring the slight pain from the area of her foot. She felt faint. Chip was gone! Something had happened to Chip! They had come and taken Chip away from her! And she NEEDED Chip! What was she going to do now?! Gadget screamed and kept on screaming as she sank into a chair.

It was only a few seconds before Monty was on her, still in his pajamas. He held her gently, calming her down. "Oh, Monty..." Gadget sighed a few moments later. "I'm sorry."

"Calm down, Gadget love. What's the matter? Is your coffee too hot? I remember this one time, back in '91, me and Geegaw were in this little coffee shop, the Zanzibar Cafe on Fleet Street. I had some cheese bread and he had a cup of expresso. And when it all arrived your dad let out such a shout, I swear... I had a good laugh about that at the time. But it turned out there were second-degree burns all over the inside of his mouth. Had to take him to the Staten City hospital, I did. Kind of irritated your pop too, me making fun of him like that. Come to think of it, that was the last time I saw him... Hmm." Monty realized that reminding his old pally's daughter about Geegaw's untimely death wasn't really the best way to relax her. He shut up.

"No, Monty, it's just... Chip wasn't sitting in his chair. Every morning, for the past, um, four years, eleven lunar months, and seventeen days, excepting of course when we weren't here in the Tree, I always see Chip there first thing in the morning. Always. I mean, come rain or shine or if he was sick he'd still be there, coughing in this cute kind of really pitiful way, you know how he does... I have a cup of coffee, he has a cup of coffee, I have another cup of coffee, he has another cup of coffee. It's a tradition. But I was overreacting... I guess he's just sleeping in today. There's, there's a first time for everything. I shouldn't have screamed. It's nothing. I'm sorry." Gadget looked slightly ashamed.

Monty, relieved, set Gadget down and sighed. "Aw, it's all right, Gadget love. Jes got me out of bed a bit earlier than normal." The big mouse knew his little mate Chipper and his old mate's daughter had a more complex relationship than Gadget liked to think about, but this was hardly the time to discuss it. "Have ya ever considered drinking a little less coffee?"

Gadget looked at him curiously. "No, why?" She yawned and stretched. "I like coffee."

"Well, it's just that... I mean, the caffeine is a, what's the word, stimulant, right? And --" Usually it was Gadget who was explaining things to him, and he found the role reversal more than a little unsettling. Relief came in the form of Dale. Half-asleep, the chipmunk stumbled into the kitchen and sat down. He muttered something incomprehensible: either asking about Gadget's scream or requesting strawberries with a tall glass of orange juice, Monterey wasn't certain.

Going with the more likely option, Monty described Chip's unaccountable lack of presence. Dale shrugged. "He didn't come to bed last night, either," the sleepy chipmunk replied. "If he was here he would have come running when Gadget screamed. I figured he was busy. Is Foxy up yet? Um, or Zipper?" he added hastily.

"Foxglove is nocturnal, Dale," Gadget mused. "While she's been adjusting her sleep schedule lately, she's still not usually up for hours. On the other hand, my, um, screaming woke you up, and she does have very sensitive hearing..." The young gadgeteer leaned against the kitchen counter and assumed a thoughtful pose. "Hmm. That is odd. Maybe you should check on her."

Dale was already out of the room. A few seconds later, a second protracted scream echoed through the Ranger Tree. A family of squirrels living about eight feet over Ranger Headquarters, their upstairs neighbors, sighed and looked at one another in exasperation. This sort of thing happened almost once a week. They would have complained to the superintendent, if there had been a superintendent.

"THEY'VE ELOPED!!" The chipmunk rushed back into the kitchen, all the sleep fallen from him. "Foxy's gone and Chip's gone! They must have run off together... I didn't even know that--this is just like Chip! I'll kill him!" He ran around in a tight little circle, gesticulating wildly. "It's just like 'My Woman Was Stolen By My Best Friend,' on last night's 'Talk Soup!'"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Monty found himself again thrust into the unlikely position of 'Voice of Reason.' A rapid dissemination of information, supplemented in chunks by Gadget, calmed Dale down. Chip had been out last night: Foxglove had last been seen looking for him. Something had happened, clearly. Gradually Dale began to see other, more likely, possibilities. Maybe they had been captured. Maybe they had been abducted by aliens. Maybe they had fallen down a deep hole and...

"We've got to go looking for them," Gadget concluded a few minutes later. "They were only supposed to be over on the other side of the park -- something must have happened to them." She had an odd, absolute certainty they were all right. That's how it always was. But something must have happened to them. "We can take the Ranger Wing and look around near the fountain quickly. Okay?"

Zipper, yawning, wandered into the kitchen. "Morning guys," he squeaked. The fly was still tired--his dream had kept him up that night. His friends failed to reply in their usual cheery, mammalian manner. Scanning their faces, Zipper deduced something was the matter. "What's wrong?"

"We'll tell you in the car. Let's go!" Dale was eager to find Foxglove. He picked Zipper up on his way out of the kitchen, and carried the protesting fly out to the landing strip, Gadget and Monterey Jack close behind.

"Golly, Dale, I really don't think that scenario is very likely," Gadget said as she piloted the Ranger Wing over the park. Her faith in Chip was, as always, absolute.

"I don't know," Dale muttered darkly. "Maybe they met up outside and suddenly Chip came to his senses and--"

"'Came to his senses?'" Gadget asked mildly. "What do you mean?"

"Uh, nothing." Dale turned so he was facing away from the girl whom as far as he knew his best friend loved, and started searching the ground below them for some indication of his lost bat. "But I mean, Foxy's so trusting, and... Chip... and... ooh!" He was so panicked he couldn't think straight. A variety of possibilities flitted through his head, from Chip and Foxglove dead in a ditch to Chip and Foxglove in love to Chip and Foxglove fallen into a dimensional gateway and trapped in a parallel, "mirror" universe where everyone had a beard and Gadget was interested principally in the humanities and Monty was lactose-intolerant and Dale himself hated television... At the moment, he couldn't decide which was the worst-case scenario.

"Hey! Land her, Gadget! I think I see something!" Dale leaned out of the Wing, precariously balanced against the edge of the passenger compartment. "There's something going on down by the fountain! And Chip said he was going to be at the fountain, you said! Land, quick!"

In November, despite the best efforts of professional landscapers, the Park was almost uniformly gray or brown. The occasional evergreen tree or shrub-sized cedar did little to brighten the wide and shallow hollow which housed the largest fountain. It was still on, which was a little unusual, but Dale could see this was the result some tinkering on the part of the Polar Mice Club. A dozen of the eccentrics were allegedly enjoying themselves in the icy water, their fur modestly covered with swimsuits lifted from dolls. In the winter they met at the fountain two Saturdays a month.

"Hey there!" Dale was out of the Wing almost before Gadget had landed it. He ran on all fours to the edge of the fountain. "Hello!" He had to call very loudly to be heard over the roar of the fountain.

"Yes?" A wild-eyed mouse near the edge of the fountain turned and shouted at him. "Hop in, boy!" he cried. "Plenty of water for everyone! Nice and cold, nice and cold!"

Something in the way the mouse enunciated made Dale nervous. "I was wondering if you'd seen a sexy bat and a--"

"Bat?! Where?!" The mouse wiped perspiration from his large forehead nervously as he darted his head rapidly about. As Dale's new friend scanned the various sectors of the sky for possible bat attacks Gadget and Monty approached. "The bats aren't here! Not yet, mind you, boy," he muttered. "They'll be coming soon enough, oh yes. This is bat country. Get ready for the taste of ashes!"

Dale didn't have time for this. "I'll, uh, just ask someone else." He swallowed and moved along the rim of the fountain towards another bather.

"Aren't you cold?" he heard Gadget ask the unusual mouse. The roar of the fountain drowned out the discussion he knew would surely follow.

Nemeniah strolled casually through the dimly lit warehouse, towards the bank of old crates that formed the small community of Lake Haha. The duffel bag over his shoulder bulged in all the wrong places.

"No, I can't say I've seen a sexy-yet-innocently-sweet-tempered bat or an angry chipmunk this morning," a slightly more sane Polar Mouse was saying a minute later as Dale suddenly realized he'd missed breakfast. The sacrifices one made...

"He might have been only irritated. Or possibly a little moon- eyed and talking about a girl who owns a lot of wrenches. Does that help?" Dale paced back and forth. Even now, Foxglove and Chip might be locked up in some mad scientists laboratory, forced to run a treadmill which powered some kind of evil device. Or they might have been washed up on some desert island, alone against a horde of angry natives who resented Foxy's natural good looks and pleasant demeanor. Gadget had insisted, with a steadily increasing firmness that likely belied an inner conflict, that Foxy could take care of herself and that furthermore Chip could take care of both himself and Foxy. Dale harbored no such illusions.

"No, sorry," Aluminum said as he toweled himself off. "Maybe you could try asking a squirrel or something." He gestured vaguely in a direction.

"Yeah, whatever. Thanks." Dale had no time for pleasantries, not while Foxy was lost in some uncharted wilderness. He decided to look around for dropped business cards, bloody gloves, or any other handy piece of evidence.

"Do you notice something odd about Dale?" Monterey asked Zipper as the two of them began carefully examining the paved plaza immediately around the fountain. "More than normal?"

The fly shrugged. Dale danced through life with not only a different drum, but a different orchestra. "Like what?" he asked.

"Well, mate..." Monty considered. "You remember back when Dale got hit on the head and thought he was RamDale, back in '96? With his bad French accent and the gun that shot the coffee beans? 'Allo. I am, how you say, the Decaffienator.'" Zipper nodded. "Nothing like that at all."

Inwardly, Zipper sighed. He'd known Monty for nearly seven years -- most of not only his life, but his lifespan. The big mouse was noble, generous, honorable, fairly honest, incredibly loyal, and had some respect for him. But he was a terror with reminiscence.

"More like," Monty continued, "More like the time me 'n you was in Hong Kong, and there was that little feller with the kidnapped girlfriend --"

"Morris?" Zipper interrupted before Monty could go into full- blown flashback. "I rem'ber." The little mouse had been a fright, in more ways than one. Zipper wondered if he and Juniper were still together. It was possible either way, he reflected. Mammals were flighty.

"Like that. Only without the accent and the knife." Monty glanced around. "Say, ya don't suppose Dale has a Swiss Army knife around anywhere, do yas?"

"Nah." Zipper was about go on, but was interrupted by a shout from Dale. He and Monterey hurried towards the noise. "Looky looky looky!" Dale cried as his teammates gathered around him. "I've found a clue!" He pointed to a bright blue chip lying on the ground.

Monty picked it up and examined it. "'Fat Cat's Casino and Themed Entertainment Complex,'" he read aloud. "'Five Staten City Dollars.' What do you think it means, Dale?"

Dale was quick to respond. "I've already come up with several possible scenarios, Monty. Either a witch turned Chip into this chip and spirited Foxy away under cover of darkness, planning to drain her of all her charm and sweetness and the way she arches her back when she stretches..."

"Or?" Zipper's tone was blunt.

Dale shrugged. "Or they've ended up at Fat Cat's somehow."

"So...?" Zipper continued.

"So either we start searching around for a witch with a big cauldron and pointy hat and no charm or sweetness or... stretching ability..." Dale was counting the possibilities on his fingers.

"Or?" Zipper asked again.

"Or we get Gadget and go look for them at the casino."

"Casino!" Zipper said instantly. "I vote that!"

"Me too, mate," Monty said. "Not that the witch angle ain't exciting, mind you. But Rangers going missing and turning up at the ol' Casino and Themed Entertainment Complex is a well-respected and highly regarded archetype in our escapades. Surely you've noticed that by now, mate."

Dale shrugged again. "If you say so. C'mon, let's go get Gadget."

"...so you see, a wood rod and a copper rod will have different 'heat capacities,'" Gadget finished. She enclosed the term in little lagomorphic quotation-marks she made with her hands. It was amazing how large a percentage of her time as a Rescue Ranger was spent elaborating on basic technical concepts. "And water and air, well, they work just the same way. Do you understand now?"

Stalker was rubbing himself vigorously with his towel. "Of course!" he barked. "Simple idea! Nothing to it!"

"Okay, good, we're making progress here." Gadget ran one hand through her hair, pushing it out of her eyes. "Now, I need to know if you've seen a couple of very nice people whom we've misplaced. One of them is a bat named Foxglove, and the other one is a chipmunk named Chip. Chip is about so tall--" Gadget indicated with one hand while Stalker adjusted his glasses and watched her with bemused interest. "--and he's very neat and tidy. I think he's wearing his leather jacket, but not his fedora, because he lost his fedora when he went to visit Sewer Al when he thought someone was trying to kill me. I know, he can overreact sometimes, but it's endearing; it's Chip's way of showing that he cares, and..." Gadget realized the terminus of that train of thought and quickly disembarked. After all, she...

"Bat and chipmunk, huh? Bat and chipmunk, bat and chipmunk... Bat and chipmunk!" Stalker's bark interrupted her, thankfully. He suddenly pointed behind Gadget, an unreadable but intense expression on his face.

She spun around, but it was only Dale and Zipper. "No, fly and chipmunk. Different chipmunk. Did you find them?" she asked Dale. "Mr. Olafson here hasn't been much help--" Gadget winced as suddenly the Polar Mouse put one hand on her shoulder and pulled her close to him.

"Let me give you one piece of advice," Stalker said, his eyes bulging slightly under his domelike forehead. "Stay away from the ether."

"Right..." Gadget smiled politely and waited for the mouse to leave. "Bye now," she said when he didn't release her. She wondered if she should explain the Michelson-Morley experiment to him.

"Remember!" Stalker said as he let go of Gadget and gathered his bathing accouterments. "There is nothing more strange in this world full of strangers than a mouse on an ether binge. Taste of ashes!"

"Monty's warming up the Wing," Dale said as soon as the much stranger stranger had left to meet with the other members of the club. "C'mon. We're going to Fat Cat's."

It was still fairly early when the Ranger Wing reached its destination, a narrow alley three buildings down from the Happy Tom cat food factory. Dale adjusted his painfully-orange overcoat as Gadget maneuvered the vehicle down, landing gently on the cold concrete.

"Why are you parking so far from the casino, Gadget love?" Monterey Jack asked. "No one's ever noticed the Wing before."

"Better safe than sorry, Monty," Gadget replied. "Fat Cat is bound to wise up sooner or later. It's been making me nervous for a while now."

"C'mon!" Zipper said. He gestured out the alley. "Move quick!"

"Besides," Gadget continued as the four of them made their way out the alley and down the street to the cat food plant, "it's a nice, crisp morning. I like walking."

"I think we did enough walking yesterday," Monterey Jack grumbled.

"That wasn't walking," Dale said. "That was running. Much more tiring."

Gadget shrugged. She had stayed behind with the Rangermobile when it fell apart. "All right. We know that... hey!" Her attempt to recapitulate, Chip-style, was interrupted when she spotted an empty cardboard tube about the size of one of Monty's arms. "A spent rocket!" Her eyes widened with interest.

"Where'd it come from?" Dale asked. "It's November; the Fourth of July was in... well, July. Guy Fawkes, maybe?"

Gadget bent over the tube and studied it: badly blackened, on one end more than the other. "Mmm, smell that?" She sighed happily. "I think it was fired up on the roof, and came down here by mistake," she said. "See the way it's pointing? Let's go look."

A short climb later, the Rangers surveyed the rooftop. Steam issued from half a dozen vents, but otherwise the scene was motionless. The giant metal cat which housed Fat Cat's Casino and Themed Entertainment Complex was still and lifeless.

"Just like b'fore," Zipper muttered. "Check the roof?" he suggested a bit more loudly.

"Good idea, Zipper," Dale said. "They could have dropped a note or something." He ran off among the towering ducts. Zipper buzzed after him. Gadget and Monterey Jack, too, spread out and began examining the area.

Dale was more than a little surprised at what he found just behind the nearest hot-air exhaust vent. A young couple, or so he assumed, were curled up in the hot air's path. The female, a reddish mouse, was snoring gently. They were dressed like members of an orchestra who had gotten off work late one night and discarded their tuxedo jackets and ties.

"Excuse me..." Dale gently prodded the male, a squirrel in a dinner jacket, with his foot.

Jiffy bolted upright instantly. "Goodmorningsirandwelcometothe HotelRatisson'srestauranthowcanI... oh, sorry." He shook his head, trying to clear out the sleep. "Is this your vent?"

"Uh, no..." Dale scratched his head. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

"Possibly," Jiffy replied unhelpfully. "My name is Jiffy. I'm a waiter at the Ratisson's revolving and truly splendiferous restaurant, in Staten City," he added. "Have you ever eaten there?"

Oh, sweet mother of Kablammo-Man, Dale thought. This was the same waiter that Chip terrorized! If he knew Dale was associated with him, Jiffy would never tell him anything he knew about Foxglove! "Uh, nope. My name is, uh, Wayne. Bruce Wayne," Dale said glibly.

"Oh." Jiffy looked Dale up and down, and might have been about to say something, but changed his mind. "Well."

"I'm looking for a bat," Dale continued.

"Are you now," Jiffy said as he stepped carefully away from Dale and a bit closer to Claire. "How... exciting."

"Who's your friend?" Dale examined Claire carefully from a respectful distance.

"Oh, just a friend and coworker," Jiffy said, hastily adding "Not a bat. No sir, just one tickety-boo fieldmouse. No wings on Claire!"

Hearing the sound of her name, Claire sprung out of her sleeping position and snapped awake. Seeing not one but two men looming over her, she (acting entirely on reflex) rapidly assumed a combat stance and began pummeling the closest one savagely. As she glanced over at the second figure, a chipmunk, she remembered where she and Jiffy had fallen asleep, and realized that she was pummeling her coworker. He was whimpering.

"Ooh! I'm so sorry Jiffy! I just woke up and there you were and..." Claire trailed off helplessly, as she assisted Jiffy in getting to his feet. "Is anything broken, do you think?"

"'Our specials today,'" Jiffy said weakly, "'are pickled herring and lutefisk.'" The squirrel was reeling slightly, and he held his head up with one hand.

As a Rescue Ranger, Dale had learned the rudiments of first aid. Quickly he moved Jiffy away from the insane mouse and began checking him over: some bruises would be forming shortly, but that was all. At least, that's what he thought. He wasn't completely sure.

"I'm so sorry Jiffy!" Claire was saying again as Dale arranged him on the rooftop in front of the duct. "Is he going to be all right, Doctor, um?"

Dale tried to look professional. "Wayne, Bruce Wayne," he said. Claire looked quizzical for a moment, but he ignored it. "I think he'll be fine. Just don't... you know, don't."

"Right," the mouse said immediately. "I understand completely."

"Just let him rest here for a little while, and then take him home, all right?" Dale hoped that was fairly appropriate.

"Yes, sir. Home." Claire was nodding. "Is there anything I can do for you, Dr. Wayne?"

"Yeah! There is something you can do for me!" Dale suddenly remembered why he was there. "I'm looking for a bat, about so tall, generous and loving, with a nice smile." He made a statuesque gesture.

"Oh! You mean Foxglove," Claire said brightly.

Dale was somewhat taken aback. "You know her?"

"Yeah," Claire said quickly. "So you know the Chi -- Chip?"

Dale scratched his head, and glanced around. They didn't look dangerous. He was bigger than the squirrel, and could probably outrun the mad hostess. "I've met him," Dale admitted.

"Good." Claire seemed pleased, which surprised Dale. Maybe these were different members of the food services industry. He didn't really have time to investigate this, though. Foxglove and Chip might be getting thrown to piranhas or manacled and forced to sing and dance or pitted against one another in a gladiatorial fight to the death even as he stood there. Still, Claire did seem to know who Foxy was, at least, so Dale stayed put while she conferred briefly with Jiffy.

"Would you say, Doctor, that Chip has a tendency to..." she paused, seeming unwilling to complete the sentence.

"Eat cheese?" Dale guessed. It was an unusual trait in chipmunks, but it was pretty much all Monty cooked. "Or wear a hat? Get angry really easily? Think too much? Read mystery novels? Build paper airplanes? Make a big deal out of his birthday? Wake up screaming? Work too hard? Think obsessively about Gadget, maybe?"

Claire twitched. It was the sort of twitch that signified a barely-repressed impulse to kick someone in the head, but Dale didn't know that. "I was going to say 'overreact.' He eats cheese?"

"Oh, yeah. Chip is one of the big, all-time great --"

"Overreactors?" Jiffy interrupted.

"Chipmunk cheese eaters," Dale finished. "But yeah, he overreacts a lot. In fact, this one time he thought someone was trying to kill Gadget, and he ended up..." Dale trailed off, remembering to whom he was speaking.

"Eating cheese?" Jiffy asked.

"Overreacting," Dale said quietly. He hoped he hadn't given too much away. Maybe they thought Chip was someone else.

"I just wanted to know how we got on the subject of eating cheese," Jiffy said a little petulantly.

Dale was about to explain, but a small explosion stopped him. The noise came from the direction of the casino. His explosion- identifying skills, like Chip's, were honed to a knife's edge through years of contact with Gadget. Dale analyzed the sound, guessed that it was caused by a small set charge similar to the kind Gadget used to frighten away nosy sea gulls, and began running towards the source. "Wait here!" he barked over his shoulder. "I'll be back in a second!"

"Okay, Dr. Wayne!" Claire called, then sat down next to Jiffy, who was quietly muttering to himself about the glories of police protection.

Gadget, slightly singed, was lying on her back looking up at the bulbous, gray clouds which filled the morning sky. She wasn't really hurt, although her lavender coat was ripped and scorched and her face was slightly blackened, but it took her a few seconds to determine just what had happened. Golly and gee whiz, she thought.

"I was looking for Chip," she said aloud. "Then I saw an interesting-looking something wrapped in plastic, near the doors to the casino. And there was a burned-out rocket casing next to it. And then..." Gadget sighed. Her explosive ordnance disposal skills were rusty, and she had set off the bomb.

She was just standing up and thinking it was good that no one had been around when Dale, Monty, and Zipper arrived, one after the other. "Are you all right, Gadget love?" Monterey looked her up and down, checking for broken bones. "I'm fine, Monty," she assured him. "I set something off," Gadget explained, pointing at the casino doors. The force of the explosion had jammed the doors into their frames.

"Wowie, look at that," Dale exclaimed. "How do we get into the casino now?"

"We don't," Zipper answered. "'Less..." The fly considered. "Gadget?"

"Sorry, Zipper," Gadget said. "I didn't think to bring my bolt cutters with me this morning. I guess I should have known I was going to want to force my way into a Casino and Themed Entertainment Complex."

