The Mole

ONE [Wild Goose]

The rodents of the largest city in on the eastern seaboard were like rodents everywhere, with only a few exceptions. One of these exceptions was the organization called the Rescue Rangers, but another difference, a more far-reaching and important difference, was the level of citywide organization. Rats and mice everywhere are and were much smarter than humanity expected. In New York, as throughout the globe, the rodents organized themselves into clans and towns, but in this place they took on a larger level of coordination: the last surviving great underground metropolis of Staten City. Here rodents from all over the world met, mainly to discuss engineering, visit relatives, and drink coffee.

At least, that's the conclusion a dispassionate observer might have reached if said observer was following the doings of Gadget Hackwrench, Rescue Ranger, one warm spring night. Her long-lost one-armed albino sister with moderate paranoid delusions, Widget, was in town with her husband and young son. She and her friends were enjoying themselves, listening to presentations, wandering through booths, and eating bad food with the rest of the Society of Rodent Engineers conventioneers.

Actually, eating bad food turned out to be not quite as much fun as they had expected, and the group had split up. Gadget, who had drunk much coffee, was in danger of being late for her meeting with Chip, Dale, and Foxglove as she skipped into the Hotel Ratisson. The wait for the elevator up to the rotating restaurant far above was to her caffeinated state almost unbearable, but still she beat out Widget and her husband.

"Look, officer, I don't see what the problem is," Chip said, annoyed. "The elevator went through the, eh, the roof, and we broke the window so our friend, Foxglove, a bat, could rescue the passengers. See, because bats fly, officer." Chip didn't have a lot of respect for the Staten City police force. That was one of the reasons he had founded the Rescue Rangers.

"Yes, bats can fly," agreed Officer Olivia Cagney patiently as she scribbled on her notebook. She and Lacey had been stationed in the hotel all evening. It had been boring, with no action until now. "And where, exactly, is this bat?"

"The passenger was injured. Foxglove carried him directly to the hospital." Sweat beaded on Chip's forehead. Foxy's carrying capacity was extremely limited, but he had the impression the injured passenger was fairly small and lightweight.

"Her," Dale corrected him, stepping forward. He had taken the stairs up to the roof and met Foxglove. "Foxglove caught a 'her.' It was Gadget, Chip. I think her arm's broken."

The chipmunk in the bomber jacket took a few steps toward the service elevator, then stopped.

"Friend of yours?" Cagney asked him. Chip's face was pale.

The police officer sighed in exasperation. Nothing in this restaurant all evening had made any sense. And even more bizarrely, a black-clad female mouse appeared from where she had been examining the wreckage of the elevator shaft. Her eyes glittered with determination and anger and she carried a thimble with a cap in her right hand.

"Sabotage!" Widget hissed. The cop stared at her, a blank and cowlike expression on her face. Gadget had beat her sister and brother-in-law to the elevators, and Widget and Jürgen had missed the one she rode up on. But Widget now saw she had been quite lucky, unlike her poor sister. Someone would be punished.

Widget placed the thimble carefully on a table, and put her mechanical left arm into Vengeance Position #1: fist clenched and raised threateningly at the forces of Fate. A breeze started to blow in through the shattered window and Widget moved to take advantage of it, so it blew her hair and cape dramatically. She took a deep breath and drew on the courses she had taken on ranting at the Ratigan Institute in London.

"The elevator was modified by some sick, twisted mind to continue accelerating until it reached the destination floor. Since this was the top, it made like the last scene in _Willy Wonka_. It can only have been a murderous plot directed at the next person going to the restaurant."

"A disgruntled waiter, maybe," Chip mused. There were several tables in sight of the elevators. One of the customers must have seen something. Or better still, a waiter. Justice would be done, and someone would be punished.

Widget continued her tirade, ignoring Chip. "The minions of the law may view this lightly, but I swear upon the graves of she who bore me and he who sired me the heart's blood of this transgressor will flow in libation to--"

"Oh, ick..." Dale muttered. Flowing blood he found interesting when it was badly faked in an old movie, but really, people were trying to eat...

"--The wild, cruel gods of crunchy retribution." Widget closed her eyes and sighed, her mouth set and determined.

"Right," Chip snapped. "I'll see if we can find an employee who was present. Dale, go get the manager."

"Hold off there, buddy..." Cagney began. This was police business. "I'm going to have to ask you, all of you, to come to the station and answer a few questions."

Widget had been in that station before and she had no intention of going back. "Looky," she said brightly with a forced smile, showing Cagney her thimble. "I have a thimble," she added, to emphasize the point.

"What on earth?" Cagney asked, suddenly suspicious. Her world was spinning out of control and she didn't know who or what to blame. She took the cup up, flipped off the top, and, not really understanding why, took a deep whiff. Her eyes glazed over, and she fought for balance before losing and crashing to the floor in a heap.

"Ether," Widget said with a joyless smile. "I got it downstairs. To help Gadget settle down after all that coffee."

"Gadget's in the hospital, Chip..." Dale looked nervously at him. He was still just standing there, motionless.

Chip bit his lip. He could hear two loud voices in his head. The first was telling him he needed to get to the hospital and the mouse he loved, quickly. That would have to wait, insisted the second voice, which was listing and assessing possible methods of elevator sabotage. He had work to do here, work he couldn't trust to anyone else. He didn't say anything for nearly three seconds.

"Dale," he finally barked out. "Go downstairs, get Monty and go to the hospital."

Dale had already pressed the elevator button before he realized Chip wasn't coming. "Chip?" he asked uncertainly, but his best friend had already run off to the kitchen, Widget in tow.

"Officer Lacey?" the albino mouse in the cape asked her. Odd. Most mice don't wear capes.

"Yes, can I help you?" Lacey wondered what had happened to Cagney. She had said she would only be gone a moment...

The white mouse shoved a thimble under her nose and uncapped it. Before she knew what was happening, Lacey had taken in a deep breath of ether.

When Lacey came to, she was tied up and gagged in what looked like a broom closet. She could see her partner, similarly bound, leaning against the wall next to her. Man, she thought. Third time this month.

Jiffy was a waiter. His employer, Mister Camembert, would say he was a very good waiter, and the rest of the staff of the Ratisson restaurant would be quick to agree. Jiffy had always wanted to wait tables, ever since he was little. When the other squirrels would put on masks and pretend to be Teenage Mutant Ninja Humans, Jiffy would put on a black jacket his mother made and take their orders when they went to a restaurant. Jiffy liked his work. It would even be fair to say that he loved his job. This fact may have made him unique among all the waiters in Staten City, if not the world.

Jiffy didn't like excitement. Excitement distracted people, kept them from digesting their food properly. Excitement could get you a bad tip. Patrons of the rotating restaurant at the top of the Ratisson didn't come for excitement. "They come for good food, a good view, and great service!" Jiffy used to say, until Claire made him promise to stop (Claire did not like her job).

So when the elevator blew its shaft and two chipmunks threw their table out a window, Jiffy started to worry. Excitement seemed to be building. Fortunately, the restaurant was just closing when the whole thing started, so a minimum of customers were subjected to it. Jiffy started worrying even more, however, when one of the chipmunks (a frightening, powerful individual in a leather jacket) and an albino mouse in a cape incapacitated the police officers and began interrogating the staff. This much excitement wasn't good for the soul.

They had begun their reign of terror with Jiffy's worthy employer, Mr. Camembert, and when that corpulent mouse rolled out of his office, his eyes wide with fear and his brow covered with sweat, croaking out orders that the kitchen staff and service personnel must against all better judgment submit to the terrible inquisition a heavy silence settled over said staff.

Once Claire had emerged, shaking and ashen-faced, Jiffy's turn was next. He stepped into Camembert's office, noticing that someone had turned the lights down. The Chipmunk In The Bomber Jacket was seated at Mister Camembert's desk. The Albino Mouse With A Cape stood near the door. Jiffy sat in the proffered chair, facing the chipmunk, his back to the mouse.

Already he feared something had gone terribly wrong. They began by asking him his name and address, and the names and addresses of family members.

"Why do you want my mother's address?" he asked. He didn't think he'd like the answer.

"Oh, don't worry about that," The Albino Mouse With A Cape assured him. She did that thing with her smile that he had seen her do to Camembert. "We only ask that in case you lie to us, or conceal information. But I'm sure you'll cooperate; you don't seem to be sucidally insane."

Ice formed in the pit of Jiffy's stomach as the interview began...

It wasn't so much Good Cop, Bad Cop as Bad Cop, Sociopathic Cop. After they had finished interrogating the staff, Chip leaned back and tabulated the results. It wasn't pretty. Four employees were eventually willing to sign blank confessions. One had confessed to stealing a piece of candy when she was six. One of the hostesses had tried to throw herself prostrate upon Widget's mercy, but missed, hitting her paranoid rage instead. Camembert himself had sweated off ten pounds. Two more employees had attempted to pin the blame on a loved one rather than face down Widget's gaze, and absolutely no one had given him any reason to believe the elevator had been sabotaged by an employee. No one had any grudges against the management, nor did they suspect anyone else. A quick chat with the owner precluded the possibility the attack was by a protection racket, rival restaurant, or bitter insurance company.

"I think this has been a blind alley," Chip said to Widget. He needed to come up with a way to get rid of her. She had a remarkable knack for hostile interrogation, but he needed to disprove some theories and follow some long shots.

"What comes next, then? Track down everyone who was in the building at the time and question them, one by one, leaving no stone unturned, following every lead, like the dogs let loose to hunt? We will track them wherever they hide: like the cobra and the mongoose, so shall we be. There is no place in this universe in which they can conceal themselves, for their guilt calls out to me, and I feel the need for vengeance in my soul!" Widget's arm slid easily into Vengeance Position #6 (Pointing Accusingly at the Spirits of Darkness that Protected and Concealed the Guilty).

Chip was saved by a knock on the door. Jürgen, Widget's husband. Thank God.

"Excuse me, Chip, Widget, but it's after midnight. Shouldn't we all be getting to bed?"

Widget looked at Jürgen.

Jürgen looked at Widget.

Chip looked at them both, watching, amazed, as Widget and Jürgen managed to have a lengthy and suprisingly complex discussion with just their eyes. It only took a few seconds. He blushed politely.

"All right," said Widget. "We can get back to work in the morning. Do you have any news about Gadget's condition?"

"No," Jürgen said. "But as I said earlier, her wounds were primarily superficial. She'll be fine." Anxiety flashed over his eyes. "We can visit her in the morning," he repeated firmly, "she'll be awake then."

"You two go on ahead," Chip said as he rose and began picking up his notes. "I'll be along in a few minutes. Say, Widget, could you let the cops out of the closet on your way out?"

As Widget got up, Jürgen moved closer to Chip. "She gets like this every so often," he whispered as she left the office. "It's... endearing."

"Thank you," Chip whispered back empathetically. It was time to get to work.

At two in the morning, Dale was in bed reading comics, just settling down to get a good night's sleep. He and Monterey had met Foxy at the hospital. Gadget would be fine; she had contusions in her arm and a dislocated shoulder. A few scrapes. Foxy had met Gadget in midair -- she had built a parafoil out of the stuff in her pockets --and Gadget had insisted on landing herself. She came down a little rough, was all. Chip would, he knew, be relieved when he heard it.

Dale set down his chipmunk-sized copy of _Watchmen_ and turned the light off. He'd scarcely had a chance to roll up in his blanket when Chip came in and flipped the light back on. He looked tired and, for some reason, damp.

"Hey, Chip! Good news..." Dale began sleepily. "I need to borrow one of your comics, Dale," Chip said, tapping his foot. "Do you have a copy of 'Sandman #8'?"

All the drowsiness slipped out of Dale as he sat bolt upright. "What? 'The Sound of Her Wings?!' You want to borrow 'The Sound of Her Wings?' Why, Chip?"

"There's no time to explain. I'm in a hurry. Where is it?" Chip moved to the stack of polybagged comic books and started looking through it. "Sam and Max... Sonic... Sonic... Sandman! This the one?"

"No, Chip, that's 'Sandman Mystery Theater,' Dale answered him patiently. "You remember, I tried to get you to read that one? 'Sandman #8' is on the bottom." Dale was out of bed and digging through his stack. "Now be careful with this, it's signed by the Neil himself."

"Ah, yeah. Here it is. Good. Night, Dale." Chip slid the comic out of the stack. The stiff cardboard backing in the bag made rolling the comic impractical, so, balancing it on one edge, he started pushing it out of the room. "See you in the morning."

"No problem, Chip. Always willing to help out a fellow Rescue Ranger." Dale felt good, vindicated. He had known his comic books would come in handy someday. "Say, Chip... why do you want it? Chip?"

But again, Chip was already gone. As Dale climbed back into bed, he suddenly realized he hadn't had a chance to tell Chip the good news about Gadget. He'd find out soon enough, of course; it wasn't a big deal. Dale slept the sleep of the just.

Under any large city there is another world, miles of tunnels and storm sewers, drains and access hatches, subway tunnels and fallout shelters. New York is no exception. Fifty feet under the stone lions at the public library there is a cavernous drainage tank, where eight smaller storm drains converge. The waters are murky and cold. Here it was said the thing made its home.

Chip slid his precious cargo down the tunnel, up to his ankles in slow-moving water. Initially he had worried about water damage to the comic book, but Dale was a firm believer in tight seal on the polybag. Chip was counting his paces. It was easy to get lost this far down, in dark tunnels barely large enough to admit a basketball. He'd heard stories of mice getting turned around, lost for days, until heavy rain flushed the tunnels clear.

He'd attached a penlight to the side of the polybag with duct tape, but even so all the tunnels looked alike. It was with a sigh of relief that he finally slid the comic onto the narrow overhang above the drainage pool he had been trying to find again. The tightly-wrapped parcel he had left behind on his last visit, barely an hour and a half ago, was gone, with no trace it had ever been there.

"Sewer Al!" Chip called down to the water. His voice echoed through the shafts. "I'm back! I have the comic book!"

Peering intently down at the surface, Chip saw the still water begin to ripple. A few bubbles rose out from the bottom.

"TURN OFF THAT LIGHT."

The booming voice came from everywhere at once, echoing through the pipes. Even though Chip knew it was a trick of the acoustics, he shivered. Shaking his head, he quickly flipped the penlight off, letting the darkness return to the chamber.

"I have the comic book you wanted, Sewer Al. What do you want me to do with it?" This was Chip's second visit of the night. His sacrifice of _Memoirs of Sheerluck Jones_ had won him Al's promise to find out whether Fat Cat's minions had sabotaged the Ratisson's elevator. Al had said that would take days, however. Days Gadget might not have, if there were more assassination attempts. So Chip had pressed the monstrous alligator for speed: hence, the need for Dale's comic book.

"LEAVE IT WHERE IT IS."

In the darkness the voice was even more terrifying. Chip slipped on the slick, damp brick platform. He heard a faint splash a few seconds later. His fedora had fallen into the pool.

"I HAVE CONTACTED MY AGENT IN FAT CAT'S ORGANIZATION. WAIT."

Herb was in a good mood. It was a quiet night in the casino, and he had easily won nearly thirty Staten dollars off of Prickles and Snout in a poker game. He might have resented the faint pinging sound coming from his hat, but tonight he was willing to quit while he was (as usual) ahead, for a few minutes at least. Pocketing his SC$30 and excusing himself, the tall rat hurried into the men's room and removed his stovepipe hat. He thought the thing was ridiculously ugly, but his job required it, and all in all it was a bit of good luck that archaic headgear was fashionable at Fat Cat's.

The tiny alphanumeric pager on his head flashed a single word: "ASSASSINATE?" Assassinate? His principal wanted to know if anyone had been assassinated at Fat Cat's? (No.) If anyone had attempted to assassinate Fat Cat? (Not that Herb knew of.) If Fat Cat had assassinated anyone? (Not hardly.) Herb sighed. He was going to have to talk to the principal by telephone. He would have to get the rest of Prickles' and Snout's pay some other time.

Herb stepped out of the restroom, adjusting his hat. "Aw, look at the time," he said, gesturing to the clock on the wall. My shift's over. I'll see you jokers tomorrow."

"G'night, Herbie." Prickles waved genially to him.

Herbie was almost out the door before he stopped and turned around, chuckling. "Say, Snout, I've been meaning to ask you but I keep forgetting. What's the boss up to these days? Spending all that time in his office... I mean, I've been stuck doing door duty for weeks now."

Snout shrugged as he started picking up his cards. "You know the boss, Herbie," he began vaguely. "If you're not in on the plan you don't know jack. These days he's playing things close."

Herb snorted theatrically, the way "Herbie the bouncer" often did. "So you don't know anything either? Man, our talents are just going to waste! Am I right, hm?"

