Sovereign 3 - Atropos

By John Nowak

Completed October 14, 1999

Chip 'n' Dale's Rescue Rangers are copyright and trademarked by the Disney corporation. No infringement is intended.

[Syril Stacey appears with the kind permission of Aivars Liepa. One scene was lifted, with permission, from an email from Meghan Brunner. You can tell because it's the good one.]

There was nothing like an annual holiday celebrating family to drive home the essential meaninglessness and emptiness of a careerist lifestyle.

It was December 16th, and the office was beginning to slide into the unofficial pre-Christmas work stoppage as the attention of the employees focused on the upcoming holidays, and plans to be with family and intimate friends. *At least, those who have them,* Syril thought, suppressing a tremor of her lip. Syril wasn't fond of Christmas. She nevertheless waved gaily at her co-workers and wished them a pleasant midwinter holiday of choice on her way to the editor's office.

"You wanted to see me, William?" Syril Stacey asked.

Her editor looked up at her and smiled pleasantly. This was not a good sign. Syril was a firm believer in the principle of "Conservation of Happiness" between editors and reporters. This held that when the editor was happy, the reporter was sad, and vice-versa.

"Can you be packed and ready to travel tomorrow morning?" William asked, eyes sparkling with mirth.

This was interesting. Syril sat down. "Sure. Am I going to have a white Christmas?"

William smiled and chuckled. This made Syril nervous. "I'm glad to hear you're available." He sighed in a manner that went beyond mere polite insincerity. "It's sad that so many of us are fated to live lives without love, family, or dear ones."

"I could have a boyfriend if I wanted -" Syril began. She shook her head violently. "Okay, so that explains why me. Now tell me about the assignment."

"You'll be spending your Christmas aboard a ship," William said softly. "Cruising the ocean, carefree. With, I must add, a crew made primarily of single males. And all you have to do is write some articles about how wonderful the ship, crew, and owner are."

It was a dream come true. If Syril was nervous before, she was now terrified. "What's the name of the ship?" she asked, suspiciously.

"_Albacore _." William smiled all the wider.

William had expected an explosion of sorts, not a gale of laughter.

"That's really funny," Syril said, looking at her boss - for the first time - with respect, admiration, and affection. "You really had me there for a moment. I actually believed you were going to ask me to write a puff piece on Widget Hackwrench."

True to the principle of "Conservation of Happiness," as Syril laughed, her boss grew solemn. Grim, even.

"Do you have a problem with this?" he asked dryly.

Syril compressed her lips briefly. She explained in the same tone of voice one used with children. "I hate her guts. She hates my guts. My relationship with Widget possesses the classic symmetry of the Parthenon."

"You've written nice things about people you've disliked before."

"But none of them," Syril protested, her face coloring, "have been card- carrying maniacs."

"You're exaggerating," he scoffed.

"I've seen her card, William. The woman has a diploma from the Ratigan Academy. She has a Master's degree in Mastermind."

"That's not true."

"Wanna see her transcripts?"

"That's besides the point. If you don't go--" William began.

She sighed. "I know, I know. 'If I don't go, I'm fired.' I've heard this before. William, you wouldn't fire me over refusing a story."

"Not fired," William said, so calmly it was impossible to disbelieve him. "Laid off. There were no raises last year. And no bonuses this year. This paper is tapped, Syril. We've got a shot at a major client, and this is a condition. If you don't do it, you're gone, I'm gone, everybody's gone. Happy new year."

There was a pause while Syril considered. "You're serious," she said finally.

"Very." He leaned forward. "You will be at Pier 12 tomorrow morning at eight. Or you will go to the next room and tell Blanche she can't spend Christmas with that drummer of hers."

"Bass guitar," Syril corrected.

"Whatever. Or you will explain to everyone why they need to polish up their resumes."

She fell silent for a while. "I'll be at the pier," she said finally.

"Good." William looked away. "Thank you. You're going to the North Pole, so you had better pack a sweater."

"The North Pole. In winter."

William started humming "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas," with such obvious joy that Syril suspected she had been set up.

***

Gadget hopped onto her workshop desk and considered. This was one of those rare times she had locked the door.

She looked at the Christmas present she was making for Chip, her arms folded. It was a shame the idea of using some of Widget's plutonium had come too late -- there really wasn't enough time to give it a nuclear power source. The potato would have to do. She had other uncertainties about the present. When she had originally come up with the idea, she had thought it was wonderful. Now she wasn't sure. It seemed, somehow, too ... intimate. Foxglove would tease her. She blushed.

Foxglove's present, an electric vest, would also have benefited from atomic power. It was starting to get too cold for the bat, and Gadget was afraid she'd develop a chill. The mouse couldn't get Foxglove's measurements surreptitiously, so Gadget had come up with a clever ruse. Gadget told the bat that she wanted to build a wind tunnel model to help figure out a way to improve her Reynolds number. That had made Dale nervous for some reason.

Dale's present was simpler: she was sealing all his comics into UV-proof, airtight, vacuum-sealed bags. Irradiation in a microwave oven had sterilized the contents, so even anaerobic microbes would pose no threat to the contents. She smiled at the huge stack of black bags she would give him, each holding a single one of his precious comics, safe from the dangers of the environment. They would probably last longer than Dale would, she thought smugly.

Speaking of protection, Zipper's present was something for the Rangers as much as it was for the little fly. Gadget had a very bad moment when Zipper had been hurt on the roof of the police station, but they could all rest easy once he had donned his Clawproof Wing Armor. Tiny plates of light metal would sandwich the fly's wings in armored safety. It was hard to imagine Zipper's wings getting hurt with this sort of protection!

Which would please Zipper's oldest friend, Monterey Jack. Perhaps even more than his own present: a year's supply of cheese spread in a container that was only slightly bigger than she was. Gadget had been able to get that much cheese into a single can by the simple, yet elegant strategy of subjecting it to 120 atmospheres of pressure. Apart from a bit of bulging along the sides and deformation along the welds, the aluminum can seemed to be holding up to the strain just fine, and it should hold the cheese safely until the following winter.

Gadget sighed. The presents for her sister, nephew, and brother-in-law were ready as well, and could be given to them tonight to be opened next week. As they lived on a submarine, their gifts had to be much more compact. Instead of building them something, she had settled on books. Widget would be getting a signed copy of WE Coyote's _How to Make Suction Cups Stick to Darn Near Everything,_ while her husband would receive a novel from his homeland. Gadget hadn't had a chance to read a translation of _Das Boot,_ but she was sure the nautical theme would both amuse and bring back pleasant, carefree memories. Gadget had wanted to buy Gimcrack some algebra blocks, but it seemed that his mother was planning on buying him a set. She had considered getting him some calculus blocks instead, but his mother didn't like it when parents pushed their children too hard. So she had bought him some fake cheese which could be packed with liquid nitrogen to soothe his gums as he teethed.

Yes, she decided, for the first time in years, she was bang on target for Christmas.

***

"So anyway," Captain Murray asked, "Do you prepare your rants in advance?"

Widget shook her head. "Sometimes, but they always come out forced. A good rant has to fountain up from within, by tapping into the primal maniac that dwells within us all. It's not enough to sound like an incarnation of hate - you have to become an incarnation of hate."

"What an artist! You're a method ranter?" Murray smiled.

Murray had stayed behind after the Rangers and the rest of the Staten City contingent had left. Gimcrack was sitting on Jürgen's lap, out of any potential line of fire. Jürgen's eyes flicked silently from one to the other, as though watching a tennis match. They seemed to be civil enough, but he desperately wished their conversation would end soon. It disturbed him.

"The Ratigan Academy for Transcending Society's Irrelevant Norms has an excellent course on ranting," his wife told Murray.

"Would that really be appropriate for a knight of justice and truth?" Murray asked.

Widget shrugged. "Ranting's ranting. Most heroes tend to go the taciturn route, and you could probably get a lot from a real expert. They just happen to mostly be evil."

"I'd appreciate it if you could send me an address," Murray said politely. He stood and bowed slightly. "Captain Jürgen, you have a fine ship and a loyal crew. It was a pleasure to meet you and your delightful son. As for your wife, I wish her well, because on the day the evil she has done catches up and her life collapses into ruin, and her fading eyes behold the inferno which will torment her soul for all time, I hope to be there to point and laugh."

Jürgen blinked. He wasn't sure how to respond to that; "Thank you" was probably polite, but it seemed somehow insincere. He settled on "Uhm."

"I regret I will not return your kind wishes," Widget said smoothly. "I will instead warn you that if you move a finger against me or mine, your tattered pelt will fly from _Albacore's _ periscope mount, a gory victory pennant. And you will see this banner before I roll your flayed but living body into the salt water of Mother Ocean."

Gimcrack giggled while Jürgen fought a wave of nausea, and quietly resolved it would not happen on his boat.

Murray smiled pleasantly. "I hope you'll accept my invitation to dinner with my family. Some time in March?"

"March-ish is good," Widget agreed. They shook hands all around and parted amiably. Captain Murray went to his home and family.

Jürgen and Widget got up. "Your sister's invited us to dinner?" Jürgen asked.

Widget nodded. "And to spend the night. They've also invited Karl." She watched her husband carefully for a reaction. She was pleasantly surprised to see a half smile.

"I'm glad." He looked at her. "Widget, Karl and I have had too much tension between us. It's my fault, and it's his fault. I think it's gone on too long. I'm not blaming you, but I'd appreciate any help you could give us."

Widget grinned back. "I'll be on my best behavior. Promise."

He laughed and hugged her in one arm.

***

Karl was a bachelor. His work with Lemming 2000 left him little time to cook or to have friends who could. Thus, he was especially vulnerable to actual food, served in a homey tree. Monterey had counted on that. After a Monty Dinner, it was hard to think at all, let alone permit resentment to fester.