"I'm guessing Fat Cat'll have these doors back open in jes a bit anyways," Monty said. He shrugged and turned away from the doors, his eyes shining. "Let me show yas what I found!" The big mouse pulled out a feather. "I think it came from a pigeon," he said proudly. "Now, I know that initially you're going to be asking me, 'Monterey, what does a pigeon feather have to do with finding our mates?' But I have a theory that... hey!" Monty broke off as Dale suddenly snapped his fingers and ran back the way he had come on all fours. "C'mon!" he called over his shoulder. "Follow me!"

Zipper looked at Monty and lifted his hands. Then he flew after Dale, Gadget close behind. "Crikey," Monterey Jack muttered. "Getting so you can't hold anyone's attention any more. I blame television."

"Is there a large rat and a small, pretty mouse staying here?" The short mouse in the red turtleneck sweater sized up the clerk, then casually handed her SC$20. "I'm an old friend, and I'd like to surprise them."

Xia was not an idiot. Old friends usually used names. On the other hand, twenty Staten City dollars was twenty Staten City dollars. The iguana shrugged. "Lots of people here, mister --"

"My name is Nemeniah." The mouse interrupted her. "Not 'mister' anything. The rat will be wearing sunglasses. The mouse looks like this." Nemeniah set his heavy-looking duffel bag on the counter. Xia heard metal bumping against metal when it landed. The mouse rooted through the bag for a moment, then pulled out a photograph taken from a news clipping: Gadget Hackwrench, surfing. Xia had met the Rescue Rangers, once. Monterey Jack had once stood right where Nemeniah was standing now. She had been too nervous to say anything, at the time, especially since she had just been bribed by Fat Cat... They wouldn't have liked that.

"The Rescue Ranger? No Rescue Rangers here, boy." Xia called all men either 'mister' or 'boy.' "You might try the Ratisson, in the city..."

"No. I said she looks like this. A different girl. Her hair is probably dyed black." Nemeniah tapped on the counter impatiently.

The iguana behind the counter considered. On the one hand, she was fairly certain that Herbie and his wife were up to no good. On the other hand, she had taken their money, and if nothing else, Xia liked to think she at least stayed bought. On the third hand, Xia was a bit of a fan of the Rescue Rangers -- in her scrapbook she probably had a copy of the article that photo had been attached to. Herbie's wife definitely wasn't Gadget Hackwrench. And anyone who looked that much like Gadget Hackwrench, but wasn't her, was almost certainly evil. Xia had followed the doings of the Rescue Rangers long enough to know that. And on the fourth hand, Herbie had paid her off specifically to not call Fat Cat about his being there. So...

"She's cut it short, too. Room K, gospodin. Upstairs."

Nemeniah gave Xia a mirthless smile as he marched out of the lobby, towards her guests. The iguana watched him go, then ran out the door towards the telephone booth on the street corner outside the Lake Haha warehouse.

"Dr. Wayne! You came back!" Jiffy seemed pleased. "I am going to be all right, aren't I? Well enough to wait tables, at least?"

"Sure, sure," Dale said dismissively. He turned to Claire as Zipper and Gadget appeared behind him. "You said you knew Foxglove. Where is she?!"

"Well, she... flew off." Claire looked around helplessly. "I don't know where."

"Was Chip with her?" Gadget asked immediately. "When was this?"

"It was last night, around midnight. Really cold. And yes, ma'am, the -- Chip was with her." Claire stumbled over the name.

"He said he was going to go follow the two mice and that Foxglove should catch up to him after she explained to us that Chip wasn't evil," Jiffy added. He glanced around nervously, then added "we've been told he just 'overreacts.'"

"Overreacts my fanny," Claire muttered.

"Evil?!" Dale was surprised to see Gadget looking angry. She was almost never mad. "What on earth made you think Chip was evil?!" Dale was relieved to see the anger almost immediately replaced with concern. He guessed Gadget was now worried that Claire had been hit on the head by a falling rock, or something. There was no time for this.

"Ratisson," he hissed at Gadget.

"Oh," Gadget said, understanding immediately. Chip had, eventually, told her just what he and Widget had done that night. She hadn't been prepared, however, for the full reality of it. "Then..." She trailed off. "So, they were all right when you saw them?"

"Um, yeah." Claire was trying to remember where she'd seen Gadget, or a reasonable facsimile, before. "Have we met before?"

Gadget thought for a second. "Well, I've eaten at the Ratisson before, several times, so you've probably seen me there." Not untrue, although it probably wasn't what Claire found familiar about her.

"Gadget 'Gadget love' Hackwrench. Cheese bread under cheese sauce, a cup of coffee, and a glass of cheese wine. Nice tip," Jiffy said mechanically. He spoke Monty's nickname for her in a fairly passable faux Australian accent.

"Ooh! Gadget! So this is..." Claire looked her over.

"The sister of..." Jiffy said, rubbing the back of his neck. Gadget winced.

"Yeah," Claire said, scratching her chin.

"Hmm," Jiffy said, eyeing Gadget.

"Hmm," Claire said, eyeing Gadget.

"Well, anyway..." Dale knew that they hadn't recognized him, at least, as especially connected to Chip and Widget. Best to leave before they did. And while it was good to know that Foxy (and Chip) had been all right as late as eight hours ago, they still hadn't found them. "We'd better go look for them some more." It was still possible, after all, that Foxy (and Chip) had been abducted by aliens, who were even as Jiffy and Gadget spoke flying her back to Salusa Secundus or some other planet with a lethal cheerfulness shortage or bat shortage.

"All right. There's a telephone booth just around the corner. I'll call back to the Tree, and then we can go look for them in the Wing some more." Gadget smiled nervously at Claire and Jiffy, who were both continuing to stare at her, and scampered off.

'Chordates,' Zipper thought to himself. 'They're all crazy.'

Things had been looking up for Fat Cat. The casino was still in the hole from the machinations of that rat Herbie, but it would be back in the black in only another eighteen months [21]. Creditors were quite willing to wait until then; to do otherwise might have wrecked the Staten City economy. Plans to add to the snack bar a full buffet had been proceeding smoothly, and an expert from Staten City was being recruited to oversee development. A shipment of some of the finest vanilla beans in the world had been successfully captured by Snout, and he had hit on the idea of using Sewer Al's advice to destroy the thorn in his side that was the Rescue Rangers.

So much had changed in less than twenty-four hours. Rat Capone had threatened him--threatened HIM, and in his own casino! Capone had also frightened off his expert and Sewer Al's plan had been ruined in the confusion. They said Capone enjoyed the protection of Sewer Al, but Fat Cat doubted that. Sewer Al didn't seem the sort to tolerate fools.

To make matters worse, only a few hours after the casino closed, someone -- he said someone, although he knew who, oh yes, he knew who -- had blown the main doors of the casino in. It would take hours of work before the doors could be unsealed--which meant that Mepps wouldn't be part of the "Destroy the Hated Rat Capone" task force. To make up for this, Fat Cat had commanded Prickles to work an extra shift and join Wart, Snout and Mole in their mission.

"What do you mean, he refuses?" Fat Cat was up in his office now, trying to cheer himself up by reading through the Feline Crimelord mailing list archives. Wart's news was not only counterproductive to this task, it was bizarre. "He can't refuse! He's an underling!"

"He keeps saying his job description is very clear on what he is and isn't required to do, Fat Cat. He says he'll complain to the newspapers if you force him to do work not in his job description."

Fat Cat was aghast. "He assisted you in capturing the Rangers! This is ridiculous... he's an underling!" Fat Cat leaned back and shook his head in wonder.

Wart shrugged. "He said that was on his own time. What shall I do, sir?"

Fat Cat considered. Prickles was very good at what he accepted as his job... "See if he'll help Mepps." Fat Cat extended and retracted his claws. "If he won't, sack him. I don't care how much negative press it causes," he said to quell what he mistakenly thought Wart was clever enough to exclaim in objection. "He's not a team player."

"But, sir, he's been insubordinate! You should make an example of him now!" Wart's expression was one of actual irritation.

Fat Cat raised one eyebrow. "I should, you think? You say that I should do something I'm not doing?" He just looked at Wart, letting the words hang in the air.

Wart sighed. If he was in charge of Fat Cat's Casino and Themed Entertainment Complex, things would be run differently (they'd have a catchier name, for one thing). He was, however, very much not in charge. "Yessir, I mean, nossir. I'll go now," he muttered, and left Fat Cat's office.

Downstairs Prickles was only too happy to 'assist' Mepps. This would, Wart knew, mean that Prickles would do all of the crowbar work while Mepps took a nap. Mepps was Fat Cat's cousin, and he was another thing that Wart would have changed about the management of his casino. Fat Cat would claim, when pressed, that Mepps's ability to wail like a stepped-on cat on command made up for his lack of other skills, but Wart knew it was just thinly-veiled nepotism. He made an effort to be very rude to Mepps, to make up for it.

"All right," Wart said. He glanced at his pocket watch, which had begun life as a small woman's wristwatch. It was nearly ten in the morning. "You work hard now, Mister Too Clever for Words," Wart spat at Prickles. "Let's go out the service door," he added to the two thugs lounging near the bar.

Snout and Mole finished their cups of coffee. They were already up past their bedtimes, and would likely be pulling an "all-dayer." Snout picked up his whapping-stick (a miniature baseball bat stolen from a gift shop at Yankee Stadium) and Mole his small football helmet. Armed and armored, the three of them made their way out of the rear of the casino, traveling aboveground to Rat Capone's hideout.

"We don't have long. You have to admit that. We need to resolve this Fat Cat situation first." Luwini stood up and began pacing around the small room. "Why aren't there lights in here?"

"This place is a dive, as I told you several times. You have to make do with the light from the hallway and from the windows. It could be worse. The windows are new. Or... here." Herb, still lying on the bed, took his sunglasses off. The yellow glow from his eyes was enough to see by. "Better?"

"Much better. Thank you. You are a gentleman, a real gentleman." His wife sounded convincingly sincere. And she smiled, too. "'If you were in Darkness, what would you want more than anything else; what would it be that every instinct would call for? Light, damn you, light!' [22]" Luwini quoted flatly. "Come here."

The pleasant facade was shattered by a knock on the door. "Turn- down service," a muffled voice sounded from the hallway.

"Turn-down service?" Herb muttered. Then, louder: "Luwini, get behind the bed!"

The mouse was already behind the only real cover in the room. Herb pulled his sunglasses back on, then carefully approached the door. "No thank-you," he said loudly. "No thank-you!"

Herb winced as, despite his best effort, the door opened. He moved to close it, and suddenly found himself staring down the barrel of a .22-caliber Darned Nearly Recoilless Rifle. "Hello, Gary," he said quietly to the mouse who held the thing as if it were a mouse- scaled light antitank weapon... which, for all practical purposes, it was.

"It's Nemeniah now. I'm a Hand." The mouse glanced past him, scanning the room in a single quick motion. Herb hoped Luwini had her head down.

"Seth finally messed up, hm? Can't say I'm surprised." Herb wondered where the principal had obtained that rifle. The rat knew of only one source...

"No. Seth is still with us. Sewer Al has four Hands now. Sewer Al wanted five, Herbie. But you left us." Without taking his eyes off Herb, Nemeniah gestured with his head in the direction of the bed. "For her, you left us. That's a shame."

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess it is. I don't suppose there's any way we could work this out? Maybe my wife and I could both work for the principal." Herb wondered which was faster, his fist or Gary's-- Nemeniah's--trigger finger. He was forced to admit it was probably it latter.

"No. It's too late for that. I was sent here to kill you. I just wanted you to know why. You see, ever since... HEY!" Nemeniah looked past Herb and fired the Recoilless.

Temporarily deafened by the sound of a .22 round being fired in an enclosed space, Herb didn't have time to turn and make sure his wife wasn't damaged. He simply punched Nemeniah once, in the head. As the much smaller mouse collapsed, the rat straightened up and turned around. He took off his sunglasses to see clearly.

There was a jagged bullet hole in the crate, not far from the window. Luwini was sitting primly on the edge of the bed, trying to look as if she hadn't had a bullet nearly as large as her head pass very close to her. She nearly succeeded. Her lips were moving; it took Herb a few moments to make out what she was saying.

"'At the hole where he went in/Red-Eye called to Wrinkle- Skin./Hear what little Red-Eye saith:/"Nag, come up and dance with death!"/Eye to eye and head to head/(Keep the measure, Nag.)/This shall end when one is dead/(At thy pleasure, Nag.)/Turn for turn and twist for twist/(Run and hide thee, Nag.)/Hah! The hooded Death has missed!/ (Woe betide thee, Nag!)' [23]"

"You really do enjoy doing that, don't you?" Herb asked her, only a little too loudly. "Don't get me wrong; it's nice to know you actually enjoy something. More than a little bit of relief, in fact."

Luwini smiled coldly. "What did I tell you, Herb? What did I say? Easy. Easy as pie. Now all that remains is eliminating the remainder of the threat. We can move on to the next target then. And then the other. And then we'll be done. At that point I have no further plans. But it will be easy. Easy and fun." Luwini was speaking at a normal tone.

"I suggest we get out of here now." Herb glanced at the hole. Someone was bound to notice that. "This is extremely conspicuous."

"All right. We'll go. We'll leave this place. But there's much left to do. We aren't finished with New York yet." Luwini spoke so cheerily Herb almost forgot she was talking about hurting a large number of people for purposes of, basically, entertainment. "We can leave him here," she added, glancing at the still body of Nemeniah. "He couldn't tell us anything, not anything you don't know already."

"What did you do to get yourself fired upon?" Herb asked her he moved to the window. Best to get out of the building now.

"Well..." Luwini affected embarrassment. She scratched her nose and glanced down to the floor. The effect was quite convincing: Herb caught himself for a moment believing she wasn't feigning emotion. "I simply... behind you."

Herb spun around, just in time to catch the butt of the Recoilless with his head. Nemeniah was up, swinging the empty weapon like a baseball bat. The rat staggered backwards as Nemeniah pressed the attack, beating his much larger opponent several times, back and forth with the rifle. Luwini, sensing this was going to take a few minutes, sighed and sat on the edge of the bed.

While the big rat was briefly stunned, the Hand retreated back into the hallway. By the time Herb had recovered and was back in the doorway, Nemeniah had reloaded his firearm. "Playing possum, Herbie. You've done it before," he said as he hefted the horrible weapon. "Now, as I was saying. Sewer Al sent me to kill you because--"

Nemeniah was lecturing, concentrating on his words. That was a mistake. Herb took advantage of Nemeniah's slight distraction. He dove into a low tackle, intending to knock the smaller mouse down and disarm him. Nemeniah swore as he was flipped flat on his back, the Recoilless knocked out of his line of sight. Fairly certain that it was pointed away from him, and with Herb on top of him, about to rip his throat out with his teeth, Nemeniah pulled the trigger.

A second explosion of noise filled Lake Haha. Mice and the occasional sundry, just beginning to recover from the first gunshot, ducked instinctively back down under their beds. In the lobby downstairs, Xia hoped the Rangers would be arriving soon.

Rat Capone wasn't in their league, Wart reflected as he lowered himself down into the storm sewers for the final leg of the trip to the hideout. Not really; he ran a little bar and leeched off society. Capone had an odd penchant for gold and jewelry which kept him from working his small domain in an efficient manner. Kid stuff; Fat Cat hadn't embarked on zany schemes in years. Unless you counted the Catalina caper as zany, which Wart didn't.

Also Capone made the mistake of bothering the Staten City cops, which Wart was always able to talk Fat Cat out of doing. Staten City wouldn't bother you if you left them alone; aside from their limited jurisdiction, they had their own city to police, after all. Leave them alone, Wart had always urged, and Fat Cat had listened. (At least, that was how Wart remembered it. A dispassionate observer might have interpreted "Yes, Fat Cat, that is a very good idea" differently.)

But it wasn't like that for Capone. Capone was always trying to make a fast buck in Staten City, whether it be smuggling or robbery. As such he had to move his hideout regularly, since the police would eventually be hounded into forcibly extraditing him into Staten. He'd been quiet for a few months, however, and Fat Cat had been able to glean the location of his hideout without difficulty.

Hideout. The word sounded like something a kid would dream up. Capone was a parody of a criminal, and his muscle wasn't much better. This wouldn't be difficult.

"Snout!" Wart called over his shoulder. The rat climbed down after him. A small flashlight, originally part of a keychain, was in his teeth.

"All right," Wart continued as Mole made his way into the storm sewer tunnel. It was warmer below; the iguana removed his overcoat as he spoke. "Capone's hideout is to the left, about five hundred yards."

"I like it down here," Mole said. "Why isn't the casino down here? It's nice and warm, too."

"Shut up, Mole," Snout told him. "Wart, boss man, what exactly is our goal here? You know the boss: I don't have a clue why we're here."

"We're going to rough Capone up," Wart said. "That's why you brought your whapping-stick, Mister Rat with Little Eyes."

"He still have that big mouse working for him?" Snout's nearly invisible eyes narrowed. "Last time I bumped into him he bit his thumb at me."

"You're kidding." Wart snorted derisively as the trio started down the tunnel.

"I've heard Rat Capone works for Sewer Al nowadays," Mole said, trying to join in on the conversation. Wart and Snout ignored him.

"Nah, I'm serious. Asked him why, and he smiled and denied it. Makes me mad, you know? The nerve." Snout shifted his bat from one hand to the other. "We are a lot bigger than them, right?" he asked uncertainly. "I mean, I'm twice their size, ain't I? I ain't going through with this if I ain't twice their size."

"Hss! I hear something!" Mole's eyes were screwed shut. "Somebody's coming!"

Instantly Snout switched his light off, as they pressed themselves against the sides of the tunnel. Soon Wart could hear it too: an anole was talking to himself as he walked down the tunnel towards them, just around a bend.

Sugar Ray Lizard came into view a few seconds later: he was carrying a flashlight similar to Snout's over one shoulder, singing ancient anole folk songs to himself.

"Rush him on three," Wart hissed. "One, two, three!"

Wart and Snout cantered down the tunnel, shoulder to shoulder. Snout had his whapping-stick ready, and Wart had a roll of trusty dental floss in one hand. Behind them, Mole trundled along at a low speed, hoping the violence would be concluded before he arrived.

Snout was relieved to see that he was, indeed, very easily twice Sugar Ray Lizard's size. The anole blanched when he saw the two large thugs charging him, and dropped his flashlight. He turned and started to run back towards Capone, but Wart got him in a low diving tackle and he went down under a hail of blows from Snout's whapping-stick.

By the time Mole arrived, Sugar Ray Lizard had been subdued, and was tied up in dental floss. Lots of dental floss. Sugar Ray would be smelling minty-fresh for a week.

"Heh, that was fun," Snout said. "Nice to know they're so small," he added.

"Talk, Mister Rail-Thin Tough Guy Lizard!" Wart glared at the anole in a fairly threatening manner. "What did Capone send you out to do?!"

"Geez, Wart..." Sugar Ray was a tough anole. He'd been a prizefighter before Capone had recruited him, and had taken on and beaten mice almost twice his size in the ring. However, Snout was a rat with more than three times his mass. "We've always gotten along pretty well. You remember, we're both in the Reptiles Benevolent Association. What for are you beating me up like this?"

"We're going after Rat Capone," Mole said eagerly.

"Quiet!" Wart barked at him, then turned to Sugar Ray. "Answer the question, Ray!"

Sugar Ray Lizard eyed Snout and especially Snout's large club, then looked back at Wart. "All I was doing," he said, "was going out to check and see if it was going to rain today. We live in a storm sewer, after all. It's good information to have." Rat Capone's hideout had been flooded out half a dozen times before they had hit on the idea of sandbagging. But the sandbags were a bother, and so they only kept them in place when it was going to rain...

"What's he playing for? Why is Capone going after us?!" Wart hissed at the anole in a manner most mammals found unsettling. It didn't work quite as well on the fellow reptile. Sugar Ray was already cowed, however.

"I don't know what you're talking about! Fat Cat's going after Capone! The Hands told us so!" Sugar Ray said, desperate to avoid another whap with Snout's whapping-stick.

Wart grunted something unintelligible, then bent down and tied Sugar Ray's mouth shut with several loops of dental floss. "He's not making any sense. Talking hands, hmph. I think you hit him too hard, Snout."

Snout shrugged. "He's a little fella. Come on, ain't we going to go beat up some more much smaller guys?"

"See? See? Hands! Just like I said!" As usual, Wart and Snout ignored Mole. They continued down the passageway towards Capone, Snout muttering about the joys of being twice the size of your opponent and Wart muttering about the stupidity of setting yourself against the manager and staff of Fat Cat's Casino and Themed Entertainment Complex. Mole had to run to catch up.

"Wake up now, Herb. Wake up. It's time for you to regain... good." Luwini smiled chillily at Herb as he gradually became aware of some extreme pain in his leg. Had he been shot?

"Yes, you've been shot. Don't try to talk. You've lost some blood, but I got some more for you." Herb weakly raised his head and looked around. "From your friend. From Nemeniah." The mouse was nowhere to be seen. Herb vaguely recalled planning on biting him, but couldn't remember whether he had actually done it or not.

"You... what?" Herb managed to say, and immediately wished he hadn't. He felt so, so weak... something more than the gunshot, maybe. Luwini's blandly smiling face was going in and out of focus of its own accord.

"I got more blood. From Nemeniah. I put it in you, all nice and cozy, and sewed you up. You just rest now. You'll be fine eventually. I'm leaving you now, Herbie."

"Back?" Herb was beginning to black out again, he could tell. Where was Nemeniah? The empty Recoilless lay on the floor. His ears were still ringing. "You mean there's someone else's blood inside me?" That was a bad idea for some reason, Herb knew, but he couldn't remember why. His mind was wrapped in soft cotton. "Why is everything so red?"

Luwini patted him on the head mock-affectionately. "'Everybody is a book of blood. Whenever we are opened, we're red.' [24]" She then left, taking the weapon with her. Herb watched her disappear into the darkness that crowded his vision. As the light from his eyes shifted from the visible spectrum into the infrared he fell back asleep.

"I think things are looking up for us, Arnie." Capone leaned back in his gold-painted recliner, tossing his new toy back and forth from one hand to the other. "Sewer Al needs us, see? He wouldn't have given us this baby otherwise, see?"

"Yeah, I see fine, boss." Mousenegger nodded solemnly.

"You nitwit! Oh, never mind. I'm in a good mood, see? Otherwise I'd bust your curtains, see?" That didn't sound quite right. Rat Capone crossed to a table covered with papers and began searching through it.

"I'd bust your 'chops,'" he said a few seconds later, correcting himself. "Then it would be..." He scanned a sheet of notes. "It would be 'curtains for you mugsy-curtains.'" Capone wondered what a mugsy-curtain was.

"All right, boss," Mousenegger nodded placidly.