Snout and Fat Cat had a complex relationship, one Herbie didn't try to understand. One week he was part of Fact Cat's elite troubleshooting cadre, the next on door duty with Prickles. Still, he usually knew more about the boss's doings than most.

"Yeah, well, you know the boss," Snout said again, as if it were an aphorism. "I think these days he's lying low. Mepps says he's spending all his time on the Internet. Next time the boss has something planned, I'm sure we'll be in on it."

"Internet, eh?" Herb chuckled. He'd have to find someone both stupid and a little closer to the inside, probably Mole, but the prognosis looked negative. "Well, I'll be going... See you jokers tomorrow."

The only part of his job Herb really hated was actually communicating with the principal. Lying, back-stabbing, acting as stupid as Snout, intentionally losing every fifth or so game of poker, the casual everyday, betrayal of being a (figurative) mole--that was nothing next to calling that spooky alligator on the telephone.

Herb climbed the phone booth, unhooked the receiver, and used a pencil to call the principal, collect.

"HELLO."

Even over the telephone, Herbie could hear the dampness and the darkness.

"This is your man inside, reporting in with a request for more information about the assignment." Best to get it over with as quickly as possible. Herb had met his principal, once. Once. He had nightmares about it every few weeks: the teeth larger than his own body, the jaw so huge it could eat Fat Cat in one bite, the chthonic, staring eyes... Best not to dwell on it.

"GADGET HACKWRENCH SURVIVED A POSSIBLE ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT AT THE RATISSON HOTEL, IN STATEN CITY, FOUR HOURS AGO."

Gadget Hackwrench... the Rescue Ranger. Hmm. Shame she survived. Hackwrench had been involved in a raid on the club, oh, nearly a year ago now. Although he hadn't actually seen her, Herbie recalled being knocked over with suction-cup darts, electrocuted, and nearly crushed under tank-treads. Insult added to injury... he'd pay them back for that at some point down the line. But it did make the job easier. "Four hours ago? Then there's no way the boss was involved. All tonight he's been up in his office, playing with his newest toy. Fat Cat always likes to be around whenever a plan goes down. Unless he's left in the last few minutes, the boss is still up there."

"ARE YOU CERTAIN?"

"Sure as I am of anything. No one from this organization's been anywhere near Staten City in days."

"GOOD." The line clicked and went dead.

Herb hung up. He needed a drink. First, though, he thought as he remembered the time, he needed to make a transatlantic call.

Chip sat in the dark for quite a while -- he wasn't sure just how long -- before Sewer Al spoke again. His foot had gone to sleep and he passed the time by going over possibilities in his head.

"If it's not Fat Cat, maybe Rat Capone. He's been after Gadget since he met her," he said aloud. He scratched his head. Widget couldn't absolutely rule out mechanical failure. Or maybe someone else had been the intended victim, and Gadget just in the wrong place at the wrong time... He would need to interview her, after she'd had a night's sleep to recover.

"I HAVE COMMUNICATED WITH MY AGENT. FAT CAT WAS NOT RESPONSIBLE."

"Are you certain?"

"YES."

That ruled that out. Chip was about to ask another question, but...

"GOOD-BYE."

That was all the encouragement to leave he needed. Regretting only the loss of his hat, Chip turned on his penlight and began making his way out of the underground. There were still plenty of theories to be disproven. He'd need the layout of the Ratisson...

It was seven in the morning before Chip made it to the hospital. The original blueprints for the restaurant were in his hands (it hadn't been easy to get them from the planning office in the middle of the night, but he had managed) as he knocked on Gadget's door. Monty opened it.

"Crikey," he said, plainly exasperated. "What on earth kept you, mate?"

"I've been busy, Monty. What are you doing later this morning? I'd like you to help me perform some reconnaissance at Rat Capone's place..." Chip surveyed the room. Jürgen and Widget were sitting at a table in a corner, eating Cheerios. "We can talk about it later. I've narrowed the elevator sabotage down to three possible scenarios..."

"Chip?" Gadget called from the hospital bed. Her arm was in a sling, but she looked only a little worse for the wear. "Chip, where have you been? What happened to your hat? Monty said you didn't make it in last night..."

"Oh, good. You're awake and without permanent damage. Gadget, I need you to tell me exactly what happened on the elevator." Chip set the plans down, sat next to Gadget, and pulled out a notebook. Soon he would have someone to punish and justice could be done.

"Um, I remember I was afraid I was going to be too late meeting you and Dale and Foxglove up in the Ratisson where you wanted me to meet you and Dale and Foxglove..."

"Yes, and...?" His pencil was poised over the paper.

"And I remember thinking that the darned elevator was taking an awfully long time to get to the restaurant, and anyway it would be kind of fun if the elevator went a little faster, you know, like a ride... It would have been really cool." Gadget sighed, a wistful look in her eyes.

"You didn't." Chip's hand involuntarily twitched, making a jagged mark across his notebook.

"Well, golly Chip, if I'd had a little more time to make the parafoil, or if it had been a little windier out, I'd have been fine!" "You rigged the elevator yourself? Again?!" Chip wiped his forehead, then sighed. It was really kind of endearing.

Jürgen looked at his wife. "What exactly were the two of you doing last night?" he asked her, keeping his expression blandly pleasant.

Widget scratched her nose and looked at the tabletop. "Well..." she began, then stopped. Her eyes widened as her mouth formed an O of surprise. "Omigosh. Chip, I forgot to let the cops out of the broom closet."

Chip resisted a sudden urge to bonk everyone in the room, starting with himself. "I'll be back in... a little while," he said as he got up. Setting his notebook down, Chip hurried out, resolving to stop and get a thimble of coffee on his way back to the Ratisson. Should I untie and then explain, he thought to himself, or explain and then untie?

Gadget sighed. "He does something like this every few weeks. It's... endearing, really," Gadget told Jürgen. "Could you pass me a Cheerio?"

Fade to black.

TWO [Cheese Chowder]

"With any recovery from morbidity there must go a certain healthy humiliation." (G. K. Chesterton, "The Man Who Was Thursday," 1908.)

-- ABOUT THREE MONTHS LATER --

Fade from black.

"Herbie the Rat" leaned back, smiled behind his dark sunglasses, and collected his winnings. He'd been at Fat Cat's for eight months now, and in that time, Herb had come to realize that most of the boss's employees were truly stupid. Organizing a regular poker game had been a stroke of genius. While he was careful to lose enough not to rouse suspicion among his dimwitted coworkers, Herb was slowly accumulating a small fortune in Staten City dollars.

"Well, you win again, Mister Clever Rat," Wart said, sipping his drink. "I suppose it's time to call it a game, boys."

"Yeh," agreed Mepps. His grating whine made Herb wince. "The boss doesn't like us playing cards while the casino is open."

"What do you say, Mole, one more hand?" Herb flashed him a smile. Mole was an easy target.

"Uh, I dunno, Herbie. It's almost sunset, and I love to watch the sunset." The squinting Mole yawned and stretched his stunted arms.

"Oh, well. I'll be going, then. Say, Wart, before I go... could you do your Peter Lorre impression again?" Herb got a kick out of cajoling the iguana into performing for him. "C'mon, just say that bit you did last week..."

"All right, all right. 'You know, Rick, I have many a friend in Casablanca, but somehow, just because you despise me, you're the only one I trust.'" Wart's already bulbous eyes seemed to leap out of their sockets as he leaned over into Herb's face, speaking with a soft intensity.

"Great, great. I'll see you jokers later." Herbie got up to leave. Wart's eyes reminded him it was time to check his principal's mail drop, one last time.

The sun was setting behind the monolithic office buildings of the city, as the Ranger Wing sped over the cool waters of the harbor, towards the industrial park. Their prey was more agile than the Wing, even under Gadget's piloting, but the heavy batteries mounted in the rear of the vehicle were proving to have a longer staying power than the pigeon.

Earlier that day the Rangers had launched a sting operation on a group of small-time confidence artists working near the docks. The rest of the gang (two mice and an insect) were rounded up easily enough. This pigeon, imaginatively named Lenny the Squib, was a little more work.

Lenny was in a panic. His only friends were in a holding cell by now, all the money was in some evidence locker, and the Rescue Rangers were slowly gaining on him. He needed a safe haven, and there was nowhere to go... unless...

There! Lenny could see a large storm sewer pipe emerging out from under a parking lot adjacent to the harbor. A slow trickle of rainwater dripped out. It was just large enough...

Monterey Jack leaned over the side of the Ranger Wing for a better view, almost upsetting its balance. He watched, amazed, as Lenny the Squib dove, almost into contact with the water of the harbor. He gasped again, when he realized the Squib wasn't attempting suicide, but planned on landing in the sewer pipe. It was, after all, barely a foot in diameter...

"Careful, careful..." Lenny muttered to himself. He had only done this once before, and that had been in a dream. He clicked his beak nervously. Almost... almost... now! Lenny lined up his attack, clenched his beak, and closed his eyes, as he dove straight for the small pipe. A miss would mean flying straight into a brick wall.

Lenny the Squib was about five inches tall, easily small enough to maneuver in the pipe. He hadn't realized, however, that his wingspan cleared one foot by a bit... The pigeon bit his tongue as he felt the tips of his wings smash, on either side, into the thick piping. The pain was so intense that for a moment he thought he hadn't made it, that he'd crashed into the wall. Losing all sense of direction, he tumbled, end over end, trying desperately to fold his wings. In a heap he landed in the pipe, three feet from the entrance. His wings felt like they were on fire. But when he realized it was only his wings that ached, he almost guffawed. He wouldn't be flying anywhere for a while. Good thing he hadn't been planning on needing to fly. The pigeon limped up the drainpipe, into the mud.

When the Rangers saw what Lenny was doing, they held back, uncertain what action to take. But once the Squib had landed, and all in one piece, Chip realized that the prey was getting away.

"Gadget, we're going to have to go after him down there. Land the Ranger Wing up on the parking lot." Chip pointed below.

"Roger, Chip. Taking her down." Gadget pulled levers and pushed buttons, and the Wing lurched into VTOL mode, kicking up dust as it slowly came back to earth.

The Rangers hopped out of the vehicle. Dale began unstrapping the penlight from the bottom of the Wing as Chip assessed the situation. "All right. Dale, Zipper, you and I are going down there. Monty, Gadget, guard the exit in case he doubles back on us."

"Golly, Chip," Gadget began. A thoughtful look crossed her face as she turned to look at him. "I think this may be a little risky."

All the Rangers stopped what they were doing and turned, staring at her. An assessment of 'risky' from Gadget was something to be taken seriously. Dale spoke first.

"Risky, Gadget? What do you mean, risky? Risky like the time we went into orbit, or risky like the time we accidentally flew from the East Coast to Tibet, or risky like the time Widget tried to kill us, or what?"

"Risky like..." Gadget paused, then scratched her chin. "Did we ever hunt a pigeon in a storm sewer drain the day the city was scheduled to test-flood the auxiliary pumping system? Does that ring a bell, Chip?"

"I don't think so, no," Chip replied, his expression cautiously bland. "So risky like how, exactly?"

"Well... golly again, Chip. I can't really think of a situation we've been in which is completely analogous to the situation you're proposing." "So...?" Chip had the look of a chipmunk with the distinct feeling he was missing something.

"So... I think you should use a safety line, just in case." Gadget smiled brightly at him. She pulled a reel of line from under the passenger seat, fiddled with it for a few seconds, and then tossed one end to Chip.

Chip shrugged, then looped the line around his waist several times, secured it, and made certain Dale was also firmly secured. "You okay there, Zipper?" Dale asked the fly.

"Fly; no need," Zipper answered, packing the most information possible into the roughly three syllables he could comfortably enunciate in one breath.

"All right," Chip said. "Let's get going."

The two chipmunks lowered themselves down to the pipe opening, Zipper following. Chip wondered, briefly, if he might happen to find his hat in this trip through the pipes, then pushed that thought out of his head. He knew he'd have to get a new one. But finding a size 1/16 fedora wasn't easy, even in the garment district.

Lenny was starting to wonder if this had been such a good idea. First he had managed to get himself lost, which, all things considered, hadn't been much of a challenge. The maze of twisty little pipes, all alike, crossed each other so often and so randomly the Squib wondered whether they had been designed by a sanitation engineer or if they had been formed naturally by erosive forced of wind and water, and the city was just lucky to be able to tap into them to use them as storm drains.

His concern increased when he started to hear the chattering of his pursuers echoing through the pipes. While he couldn't trace the sound, the mere fact that he could hear them following him pointed to their being fairly nearby. He continued on, wondering if he was going around in circles, until he began to hear another sound.

A faint rushing, roaring sound. A kind of swirling, wet, whooshy kind of sound. It could only mean one thing. Lenny held his breath.

When the wall of water hit him, he spread his wings, letting the current carry him out the pipe and down to the surface of the harbor. His entire body stung, except in his wings, where he had crashed them into the pipe. Those were completely numb. Not a good sign. At least they weren't hurting any more, he told himself. Lenny wondered how long he could stay conscious.

Long enough. The squib glided straight out the main pipe, a quarter-mile from where he'd gone it. When he hit the water, he crowed in delight. He'd outsmarted the Rescue Rangers! Granted, he'd nearly drowned, probably broken one or both of his wings, lost his friends and all his money, but he had gotten away!

The adrenaline rush would wear off in a few minutes, Lenny knew. Then the pain would set in anew. He started swimming to shore with great haste.

Dale shot out of the pipe in a roar of water. The reel spun furiously as the line played, out of Gadget's control. The water was coming out at such pressure that Dale had flown out with it at a remarkable clip. Gritting his teeth, Monty leaned into the device, eventually getting tension in the line. Dale, who was screaming all the while, kept flying until the line suddenly went taut, at which point he jerked straight down into the water.

"Zipper!" Gadget shouted as she and Monty began to reel Dale in. "Fly out there and make sure he's okay!"

Fifty feet out, Dale had had the time of his life. "That was GREAT!" he told Zipper, cackling. "We need to investigate those sewer drains EVERY DAY! Several times!"

Zipper decided it was safe to reassure Gadget that Dale was okay, despite private concerns.

"Where's Chip?" Dale asked the fly.

Zipper's face registered shock. Dale knew that the although the Zipper couldn't easily say it, the answer to his question was something along the lines of "we assumed you knew."

The apartment was a hole in the wall, Herb reflected as he eased through a gap in the only window. He had no idea how the principal paid the rent, or for that matter afforded his expensive services. As he walked across the bare floor, he wondered, not for the first time, who and what his principal really was. He had only seen Sewer Al once, on an occasion he'd just as soon forget, but on reflection he'd come to realize that could have been fairly easily faked. Probably. At least, he and his old friends could have faked it without too much trouble. The only thing Herb knew for certain about the principal was that it wasn't a front for Fat Cat. He'd spent almost three weeks making sure of that.

"'And in three weeks I can get into the Bank of England, or a nun's knickers,'" Herb muttered to himself. It was a bad habit he'd started to pick up from his wife. No, his principal wasn't the boss. He was certain of that. But what the thing was, he didn't really know. Maybe someone else from the old firm had made a place for themself. Herb doubted that, though; they would have told him.

The envelope roused Herb from his reverie. Big and thick and manila, it was addressed, like all the mail Herb collected for the principal, to 'S. Al' The return address, he noted, was a Washington-based law firm. Herb was tempted, as always, to sneak a peek at the contents, but he'd worked for the principal long enough to know that was a risk he didn't want to take. He picked up the inch-thick envelope from where it lay under the mail slot and hoisted it above his head. Hidden under it, he saw, was another, smaller envelope, addressed to 'Mr. Herbert:' his severance pay. Herbie set his cargo down and opened the letter from the principal.

In the envelope, in addition to the usual sheaf of various denominations of dollar bills, human and Staten, was a typed note. His services, it seemed, were 'valued' by the principal, who was 'inquiring as to the possibility of a second eight-month term of service.' Herb almost chuckled. He had only a few days until he was due in France. He'd drop off his pager with the legal document. Hopefully, the principal would take "no" for an answer.

Chip clung to the side of the pipe for dear life. His safety line had snapped and he firmly doubted his chances if he let go were anything but minimal. Air was a problem. Chip estimated he could hold his breath for at most a minute longer. This would have panicked him, had he not lost all track of time.

Also the moss he was clinging to was slowly giving way. Chip wondered if there had been some way to avoid this, maybe settle down with Gadget or a reasonable facsimile thereof... then he shuddered as he felt the moss tear away completely from the side of the tunnel.