There was a time to be left alone, Dale thought, and there was a time for company. In Dale's opinion, Jürgen and Karl were in the company time. Instead of discussing their differences, they needed to sit and talk about a variety of interesting and intellectual subjects. While Widget and Gadget prowled the workshop, Dale had hoped that Foxglove, with her natural charm and wit and aura of overwhelming niceness, would help to keep things pleasant. Unfortunately, with help from Monty's dinner, she had dozed off during the first commercial, and was now sleeping, leaning against him, eyes closed, head lolling, mouth open and snoring softly in the sweetest and most endearing manner imaginable.

Karl was sitting on the couch, with his feet up. Gimcrack was propped against his thighs while they "boxed." Gimcrack was enjoying the game, giggling from time to time as his tiny fist touched lightly against Karl's.

"I don't know if I agree with you," Karl finally responded to Dale's question. Karl glanced back at the TV while a giant lizard spat flames at a frequently - devastated Tokyo. "I don't think it's so much an 'anti-American' message as it is a 'being bombed really bites' message."

"Besides," Jürgen added, "remember that these films were made back in the fifties and sixties. There were a lot of American movies with giant bugs and things eating Chicago at the same time."

"Maybe Cold War anxiety?" Karl suggested. While Karl was distracted, Gimcrack landed a tap on his nose, and Karl laughed. "Say, Dale, is it true you helped at Gimcrack's delivery?"

Dale paused for a moment. "Well, mostly I was just there to hold Widget's hand," he explained. "I didn't really do all that much. It was pretty scary."

Karl looked over. "Scary? Why?"

Dale actually looked surprised for a moment, and covered it, as though he didn't understand the question. "Widget had a bad time of it. The doctor was afraid she wouldn't make it."

Karl's breath caught in his throat. "I didn't know that." Not many mice had babies with doctors; when Karl had heard Gimcrack was born in a hospital he had thought it faintly ridiculous at best and self-indulgent at worse.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," Jürgen apologized immediately. "I was just so relieved she was all right I didn't mention it. As though talking about it was bad luck."

Karl's reply was cut off by Gadget coming up the staircase. She looked slightly disappointed at the TV. Dale immediately understood.

"Your show's on tonight, isn't it?" Dale asked. "I kinda forgot." He hoped Gadget was about to offer to give it a miss; Dale had only seen this one fifteen times and there were nuances to the obliteration of the Shinjuku district he had no doubt missed.

"Actually," Jürgen admitted, "I'm getting a bit tired -- I'll turn in."

"Me too," Karl immediately agreed. "Sorry, Dale -- Monty's dinner is putting me to sleep."

"I'll walk you upstairs," Widget said immediately, and put her hands out for Gimcrack. Instead, Karl stood, lifting the baby. "Would you rather I carried him?" she asked. "He's getting big, and you said you were tired."

Karl shook his head. "He isn't heavy." Karl grinned at the baby and winked. It felt good to know the infant liked him.

Gadget didn't offer to go up with them. She went over to the TV and pretended to fuss with the settings. "G'night," she called out, abstractly.

Widget took them upstairs, kissing Jürgen good-night outside of the guest room. It was a curiously polite, passionless kiss; Karl felt vaguely troubled to realize they were deliberately toning it down in front of him.

She doubled back to take Karl to the chipmunks' room. "Dale's sleeping on the couch tonight," she explained. "I hope you don't mind taking a top bunk." She opened the door carefully. There was moonlight coming in through the window, and the light from the hall was enough to illuminate the room without disturbing Chip, who was already curled up in the bottom bunk.

Karl dropped his voice. "That's no problem. I hate to put Dale out, though."

"I'm told he won't mind," Widget assured him. She hesitated. Karl realized she was trying to say something, so he waited anxiously. "Karl," she said finally, "he talks about your mother, and he still loves her deeply. I might do a lot of things, but I'd never try to replace her. I wouldn't, and I can't, take that away from her, from him, or from you. I know this must be hard on you, but try to understand how lonely he was."

Startled, Karl looked at her. "He... said the ocean was his first love," he heard himself say.

Pink eyes met his steadily. "I know," she agreed. "It's mine, too. It's something we agree on."

Karl watched her for several seconds. He realized he was seeing her as someone different than he had been; he didn't see a usurper; he saw his father's wife.

His eyes slid down to Gimcrack. _That's not just a baby,_ he thought. _He's my brother._

He gave her a quick hug, laying his cheek next to hers. "It's good to see you again. Good night." Solemnly, he shook Gimcrack's hand. "_Tchuss, Brüder._"

The TV was on mute, with the closed captions on, so noise wouldn't disturb the sleeping baby. Foxglove had woken up and she and Dale had decided to go out for a walk. Gadget hadn't been reading the subtitles, even though it was the last episode of PBS' _History of Superchargers._ It was odd, Gadget reflected. She had been sitting on the couch, watching Gimcrack doze for the last half hour, and she wasn't bored.

Gadget had always liked babies, but she had never thought one would hold her attention so easily for so long, as though he was a cutaway diagram of an airframe or something; she found watching Gimcrack even more interesting than an explanation of why the diesels on the Type XXI failed to deliver their design horsepower. There was something strange and unnatural about that. Every slight movement of his hands and feet, every twitch on his face, held her rapt. She felt herself slipping into one of those contemplative moods which occasionally steal over one; a sense that she would be perfectly content to sit there forever and watch her nephew sleep. She had entered this state in the past, at moments when she became one with the machine before her and her hands couldn't keep up with her brain. Nerdvana.

"Gadget?" her sister asked softly.

Gadget blinked and looked over at Widget. "Yes?"

"There's something Jürgen and I wanted to ask you." Widget hesitated, shyly. "It's a big imposition, and you don't have to answer right away."

Widget shy? That got Gadget's full attention. It didn't happen often.

Gadget nodded, encouraging her to finish.

"We were hoping you'd watch Gimcrack if something happened to Jürgen and me," Widget finally asked.

For a moment, Gadget waited for the other shoe to drop - she couldn't imagine why Widget had hesitated; it was like asking her if she'd mind breathing oxygen.

"Sure," Gadget agreed, easily. And it was easy; she had taken it for granted, unspoken. She realized she would have actually felt hurt if they had decided to name someone else Gimcrack's guardian.

"Think it over first," Widget suggested gently.

"Well, I have been. I'm sure. Can you do me a favor too?"

"Of course."

"If something happens to me," Gadget said delicately, "could you take over here? I'm not asking you to join the Rangers," she added quickly. "I mean, can you keep them in equipment, maybe build something for them to order once in a while?"

Widget blinked, confused, and Gadget felt comforted to know there had been no need for her to ask. "Deal," Widget agreed, and they solemnly shook hands on it.

Gadget grinned. "This probably sounds morbid, but it's a lot more likely you'll have to fill your side of the bargain than the other way around."

Widget looked at her sister. "Perhaps."

Gadget snorted. "There's no 'perhaps' about it. Can you imagine an accident aboard the _Albacore_ that kills you and Jürgen without killing Gimcrack and everyone else aboard? I can't."

Widget was surprised by the intensity of her sister's reply. There was some real anger there. But anger at what?

"Is something bothering you, Gadget?" Widget asked neutrally.

Gadget hesitated a long time. "I've been thinking about what happened to Prickles. And how it could have happened to any one of us. To me."

Widget nodded, slowly. People with dangerous jobs usually convinced themselves -- although they would never admit it -- that they were indestructible. It was sometimes the only way to deal with it.

"What if thinking about it makes me freeze up, some time? I mean, not just a time-out to think things through, but if I really lock up?"

Widget studied her. "I don't think it will. I think you're tough and experienced, and you'll do fine."

Gadget shrugged halfway and turned her attention to the TV. Widget sighed to herself. Everyone had self-doubts from time to time; if it really bothered Gadget, she was sure she'd talk it out longer. Widget looked at the popcorn bowl. "We're out," she noticed.

"I'll get some more," Gadget said, starting to rise.

"No, that's okay," her sister interrupted. "I wanted to get up anyway. Back in a moment."

Widget went off with the bowl and Gadget sank gratefully down. It had been a long day. It wasn't very late, just a bit after nine in the evening, but it had been eventful. It had been her first day with Widget and her grandfather as a family. Then Catbane and Caitlin had announced their engagement, and that had turned into a long day of talking and swapping stories and a very, very large lunch. When they had gotten back to Ranger Headquarters, Doctor Skinner had insisted on a house call to give them all routine exams; Gadget suspected it had been an excuse to check Monty's stitches again. And Gadget had blown up Fat Cat's office, sort of by mistake. She was tired, but it was a good kind of tired.

Gimcrack awoke, and looked at her seriously. Gadget smiled, picked him up, and hugged him. Gimcrack was in a mood for a cuddle, so he snuggled against his aunt. She bounced him and he giggled. The phone rang.

Gadget sighed, annoyed, and picked up the mouse-sized handset with her free hand. "Hello? Rescue Rangers."

"Hello, Gadget dear. It's June."

June was Tammy's mother. In the aftermath of the squirrel-sitting incident, June's daughters and the Rescue Rangers had made an arrangement which Gadget called a "non-disclosure agreement" and Dale called a "blood pact of silence for mutual survival." Since June had never heard about Tammy breaking into Fat Cat's Casino and how her children had come close to being ground into cat food, June thoroughly approved of the Rescue Rangers as role models and cherished the fond illusion her babies were safe with them.

"Hi, June. What can I do for you?" Gimcrack was a bit uncomfortable, so he shifted; Gadget tucked the phone against her shoulder and tried to give him better support.

"I was just calling about the Science Fair."

At the word "science," Gimcrack cooed and tried to crawl closer to the handset. Gadget had to lunge to catch him. "Science fair?" she asked abstractly.

June paused. "Yes, dear. The Science Fair you agreed to help judge this year?"

There was another pause. The small animals on the lower East side had set up a small education co-operative. It was probably incorrect to call it a formal school, but it was a lot closer to that than anything Gadget had ever attended. Since the co-operative got support from Ultra-Flight, technical subjects were stressed.

Unfortunately, Gimcrack was enjoying the game, and keeping him from hitting the floor took most of Gadget's attention. Although he would only fall an inch or two, she decided it would be safer to take him back to his crib. "Oh, yeah," Gadget finally said. "I remember now."