This idyllic scene of domestic life was interrupted by a pounding on the outer door. Since Sugar Ray was still out checking on the weather, Capone gestured for Mousenegger to open the door. As his thug approached the door, Capone, preparing for the worst, readied the ampoule of sleeping-drug thing and ducked down behind the table.

(Mice and rats aren't the same size. It's not even close. For example, Herbie could pick Luwini up in one hand. Granted, Arnold Mousenegger is a much larger mouse. around the same size as Monterey Jack. And Snout is smaller than Herbie, who is, after all, genetically altered. Nonetheless the size difference remains: Snout could lift Mousenegger over his head without more than a little difficulty.)

Arnold opened the door to see Snout towering over him. Just behind him, Wart (about the same size as Mousenegger) and Mole (perhaps a little larger, but built on a different frame) stood, varying degrees of menace on their faces. Wart looked inscrutably reptilian and malevolent, Snout was smiling nastily, and Mole looked sleepy.

"Yeah?" Mousenegger asked Snout, not understanding the situation. He was answered with a whap from Snout's whapping-stick. "Hey!"

As Mousenegger and Snout began to wrestle, Wart ducked around them and through the door, directly into the sights of Capone's vision. The rat hurled the grenade, and was gratified to see it burst onto the lizard's overcoat, spilling a liquid all over him. Wart began to cough as the liquid evaporated, and collapsed at about the same time Snout and Mousenegger rolled back into the hideout.

"Hold still, you little--hey! That hurt!" Snout grasped at Mousenegger around the neck and shoulders, but this opened him up for kicks from below. The two rolled into the back room, Snout muttering the whole time. Mousenegger was silent; he couldn't talk and fight simultaneously.

Capone hid behind the table while they passed through, then emerged and approached the prone iguana. Wart was carrying a small dispenser of dental floss.

He was bending over the unconscious body when Mole quietly stepped through the door. His natural instincts for running and hiding underground somewhere had lost the fight with his desire for the three Mars bars Wart had promised him. He picked up Snout's whapping-stick where the rat had dropped it, adjusted the toy football helmet on his head, and charged Rat Capone.

Capone was startled, to say the least. Worse, he was lacking his favorite weapons: he had neither a mysterious ampoule of exotic drugs to throw nor a brainless thug to hide behind. The sight of a mole armed with a bat and afraid he's not going to get his candy bars was too much for Capone, and he fled into the back room as Snout and Mousenegger rolled back out of it.

Mole, in an uncharacteristic show of intelligence, closed and locked the door. At the same time, Snout finally decided he had enacted enough revenge on Mousenegger, and released the thug, who had blacked out several minutes previous.

"Ha-ha! We got them!" Snout was pleased. He turned to Wart, and saw him lying on the ground. Quickly Snout determined that he was still alive. 'Darn it,' Snout thought. 'I was hoping I was going to get to be the boss now.' He used Wart's floss to bind Mousenegger while Mole threw his whapping-stick away and sunk into a corner, amazed at how incredibly heroic he'd been. While Capone pounded on the door, Snout and Mole waited for Wart to wake up.

Chip and Foxglove were bone-tired by the time they made it back to the Tree. They had lost the two Hands in the mazelike storm sewers beneath the city. Chip had to keep reassuring Foxglove it wasn't her fault; the bat's sonar had been crippled in the twisty and connecting passages. And it was their home ground, if they did work for Sewer Al. Nevertheless Foxy was in a low mood by the time they returned to the tree. That she had completely missed a morning's sleep hadn't helped any. Chip had suggested she fly back by herself, but the bat wouldn't hear of it.

"I think you should just go to bed," Chip was saying as he opened the front door of the Tree. "Hello?" Hmm. No teammates. No Ranger Wing. They must have gone out, possibly looking for Foxglove and him. The light on the answering machine Gadget had salvaged was blinking.

"All right," Foxglove said. "Where's everybody?"

"The Wing is gone," Chip said. "They went out. Maybe they left us a message." He pressed the playback button on the large device, which dominated one corner of the living room.

"Hello! You've reached the Rescue Rangers!" Gadget's recorded voice, enthusiastic and cheery but also tinny, resounded through the Tree. "We're sorry that we're not here to take your call, but by all means, leave a message after the beep! Otherwise, we won't know who you are or how we can help you and so you'll be stuck with the same problem you had before, only worse because you've already tried calling your best chance of assistance... well, I don't mean to sound really arrogant, but I think we do a good job... and it didn't work out --" Her monologue was interrupted by a harsh beep, then her voice came out the speakers a second time.

"Hi there, Chip and Foxglove! If you're hearing this, you've come back to the Tree and we're still out. We've tracked you to Fat Cat's, and figured out that whatever you were doing there, you were fine when you left, so we're going to check around and try to spot you from the Wing, then check back at the Tree. It's about eight o'clock now, and we'll check back in a couple of hours. I think you ought to know Dale is upset, Foxy. And Chip, I --" Damnably, Gadget was interrupted again. A second message followed.

"Hello, Rescue Rangers? Oh, wow, I'm on their answering machine... Uh, my name is Xia, and I am the day clerk at the Dock Inn, at Lake Haha. We've met, briefly. I'm calling because Herbie, the rat whom you were with the last time you were here, has checked into the hotel in the company of a brunette mouse resembling Miss Gadget Hackwrench. Just a few minutes ago, a mouse calling himself 'Nemeniah' went up to visit them. I know that Herbie --" The message broke off there, but picked up again on a third recording. Chip buried his face in his hands and swore. Foxglove pretended not to hear it.

"Sorry about that." The recording continued, oblivious to the horror it was causing in revealing Herbie had returned. "I was saying that Herbie bribed me the last time he was here, and I know that he's your enemy. Please come quickly."

The final recording on the answering machine was also from Xia. "Okay, it's been about a hour since I called you. There were, just after I called you before, two loud noises I think were gunshots. Herbie's woman, the one who resembles Miss Hackwrench, just left. She said I shouldn't go up there. Please come quickly."

"Oh, so they'll be back in a little while," Foxglove said as the last message finished. "Goody. We can wait for them." She yawned and stretched in the way Dale found so fascinating. "Who's Herbie?"

"It's complicated." The chipmunk sat down on the couch and thought for a moment. He glanced at the watch pinned to the far wall and saw that the time was nine o'clock. "Maybe we should go and... no, we can't do anything about it until the others get back. Why don't you go sleep for a bit," Chip suggested, yawning himself. "Neither of us have gotten any sleep. I'll lie down here on the couch, and when they get back they'll see me; we can talk about everything then. Eh, on the other hand... No, we really are going to have to wait."

"Okie-doke. That's a good idea," Foxglove said. She stretched one more time, and then made her way to bed as Chip crashed on the couch.

The chipmunk returned to his usual nightmare-filled slumber almost immediately. 'Herbie,' he thought quickly as sleep overtook him. 'How are we going to deal with this?'

Dale was beside himself by the time Monty and Zipper forced him back to the Tree. They had scoured the city for hours, flying over one street at a time, looking carefully, carefully for Foxglove and Chip. Although the two restaurant employees had assured him Foxy was fine as late as midnight the night before, Dale knew that nearly eleven hours had passed. Eleven hours: a lot could happen in that time. Kablammo Man had gone from a perfectly normal liberal arts major at a major metropolitan university to a superhero in less than eleven minutes, when he was bitten by a radioactive alien baby (the same baby that, though Kablammo Man didn't know this cosmic connection, even now fought crime as his young sidekick, Badaboom Kid the grade-school defender) that had crawled from his spaceship into the gamma-munitions laboratory through an open window during a magical electrical storm one late night.

Gadget had insisted, however, that Foxglove was not going to be turned into a superhero. She had grown somewhat irritable as the morning wore on, which Dale chalked up to either concern for Chip and Foxglove, or having missed breakfast.

Dale wasn't worried about Chip in the least. Well, he wasn't worried about Chip's safety; he knew all too well that his best friend could take care of himself and juggle blindfolded at the same time, all the while whistling a John Lennon medley. He was worried, however, about Chip being alone with Foxglove for so long. Chip was, after all, smarter and quicker than he, something Dale got reminded of several times a month. Generally, this didn't bother Dale: Dale had hobbies, Dale could sleep at night without waking up screaming three times a week, and Dale wasn't obsessed with a girl who could solve differential equations in her head but sometimes didn't notice whether the bowl she was eating out of had any food in it or not. Still, Foxy was such a _nice_ bat and all...

Gadget, however, had refused to even accept as a possibility that nightmare scenario Dale was shudderingly contemplating, his pulse rapid and his pupils dilated. In fact Gadget had eventually gotten somewhat short with him about it. "I don't see why she's so sure," Dale muttered to himself as she set the Ranger Wing down on the short airstrip outside Headquarters. She overheard him; Gadget turned and glared at Dale for the first time in... well, ever. Unless you counted the time he'd pretended his legs were broken to get out of manual labor. But that didn't really count.

Monty coughed behind him. Remembering the situation, Dale leaped out of the Wing and ran into the Tree, intending to check for Foxy (and Chip) quickly, before Gadget, Zipper, and Monty had a chance to get out of the vehicle and settle down. That way they'd waste as little valuable searching time as possible here.

Dale skidded to a stop, however, when he saw Chip sleeping on the couch. Chip was back! And without Foxglove! Dale tried and failed to fight the rising panic he had been feeling all day as it exploded and blew up his brain. Chip had abandoned the bat Dale loved, left her alone in the harsh wilderness, to either die of exposure or fall in with some extremely wrong crowd, and... ARGH!

Chip was dreaming, as he often did, that he was trapped in a mayonnaise jar with holes punched in the lid while an endless stream of shadowy criminals (led by such luminaries as Fat Cat, Wart, Chlordane, Rat Capone, and Bubbles, to name a few) poured across the City, smashing and destroying everything of value and beauty. He was startled to be woken by a punch in the nose. It was not his favorite way of being woken up. His favorite way of being woken up was being kissed awake by Gadget, who would roll over in bed, smile sleepily at him, and remind him that they really ought to get up in an hour or so [25].

"Hey, what did you do that for?" he sleepily asked Dale.

"WhatdidIdothatforwhatdoyoumeanwhatdidIdothatforyoushouldknowyou badlydressedchipmunkwithanunglyhaircutIamgoingtoneverforgiveyouforthis you --" Dale was upset, he could tell.

"Heywhatareyoutalkingaboutandwhatdoyoumeanbadlydressedthisisa qualityjacketyourememberIgotitformytwentiethbirthdayandyoustillhavenot answeredmyquestionwhichwas --"

"FoxgloveyouidiotyoudummydummywhyelsewouldIbeupsetorhaveyou --"

"FoxglovewhatareyoutalkingaboutFoxglovesheisfineshe --"

"Fineareyounutsshecouldbeinaditchsomewhere --"

"Listentomewillyou --"

"Dale!" Foxglove appeared in the hallway. The sound of arguing chipmunks, with its conjoined inescapable conclusion that the light of her life had returned, had woken Foxglove almost instantly.

"Foxglove!" Chip forgotten, Dale leapt halfway across the living room in a single bound.

"Dale!" They embraced.

"Foxglove!" She silenced him.

"See?" Chip muttered. "I told you she was fine." He yawned.

"Chip, you're here. That's spiffy," Gadget said as the stepped into the Tree, smiling slightly. She glanced over at DaleandFoxglove, and blushed faintly. "What happened? Where have you been?" she asked as she sat down on the couch next to him.

"Well, I--" Chip broke off as suddenly and without warning Gadget leaned over and hugged him tightly. He quite lost his train of thought.

"Chip," she whispered, "if you ever need me to meet you somewhere at some point in the future I promise I will no matter what I'm doing and how engrossing it is."

Zipper flew into the room, Monty underneath him. No one so much as glanced their way. 'Chordates,' Zipper thought to himself. 'All glands and no discipline.' "I'll be in... my room," The fly said to no one in particular as he flew over Foxglove's head into the hall. Monterey Jack looked approvingly over his friends, and headed towards the kitchen, to make some lunch.

"I'm happy to see you're all right, Chip," Gadget said as she disengaged a very short moment later. "I was a, um, little worried."

"Oh, eh, don't, eh..." Chip heard himself say as he desperately tried to reconnect his mouth and brain. "I mean, I'm fine, eh, I'm fine... I, what was I, eh, what was I talking about?"

"What happened, and where you've been," Gadget supplied.

"Right. I was in the park, and Foxglove appeared, and then there was this net..." As he tried to piece the past eighteen hours or so together, Chip realized that he was more than a little sleepy. "Wart had an ambush. I don't know how. He had an ambush ready, and dragged Foxglove and me back to the casino."

"Okay. That makes sense." She was still sitting quite near to him. Chip reveled in it, and wondered if it was a pathetic thing to revel in. "Kind of. Dale found a chip from the casino near the fountain this morning, when we realized you and Foxy were missing. We didn't have time to think about it at the time, but in retrospect..."

"It seems a bit suspicious... Hmm. After we'd been tied up for a while, Foxglove broke free and subdued Mepps. She released me, and we were on our way out when the power to the casino was cut."

"When we got to the casino I found some live explosives near the front of the casino. Is that related, do you think?"

"I wondered about your coat. You're not hurt, are you?"

"Oh, of course not. Now, Dale found this couple--"

"Eh, yeah." Chip looked embarrassed. "Jiffy and Claire..."

"Chip, they thought you were evil! It's a good thing Foxglove was there to explain everything to them--"

"Yes, well--"

"Evil!" Gadget clearly found the concept extremely distasteful, in a confusing sort of way.

"Yes, well, it really was your sister's fault as much as... never mind." Chip realized he hadn't really explained that night to Gadget as well as he had thought. Now was not the time, however. "But Foxy was there, so... yes. After we talked to them, we followed two mice who had gone out the windows when the power was out."

"They went out the window of the casino? And you followed Jiffy and Claire instead?" While Gadget's faith in Chip was absolute, she nonetheless sounded a bit critical. "I don't think there are two more harmless people in all of Staten City," Gadget added [26].

"No, see, because they were running..." Chip sighed. "They were running, and so we chased them. We chase the people who run. It's our job..."

"Mmm. Well, what have you been doing for the past eleven hours? Why didn't you make it back to the tree?"

"We lost the mice in the sewers, on the way to Rat Capone's place, and walked back here. It's, well, a long way without the Wing or a paper airplane or anything. That's, eh, all. Now, according to what Foxglove heard, these two mice are 'Hands' who are in the employ of 'the Al,'" Chip said.

Gadget shivered involuntarily. Chip felt a strong desire to lean over and comfort her, but couldn't quite bring himself to do it. "The Al? Sewer Al?"

"It gets worse," Chip said. "When the power to the casino came back on, there was an effigy of Fat Cat tied to one of his chandeliers. A note attached said it was the work of Capone."

"And they were going to Capone's," Gadget said. "So they work for him and not Sewer Al?"

"Unless they were going to Capone's on a mission, like their trip to Fat Cat's." Chip had been about to say more, but suddenly stopped. He bonked himself on the head and ground his teeth together.

"I just remembered," he finally said. "The answering machine. Separate FoxgloveandDale and play the answering machine tape. I'm sorry, I must be more tired than I thought..."

In his room Zipper surveyed his belongings: three small red sweaters, which his mother had given him on his first three birthdays, before he left home with Monterey Jack; a group shot of the Rescue Rangers, which he had taken last Christmas; and a postcard with a picture of the French Market in N'Orleans on one side. He'd found that postcard just a couple of months ago, while rooting through a dumpster not far from the park. The French Market had been Zipper's favorite place, growing up. It was full of strange smells and weird foods and, best of all, tourists with junk food who dropped things.

He'd spent a lot of time there. In fact, that was where Zipper had met Iris. Zipper wondered if it was still as he remembered. Things changed over time, after all. When he'd first met them, the mammals who would become the Rescue Rangers struck him as variously scatterbrained, foolish, rude, and easily upset. But they were more than his friends at this point; they were his family. They were, Zipper realized, like his children.

It was a disquieting thought. The dynamics of his relationships with them had changed subtly over the years, as Zipper matured. They were still basically unchanged, all of them still young. But he was different. He'd spent more time among chordates of various kinds -- mostly mammals -- than among his own phylum. He'd also done a lot of good.

A commotion in the living room roused Zipper from his reverie. The fly wiped his smooth brow and flew out to see what had the kids so riled.

"All right," Chip began a few minutes later. "We've got to hurry. Herbie is in Lake Haha, firearms have been discharged, and he's been in the company of a mouse who looks like Gadget--"

"But wasn't me," Gadget said. She glanced around. "I'm just clarifying. Not me."

"Right," Chip continued. "Where was I? Herbie. Okay, let's take the Ranger Wing--"

"Um, Chip?" Gadget interrupted again. "How much sleep have you had in the past, oh, forty-eight hours?"

Chip looked at her quizzically. DaleandFoxglove sighed and rolled their eyes. "Huh?"

"How much sleep have you had in the past forty-eight hours?" Gadget repeated.

Chip scratched his head. "Well, it's noon now... eh, about six hours worth."

Gadget nodded decisively. "You need some more sleep." Gadget had known Chip for five years, and she knew that when he had to ask 'where was I?' he needed a few more hours of sleep. "Foxglove too," she added. "You stay here. We'll go scout it out."

"What? I--"

"I think she's right, mate." Monty surprised everyone; he usually remained silent during these weird little moments Chip and Gadget enjoyed subjecting themselves to. "You're peaked, and besides, if it comes to a knock-down, drag-out fight to the bloody death between me and that scummy treacherous bilging piece of--"

"I'll be on your side," Dale piped up. He elbowed Monty and winked conspiratorially. "I'll kick him in the shins. He stole a book from that family."

"I... fine, fine." Chip suspected he was beginning to grow irritable. "Go," he said as he sat back down on the sofa. Nice, soft sofa. "But be careful!"

To say that Dale was relieved was an understatement. In fact, it was the king of all understatements, a mighty and powerful understatement that parents could tell their children at night if they wanted them to grow up to become copy editors. Dale was mighty relieved.

In fact he was so relieved it didn't bother him that Herbie was back in the city. He remembered the rat clearly, and might have been more than a little nervous, but his joy at learning Foxglove was well and safe made anxiety an impossibility. As he sat in the Ranger Wing, speeding towards Lake Haha with his teammates, Dale reflected on the news.

Chip, Gadget, Monterey Jack, and Zipper, however, were all nervous. He could tell. "I'm nervous about this," Chip had said before he saw them off, and that was a clear sign. Foxglove wasn't upset, particularly, and that was for three reasons: Dale wasn't upset, she had never met Herbie, and most importantly of all, she was too happy with the knowledge of how much Dale had missed her. Also she was sleepy, but Chip was sleepy and that hadn't stopped him from worrying. She'd said she knew he would be fine.

So now they were going to go to Lake Haha and scout things out-- it was important not to underestimate the danger of the situation. That it had been some time, by Gadget's estimation, since Xia called them made it likely that things had changed, probably for the worse. It was even possible Xia hadn't called them again because Herbie had done something to her.

Alternatively, Dale had suggested, maybe Xia had simply given up on them after three calls with no results. He tried to look on the bright side. And, strange as it may seem, the idea that the Rescue Rangers had lost a customer and an opportunity to help someone in need was the bright side.

So here he was, back in his electric-blue overcoat, sitting next to Gadget with Monty and Zipper in the back, flying towards Lake Haha. He wasn't worried. If worst came to worst, he knew Chip would avenge his death.

"Ooooh, my... head and body," Wart mumbled as he finally woke up. "I was dreaming that I was a little girl living in Akron, Ohio, and someone stole my bicycle," he announced to no one in particular.

"We got them but good," Snout said. He and Mole were playing checkers with a tiny chess set they'd found in among Capone's things. Ironically, it was the first use the set had seen since Capone had found it in a trash can and carried it back to his hideout. Snout was winning, two games to nothing.

"What happened to me, Mister I'm So Great Because I Wasn't Knocked Out?" Wart asked. He was surrounded by bits of broken glass. "Did someone smash a bottle against my head?"

Mousenegger, tied up in the corner, said something rendered unintelligible by the gag in his mouth. Everyone ignored him.

"I don't know," Snout said, shrugging. He didn't really care. "Capone is locked in the back room."

"I did that!" Mole said, adding eagerly "can I have my candy bars now?" Everyone ignored him.

"All right then," Wart said as he rose to his feet and dusted fragments of glass off his lime-green coat. "I'll question him and then we can report back to Fat Cat." He started towards the door, but was distracted by the sight of the bound and gagged Arnold Mousenegger. "Ooh!"

Snout and Mole rolled their eyes as Wart went into his "all tied up" gloat.

The warehouses all looked alike from above, and very similar from outside at street level. Only one of them was the site of Lake Haha, and it was next to this warehouse that Gadget set down the Ranger Wing. The heavy clouds in the sky warned of the possibility of rain, but at the moment the Rangers were going to be indoors. The entrance to Lake Haha was precisely as remembered.

"Brace yourselves, mates," Monty said as they carefully stepped into the warehouse. "No telling what's going on in here." It looked quiet, at least. Very quiet, in fact: the place seemed deserted.

"Maybe Herbie's taken the whole village hostage," Monty said. "Or it's possible he's killed them all."

"I really don't think that's a likely scenario, Monterey." Gadget answered him as they moved towards the refrigerator crate which was the Dock Inn. Zipper and Dale nodded. "Hmm. Do you smell something?"

"He beat me in a fight, Gadget love: he's no ordinary rat." Monty stopped and stared. He pointed up at the side of the towering crate. "Is that what it looks like?!"

There were two holes in the crate, about halfway up. The wood was splintered badly around them, but they seemed to be fairly small.

"Someone's shot up the Dock Inn!" Dale yelped. He tried to come up with a decent pun -- 'dock' and 'inn' were both good words for puns -- but was under too much stress to be successful.

They broke into a run for the last few feet to the entrance.

"Oh, good! You're finally here!" Xia was incredibly relieved to see the Rangers. Granted, Herbie hadn't come down yet and physically threatened her. Granted, she wasn't completely certain he hadn't snuck out, possibly utilizing one of the holes she had noticed in the side of her building (well, her employer's building). Still it was frightening having him (probably) under her (boss's) roof.

Quickly she described to the Rangers what had happened, how the Hand Nemeniah had appeared, how Luwini had left but not Herbie or Nemeniah. Gadget was particularly interested in Luwini, and was careful to make certain that Herbie's wife was not an albino.

Monterey Jack insisted on being the first up the stairs to check out the upper floors. The other seven rooms were empty, so anyone still upstairs would have be one of those parties intimately connected to the matter at hand. Behind him, Dale, Gadget, and Zipper climbed the stairs as carefully as they could.