Buffeted by cross-currents, Chip flew through the storm sewers. In retrospect, he was glad he hadn't tried too hard to get another fedora, since it would have been swept away by the fast-moving currents. Unlike, say, a pigeon, Chip had no wings with which to control his motion through the pipes. He slammed against the sides, ricocheting down one tunnel and up another.

Just before he blacked out, Chip wondered what the heck he had meant by 'reasonable facsimile thereof.'

"He must be caught up in there somewhere," Gadget began. "We've got to rescue him, fast!" Deep down, Gadget wondered why she wasn't more concerned about her friend. She was, she knew, entirely confident he would survive intact. Perhaps it was because he always had before.

"But how, Gadget love?" Monty doubted he could swim against that particular current. Gadget had already started working on something, he saw.

"Look, if we stretch this net over the end of the pipe it'll catch him when he comes flying out. Now, I just need about six inches of thirty-pound fishing line... Monty, do you think you could run over to that hardware store for me?" Gadget pulled out a pencil stub and a sheaf of papers and began making notes. "Or maybe I could make an exoskeleton strong enough that you could just walk into the current..."

She trailed off as an unconscious Chip shot out of the pipe, flew fifty feet over the harbor, and landed with splash in the dirty water. He sunk like a stone. "I'm on it!" Monty barked.

"Now that's odd," Gadget said to Monty's back as he ran to the edge of the water and dove in. "Chip should be lighter than the water. I wonder if all the little things he keeps in his jacket are weighing him down."

Dale, who had just finished drying himself off, began to count on his fingers. "Magnifying glass, collapsing fishing rod, paper clip, string, knife, picture of you... shucks, I know I'm forgetting something."

Gadget was pacing up and down the edge of the parking lot, wishing there was something she could do to help Chip, when suddenly she was struck with a revelation. She tried bonking herself on the head, the way she'd seen Chip do it, but it hurt for some reason. "Golly and gee whiz whiskers! I'm an idiot! I can just fly out there in the Wing and pick him up! Well," she amended as she hopped into the driver's seat and started the electric motors, "Monty will have to actually haul him into the Wing, but it'll be much faster, and I can pick them both up, well, not myself, the Wing can pick them up, but as I am the pilot the Wing is basically an extension of me, for grammatical purposes anyway and..." By this point, Dale was out of earshot.

With the sure, powerful strokes he'd learned a very long time ago, Monterey made his way out to where he'd seen his little pal go down. He hadn't swum this fast since he'd outpaced a school of hungry piranhas back in '62, and he'd been a kid then. Monty didn't see any trace of Chip on the surface, not even a trail of bubbles of the sort Monty usually saw when a fellow talking rodent was underwater. Taking a deep breath, he dove under and began searching for his friend.

Gadget landed the Wing on the surface of the harbor. She was fairly certain she was over where Chip went down. Anxiously she scanned the surface. Monty was, after all, an unusually buoyant mouse. Maybe she should rig up a set of SCUBA gear and go in after them...

Gadget sighed with relief as Monty suddenly bobbed to the surface. She could see Chip's inert form in his arms. Quickly the large mouse made his way to the side of the Wing, where Gadget tossed down a line.

"He's inhaled some water, Gadget love," Monty said as he carried Chip into the rear of the vehicle. "I need some room here."

Monterey Jack hadn't performed CPR since he and Geegaw had been stranded in the upper Amazon basin, back in '73, but he remembered the routine. "C'mon, mate, breathe!" Chip suddenly coughed violently, spitting up water. "That's right, Chipper!"

Chip sputtered and gurgled for a second, then sat up. "The, the line snapped," he said casually to Gadget, who had wrapped herself around him with relief. "We're going to, to eh, have to get some heavier stuff for the Wing. And another, another penlight." She nodded, silent.

"You know what I think, mate?" Monty removed his hat and wiped his brow as Gadget detached herself from Chip. She'd been more worried than she had realized.

"You saved my life. I think... I think I owe you a meal." Chip removed his jacket and wrung it out. It felt considerably lighter. He hoped his collapsing fishing rod and his picture of Gadget hadn't been damaged or fallen out. The rest of his equipment could be easily replaced, but the rod was one-of-a-kind and the picture... well, it had sentimental value.

"I think you think quite rightly." Monty smiled self-indulgently as the Wing returned to shore to pick up Zipper and Dale.

Dale climbed aboard, relieved but not surprised his best friend had suffered no permanent damage. "I think," he began, having just caught the tilt of an earlier conversation, "I think that the city must be testing the new auxiliary pumping system today!"

"Yeah, Dale." Gadget was more relieved than anything. She sighed. If she hadn't hesitated the way she did, Chip's life wouldn't have been in danger. If she'd communicated the risk more effectively... she pushed the negative thoughts out of her mind. The important thing was that everyone and everything was okay. Well, almost everything was okay. "It looks like he got away, guys."

"Well then, mates." Monty smiled widely. "Now's as good a time as any." He was hungry; it was dinnertime.

Fat Cat turned off his computer and leaned back. After a few short weeks, the novelty of the Internet was beginning to wear off, and the unscrupulous feline godfather needed something new to pique his interest. Traffic on the Megalomaniac and Animal Crimelord mailing lists had died down; his latest hobby had failed him.

It was time, Fat Cat reflected, to return to his one true love, that which got him out of bed in the mornings and made him eager to slice and rend the day. His criminal empire, limited as it was only by his own capacities, had the potential to grow to a boundless size. Someday the entire animal kingdom would bow before him, recognizing him as the lord and master of all he surveyed, ruler of animals everywhere, the one true king of the beasts...

Fat Cat stopped his mental rant. That last phrase left a bad taste in his mouth. He scowled at the memory. "Every time," he said out loud, "Every time I begin to make inroads on my true and master plan, I am thwarted! With an astounding regularity, those insufferable Rescue Rangers interfere with my plans. The time has come --"

Fat Cat's monologue was interrupted by a knock on his door. "In!" he shouted. "I was talking! I hope, for your sake, that this is happy news."

A pigeon, soaking wet, plodded into Fat Cat's office and started dripping on his carpet. "Sorry about the water," he mumbled. "I, uh, came straight here."

"Ah, Lenny the squib. It has been too long." Fat Cat smiled indulgently. Money always made him feel better. "You've come with this month's profit from our partnership, I assume?"

"Well, uh, no. You see, sir..." Lenny swallowed and began speaking quickly. "The Rescue Rangers got wind of this job we were doing, setting ourselves up as a contracting firm. We'd gotten a group of mice to pay us to build them a nice set of holes, underneath a grocery store. But when we didn't deliver, they sent someone to see the Rangers."

Fat Cat said nothing as Lenny paused for breath.

"Vic and Sally and the hornet are all in the custody of the Staten City Police, Fat Cat. I only got away by flying into the storm sewers. Too small for their little plane, see --" Lenny broke off when Fat Cat picked him up and threw him across the room. "You're, you're not ha, happy about this," he gasped. Fat Cat was red in the face.

"No! I am not happy about this! Every way I turn, every path I walk, each one leads inescapably to one conclusion! SOMETHING MUST BE DONE! I will not sit idly by and watch my empire crumble! I have until now taken a passive stance on the issue of my rodent nemeses, but I can see that the time has come for action! Destruction! Even total ELIMINATION! I will see the end of those disgusting little vermin, and their disgusting little hats! Lenny! Get up!" Fat Cat shouted. "I'm going downstairs to address the staff. When I return, you will be gone!"

Lenny staggered to his feet as the monstrous feline stomped out of the room. All things considered, it had gone better than he expected.

Early in the Rangers' history, Chip created a rule: any time one Ranger saves another's life in the course of duty, the rescued buys the rescuer a meal. After a few months the rule was amended, when Chip calculated Dale owed him breakfast, lunch and dinner for the next four years. While Gadget had found a bit of fault with his arithmetic, nonetheless the system was revised. A congratulatory dinner was awarded to whichever Ranger went farthest above and beyond the call of duty in the course of a mission, paid for by the group. Although this particular mission had not been a total success, three of the four con artists had been captured, and that was something.

For his dinner, Monty selected the Ratisson's rotating restaurant. The cheese chowder over cheese bread in a light cheese sauce (served with the unfathomable cheese wine which was a house specialty) was a delicacy the gourmand gourmet had been planning on trying for a long time.

The ride up the elevator to the rotating restaurant was unremarkable. Chip stood firmly in front of the control panel. Gadget stared coolly off into space, resisting the urge to Rewire and Improve. Monty noticed that the trip did take quite a while, but decided not to say anything.

As the Rangers stepped off the elevator a female mouse in a black jacket stepped forward to greet them. "Yes, hello, welcome to the..." the hostess broke off, eyes wide. "You! What, what do you... don't hurt me!"

Chip rubbed his temples with one hand. "Look, I explained the situation. I apologized. I even bought you a new jacket, to replace the one that got shredded..."

"All right, yes, you've been more than fair, sir. Just don't hurt me! And don't smile! I had nightmares for weeks after she smiled at me!" The waitress had taken a few steps back, until she bumped into the wall. Her russet face was paled under the fur.

Gadget looked at Chip. "Widget?" she asked him under her breath.

"Widget," Chip agreed in the same tone.

"And you still don't want to talk about it?"

"Look, I thought, at the time, that one of them had tried to..."

"Chip," Monterey said as he turned and gave his friend a meaningful look, "Did you do something to this poor girl?"

"No, it wasn't me, no. Let's, eh, just sit down and eat," Chip said. "Is that okay, eh, Claire?" he asked the hostess. "We can sit down, right? You will serve us?"

Claire swallowed. He remembered her name. God only knew what The Chipmunk in the Bomber Jacket might do to her if she refused him. "All right, sir. I mean, of course. Please, follow me."

Claire led the Rescue Rangers through the crowded restaurant. She decided to seat them in Jiffy's section. While she regretted putting her friend in harm's way, it was the restaurant's best waiter who was, she hoped, mostly likely to be up to the challenge of serving... him.

"Hello, boys." Fat Cat's eyes glittered in the semidarkness outside his casino, reflecting light from the street below. Wart, Mepps, and Mole looked up from the collection of coins and jewelry they had collected at the door.

"Hiya, boss," Mepps' voice set Fat Cat's teeth on edge, like a rubbed balloon or chalk on a blackboard. "You look upset."

"I am upset, Mepps," Fat Cat agreed with a deadly calm. "For too long, we have been suffering under the cruel yoke of a tyrant. No more, I say! It is time for this cruelty to end!"

"You mean you're stepping down, boss?" Wart looked surprised, then found his basic view of the universe supported when Fat Cat hit him on the head.

"No, you nattering nitwit! I am not the tyrant! The forces arrayed against my criminal empire are the tyrant!" Fat Cat grabbed the iguana by his dressing-gown lapels shook him. "I'm saying I've come up with a way to defeat our most hated enemy!"

"Atlantic City?" Now it was Mole's turn to be mystified.

Fat Cat covered his face in his hands and roared inwardly for a few moments before he recovered. "The Rescue Rangers! I have conceived a plan so dastardly, so subtle, that even these staunch self-proclaimed champions of all that is saccharine and rodentate will fail before my sinister machinations!"

That shut them up. When in trouble, use words your audience doesn't understand, Fat Cat thought smugly.

"Gee boss," Mepps whined slowly. "That sounds like a great plan."

"I haven't explained it yet!" Mepps flinched, expecting a blow, but Fat Cat chose instead to elaborate on his scheme. "It has been said that if you cannot beat your foes, you should join them. Well, soon we shall do both!"

"What do you mean, Fat Cat?" Mole leaned in, his tiny ears perked up.

"What I mean is that one of you will join the Rescue Rangers, and lead them into a trap! Then, we shall fall upon them as an arrow loosed from the string! The plan is simplicity itself. You all know how these do-gooder activists are keen on helping their fellows! You've all seen how quickly and completely they take fledglings under their wing, little lost lambs, main characters in search of a coherent supporting cast... you will be that main character, that lost lamb." Fat Cat knew his monomaniacal rant was suffering under these constant interruptions. "Now, whom shall I send?"

"It won't work," came a voice from behind him, interrupting him yet again. "Not a chance."

Fat Cat spun around, staring daggers at the interloper. Herbie, one of his door guards. The one with sunglasses and stovepipe hat. The crimelord distinctly remembered hiring him for his prodigious size, not his intellect. "What do you mean, rat?"

Herbie seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "What I mean is, sir, while your idea is basically sound, sir, the Rescue Rangers are by now extremely familiar with your little team here. They'd see through the deception in an instant. And, also, sir, none of these fellows are good liars. We play poker, and I can always tell when one of them is bluffing."

"Not always," Wart muttered.

Fat Cat considered, then reached a decision. Uppity underlings irritated him. "Well then, my immense and sartorially-challenged friend, perhaps I should consider sending YOU on this dangerous and intricate assignment," he said, adopting a patronizing tone. "Your intellectual capacity is so clearly going to waste in your current position."

Behind Herbie, Fat Cat saw Snout elbow Prickles and chortle.

"Well, I'm not sure I'd feel comfortable discussing the details of such a sensitive assignment out here." Herbie surprised Fat Cat. He had more or less expected something along the lines of 'I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking, sir.' "Little pitchers, et cetera. Let's go up to your office and talk, boss."

As Herbie and Fat Cat made their way through the casino floor, the door guards and fee-collectors watched them go. "Now there," Snout said to no one in particular, "goes one strange guy."

"Strange how?" Wart asked him. "Aside from his game and his chutzpah, I mean."

"His eyes glow in the dark. It's true!" Snout saw no one believed him. "That's why we wears the glasses. I saw him cleaning them once when he thought nobody was around."

"I dunno 'bout that," Mole muttered.

"Ah, what do you know, Mister Has No Eyes Himself Anyway? Back to work, everybody." Wart was something of a dandy, and he liked to think of himself as middle management, outranking in some nebulous way Mepps, Snout, Mole and Prickles. He turned back to sorting his heap of change, and the rest eventually followed.

"This table is pretty near the men's room," Chip said. "I think that hostess is holding a grudge."

"For what, exactly, Chip?" Dale asked him as he offered him a half-a-cracker. "Now if I know Widget, and... I mean you can get awfully worked up yourself..."

"Look, I've said I don't want to talk about it. I was questioning the staff, Widget was with me, in retrospect things got a little out of hand."

"Is this at all related to my comic book?"

"I got you anotheronedidn'tI?"

"It was autographedChip!Autographed!"

"LookDaleIwas--"

Before the conversation could degenerate into incomprehensible chipmunk squeaking, Zipper interrupted them, coughing loudly. "Look," he said in his loudest buzz. "Waiter."

Jiffy was actually hanging back a bit, trying to gather his confidence. 'I am a good waiter,' the squirrel recited under his breath. 'I am friendly, cheerful, and helpful. I am a credit to this establishment. Mister Camembert said so himself. I have been named employee of the month for five of the last seven months.' He straightened his jacket, inhaled sharply, and went to face The Chipmunk in the Bomber Jacket. It wasn't as if it was the Albino Mouse with a Cape, after all.

"Hello, my name is Jiffy, and I'll be your waiter for this evening. Can I get your drinks orders, appetizers, or perhaps you'd like a little more time?" Jiffy had said those words more times than he could count. When he was young, he'd practiced saying it in front of the mirror. As he spoke he risked a sidelong glance at The Chipmunk in the Bomber Jacket, and stepped backwards involuntarily. His inflection never changed, however.

"Actually, I think we're ready to order," Monterey said brightly, turning slightly to block Jiffy's view of Chip. "We'll have four orders of the cheese chowder over cheese bread, and an apple core for my friend in the high chair."

"Very good, sir. Would you like cheese sauce with that?"

"Yes indeed, mate. And a bottle of the bonny cheese wine I've heard so much about." Monty's wide grin seemed to Jiffy somehow desperate. Perhaps he was being forced here, kept against his will by The Chipmunk in the Bomber Jacket. While Jiffy sympathized with his plight, any attempt to rescue to poor fellow within the restaurant could only result in excitement. And excitement was just another word for indigestion. And there would be no indigestion. Not here. Not on his watch.

"An excellent choice, sir. I'll be back in just a few moments with your wine." The squirrel who loved only waiting tables smiled politely, and scampered away at the fastest speed courtesy allowed.

Chip noticed everyone at the table was staring at him, again. He rubbed his temples, again. "Look, we'll leave a really big tip, okay?"

Nearly two hours later the Rangers were just getting up to leave when a young busboy (clearly a new hire from the lack of deference he gave Chip) approached the table. "Telephone for you, sir. "

Chip frowned. He wasn't expecting any calls, not here. "I'll meet you downstairs," he told the others. "This'll just take a second."

Chip followed the busboy through the kitchen to the manager's office. They'd cleaned it up before it stained, he noticed as he passed the break room. In the back office, Camembert was just getting up to leave.