On the other end of the line, June felt worried. Gadget had been genuinely enthusiastic about the science fair; it was easy to mistake distraction for depression. "Gadget, dear," she asked, concern in her voice, "is something wrong?"

"Wrong?" Gadget repeated, deftly caught a giggling Gimcrack with her foot, flipped him into the air like a soccer ball, and snared him with both hands, "I'm sorry, I'm just a little preoccupied. I'm carrying a baby."

In computer languages, words and commands have distinct, rigidly-defined meanings. Shades of grey and sources for confusion are deliberately expunged. While the language of the technical writer or engineer does not match this purity, it approaches it at its best. Spoken language between people is a different matter entirely, replete with delicate shades of meaning, modified by context, and the unfortunate but understandable reluctance to simply call a spade a spade. It was Gadget's frequent inability to grasp these shades which complicated her life and the lives of those around her.

In her charming, tidy, bourgeois little home, June gasped for breath and slowly sank to the floor.

"Gadget," she finally asked. "Have you seen a doctor?"

Gadget blinked. It seemed an odd coincidence. "Oh, yes," she agreed. "Just today, in fact."

"Who is the father?" June's voice was strained.

"Jürgen," Gadget replied, trying to follow the path of June's thoughts.

"Your ... your brother-in-law?" June's voice was a whisper.

"Yes, that's right."

"Do they know?" June asked.

"Well," Gadget looked about. She was still the only adult in the room. "You're the first person I've told."

"Gadget, how did this happen?"

Gadget blinked. June seemed strangely intrigued by all this. "He was in bed, and he was just so cute I couldn't resist picking him up." Gadget flinched, releasing the handset as June's piercing scream of pure horror threatened to explode her eardrum.

The cord was stretched to its full extension; it sailed back towards the base unit. Quickly, Gadget tucked a disappointed Gimcrack into his crib and dashed to pick up the handset.

"Gadget, darling, when is your baby due?" June asked, as the handset flew across the room.

Gadget picked up the phone. "June!" she snapped, alarmed. "Is something wrong?" Fat Cat knew where June lived...

So Gadget was three months pregnant. June was fighting a battle with hyperventilation and her upbringing. She had to remind herself how vast the world was and how varied the ways to live upon it. Most small animals didn't even wear clothes, and were barely able to talk. Still, she had never expected this of Gadget. She would have to have a long, long talk with Tammy to compensate for Gadget's Influence.

Nevertheless, June realized, what was done was done. Gadget would need help, love, and support: not a guilt trip. "No, honey. Gadget, dear, no matter what happens, please promise me you'll come for help if you need it."

Gadget smiled. It was incredibly sweet of June to offer. Privately, she didn't see how June could be much of a help in Rescue Ranger business, but it would be cruel to point that out. Besides, Gadget had always taken the fable of the mouse and the lion to heart; that had been a distant relative.

"Thanks, June. I promise that I'll do that."

"I'm here for you, honey," June sobbed slightly. Society could be cruel to an unwed mother; she was determined to compensate for it as much as she could. Gadget should be allowed to decide what to do about this on her own, so June made a firm, unshakable resolution to keep it in perfect confidence, apart from three or four of her closest friends of the Wednesday Afternoon Kaffeeklatsch.

"Thanks. You called about the Science Fair?"

"The what?" June asked, having forgotten completely. "Oh - right. We can talk about that later, honey." Regretfully, June realized she would have to discuss this with the PTA. Teenaged pregnancy was a serious problem, and some parents might object to having her judge the Science Fair.

Gadget blinked slowly. A long time ago, she had given up trying to completely understand people who weren't engineers. "Okay..." she said.

"Folic acid, honey."

Gadget nodded with a wan smile. "Folic acid. Right."

***

Bright and early the next day, Jürgen walked Shiro-san from his hotel room down to the dock. Shiro carried an overnight bag and periodically consulted a clipboard.

"The negotiation team was able to talk the barnacle into leaving the hull," Shiro said.

"Good," Jürgen nodded. "And the sluggishness when turning to port?"

"Mrs. Shapiro was right. The control cables were a bit slack on the upper rudder."

"Which explains the roll and why turning on the surface wasn't affected," Jürgen said, satisfied.

"Exactly. We tightened that last night."

"Good. Shiro-san, you know that Widget is preparing Syril Stacey's cabin herself."

Shiro nodded. Her warm, welcoming concern had surprised the crew and gratified him personally; it was good to think the owner was offering a friendly, if uncharacteristic, paw of truce to a reporter who had been somewhat unfair in the past. "Yes sir."

"When she's done, I want the room swept for booby traps and toxins. In particular, check for radiological poisons in her bed and depilatory cream in the shower head."

Shiro nodded. There was no harm in being careful. "Yes sir." Shiro hesitated. "Sir, have you decided about Andy yet?"

His commander's expression changed from thoughtful to reluctant, and Jürgen sighed. "No, not yet. We don't want to turn him over to Staten City because they'll lock him up for good; we can't just let him go because Staten City will see that as proof we don't take it seriously; we don't have a prison of our own." Jürgen shrugged.

Surprisingly, Shiro relaxed slightly. "We were afraid you were going to keep him in the brig forever."

Jürgen shook his head. "No, certainly not."

There was a woman standing on _Albacore's _ dock. She was a red squirrel, very tall, and wore a dress and necklace made from seed pearls. She was conversing insistently with Mister Calvert. He looked over at Jürgen with some relief.

"Here's the captain now, ma'am," Mister Calvert informed her.

Jürgen nodded to her politely. "May I help you, ma'am?" Mister Calvert took the Chain of Command seriously, and always made an honest effort to filter annoyances for his commanding officer. Still, an insistent Hausfrau was too much for anyone.

"Captain Jürgen?" she asked, giving him a hand to shake. "My name is June, and I'm a friend of Gadget's." She glanced at Shiro and Calvert. "May we speak? Privately?"

With a shrug, Jürgen nodded to the officers, who went below deck.

"Pleased to meet you," Jürgen said. She seemed quite upset about something.

"Gadget told me ... about the baby," June blushed.

Jürgen blinked. Gadget must know her extremely well if she told her about becoming Gimcrack's guardian. "Yes, of course."

"Does your wife know?" she blurted out.

Why wouldn't the baby's mother know? "Certainly. In fact, it was her idea. I'm glad -- I found it quite a relief." Jürgen suspected that June did

not approve of Gadget. In general, Jürgen did not approve of people who did not approve of his sister-in-law.

June counted slowly to ten. And then did it again. She had thought that Syril Stacey's articles about Widget had been exaggerations, but clearly they had given that ... woman entirely too much credit, barely touching on the utter blackness of her soul. Her heart went out to Gadget, clearly suffering from a malign Influence.

"As Gadget's friend, I'm curious how much responsibility you intend to take once she has the baby."

Jürgen blinked a third time. Why was this strange woman taking his death and Widget's death for granted? "Well, ideally she won't have the baby. I think that's the best option."

June gasped and covered her mouth.

"But failing that," Jürgen went on, "neither Widget nor I would be in any position to take responsibility. We're confident Gadget will be able to handle this on her own."

"And then she punched me, burst into tears, and ran," Jürgen finished.

Widget shook her head and rinsed the washcloth in cold water. "Keep your head tilted back," she said worriedly. "I think the nosebleed's slowing down. Did you tell the harbor police?"

Jürgen shook his head. "No -- that doesn't seem appropriate, somehow."

A smile tugged at Widget's mouth. "So you would prefer a more ... personal retribution?"

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no," Jürgen hastened to assure her, alarmed. "Although goodness knows you're always ready for a bit of retribution (goodness knows), I really don't think your sister would approve. Not in the slightest."

Widget sighed. He was right. "Gadget does have some odd friends," she admitted reluctantly, missing the irony completely.

"Ja doch," Jürgen agreed, carefully not drawing attention to the irony.

"But what kind of person would get upset over Gadget taking care of her nephew?"

Jürgen shrugged. "Maybe someone who's afraid it would hurt the Rangers? Without them there wouldn't be anyone to turn to for help." He shook his head, sadly.

***

Some called Lewis a receptionist, but Lewis saw himself in a different light. He was a living firewall, who shielded his organization from the irrelevant while allowing the relevant to pass. Some irrelevancies had to be handled gently.

"No," the spectacle-wearing hamster said carefully, "it's just that Mr. Clayton is extremely busy."

Melody drummed her fingers on his desk. "Which is why I made the appointment," she explained again. She was a peach-colored mouse, and wore her black hair short.

"Yes, I'm sorry, but -"

The door to Clayton's office opened and a tall, black squirrel leaned out. "Melody?" he asked. "I'm very sorry I missed our appointment. Won't you please come in?"

The dark haired mouse couldn't resist a futile, but triumphant grin at the flunky at the desk. She closed the door just a bit harder than necessary.

"So what can I do for you?" Clayton asked, gesturing to a chair.

Melody sat carefully. She had never been particularly good at this part of racing. "Well, the Staten City 25 is next month, and I was wondering if Ultra-Flight would be interested in co-sponsoring my team."

"I'm surprised you don't already have a sponsor," Clayton returned.

This was the ticklish part. The key to a successful interview is to make it clear that 1) being basically loyal, you resisted a change in sponsors and would only leave if there were severe problems, thereby assuring the prospective sponsor that you would stay with them, and 2) that there weren't any severe problems with the current sponsor, because people who had problems with one sponsor were likely to have them with another. Ideally, the prospective sponsor had to believe these both simultaneously. It was tricky.

The truth was that the Rooster Dynamics race car was a bad design made worse by poor quality parts. On Monday this week, a tire had disintegrated while she was taking a hairpin turn on the practice track, sending her through the protective wall. On Tuesday, the replacement tire had disintegrated while she was taking a hairpin turn on the practice track, sending her through the new patch on the protective wall. This morning, someone had painted a target on the replacement patch on the protective wall. She had gone through the second ring. Enough was enough.