There was a strange smell upstairs. Monty recognized it as the same odor he had detected all too many times on past adventures, back before he'd joined the Rangers: the smell of blood mixed with the smell of gunpowder. He felt ill at the thought of what he might find.

Following the scents led him directly to their source: the small room at the far end of the third floor. He approached gingerly, making sure Gadget and the others were hanging back. On the floor outside the door two .22 caliber brass casings lay. Monty pointed them out to Gadget, then slowly he opened the door and peered into the dark room.

Herbie was lying neatly on the floor, sans one leg. The big rat was definitely unconscious, or possibly feigning it extremely well. His ribcage rose and fell steadily. The rest of the room was covered in blood. Congealed drops of it were all over the floor, which also featured several interesting-looking stains, and the bed. There was no one else in the room, so Monty stuck his head back out into the hallway and gestured for the others to come on in.

"Golly," was all Gadget could say. She dropped the spent ammunition and rushed to Herbie's side. His leg appeared to have been amputated just below the hip. Firm, neat stitches held his insides in. The material used was something like catgut, Gadget reflected. She then decided not to think too hard about that.

There was no other trace of Nemeniah. Gadget decided to believe that meant Nemeniah had escaped through a bullet hole.

"Oh, golly golly golly," Gadget muttered as she carefully checked Herbie over. He was clearly comatose: she simply couldn't wake him. "Of course," she said as she explained Herbie's situation to Monty, Zipper, and Dale, "I'm not so sure that we really want him to wake up." She gestured to the spent casings. "I think we should get him out of here and take him to a hospital."

"What about his leg?" Dale asked. "What happened to his leg?"

"Well, golly." Gadget bit her lip and wished Chip were here. He handled this sort of thing better than she. "I'm guessing he was shot in the leg with something like one of my sister's .22 rifles. It might have blown his leg off; it looks like he's been given emergency treatment. It's been cut off cleanly and the wound stitched up. And I think he's had a blood transfusion. I guess whoever took his leg off drugged him, too. It'll wear off eventually if that's true. But I don't really know..."

"Hospital?" Zipper considered. If Herbie woke up in a hospital, even missing a leg, it would be a simple matter for him to escape. "Tree!"

"I don't know, Zipper," Gadget answered. "I mean, golly..."

"I think Zip's right, Gadget love. No telling when Herbie'll come to, you said, and when he does we want to be there." Dale nodded his agreement with Monty.

"Can't we just keep him under guard in the hospital?" Gadget saw that she was the only Ranger present in favor of the hospital plan. It seemed a little cruel to keep Herbie from getting medical treatment, although by the looks of it he'd already gotten some... probably from Luwini (if it was Luwini) before she left. ... Luwini...

Gadget hadn't thought about the Luwini incident in years. At the time she had taken it as a matter of course: there wasn't much reason to suspect anything truly unusual in the fact that she and Luwini were almost identical. There were billions of mice in the world, after all, and as a Ranger she met an awful lot of people...

But it was odd. It was really odd, and she should have realized that before. Meeting a duplicate of yourself had to be an extremely unlikely occurrence. She'd never met anyone who looked just like Chip, or her father, or anyone else for that matter. The whole matter had been so incredibly distasteful, what with Luwini pretending to be Gadget and trying to kill her friends and manipulating those poor islanders and... flirting and... Gadget realized she had forgotten where she was, and coughed nervously. "I guess not," she said in answer to her own question. Most small talking animals were pretty tough, after all. None of the Rescue Rangers had even been injured badly enough to requite a hospital visit, and they were in a very dangerous line of work.

"All right, I'll tie the blighter up. That way if he comes to while we're transporting him he won't be able to overpower us," Monty said enthusiastically. "We can drag him down the stairs on his khyber." The big mouse pulled out the length of heavy twine he'd taken from the Ranger Wing and began securing Herbie's still-unconscious body. Then the Rangers, with Zipper coordinating, pulled at different bits of rope and began sliding Herbie out of the hotel.

Downstairs Xia was almost beside herself with anxiety. The Rescue Rangers were here, in her hotel (well, the hotel in which she worked), in a dangerous situation and she'd let them run off to die without getting their autographs first! If something happened to Gadget Hackwrench or Monterey Jack or Zipper or Dale that rendered one or all of them unable to sign their names in her little scrapbook she'd never forgive herself. And Chip and Foxglove hadn't even shown up! She'd really wanted to see the whole team in action, too. She wouldn't be able to get all the autographs today...

The slim iguana was pacing back and forth behind the front desk when the Rangers emerged from the staircase, grunting and red-faced, pulling along behind them the body of Herbie the rat.

"Ooh! You're all right! That's terrific! Now, before I forget, Gadget Hackwrench, Monterey Jack, Dale, and Zipper, can I have your autographs?" Xia ducked behind the counter and came back up with a large scrapbook in her hands, the Rescue Ranger symbol emblazoned on the cover with construction paper.

"Uh... sure." This was not something the Rangers had been asked to do ever before. Gadget smiled nervously, then took the scrapbook from Xia. She flipped through it: in addition to a variety of Staten City newspaper articles on the Rangers, Xia had acquired the few "Who Are They?" series of articles the New York Daily News had run on their cases, several years ago. There were also some glossy pictures she didn't recall posing for, group shots. She was always pictured holding one of her suction-cup crossbows. "Hmm. There you go," she said as she signed her name on a blank page near the back, across from an article on Ultra-Flight. Gadget passed the book to Dale, Zipper and Monty, and they quickly signed it as well.

"Wow," Xia was saying, "it really it such an honor to meet you and all it's just amazing." The iguana beamed at them in a way Gadget found a little unsettling. "Oh, oh! I forgot! You need to be paid, don't you? Have to be able to afford all those coveralls and suction cups and cheese and--" she dug through the cash register and pulled out a loose wad of Staten City bills. "Here, here," she said, thrusting the money at Gadget. "Please, take this, Gadget Hackwrench."

"Oh, we really don't..." Gadget gestured helplessly. "All we've done here is..."

"Oh, no, the management of the Dock Inn firmly insists that you take this! Please!" Xia was clearly excited at the prospect of giving the Rescue Rangers money. "And, and I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions. See, I'm kind of a fan and..."

"A fan, huh? No problem, girlie," Monty said, interrupting Gadget's protests and approaching the desk. "It's always a pleasure to give a little back, I always say. Reminds me of the time in '83 that I..."

"Hold on!" Xia dove back under the desk and emerged holding a pencil stub and paper a second later. "'Pleasure to give back,'" she said aloud as she wrote. "'1983...' Okay, you were saying?"

Gadget, smiling nervously as she retreated back to the foot of the stairs, where Dale and Zipper leaning against Herbie's body, waiting patiently. "I'm glad Monty distracted her from the money thing," Gadget muttered to them. "But it looks like we're going to be here a few minutes more."

Dale shrugged. "I guess it's no big deal, Gadget. Herbie here is really out of it. He's not going to be doing anything for a while, don't you think, Zipper? Zipper?"

"Huh?" Zipper had been thinking about the grandchildren he wasn't going to have. More and more in the past few weeks, Zipper had been toying with the notion of taking some vacation time and traveling back home to N'Orleans. The idea had taken root so firmly in his brain that if he was left to himself for just a few minutes he'd start drifting back to it. "I'm sorry?" he buzzed. Dale had asked him a question.

"I said, Herbie here is out of it, right?" Dale grinned in a manner calculated to appear disarmingly stupid.

"Oh, yeah. Right."

"...and that's why to this day, the natives of Canine Island treat me like I was a native son," Monty finished. "Now, what was I talking about?"

"'...native son.'" Xia finished transcribing Monty's two-fisted tale of action, intrigue, and romance, and looked up. "That's really great, Mr. Monterey."

"Call me Monty, girlie," the big mouse said genially.

Generally, Xia would take offense at being called "girlie," but she was too excited at the prospect of actually meeting Monterey Jack, Rescue Ranger, to say anything about it aside from "Xia, my name is Xia." She set the notebook down and, resting her chin on her hand, stared at them with quiet awe. "Wow, Monty," she said after a couple of seconds of silence. "Wow."

Monterey was starting to find her behavior a little creepy. "Uh, yeah, mate. It's been nice talking to yas..."

"Xia."

"Yeah, Xia, but we've really gotta be going, else the big rat tied up over there might come to and go on some kind of rampage..."

"Yeah!" Gadget, Dale, and Zipper chorused. "Bye now!" they added, in unison.

Xia was a morass of conflicting emotions as the Rangers fled the Dock Inn. On the one hand, she had actually met the Rescue Rangers, and gotten their autographs and a story from Monterey Jack and everything! On the other hand, Monty had said there was a lot of blood to clean up upstairs.

The iguana slammed her hand down on the table and cursed as she reviewed the scene in her mind. She had been too excited to remember to ask about whether everything Gadget Hackwrench cooked tasted like machine oil, or whether that was just a joke...

It was afternoon when Wart, Snout, and Mole tramped back into Fat Cat's Casino and Themed Entertainment Complex. Wart was irritable, Snout was very pleased with himself, and Mole was whining for his candy bars. The mission had been nominally successful, Fat Cat would be glad to hear.

Mepps was asleep and Prickles was having a drink at the bar. "I see you finished unjamming the doors," Wart said as the porcupine glanced his way. "Looks good as new." Wart was tired, and his natural, repressed, sycophantic instincts were surfacing. He always got like this whenever he was tired or frightened. "Is the boss in his office?"

Prickles nodded, but said nothing. He smirked at some private joke as Snout stepped behind the bar and returned his whapping-stick to its home, next to the peppermint schnapps. Wart took off his overcoat and started up the stairs. If nothing else, he thought, the trip would make a good story for Noah.

The door to Fat Cat's office was ajar. That was most likely a positive indicator and a sign of good things to come, since it signaled Wart's corpulent employer was not, as he sometimes chose, pacing about in the confines of his office, cursing the casino and the Rescue Rangers and Wart and the employees and the Purina corporation, his large frame causing echoing thumps to resound through the metal frame which contained the casino, despite the heavy wood of which said door was constructed eight years ago by a team of skilled and overpaid craftsmen. Nonetheless Wart knocked before he entered. Fat Cat was sitting at his desk, playing with his Powerbook. He was sitting in the chair which had a lever on it to make it go up and down. Wart often wished he had a chair like that. Fat Cat looked up as Wart came into view, and closed the laptop. "Come in, Wart," the big cat said. "I hope you have good news for me. You know how much I like good news. Much more than I like bad news."

Wart had heard this little speech before, often enough that he had mentally labeled it 'Mister Big Fat Cat Who Thinks He's So Special's Speech to Frighten Poor Little Wart (Number Two).' Speech number one involved Fat Cat scratching up his desk, which meant Wart had to get Mole to sand it down again afterwards. Fat Cat didn't use speech number one as often as speech number two or speech number three, which entailed throwing something small and heavy, but fragile, against a wall and watching it shatter into pieces.

"Oh, it's good news, boss!" Wart for once was pleased to report in. "The mission went off without a hitch! We really gave Mister Annoying Rat and his thugs a hard time! It was a wonderful plan you had!" Reporting to Fat Cat made him nervous.

"Yes, I know," Fat Cat said amiably. He was in a good mood. "Soon we shall exert full and total control over all of this city, Wart my boy. No goods will change hands, but that we take our share. From Staten City to the New Jersey turnpike, all rodents, cats, iguanas, newts, frogs, insecta, and other sundries shall pay homage to Fat Cat! This casino is just the beginning! For too long, I have set my sights too low; I have lowered the bar before I even attempted a leap! But now I see the sky is indeed the limit, and all the animal underworld shall soon answer to me!"

"Yessir," Wart said automatically. Fat Cat must have gotten riled up by something on the Internet. His manic benders rarely lasted more than a few hours.

"But I know, Wart, I know that even now in the back of your mind there is a voice, a quiet little protesting voice, a voice voicing an almost inaudible complaint, a voice saying 'but what about...?'" Fat Cat cocked his head to one side, as if listening. "Can you hear it? Or are you deaf?"

"Yessir," Wart said automatically.

"It is saying, 'What about the Rescue Rangers?'" Fat Cat let go of Wart, causing the iguana to fall to the floor and collapse. "It is pointing out all the times in the past that the Rescue Rangers -- Chirp, the stupid one, the smart one, the fly, and the one with the cheese name -- have proven themselves oh so capable of throwing wrenches and ointment into my sinister and deep schemes. Their zaniness, their wackiness, their cheeriness, their disgusting little hats -- it is all too much! That is what this little voice is saying, and it is speaking with increasing insistence! The decibels are rising, Wart!" He paused, meaningfully, and looked at the lizard.

"Um..." The iguana carefully rose to his feet. "You mean... you're going to... kill... them?" he guessed.

"CORRECT!" Fat Cat threw one arm around Wart and drew him close. "We shall destroy them for once and all times, we shall crush them to pieces, we shall make them eat their own clothing!" The big cat shook his fist in the air. "This time there will be no survivors! There will be no complex scheme for them to throw a monkey wrench into! We shall simply go and kill them!"

"That's a great idea, boss," Wart said weakly. "But..."

"BUT, the voice is saying now, we don't know where those disgusting little vermin hang their heads! Surely it must be somewhere, we all agree, but the most astute among us," Fat Cat paused for breath. Wart reflected again how much he liked that phrase, 'most astute among us.' "We know that it is no invisible flying castle! We know it is an actual place! And so we turn at long last to that entity which can and will assist us in this bit of puzzlement! I speak, of course, of that great and monstrous fellow whose assistance was ruined in the past by forces beyond our control: Sewer Al!"

Wart winced. He'd already been to see Sewer Al twice this week. Frankly, it wasn't something he wanted to make a habit of. "I've already been to see Sewer Al twice this week," he complained. "It isn't something I want to make a habit out of it."

Fat Cat glared at him, irritated. Best to nip this in the bud. "Do you make the decisions? No."

"Could I sit in the chair?" Wart asked. He'd always wanted to sit in the chair. Realizing it wasn't the best time to make the request, he added "Please?"

Fat Cat bared his claws at Wart, and insisted he make the excursion. Wart had been acting up lately, Fat Cat thought. Best to fix that soon.

Chip was feeling considerably more alert after two hours of sleep. In fact he was feeling awake enough to wonder what on earth he had been thinking. Sending Gadget and the others out without him to check up on Herbie? Was he insane?

The chipmunk was pacing back and forth in the living room, drinking a second cup of coffee, when Foxglove and the other Rangers arrived from opposite directions. The landing Ranger Wing must have made enough noise to wake her, Chip thought absently as he set down his thimble and hurried to question his teammates.

"Herbie's outside in the Wing," Gadget said as soon as she saw him. "Zipper's keeping an eye on him." Quickly she filled Chip in on how they had found the crippled rat.

"Hmm." Chip sat down at the table at thought. "I've been thinking about the events last night at the casino," he said. "I think we should investigate it. And probably the place to start is Rat Capone's hideout."

"Well, mates," Monterey Jack said as Dale ran past him, eager to describe his experiences to an appreciative Foxglove, "someone's going to have to stay back here and keep an eye on ol' Herbie. And I think that ought to be me." The big mouse cracked his knuckles.

Chip answered him slowly. "No, Monty... I have a few questions for Herbie. I think that Dale and I should stay here; the rat will probably wake up pretty soon. If he doesn't--"

"If he doesn't," Gadget said firmly, "we're taking him to the hospital. Even if it is risky. I don't care how dangerous Herbie is."

"All right, all right." Chip made a surrendering gesture. "Do we know where Capone is these days?" he asked Gadget as Monty and Dale went back outside to fetch Herbie.

"Ooh! Ooh! I know!" Over on the other side of the room, Foxglove raised a wingtip. She looked pleased and excited at an opportunity to be helpful.

Chip and Gadget turned and looked at her expectantly, but she didn't say anything else.

"Yes, Foxglove?" Chip finally asked.

"He's down in the storm sewers near the industrial park," Foxy announced, lowering her wing. She glanced around, making sure Zipper was outside. "I ate a couple of gnats night before last that were buzzing around a gas station, and I heard them talking about it. Well," she added, clarifying, "They started out talking about it. Then they pleaded for mercy and one of them threatened to sting me." She shrugged gracefully. "Gnats don't have stingers, but I think he was hoping I didn't know that." Gadget smiled and nodded placidly. "Great, we should be able to find them, no problem." Chip twitched slightly, but she ignored it. "Are you sure you think it's a good idea for us to go without you guys?" she asked him. "Capone has those two heavies working for him, after all, and I know that he's not as intractable an opponent as Fat Cat who is our archnemesis but still it's kind of a dangerous situation to be in although on the other hand it would be a really bad idea to leave Herbie alone here so maybe we should drop him off at a hospital and --" Gadget paused for breath and, realizing she had nothing more to add, remained silent.

Chip was about to reiterate the negative aspects of a hospital visit for Herbie when he saw Dale and Monty pushing the rat through the front door. The big rat's body slid smoothly down the domino steps. The chipmunk started when he saw that Herbie really did have only one leg. "Well," he said.

"Stick him in the spare room at the end of the hall?" Dale asked him.

"Yeah, I guess." The Rescue Rangers didn't normally have prisoners -- they turned criminals, on those occasions on which they happened to have some, over to the Staten City police. Technically the Rangers rented part of the Staten City prison, since the crimes committed were outside the police jurisdiction. It wasn't a perfect system, but... Chip sighed. "The spare room would be the best place for him."

Under the Lions, all was dark, save for a large vaulted room in which but one corner was illuminated with yellowish, low-wattage light.

"Good heavens." The sound of a radio being switched off.

"What is it?"

"Herbert is alive."

"You're kidding me... what about Gary?"

"Gary I don't know about. I'm afraid he is gone, after all." A sorrowful sigh. "Herbert's wife as well."

"Just as good, that one... poor Gary. What shall we do, then?"

"I don't know... how can we fix this?"

"Send Seth, maybe? Where is Herbert?"

"The Rescue Rangers have him. Something's the matter with him, but I think I know how to fix it. There's an easy thing to try, if the problem is what I think it is."

"I believe we could make this work to our advantage..."

"I as well have had thoughts in that direction."

Hushed planning, and a decision reached.

Foxglove stepped outside while the others shoved Herbie down the hallway. She inhaled deeply, enjoying the fresh (though very cold) air. A yard away, Zipper was sitting on the Ranger Wing, thinking about... she cocked her head and listened intently. Although she was very good at interpreting the noises people made when they were thinking, especially when those people were insects, Foxglove was having difficulty deciphering the sounds coming from Zipper. Something abstract, she decided, like mathematics or justice or political satire.

"Hiya, Zipper!" Foxy said as she approached him. "Whatcha doing?" She beamed in as friendly a manner as she possibly could [27].

"Oh, good!" Zipper surprised her. He sounded far more pleased to see her than she expected. It was gratifying, of course, but unusual. "Wait here!" he buzzed, and flew into the Tree.

Foxglove politely sat down and waited. She looked at the sun: this late in the year it would be setting soon, and then she'd need to go find some more foolish bugs. She was probably going to miss 'Mystery Science Theater 3000' tonight.

Zipper returned a short time later. The fly was carrying several small pieces of cardstock, on which he'd written various things. Zipper held up a card which read 'I've been wanting to talk to you for a while now -- and to speed the process up I've made up these cards.'

"Oh, okay. So you've written down what you want to say on them?" Foxglove wondered how interactive the experience could be.

Zipper hunted through his cards for a moment, and removed one which read 'Actually, I've written down a number of possible responses. This should make it easier to carry on a conversation.' "Oh, okay." Foxglove nodded. Struck with a though, she smirked suddenly. "So tell me, Zipper," she began casually, "What's your favorite television program?" A triumphant look was in her eyes.

Zipper dug through the deck for a moment, then removed a card which read 'I'm a real fan of "Diagnosis: Murder." Now, as I was saying...'

"Wow." Foxglove was impressed. She wondered if Zipper was unusually smart for a member of a food group, then decided he must be. Otherwise bugs wouldn't be so easily caught.

'You know, of course, that the lifespan of a typical fly, such as myself, is thirteen to fifteen years,' Zipper began [28].

"Yes?" It was part of Foxglove's job, as a bat, to know things like that.

'I met Monterey Jack when I was three,' Zipper continued, 'and two years later we joined the Rescue Rangers...'

"Uh-huh?" Foxglove didn't really see where this was going.

'And the Rangers have been together for five years now...'

"So you're..." Foxglove counted on her "fingers." She'd learned addition fairly recently, from Sesame Street. Bats raised in the wilderness, like herself, rarely had the educational opportunities possessed by her more urban brethren. "...eight, nine... ten. Ten years old. Ten glorious years, ah-ha ha ha." Foxglove found the method taught on the show more than a little creepy, but chalked that up to her own lack of knowledge. Her friend Gadget added things up all he time, and she wasn't weird and scary. Bubbly, yes, but not scary. Therefore the bat stoutly pressed on, working on the laugh several times a week: nothing worthwhile came without effort.

'Yes. In "fly years," that makes me just over fifty. More and more I've been contemplating retirement.'

"Retirement?!" Foxglove was shocked, both that Zipper was considering this and that she was apparently the first he'd confided in. "Does anyone else know?"

'No,' Zipper replied. 'I haven't told the others yet, because... well, they need me. The Rescue Rangers need someone who can fly. Someone who is stealthy. Someone for scouting and reconnaissance. Someone like me, or, more to the point, someone like you.'

"What... what are you saying?" Foxglove peered at the solemn fly.

'I need to know that you're going to stay with the Rescue Rangers. It's a vocation and a lifelong career -- believe me, I know.' Zipper shuffled through his cards while Foxglove thought this over.

"But, of course I'm not going to go anywhere! The Rangers are my friends! And Dale --"

'What if it doesn't work out between you and Dale?' Zipper waved the card in her face, interrupting her. 'Stranger things have happened. What if one or the other of you wants children -- biological children?'

Foxglove was having trouble grasping the idea of a universe in which FoxgloveandDale "didn't work out." "That could never happen," she said. "I mean... no, it couldn't."

'All right. But what if it did?' Zipper pressed on. 'What if something that you don't know about came between the two of you? What would happen then?'

"Well... I..." Foxglove sighed. "I don't know." She was close to tears.

'Promise me that if something like that ever happens you'll find someone to be your replacement. Not for Dale, for the team. They need someone to do our job.' Zipper set his card down, flew over, and hugged her. It was the first time she'd ever been hugged by an insect, and more comforting than she expected.

'I'm not saying this because I think that something is going to happen between you and Dale,' Zipper's precise copperplate handwriting assured her. 'In fact I think it's an unlikely scenario. But it might happen. I need to know that someone is going to be looking out for all these rodents when I'm gone.'