"Thought you might like to take your call in my office, sir," the rotund mouse said with exaggerated politeness. He had developed a nervous tic since Chip had last seen him.

"All right, look, I've apologized. It was a mistake. I let things get out of hand. Please, I just... hello?" Chip sighed in frustration as he picked up the telephone.

"HELLO."

Chip closed his eyes and started massaging his temples preemptively. He could hear water dripping, and slow breathing echoing through the pipes. Even over the telephone, it was not a fun and happy sound. "Hello, Sewer Al..."

Herb strolled confidently out of the boss's office. This would be sweet. Herb had never met a Rescue Ranger, but shortly after he began working for the boss they had raided the casino with a Dalek. He'd been run over and nearly electrocuted. They'd pay for that.

And with a bit of luck, he'd arrange things so that Fat Cat's organization would be broken in the process. Herb didn't like the boss or any of his cronies. They were, after all, a bunch of idiot losers. It was, the big rat thought as he made his way across the casino floor, one sweet opportunity.

"I'm telling yas, we really need to do something about the little dodger." In the lobby of the Ratisson hotel, Monty was trying to convince his fellow Rangers that Chip needed an intervention. "You saw how that poor girl was afraid of the blighter!"

"Golly, Monty, I really don't think it's something we need to worry about." Gadget scratched her head, reluctant to think ill of Chip.

"Yeah. I mean, he thought someone had hurt Gadget, and besides, Widget was with him. You know how Byronic she is; she ended up encouraging him." Dale yawned. The conversation would have interested him more if he hadn't been up so late the night before. "Chances are most of that fear was just runoff from her. Widget likes inspiring terror in others."

The elevator pinged as the doors opened and Chip stepped out. "All right, let's get going. Busy day tomorrow."

"What was that phone call, mate?" Monty had taken about all he could from his friend. "Did it have something do to with your terrorizing the staff?"

"No, Monty. As it turns out it wasn't for me. Call was for Chip Justice, not Chip Maplewood." Chip wasn't an especially good liar, but he knew Monty had no reason to distrust him. "And the whole thing with the restaurant was just... it got out of hand. I've apologized, I've reimbursed for damages, I've even left a very good tip. I really don't want to go into any details, so, please. Let's let it go, huh?"

Gadget smiled. "Golly Chip, if you feel that strongly about it, I know we don't have to talk about it." She leaned in and whispered in his ear. "But I would like to know just what you were doing with my sister, you know..." Chip could tell it was bothering Gadget; she'd been a little off-kilter all through the dinner.

"Some other time. Let's go, all right, team? Busy, busy day tomorrow." The Rangers made their way out of the Ratisson's lobby and through the streets of Staten City. Since the city of mice was underground, they had been forced to park the Wing a considerable distance from the hotel.

THREE [Coffee] "The only thing worse than a liar is a liar that's also a hypocrite!" (Tennessee Williams, "The Rose Tattoo.")

Fat Cat had once, about a year ago, made a serious effort at finding the Ranger Headquarters. That is, he sent Mole and Mepps wandering through the park. When they reported that the Rangers probably lived in an invisible flying castle, the cat had leaned all the way back in his chair and asked them how they had reached that particular conclusion. After the meaning of the word "conclusion" had been explained to them, the pair described their reasoning thusly: the Ranger HQ must be highly defended. What better than the castle on park grounds, Belvedere Castle? Careful examination of the small keep had revealed no Rescue Rangers, however, so Mepps and Mole had decided the Rangers must live in a different one. Since they hadn't managed to find any other castles on the park grounds, they reasoned it must be a flying castle, floating up over the park. And since they couldn't see any flying castle, it had to be an INVISIBLE flying castle.

Fat Cat had hunted many mice before he came up in the world, and he assumed from his experiences that Ranger Headquarters was a burrow or hole of some sort. He spent an entire summer afternoon ranging through the park, hunting for it. When he was unable to find anything fitting the description, Fat Cat concluded that the Rangers were homeless vermin, living out of their bizarre little flying machine.

It took Herb about ten minutes to zero in on the big oak tree in the center of the park.

"Hey, Zipper."

The small fly yawned and stretched. It was just beginning to get light--probably only about six in the morning. "Hi," Zipper replied. "What's up?"

"I have some interesting news, and I'm going to need your help. That call I got last night was from Sewer Al." Chip was speaking softly, hunched forward. His head was only a few millimeters from Zipper's. "It was a warning."

"What?!" Even Zipper had heard of Sewer Al. The reptilian oracle provided information only after a substantial payment, never for free. "How...?"

"I don't know how he knew I was in the restaurant. I don't really think I want to know. But Sewer Al told me that a dangerous foe would be coming to help us. I'm not sure what that means, but it doesn't sound good. Frankly, Sewer Al was..." Chip trailed off and shook his head.

Zipper nodded. "Why tell you?"

"I don't know that either. We just need to be alert and ready for anything. I can't tell any of the others. Monty and Dale could never play cool, and Gadget, angel that she is, doesn't have a suspicious bone in her body. I just want you to be on your guard, especially around anyone who's excessively helpful."

"Right, Chip." Zipper had known Chip for a long time now, and he knew well how capable he was of overreacting. Not telling Dale and Monty seemed a bit much. And it didn't seem likely that a "foe" would try to help them. Still, Sewer Al... The fly saluted his leader, then yawned a second time. "Back to bed?"

"Yeah, sure. I just wanted to tell you." Chip shrugged. "It might be nothing, after all." He rose, and left the cramped quarters of Zipper's bedroom, a knight errant questing for breakfast.

Chip was enjoying his second thimble of coffee when Gadget came into the kitchen. Chip took a deep breath, held it, released. "Good morning," he said with a quick smile. The first time he saw her, every day, he had to remind himself that he could not leap out his chair, pick her up, and generally manhandle her.

"Morning, Chip." The gadgeteer gulped down a cup of coffee, then sat down next him. "Chip, I've been wanting to ask you something." Something was bothering her, Chip could tell, and not in a good way. He braced himself for the worst.

Gadget took an extended dramatic pause before asking her question, but when she finally began, it was at a high speed. "When I tried to explain to you that going down into the pipes was really dangerous and you didn't understand me and did it anyway and you almost drowned although I knew that you wouldn't I knew you would be fine why do you think that is Chip that's beside the point I mean are you mad at me for not being more clear on the whole pipe danger thing because now that I've thought about it I remember this time about a year ago when we were at ground zero of a potato-based reactor that was entering the first stage of meltdown and that was about as dangerous a situation as we were ever in although now that I think about it, no one was really hurt which is incredibly lucky if you think about it but maybe on the other hand that just demonstrates the safety of potato-reactor technology say now that I think about it I bet I could build a potato-reactor in our basement that way we wouldn't have to leach city power although we would need a source of potatoes anyway I'm way off my original subject now which was --"

"Gadget!" A lifetime of arguing at high speeds had taught Chip how to understand speeches delivered without pauses, but Gadget was almost blue in the face. "Take a breath!"

Gadget gasped, then continued at a slower rate. "Anyway, Chip, I wanted to know what you thought."

Chip sipped his coffee. This was nothing compared to 'I've noticed you're in love with me, Chip. Kindly knock it off,' which was what he had been afraid of. "Oh, Gadget," he began, his relief showing, "I understood you perfectly. I just didn't want to worry Dale. The pigeon was getting away. I couldn't let that happen. I did let it happen, of course, but I had to try."

"Oh." Gadget looked at her empty thimble of coffee, blushing slightly. "Well."

"Later today," Chip continued, "we can go out and look for our friend Lenny. I'm guessing he's run inland. We can take the Wing out and start asking around."

"Do you think we need a potato-based reactor?"

"No, Gadget."

"I mean, I could get started on one this afternoon, and it would be finished by --"

"No, Gadget."

"I guess you're right. It would have been nifty, though." A familiar and unsettling dreamy look crossed Gadget's features.

"Mmm."

"Chip..." Gadget rose from her chair. "Has the possibility that he drowned crossed your mind?"

"Uh... no." Chip looked surprised. "I've just assumed that he survived the flooding." "Me too. But do we have any real reason to think so?" She crossed to the counter and poured herself another cup of coffee.

Chip considered. "No."

"But, golly, we're sure he's all right, aren't we?" Gadget continued as she returned to her seat.

"Yes..." Chip tapped the table with his finger, thinking.

"Odd, isn't it?" Gadget gulped down her coffee.

"Yeah. That is odd."

When Monty came into the kitchen, he found them sitting there, with empty thimbles of coffee, staring thoughtfully into space.

When Herb reached the exterior of what he mentally labeled the Ranger Tree, he shook his head in wonder. One branch had been planed flat, creating a small landing strip. A door and windows were cut into the trunk, and most ridiculously obvious of all, an awning had the distinctive Rescue Rangers logo embroidered into it. If he had any doubt Fat Cat's cronies deserved to be run down the primrose path he planned on preparing, it was gone.

"No time like the present," Herb muttered. He strolled up to the door and knocked. This was going to be a cake walk. When no one answered he knocked again. Herb figured he could break the door open, but he'd need to fetch a prybar of some kind.

The door was (eventually) opened by a tired-looking chipmunk in a Hawaiian shirt. "They're in the kitchen," he said without preamble. "Come on, I'll show you in."

This was not quite what Herb had expected. "You are the Rescue Rangers, right? It's really kind of urgent..." He trailed off, adjusted his sunglasses.

"Oh, sure. It's just we haven't had breakfast yet. 'Rescue Rangers, away!' and all that. I'm Dale." The chipmunk pulled him into the interior of the tree, shaking his hand. "We are a small but efficient battalion of do-gooders dedicated to the... to the... shoot. Can't remember any more. But it's only what, eight?" Dale opened a door (Herb was amazed at how much had been hollowed out of the oak without killing it) and led his guest into what was unmistakably a kitchen. Herb had to stoop; the door was designed for mice, not large rats.

"Guys, this is... um," Dale trailed off as Herb scanned the room. There were supposed to be five of them, he knew. The fly must be either out or still asleep. Two chipmunks, yes, that was right. The one in the bomber jacket wasn't wearing his fedora for some reason. Polite to that one, Herb recalled, don't want to make him angry unless you're ready for him. Herb had heard about the Ratisson. Two mice, too, that was also correct. The big one, only a bit less massive than Herb although not nearly as tall, he might be trouble. Herb rarely had to fight anyone near his size. The smaller one, Gadget, the clever female who had built the tank that had nearly killed him...

Chip didn't like the way the tall rat in sunglasses was looking at Gadget. "Your name," he repeated. "What is your name?"

The rat snapped out of it. "Herbie," he said. "My name is Herbie. I'm sorry, miss, you... you look just like someone I used to know." He smiled disarmingly. "Where are my manners? You're just sitting down to breakfast."

"Nonsense, Herbie." Chip was all business. "If you have a Case for us, breakfast is a small sacrifice to make. But please, join us, and tell us the problem."

Herbie sat down at the table, as did Dale. "I'm from down near the docks. A few weeks ago, as you know, a community of mice hired a contracting firm to dig a set of warrens under --"

"Yes, yes." Chip interrupted him. "We know all about this. What's the Case?"

Herbie scowled momentarily. "You were asked by these mice, friends of mine, to round up the con men and return their funds. You messed up; one of them got away."

Monterey shrugged. "Situation like that, it's hard enough break up the group. The money the crooks got will be returned in a couple days. What's the problem?"

Herbie smiled as Chip, sensing information was forthcoming, pulled out a pencil stub and paper. "Dale, get Zipper in here, would you? He won't want to miss this." Chip turned to his guest and smiled as Dale ducked out of the room. "Zipper is the fifth member of the team. He's a fly."

"A fly?" Herbie seemed nominally surprised and interested. "Unusual that he spends so much time among mammals, isn't it?"

"Zipper and me go back a long way," Monty began, a defensive edge creeping into his voice. "He saved me life a while back, didn't ask for nothing in return. We've watched out for one another for years now."

"Saved your life?" The guest was clearly interested now. "How on earth did that happen?"

Monty coughed, slightly embarrassed. "I was in N'Orleans, waiting for a tramp steamer from Trinidad to come in, when I got a whiff of cheddar. Eight days later, I woke up in a garbage can, wearing nothing but me Mack and a bonnet, lying face-down in a pile of me own American cheese wrappers." He shuddered at the memory. American cheese still made him queasy. "There's nothing more dangerous than a mouse on a cheese binge. If Zipper hadn't found me, nursed me back to health, and made me swear off cheese for life, I don't think I could have made it out of that rubbish bin."

"Swear off cheese?" Gadget had heard most of the story before, but not this part. "You swore off cheese?"

"Yep. Made it nearly three days, and let me tell you, those were the second to the worst three days in me life. The worst, of course, was back in '82, when I was hung from me ankles by a tribe of degenerate South American tree frogs. There I was, miles from anything remotely resembling a dairy outlet..."

"Yes, well, as I was saying," Herbie interrupted as Dale and Zipper came into the room, "The reason I've come here is simple. I've discovered where the last of the gang is hiding."

"You've 'discovered' this?" Warning bells went off in Chip's head. "How, exactly?"

Herbie looked uncomfortable for a split second, which both Zipper and Chip picked up on, but they didn't say anything. "It's an unlikely story, I know. I own a small hotel near the docks, I guess you'd call it a flop house. Yesterday afternoon a pigeon came in. He got a room, paid cash, and he's been in there ever since. Late last night, I was visiting Lola, one of the Redapple mice, and she told me about the con artists and how one bird escaped. I put two and two together when she described him to me, figured Lenny the Squib was my newest tenant, and came here to let you know, fearless leader."

"Golly! That's incredible! And here we were going to spend all day searching for him!" Gadget beamed at the guest. "How can we repay you?"

"Well..." Herbie appeared to think it over. "He is, of course, racking up a bill while's he's staying at my place. And my time is certainly worth something. On the other hand, I'd be helping out Lola... say, fifty?" Herbie had turned, was addressing Gadget.

While Gadget and Herbie discussed Herbie's finder's fee, Chip and Zipper exchanged meaningful glances. "Suspicious?" the fly whispered to his leader, the sibilance rendering the word almost incomprehensible.

"A bit," Chip whispered back. "Why don't you duck out and make sure this Lola corroborates his story. Can't hurt anything. You remember the address?"

"Right, Chip." Zipper was occasionally irritated by the way he so often was pushed out of the spotlight. Every time Gadget's sister, for example, was in town, Zipper found himself alone as the rest of the team went on wild and exciting adventures of some kind or another. Today, however, that worked to his distinct advantage. No one noticed as Zipper flew quietly out of the kitchen.

Dale looked over and Monty. "Pass the toast?"

"Gotcha, mate." Monty handed Dale a small heap of cheese toast on a plate. "Better eat it fast. We'll probably be going in a minute."

"Tell me, Monty," Dale said as he wolfed down his meal. "Why aren't we ever the ones to get exciting cases and interrupt other people's breakfast plans?"

"We're too polite, mate." Monty helped himself to a third helping of cheese toast. "Not the dramatic and neurotic players, us fellas. More the rock-steady and underestimated support group."

"Rock-steady?" Dale looked doubtful. He didn't feel especially rock-steady, particularly with Foxglove away. "I don't know..."

Herbie smiled, his overlong jaws and bared teeth giving him a moderately sinister appearance. "So we're settled, then. I'll take you back to my hotel, and you can fall upon our friend like an arrow loosed from the string. You pay me the sixty-five, and we're done."

Gadget nodded, her face bright with a professional smile. "No problem. Let's go, guys! Rescue Rangers, away!"

"Rescue Rangers, away," Chip agreed. "Time to get going, before Lenny reconsiders his hideout. Monty, Dale, let's go."

"Here, Dale me pal, let's take some of this with us." Monty scooped up some cheese toast, grabbed Dale, and followed Chip, Gadget, and Herbie out of the kitchen.

Two miles away, Lenny the Squib paced back and forth in the dark. His wings hurt. He had memorized the contents of his "hotel room," a shoebox-sized chamber in a heavily modified refrigerator crate hidden in the back of a disused warehouse. His wings hurt. After Fat Cat had recovered from his obligatory tirade, his boss had sent him to this flop house to lie low.

When Lenny had told the iguana at the front desk who had sent him, she had simply nodded and said "No charge." His wings hurt. The place was a dive, though: no lighting in the rooms, and a few Christmas bulbs in the hallway. He wondered if the boss owned the place, or if he had just paid the lizard off. His wings hurt. Lenny doubted he would be here long; Fat Cat had told him the heat would be on for only a couple of days.