With luck, Ultra-Flight would have some spare aircraft tires she could use. It would probably take a day or two of cajoling to get them from Ultra- Flight. Melody had reluctantly given up hope of winning the Staten City 25 this year in Roosters' car, but perhaps the threat of a closer relationship with Ultra-Flight would force Rooster to work with her a little more seriously next year.

"I've had some issues with Rooster's design staff," Melody said blandly.

"I'm very sorry to hear that," Clayton said politely. "There isn't a lot of time, so I can understand your concern. If you have any issues with our design staff, please bring them directly to me. I assume you need a new car?"

Melody's mouth fell open. She had come in hoping to borrow a cup of sugar, and Clayton was offering her a full-course dinner.

"Uh, sure, but it's already the eighteenth -- how can you...?"

"I beg your pardon." Clayton pushed some buttons on the phone in front of him. "Doug? Could you come here for a moment? ... thanks." He reset the receiver. "We've got a special mobile test rig for jet engines. It's designed to test fuel delivery during violent maneuvers. If you're free today, Douglas will talk to you about converting it to a competition legal race car."

"That would be fantastic," Melody replied, a broad grin covering her features. "Thank you!"

She glanced at the monitor on his desk, and happened to notice her name.

There were five columns on a spreadsheet: Name, Host, Date, Time in, Time out. The date was fifteen years ago, and she still remembered how it got there. Gadget's father (his name was in the Host column) had taken them both on a visit to Ultra-Flight. It was the first time Melody's name had Appeared On An Official List, which made her feel important and grown-up, and the first time she had seen someone using a computer, which had been exotic and fascinating, the first time she had flown, which had been exhilarating and exciting, and the first time she had seen the inside of an engine, which had been hypnotic.

"I'm really quite pleased this chance turned up," Clayton said politely, making conversation. "I think it's an excellent opportunity for Ultra-Flight. I've seen some pictures of the Rooster designs - I don't understand at all. To me it looks aerodynamically neutral. Humans design race cars to generate negative lift to hold them tighter to the track. An Indy 500 race car can even drive upside down once it hits one hundred miles an hour or so."

Melody blinked twice before answering. "The Staten City 25 has jumps. If you have a down force on the car, you'll crash." It wasn't a dumb question by any means; but it was a surprising one, which would be asked by a decent engineer who was completely unfamiliar with the sport. Although it pained her to admit it, anyone who didn't know what the track of the Staten City 25 looked like would certainly have never heard of her.

Clayton had just allocated an engineer and equipment without knowing anything except the fact she had been visited the site fifteen years ago. No, more than that; he knew she had come with Geegaw Hackwrench.

She looked back at him silently. What was he up to?

***

"Hello?" came a voice from the base of the tree. Chip and Monterey stopped sweeping the runway and looked down. It was June, standing at the door, in the middle of a number of stacked Altoid tins and at least twelve 35mm film canisters; the sort of thing small animals used for packing, the way Humans used discarded cardboard boxes from the supermarket.

"Hello, June," Chip called down. They could finish later. He scrambled quickly down the tree, while Monty took the slower route inside. "What is all this?" Chip asked her. It looked like the entire contents of a bachelor apartment, packed and ready to ship.

"These are just a few baby things. I collected them from around the neighborhood; everyone had something they were glad to donate. A crib, bassinet, clothes, toys."

"Oh?" Chip asked, looking about, clearly no wiser.

June hesitated. "Chip, Gadget told me about the baby."

Chip was surprised. News traveled fast, but it seemed strange June already knew Gadget had been named Gimcrack's guardian.

"This is very generous of everyone. Thank you. And I'm sure Gadget will appreciate it."

"I know it's a little premature."

The thought had struck Chip as well, but it seemed rude to point it out. "It's always better to be prepared in advance." Besides, it would be useful for the next visit from Gimcrack.

"Chip," she asked, "How do you feel about it?"

Chip hesitated. He suspected there was something odd about Gimcrack, and that only Gadget could be a good mother to him if Widget were dead. "I think Gadget will make a fine mother. There's a lot of love in her. We'll all do our best to help her handle the responsibility. I won't deny that the circumstances of her getting the baby leave a lot to be desired, but we can overcome that and give the kid a good life."

June's lower lip trembled and a tear welled in her eye. "That's beautiful. Chip, that's so decent of you." Her mouth set into an angry line. "Why isn't the father taking any responsibility?"

Chip sighed, realizing June was working under a misapprehension. A lot of fathers among small animals didn't feel any debt to their children and left it all up to the mother. June assumed Gadget would be taking Gimcrack if Widget died, and that Jürgen would not be raising Gimcrack if he became a widower. "Don't worry about that," he assured her. "Jürgen will be dead before Gadget cares for his child." Chip looked around at the pile of stuff. "Say, June," he said, "How did you carry all this here?"

The blood froze in June's veins as she stared at the back of Chip's head. She had expected some anger, some rage, but this oh-so-cool declaration jarred her to the core of her being. He turned, looking at her, a puzzled expression on his face, as she saw him for the first time for what he really was: a murderer, so cold blooded and so deadly he had no fear in bragging about his intentions before her.

"June," he asked, concerned, "is something wrong?"

What could she say to that? Jürgen was a cad, but did he really warrant a death penalty? June didn't think so.

"Oh ... no..." she managed to force out in a cracked voice before panic overcame her and she ran off, screaming.

At that moment, Monterey opened the door. Slack jawed, they watched June rocket off to the horizon, leaving a trail of dust.

"Chip," Monterey asked slowly, "What did you say to her?"

"I asked her how she carried all these packages here," Chip replied, dumbfounded.

Monterey considered.

"Chipper, lad," Monty said gently, resting a massive hand on his shoulder. "Sometimes you do use the sharp edge of your tongue more'n you should."

"Monty, I asked her how she carried all these packages here," Chip repeated. Monty narrowed his eyes. There was no hesitation or guilt in Chip's voice. Usually, Chip knew when he had gone too far, and he seemed honestly confounded.

"We do 'ave some odd friends," Monterey observed philosophically.

"Yes, true," Chip agreed.

***

Syril watched in horror as the razor blade attached to the pendulum swung back and forth, drawing slightly nearer with each swing. Meanwhile, the floor of her little prison cell slowly retracted into the wall, revealing a long drop, and allowing the yowling of several hungry cats to drift upwards from the chamber below. She would have pressed against the wall to gain more time, if it were not for the keening whine of dental drills, inching out from that wall and crowding her closer to the lip of the floor. As the sun moved, its light was focussed by a magnifying glass onto a brilliantly-lit dot which was creeping towards the fuse attached to several red cylinders on the far wall. Meanwhile, the steaming cauldron above tipped slowly over, and drips of boiling acid sizzled down the walls.

Avoiding the lasers which fired at random intervals, Syril looked at her tormentor defiantly, who stood some distance away on the far side of a Lexan shield, surrounded by video equipment, holding her baby. Mother and infant smiled, enjoying Syril's plight; a Madonna from the third circle of hell.

"Do you expect me to retract my stories?" Syril cried out.

"No, Miss Stacey," Widget replied. "I expect you to die!" And how the laughter of mother and child did echo in the little room.

With a start, Syril jerked upright in her bed. For several long moments the only sound she could hear was the pounding of her own heart. She closed her eyes and sighed, slowly. At least her dreams were getting better. She looked at the digital watch on the wall. Time for breakfast.

Two days after leaving port, Syril had the distinct impression Widget was avoiding her. This wasn't making it easy to write a puff piece; or, given the subject, perhaps it was the albino mouse's way of helping.

So it was with some agitation Syril entered the mess with a tray of breakfast and saw Widget sitting at a table, back turned towards her. Widget's son Gimcrack peeked up over his mother's shoulder and regarded Syril with eyes vast and cool and unsympathetic.

It was ridiculous to dislike or fear an infant. Gimcrack was completely incapable of committing an evil act. Yet Syril always had the itching sensation that he would like to. Already she had mentally nicknamed him "Grimcrack."

At the table were Misters Calvert and Shiro, the First Watch and Engineering officers. Seeing Syril wanted to sit down, Mr. Calvert shifted slightly to give Syril room. He was a bit small for a squirrel, but that was big for a mouse. Widget and Shiro turned to see who was coming in; Widget returned to her meal and Shiro nodding politely.

"I was rereading some of your old articles," Widget said. "I found a small technical glitch in one."

"Really?" Syril asked. It was hardly surprising an engineer with Widget's reputation would. "What was it?" She took a bite of a raisin. Widget was eating a tiny pizza with acorn chunks as a topping; more a lunch food than breakfast food, Syril thought. Acorn was incredibly bitter; Syril had never developed a taste for it. It probably fit Widget's personality perfectly. The thought made Syril smile.

There was a rumor that Widget was actually an insectivorous grasshopper mouse, but apart from the occasional bit of fish or meat just about any mouse ate for the flavor, Widget seemed to be an average Muridae, if one took her mother into account. Syril was slightly disappointed. It would have been nice to relieve Gadget of the taint of a relationship with this creature, and absolve Jürgen from any responsibility for fathering Grimcrack in the minds of future generations.

"The SRV in SRV _Albacore _," Widget explained. "It stands for Submersible Research Vessel." Pink eyes locked on Syril's. "Not 'Sausage of Retribution and Vengeance'."

Syril laughed lightly and nervously. "It's an understandable mistake." *Bad girl. Think nice,* she told herself sternly. *Positive spin.*

Shiro and Calvert looked at Syril, looked at Widget, and looked at one another. It seemed they were about to say something, but thought better of it. "Anyway," Shiro said brightly, trying to change the subject, "the leak was fully internal."

"Leak?" Syril asked cautiously. When one is on a submarine, this is not a word one wants to hear.

Widget and Gimcrack looked at Syril. The reporter wished she had the camera she had left in her cabin. She could call the picture "The Two Headed Monster." She chided herself silently. *Nice. Nice.*

"Internal storage of purified dihydrogen monoxide," the albino mouse explained briefly.

"Dihydrogen monoxide?" Syril asked in a questioning tone.

"It's a fluid used as a coolant, among other things," Shiro said politely.

"A little tricky to handle," Mister Calvert observed. "It's a solvent, although it has a PH of 7."