"So you've made up your mind then?" Foxglove asked. "To retire?"

Zipper flipped through his deck. 'No, no I haven't. But even if I stay here, I won't be around forever.'

"Well, I promise that I'll always do my best for the Rescue Rangers," Foxglove said somberly. "And if that means dragging my clinically-depressed self out of bed and searching through New York for a bat or insect or little sparrow or something and tearfully recruiting them into joining the most elite team of freelance police in the city, I will. Even if... even if they decide they don't like me and tell me to go away and never come back!" Tears welled up in her big eyes.

'I don't mean to imply that I think it's ever going to happen,' Zipper had in advance written apologetically. 'But I need to know that--'

Foxglove was distracted from her reading by Gadget and Monty emerging from the Tree. "Okay, the big drugged rat with the one leg is secure, mates," Monty said to her and Zipper, who had hurriedly thrown his cards down towards the ground beneath the Tree. "It's time to go -- what's the matter, Foxglove?"

The bat, sniffing back tears, stepped close to Gadget and Monterey Jack and hugged them tightly. "Oh, nothing," she nearly sobbed. "I was just thinking about how much I loved you guys and..." She broke off as the mice moved to comfort her. Gadget shot Zipper a questioning and slightly irritated look. The fly shrugged helplessly.

"I'm, I'm okay," the bat said a moment later. "I'm sorry, I was just..." She bit her lip and trailed off again. "I'm sorry."

"Oh, now, don't apologize," Gadget said. "It's all right, really. I know how important it is to you," she continued, not bothering to give her pronoun a referent. "But you're an important part of the team and we all care about you."

"Yes," Monty said. He wasn't very good at counseling, but knew a good time to chime in when he heard it.

"Are you okay?" Gadget asked her.

"I'm okay," Foxglove said, then repeated it with more certainty.

"All right then, let's go, okay?"

"Okay."

Gadget gave Zipper another hard look as they loaded up in the Ranger Wing. She didn't know what the fly had said, but he'd definitely said something.

Herb woke up upside down. He was tied up, upside down. He swung gently back and forth. His leg hurt. Ooh. His leg really hurt. Experimentally he struggled, trying to snap the rope with which he had been bound. No good. He was in trouble. He also had a killer headache and felt like he was a bit drunk--his attention kept sliding off things as he tried to assess his situation. He felt a little better than he had when last he'd been conscious, at least. That was something.

His sunglasses weren't on his head, so the big rat could see the room in which he was a prisoner clearly, lit by the amber glow of his eyes. It looked like it was hollowed out of a tree, lit by an orangy, sunset-kind of sunlight through a knothole. Well, either that or the owner was very fond of wood-grain and paneling. He remembered that the tinker's wagon had had some paneling in it. Concentrate on the now, Herb reminded himself. The big rat swore. He knew exactly where he was. Obviously they'd come while he was unconscious. He'd punish them for that.

Fearless leader suddenly opened a door Herb hadn't noticed and stepped into the room. He looked both smug and nervous. Herb wasn't surprised.

"Hello, Herbie," fearless leader said to him. "How are you doing? There's a lot of puns I could be using right now, so count your blessings."

"You! You..." Herb struggled ineffectually. How dare he do this, this stupid little stupid chipmunk! "You were the one with the ugly little tank! I'll kill you! Just... just give me a second to get down from here!"

"Yes, I expected you'd say that." Chip closed the door behind him.

"You -- ooh! So now you question me, huh? Look, I've been badly hurt, right?" Herb gave up struggling and relaxed. The twine held him snugly, which was a disappointment He'd hoped he would slide out of it.

"Oh yes." Fearless leader nodded solemnly.

"And your response to finding my broken little body is to spirit me off to your headquarters, string me up with all the blood rushing to my head --" Herb suddenly lost his train of thought and stopped snarling. Something about blood.

"Well, it's not as gruesome as all that," Chip said more than a little defensively. "Someone cleaned you and stitched you up before we arrived. And gave you a blood transfusion, apparently."

"Luwini, I suppose, before she left." Abandoning him, the frigid... he'd deal with her, too. There it was again -- a little voice in the back of his head, saying something very insistent but he couldn't quite make out what it was. "Leg hurts. I can handle it. I'm going to kill you, Chip."

"So it was Luwini. I wasn't sure." The chipmunk seemed disconcerted. Good. This situation seemed more than a little familiar to Herb, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was reminding him of. Of course, here was so much bouncing around in his memories, it shouldn't be surprising that everything was starting to remind him of something else...

"What do you want, huh? Information?" Stupid little dumb little chipmunk can't think on his bloody own and...

"Information," fearless leader agreed placidly.

"You won't get it." Herb was filled with self-righteous anger. He'd never break.

"Oh, by hook or by crook, I will."

Herb sniggered [29]. "What are you going to do to me, if I don't cooperate?"

The chipmunk sighed and pulled from out his jacket a strangely- shaped piece of metal. With a flip of the wrist, the mechanism telescoped, becoming a rod nearly six inches long. Wincing as he did so, Chip prodded Herb with the tool.

"Aie! What are you doing?! That's... AIE!" Herb's leg went from a dull throbbing pain to an incredibly sharp, stabbing pain. He writhed helplessly. It was not unlike the time Arthur had left current running to a motor, and Herb had nearly been electrocuted. Arthur said Herb had hooked the machine up and forgotten about it, of course, but Herb knew the truth, oh yes...

"I jabbed you where your leg used to be." His interrogator spoke in even tones, but Herb could see he was flustered. "Sorry about that, by the way."

For a moment, Herb thought Arthur had said the words. He was having trouble keeping track of what was real and what was memory. "What do... What do you mean, 'used to be?'" Though Chip had removed his weird little pain stick, his leg still felt incredibly painful.

"See, you're, eh, a rat. You're a big rat, but still a, eh, rat. And you were, eh, shot in the right leg. There's not, eh, not much leg left... I poked the, eh, stump. Hurts, doesn't it? Looks, eh, looks pretty bad. It was cleaned up fairly well, but still..." Chip wiped his brow as he tossed the rod aside, a sick look on his face. "I'm sorry that, eh, based on what I know about you, I was forced to conclude the, eh, best way to start off would be demonstrating that I, eh, mean business." He swallowed. It was clear to Herb that desperation had driven fearless leader off familiar ground. If he could exploit that...

"Yeah. Hence the upside-down and the rope and, I suppose... Yeah, it does hurt. I'm going to kill you. I told you that already, but it bears repeating. Say, isn't this, I don't know, against your code of ethics? Torturing defenseless small animals?" If Herb could keep the upper hand in the conversation he could wear fearless leader out in short order. He was only a chipmunk, after all. Arrogant little twerp.

"Everything in moderation, Herbie. Everything in moderation." The chipmunk didn't sound like he particularly believed it.

"Aristotle." Pages from the Nichomachean Ethics swam past Herb's eyes. "'Some vices miss what is right because they are deficient, others because they are excessive, in feelings or in actions, while virtue finds and chooses the mean.' [30]"

"Words to live by. Actually I thinking of Gadget... but yes, Aristotle."

"Oh, that's all right," Herb said as he removed his attention from the Crito and the Apologia. At least, he tried to: the texts stuck to his mind like blood to fur. "You think about her a lot," he was able to add after a pause. Herb steeled himself for another jab, but none came. Good. Fearless leader was at least consistent. All in all it wasn't going so badly, which surprised him a bit. The incident at the Ratisson was supposed to be pretty unpleasant. Maybe he didn't scare as easily as a restarauntful of waiters. He was going to kill that chipmunk. Keep him talking, Herb. "I'll bet you didn't know I read Aristotle."

"I am a little surprised at that. Most sociopathic criminal rats haven't." Hmm. Fearless leader was so eager to get the subject off the creepy female that he was willing to discuss Aristotle with a one- legged, glowing-eyed giant rat. That had to count for something. 'Freud deduced that if a symptom is not a physiological origin and the patient is consciously trying to stop it but cannot, then opposing the conscious will must be an unconscious counter-will of equal or greater magnitude,' Herb suddenly recalled. What? Where had that come from? It was from Westen, wasn't it? Yes... Westen's "Psychology: Mind, Brain, and Culture" had been next to the millionaire's set of philosophy texts which had included the Ethics and the Platonic Dialogues.

"I read a library, once." He hated thinking about it now; it set off far too many associations and lines of thought in his head. Too late, though. Herb's eyes unfocused as a bubble of Roman history came up from the depths and popped, leaving his mind wet with the Punic Wars. Too late now... "We all did."

"First question: Luwini. How did you meet her? How did the two of you... hook up?"

Herb was lost in the memory. "I remember the night we all read those Philosophy books, from college I expect. God, that was a lucky break. But those books were the start of the big argument. It wasn't so much Plato and Aristotle as Locke and Hobbes, though. The old man actually bought into all of it, you know. All of it. Rights of Man, equality, freedom, and all that. He never gave up on it, either. Even when the loyal opposition, his lifelong chum, pulled up stakes and abandoned him. But that was later."

"Luwini."

"That night was when it started, the beginning of the end. And that was before the tinker, before the rosebush, before everything. God, was there ever an argument that night. I think the goody-goody threw a book at the loyal opposition at one point. [31]"

"Luwini. Herbie, has anyone ever told you just how frustrating you are?" Chip was tempted to prod him with the rod again, but didn't. Part of him wished Widget was here, to do some dirty work for him.

"I hated him. Goody-goody, I mean, not the loyal opposition. Always coming over all holier-than-thou... That's why I left, when the old man was "retired" and the goody-goody took over. I couldn't stand him. It wasn't because of Arthur. That could have been smoothed over."

"I mean, eh, completely aside from your refusal to use proper nouns..." Chip trailed off as Herb shook his head, blinked his yellow- orange eyes twice (hadn't they been more yellow a few minutes ago?), and came back to the conversation. "What is wrong with you?"

"What? I... I was like you, once. But..." Herb tried desperately to regain control of the situation. All the blood had rushed to his head, and his leg -- his stump -- was causing him a lot of pain. He could think past that, but there was something else... Isaac Asimov's Three Laws of Robotics and a short biography of Enrico Fermi fought a transcript of the old man and the loyal opposition debating the future of the firm. There was too much information in his mind. For the umpteenth time he cursed the place that had done it to him. Herb concentrated, and threw on his 'Herbie the nice businessman' facade. "What was the question?"

"Luwini!"

"My wife, yes. I met Luwini in San Francisco about a year ago. She was... impressive. I thought she was like me." A comparative biology of rats and mice... where had that been? The New York Public Library, probably.

"And?"

"And she isn't, not really. Look, could you cut me down from this, or at least turn me rightside up? It's very distracting."

"Maybe in a minute, Herbie." Chip sounded irritable. That didn't mean much, though, Herb reflected. Fearless leader always sounded irritable. "I notice you haven't yet referred to her with an annoying nickname. Why?"

He was going to kill him. "Gods, you are a sharp cracker, aren't you? 'Sharper than a page of Oscar Wilde witticisms that had been rolled into a sharp point, sprinkled with lemon juice, and poked into someone's eye,' [32] Luwini would say." 'Would you like any toast?' Discworld. Doctor Who. Douglas Adams. Shut up shut up shut up!

"Luwini said that?" Chip asked doubtfully. He might have said more, too, but that was all Herb heard over the thousand shouting voices.

"No, Doug Naylor said that. That's my point." Point pin pinball pinball tilt smile smile frown scowl anger hatred fear Sewer Al old man those bastards at NIMH syringes locks keys ducts mice mice mice Luwini? Argh! He couldn't concentrate with all this noise!

"I'm not following you."

"Typical." Herb shook his head again, trying to clear his thoughts. Apart from the memories in his ear, just being upside down was interfering with his attempted amiability. "No, I don't refer to her with a nickname. You know, I've lost a lot of blood, and being hung by my one remaining ankle isn't helping." Herb sounded out each word in his head, concentrating completely on it and it alone, before moving on to the next one. "You're one of the good guys; you're supposed to be getting me to a hospital. Now, do you really want to psychoanalyze me or don't you want more relevant information?"

"Shut up," said Chip evenly. "Now don't make the mistake of getting too sharp with me, Herbie." The chipmunk stepped in close to Herb, squatted down and breathed into his face. "Right now I don't care about you or your personal health. All I care about is what you can tell me. If you talk enough, I might let you have some medical attention. Maybe." Oh, sure. You're cool and nasty, Chip. I'll believe that. Sure. How long did it take me last time? Five seconds? Ten? I'm going to kill you, you smug little git. Smug as Arthur. "When did you marry her? You've called her your wife. That motor took us fifty-three rat-hours to rebuild, Herbert, and now it's a piece of trash. How did that happen?" No, fearless leader hadn't said that; Arthur had said that, twelve years ago. Just before he broke his legs. Mind on the present, Herb, mind on the present. Talking about marrying Luwini.

This was a nice, harmless topic. And it would back fearless leader away from his little I'm-scary-and-mean act. "I didn't actually marry her. I'm not that crazy. Besides, do you have any idea how difficult it is for two mice to wed in any kind of official capacity on the West Coast? On the east coast there's Staten City's civil office and a few churches, but in California unless you can find a village priest in a warehouse village or a field or a lot village somewhere... There are a lot more of those then there were when I was younger, you know; they've really built up in the past, oh, thirty years or so... But that's beside the point." The rat realized he was babbling. "After I'd known her a couple months she started calling me her husband, and encouraged me calling her 'wife.' Never let me touch her, though. It got to be very frustrating. Little thing of hers. Idiosyncrasy. I can handle it. I can handle it fine. Gods, she's like a statue, smooth as marble and soft and I can't touch her... but I'm fine. Oh yes." Touch soft smooth sweet cool cold icy warm... he shook his head again, banished the line of thought back down into the depths. If this kept up he was in trouble.

Chip's face, appearing to Herb as upside-down and gently swaying back and forth, registered what the now one-legged rat assumed was confusion. "That's... bizarre."

"Oh yes, she's a bizarre girl. Marriage never really appealed to me, but it meant a lot to her. But..." Herb paused briefly, considering the best and most distracting way to phrase it. "But I suppose yours is pretty odd herself."

Herb saw Chip's mouth tighten as he started grinding his teeth together. Then fearless leader opened his mouth. He shut it again and closed his eyes before replying. Perhaps he had gone too far. Nah. "Don't, eh, talk that way about her, or I'll jab you again." Jab you again, jab you again, stab you again... wasn't there a line from a song like that?

"Aw, c'mon." Herb believed fearless leader wouldn't actually hurt him, despite the threat. Therefore the best way to keep him too distracted to ask the wrong questions was to provoke him. Yes, it was a good idea to provoke the hostility of the chipmunk in the bomber jacket... "I'll tell you what: you tell me about your creepy girlfriend, and I'll tell you about her evil twin. It makes sense, right?" Something along the lines of 'just when you think love is going to finally leave you alone it stabs you again.' Or maybe 'stabs your heart again.' Stabs your heart a gin? Stands up your harridan? Steps on your cardigan?

"Her evil twin is in the mid-Atlantic right now... Look, you're not in any kind of position to dictate terms!" The chipmunk in the bomber jacket scowled, and paced back and forth. Herb smiled as the chipmunk wrestled with himself. Right now, the rat estimated, fearless leader was hearing two conflicting voices: one wanted privacy, and the other wanted information. The wimp. He was going to kill him, oh yes. Who was is that had worn a cardigan... the goody-goody's friend, wasn't it?

"Where is she, by the way?" A little more pushing would do it. "Does she know you're doing this?" He had so many friends. Everyone had liked the goody-goody.

Something in the chipmunk snapped. Herb was suddenly belted across the face with the rod. The rat cursed himself for forgetting what it was that set the chipmunk off. He'd heard, after all, about the Ratisson. 'Where the Hulk is tireless, Bob Banner is exhausted! Where the Hulk shuns human companionship, Bob Banner needs the help of the one teen-ager who shares his awesome secret!' Where had that come from? [33] Concentrate, concentrate. Herb swung crazily, a wounded piñata with glowing eyes. Get the subject off her and on something else.

"I ask and you answer." Fearless leader was almost spitting at him. "You ask and I hurt you. Understand?"

Herb cut his losses. "Gotcha." Go ahead and have your fun. It doesn't matter in the long run; I'm going to kill you just as dead either way, fearless leader.

"Why are you here?"

"I'm here to annoy you." Seeing Chip was winding up for another strike, the rat quickly clarified. Fearless leader was starting to worry him. Normally he'd be nothing, a piece of dust, a little fleck of spittle, but right now Herb was feeling far, far from at his best... In fact he felt like a sack of garbage. What had he been talking about? "You and the boss, that's Fat Cat, and the principal... Sewer Al. All of you. We were low on cash and decided to come here and kill two birds with one stone. And Luwini..." Herb paused. "Luwini wants to hurt your friend." Friend pain betray Arthur git get take hand Hand Al Sewer Al eyes eyes and teeth and salary money payment cash dollar Staten City dollar Staten City childhood capture experimentation...

The day was, basically, like any other day. Trucks, barges, and the occasional large man carrying crates over his shoulder moved cargo through the warehouse district. Below them, rats, mice, and sundry lived, in a loose network of small communities. These villages had been gradually built up over the centuries, some fading, some growing large enough to attract the attention of the cats ever-present in the area. Lake Haha was only the latest and most successful iteration of an archetype that had been in the city for more than three hundred years, and it was not alone.

The crate was stamped 'Zeppelin' on one side, which implied it was an early addition to the rubble at the back of the old building. In the front of the building, laborers moved goods on and off trucks. None of them ever came to the back. It was too dangerous, for one thing: the warehouse should have been condemned years ago. No, the only visitors to the crate and its environs were rats, cockroaches, and those who found it worthwhile to hire rats and cockroaches. Fat Cat's bouncer, Snout, had lived here once, before moving on to better things. He had been one of the lucky ones.

Luwini knocked lightly on the side of the crate, next to the empty doorframe that marked its entrance. Despite the plaster dust, rotting timbers, and general garbage she must have walked through to reach the crate, the mouse was immaculate.

"It never ceases to amaze me that criminals blame the people who catch them, and not themselves for committing the crimes in the first place. Luwini deserved what she got." Chip was starting to have second thoughts about the entire idea. Herbie seemed impossible to question normally; he was continually shifting into tangents, apparently without realizing it.

"Oh, I'm sure she did," Herbie said insincerely. There was no denying it, now: his eyes were definitely shifting, slowly, away from yellowish-amber into a deepening shade of orange. Chip tried not to look at his eyes. "I don't think Luwini's blamed herself for anything bad that's ever happened to or around her. Tell me now, fearless leader: is the same true of Gadget?"

Chip almost opened his mouth and answered him. Instead the chipmunk closed his eyes and started rubbing his temples with one hand. "Do you know where Luwini is? What did she tell you before she abandoned you?"

"Oh, abandoned me, huh?" Herbie sounded a bit miffed. "I don't know where she is. She said I was too big to carry, and she left, taking the Recoilless with her. It's a nice bit of technology, the Darned Nearly Recoilless Rifle is. I wonder where Nemeniah got one. Actually I wonder where Sewer Al got one -- I'm sure Sewer Al entrusted it to Gary for Gary to use to kill us." Herbie was sounding more and more lightheaded as the interview went on. Perhaps he should be turned rightside-up. That Nemeniah worked for Sewer Al was news.

"So this unknown attacker, the mouse Nemeniah --"

"How do you know his name?" Herbie interrupted. "Used to be Gary. Sewer Al changed it. Weird thing, Sewer Al... Information misinformation disinformation lies statistics Mark Twain slavery Civil War agrarian economy George Washington and hemp!"

"What?!" Chip looked carefully into Herbie's eyes. They were definitely glowing orange now, a ruddy and nearly reddish color quite distinct from the yellow Chip remembered from just a few minutes ago. The rat seemed totally unaware that he had just spouted a string of gibberish.

"I said, 'how do you know his name?'" Herbie snarled at him. His temper certainly wasn't improving.

"Never mind that. What happened to him?" Still looking into Herbie's eyes, Chip saw that they were rapidly shifting focus, as if... as if something were happening which he had no idea what it was.

"I have no idea," answered Herbie. "I was out for a few minutes. I expect Luwini scared him off, though. That or killed him," he added thoughtfully. "But then there'd be a body. Now... how would I destroy a body in a hotel room... burn it, maybe, if I happened to have a furnace handy. There are a dozen ways if you have access to heavy equipment. I don't have any heavy equipment... haven't for years, not since the rosebush, before I left the old firm... I miss them, now. Didn't think I ever would, back when I left. Take Arthur, for instance..." His eyes were still changing, Chip saw, becoming a very bloody red.

According to Gadget, the Rangers had searched the entire hotel fairly carefully and had found nothing unusual, excepting the two holes in the wall of Herbie's room, the matching empty cartridges in the hallway, and all that blood. He let the rat ramble on for a few seconds, marveling at the free association, before cutting him off. Time to try a different tack. "Sewer Al," he tried. Herbie sounded like he knew something about that most dangerous of entities. "Tell me about Sewer Al."

"I'll tell you what, Arthur," Herbie told him sincerely. "This is a really uncomfortable position, as I'm sure you determined from your numerical analysis. Cut me down, and I promise I'll tell you plenty about the loyal opposition. I know you never really liked him, oh my brother and only friend, but..."

Chip considered for a few moments, then untied the twine holding Herbie up. The rat landed with a thump on his back, still tied up, and still talking.

"...but you at least respected him, didn't you, Arthur?" Herbie continued. "Oh, that's so much better. Thank you. I think that lying down is very much underrated as a pastime--"

"Sewer Al," Chip reminded him.

"Oh, right. After the old man decided on the Plan the loyal opposition gave up completely and left, right?"

"Right," Chip agreed.

"My theory is he came back to Staten City and began masquerading as a god. It's really not that complicated -- you could do it, too, or I could have, if I'd thought of it, which I didn't, but that's neither here nor there, is it... uh..." Herbie trailed off, flailing.

"Arthur," supplied Chip.

"Right. Of course, I only had that idea a couple of minutes ago, though, and just between you and me I'd say my hard drive is badly in need of defragmentation. It's the blood, you know... I think I'll be better soon. Maybe a week. Just because of the blood." The rat turned his head and gave 'Arthur' a meaningful look with his red, red eyes.

"Yes, of course, the blood." Chip nodded solemnly. "Now, about Sewer Al..."

"Yeah, I worked for him for about half a year. Paid well. Paid very well. I would have kept on there, maybe, if it hadn't been time to go back to Luwini," Herbie continued.

"What did you do for Sewer Al, Herbie?"

"'Herbie?' It was always Herbert, back then, wasn't it? Gods, but I've been so lonely. I should never have left. I see that now. I'm so happy you've come to take me back. I'm so sorry about your legs." The rat's unfocused eyes were filling with tears.