As the Rangers piled into the hangar, Dale frowned. The Wing sat only four, and Herbie was a very large rat regardless. There wasn't going to be enough room for all of them. "Hey, guys," he said, scratching his chin. "There isn't going to be enough room for all of us in the Ranger Wing."

"Then we'll have to crowd." Chip seemed to be in a hurry. "Can't break up the team when we're on a Case!"

"What, do you want Gadget to sit in your lap?" Dale hissed at him. "What's gotten into you? Do we really all have to go just to ambush one lonely pigeon?"

"Trust me, Dale. We all need to stick together on a day like this." Chip and Dale stood shoulder to shoulder, eye to eye.

"You've been acting awfully odd the past couple of days--"

"I really think that the current situation--"

"That'salieandyouknowit!"

"Whatdoyoumean,Dale?!It'sasimplequestionof--"

"Hey! Hey! Hey hey hey hey hey!" Monterey stepped between the two chipmunks, his girth forcing them apart. "Calm down, pallies! Me and Dale can follow Gadget, Chip, and Herbie in the Ranger Plane. Fair enough?"

As bruised egos were smoothed over and Chip surreptitiously bonked Dale, Gadget noticed their guest had an odd smile on his face. "Something funny?" she asked politely.

"Oh, I was just thinking that this job is going to be even easier than I expected." Herbie quickly regained his composure, coughed slightly.

"You mean capturing the Squib?" Gadget's ever-present Smile for Needy Guests brightened slightly. It was gratifying to know the Rangers' core of competency was so self-evident.

"Yes. Of course."

As hundreds of thousands of men and women groped for coffee and listened to "Morning Edition" on NPR, the Ranger Wing sped over the rooftops of the city, the Ranger Plane close behind. From his position in the passenger seat of the Plane, Dale could see Herbie in the back of the Wing, but not Chip or Gadget; the big rat blocked the view.

"How much further do you think it'll be?" Dale asked Monty. "We're almost to the edge of the city."

The Australian mouse was steering the Wing with one hand and finishing off the last of his stack of cheese toast with the right. "Can't say for sure, mate, but it shouldn't be too much longer. We're just coming up on the warehouse district now. See?"

Dale leaned over the side of the Plane, he saw several blocks of large, low buildings slide beneath him. "Yeah."

Suddenly the Ranger Wing dove between two buildings and fell into VTOL. Monty circled once, then landed the Plane with a thump on the cement of the alley a few feet from the Wing. Around them the warehouses towered like concrete mountains. The Rangers and their new associate quickly huddled together along one exterior wall, their innate fear of aerial attack temporarily resurfacing.

"All right," Herbie began. "The hotel is just inside. It's next to the tailor's and the delicatessen. Xia, the desk clerk, will show us to his room. Any questions?"

"A tailor's and a deli? We should get out here more often." Gadget was impressed. "I mean, we don't usually get out this far; the case we're just now wrapping up is kind of unusual for us. I had no idea there was a tailor's out here! I wonder if I can order some new jumpsuits..."

"I suppose we'll have the time afterwards. I'm surprised I didn't know about this. Do you own all three establishments?" Chip cocked his head toward Herbie. A wealthy rat was a powerful rat, and a powerful rat could be a "dangerous foe..."

"Sadly, no. The sandwich-maker and the tailor are self-employed. I opened the hotel just a few months ago. Won some money in a poker game, made it into some more money... you know how it goes, fearless leader." Herbie stroked his overlong snout. "There's a nice little community growing up in that abandoned warehouse. I'm glad to be a part of it."

Gadget was charmed. It was so rare, so sadly rare, to see such a sense of community and societal responsibility! He reminded her of Chip, except Chip didn't smile nearly as often. All in all, Herbie seemed like a very nice young rat. A little overly-concerned with money, maybe, but he was a businessman. "That sounds lovely. It makes me wish we weren't here to arrest a fugitive from justice. Now, how do we get in?"

Herbie led the Rangers along the wall, behind a dumpster, to where someone had widened a crack in the concrete. A small sign hand-painted next to the entry welcomed guests to "Lake Haha," and invited them to visit the "Reason Delicatessen," "Edward Hannover, Tailor," and "Dock Inn." "Lake Haha? What's that?" Dale asked Herbie.

"You'll understand once we're inside, don't worry," Herbie replied.

"'Dock Inn'?" Monty gave Herbie a skeptical look. "I could come up with a better name for a hotel after three days on a cheese binge without sleep! In fact, I did, back in '77..." Monty considered lapsing into reminiscence, but decided it wasn't really appropriate. Not a particularly interesting story, either.

"Hey, it's not that bad a name. Could be worse." Herbie shrugged, only a little defensive, as he and the Rangers headed into the musty warehouse.

Inside the building Dale could see the dramatic difference between the area immediately around the row of refrigerator crates along the back wall and the rest of the cavernous space. Dusty and ill-kept, the warehouse was showing signs of neglect. A large puddle had formed in the center of the area, a mouse-sized pond. Dimly, he could make out some toy boats moored on a dock built from popsicle sticks.

"Is that artificial?" Dale pointed to the lake.

"Yeah," Herbie replied. "They plugged up the storm drain and brought in a hose to fill up the depression. Took a little work to get it deep, though. They call it Lake Ha-Ha-No-One-Is-Using-This-Space- So-We'll-Make-It-A-Lake. Lake Haha for short. It's also the name of the town."

"You're kidding."

"No," Herbie said simply.

He led them to the second refrigerator crate, the one labeled "Dock Inn" in phosphorescent paint. "This is the place," Herbie said. "Should I go in with you, or wait out here?"

"Wait here," Gadget told him. "This is a job for professionals, like us." She turned to Chip. "Whose turn is it, Chip?"

"Let's see... last time was Monty's, so it's Dale's turn."

"Yes! This is going to be great!" Dale was griing from ear to ear. "Everybody remembers how it works, right?"

"All right. The desk clerk is expecting you, so she'll send you right up." Herb leaned up against the crate, adjusted his sunglasses, and watched as the Rangers marched into the Dock Inn. Hook, line, and sinker. Only a matter of time, now. Ten minutes of research, a soft patter, and a flophouse was all it took.

It took Zipper about a hour to find Lola. He knew where the mice who had been duped by Lenny and the rest of the con men were staying, so that was no problem. Just outside the city's industrial park a small biotechnology laboratory sat surrounded by parking lot and storage sheds. It was in one of these sheds that the large Redapple clan of mice made its home. Their burrow wasn't especially big, but it was convoluted, built as it was out of a heavily-modified gas chromatograph casing. The boxlike exterior belied the mazelike interior; the many compartments which had once contained technical instrument components were now filled with bedding and food storage. It was to be hoped that the lab managers never decided to take this particular GC out of storage. The mice had knocked down a few interior walls, but Zipper could see why they had been so eager to move.

"Lola?" As he made his way through the nest, he stopped mice and asked them for directions. Sometimes he passed the same mouse more than once, getting lost and moving in circles. Eventually he found her, in a room which had once housed a control computer. Lola turned out to be a graying, elderly fieldmouse, brown-and-gray with white-and-whiter spots, wearing a jersey of some kind.

"Hello, Mister Zipper," she said after he introduced himself. "How can I help you? The whole nest is grateful for your team's assistance." Behind the plastic smile on her face, Zipper could see the unspoken thought 'And we'll be even more grateful once we have our money back.' It was always the same with chordates.

"Pencil?" Zipper could write better than he could speak, at least regarding words which weren't mostly z's and vowels.

"Oh, of course. Just a second." The mouse rummaged through her things, then produced a pencil and paper, which Zipper eagerly accepted.

'Thank you,' he wrote carefully. 'I need to know what you know about a rat named Herbie.'

"Herbie?" Lola scratched her chin, considered. "I don't think I know a Herbie. I don't know any rats, irregardless."

Irregardless isn't a word, Zipper thought to himself. While he could not express himself verbally very easily, the fly took an interest in language (it's important to have hobbies) and it irritated him whenever a gauche error was made. 'Are you sure?' he continued his writing. 'Tall, dark glasses, affable?' He sketched a rough cartoon of the large, smiling rat.

"Doesn't ring a bell, I'm afraid." The insincere smile on her face now seemed patronizing. Vertebrates were all alike. Unless you personally save their lives they think of you as a semintelligent object. Little wonder the expressions "crushed like a mouse" and "as insignificant as a chipmunk" never entered the language. This was entirely beside the point, however.

Zipper was worried. 'That's all I need to know. Thank you.' The few vertebrates whose trust he had finally gained seemed to be in some kind of danger. With great haste he fled the room, returning only to ask directions on how to get out of the boxy casing.

Lenny's wings hurt. He was starting to get worried about them; they'd never hurt this bad before in his life. He was just considering risking going to a doctor when a knock on the door roused him. "Just a minute," he said, hopping to the door. As he opened it, he wondered if Fat Cat had finally sent someone to help him out.

"Good day, sir!" Four figures rushed into the room. "As duly self-appointed arbiters of justice..." In the semidarkness Lenny could see them running around him in a little circle.

"...and self-declared guardians of all that is good and decent in this world..." It was hard to tell which one was talking. A female voice, he thought. One of the figures was bigger than the other ones... "...it is our duty, our sacred quest..." An English accent? Or was it, what's the word, Australian?

"Heck, it's our pleasure to cart you back to where you belong! But that's not all! Monterey, crack your knuckles threateningly and tell him what he's won and what his options are!"

The big one detached from the circle. Lenny focused his vision, saw it was a mouse in a trench coat. A very big mouse. He cracked his knuckles in a threatening manner. "Well, mate, this is your lucky day! You've already won an all-expense paid vacation of as many years as the judge sees fit to grant you!"

"Now, that's free room AND board, isn't it, Monty?" One of the smaller ones -- a chipmunk? -- interrupted him.

"Too right, Dale me lad. But that's not all! You've also won at no additional expense the opportunity for a severe beating at the hands of the Rescue Rangers!"

"At no cost to yourself -- let me stress that, at no cost to yourself, that means we're footing the bill here, folks -- at no cost to yourself you've been hunted down and surrounded! Even now, as you can see, highly trained operatives --" Lenny spun around in place, trying to identify the source of the brisk, enthusiastic patter.

"Oh, I don't know about highly trained, Chip. I mean, fair is fair, and he does deserve to know that we haven't really been practicing our nonlethal pacification techniques the way we should --" The female again. What was happening?

"Fair enough. So I'll put it to you simple and plain, plain and simple. See, this is all our little joke." Suddenly the figures stopped their mad dance. The fog lifted from Lenny's mind, and he swallowed, quite forgetting the pain in his wings. With a sobering abruptness, he realized that he was surrounded by the Rescue Rangers, with the biggest, Monterey Jack, directly between him and the door. A wicked smile on his face, Chip continued his explanation. "You can either allow yourself to be tied up and come with us to the Staten City police, or you can get beaten into submission, tied up against your by-then-ineffective will, and come with us to the Staten City police. It's your call."

"All right." Lenny sank to his knees. "I know when I'm beat. I'll go quietly." So close...

While Monty and Chip carefully tied Lenny wing-and-foot, Gadget and Dale sat down. Dale's method wasn't as exhausting as Zipper's, but it wasn't as simple as Monty's. "You know Dale," Gadget told him, "I can't deny that your way gets results as much as any other, but... I feel so silly."

"It works, Gadget. Don't knock it if it works. That's, what, a basic engineering principle, right?" Dale always felt a little smug after the team used his method. Zipper hadn't been there to provide the eerie carnival/gameshow background music, he suddenly realized.

"Actually, Dale," Gadget said, warming to the topic, "engineering principles would suggest always using Monty's method. Hardly any risk at all, that way. And it's simple. 'Keep it simple.'" She didn't mention the last word in the expression for fear Dale would take offense. "See, the idea is..." She trailed off, realizing Dale had been distracted by a shiny object on the ground. "Never mind."

"Well, Lenny's in custody," Chip said, coming over to them. "Let's go."

Downstairs Herbie and the desk clerk, Xia, were engaged in conversation when the Rangers arrived, the Squib in tow. He looked up expectantly when they arrived.

"Well, we got him, mate, no problem," Monty said. "So we'll be paying you that finder's fee and..."

"You!" Lenny recognized Fat Cat's door guard. "You sold me out! When Fat Cat gets his claws on you he'll--"

"Fat Cat? What's this about Fat Cat?" Chip was interested. The other three con artists hadn't mentioned him.

"Yeah, I've been working for Fat Cat this whole time. All of us. He sent me out here, and when he finds out you--" Lenny was interrupted by a fast uppercut. His head jerked back and he slumped down, unconscious.

"Hmm. He'll be out for a couple of hours." Gadget looked at Herbie, a very quizzical expression on her face.

"I'm sorry," he began. "I didn't mean to do that. I lost my temper for a second. It just makes me angry that the general estimation of my hotel is so low that Fat Cat himself assumed no one would look for a crook like Lenny here."

"I think you have bigger worries than the reputation of the Dock Inn," Chip told him seriously. "If Lenny here has been working for Fat Cat, he'll come gunning for you pretty quick, just for helping us out."

"Do you think he might attack Lake Haha?" Herbie seemed worried. "I can take care of myself, but... maybe I had better get out of town for a while."

"That's probably a good idea," Chip replied.

"He can stay with us!" Gadget interjected. "I mean, Herbie here is a nice guy and he can sleep on the couch and we won't charge you rent or anything because you'll be our guest! Isn't that a good idea?"

Privately, Chip had reservations. For more than one reason, really. "Eh... I guess. What do you say?"

Herb couldn't resist a moderate Sinister Chuckle. "That sounds like a great idea, guys. There's really no one outside Lake Haha with whom I'd rather stay. Thank you."

"Well, then, let's go!" Dale said impatiently. "It'll be after lunchtime before we get back!"

Xia waved good-bye as Chip, Dale, Monty, Gadget, Herbie, and the unconscious form of Lenny the Squib left the Dock Inn. Fifty bucks from Fat Cat and another twenty from Herbie had more than bought her cooperation.

Zipper was back at the Ranger Tree, waiting for them. He'd have followed them to Lake Haha, except he didn't know they were going to Lake Haha, or where Lake Haha was. where it was. The vertebrate, Herbie, had lied to them. He paced back and forth, worrying. Since he had lied about one thing, who knew how much of the rest of his story could be believed? If any. He had broken out his pen and paper, using it to write a synopsis of his encounter with Lola Redapple.

It bothered him that they hadn't come back yet -- it was almost four in the afternoon, and Zipper had assumed that they would be back before lunch. He paced back and forth, waiting.

It was with considerable relief that the insect witnessed the Ranger Wing fly through the leaves, landing outside headquarters. For a few minutes, he had been afraid his worst suspicions had been justified, and Herbie had attacked and beaten his friends.

While Herbie and the rest of the Rangers went into the kitchen for a late lunch, congratulating one another on a job well done, Zipper took Chip aside and showed him his notes.

"This is disturbing, Zipper," Chip said a few minutes later. "I guess the thing to do is confront him, tell him his story doesn't add up. Let's go to it." He flipped through the stack of papers, then marched into the kitchen, Zipper close behind.

"...and that was how I ended up with title to the Dock Inn," Herb explained. They were eating it up. The creepy female was staring at him, wide-eyed, while the stupid one and the fat one rummaged around making sandwiches.

"Golly, Herbie," the creepy female said, "That's an amazing story! I had no idea people bet businesses in poker games!"

"Oh, sure," Herb assured her. "I've played a great deal of poker in the past few years. Gotten pretty good at it, too. Do you play?"

"Er, not any more." The creepy female looked a little embarrassed.

The fat one turned to them, started chuckling. "She says it's no fun playing cards, because once she had the odds figured she always won."

"Really?" Despite himself, Herb was interested. "Did you know that--"

"Excuse me," the psycho one said as he came into the room, the insect close behind. "I've got a few questions for you, Herbie."

"Chip! It's not nice to interrupt," the creepy one admonished him.

"Oh, that's quite all right." Bring it on, you dumb little crazy little undersized ground squirrel.

"Zipper here went to visit the Redapple family this morning, while we were at Lake Haha. He ended up talking with Lola Redapple, and it really shocked him to learn that she'd never heard of you, Herbie." The psycho one looked oddly smug.

"I can't imagine why it would surprise him, fearless leader," Herb said with a toothy smile. "I've never met Lola Redapple."

"But you said --"

"No, no, no. I know Beatrice Redapple. She'd be Lola's... oh, brother's daughter's husband's sister. I'm afraid Zipper was talking to the wrong mouse." Herb affected a helpless, even sympathetic, shrug.

Psycho and Insect exchanged glances. Neither of them had total recall, after all. They couldn't prove anything.