"It can suffocate you if you inhale it," Shiro said with a perverse satisfaction. "In its vapor state, it can cause severe burns."

"It's also been found in the bodies of cancer patients," Calvert pointed out.

Widget looked at him sharply. "They've never proven a causal relationship."

Gimcrack started to giggle at whatever babies that age giggle at. Widget looked down fondly. *The sorcerer looks at her apprentice,* Syril thought, *dreaming of havoc unleashed on men and mice yet unborn.*

"No," agreed Calvert, "but it is suggestive. Dihydrogen monoxide also causes metals to oxidize," he said for Syril's benefit, "requiring a special protective layer on some materials in contact with it."

Shiro confided, "There are often reports of elevated levels of dihydrogen monoxide inside some ships before they go down." He shrugged. "But we do have special systems to take as much of it out of the air as possible. They're running now."

"Wouldn't want it to condense on surfaces once it gets cold," Calvert nodded.

Syril nodded, considering her next words. "On that subject, could you tell me who I should speak to about the dihydrogen monoxide valve in the sink in my bathroom? It seems to stick a bit." Everyone at the table looked at her sharply. "Perhaps it just needs a dab of relative bearing grease." Syril smiled widely at the engineering officer.

Shiro's face split into a grin. "I'll see to it, ma'am."

Out of the corner of her eye, Syril saw Widget's face light up with something which wasn't quite affection; more like reluctant respect. A reporter who knew that dihydrogen monoxide was H2O couldn't be held in complete disdain. Perhaps "light up" wasn't the right term; it was more like a match glowing dimly in a dark cave than a flashbulb burst. Syril would take what she could get.

***

Melody was at Staten City, and would be free for dinner. Chip had an appointment at the Ratisson in the afternoon. Gadget had flown the two of them down. Chip would go to his affair, and Gadget would run an errand. That evening, she'd pick up Chip and Melody. Gadget patted the packet of letters in her hand with a smug expression. At last, the obligation would be discharged.

Peter d'Asiago pursed his lips as the coverall-clad figure stepped through the gallery, peering intently at every face that crossed her line of vision. Her clothing and manner were impossibly common; despite that, he had to admit that a few hours of work in a salon would have made her quite attractive. He made his way towards her.

She walked purposefully past the art and sculptures, scanning the knots of people engaged in conversation for one face. After a few minutes, an officious mouse in a suit and tie came up to her and looked at her sternly. Gadget paused in her quest to look at him. Beneath his irritated expression, she perceived a person with genuine concerns on his mind.

"You get to the climate control through the back entrance," he hissed.

Gadget smiled and nodded politely. "Good," she said approvingly. "That way, you can have better acoustics in here." She waited for him to reply. He seemed at a loss. A person more in tune with social norms than Gadget might have wondered why he had told her how to access the heating, but Gadget found it a pleasant way to start a conversation.

"Aren't you ... going to fix it?" he finally asked.

Gadget bristled. This was more than just a little bit peremptory of him. "I'll have a look at your heater after I've delivered these letters," she replied. She looked around again for her cousin. "What seems to be wrong with it?"

"The superintendent called your office before you came," he explained, growing more and more astonished with each moment.

Now this was curious. Why would someone in Staten City call the Rescue Rangers, about twenty miles away, to tell them their heating system was giving them problems? There was clearly something mysterious about the malfunction -- something strange enough to be a case.

"I must have left headquarters before you called," she said briskly. She realized that she would have to collect Chip and the rest of the Rangers, but she could at least get started in the investigation.

He looked dubious. "Then why did you come here?"

"I came to give these letters to my cousin," Gadget explained, indicating the missives.

Realization dawned on him. "Then you're not from Staten Electric and Gas?"

She blinked. "Golly, no. What gave you that idea?" Realization dawned on her likewise. "Wait -- I think I understand -- you must think I'm the furnace guy!"

With glazed eyes, he nodded. "Sorry. Please forget everything I said about fixing the heating."

With the explanation, she was more kindly inclined towards him. "But I don't mind --"

"No, you'd uh, void the warrantee. Who is your cousin?" he asked, hoping to get this extremely unfashionable and odd individual out as quickly as possible.

"Gidget Catbane," explained the apparition.

He blinked rapidly. "Gidget Catbane?" he asked, unsure he had heard her properly.

"Uh-huh," Gadget nodded, scanned the room, and brightened. "Oh, look! There she is!"

Gidget heard the familiar voice, which produced an effect on her not unlike claws on a blackboard. She glanced around. Escape seemed impossible, at least in the red dress. Other people heard as well; Gidget died a thousand deaths as they looked over at the family weirdo.

"Cousin Gidget!" Gadget called and walked over with a broad smile. "I'm sorry you couldn't make it to the SRE convention the other week. I got your note saying you had volunteered to bathe some fish. It was nice of you to do that instead. I didn't even know fish took baths."

Bertie stood next to his fiancée, one hand wrapped around a glass. He waited for Gidget to introduce them, but he realized he would wait a very long time. It had probably slipped Gidget's mind. "Ah," he prompted, to remind her, "I don't think I've met your cousin."

"Distant cousin," Gidget said with a fixed smile. "I'm not sure how we're related --"

"Her father's my mother's brother," Gadget explained, shaking Bertie's hand firmly. He winced; her grip was stronger than he expected. "I'm Gadget."

"Bertie Worcester," Bertie introduced himself.

"I expected you to visit on ... last Tuesday, wasn't it? So we could talk? Alone?" Gidget lowered her voice to a hiss. "Away from my friends?"

"Oh, Tuesday I was breaking my brother-in-law out of prison," Gadget explained chattily, in normal tones. "Wasn't it in the news?"

Bertie's expression froze in a pleasant grin. Bertie was by no means the sharpest knife in the drawer, and was having difficulty fitting his mind around the last statement made. Gidget sighed and gritted her teeth.

"Oh..." he said finally. "Well, I suppose everybody has a relation like that. Now my Aunt Agatha, who has never been imprisoned but probably should be --"

Gadget shook her head, with a laugh. "No, he didn't really do anything bad," she explained. "You see, they thought my sister had torpedoed a passenger liner. But she didn't. At least not this time. Well, not deliberately."

"Not deliberately," Bertie repeated.

"The Hackwrenches are the eccentric side of the family," Gidget explained. "Gadget's mother was one of the -- YIP!"

"--Founders of Ultra-Flight labs," Gadget interrupted, lifting her heel delicately off her cousin's toes. Gadget had stomped a bit hard, and she would have to apologize later. But she didn't like the way people treated her after they found out about her mother. She was certain Gidget had been told that more than once. It was almost as though her cousin was deliberately trying to make her uncomfortable, which was obviously absurd. "She married Geegaw Hackwrench, the pilot."

"Hackwrench," Bertie mused. "Say, isn't your sister Widget?"

"Why, yes," Gadget said, pleased. "I'm surprised you've heard of her -- I mean, you're not from around here, are you?"

Gidget scuttled subtly out of stomping range.

"I was on the _Minuscule_ when she sank it," Bertie explained with a chuckle.

"You don't say!"

"It's a small world, isn't it?" Bertie's mind had not a trace of bitterness, perhaps due to lack of space.

The two chuckled over the coincidence while Gidget clenched and unclenched her jaw. People were beginning to stare. She would have to try again.

"Gadget's mother -- "

Gidget had known Gadget as a scrawny, underdeveloped, bookish teenager. Years of running on conveyer belts, unscrewing jar lids from the inside, clambering up human pants to tickle them, and dodging nets had unbeknownst to Gidget toned her cousin into a lean adventuring machine. A quick, pantherish leap with a mid air half turn brought Gadget unerringly to her target.

"YIP!" Gidget finished.

Bertie marveled at the family affection which drew Gadget close to her cousin, over and over.

"-- Died in childbirth," Gadget finished. "So unfortunately, I never knew her."

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that," Bertie said sympathetically.

During this exchange, Gidget went to an ice bucket and made preparations. She licked her lips. "Gadget's mother was -- " A heel thumped down on improvised toe guards made of ice scoops, and Gidget could not suppress a triumphant smile as she finished her sentence. " -- one of the Lost Nine Mice of NIMH."

"Lost Nine?" Bertie asked, interested.

Gadget sighed and cast her cousin a fierce glance. Gidget grinned back. It was almost as though she had annoyed Gadget deliberately. Strange. "Eleven mice survived the NIMH experiments long enough to escape. All but Brisby and Ages were split off from the rats by airflow in the ventilation system. Mom made her way back home."

"Then you must be terribly clever," Bertie said pleasantly.

"Yes," Gadget agreed, "but most NIMH rodents really weren't changed much. Uhm, sorry, it's kind of a sore point with me." Gadget was proud, justly so, of her inventions, and the fact she had The Knack. A great deal of her self-image was bound up in that. Once, when sabotage on the part of an enemy had convinced her she had lost The Knack, she had quit the Rangers in a fit of depression. The thought that she owed The Knack to a set of experiments run on her mother was galling. She didn't care to talk about it.

"I understand," Bertie said thoughtfully.

"You do?" Gidget asked, astonished.

"There were originally eleven mice," Bertie said with a nod. "Nine were swept away in the ventilation shaft, leaving two."

Gadget smiled pleasantly and nodded. She met a lot of people like Bertie in her line of work, which was one of the reasons she hadn't bothered to figure out June's misapprehension. "Anyway, Gidget," Gadget said cheerfully, holding out the packet of letters, "David Crustsnatcher asked me to give these to you."

"David who?" Gidget asked suspiciously.

"Crustsnatcher," Gadget persisted. "That Canadian shrew you met on the _Minuscule_ before my sister sank it."

"Gosh," Gidget taking the letters as enthusiastically as if they had been toxic waste, "thanks."

"You're welcome," Gadget beamed.

"I'm really sorry you have to be leaving now," Gidget hinted subtly.

Gadget considered. There was a trade show at the Javits Convention Center she wanted to check out; she could be there and back to Staten City in time to pick up Chip and Melody, but only if she hurried.