Chip was starting to feel like a heel. He pressed on nonetheless. "What did you do for Sewer Al?"

"I'm sorry, Arthur: I was distracted for a minute there. I worked for Fat Cat, for Sewer Al. I was Sewer Al's rat on the inside, his informer. It's not hydrodynamics, I know, but it paid my bills." Herbie was starting to sound drowsy, and his red, red eyes were beginning to dim.

"And that ended when you went to Luwini?"

"Well, she was in Paris--where is she, by the way? Have you been introduced? You'd like her." The rat seemed to think it over. "Well, maybe not. Everything you've ever loved has run off alternating current, eh?" He chuckled weakly. "I'm very tired, Arthur."

Chip wished he had thought to bring in his notebook. All this bore Investigation. "There's just one more question, Herbert. Then I'm going to let you rest, okay? Did Sewer Al send you to betray the Rescue Rangers to Fat Cat?"

"Oh, why do you care about that? Just a bunch of stupid animals fighting one another... No. I stopped working for the principal just before then. I wanted to get out of Staten with a bang, and I had a few days to kill. And they electrocuted me, once, quite a ways back. See, they raided the casino with this sort of tank-thing... I got a nasty shock. You remember how much I hate that."

"That was you?" Chip asked with surprise. "Eh, I, eh, I'll see you in the morning, Herbert." "Oh, yeah, good-night Arthur. It was nice to see you again." Herbie closed his eyes and drifted quickly off to sleep as Chip left the spare room, locking the door behind him.

Dale was in the hallway outside. "What do you think, Chip?" he asked.

Chip sighed. "I think that Herbie is not currently a threat, and Gadget was probably right. There's something very wrong with him. Oh, and it was Luwini he was with, you were right."

"Huh. I guess we can take him somewhere in the morning." Dale scratched his head. "He's still, you know, tied up and stuff, right?"

"Yeah. I cut him down, so he's not hanging any more. He's comfortable enough... Dale, have you ever heard of a rat named Arthur, does something with computer modeling?"

Dale shook his head in surprise. "Nuh-huh. You could ask Trackball... did Herbie mention him?"

"Yes. I got the impression they were brothers, or roommates, or something, a while back." Chip sighed. The conversation had taken a lot out of him. "I think I'm going to go lie down in front of the television now."

"Hey, yeah!" Dale slapped him on the back. "Come on! 'Mystery Science Theater 3000' is coming on! [34]"

Foxglove kept glancing over at Zipper as they flew through the dusk towards the industrial park in the Ranger Wing. She was sitting in the front, next to Gadget, and Zipper and Monty were behind her, so the big mouse with the cheese fixation couldn't help noticing every time she craned her neck around. She was probably also monitoring Zip with her sonar, Monty guessed. Or did she have to be facing him for that to work?

"What did you say to her, mate?" Monty leaned over and whispered it to Zipper, but nonetheless the bat clearly heard him clearly: Foxglove sunk down low in her seat, apparently filled with shame. Monterey realized too late his mistake, and tried to think of some way to put a positive spin on the situation.

He was still thinking when the Wing set down in an empty parking lot. Streetlamps filled the area with pools of light, but the scene was cold and empty. Monty shivered in his heavy coat.

"It'll be warmer down underground," Gadget said as she climbed out of the vehicle. She hadn't seen Monty shiver; she'd been facing the other direction. But she had guessed what they were all thinking. Foxglove was flapping her wings regularly to keep the blood flowing, although none of them were complaining.

They moved as quickly as possible across the parking lot, Zipper and Foxglove flying up over Gadget and Monty towards and into the large storm sewer grating which allowed access into the depths below. Gadget, her coat still slightly tattered, had a penlight slung over one arm.

"Oh, that's much better," Foxglove said once they were all underground. "It's even colder than it was last night. Will it keep getting colder?"

"Yes," Gadget said. "Then it will start getting warmer."

"That makes sense," the bat admitted. "So I guess the sun isn't going out, then?"

"Um, no," Gadget said cautiously.

"Good!" Foxglove sounded relieved. "I didn't think so," she added.

Zipper coughed. "Best hurry," he squeaked.

"Oh, right. Which way should we go?" Gadget peered around, waving the penlight. They were in a round tunnel about three feet in diameter, which stretched off in two direction. Foxglove cocked her head, then turned slowly.

"I'm not sure, because we're underground and it's a confined space and everything," Foxglove said slowly, "but I think I hear an anole down that-a-way." She pointed with a wingtip.

"An anole?" Monty cracked his knuckles. "Sugar Ray Lizard! Let's go!" He dashed down the hallway, leaving Foxglove, Gadget, and Zipper to follow.

Sugar Ray Lizard was not the kind of anole who would spend long periods of time tied up in the dark willingly. He was more the kind of anole who would complain at being forced to spend long periods of time tied up in the dark. In fact, he was muttering to himself in a quiet litany of whining as he sat there, tied up in the dark. He'd tried swearing constantly under his breath for a few hours, but that had grown tiresome.

There was a light down the hallway. Maybe Wart and the others had come back. Or maybe Capone had realized he was gone and come looking for him. That wasn't likely, though, since the light was coming from the wrong direction.

On a whim Sugar Ray decided to feign death. Strangers, he reasoned, would be more likely to untie him if they thought he was dead; they would need to get him out of the ropes to search his body for valuables. At least, that's what Sugar Ray would have done in their shoes. It was only reasonable. He closed his eyes and rolled over so that they couldn't see his breathing.

As such, he couldn't see the Rescue Rangers approaching. He did hear them, however: "Golly," for example.

"Gosh and gee," Gadget added. The anole had clearly been beaten more than a little, and left here in the sewers. "What happened to him, do you think?"

"He was tied up and hurt and now he's wondering... huh, he's wondering how I know his stinger works? ... that can't be right..." Foxglove scowled and cocked her head again. Mammals were bad enough-- reptiles were almost impossible.

"What, you mean he's not knocked out?" Monty grabbed Sugar Ray and hoisted him up in the air, shaking the anole. At some point during the howling and screaming for mercy Sugar Ray's clever plan was spoiled.

"All right! All right! Just let me down! Please, please let me down!" Sugar Ray barely kept himself from squealing like a stuck pig. As it was, he didn't come across as dignified.

"What's the story, mate? Who raided Fat Cat's last night, and why?" Monty shook the anole slightly, trying to scare the truth out of him.

"I don't know!" the anole cried. "I don't, honest!"

"I think he's telling the truth," Foxglove whispered to Gadget. "He sounds like he's afraid I'm about to eat him." The bat frowned. "Like someone's going to kill him," she corrected herself.

"Monty, calm down," Gadget said. "All right, Sugar Ray, tell us how you got tied up like that."

"I was jumped by six of Fat Cat's cruelest henchmen!" Sugar Ray sounded desperate. "They beat me with sacks of lead sinkers, then tied me up with dental floss! I haven't eaten since yesterday morning! I could eat anything in the world, but not, oh, not anything minty!"

"C'mon," Monty said, grasping at the anole's neck. He was a bit shorter, though far wider, than Sugar Ray. Sugar Ray was, however, hog-tied. "You're holding out on us. What made Fat Cat go after you? Who were the mice in red suits that went to Capone's, huh? Talk!"

"They... they're Hands! Don't hurt me, I'm not such a bad guy, I--" "Hands?" Gadget interrupted him. "Set him down, Monty. What do you mean, 'hands?'"

"Sewer Al, I swear, strike me dead if I'm not telling the truth! They're Sewer Al's Hands! Capone's been working for Al for a long time, I don't know how long! They came last night and they warned Capone that Fat Cat was gonna send some guys after us, and they gave Capone a glass bead and then they left and then after a while Capone sent me out to check the weather and then I got jumped by the eight toughs who work for Fat Cat--"

"And they tied you up and left you here. That don't make any sense, mate--" Monty had set the anole down, but still loomed over him.

"Um, wait a minute," Gadget interrupted. She thought for a moment. "Okay, I think I understand. But let's try to find Capone and talk to him."

"What?!" Monty turned to face his old friend's daughter. "You saying you believe that garbage?"

"Yes, I think that I understand what's happened here." She wasn't positive; she wished Chip had been able to come with them. "We're going to let you go," she said calmly to Sugar Ray Lizard.

"We are?" Zipper squeaked incredulously. "What?" He exchanged glances with Foxglove, who shrugged helplessly. This was all a bit beyond her.

"But you have to promise to leave the city and never come back," Gadget continued, ignoring them. "Okay?"

"Sure, sure!" At this point Sugar Ray was willing to say anything to get away from the minty smell.

"Gadget..." Monty began. She silenced him with a wave of her hand.

"Now, I want you to promise me you're going to be good from now on," Gadget said. She looked the anole in the eyes. "If we find out that you're up to anything, I'm going to be really disappointed. Okay?"

"Right, yes! Disappointed! Exactly!" Sugar Ray Lizard squirmed under her gaze. "Just please untie me!"

"All right." Deftly she removed the dental floss from around him, using only a small dental-floss remover she had built weeks ago for this very purpose. Granted, she had designed it to work on mice and chipmunks and in a pinch a bat or fly, but it did the trick well enough on Sugar Ray.

"Remember," she called as he ran down the tunnel away from them, towards the cold November evening. "Stay good, Sugar Ray! Stay good!" Gadget shook her head and muttered to herself. "After rescuing him like that, I couldn't bear to think of him as evil." She noticed Monty, Foxglove and Zipper were staring at her. "What?"

Luwini waited patiently for her knock to be answered.

She did not worry. She had tried it once, found it an unpleasant experience not unlike 'concern' or 'sympathy' or 'compassion.' Luwini had a few years ago discovered the handful of precepts with which she made her way through life. Worry became so trivial as to be comical. Life, she had decided, was a finite game, like contract bridge.

Shortly after escaping a long run of bad luck, well after fleeing Hawaii, Luwini had taken up residence in a Radio Shack next to a bagel shop with the goal of convalesing. One of the many electronic toys she had stolen from her landlords during this time of recovery was a Satki Pro Bridge 2000. She taught herself to play bridge with the device, and had been something that in another mouse might have been called delighted to learn that when she was unsatisfied with the number of points in her hand, she could simply press the reset button.

This was a mentality which had served her well. Her rat, Herbie, had broken, and it was time to get a new one. She might have felt some regret over losing Herbie; he was unusually smart and strong. On the other hand, he also had the bad habit of talking back. On balance, it worked out.

Luwini passed the time, waiting, by counting the exposed beams in the decrepit warehouse's ceiling.

"Yeah?" Finally someone had answered. A big one, too. That was good. And, Luwini judged from the look on his face, interested in her appearance. Excellent: that usually made them much more tractable.

"Hello. I am Luwini, and I would like to be your friend," Luwini said flatly. She smiled in a way which she knew most mice found charming.

The big mouse just stared blankly at her, looking both stunned and confused. This was also good: he was too stupid to invent one of the clever, clever rejoinders Herbie might have come up with. Some of her long-losts might have resented living among the normal mice again, but Luwini had been rendered quite immune to feelings of social isolation and in toto quite enjoyed the sensation of superiority which had replaced it.

"Uh..."

"What is your name?" Luwini prompted.

"Uh... I'm Behemoth," the mouse said cautiously. "'Cause I'm big."

"Of course you are," Luwini agreed. "May I come in?"

"Uh..." Something was bothering Behemoth, but he couldn't quite decide what it was. "Sure!" After all, it was not every day a beautiful and cleanly dressed girl smiled at him and asked to be allowed inside.

"Thank you," Luwini said evenly, and stepped into the crate. It didn't look much better inside than out.

Wart was swearing under his breath as he trudged for the third time through the tunnels under the Lions to Sewer Al's visitation chamber. He was alone this time, dragging behind him two books: Fat Cat's second-favorite book, "The Prince," and Wart's own favorite, "Green Eggs and Ham." His mother had read to him out of that book. He'd never actually read it, or any other book, himself. And now he had to give it up. All for the sake of destroying the Rescue Rangers.

He was just beginning to worry that he'd taken the wrong turn at the last junction, and he was traveling in circles and would never see the light of day again, and Mister I'm So Smart Fat Cat would regret sending Poor Little Wart to his death when the tunnel suddenly opened up, and Wart found himself on a narrow ledge above the physical manifestation of Sewer Al. He flipped the switch on his penlight, and the dark returned.

"Hello?" he called out, and braced himself.

"WART." It wasn't quite so bad if you were expecting it.

"I have another request, Mister Sewer Al sir," Wart said in the direction of the pool.

"WHAT DO YOU BRING ME, WART?" Wart was getting used to the sound, now. He was almost certain that it was actually coming from somewhere above him, and was just echoing down to the water under him. Maybe Sewer Al had an intercom system.

The iguana gulped. He'd hoped Sewer Al would just say which package he wanted. "I have a copy of 'The Prince,' and my 'Green Eggs and Ham,' sir."

"LEAVE THE SEUSS." Wart winced. "THE RESCUE RANGERS ARE BASED IN THE LARGEST OAK TREE IN CENTRAL PARK, HALFWAY UP THE TRUNK. THEIR HEADQUARTERS ARE MARKED BY A LANDING STRIP AND AN AWNING WITH THEIR SYMBOL EMBLAZONED. GOOD-BYE."

As Wart turned and fled, he had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out. A tree! Of course! He cursed Mepps and Mole for being such fools. Invisible flying castle! What bosh!

The door to the blocked-off bit of tunnel which Rat Capone was hiding out in these days was wide open. Monterey Jack thought that was unusual: he'd come to this place before, or, to be more technically correct, a place very similar to this. And on those occasions the door had always been guarded. On the other hand, back then it had been guarded by Sugar Ray Lizard, so maybe its wide-open state shouldn't be surprising.

He exchanged glances with Zipper. Gadget and Foxglove were hanging back. "Should I knock, or just go on in?" Monty asked. The fly shrugged.

"All right, then!" Monty strode confidently into the hideout. It seemed much the same as last time: sparsely decorated, faint smell of old socks, very dirty. No one seemed to be in the outer room, so he went on into the back, Zipper close behind.

"What? What do you want?" Rat Capone was sitting, scowling, on the end of a small bed fashioned from an empty box of kitchen matches and some cotton balls. He made no move to get up or call the guards. He didn't even seem especially surprised to see them.

This made Monty suspicious. "What's the matter, mate?" he asked, keeping his back to the wall. Unnoticed by Capone, Zipper flew across the room, just below the ceiling. The chamber was lit by a small assortment of the pocket flashlights small animals found so useful. It wasn't daylight, but it wasn't bad, and Zipper could see well enough to determine that there almost certainly was not a concealed ambush of Mousenegger and several other heavies waiting for the chance to leap from the shadows and pounce on his friend.

"Nothing," Capone said, pouting. "Nothing's the matter. Isn't anything to be the matter." He rested his chin on his hands and scowled at the much larger mouse bitterly. "Doesn't matter. Not anything here any more."

"Crikey," Monty said as Zipper waved an all-clear. "Something's gotten into you, hasn't it? You aren't even doing your Edward G. Robinson impression any more." Maybe he could draw out whatever Capone's beef was. Monty would rather have simply hoisted the rat over his head and pummeled the truth out of him, but Capone didn't look like he was up for a good fight.

"It doesn't matter," Capone repeated sourly. "I'm quitting."

Monty and Zipper exchanged glances. The fly shrugged. "Care to elaborate, mate?" Monterey asked.

"It's Fat Cat, Ranger. I probably shouldn't tell you this, but I don't really care. I've been working for Sewer Al for a while now, and now he's gone and left me, and Fat Cat's breathing down my neck, and Sugar Ray Lizard ran off and never came back... I'm leaving. I'm going somewhere nice and far-away and warm, me and Arnie. Won't be here for everyone to push around no more." The small rat stared dully off into space, not turning his head to address Monterey Jack, or changing the inflection in his tone from the same combination of tired, bitter, and depressed he had used before.

"So, Capone..." Monty trailed off, unsure as to what to say.

"My name's not really Capone. I got that from this movie I saw, about these guys... my name is Willy."

"Willy?"

"Willy." 'Willy's' voice showed some strong emotion for the first time as he actually turned his head and looked Monty in the eye long enough to ask if the big mouse wanted to make something of it. "Uh, of course not, mate," Monty said. "I mean, uh... Zipper, could you run out and fetch Foxglove and Gadget?" Monty was out of his element here.

"Chip! Wake up!" Dale shook him.

Chip bolted awake and leaped off the sofa. He looked around and started to panic before he remembered where he was. He'd fallen asleep watching 'Mystery Science Theater 3000' with Dale, and been dreaming. A horde of one-legged rats with glowing eyes wasn't trying to kill him and Gadget, then.

"You were talking in your sleep," Dale said mildly. "I couldn't hear the television.

"Oh, sorry," Chip rubbed his temples with one hand. "What was I saying?" he asked. He hoped he hadn't said Gadget's name out loud.

"It wasn't anything I could understand," Dale lied. "Just some loud 'aauugaa' kind of noises."

"Well, sorry." Chip was about to say more, but was interrupted by the sound of the Ranger Wing touching down outside. "Hey, they're back! Go check on Herbie real quick, will you?"

"I just did," Dale protested, "during the last commercial break. You were asleep. He's still asleep, too."

"Wake up, Herbert."

Orange-yellow eyes snapped open. Herb struggled, realized he was still tied up. The past several hours were a haze--he'd been awake, he knew, since Luwini treated him, but he couldn't recall exactly what had happened. Hmm. He knew Luwini had treated him. His leg really was gone, then. He'd hoped that was part of the dream.

Herb glanced around. He was in what he rapidly remembered was the room the Rescue Rangers had kept him in. Fearless leader had cut him down, so he was on his back. The room was dark, now, except for the light from his eyes.

"Welcome back to reality, Herbert." Seth was standing over him, holding a syringe. The liquid within sparkled, catching the light from his eyes in a way even Herb found eerie.

"Noah? Untie me so I can kill you," Herb snapped. "You still work for Sewer Al, don't you? You did this to me!"

"I also just revived you, Herbert--"

"Quit calling me that!"

"All right then, 'Herb.' Keep your voice down. Two of the Rangers are still here." Seth adjusted his red sweater. "And I didn't do anything to you."

"You shot me in the leg and drove me into some kind of delusional state, you sick cultist--"

"I said keep your voice down," Seth hissed. "Nemeniah messed up; he was supposed to attempt to recruit you. He's dead now because of that."

Hearing this, Herb relaxed slightly.

"And, according to Sewer Al, your unpleasant condition was caused by receiving a transfusion of bad blood. Which, again, I didn't do."

"No," Herb muttered. "That was Luwini."

"Yes, your wife..." Seth began tactfully.

"Not anymore, obviously."

The mouse coughed nervously. "But Sewer Al, in Al's infinite wisdom, gave me this medicine with which to revive you. No, I don't know what it is. Hold still and I'll inject the rest of it."

Herb began to twitch involuntarily. Like the rest of the old firm, the rat had a very, very strong aversion to being punctured with any kind of syringe. The piston system was very useful, of course, in other matters; Arthur had been very fond of them. But actually injecting someone with something brought back memories Herb had almost completely blocked out.

But fortunately for the plans of Sewer Al, he was still tied up. Seth jammed the needle into Herb's good leg and pushed down on the piston, injecting the remaining three milliliters of sparkling ruby fluid into his bloodstream.

Herb squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip to keep from crying out. He felt doubly claustrophobic, both from his bonds and from the memory of the huge, gripping hands that had held him during that horrible first course of injections... His entire body spasmed with pain.

When Herb opened his eyes, he was lying on the floor, surrounded by scraps of the twine the Rangers had bound him with. He'd snapped them. He felt better, stronger. He was still short a leg, which meant he'd be moving around on all fours from now on, but he was still healthy enough to kill Luwini for leaving him, Sewer Al for setting Gary on him, and especially fearless leader.

First things first, though. Faster than Seth could react, the rat of NIMH sprung up on his one leg and had him in a headlock. Herb was bigger, stronger, tougher, faster, and smarter than Seth. It was no contest. He began to squeeze.

"I knew it was him, I bloody well knew it! And his blood! The loyal opposition's blood," Herb said, snickering and shaking his head in wonder. "You were stupid enough to give me some of his blood!" Herb suddenly realized it would be more "all threes" than "all fours." He giggled, unable to contain his glee.

"...wait..." was all Seth could get out. Herb relaxed his grip. He could kill Seth at any time, after all. He was only a mouse. He wasn't like Herb. "Hear me out," Seth gasped. "Sewer Al wants you back, Herb. Al is willing to pay whatever price you set."

Herb considered briefly. Gary was already dead, after all... "Done." This time things would be different. He'd work with Sewer Al on equal terms.

"You still have me in a headlock."

"Yes, I do. Keep talking."

Seth swallowed painfully. "By now, Fat Cat and his thugs are on their way here. Al wants you to get rid of Fat Cat." Seth paused to build up energy. "If it makes you feel better, Sewer Al says you can kill me."

"Kill Fat Cat, huh? All right, he insulted me once." Herb was confident he could take Fat Cat. He was feeling good, and ignoring the little voice in the back of his head which was pointing out how much trouble Dragon had been. Herb still didn't release his grip. "Can I kill the chipmunk with the irritating voice, too? I really dislike him. He reminds me of Arthur, just a little bit. I don't like people who remind me of Arthur." Arthur had reminded him of Arthur. Herb had broken both Arthur's legs for that. He smiled at the memory.

"Well..."

"Bear in mind that if I'm disappointed my arms may spasm." Herb was having a grand time. He could barely keep a straight face. Seth, on the other hand, was turning blue.

"Yes, yes, you can kill Chip. Just take out Fat Cat first, all right?"

Herb released Seth, who sank panting to the floor. "All right. Now, how do we get outside without alerting fearless leader?"

"Window," Seth gestured towards the hole in the wall, then rose to his feet.

Snout yawned widely as they trudged through the cold, light drizzle to the tallest tree in the park. He'd been up way past his bedtime, but this was a rare opportunity to dominate a bunch of littler rodents and prove his worth to the boss. Near him, Mole caught his yawn and returned it.

Prickles didn't yawn, he just looked surly. The porcupine probably was mad about the whole thing. He'd come along, but hadn't said two words the whole time.

Wart and Fat Cat didn't yawn either, but that was because they were up in front. Fat Cat was describing his wondrous plans to Wart, spinning tales of the paradise the city would become once he was rid of the thorn the Rescue Rangers, which their suction-cups and their tenacity, were out of the picture.

Snout wondered what "tenacity" meant [35]. He was still mulling it over when the small strike force arrived under the Ranger Tree.