"If you're really interested, we can go out there and..." A gamble, but Herb was fairly confident he had Creepy sized up.

"Nonsense!" Creepy interrupted him, just as he expected. "Chip, Zipper, I'm surprised at you both!"

"Well, Gadget, I..." Herb stroked his chin as Psycho tried to defend himself to Creepy. He was more or less in love with her, Herb suddenly realized. No wonder he was crazy.

Stupid gave him one of Fat's sandwiches, which he gratefully accepted. "Thank you, Dale, Monterey. Frankly, I'm starving."

It was about two when there was another knock at the door. Herbie was lounging with Dale on the sofa, taking up most of it. They were engrossed in the Afternoon Movie, "Marathon Man." Monty was out with Zipper, taking one of their long, cheese-related walks.

Gadget and Chip were continuing their Monopoly game. Chip got her to play for an hour or so at a time three or four times a month. Though they both knew Gadget would eventually crush him in a veritable vise, Chip insisted on playing the six-month-old game out.

"I'll get it," Chip said, getting up. "It's your move, Gadget."

The source of the knock turned out to be a small mouse, a young male in a T-shirt and sandals. "Excuse me, sir," the mouse began, "is this the Rescue Rangers?" Seeing Chip nod, he continued. "Thank God. My name is Warren. I'm from the far side of the park, and I've, um, lost my little sister."

Chip looked thoughtfully at the boy, then turned his head. "Gadget!" he called over his shoulder. "Dale! We've got some work to do!"

"She can't have gone far," Warren said as he led Chip, Gadget, Dale, and a bored Herbie across the park. "I just turned around and she was gone. My mother said to come to you if something happened while she was gone..."

"Don't worry, Warren," Gadget said for the fourth time. "I'm sure she's right around here. We're professionals; this is what we do." She looked around. "Now, where do you live?"

Warren pointed to one of the maple trees. "Up there. But she's not up there. I checked."

Chip considered. "Dale, run up there and give the place a good once-over. Check out the rest of the tree, too. Gadget, let's start checking these trees around the maple."

Dale sighed. He often wondered whether Chip deliberately manipulated situations to be with Gadget. He'd given up on her not long after he'd met Foxglove (still in Texas for another twelve days, six hours, and thirty-seven minutes!) but still Chip's behavior irritated him. He was always doing these little things to be with her; nothing that couldn't be chalked up to coincidence or unconscious behavior, but still... Dale wished Chip would come out and say something to her, rather than sublimate his frustration. It was tiresome.

He had just started over to the tree when Herbie tapped him on the shoulder. "Mind if I trail along?" he asked Dale. "It's awfully quiet down here."

"Oh, uh..." Dale looked over, saw that Chip and Gadget had already led Warren up a tree. "Sure. Sure, Herbie. I'll show you how a Rescue Ranger does things!"

The two of them scampered up the tree like forest animals (or at least like one forest animal and one urban but versatile animal). Dale quickly spotted the nest and climbed in, Herbie following. Inside were two rooms, one a sitting area and the other a bedchamber. They were sparsely decorated and not very big; Warren's family wasn't wealthy. He'd be sure to mention that to Chip, in case he hadn't realized it. This would be pro bono work.

"Hey, check this out." Herbie, who had barely fit in through the doorway, was bending over a small stack of books. "You don't see this every day. Must be where all their money goes." There were only a few very small press companies in Staten City, which had a sizable percentage of the world's. Rodent-sized books were a luxury item; most small animals with an interest snuck into human libraries at night.

"Yeah, well. No little girl squirrel here. Let's check out the rest of the tree and report back." Dale was halfway out the small doorway before he realized Herbie wasn't behind him. He turned to see the big rat leafing through a rodent-sized copy of "Three Men in a Boat," by Jerome K. Jerome, and sniggering. "Herbie!"

"Yes. Coming. 'And then it was George's turn, and he trod on the butter.'" Dale shook his head in wonder (didn't he realize this was a crisis situation? Here he was, fooling around...) then left the nest too quickly to see Herbie stuff the book under his sweater. "Right behind you, Dale."

"How old is your sister, exactly?" Chip surveyed one of the maple trees. Really, he should have handed the kid over to Gadget, who was now up a pine.

"Bridget's three, sir." Warren was polite, at least. "Just gotten the hang of climbing."

"Have any particular interests? Maybe there's somewhere she would have gone?" Chip didn't hold out much hope of getting anything useful from Warren. If little Bridget was especially fond of, say, the big fountain, Warren would have checked there already.

"No, sir. She just likes climbing." Warren followed him as he leaped from a high branch of one maple to a slightly lower branch on another. "I really don't know where she is."

"Well, you just stay calm, Warren. We'll..." Chip trailed off. He could see Dale from here, moving along a thin branch of the big maple toward a small and frightened-looking little girl. "Stay here, Warren. I see her." Chip dropped to all fours and scurried across the tree, hoping he got there before the branch snapped under Dale's weight. It wasn't going to hold, he was sure of that; from his angle he could, unlike Dale, see the thinness.

"Hey... there... little... girl..." Carefully, carefully, Dale moved out along the branch towards the terrified child. Herbie was somewhere behind him, understandably willing to leave this particular job to the professional. Dale reasoned that if the branch could support a three-year-old squirrel, it could surely hold a full-grown and slightly overweight chipmunk. He was just beginning to suspect there was a hole in his logic when the branch cracked under him, shaking it violently. It was hard enough hanging on, Dale thought as the tree branch shuddered beneath him. At its end he could see the little girl clinging on for dear life.

Staying put for the time being, Dale wondered if he could talk the girl in. "What's your name?" he called out. "Little girl, what's your name?"

No response. That wasn't going to work, then. He could see her eyes, big as nickels -- no, quarters -- even from this distance. "Okay, then," he shouted. "You just stay there."

As he started to back off the thin bough, Dale heard it crack again. He froze as the reedlike living dowel shook a second time, longer and harder. He wasn't going anywhere, either. "Just a minute, now, girl," he called out. Don't panic. Don't let go. Don't look down. Dale wasn't sure whether his mental instructions were for the girl, or himself.

Herb was on a lower limb by this point, where they were thicker and sturdier. He went over his options in his head. He could break the branch the rest of the way along the crooked fault which had developed, letting Stupid fall. This would eliminate him as a threat and save the bother of taking him down later. At the same time, though, it wasn't quite what the boss wanted: the Rangers, alive, delivered to him. And Psycho seemed suspicious of him. Wouldn't do to encourage that. He could do nothing, which was his current choice of action. Or...

He could save them both. This would cement some trust between him and Stupid, and probably Creepy too, empathetic as she was. On the other hand, it would be a bit of work. He'd need to hurry, too -- he could see Psycho approaching.

Herb smiled as a plan snapped into focus. The best part about it was the knowledge that Stupid would be first scared out of his wits, then kicking himself for not having thought of it first. Herb began climbing to the base of the bough on which Stupid and the kid were stuck.

Chip had just gotten into shouting range when his heart sank. He watched in horror as the limb shook violently and began to fall. "DALE!" He could see his oldest friend hanging on for dear life as the bough broke completely, falling...

"HOLD TIGHT!" someone bellowed. Chip found his own grip on the tree tightening.

The bough fell... almost a foot. The thick canopy under the branch caught the large limb before it had fallen more than a half-second. Bridget, not understanding the situation, squealed in delight as a woozy-looking Dale picked her up and carried her along a primary limb, back to her nest.

Up where the branch had broken, Chip saw Herbie smile. He had broken the branch, cutting it evenly so that it fell horizontally. Herbie had good reason to be pleased with himself: if not for his quick thinking little Bridget might have panicked and let go, falling straight past the branches which had caught her, twenty-five feet to the ground. He shuddered at the thought. Something deep within him found the image preternaturally repellent.

Chip sighed, wiped his brow, and went to congratulate the hero of the hour. Probably ought to buy him dinner while he's here, he thought to himself.

FOUR [Blood Pudding]

"Violence does, in truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer fallsinto the pit which he digs for another." (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, "The Speckled Band," 1892.)

"Good morning," Chip said as he walked into the kitchen. "Sleep well?"

Herbie didn't look like he had been sleeping well. The big rat was sitting, hunched, at the kitchen table. He had taken his sunglasses off and was rubbing his eyes, gently. "Good morning, fearless leader. Got a second?"

Chip looked Herbie over as he poured himself a thimble of coffee. He didn't really trust Herbie; there were too many holes in his story. But he couldn't prove anything, and, truth be told, Chip was starting to wonder if Sewer Al hadn't been just trying to rattle him. Chip owed Herbie, if nothing else, a meal. "Sure, Herbie. What can I do for you?"

Herbie, keeping his eyes covered with his right hand, reached for his sunglasses and put them on with his left. He straightened up, cracked his knuckles, and rose out of his chair. "First of all, fearless leader, my name is Herb. Pass me some coffee?"

"Sure, eh, Herb." Chip slid over his untouched coffee and poured himself another. "What's this about?"

Wordlessly, Herb smiled as he stepped closer to Chip. Grasping the hot thimble of freshly-poured coffee, he lifted it into the air and splashed it straight into the chipmunk's face, simultaneously kicking him in the stomach.

Chip went down, doubling over on the floor, gasping for breath and grunting at the pain. The scalding-hot coffee streamed down his face: Herb had poured the full pot of it onto him. Then he started kicking him brutally.

It took Chip a few seconds to collect himself enough to roll away from Herb and leap to his feet. He wasn't really hurt, not yet. He opened his mouth to shout for help as he retreated to behind the table. All his worst fears were confirmed. Before he could actually make any noise, however, Herbie was on top of him, shattering the table, slamming his fist into Chip's mouth.

"See, I work for Fat Cat," Herb hissed as he pummeled Chip savagely. "I'm going to capture your little team, fearless leader, and turn you over to him." That should be enough.

Chip tasted metal as his mouth filled with blood. He suspected Herb had broken one of his teeth. He tried to fight back, but the big rat was easily three times his size. Most irritatingly of all, his jacket was getting damaged. Teeth grew back, after all. Not the time to worry about that. Bigger priorities. Have to get out of the kitchen. Have to wake the others, take the psycho rat down as a group. Have to...

Herb looked down at the unconscious form of fearless leader. Piece of cake. Anyone from the old firm could have taken this joker down. He glanced about the room, surveying the damage. Spilled coffee, broken table, some blood on the wall. He took out the twine from where he'd secreted it on one of the kitchen chairs and started tying fearless leader up.

"Decisions, decisions," Herb said aloud. "Leave the body here, or move it to another room? Best to leave it here." Herb was nominally certain Chip would be out for a considerable amount of time, but just to give himself a good and large window he set him in one of the chairs and tied him to it. Then he threw all the kitchen knives out the window. Fearless leader would have to hop, in the chair, to his girl's workshop to get at a good cutting surface. Plenty of time.

Early that morning, Herb had broken into a pharmacy and stolen some ether. It was a simple matter to sedate Dale and Gadget without waking them. He tied them up, gagged them, and carried them into the main room. Monterey Jack was his last target.

Herb poured more ether into his rag. Rather than try to sneak the bottle inside, he'd left the stuff on the landing strip outside and made a trip each time he gassed a Ranger. Herb picked up the rag and entered the main chamber of Ranger Headquarters.

Herbie stopped when he saw Monterey Jack standing over the inert forms of two of his teammates. Monty stared at him, his eyes narrow. Herb wondered if he could get the rag over Monty's head in a fight, then decided it was too risky. He dropped the ether and launched himself unceremoniously at Monty. The rat was bigger than his prey, although not by as much as usual.

Monty readied himself as the traitor jumped at him, wishing only he had his toothpick or some other weapon. As Herb came down on top of him, Monty ducked down and forward, letting the larger rat roll over him. He spun round as Herb leapt to his feet and threw a punch. Monty dodged around the blow, slamming into Herb, trying to knock him down. Herb took a step backwards but did not fall, as his massive body was too solidly braced to knock over.

Monty punched him in the stomach, two, three, four times. Herb doubled over, sidestepping as he did so. His glasses flew off, and in the dimly lit room, Monty could see his eyes glowed a sick yellowish color. Monty crossed the room, picked up a domino from near the front door, and threw it at the traitor. Herb ducked down behind the sofa, avoiding the projectile. When he came back up, he held Gadget in one hand. Smiling wickedly, he threw her drugged body at Monty.

Monty ran to catch his old friend's daughter, ignoring Herb long enough for the rat to grab the domino. Wielding it like a club, he leapt onto the sofa, which broke under him, and advanced on the Ranger. Monty tried again to knock Herb down, using a low football tackle. It was a maneuver which had always worked before, but Monty usually used it against small mice, squirrels, and the like. Herb swatted at Monty with the domino, until Monty landed a rabbit punch square on it, sending the domino flying out of Herb's hands. Then Monterey made the mistake of throwing a punch wide enough for Herb to catch.

Monty had fairly large hands for a mouse, but Herb had unnaturally large hands for a rat. He palmed Monty's fist in one hand, stopping the punch. Herb squeezed, grinding his teeth in effort, and flames shot up Monty's arm. Popping sounds... Monterey gasped in pain as Herb grasped his other hand, holding him down. Dimly, he could feel Herb kicking him as he blacked out. Neither of them had said a word. * * *

Herb hoped Monterey Jack wasn't too badly hurt. The more he was wounded, the less easily he could harm Fat Cat's cronies. And Chip wasn't going to be able to take them all on by himself. Not considering how easily Herb had beaten him down. Still... Gently, Herb carried the three captured Rangers out of the tree trunk, and down to the ground below. He loaded them into the Rangermobile, which he piloted directly into a tree.

About five minutes of driving practice later, Herb had the basics of steering the infernal device down. He kept up a constant stream of swearing under his breath as he drove his three prisoners to the Happy Tom cat food factory. Herb believed could have built a better suspension than this piece of junk's, given enough time. Arthur could probably have made something better in his sleep.

Fat Cat's casino was open almost until gloaming, Herb knew, and the employees there weren't going to be fully awake and alert until afternoon. Midmorning would be the best time for the operation to go down, which was why his timetable required the three prisoners be delivered fairly early in the morning.

Herb parked the Rangermobile behind the cat food plant and carried the three of them up to the roof in two trips. They had regained consciousness on the ride over, but were too securely tied up to accomplish anything. Dale had struggled weakly when Herb carried up, but hadn't been able to escape his bonds.

He considered just carrying the Rangers into the casino and leaving them on the floor, but decided it would be best to wake Wart and the others up. The boss would want them up and guarding the prisoners, especially once Herb told him fearless leader had gotten away. He pounded on the metal casino door, producing, he knew, an echo within that was almost unbearable.

It was only a few moments before Mepps opened the door. "Aw, man, Herbie," he whined. "Don't you know what time it is?"

"Oh, buck up, Mepps." Herb slipped back into "Herbie-the-bouncer" mode. "Check out what I've got here."

Mepp's green eyes widened as he took in the sight. Fat Cat and the boys had captured Rescue Rangers before, but never this particular combination. Maybe this time they'd stay caught! "Should I go tell the boss?" he asked Herbie.

"You know, I think you should," Herbie replied. "I'll wait here in case they try to escape."

Mepps hurried into the gloomy casino, up the stairs, and disappeared up the stairs to Fat Cat's office. Herb chuckled as he imagined the boss's reaction to being woken up, then discovering he had three Rescue Rangers prisoner. The sound of a slamming door echoed through the casino, followed quickly by a baritone, incoherent rumble. Finally Fat Cat emerged from the top of the staircase. Mepps was nowhere to be seen.

"This had better be good, rat." Fat Cat was, Herb noted with surprise, not wearing his usual purple jacket. Instead, the boss was dressed in a red dressing gown not unlike Wart's. Reasonable, he supposed, considering the time.

"Good? It's fantastic," Herb replied flatly. "Take a look." He opened the door and pointed to the pile of bodies he had set just outside. The change in the boss's expression was gratifying.

Fat Cat tossed back his head and cackled. "MOLE! SNOUT! Get out here!" he shouted. The tone of his voice conveyed a strong sense of urgency, calling up images of cats feasting on the bodies of smaller animals. It was only a few seconds before the professional cronies piled out of a side room.

"What do you need, boss?" Mole was eager to please.

"Carry these piles of dung to the back." Fat Cat suppressed his glee at another Fiendish Plan having carried itself to a successful conclusion, when he suddenly realized. "Rat, Herbie, you there," he began. "Why are there only three bodies here, instead of five?"

Herb smiled apologetically as Mepps, Snout, and Mole carried Dale, Gadget, and Monty's struggling bodies into the back. "One of them got away -- the psychopathic one, the leader. Well, and the insect, but it hardly counts. I'm sorry about that, but I had my hands full with the other three at the time." He shrugged. "I suppose you'll have to keep an eye open for a few days."