"Well, see you later," Gadget smiled. "Now that our grandfather's talking to me, I'll probably be popping over more frequently."

"I can't tell you how that makes me feel," Gidget replied honestly.

Gadget said her good-byes to Bertie and was soon out the door. Gidget heaved a sigh of relief and looked at the packet of letters. They were compromising, and worse, she could hardly carry them about in her red dress without producing an unsightly bulge. So she tossed them in the garbage.

"My name is Chip," the chipmunk said, raising his voice for the benefit of everyone in the crowded room, "and I'm a bonkaholic."

"Hi, Chip," responded the room in a mumble.

"My bonkee and I got back from an ocean trip a few days ago," Chip said blandly. "I had been bonk free for eight days, so I thought I was ready for the Fifth Step, and threw away my bonk log. Last night, my bonkee woke me at three in the morning to ask if the refrigerator was running. I came very close to falling off the wagon then."

There were sounds of sympathy and support.

"But I didn't," Chip said with more than a trace of pride. "Then, this morning over breakfast, he apologized and said that it seemed very funny to him at three in the morning, and that he was sorry."

The room was silent. They knew how hard it was sometimes to confess a failure.

Chip gritted his teeth and went on. "Then he asked me if I had Captain Crunch in my bowl. I told him I did, and he said I should help him out." Chip's eyes and voice dropped. "I made his head vibrate like a tuning fork."

Chip had been dreading the meeting for some time. He didn't like confessing failure in front of people, let alone one like this. Still, it had been surprisingly easy. As he walked to the airport, he felt lighter, as though a problem had been lifted away from him. So he wasn't ready to give up the Bonk Log yet -- he would carry on, and succeed. Impatience was one of his flaws, he was well aware.

After the meeting was over, Chip left the room, one of the milling crowd. A mouse woman was waiting outside in the hall. She wore a single-piece Nomex protective suit; her fur was the same shade as Gadget's, and her black hair thick, but cut short, almost like a helmet. Chip had met Melody briefly before, and she stepped in his direction with a neutral expression.

"Melody," he said with a polite nod and a grin.

She hesitated a moment. "Chip," she responded, without a smile.

Chip blinked, and then understood. Melody was one of Gadget's oldest friends, and nobody wanted to see an old friend's housemate walking out of a Bonkaholics Anonymous meeting. *Well,* he thought, *this is just perfect.*

"I thought I'd be meeting you at the airport," Chip said, trying to start a conversation. Then he realized that was probably the wrong thing to say. Too defensive. Almost as bad as "I kind of hoped you wouldn't see me leaving the BA meeting."

"Uh huh," she said dryly, obviously thinking exactly that. "I finished at JFK early, so I caught an early seagull to Staten City. Gadget mentioned you would be at the Ratisson, and this is the only meeting taking place here now."

*How lucky for me,* Chip thought. "Kennedy Airport -- you went to Ultra- Flight?"

They started for the elevator.

"Yes," Melody said, immediately concerned. "Is there something I should know about Ultra-Flight?"

Chip blinked. He had tripped up; his vague, unsettled suspicion that Clayton was trying to headhunt Gadget had betrayed him. "Not that I'm aware of," he said, arguing to himself that an unfounded suspicion was just that. "I was guessing." He hesitated a moment. "You seem to expect bad news. Why?"

Chip wondered if he was looking for evidence Clayton was up to something shady precisely because it would put the kibosh on any chance Gadget would leave for Ultra-Flight. It was an unworthy motive, he told himself sternly. The elevator door opened and they stepped in.

Instead of answering, Melody asked another question. "Do they have some sort of interest in Gadget?"

"Gadget's probably responsible for putting Clayton in the job he has now. He's let her fly the Falcon a few times." Chip's voice was cautious. The nightmare about Gadget joining Ultra-Flight was still fresh in his mind. He was looking for anything, no matter how far-fetched, to break that threat. Which was nasty, selfish, and unfair to Gadget. But he couldn't help the way he felt.

Melody looked relieved. "Okay, then. I just got the impression that Clayton was bending over backwards for me today after he found out that I knew Gadget."

"Sounds like he's helping out a friend of a friend," Chip nodded. Nothing strange about that, he told himself.

"Do you mind if we walk to the airport? We've got time, and I hate being in a car I'm not driving."

"No problem," Chip agreed. "Monty's cooking up something special. The walk will help work up an appetite."

They strolled to the airport, discussing the weather, local politics, racing, anything except Gadget or Bonkaholics Anonymous. Chip wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. It might be better to get it out in the open, to make it clear that Chip had never hit anyone except Dale, and that the psychologist at BA felt Chip's problem had more to do with a normal childish aggression pattern than a serious abusive personality. Still, it wasn't something easy for Chip to bring up, and he'd probably come off as too defensive if he did.

The airport was by the docks. The docks were busiest at night, when mouse-sized ships could sail in and out without being noticed by Humans. The airport could run all day, because Humans occasionally flew radio-controlled aircraft in the park, and most rodent aircraft were small enough to pass as birds. The Ranger Wing wasn't where Gadget had landed it, and a short conversation with the tower revealed she had left but was expected back shortly. They sat on a bench to wait; Chip wanted to talk with Trackball this evening, and he hoped Gadget wouldn't be late.

"I'm sorry I missed meeting Widget," Melody said after they sat down. "What's she like?"

"A bit hard to get close to," Chip said immediately, on the off chance Melody would meet Widget without warning. "She kind of gives the impression she's a crazed sociopath."

"Isn't she?" Melody asked with surprise. She was a dedicated reader of Syril Stacey's column in _Mouse News, _ and in her conversations with Gadget assumed she was making excuses for her sister.

"Sort of," Chip admitted. "I think marriage and a kid settled her down a bit."

"Do you?" Melody said through slightly gritted teeth. _Taming of the Shrew._ Melody licked her lips. She didn't want to get into an argument. "How is Gadget doing?" she asked, finally.

Chip looked up sharply. There was something in her tone of voice that indicated honest concern, an expectation of bad news. He realized it shouldn't have surprised him Melody knew; she was one of Gadget's oldest friends.

"You mean the accident with Prickles?" Chip asked. That was ambiguous and clear at the same time.

Melody nodded. Chip sighed.

"She's doing much better," Chip told her. "It happened in the middle of ... a messy situation. She kind of put it on hold until she had time to deal with it. But she is dealing with it. She talks about it now, with us and with a minister we know. She still has nightmares but she slept through the night the day before yesterday."

There was an awkward pause while Melody wondered exactly how Chip knew Gadget had been waking up in the middle of the night. "I'm glad to hear that. Is Gadget usually this late?"

***

Trackball's windup chair whirred as the mouse rode it to her front door. She released a catch which allowed a tiny door to swing open. She grinned with pleasure. "Hi, Chip."

"Good evening, Trackball," Chip returned, stepping in. He looked around the prewar loft apartment rezoned as an office. "Trackball, this is Gadget's old friend Melody. Melody, this is Trackball, our resident computer genius."

Melody looked around the room and blinked. With Trackball, the distinction between "home", "office," and "workshop" were blurred, to say the least. The room was technically a single; in another city, it might have been called a large closet rather than a small room. It was further subdivided by metal shelves. Each shelf was packed with so many different computers of different configurations she lived in the gaps between them. Her bed was atop a Pentium tower, and she slept lulled by the soft hum of cooler fans. Model railroad tracks connected to elevators would carry her between them. As Melody watched, a CD-ROM tray whined and popped open. A suction cup on a hinged arm made from Lego Mindstorms -- Gadget's work, certainly -- swung down, plucked it out, stuffed it into an addressed, stamped CD mailer, and dropped it into a slot in the wall.

"Just a little Y2K work for Moody's," Trackball explained. "I'm generating some test files for them. Aren't you the racer?"

Melody smiled with the usual thrill she got when recognized. "Yes, that's right. I'm in town for the Staten City 25 next month. Will you be attending?"

"Probably not," Trackball apologized.

"I hope we haven't caught you at a busy time." Humans ran by clocks, Chip knew, and Trackball was a small part of their world.

"Not at all. I was just finished."

"Have you seen Gadget this afternoon?" the chipmunk asked. "She was supposed to pick us up at Staten City. We caught a ride on a seagull instead."

Trackball shook her head. "No, but she'll be dropping me off at the National Electronic Recording Devices Exposition in the Javits Center this evening. She was planning to attend, but decided to have dinner with a friend instead." It wasn't too hard to guess that Melody was the friend. "Maybe she decided to go in the afternoon, while it was still open."

Chip nodded. Trackball wasn't terribly good at the rodent scuttling about thing, a fact which they rarely alluded to directly. She would prefer to go after the exposition had closed and the hall was empty of humans. "NERD-Ex?" Chip asked. "I forgot they were holding it today."

If Gadget had wanted to go to NERD-Ex and later changed her mind when Melody became available, she very likely would have swung by the exhibition for an hour or two. But Chip doubted it. Gadget wasn't much for digital electronics. If it had been, say, a hammer convention, Gadget would have been first on line. It was more likely that Gadget wanted to escort Trackball, but didn't want to embarrass the paraplegic mouse. So, she pretended that she wanted to go as well. But that didn't make sense either, because then she would have kept the appointment, or made certain Trackball was escorted by someone else.

"She was eager to see one of the exhibits," Trackball explained.

"Which one?" Chip asked, reverting momentarily into Cop Mode. Of course, he couldn't pretend to know exactly what Gadget would or wouldn't be interested in, but he probably had a better idea than Trackball did.

With some fascination, Melody watched Chip transform, his voice turning neutral and rapid-fire. Since she was not a Ranger, she didn't realize how often someone being late turned into a full-fledged disaster. Especially when they were late for breakfast.

"They're showing an American bombe," Trackball explained.

"A bomb?" Chip and Melody asked simultaneously.

"No," Trackball corrected, repeating it more slowly, exaggerating the pronunciation. "_Boem-buh._"

"A dessert made of two types of ice cream?" Melody asked, confused.