The Ranger wing touched down outside headquarters. The mission had been very successful in terms of information gained, but less so in terms of bad guys beaten up, Monty reflected. On the other hand, Rat "Willy" Capone was leaving, and taking Mousenegger with him. And Sugar Ray was gone, too. Chip would be happy to hear all that.

Monterey Jack had gotten out of the vehicle, was moving to the door, and had just turned his head to tell Zipper a pun involving pepper, himself, and pepperjack cheese, when he saw them. Fat Cat and his minions were grouped under the Ranger Tree. From this distance, in the dark, Monty doubted they could actually see him, but Wart seemed to be pointing something out to his boss. He was gesturing up towards Headquarters.

"Crikey," the big mouse muttered, then turned to tell the others.

"It's got to be right up there, Fat Cat!" Despite himself, Wart was getting excited. Soon they'd crush the Rescue Rangers just as they had crushed Rat Capone.

"I'm not so sure, Wart. I think it's that tree over there." Fat Cat pointed to a larch about twenty yards off. "The larch! I can't see anything up there." Granted, it was at a bad angle... Fat Cat was about to send Snout up to check when Wart interrupted his thought processes.

"That's because it's up high and we're down low! I'm sure of it! It says right here, Mister Too Good to Read Cat--"

"Don't assume that tone with me, Wart!" Fat Cat cast his eyes heavenwards, then his jaw dropped. He looked as though we was about to say something, but Herbie fell onto his head, his yellow eyes blazing.

"GET THIS RAT OFF OF ME!" Fat Cat and Herbie were instantly down on the ground, rolling like schoolchildren. Herbie climbed across Fat Cat, keeping ahead of the feline's massive claws and pausing only long enough to sink his teeth into whatever fur-covered flesh presented itself.

Wart was so taken aback he didn't react. Snout, seeing Herbie was slightly larger than he was, took no action. And Prickles didn't care enough to intervene. Mepps was hiding behind Prickles.

Mole, however, displayed his characteristic blind loyalty and ran as fast as he could towards Fat Cat and Herbie. About halfway there the animal realized that he would be diced if he attempted to assist the provider of his candy bars, and slowed.

Above everyone, Seth, Noah, and Tobit watched the Rescue Rangers reacting to the crisis unfolding below. Sewer Al had predicted Fat Cat would kill Herbie in under five minutes, unless the Rangers intervened. It was the job of Seth and Tobit to keep that from happening. Noah's job was slightly more complex.

"I think they're getting some kind of net," Tobit said as he peered through the minuscule binoculars. "What shall we do?"

Seth considered briefly. "It is not likely that Herbert will be long contained by any such item, nor Fat Cat." he said. "Do nothing."

"Does Herbert geniunely believe he can defeat Fat Cat in hand-to- hand combat?" Tobit asked.

"At the moment, Herbert believes he could defeat Sewer Al in hand-to-hand combat," Seth replied.

Noah glanced over at Seth.

"Forgive my implied blaphsemy," Seth said quickly. "I intended to convey merely the extent to which Herbert's judgement has been affected by the drug."

Noah shrugged, and turned his attention back below.

The Strongest Fly in the World grasped one side and prepared to fly out. Foxglove held another, and Monterey Jack had a corner. Quickly the three of them dispersed, spreading the weighted net Gadget had prepared over the fighting animals.

"A little to the left, Zipper!" Chip called. He was trying to triangulate the positioning of the net from an angle; it wasn't easy. "Little more... Now!"

The fly, mouse, and bat released the net, which fell straight down fifteen feet and enveloped the struggling pair. Fat Cat, momentarily distracted, cried out in pain as Herbie sunk his teeth into the base of the cat's tail. The rat miscalculated, however: before Herbie could detach his jaws from Fat Cat the claws were on him.

With a squeal of both pain and triumph, Fat Cat ripped the much smaller rat from out of him, and, claws bared, rent him. The rat must have been insane to assault him.

Herb cursed Arthur one last time before the light in his eyes died forever.

Chip saw what was happening below and nearly leaped headfirst from the tree to intervene. He'd messed up; Herbie was dead and Chip had failed to prevent it. The net had been a bad idea. Cursing the whole time, Chip felt around in his jacket and pulled out his collapsible fishing rod. A flip of the wrist, and it was extended. Another, and the line was secured to a branch just overhead. Chip set the line to play out, and stepped off the limb, falling to the base of the tree fifteen feet down.

He was dimly aware of the other Rangers also making their ways down, but for the time being, his whole attention was centered on Fat Cat.

The Hands' reaction was very different from that of the Rangers or the viewers at the base of the tree. Faith had been vindicated.

"Yes!" Tobit brought his hand down in a pumping gesture.

"Don't get too pleased with yourself just yet, now, Tobit," Noah cautioned. So chastened, Tobit could feel his pulse rate drop. Noah frightened him, even more than Sewer Al. "There's still one other thing... come on, Wart, show some backbone..."

"Wait a moment," Seth said. "What is Chip doing?"

For years afterward Chip would wake up in the middle of the night, reliving that fall: the moment when the line came taut and the rod jerked out of his hands, the sudden realization that he was falling straight towards Fat Cat, the overpowering fear that he was about to die, and the powerful calm which filled him when he realized there was only one thing to do. The scenario was added to the long, long roster of recurring nightmares: usually, in his nightmares, he instead panicked, and was unable to prevent falling into Fat Cat's claws.

Fat Cat stood, bloody but unbeaten, the broken body of the rat in his hands. What remained of the weighted net the Rangers had thrown down was draped about his shoulders, and he was bleeding from a dozen bites. He examined the rat, and saw it was Herbie. He had indeed been mad. Then for the second time in three minutes, a small animal landed feet-first on his head.

The big cat cried out in pain as the force of it knocked the badly battered feline to the ground, unconscious. Chip bounced off his target's neck and flew over the heads of Wart, Snout, Mole, Mepps, and Prickles.

High above, Gadget paused. She readied her crossbow, aimed, and fired in one fluid motion. The suction-cup dart flew through the air, faster than Foxglove, trailing heavy string.

Without realizing what he was doing, Chip grabbed at the line as he and it flew through the air towards one another. His trajectory shifted and instead of flying straight into the trunk of the tree, he slid past it and into Foxglove's grasp.

By this time Dale, Zipper, and Monterey Jack were down on the ground. Fat Cat wasn't a danger, and his thugs were standing there, open-mouthed.

Monty and Dale exchanged glances. The mouse cracked his knuckles.

"Go," Dale said to the gang. He tried to sound threatening, and hoped the situation gave his intimidation roll some positive modifiers. It was clearly good enough for the assembled cronies: Snout, Mole, and Wart hefted Fat Cat and fled, Prickles and Mepps on their heels.

"Don't come back!" he added. "That's right! Keep running! Don't mess with the Rescue Rangers! Go on, get!"

"Good Lord, mate," Monty said. "What's going on around here?"

"That's it!" They were over on the far side of the park. Wart had wanted to wait for Fat Cat to wake back up again; he was too heavy to carry. And now that he was awake, Fat Cat was winding up for another good long rant. "I cannot stand it, I cannot accept it, I will not have it! Months have gone by and yet--"

"Can it, Fat Cat," Wart said. Fat Cat, and the rest of the planet, grew quiet as Wart realized he'd actually said that out loud. He said it to himself nearly every time he heard Fat Cat talk like that, but Wart had always kept it to himself before.

Flabbergasted, Fat Cat just looked at him. "What did you say, Wart?" He sounded more shocked than menacing.

"I said," Wart heard himself continue, "I said that you should can it. Your little speeches don't impress anyone."

Fat Cat shook his head in wonder. "Are you serious? You've been part of my organization for years now, Wart," he said mildly. "Do you really think that I'm going to stand for this?"

Wart said nothing. He was pretty sure that anything he said would only make it worse. What had he been thinking, taking Noah's advice?

"Maybe you think I'm funny. Is that it? Funny, with my weird little rants and my ridiculously short temper. Maybe I am funny." Fat Cat's voice took on an understanding, child-psychologist tone. "Maybe I'm downright clownlike. But that doesn't change anything, Wart. I behave in a manner in which I enjoy behaving in," he added. He needed a bit of time to think while they were sorting the extra ins in that sentence.

"I act a little silly sometimes," Fat Cat continued as he bared and retracted the claws on one hand. "It's important to enjoy life."

Wart said nothing. He didn't think he could form words even if he could think of any, which he couldn't.

"Sometimes I think I'm getting too old to deal with all this. Maybe I should retire." Fat Cat paused and let it sink in. "Maybe I should go away and never come back. Then things would be different, wouldn't they, Wart?"

Wart remained silent.

"You could deal with Rat Capone and the Rescue Rangers and Herbie and everyone like them yourself, then. Would you like that? I didn't think so." Fat Cat straightened up, adjusted his tie. "I'll tell you what, Wart, I'm going to go now. You can run the casino--which is still in the red, by the way--and deal with all the hassles of being a criminal genius. I'm going to go."

Right here it should be pointed out that what Fat Cat is thinking and what Fat Cat is saying are two different things. Fat Cat has noticed in Wart a slowly growing sense of rebellion. This is a highly undesirable trait in a Trusted Lieutenant. Fat Cat's goal, then, in departing is to teach Wart a simple lesson. Wart needs Fat Cat. Wart is a natural lackey. When Wart has had enough of being the boss, Fat Cat will return, allow Wart to abjectly apologize, and end up with a much more loyal henchman.

In this way are great criminal empires run (by cats). Fat Cat picked up Mepps as he went (his mother had begged Fat Cat to take care of him on her deathbed) and strode purposefully out of the park and into a different part of the story.

"I need to sit down," Wart said to no one in particular as soon as his former employer was out of earshot. The assembled gangsters all stared at one another, totally bewildered.

"Does this mean you're the boss now?" Mole asked Wart doubtfully. "I'm still getting my candy bars, right?"

Wart didn't even bother to tell him to shut up about his stinking candy bars. "You know, Mister Candy Obsessed Underling," he said in a voice of awe, "I guess it does."

Up in the treetops, Noah just smiled. It had all gone almost exactly the way Sewer Al had predicted it would go.

"But I don't understand," Tobit said. "How did Sewer Al know Fat Cat would do that if you could get Wart to say that?"

Seth scratched his head. "I do not believe I understand your question, young one. Now come: we are to collect Herbert's remains."

"Well, I suppose that's about it," Chip said. He was pacing back and forth through the living room in the Tree. "Fat Cat's gone, Capone's gone, so--"

"So we can take a vacation?" Dale interjected. He was sitting on the sofa, next to Foxglove.

"No," Chip said. "So someone else is going to be stepping into those shoes. Wart's not too bright; I don't think he's smart enough to just sit back and watch the money roll in. And something's going to start happening down near Staten, mark my words. Sewer Al set Capone up the way he did for a reason."

"What about Luwini?" Foxglove asked. "I mean, she was supposedly at Lake Haha, right? What happened to her?"

"I'm sure we'll find her," Chip said.

"Unless she's run off too," Dale offered.

"Doubtful. She has a real grudge against Gadget," Chip said. "At least, I think that's what Herbie said."

"And what about Sewer Al?"

"'And what about Scarecrow's brain?' What am I, the wizard of Oz?" Chip looked irritable. "There are a lot of loose ends, obviously. Me, I'd like to know what on earth Herbie's story was. It's a shame we'll never be able to find out."

"It's a shame he died," Gadget said simply. Her eyes were large and fluid. "I mean, I know that he wasn't a very nice person, but that was such a horrible way to be killed, I mean, I..." She broke off, and sighed. "I think I'll go work on the Rangermobile until dinner." Chip rubbed his temples with one hand while he watched her go.

"I don't know about that," Dale muttered. "He was a pretty nasty guy. He stole books from squirrels, and broke Monty's hand, and..."

"Dale!" Foxglove admonished the chipmunk. "It's not nice to speak ill of the dead."

"But Foxy, he..." Dale sighed. He glanced over at Chip, who had paced over to a window and was looking outside.

"I don't know," Chip said to no one. "Something's going on, and I don't know what it is. I don't like that. I like knowing things. There's a great deal of Investigation yet to be done. And the best lead I have, aside from the obvious, is the rantings of an insane, and now dead, rat which were directed at an imaginary mathematician."

"Excuse me, Jiffy?" Mister Camembert stuck his head out of his office long enough to catch the waiter's attention.

"Yes, Mister Camembert?" Jiffy dodged a laden busboy and met the call of his worthy employer.

"Could you get Claire and come in here?" The heavyset mouse was sweating profusely. "There's a... gentleman here to see you."

"Yes sir, Mister Camembert!" Jiffy nodded brightly, then scampered off to fetch Claire.

"I'm very sorry, sir," she was saying when he found her, "I don't see your reservation here, sir. If you'd like to wait in the bar, sir, a table will be opening up in just a few... oh, you're leaving. Well, that's great, sir!" she said to the back of the burly mouse. "Go eat a hot dog, sir! We don't need your custom, sir!"

"Claire..." Jiffy tried to keep away from her when she was like this.

"I swear, Jiffy, if this desk hadn't been here I would have--ooh! It makes me so mad..." She shook her fist at the elevator doors as the lost custom left, leaving the foyer empty. "Didn't have a reservation, wanted to be seated in the members lounge, wouldn't wait for a table--" She added something incoherent Jiffy hoped was not an invocation to dark powers.

"Mister Camembert wants to see us, Claire." Inwardly, the squirrel sighed. Claire's job satisfaction was low, he knew, and though he tried to keep his coworkers' morale high, sometimes it was a struggle.

"Oh, all right," she said crossly. "I'll get Bindings to cover for me."

A few minutes later they were knocking on Camembert's door. "Yes?! Ah, good, good, come right on in Claire, Jiffy..." Camembert wiped some of the sweat from his brow as he motioned for them to enter his luxuriously appointed office. Behind the desk a small mouse in a red sweater was smiling at them. As Jiffy and Claire sat down in the chairs facing Camembert's desk, that large mouse exited his office.

"Hello, hello," he said to the service personnel. "I've heard so much about you both, but I believe this is the first time we've actually met. My name is Noah, and I'm an associate of Mr. Wart."

Jiffy and Claire exchanged glances. "Well, uh, Mr. Noah --" Claire began.

"Just Noah," the mouse said, politely but firmly. Jiffy had the impression that calling Noah 'Mister' again would have very unpleasant results.

"Uh, Noah, then, we've given some thought to Mr. Fat Cat's offer and in light of the circumstances --" Claire swallowed nervously.

"With consideration as to the risk involved --" Jiffy said.

"What with the explosions and all --" Claire continued.

"I think the Ratisson is really the best --"

"What you don't know," Noah interrupted, smiling his eerie smile, "is that the casino is under new management. Mr. Wart's management. And let me assure you that we are in fact planning on moving the casino into the twenty-first century, and that security will simply cease to be an issue. The difficulties of Friday night," he continued glibly, "have been, well, let's just say 'solved' would be an understatement."

Jiffy coughed. "Be that as it may, Mist -- Noah, I, uh..."

"Seriously," Noah said in a manner that in another situation might seem almost, but not quite, nonthreatening, "I think you should reconsider your position. I know I would if I were you."

"I, uh... Claire?" Jiffy glanced over at her.

"Well..." Claire bit her lip. She was only in this to look out for Jiffy, after all. Noah was smiling very widely...

"Do we understand one another?" Noah asked. The tone of his voice was calm, smooth, and mild. Claire had never heard anything so frightening in all her life, and she'd been through a lot. For six months she'd had cable.

"Uh..."

"Do we," Noah repeated, his smile wide and friendly and disturbing, "Understand one another?"

Five minutes later Camembert, pacing back and forth in the break room, was pleased to see Jiffy and Claire emerge from his office. They had somewhat stunned looks on their faces.

"Well, how was it?" he asked them.

The two service personnel exchanged morose glances.

"Apparently we're quitting," Claire whispered.

"I'm afraid so," Jiffy agreed, choking back tears.

"What?!" Camembert was shocked. He would be very sorry to see them go. Well, he would be sorry to see Jiffy go. Claire he could probably do without.

"Noah is a very exciting mouse," Jiffy said simply. "I think he might... I guess the word is overreact. We'll be putting together the buffet at Fat Cat's Casino and Themed Entertainment Complex, starting a week from tomorrow."

"Sorry about the short notice," Claire said distractedly. She shrugged. "I didn't even want to..."

"Yes, sir," Jiffy said in the same drained tone. "Sorry about the short notice."

Behemoth had been easy, of course. Everything was easy. Now, however, came the fun part, the part she liked. Now Luwini had to decide how best to punish Gadget Hackwrench for the unpardonable crime of looking like Luwini, and the other unpardonable crime of interfering with Luwini's designs.

She surveyed her new surroundings. In an act of poetic justice, Luwini had led Behemoth to the same hole in which she and Herbie had extracted directions to Lake Haha, and from which news of their arrival had doubtless spread. A simple explanation to Behemoth was all it took. There would be a bit of a smell for a few days, but it would air out soon enough. It didn't smell as bad as blood, and it would fade away quickly. All in all it was quite satisfactory.

Be it ever so humble, there is no place like home. There's no place like home, there's no place like home... She was just being whimsical. Behemoth noticed the expression on her face and gave her a confused look. Luwini adjusted her immaculate blue suit and smiled sunnily at him. He was working out perfectly, too. All in all, Luwini was feeling good.

Wart was feeling good. Wart was feeling very good, in fact, better than he had ever before in his entire lifetime. Fat Cat was gone, Mister Useless Whining Mepps was gone, and the casino was his. He'd have to come up with a better name than "Fat Cat's Casino and Themed Entertainment Complex." Maybe "Wart's Casino and Themed Entertainment Complex." It was hard to make the decision.

The iguana moved through the casino thinking these thoughts. The place would be open, soon. In a little while mice would be coming in here, emptying their pockets, and leaving. It was better than crime. Of course, he'd still commit crimes on the side. Fat Cat had done it that way.

He nodded to Prickles, Snout, and Mole as he ascended the stairwell. They were down on the other side of the casino floor, near the bar. Wart wondered if they knew they stood on the verge of a grand new era, an Age of Wart.

He opened the door to Fat Cat's office -- his office! -- and turned on the light. He was going to get to sit in the chair!

"Hello."

Wart's jaw dropped. "What -- what do you want?"

Noah was sitting in the chair, leaning way back, smiling politely. "That was great," he said appreciatively. "You really told him off, just like I've been saying you should... that was ter-rif- fic. It'll be a pleasure to welcome you into the family."

Noah had, under orders, been cultivating Wart's friendship for nearly three months. Around the same time Wart closed down the casino, Noah would appear, and they'd chat for a bit and maybe get a bite to eat. Noah had feigned a keen interest in Wart's life, and suggested many times that he stand up to Fat Cat at some point. Simple repeated exposure to the idea had made it gradually more acceptable in Wart's mind. But this was beside the point... what was the mouse talking about? And why was he sitting in the chair?

Noah was a nut case. Wart considered rushing him, but decided that he outmassed the mouse by only thirty percent or so, so it wasn't worth the risk. "You're in the chair! I get to sit in the chair now! I get to sit in the chair where if you sit in the chair you're the boss and if you don't you're not! It moves up and down and I'm supposed to be sitting in it!"

"Yes sir, one big happy family," the mouse continued. "You'll enjoy it. And the benefits! Life, health, teeth --"

"Are you talking about insurance, Mister Insane Red Mouse Person?!" Wart scratched his head in confusion. "Sir?" he added automatically.

"No, no. Life, health, teeth: you get to keep them. You're working for Sewer Al now. Through me. I'll be your liaison." Noah grinned threateningly.

"What?" Wart started towards the mouse, but sank into a chair. Not the chair, just a chair.

"It's very simple," Noah said patiently. "You didn't think that was all just a string of coincidences, did you? I mean, you did realize the Al was controlling everything, right?" Noah's faith was exceptionally absolute, even more so than Seth's. He didn't realize how wrong he was.

"Uh, yeah," Wart said. He didn't want to admit anything. "Of course I did. Do you think I'm an idiot?!"

"So now Sewer Al has given you the casino, and all you have to do in return is give the Al your loyalty. Sewer Al looks after Al's own, believe you me." Noah smirked in a way Wart had never seen before, and found immensely irritating.

"Erm, what if I --"

"Refuse to deal with Sewer Al?" Noah asked. "I wouldn't if I were you. Things can get very bad very quickly. And, say, Prickles or Snout... they'd be quite cooperative, I think."

"So..." Wart was beginning to see the handwriting on the wall.

"Well, for starters," Noah said as he rose from the chair, "you'll be turning over ten percent of the casino income over to Sewer Al. Ten percent you, Wart, can keep, and the remaining eighty --"

"What?! The casino has expenses!" God, Wart reflected, did it ever have expenses. "Food and drinks and the little dice and, and... things! I can't maintain it on ten percent!"

"The remaining eighty percent," Noah continued smoothly, "will be put back into the casino. Sewer Al thinks a buffet might be nice. You had some plans in that direction?"

"Erm, yes sir." The ramifications of what Noah was saying were rapidly overtaking Wart. "But the expert --"

"Yes. I've already spoken with Mr. Jiffy. He and Ms. Dupont are now eager to join the casino team." Noah stepped near to Wart. "They'll be here some time tomorrow to cement matters."

"I... I..." Wart buried his head in his hands.

"Oh, come on," Noah said affably. "Buck up!" He patted Wart on the back. "This is what you've always wanted! Sewer Al takes care of Al's own, and you'll have near-total autonomy, rest assured. Well," the mouse continued as he started for the door, "I can see you'll need some time to think about all this, so I'll be going now." Noah opened the door and started out, then stopped and turned back to Wart. "But don't worry," he said with a smile. "I'll be back."

Then Wart was alone. He felt a cold chill. Sitting in the chair made him feel only a little better.

Epilogue.

There was no one there except the two of them. They had made this very certain. But a casual visitor to the small vault under the Lions would not have been able to see anything until Sewer Al turned the lights on. There were no casual vistors, of course; there were no visitors of any kind. Jenner was very strict about that. He considered it very risky. Sewer Al felt Jenner had a paranoid streak, but humored him.

A casual visitor (of which there were none, ever) would have had a difficult time reaching them, regardless. The vaulted chamber connected to the outside world only through a single tiny ventilation shaft and a submerged tunnel Al used to reach the audience chamber. Even the Hands never came back here. Especially the Hands: it would spoil the illusion and ruin their mystery cult.

Al turned the lights on. He regretted being the bearer of bad news, but his friend would want to know this. "JENNER," he said when the 60-watt bulb failed to rouse him. Sewer Al leaned forward, careful not to drip on the piles of books he and Jenner had collected. "JENNER," he repeated.