"You mean we, of course, don't you, Herbie my friend?" Fat Cat's eyes glittered; he saw in Herbie a useful new tool, someone smarter than dirt, perhaps even someone to replace Wart as Trusted Lieutenant. "There's a real place for you here, my boy."

"Oh, I don't think so, boss. I need to get out of here; I'm due to catch a plane in a couple of hours. Thanks for the offer, though." Herb's back was to the door. He leaned against it. "There's just the little matter of my pay. We agreed to another two hundred seventy-five?"

Fat Cat bit his lip, narrowed his eyes. "I don't know, Herbie," he said airily. "It's an impressive sum; might take a while to get it together. If you stick around a few days..."

"No." Herb wasn't about to take any guff from an overdressed loon. "It's imperative I be in Europe this afternoon. All I want is to collect my money and git."

"I can't change your mind, then? Nowhere to go but up..." Fat Cat sighed, then pulled a roll of bills out of his coat. One, two, two fifty, two seventy, two seventy-five. Enjoy the cheese shops of France and Switzerland, rat."

"Oh, you'll see me again," Herb lied. "In just a little bit, boss man, just a little bit." He turned and left the casino, noting the time as he went. Plenty of time to get to the airport.

The world came back to Chip in stages. He was just starting to settle down to a nice quiet dreamworld, where a reasonable facsimile of Gadget was in love with him and there were no rats... It caused him no small pain to be forced back to a world in which no one who looked like Gadget loved him and rats were plentiful and mighty.

He'd been in a fight, and he'd lost it badly. While he was unconscious -- how long had that been? Chip had no idea. While he was unconscious the rat had tied him to a chair. Experimentally, Chip flexed his muscles. He'd been tied up too tightly to wriggle out--have to hop over to the knife drawer. Why Herbie, no, "Herb," had done what he did Chip could only guess. Fat Cat. He'd mentioned Fat Cat. Why was he still here in the kitchen?

Chip rocked back and forth, trying to get the chair off-balance. It wasn't easy, but after a few tries he was able to roll himself forward, onto his feet. This wasn't much of an improvement, as his ankles were tied to the chair legs. However, he managed a sort of hobble.

When the chipmunk in the coffee-stained-and-torn bomber jacket made it to the knife drawer, he tried to open it with his teeth. It was at this point he remembered Herb had broken them. Pain shot up into his brain when they came into contact with the drawer's knob. "All right," Chip said to himself. "I need to think." He was still thinking, mainly about how angry he was, when Zipper found him.

Zipper was in his room, swathed in a rag dripping with ether. Herb hadn't considered him a worthwhile catch: Fat Cat wouldn't care if the fly wasn't in the group. As the ether evaporated and the breezy Ranger Tree was filled with fresh air, Zipper regained consciousness. He felt ill. As he staggered out of his bedroom towards the kitchen, he smelled the ether. Not recognizing the scent, the plucky fly wondered if Monty had been cooking up something new.

He wandered into the main chamber, still feeling kind of woozy. He noticed the sofa was broken and one of the dominos that formed the steps up to the landing strip had been moved. Scraps of twine were scattered about the room. Foxglove and Dale must have been up late last night together, Zipper thought to himself.

He moved towards the kitchen. Curiously, whatever Monty was making smelled much less intense outside the kitchen than in the main chamber, or his room. This entire chain of thought was pushed out of his mind, however, when he saw the kitchen. Unless Dale and Foxy had tried their hands at baking, something had gone horribly wrong. The kitchen table was in shambles, and there was a puddle of coffee on the floor. Zipper barely noticed this, however; his attention was glued on the form of Chip, sitting tied to a kitchen chair, staring at the knife drawer. Zipper saw that Chip's body was covered with bruises, bruises strong enough to be seen clearly through his fur. Foxglove was in Texas, Zipper suddenly remembered. FOXGLOVE WAS IN TEXAS!

"CHIP!" Zipper shouted. He tried to fly over to his friend, but lost his balance once he left the ground. Trying to clear his head, the fly ran to the knife drawer and began rooting through it.

"Zipper! Am I glad to see you!" Chip sounded better than he looked. "Can't find a knife? That's doesn't surprise me. See if you can get a knife out of Gadget's workshop."

"What happened?" Zipper turned towards the workshop, disappeared through the doorway.

"Herbie happened," Chip called to him. "He was, eh, working for Fat Cat. He must have taken the others to the casino. Smell that? He's drugged them. We've got to, eh, rescue them, Zipper!"

Zipper reappeared, dragging a razor blade. "Hold still," he ordered. Chip winced preemptively as the fly carefully sliced through the twine holding him to the chair. Zipper managed not to cut Chip, although one sleeve of his jacket would have to be repaired. "Drugged me, too."

Chip stood up, then sat back down almost immediately. "Okay," he said carefully. "Good job, Zipper. Just let me catch my breath." He rubbed his temples.

"Why leave us?" Zipper asked him. It didn't make any sense.

"Your guess is as good as mine, buddy." Chip stood up carefully. This time, the blood didn't rush from his brain. "We don't really have time to worry about it. We need to rescue them."

Chip sighed. "All right. The guys are almost certainly in the casino. Let's get over there and scout it out. There's no time like the present. Since there aren't any windows, eh, in the thing, we should be able to... wait a minute. Are there windows in Fat Cat's casino?"

Zipper shrugged. It had been a long time since he had spent time at Fat Cat's casino. "Don't think so."

"Hmm. I guess not. But, eh... where was I?" Chip wondered if he had any cracked ribs. "Windows, yeah. The, eh, the casino is dependent on electrical power. Cutting the power should at least distract and confuse them."

Zipper looked thoughtful as they made their way out of the kitchen. "Not easy," he muttered.

"Yeah, I know. Feel like you can fly? It's almost nine thirty. Herb attacked me at six thirty; we've got to hurry. Let's go." He and Zipper hurried down to the garage.

Chip didn't like piloting the Ranger Wing. It wasn't that it was heavier-than-air flight, which he privately regarded as a quiet miracle. He had, after all, been a designer of paper airplanes once. It was the complexity of the machine: Chip knew he was not a natural pilot. The number of moving parts made him nervous. But needs must, when the devil drives.

The Ranger Wing flew through the air towards Fat Cat's casino. Really, that was part of what attracted him to Gadget, Chip thought. Her near-magical power to create incredible, incredible things at rapidity was something he'd never seen in another mouse, not even her sister. That it was familiar enough to take for granted...

The Wing lurched as Chip, his mind elsewhere, accidentally turned on the spoilers. "Drat!" Zipper, sitting in the passenger seat of the airplane for the first time in his life, shot him a look.

"No problem, no problem, almost got it..." Chip wrestled with the controls, trying to remember how to increase speed. The Wing hung in the air uncertainly, then kicked forward. "Try the throttle, idiot," he muttered, mentally bonking himself. "All right. Here we are."

The Wing landed, with only a few more bumps than usual, in the alleyway behind the Happy Tom cat food plant, right next to the abandoned Rangermobile.

Dale had been conscious for at least half an hour before it hit him.

He was lying next to Monterey Jack on the floor of Fat Cat's casino, behind a baccarat table. He assumed Gadget was on the other side of Monty, but couldn't really be sure. Dale knew it had been half an hour at least, because he had been staring at the analog clock on the wall above him for that long. He had woken up that morning only to find himself tied up and piled into the back of the Rangermobile with Monty and Gadget. Herbie had carried him up to Fat Cat's casino, tucked under one arm. He listened as the rat (that rat!) negotiated his fee and fled. The only good thing about this morning, aside from a vague and abstract masculine pleasure at having been tied up and stuffed in the back of a car with Gadget, the effect of which stuffing being mostly destroyed by Monty's presence, was the knowledge that Chip and Zipper were out there somewhere.

Tied and gagged as he was, Dale had assumed for the past half-hour that there wasn't anything he could do to escape. Like Herbie, Fat Cat, and his various cronies, the chipmunk had forgotten one of the primary differences between his species and that of mice. He bit down on the gag, his large incisors snipping it in two. Spitting out the pieces, he tried to roll himself to where he could free Monty's hands, but found he had been affixed in place by a loop of string around two legs of the baccarat table.

'Keep trying,' he thought to himself as he craned his neck. He could just reach the twine that held his right arm. A quick bite and it was gone. With one arm free he was able to lever himself to a position to free the other, then his legs. Granted, Chip probably would have freed himself a half-hour earlier, but still Dale was a bit pleased with himself. Quickly, he chomped through Monterey's bonds, and, as that brawny mouse stretched, Gadget's.

Cautiously, the chipmunk in the tacky shirt stuck his head up, over the baccarat table. On the far side of the casino, he could see Wart and Mole sitting near the door. On the ground near them, Mepps and Snout were snoring. A porcupine Dale didn't recognize was sitting at the bar, drinking a glass of something transparent. Dale ducked back down to where Monty and Gadget were crouching.

"Golly," Gadget whispered. "What happened? Where's Chip? Monty, are you all right?" Gadget hadn't regained consciousness until after she had been set the casino floor.

Dale followed Gadget's gaze and noticed for the first time Monty was sporting a black eye and holding one hand carefully with his other hand. "It's nothing, Gadget love. Just a few bruises. I can tell yas what happened. That rat, Herbie! He gassed both of yas and took us here to Fat Cat's!"

"I don't see Chip anywhere," Dale whispered. "Maybe..."

He was interrupted by Wart's distinctive voice. "Mepps, go check on the prisoners!"

"I don't want to do it again," they could hear Mepps bleat. "Let me go back to sleep."

"Prickles, you do it!" Wart sounded frustrated.

"No." Prickles. Dale assumed that was the cunningly-named porcupine. Sounded firm.

"Mole..." Wart did 'dangerous and threatening' pretty well.

"Yes sir." Dale heard the rotund animal start huffing his way across the casino floor.

"Oh, dear. Get ready to scatter," Gadget said suddenly. "One... two... three... NOW!"

As Mole stuck his head over the baccarat table, Monty ran to the left and Gadget ran to the right. Dale tried running back, but hit a wall. Mole scooped him up as Snout and Mepps, alerted by Gadget's shout, chased after the remaining two captives.

"Prickles! Cover the door!" Wart moved to one wall, started closing and locking doors. The casino floor was huge, taking up most of the ground level of a structure that took up half the roof of a large industrial plant. There were enough tables and slot machines that the two Rangers could remain hidden from their pursuers for a good long time. Wart wasn't brilliant, but his almost-average intelligence placed him heads and shoulders above most of the rest of Fat Cat's gang. He recognized the need to contain the leak.

"I got one! I got one!" Mole was almost jumping up and down with glee. It was one the first things he'd done right in the four years he'd worked for Fat Cat. "Look, Wart! I got one!"

Wart stared beadily at the strange little rodent as he continued his locking routine. "How did you escape, Ranger?" He spit the last word as if it were an insult.

Dale affected a mysterious look. "We in the Rescue Rangers have our ways and means of descending your crude ropes and gags!"

"Descending?" Wart looked puzzled.

"Transcending, sorry."

Wart still didn't understand, but Dale didn't care. "Let's take him up to Fat Cat, Mole. Mepps, Snout and Prickles should be able to keep the others in here for a while." High above them, Zipper sighed in frustration. This was a bit of bad luck. Looking down, he could see Gadget and Monty were doing a good job of playing tag with the two thugs chasing them, but it was only a matter of time.

Chip was pacing back and forth as Zipper emerged from a ventilation duct. Quickly he explained the situation.

"All right. We've got to cut power to the lights inside. That'll distract Prickles long enough for me to slip inside. Once I'm inside, I find them and we slip out the front door. Once Gadget and Monty are out, we can worry about Dale." Chip looked more nervous than he sounded.

Zipper shrugged, and flew across the roof to the circuit box. He knew from experience that the breaker for Fat Cat's casino floor was the one labeled "backup exhaust fans."

Gadget, like Monty, was running hither and thither around the slot machines, trying to wear down their pursuers, when suddenly she was struck with an idea.

Fat Cat's casino used mainly reconditioned old Liberty Bells, a small 19th century mechanical design of slot machine. Having known she was going to want to pry open a slot machine, she pulled a screwdriver out from her jumpsuit and inserted it experimentally into a crevice in one of the Bells. Mepps' feet weren't much faster than his wits; she was able to get the casing open before he caught up to her.

Gadget started running laps around the casino, building up a solid lead on the skinny cat, then pausing in front of the Liberty Bell, Rewiring and Improving. As she finished one she moved on to another, managing to rig one slot about every three minutes. The next time his casino opened, Fat Cat would quickly find himself jackpotted into bankruptcy.

Dale enjoyed some things, but not others. He knew he was hardly unique in this regard, but often wished that whatever Activities Director controlled the luxury liner that was his life would pay a little more attention to his comment card. More "Mystery Science Theater 3000" with Foxglove, less getting carried up staircases by sweaty moles.

"You know," he said guardedly, "I have strange and mysterious powers --"

"Can it," Wart suggested.

Worth a shot.

"How about this," Dale said thoughtfully. "You let me go, and we'll just pretend this whole thing ever happened. I'm willing to forgive and forget..."

Mole stopped. "Really?" he asked eagerly.

"Ignore him, you stupid little furry thing," Wart ordered him. "He's trying to confuse you."

"But he says he'll give me a candy bar!" Mole looked torn.

"No, he didn't! He said he would forgive you!" Wart knew it was futile, but he tried to reason with Mole.

"And that doesn't mean I get a candy bar?"

"No!"

"Aw, man..." Mole hefted a struggling Dale over one shoulder and continued up the stairs.

"Wait!" Dale tried one more time. "I'll give you a candy bar!"

"Do you have a candy bar?" Mole was suddenly suspicious.

Dale shook his head in frustration. "No," he admitted.

"Humph."

Fat Cat was in a good mood, despite the loss of Herbie's employment. A particularly interesting thread, on the proper usage of claws in intimidating underlings and other vermin, was taking up most of his attention when the knock on his door came. That would be Wart, reporting the excellent news that the remaining member of the execrable Rescue Rangers had been caught, detained, and was even now awaiting Fat Cat's intimidating claws. There was still the insect, of course, but the crimelord intensely doubted he was a threat.

"Come in, Wart." Fat Cat closed his eyes, leaned back, put his feet up, and waited for the good news. Like magic, it came.

"We've caught one of the Rescue Rangers, boss. A chipmunk!" Wart sounded excited, and well he should. This was the beginning of a new era for Fat Cat's criminal empire, and Wart was lucky enough to be in on the ground floor. The feline crimelord was the first to admit that Wart had his faults. He might not be a particularly bright young iguana, but he did a killer impression of Peter Lorre and his loyalty was beyond question.

"Mmm. And baby makes four, leaving only the insect, who I think it is fair to guess won't be giving us much trouble, am I right Wart? Have a drink," Fat Cat said magnanimously. Then he made the mistake of opening his eyes.

Wart bit his lip. His attempt to put a positive spin on a bad situation had backfired. Fat Cat looked very disappointed and angry--on him, the two expressions were identical--to see the chipmunk in question was not the stubborn one with the fedora, but the funny one with the loud shirt. The one who had already been captured.

Fat Cat tried a trick from the Internet, scraping his claws across the desk, throwing up curlicues of wood shavings. "What happened, Wart?" the feline asked mildly. 'Mild' wasn't his forte, but he managed. "Did I ask too much of you? I realize it's a difficult job, keeping a tied and bound prisoner from throwing off his ropes and making a run for it, but I must confess I really thought you were up to the task."

Wart swallowed, nervous.

"Tell me," Fat Cat continued softly. "Tell me, where are the other two? They didn't..." He sliced deep into the expensive oak desk. "They didn't get away, now did they?"

"No, sir," Wart was relieved to report. "They're pinned down on the main floor. It's only a matter of time before Mepps and Snout catch them. I've locked all the exits and Prickles is watching the main door."

"Hmm." Fat Cat had to admit Wart had done his best. "Send Herbie to..." He trailed off, was silent. "You!" he suddenly cried, his attention on the chipmunk. "How did you escape?"

Dale met Fat Cat's stare steadily. "I ate the gag." His voice was even. "By now Chip and Zipper will be down there, and Snout and Mepps are probably tied up. My teammates will be up here in just a few minutes."

Mole's grasp on him was starting to slip. The subterranean animal was sweating profusely. Maybe he could wriggle out. He'd need a distraction, though.

The lights died. Perfect.