Chip frowned. If anything, that sounded less likely to interest Gadget than a bomb, who did enjoy a bit of pyrotechnics from time to time. "Why didn't she ask Monty or Dale--"

Trackball looked surprised. "Oh, is that where the name is from? A 'bombe' is an analog computer, built in the 1940s to break codes. Part of the Ultra Project."

Chip immediately relaxed. He knew what an analog computer was; he had sat through PBS's _Mathematical Engines_ with Gadget some weeks ago. He had found it surprisingly interesting. Granted, he had spent most of the time watching Gadget's face in profile in the flickering light of the TV, but some points had filtered through. Yes, he could imagine Gadget crawling about inside a dusty old mechanical device and entering a state wherein hours would flit by like minutes.

"I'll call the guys at the tree," Chip decided. "I'll ask them to drive over with the Ranger Skate. We'll take you to the Javits Center, and we'll find Gadget so she doesn't suddenly remember and rush down to Staten City."

Trackball nodded and pointed to her phone. "Thank you. What if she's already on her way?"

"We'll leave notes for her," Melody said. "I left a message at Staten City. Can't you communicate with the Ranger Wing?"

"We have a radio for it," Chip explained, preoccupied, "but it's too heavy to carry in the plane all the time, and it's pretty short ranged --"

"Maybe a wrist pager," Trackball suggested.. "Something you leave in the Wing, or carry around like a briefcase or a small backpack..." Trackball got a faraway, dreamy look in her eyes. "It's one way communication, of course, but it might be useful..."

"How could we pay for it?" Chip asked. "It's not like a radio or something you can scrounge from a junk yard. There's activation fees, bills --"

Trackball blinked. "Oh, I'll cover that."

Chip studied her. "You're already paying for our wireless, and giving us free Internet --"

"Oh, puff," Trackball snorted. "It's the least I can do." She slapped her wheelchair. "You know how much one of these things would cost if I had to buy it from humans? Even assuming I could explain why I wanted a wind-up toy wheelchair with built-in controls, it would have to be specially made."

Chip turned his attention to the phone. "Hello, Foxglove? ... I can barely hear you; could you move your mouth closer to the handset? ... I'm sorry that the speaker's so loud it hurts ..."

"Why did Gadget build it with a clockwork instead of a battery?" Melody asked in subdued tones. "I'd think a battery would last longer."

"Batteries and electric motors are heavier. If I fall over, this one's light enough for me to right and climb back into." Trackball nodded. "Of course, Gadget wanted to do something with superconductors and magnetic levitation, but I convinced her that you don't want fields that strong next to an IP server."

Over at the phone, Chip winced at the thought of Trackball having an accident. "You really shouldn't live alone -- no, Foxglove, I know you don't -- "

Trackball grinned and gazed at him through half-closed eyes. "Why, Chip," she said softly. "You flirt, you." She fluttered her eyelids. Chip's momentary blush was quite gratifying. She laughed lightly and straightened, beaming at him.

"Anyway," Chip went on, "could you ask Monterey to come to the -- no, Foxy, I'm not blushing. How can you hear a blush?"

Some time later, Chip was able to get Monty on the phone.

"Monty, we're at Trackball's. Could you come out on the Skate?"

"Well," Monty said reluctantly, "I kinda hate t' leave dinner --"

"Then could you ask Dale to meet us?" Chip asked innocently.

There was a brief hesitation. "Be right there. Dinner can wait a bit."

Satisfied, Chip hung up the phone.

Monterey pulled the Ranger Skate next to the curb and looked over at Zipper. "Bonzer idea with the water, mate," he said. "Thanks."

Zipper shrugged and grinned. Dale and Foxglove had asked if they could watch over Monty's cooking, and it was Zipper who suggested they boil some water over a low flame. Stirring it periodically to keep it from scorching should keep them busy and away from the rest of the meal. Zipper flapped his wings and went into a hover. They had grown back well enough for him to do some flying, although it would be a while before he was back in full trim. He settled on Monty's shoulder.

Chip, Melody, and Trackball were waiting quietly on the sidewalk. They had picked a point where the Skate's deck would be almost flush with the curb; Trackball wheeled onto the Skate, navigating the drop with a slight thump. As Zipper attached the cargo tiedowns to her chair, Chip and Melody stepped aboard.

"Mind if I drive?" Melody asked Monty, casually.

Monty froze. Blind, irrational panic flowed through his body, like lymph. One of Gadget's friends was asking to drive. It was true, Monty had never been driven by Melody, but she knew Gadget, which was enough to damn her as a vehicle operator in his eyes.

"Why, no," he said pleasantly. "Not at all," and moved aside, heart thudding.

He was surprised and relieved when she buckled up, checked her blind spot, and moved cautiously into traffic. Oh, she drove quickly, Monterey had to admit, and the ride was rough, but she drove with a quiet professionalism, and responded to hazards before Monty even saw them. Smoothly, she tucked the Skate into a parking space below a truck, and braked gently to a halt. Monty sighed, deep and long. Melody looked at him quizzically, but didn't say anything.

It would be possible to spend days on the main floor of NERD-Ex, and never see the same booth twice. Although the show was officially shut down, a horde of technically minded mice had removed dust covers and fired up most of the equipment. Without salesmen to interfere, the new products were being given a workout which most of the actual human attendants would have observed with great interest. Cheers broke out each time The Blue Screen of Death appeared; and there was a lot of cheering.

The bombe was part of a display sponsored by Cyberdyne. Posters reading "We Are Your Future!" and "The Rumors You Have Heard About Us Are Somewhat Exaggerated -- None of the Charges Stuck" decorated the walls. There were a few mice examining the bombe, but most were here to see new technology. Gadget was nowhere to be seen.

"Let's split up," Chip decided. "Let's meet back here in half an hour. Zipper, check out the inside of the bombe." Zipper immediately nodded, and whizzed off.

Melody saw Monty consider raising an objection, and decide against it. "Roight," he said, and stalked off to the left, a determined expression on his face.

"Trackball," Chip asked, "when would you like us to take you back home?"

Trackball blinked. She was just about to join the Gadget hunt -- she had forgotten that she had come here to do research. "I'll try to get a ride with a friend," she told him. "I'll keep my eye out for Gadget."

"Thanks," Chip said with a curt nod. "If you need a ride, please let me know."

After the others left, Melody was alone with Chip. He looked across the floor, and frowned, as though distracted.

Melody had mixed feelings. Part of her resented the imperious commands Chip had just fired off; another part reluctantly admitted the chipmunk was getting things done. Besides, she was starting to feel a little concerned. Granted, Chip seemed the sort who would turn a day off into close-order drill, but even taking that into account, he seemed disturbed.

"Are you worried?" she finally asked.

"Not really," Chip replied. "It's not strange for Gadget to be late. But still..." He hesitated. "Could you please go to the roof and see if the Ranger Wing is up there? It's a tailless pusher tiltrotor with pontoons, and our symbol on the fuselage and wings. An oval, red and blue background, with the letters R R separated by a lightning bolt."

She found herself nodding. "Right," she agreed, before she wondered why she was taking orders.

Chip slowly stroked his chin with his fingers, staring at the analog computer Gadget had come to see. At least, he hoped she had; if she hadn't, he had no idea where she might be. Not for the first time, he wondered if he was being paranoid. He comforted himself with the thought that being paranoid didn't mean they weren't out to get you. He would look very silly in front of Melody if this turned out to be innocent, but Chip's Trouble Meter was registering in the seventies. Gadget did get distracted easily. But she wouldn't blow off an appointment with Melody. Not voluntarily.

The problem was that he was trying to trace Gadget's motions by following her thoughts, and following Gadget's thoughts was like tracking a feather in a tornado. It was a good thing she didn't care much for computers; it would be impossible to guess what might have caught her eye. No, once she was sated with the bombe, she'd look for something the Rangers could use. Telecommunications? Accessories for their handheld computer?

Zipper shot out of the bombe and enunciated forcefully. He was carrying a strand of blonde hair, over an inch long.

Chip took it without comment and sniffed. "Yes," he said thoughtfully. "You're right. It's Gadget's." As he had suspected, the air inside the bombe was staler than the air outside, and there were fewer mice scampering about, so her scent lingered. Carefully, he wound the hair into a loose coil around his fingers and tucked it into an evidence bag. Something in the action made him shudder.

Zipper buzzed again. he forced out.

Chip looked at him sharply, with a grim smile. "Even better." He followed the fly over to the bombe. "Are you sure she was coming out and not going in?" he asked.

Zipper came to a stop below an ajar inspection plate, about twenty centimeters off the floor. "Right," Chip agreed immediately. "She could have jumped out easily enough, but getting in through there would be tough." An better climber than Gadget, Chip would have had second thoughts about trying to scale the smooth, featureless metal. "Let's see where it goes, okay?"

Zipper walked along the ground, resting his flying muscles and staying closer to the trail. Chip walked, keeping half an eye on Zipper and looking about, trying to guess what might have caught Gadget's attention. It wasn't easy. Every booth, every square meter of wall space had been designed to catch the eye and inspire curiosity. Besides, he realized with a flash of insight, Gadget would relate things he couldn't. That was what made her a genius.

He looked straight ahead. For some reason, she had been heading right towards a sign saying "CYBERDYNE: A New Leader in Food Processing Technology!" Something in Chip's mind tugged at him. This had something to do with Gadget, he was certain. But what? A present for Monty? No. Something important --



"What?" Chip blinked, jolted out of his reverie.

Zipper repeated patiently. Zipper pointed to his left, indicating she had abruptly changed course.

Chip nodded, exhaling slowly. He turned his head. Was she afraid, running away from something? No, he decided. The best cover was to his right. If she were running away, she would have headed in the other direction. Either that way was blocked, or she was running _towards_ something. Chip would have bet on the latter. There must have been people in the direction Zipper was leading him.

Zipper came to a stop, confused. He started casting about, walking a few inches in each direction and then back, hunting for the trail. Chip froze. He felt edgy, nervous; something about this place was upsetting him. A strict rationalist, Chip tried to ignore the feeling. He drew a deep breath, but it didn't seem to help. He lowered his eyes, and he saw it about a foot off.