"Stop that," Jenner said as he opened his yellow-glowing eyes and stretched. The pain in his back and shoulders from the old wounds was still there. He sat up on his small cot surrounded by a hundred hundred books.

"I thought it would wake you up more quickly," Sewer Al said. "Listen," he continued over Jenner's rising interruption, "Seth and Tobit just reported in. I'm afraid Herbie didn't make it."

Jenner sighed. "That's too bad," he lied. Herbert had been a threat to him.

"They don't think anything of it, of course, since we told them he wasn't going to. But that means we can't be pleasantly surprised, as the original plan went." Al sounded both vaguely contrite and slightly anxious.

Jenner sighed again, making a sound like a dying bellows. "Noah hasn't reported in yet?"

"Not yet, no."

"Well, I suppose it's been a pretty good day, all things considered. Lost Nemeniah, of course, but we scored a casino and that means we'll have some money coming in." Soon enough Jenner's plan, which he liked to think of as The Plan v2.0, would be complete. Break a few eggs or mice on the way, maybe, but it would be worth it.

"That sounds more than a little callous," Al protested. Jenner shrugged and muttered something about lack of sleep. "I've almost finished this book," the alligator added. Wasn't especially germane, but still a fact.

"Which one?" Jenner asked as he lay back down on his cot.

"_Infinite Jest_. Nothing's actually happened yet but I think it will soon."

"Hmpf. All right. Wake me if anything comes up." Jenner closed his backlit eyes and returned to dreamless sleep.

"WILL DO." Sewer Al modulated his tones, allowing his voice to echo magnificently.

Darkness returned, under the Lions.

NOT QUITE THE END YET, EITHER. ONE MORE.

And there are APPENDEXES too! Aren't we lucky! But be warned -- the author (that dope) speaks in the first person from now on, so if you want to leave now, I understand.

Appendix A

And now, a wacky and mostly spiffy DISCLAIMER! Yay!

Based on characters owned, body and soul, by the Disney Corporation. Contains references to the rats of NIMH, but they're meant respectfully no matter how unflattering they seem. The whole is copyright 1999 by me, Jeffrey Wikstrom, if it matters. Email me at jeffwik@hotmail.com if you liked it or especially if you didn't. Or not. It's your life... but like all bad writers, I hunger for feedback. And frankly, I'd rather hear a word or two of constructive criticism than bland assertions that it was pretty good. Look at Stephen Ratliff. Man starts out a horrible, horrible writer. His work is basically chopped up in a blender and served to him with a side of cole slaw. And slowly he sees what the biggest problems with his work are, and he gets better. Not a whole lot better, of course, but a little bit better over time. I want to be like that. Yes, that's right: I want to be like Stephen Ratliff, at least to the extent of improving over time. You get the idea. I figure I'll be pretty good in about eight more years. Of course, if there's a bit you like, I'd like to know about that, too, both to make me feel better about all the bits you didn't like and so I'll know to keep on with a certain kind of bit. The preceding bizarre and unsettling bit of text was inspired, believe it or don't, by the Elvis Costello album "Spike." If you happen to own it, I suggest you listen to it while reading this.

Shoot. I should have put that at the beginning. Now it's too late. Oh well, too bad. Bits of it were also written to the tones of Dave Bubeck's Chromatic Fantasy, played by the incomparable Brodsky Quartet.

Arthur is based on two things: my own fascination with numerical analysis and mathematical modeling, and an engineer I once knew who will correct every little thing you do, including your posture. Any fans of Herbie wanting to send me angry letters for maiming and killing him should really reexamine their lives. I mean, come on! And for the record, Luwini is completely chaste. Always has been. Herbie's just a sucker for punishment. Luwini is an amalgam of a few Batman villains, mostly Ivy, and the character Susan Ricci in the excellent film "the Spanish Prisoner." Never got a chance to have Luwini say that one line -- do it later. Matt "The Man" Plotecher first described Jiffy's life as 'Adventures in Customer Service.'

As with "the Mole," which, incidentally is strongly recommended reading for this text, inasmuch as it features the first appearances of Jiffy and Claire and Herbie (kinda) and, oh, Xia, probably more, much, much thanks has to be given to John W. Nowak, who was willing to read it over when I badly needed someone to, and offered much advice and encouragement, although he didn't like the Chip-and-Herbie scene. John also should get credit for a large number of little things, like the idea of Staten City in the first place, the name "Herbie," although he didn't realize what he was naming at the time, and the .22 Caliber Darned Nearly Recoilless Rifle, which was the invention of Widget Hackwrench, the Evil Twin. John should also get credit for many other things which escape me at the moment. Possibly the catalytic converter and the "Justin Bailey" Easter egg for the original NES game 'Metroid.' I'd have to look those up to be certain.

Basically all this is based as much on "Sovereign 1" as it is on the canonical material. I am but the Derleth, or maybe Bloch, to his Lovecraft, which I suppose would make Tad Stones into Lord Dunsany, and just goes to show that you can overdo any literary metaphor. But enough complimenting Nowak. More than enough, really. I ought to take some of that out. But I don't know, it makes for such a pretty block of text...

I should also thank Matt Plotecher, who pointed out a couple of flaws in the story without being overbearing and rude, like me. You know, it's a shame I can't draw. Actually at this point you're probably thinking it's more of a shame that I can't write, but... I have all these images in my head, pictures to go with the story. For example, the Hands in a version of the "guys walking" scene in "Reservoir Dogs," with Nemeniah and Tobit and Seth and Noah all. I couldn't get Noah to look like Harvey Keitel, though. And I could never get the "Chip loses his hat" scene in "The Mole" to look right. But it would be nice. Or the bit where Herbie does the death-from- above bit. Or Luwini surrounded by squalor but somehow remaining spotless. Or Wart trying to cajole Prickles into actually doing something... ah, well.

While I'm at it, when you think about it, it's really amazing how much fiction in the genre of talking small animals has been written. Aside from Mrs. Frisby and the various "Rescuers" Rodent Aid Society books, there's Watership Down and Redwall and Rikki- tikki-tavi and that's just off the top of my head. Of course, it's entirely possible that all that's on top of my head because there's something wrong with me (apart from my weird habit of translating all sorts of things into GURPS terms for no readily apparent reason, including action movies as I watch them) and that's actually all the talking-small-animal fiction that's been written. But I wouldn't be surprised if there was a lot more written on the Rangers than on most 65-episode cartoon shows with a brief comic book run. Probably around as much as is on record on the subject of Hastur. And I mean Hastur specifically -- not Cthulhu or the Mi-Go or even the Dread King in Yellow. Hah! Bet you weren't expecting a reference to the King in Yellow in the disclaimer to a piece of Rescue Rangers fanfiction, even one as badly-written, creepy, not very funny, and disturbing as this [36].

Speaking of badly-written, that reminds me, feel free to belittle this in any MST3k style you choose. I don't mind. While I frankly think this is pretty much the best I've ever done (not saying much), I'm aware it's also badly flawed. But be sure to tell me, because I'd like to see it.

If you enjoyed "Ranger Wars: A New Mole" and "Ranger Wars: Sewer Al Strikes Back," be on the lookout for "Ranger Wars: the Return of the Jenner," sometime before the Earth falls into the sun. Thanks also to Roy Neal Grissom, who pointed out that Sugar Ray Lizard is actually an anole, not a newt. Speaking of Star Wars, you get a 1-up mushroom if you thought Seth and Tobit sounded like Qui- Gonn and Obi-Wan. Not really. That's what I was trying for, though. I know it's kind of a roundabout way of saying it, but I guess my point is I really hate sauerkraut.

Appendix B

The Largely Unnecessary Endnotes:

[01]: From "Mostly Harmless," by Douglas Adams.

[02]: a line fragment from Elvis Costello's "Deep Dark Truthful Mirror." One day, Luwini's going to have to be told certain things we all still love her too much to say... More fully, "The same eyes/The same lips/The same lie from your tongue drips/In a deep dark,/Deep dark truthful mirror."

[03]: The Havamal, or "Words of the High One." Icelandic book of proverbs, supposedly penned by Odin the All-Father.

[04]: Ibid.

[05]: Nemeniah's family emigrated from Nantucket in the mid-19th century and they keep up the archaic naming tradition. His sisters are both named Orpah [37]. He was teased about his name so much as a youth that he adopted the name 'Gary' until becoming one of the Hands of Sewer Al instilled enough confidence in himself to use his original name. He is not, nor has he ever been, a janitor.

[06]: Gadget is singing another Elvis Costello song, "Chemistry Class." More fully, the lines are "You're ready to experiment/You're ready to be burned/If not for accidents/Then some would never learn."

[07]: Luwini just made this one up.

[08]: Ibid. She figured, correctly, that Herbie wouldn't know the difference.

[09]: Part of the chorus of the Elvis Costello song "Chelsea." N.B. this has nothing to do with Chelsea Clinton, the President's daughter. You know, I went to high school with a girl who knew Chelsea Clinton in junior high [38]. She actually went up to Washington to visit her a couple of times, and, I've been told, her head and possibly some of her body has appeared with Chelsea in the magazine "Rolling Stone."

[10]: Ken Kesey's motto. See "The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test," by Tom Wolfe.

[11]: Actually, Wart didn't know what 'elite' meant either, so the precise phrasing of his wonderment was a little different, but you get the idea.

[12]: Waiting tables takes up two slots.

[13]: Physicist Neils Bohr, testifying before the Warren Commission on the 'magic bullet' theory.

[14]: Tobit changed his name from Toby after realizing he was the only Hand without an unusual and vaguely biblical name (which should have made 'Toby' interesting and distinctive in its own right, but you advance in the Hands on basis of blind loyalty, not clear thinking). Nemeniah, Seth, Noah, and... Toby.

[15]: Chip has always known exactly what he wants to do with his life, although what it is has changed several times. Until he found his calling as a Rescue Ranger, Chip was a veritable Renaissance Chipmunk: he designed and built paper-airplane gliders, he kept Dale from getting into trouble, and he knew all the words to most Monty Python sketches. He's settled down since, however, even at that young age he already had decided that traffic control, domestic squabbles, and drunk-and-disorderly charges were not for him. Chip likes fighting crime, but only as long as it's interesting. We're all just grateful he has an unusual definition of "interesting."

[16]: Except, possibly, in the widest sense of the word.

[17]: See "the Mole," by this same author (i.e. me) or perhaps "Sovereign 1: the Big Acorn," by John Nowak.

[18]: See "Under the Bridge," by John Nowak (there's that name again!).

[19]: Lola Redapple: normal. Juergen J. Juergen: married to a one- armed albino Byronic twin of Gadget. Tad the Security Guy: normal. Leviathan: ...well, you get the idea.

[20]: The Buddy Holly song "Early in the Morning." More fully, "You're going to want me/Want me bad/You're going to miss/The best man you ever had/Early in the morning/Early in the morning/One of these days." (The Neil does it; why can't I?)

[21]: Again, see "the Mole." Fat Cat blames Herbie for this, rather than the actual guilty party (Gadget). This stems more from his rage and emotional scarring than from evidence: Herbie turned down an offer to become Fat Cat's Trusted Lieutenant, after all.

[22]: From "Nightfall," by Isaac Asimov.

[23]: The epigraph to Kipling's 'Rikki-Tikki-Tavi,' from "The Jungle Books." (Rikki-Tikki-Tavi is possessed of the Truly Badass advantage, although the implication of the short story is that it's a racial ad and part of the _very_ _expensive_ mongoose package [39].)

[24]: Clive Barker, "Books of Blood."

[25]: Granted, it's not a way Chip has ever actually been woken up, but that doesn't stop it from being his favorite method.

[26]: It's plain Gadget is unaware that Claire "Combat Reflexes" Dupont is the v-chip poster child.

[27]: Which was pretty darn friendly, she knew.

[28]: Not really, but then, flies don't talk, either. And mice don't wear Nomex jumpsuits, or weld with little butane lighters, or anything.

[29]: Chip is not aware of the reference the two of them have made to the classic television miniseries "the Prisoner," although it makes Herbie snicker [40].

[30]: The Nicomachean Ethics, of course. I'll come right out and admit that while I have read and enjoyed the Ethics (and come to the conclusion that Aristotle would have been very fond of Abraham Lincoln), I saved time and, rather than looking it up, took this particular quotation from the documentation for "Sid Meier's Alpha Centauri." Which I recommend, incidentally. Sid and Aristotle both.

[31]: Clarification might be needed here. Herbie is referring to events of "Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH," chapter 19, "The Boniface Estate." The 'old man' is Nicodemus [41], the 'loyal opposition' Jenner, and the 'goody-goody' Justin.

[32]: Red Dwarf, season VII, episode 2: "Stoke Me a Clipper."

[33]: "The Fantastic Four," #25, page 5, panel 2. (Give yourself a No-Prize for spotting that Stan Lee [not me, for heaven's sake: you think I could write like that?] infamously messed up here: it should be 'Bruce,' not 'Bob.')

[34]: In the particular Ranger universe in which this is set [42], MST3k still comes on television Saturday evenings. We're all in mourning.

[35]: The definition he came up with fit the word "ornithopter" rather better.

[36]: I leap rapidly, if not jarringly, from comedy/adventure to psychological horror and sexual repression. I do apologize for that; maybe I'll get better someday.

[37]: Which is a real strain at family reunions, believe you me. Growing up they always fought over who was "Orpah number one" and who was "Orpah number two."

[38]: I'm from Arkansas, if you haven't guessed. Forgive any imaginative colloquial grammatickisms, please.

[39]: See? What'd I warn you about in the disclaimer? And this doesn't even have anything to do with the story at all!

[40]: Of course, at the time Herbie is suffering from schizophrenia on account of receiving a large transfusion of never-treated-by-NIMH blood. But don't feel sorry for him; he's a jerk.

[41]: One wonders if Nemeniah and Nicodemus aren't related.

[42]: "Not the Nowakverse, but an incredible simulation."

Appendix C

Special Bonus Fun Section For Those Who Read The Whole Dang Thing! Match the character to the line!

1. "The thing I remember most about you, Arthur, is your total disinterest in forming interpersonal relationships. Or was that just with me? Me? Me? Do ray me..." [breaks off into halfhearted song]

2. "Well, you needed the blood. And he wasn't using his any more. 'Waste not, want not. Use it up, wear it out. Make it do or do without.'"

3. "Hello there! I'm so unbelievably thrilled to meet you I think I might just curl up and die of joy right here! And that would leave a mess, so I guess I'd better not, huh?"

4. "Wait! You left this pencil stub! Sirs? Ma'am? Oh, wow, I have one of their pencil stubs... I wonder if I can get it framed..."

5. "What?! Even as we speak they could miles from here, lost in the wilderness, trapped in a world they never made! Fish out of water! Mr. Pibb fanciers in a world of Dr. Pepper drinkers! We've got to find them!"

6. "Mmm. Well, golly, that's a good question. I think my first-order estimation is that it would only be a problem for a short amount of time, since the vehicle drains, as I left it, I mean, drains power at an alarming rate, well, when I say alarming rate I don't mean really alarming, it's enough to last for a week or more of heavy usage but it's not indefinite so if I was whoever has it or I guess I should say had it after all I would worry about it since I probably wouldn't know how to recharge it. So since it's been missing for, um, five lunar months and twenty-two days, I don't think we have anything to worry about from that front. Although if someone was able to... Hmm. I'll have to think about it. Would you like another cup of coffee?"

7. "Huh? I'm, eh, sorry, I was looking at your eyes. Eh, eh, I mean, I was thinking about a novel I read the other day, "Looking At Your Eyes," by, eh, Joe. Joe, eh, Coffee... You're going to, eh, have to start again. Sorry."

8. "Look, Mister Foolish Mouse with Death Wish, in this casino we do not allow card-counters! You are not to play blackjack to win, do you hear me? Only for fun!"

9. "They ARE much smaller than us, right? I mean, I am NOT going in there if they ain't half my size or littler!"

10. "Well, this is just a really tickety-boo situation we have here."

11. "Tickety-boo?! What does that word even mean?! Does it even mean anything?! ... ... Ooh! That looks painful. I'm so sorry, I sometimes just..."

12. "Look, let me explain to you what the word 'bouncer' means. It doesn't mean I get up in the middle of the day and traipse around wherever you feel like... Hey! Wait a minute! This is my first line in the whole text, and it's in an appendix! What gives?! I mean come on, I'm slumming just showing up in this fanfic!"

13. "FOR A TYPICAL QUOTATION, MAIL YOUR FAVORITE BOOK IN A WATERPROOF CONTAINER TO POST OFFICE BOX 23, NEW YORK, NEW YORK, 11871. YOU WILL BE CONTACTED. DO NOT TRY TO CHEAT ME, BECAUSE I KNOW WHAT YOUR FAVORITE BOOK IS."

Answers: What, you're actually trying to solve this? What's the matter with you?! I mean, come on. It's not that hard.

Appendix D

Just to be complete, let me recommend that you, the reader, if you haven't already, read the Plotecher and Nowak MSTing of "Under the Bridge." Thank you.

Appendix E

The numbers of times each character is referred to, very very roughly:

Herbie............295 (not self-insert, honest. I don't even like him)
  Chip..............270
  Foxglove..........250 (more than Gadget... amazing, huh?)
  Gadget............233
  Wart..............219 (good old dumb little Poor Little Wart)
  Dale..............175
  Fat Cat...........156 (six more than Monty... kind of weird)
  Monty.............150
  Sewer Al..........123
  Luwini............121
  Zipper............111 (poor guy, coming in at #11)
  Jiffy.............106
  Rat Capone........106 (this one surprised me)
  Claire.............97
  Snout..............60
  Seth...............53
  Sugar Ray Lizard...52
  Mole...............50
  Nemeniah...........46
  Noah...............43 (visualize Harvey Keitel)
  Xia................40 (this one too -- Xia beat Tobit?)
  Arnold Mousenegger.37
  Tobit..............36
  Mepps..............32
  Arthur.............29 (and he didn't even appear in person)
  Prickles...........20
  Jenner.............18 (ooh -- scary! evil supervillain!)
  Camembert..........10
  Stalker.............6 (not really a character)
  Aluminum............2
  Bindings............1 (the glue that held this text together)
  Jonathan Brisby IV..0

Appendix F

The original theatrical trailer, available on this, the special letter- box DVD director's cut edition of "Rat, Bat, Alligator-God."

RAT

BAT

ALLIGATOR-GOD

"Well, you needed the blood. You needed the blood, and he wasn't using it... 'Waste not, want not. Use it up, wear it out. Make it do or do without.' All nice and cozy, nice and cozy with fresh blood." Luwini looked at Herb quizzically. "Is there a problem?"

Snout shifted his bat from one hand to the other. "We are a lot bigger than them, right?" he asked uncertainly.

Her extremities went all numb and icy as her universe came crashing down around her... Gadget screamed and kept on screaming as she sank into a chair.

It had worked out all right, though. Seth had known it would. After all, they were doing Sewer Al's work. Nothing could harm them.

"Overreacting?!" Claire almost reflexively snapped Foxy's neck as if it were a twig, but resisted the impulse.

Downstairs Xia was almost beside herself with anxiety. The Rescue Rangers were here, in a dangerous situation and she'd let them run off to die without getting their autographs first! If something happened that rendered one or all of them unable to sign their names in her little scrapbook she'd never forgive herself.

"..All the times in the past the Rescue Rangers--Chirp, the stupid one, the smart one, the fly, and the one with the cheese name-- have proven themselves oh so capable of throwing wrenches and ointment into my sinister and deep schemes. Their zaniness, their wackiness, their cheeriness, their disgusting little hats--it is all too much! That is what this little voice is saying with increasing insistence! And I will have that voice SILENCED!" Fat Cat paused, meaningfully, and looked at Wart.

"Um..." The iguana carefully rose to his feet. "You mean... you're going to... kill... them?" he guessed.

"CORRECT!"

"THEY'VE ELOPED!!" Dale rushed back into the kitchen, all the sleep fallen from him.

"But why does he think you're a living avatar of dread, driven from the heavens in a gout of flames and cursed to forever walk the earth, punishing the guilty and causing the innocent to suffer in a bleak festival of the pain and the hurting, with the armadillos and the meanness and the little coat and everything? What's up with that? Huh?"

"If your ugly little friends come to visit, I'll have to tell them you're ALL TIED UP!" Wart laughed some more, slapping a countertop with his hand as he did so.

Chip was feeling considerably more alert after two hours of sleep. In fact he was feeling awake enough to wonder what on earth he had been thinking, taking a nap.

Luwini smiled coldly. "What did I tell you, Herb? What did I say? Easy. Easy as pie. Now all that remains is eliminating the remainder of the threat. We can move on to the next target then. And then the other. And then we'll be done. At that point I have no further plans. But it will be easy. Easy and fun."

"Huh? I... oh, no." Chip started rubbing his temples with one hand. "This again."

Rat...

"It's going to work, trust me. You sound like Arthur. Gods, he always went on about his bloody numerical analysis. 'I think you neglected to include the damping effects of the mass of the Earth in your calculations, Herbert.'" Herb mimicked a tired, plaintive voice. "'Herbert, we only have a few spools of copper wire available for this project; you shouldn't be using it so extravagantly. My projections indicate you could get the job done with a quarter that much wire.' 'Herbert, that's the fifth motor I've had to rebuild this month.' 'Herbert, you've broken both my legs; how am I supposed to oversee the construction of the water wheel now?' Bloody idiot."

Bat...

"Can I help?" Foxglove interrupted. "Hold something steady? Fetch something? Stand quietly by and listen to you swear at the defective pieces of junk you've been forced to work with? Anything? ...Do you need something hammered into something else?"

Alligator-God.

The iguana that entered into the Presence seemed woefully unprepared. No sacrifice, for instance. And he didn't know enough to not bring a flashlight. It was almost too much for Nemeniah. The short mouse in the red turtleneck sweater peered down at the ostentatiously dressed lizard through mouse-sized binoculars, recognizing him as Wart, Fat Cat's Trusted Lieutenant. Nemeniah had been one of the first of the Hands, and in Sewer Al's service for nearly half a year, but it still galled him, no matter how many times he saw it. You had to go into the Presence with a certain amount of respect.

THIS LABOR DAY WEEKEND, THE RAT IS BACK...

Coming very soon. "Rat, Bat, Alligator God" by Jeff Wikstrom is a whopping-big piece of text (well, 52 000+ words) forming the sequel to "the Mole," by the same author. Thanks to Matt Plotecher, whose "Swarm" trailer is blatantly ripped off here, conceptually. Thanks also to everyone who's read down this far. Not the Nowakverse, but an incredible simulation.

...AND HE'S BROUGHT A FRIEND.

"Overreacting my fanny," Claire muttered.