Gadget let out a "Gee whiz whiskers" as the electric lights above her suddenly failed. In the dark she had a hard time manipulating the control mechanism on the slot machine. She pulled out a pocket flashlight fashioned from a Christmas bulb and held it in her teeth. Lucky she had known she was going to want to be able to see in the dark.

Chip ran, fast and low, through the door as he opened it. This was no mean trick, but Prickles wouldn't be able to see much in the dark, but the door, ajar as it was to the daylight outside, would make him extremely visible until he got away from it.

As he galloped into the casino the way only a chipmunk can, he saw the weak point in his plan, too late. In the dark he wouldn't have a chance of finding his friends. Still, he kept moving.

Rounding a barely-perceived corner in the hallway formed by the banks of slots, Chip saw a faint light on the far side of the casino. Gadget. It had to be Gadget.

He was halfway across the floor when his view of the puddle of light was blocked by a large, moving shape. Herb? Snout? Mepps? Prickles? It was too big to be Mole or Wart. Chip rather hoped it was Herbie. He pulled from a pocket in his jacket the collapsing fishing rod Gadget had given him for his last birthday and continued to run forward at full speed.

Gadget decided to risk concentrating on her work, figuring the cover of darkness would keep Mepps and Snout from her. For Gadget, deliberate concentration was risky -- she tuned out her surroundings, focusing only on the task at hand.

She was so focused she didn't notice Mepps approaching, or turn her head when that grating individual suddenly screeched in pain. Chip, several feet behind Mepps, had cast his fishing rod and snagged the back of Mepps' neck. He braced against a slot as he jerked the rod back, setting the heavy hook in Mepps' ratty hide.

"Wha?" The skinny cat found himself on his back with the chipmunk on top of him before he fully understood why the back of his neck felt as if it had been stung by a wasp.

"Quiet," Chip ordered. Acting quickly, pulling Mepps' hat down below his eyes, plucking at his whiskers, and generally irritating the cat. It wasn't Herb "Herbie" Traitorous Rat Scum, but it'd do. He needed Mepps on his stomach, though, and though the cat was a relatively small example of his species, he was still too large for the smaller chipmunk to flip. Chip hopped off his prey, waited.

As expected, the cat slowly climbed to his feet, trying to pull his hat up. Chip ran between his legs, tripping him, forcing him down. Once the cat was face-down there wasn't much trouble keeping him that way.

Mepps was never much of a problem. The really sad thing was, Chip had done this to him before. Several times. Most recent was just last week. He whined incoherently.

"Gadget, give me a hand tying Mepps here up, will you? Gadget? Gadget!" No wonder she hadn't turned around. She was concentrating. Chip, unwilling to get off Mepps and allow the cat to regain verticality, hunted through his jacket for a few seconds before settling on his paper-clip-bent-into-a-hook. Affecting an athletic stance, he threw it straight at the back of Gadget's head. It didn't weigh much.

"Ow!" Gadget stopped whatever she was doing with the interior of the slot machine and turned, moving her flashlight from her mouth to one hand, rubbing the back of her head with her other hand. Her expressive face showed irritation, which gave way to surprise, joy, and concern in rapid succession. "Chip! I'm sorry, I was concentrating. You're all right! Your face! What happened to your jacket? The sleeve is all sliced up..."

"Herbie." The one word of explanation was enough for the gadgeteer. "Help me, eh, tie Mepps up, hm?" Chip pulled a coil of string out from his jacket.

"Sure, Chip." Gadget set down her screwdriver and hurried to Chip's side. Inwardly, Mepps sighed. He was used to constant humiliation, of course -- he worked for Fat Cat, after all -- but something deeply buried and feline rebelled at the thought of a mouse walking around on his back. The skinny cat tried thrashing around, succeeding only in extracting a swift kick to the head from Chip. Resigned to his usual fate, Mepps was still as Chip and Gadget quickly tied him up, gagged him, and dragged him into a crevice between two banks of slot machines.

When Chip asked Gadget what she had been concentrating on, he was treated to a brief lecture on the design and function of mechanical slot machines, including the methods used to rig them. Chip cut Gadget off when he saw the possibilities. He climbed up on a slot machine as Gadget worked on it, keeping watch for Dale and Monty, not to mention Herbie, Wart, Snout, Prickles, Mole, or Fat Cat.

On the far side of the casino, Monterey Jack was trying to think. He had been separated from Gadget early on, was being chased by Snout. That was a bit of bad luck: Snout was one of Fat Cat's bouncers, the one he used whenever he needed extra muscle. Unlike Mepps or Wart, Snout refused to lie quietly whenever the Rangers tried to subdue him. He insisted on fighting.

Normally Monty liked fighting, found it a pleasant way to spend time. But Herbie had broken his hand, he suspected, and anyway, not having anything to tie him up with, he would need to beat Snout into unconsciousness. And that would be loud, and require some time, and Prickles or another heavy might investigate. Monty was fairly confident that, given a functional hand, he could take down just about any one of Fat Cat's cronies in a fair fight. Two or more against one, though, that was just too much.

"Think, Cheeser, think," the big mouse muttered to himself. Snout was also considerably faster than Mepps; Monterey was forced to keep moving. It had been bad enough when the lights were on, but now, in the dark, he kept worrying he was about to run into a wall. The dark...

The next time he rounded a corner, Monty ducked down behind a blackjack table. In the darkness, he could see the outline of Snout, and hear him cursing, having lost the scent. Sometimes the simplest ways worked best.

The blighter began searching for Monty, looking around and under tables, behind slot machines, et cetera. Monty waited until he was fairly certain Snout's back was turned, then emerged from his hiding place and stealthily made his way towards the center of the casino. If he could find Gadget, perhaps they had a chance. He saw a puddle of light, moved towards it.

"Wart!"

"Yessir?"

"It's dark, Wart."

"Yessir."

"The lights have gone out."

"Yessir."

"Mole, go check the circuit box." Fat Cat's eyes adjusted quickly, so he was able to make out his lackey's salute and watch Mole turn and leave. He leaned back in his chair. Something bothered him, quite aside from the probable act of sabotage, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Then he realized what the problem was. Fat Cat considered doing another threatening claw bit, but realized it would be lost on Wart, dark as it was. He grimaced. "Wart."

"Yessir?" Wart wondered if he was repeating himself too much, decided against varying his response.

"What happened to the chipmunk Mole was carrying?" Fat Cat knew the answer, of course, but he wanted an excuse to hit someone.

Wart sighed. "He must have dropped him." Wart winced as Fat Cat hit him on the head.

"Go get him and bring him back here." Quiet menace was working well on Wart. Fat Cat could feel a megalomaniacal speech building up inside him, however. "And fetch Herbie, too." He would have to consult his sole competent employee.

"Herbie's left already, boss." Wart adjusted his dressing gown. The boss knew that. Fat Cat had never made a mistake like that before.

Fuel for the fire. Fat Cat was now, officially, in a very bad mood.

Dale had been loose in Fat Cat's casino before, a few times. Always then, though, the lights had been on. Dale didn't recall the upper stories as being nearly this mazelike.

He was just starting to worry when he heard the unmistakable sound of Mole moving through a hallway coming from around a corner. Hello, he thought. What's this poor fellow up to? Concealing himself behind a handy plant, Dale ducked down out of sight as Mole turned the corner. Chortling on the inside, silent on the outside, Dale started trailing the corpulent animal, hoping they would be heading back down to the main floor.

Prickles was not a complex entity. All around him animals ran, ran, ran through life, never stopping their worry and their fear. Strange ambitions, unfathomable actions, queer loyalties. Codes of honor and senses of duty. Prickles didn't go in for any of that. He did a job, and he did it fairly well. His work was of a certain quality, one Fat Cat seemed to enjoy. Prickles simply did his job.

He didn't feel he owed Fat Cat his life or even health: while he did work as a bouncer, those mice whom he threatened were largely too weak, small, drunk, or all three to make his work risky. Prickles was not an especially dedicated lackey.

When the lights went out and someone slipped inside the casino through the door Prickles was supposed to be guarding, he did nothing. After all, it was his task to keep them in, not out. The porcupine leaned against the door and waited. If he heard Mepps cry out, he didn't respond. Sooner or later the lights would come on, and at some point after that, he would get paid.

Chip was pleased to see Monty, even more so Dale. The only obstacle remaining in their escape was Prickles. The four Rangers hid in the dark, plotting, as Gadget finished rigging the last slot machine. About sixty percent of them were altered. "Okay, is everybody all right? Aside from Monty's hand and my teeth." Chip's eyes darted from one shadowy figure to another as he whispered. "We need to get past Prickles. That's won't, eh, be easy." "Isn't there a back door, or anything? Ventilation ducts?" Dale was nearly positive there had been more than one way out of the giant-cat-shaped casino the last time he had been there.

"Not any more. Fat Cat's sealed them all up, except for grilles too small for anyone except Zipper." Chip sounded impatient, anxious.

Gadget raised a hand. "How about we ask him nicely to let us go?"

"I don't think so, Gadget."

"Hmm. Then how about... golly, I know! We can blind him!" Gadget pulled her Xenon-flash camera out of a pocket. "Lucky thing I knew I was going to want to blind a porcupine last night, when I set out my clothes for the morning!"

"Gadget, do you have anything else in there?" Chip was curious.

Gadget looked slightly mollified. "Golly, no, Chip. I just figured I was going to want to open slot machines, see in the dark, and blind a porcupine..."

"But not cut glass?"

"No, why?" Gadget looked at her friend, bewildered. Maybe Herbie had hit him harder than she realized.

"All right, all right." Monty sighed. "He won't be out for long, Gadget love. How are we going to get away?"

"Hmm. Here's what we're going to do." A plan had formed in Chip's head.

Zipper was just starting to wonder if maybe he should go back into the casino and try to find his vertebrate friends when they suddenly appeared, piling out of the ajar main door of Fat Cat's casino and running very quickly to the Ranger Wing.

"Hey, guys! Guys!" They didn't even acknowledge him until the plane was up in the air, moving away from the casino at speed.

"Zipper! Hey there, little pally! Glad to see you're all right. Herbie got us pretty bad, huh?" Monty was sporting what Zipper could tell was a broken hand. He hoped they were on their way to a hospital.

"I'm sorry about your shirt, Dale." Chip looked over to the naked chipmunk sitting next to him.

"Oh, it's all right. I got plenty more. We needed it to get past Prickles." Dale shrugged.

"Hey, yeah!" Zipper looked questioningly at the group. He recalled a large and spiny individual guarding the front door. "How'd you get..."

"...past him?" Gadget finished his sentence. "Golly, it's complicated. See, I used my camera to distract him, and then Chip and Dale used Dale's shirt and Chip's fishing rod to... Hm." She broke off. "I hope he's all right. That was a pretty bad fall. Prickles was only doing his job, after all. I wouldn't want him permanently injured because of us."

"I'm sure he'll be all right, Gadget. He was well enough to stand, after all. Worst-case scenario he's in bed for a couple of weeks. Prickles will be fine." Herbie, on the other hand... Chip owed him a debt, and he knew the rest of the team would be only too willing to help him make payment. Soon enough...

The Ranger Wing flew, exactly as designed, through the air en route to the Staten City hospital.

The odds of winning the highest prize on Fat Cat's modified Liberty Bells was approximately one in five hundred thousand. The sirens indicating the four hundred thousand dollar jackpot generally sounded about twice a year. Fat Cat made most of his money through the casino, using it to fund his many projects to acquire various rare and gourmet foods. It therefore was to the feline crimelord's tremendous surprise and fear that almost before the casino had opened the congratulatory sirens were wailing.

He was up in his office when he heard the sound. It did happen occasionally; there was no statistical reason it was less likely to happen just after the casino opened than six hours into the shift. He rose, to congratulate the winner and escort him or her out.

Fat Cat froze as a second siren joined the first. Then another, and then another. Fat Cat rushed to the casino floor at a dead run, taking the stairs five at a time.

The slots were paying out. Six of them showed the three Smiling Fat Cats which signaled jackpot. Most of the others were spitting out quarters, and five- or one-dollar chips. His employees acted quickly, clearing out the slots area, but even still, Fat Cat had lost a king's ransom in just a few minutes. Someone had sabotaged him. Someone had sabotaged him in more than one way: Herbie had abandoned him, left the country, refused Fat Cat his remarkable talents. Clearly, Herbie the unpleasant rat-thing had added insult to injury. Briefly, he considered simply taking the coins back and refusing to cash in the chips.

No. If he did that, no one would ever come to the casino again. It would be a permanent blight on his business's reputation. Better to simply accept the loss and try to recover. Still, close down the slots tonight.

Reasoning finished, Fat Cat was ready release some aggression. The cat let out a good bellow, and released some pent up energy. "My empire is CRUMBLING!"

As he herded rats away from the slots, Mepps cringed. The reason Fat Cat kept him on the payroll was coming up, he could tell. The beating he had taken at the hands of the cruel and psychotic head Rescue Ranger and his dozen big giant friends had left a gash in the back of his neck that still smarted.

"My empire is crumbling, and WHY?! Is it my fault? Of course not! This cannot be! I am a criminal mastermind! My plans are unerringly conceived, brilliantly acted upon. No, the blame must rest -- the fault must clearly lie -- with another! Yes, there is one individual, one who has caused this! There can be no other; it is HERBIE who has done this!"

For no (readily apparent) reason, a support beam suddenly fell to the ground behind Fat Cat, crushing three slots and making a resounding crashing noise. Rats began to dive for cover as Mepps, right on cue, let out his Howl of the Horribly Damned. It was, as always, perfect.

"And I swear," Fat Cat continued at the top of his lungs, "I swear that I shall not rest until he has been found and brought before me--"

"Meaning it's us who won't rest, I guess." Snout was whispering to Prickles, whose leg was now in a cast. "You know the boss."

"--And I have given him the proper PAYMENT!" His sense of theatrics satisfied, Fat Cat finished his speech and looked about. Total silence, except for the sirens on the slots.

"CHEERS!" Wart shouted suddenly.

There was a wave of the traditional prolonged and stormy applause as the patrons of Fat Cat's Casino realized the boss wasn't going to refuse to pay out. Wart sighed. He was going to have to find Herbie and hurt him. He didn't think that was going to be easy.

EPILOGUE

"Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall." (Proverbs 16:18.)

Flight 117, 10:35 New York to Paris, took off on schedule. Herb considered that a bit of good luck, since he had no way of knowing how long it would take Chip and Zipper to rescue their comrades. He had no real doubt that fearless leader would be able to save his teammates; Herb knew all too well how ineffectual his former comrades in the boss's organization were. He leaned back against the garment bag in which he had smuggled himself aboard, and smiled. His eyes glowed amber in the gloom, behind his sunglasses.

"With any luck, someone was at least badly injured," he said out loud.

"Hm? You talking to me?" The only other rodent in the luggage compartment, a rotund hamster, looked his way.

"No, just talking to myself... Say, you play poker?" Herb could always use a few extra bucks.

"Sure, pal, I'll give you a run for your money. I'm Gil, from Central Park. Going to France to visit relatives. Yourself? Where are you from?" He sat down to play.

Herb started shuffling. "My name's Herb. I'm from... oh, lots of places. Staten City originally, got caught near there, ended up a lab rat. Lived under a rosebush for a while. Had some friends, but they moved off upstate somewhere." Keep up a patter, Herb. Distract him. "I travel around a lot. Stayed with them for a while, but..." Herb began dealing. "...couldn't stand the lifestyle. Wandered back here. I'm going to Paris to meet up with the wife, whom I have not seen in..." Herb clicked his tongue. "...six months." He looked up, met Gil's gaze with a smile. "And I think you'll find that you'll give me a run for your money."

As Herb began to systematically loot Gil of his life savings, he wondered if Luwini would be happy to see him. Her temper was mercurial.

HARDLY THE END; TWO MORE YET TO GO.

Based on characters owned, body and soul, by the Disney Corporation, with much aid and permission from John Nowak. (The following grows rapidly out of his "Sovereign 1," was originally conceived as a thank-you note to him, and would never have reached this point without his encouragement. Observe the section beginning with the third paragraph.) The whole, including Jiffy, the Squirrel Who Loved Only Waiting Tables, is copyright 1999 by 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. Quotations appear from "The Columbia Dictionary of Quotations," (c) 1993 by Columbia University Press. Exceptions are the line from "Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog)" by Jerome K. Jerome, available from Project Gutenberg, and Hunter's line from Neil Gaiman's "Neverwhere," (c) 1996 by Neil Gaiman. Fat Cat's Internet claws trick was originally used by Shere Khan in an episode of "Tale Spin," and was suggested by John Nowak. Did I mention I needed to thank John Nowak? I did? Well, it bears repeating. This is probably far more information than you wanted. Sorry.