He ran over, ignoring the glances from the one or two rodents poking through Cyberdyne's displays. The object was both black and transparent in spots, tattered at one end. It was paper thin, a bit over a centimeter long and a few millimeters wide. Still, the long, wicked curve made it unmistakable. Not many humans would have known what it was, but to any rodent it was immediately recognizable.

To remain sharp, the claws of a cat are constantly growing. Long, thin strips constantly flake off the sides. Sometimes, the outer layer falls off in a single piece, maintaining its shape like the skin of a snake. With the force of long habit, he stuffed the cat's claw flake into an inside pocket. He had to try three times before it went in; his hand was shaking so.

Now he understood why he was nervous. He smelled a cat.

"Zipper," he said quietly, "a cat was here."

Zipper did a double-take. he screeched.

"Maybe not the same time as Gadget," Chip said immediately. He didn't know if he was trying to persuade Zipper or himself. "Maybe not at the same time." Quickly, his mind photographed his position and Zipper's. Yes, it would work. If the cat had jumped from Cyberdyne's table onto where Gadget's trail ended, it would have skidded to where he had found the claw flake ...

"...Maybe not at the same time," Chip repeated, his mouth suddenly dry.

Zipper waited a few seconds. When it was obvious Chip was locked up, he spoke, gently.

That worked. Chip blinked and stared at him. "Yes," Chip croaked, and again, voice stronger. "I had better check the first aid station. You stay here, in case anyone else comes back." He set off at a trot. Why would Gadget run _towards_ a cat? There was only one reason he could think of.

The first aid station consisted of a few cots, separated by curtains, and a paramedic. She looked up, surprised, as a chipmunk in a leather jacket and a fedora skidded in.

"Has anyone been attacked by a cat?" Chip asked, in tones that would not tolerate waffling.

The paramedic blinked. "Yes," she replied immediately. "He'll be okay. He got attacked while the show was still open. He's over there --" she pointed at a drawn curtain.

Chip grinned enormously. _He._ Chip's spirits soared as he pushed past the curtain.

The mouse sitting on the cot looked up as Chip came in. His jacket was intact, if dusty, and he wasn't wearing any bandages. He had probably had a nasty shakeup and was settling down. Chip tool out a notebook and a stub of pencil, more out of habit than anything else. Chip cleared his throat and was about to launch in his Accident Interview spiel when he saw something that shocked him.

"There's a tick on your hip," Chip said.

The mouse looked down. "Yes, I know. At least he didn't get hurt."

Chip blinked. "Do you want help getting the parasite off?" he asked.

"Please!" said the tick, in tones of offended dignity. "I prefer the term 'Pacifist Predator.'"

"Sorry," Chip immediately apologized. "What's your name?"

"I'm Giovanni Willi," the mouse replied. "I test software for Ultra- Flight. What can I do for you, mister...?"

"Chip," Chip nodded. "Is that interesting work?"

"No, but it pays well," Giovanni Willi said with simple honesty. "And with money, you can buy interesting things."

"If you don't mind my asking, why do you have a tick on your hip?"

Giovanni Willi immediately brightened. "This tick is trained to be my personal organizer," he explained. He took the tick off his hip and held him by the back, so Chip could see his wiggling legs. "It's state of the art ticknology. You can enter information by touching his legs in a special alphabet called 'Graph Feety.'"

"What kind of information?" Chip asked curiously.

"Things like phone numbers, my personal appointments --"

"Which is incredibly easy," the tick interrupted, "seeing that this guy has the social life of a battery chicken." He chuckled. "My internal calendar doesn't even go back far enough for his last date --"

"Heh, heh," Giovanni Willi laughed through his teeth. "How clever and amusing. He can also play games --"

"--Like tick-tac-toe?" Chip asked. He couldn't resist.

"More like 'Let's Give Lyme Disease to the Chipmunk,'" the tick responded.

Chip bristled while Giovanni Willi hurried to change the subject. "And, with just a modem and a computer, he can get my email. I really don't know how I got along without him."

"Sure, kid," the tick sniffed. "Like you're getting along now. I mean, of all the people out there with interesting, important lives, that poor girl had to give up hers to keep a waste of fur like you breathing."

Chip felt for a moment that he was floating, that he was somehow stepping outside himself, and watching what was happening as though it was a movie. He saw the chipmunk in the fedora reach down, and slowly, slowly, pull the startled and frightened software tester to his feet. By his collar.

Nose to nose, Chip continued in very soft tones. "What. Girl?"

"Hands off the host organism, buddy --" the tick started to demand.

"Do not think," Chip said calmly, "that your relative helplessness and defenselessness will prevent me from beating you unconscious."

"Uhm," Giovanni Willi asked, nervously, "Were you talking to me, or to the tick?"

"Yes," Chip assured him. "I'll ask again; what girl?"

Giovanni Willi gulped. "I was in Cyberdyne's booth, when I saw a blonde woman mouse in a lavender jumpsuit running towards me."

"And you have to understand," the tick interrupted, "this guy's never seen a girl moving towards him before."

"Right," Giovanni Willi agreed. "She ran right into me, and knocked me over. I skidded and rolled a ways. She fell over too, and was getting up when the cat landed on her."

"When the cat landed on her," Chip echoed.

"He had her between his front paws," Giovanni Willi swallowed. "I remember he slid across the ground."

"Did you," Chip asked, and hesitated, forcing the question out, "did you see the cat eat her?"

"I saw the cat take her in his mouth. I did not see him eat her."

"Because by then," said the tick, "he was running like his tail was on fire. I've never seen anything so disgusting in my life."

"Do you know what this is, tick?" Chip asked, taking out a small ampoule filled with a white powder.

"No..." the tick replied, unsettled.

"Fosters & Smith Flea and Tick Powder," Chip told him. "And if I need to use it to stop the editorial comments from a certain arachnid, I will. Understand?"

"Yes," said the tick, immediately cowed. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Then I won't have to warn you again." He turned his attention back to Giovanni Willi. "You did not see the cat eat her."

"No," Giovanni Willi agreed. "But he had her in his mouth."

Chip nodded. Cats catch prey with their claws, and break their backs with a bite. Usually, cats were reluctant to deliver the death-bite because it enabled the prey to bite or scratch the predator's face. That was why cats often seemed to "play" with their prey, as they battered it, trying to wound it to the point it couldn't resist. If a cat bit down almost immediately ... that meant the cat was experienced. And experienced cats didn't miss often.

Chip looked at Giovanni Willi, memorizing his face. For a moment, he wanted to hurt him for causing Gadget's death. But only for a moment. The feeling, no, the knowledge that Giovanni Willi wasn't worth Gadget's little finger pounded through Chip's mind. No, if Gadget had died for him, it made him important in a way. As though hurting him would be the ultimate desecration of Gadget's life, by making her sacrifice pointless.

"And then some human grabbed the cat," the tick interrupted. He winced. "I'm sorry -- I didn't mean to --"

"No," Chip forced out, remaining calm. "That was helpful. Thank you. A human grabbed the cat?"

"Yes," Giovanni Willi agreed. "I didn't get a good look at him. Just his shoes." He went on hopefully. "She might be alive. Maybe you could get help from the Rescue Rangers."

Chip's nerves were shot badly enough to find that funny.

***

The mouse came gradually back, awakening for a moment or two before slipping back into a near-comatose state. The intervals of sleep shortened, and finally the periods of wakefulness overlapped, her body's need for rest and quiet overcome by another requirement.

It was probably incorrect to say she was conscious. Most of the thoughts that made her Gadget were on hold, her brain and her body run by parts of her which were entirely more primitive. The mouse's nose twitched, scenting something she needed. Awkwardly, like a marionette run by an inexperienced puppeteer, she pushed herself slowly to her feet, stumbled, and fell onto half an inch of shredded paper. Cracked bones shifted and the pain shut down what consciousness she had.

There was a delay. Gadget didn't know how much time had passed, or even that time had passed, as she came to all fours. It was easier to move that way, and so instinct took her several painful inches over the soft, shifting surface, to where the smell of what she needed was strongest.

Reaching out, she took slender vertical bars in her hands and hoisted herself up, slowly, gasping each time she bent her spine. She was breathing shallowly, asthmatically; a deeper breath would hurt, and the primal beast in her mind was fearful of that.

Finally, she stood on her rear legs. Holding a metal tube with both hands, she brought her mouth to the end and lapped greedily. A flood of endorphins in her brain rewarded her. Room temperature New York City tap water; the most delicious thing she had ever tasted, gulped down, mouthful after mouthful. She drank until the thing in her head was satisfied, and dropped into the paper. Again, a sharp pain on landing, but with the water she was stronger, and didn't black out. This time she curled into a ring to conserve her body heat, and went into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

"Dale," said a frightened Foxglove, "they're coming!"

"Oh no," Dale gasped. "You try to delay them. I'll ... try to fix it."

Foxglove surveyed the devastation, wondering how Dale could possibly succeed. But he was Dale, she reminded herself, and he could do almost anything.

The little bat raced to the hangar. The Ranger Wing was settling down, Chip at the controls and Monty in the copilot's seat. Foxglove wondered what had happened to the Ranger Skate, then reasoned that Gadget was probably borrowing it to show her friend and Zipper around. Foxglove moistened her lips, and launched into her carefully designed speech, which would instantly alleviate any suspicion.

"Hi, Chip, hi Monty," she said. "Nothing's wrong in the kitchen."

She stopped short. Monterey gave her a listless glance and Chip a cold and furious one. She would have been terrified if she had not been, somehow, absolutely certain that she was not the object of the chipmunk's anger.

"Where's Dale, Foxy?" Monterey asked quietly, as they walked into the tree.

Foxglove zipped by them, landing in front of the door to the kitchen. She leaned her back against it, wings outspread. "He's not in the kitchen!" she insisted.

"Foxglove," Chip spat out, "we --"

Monterey grabbed Chip on the shoulder and gripped, hard, silencing the chipmunk. There was a pause before Monty spoke.

"We don't care about the kitchen," Monty said calmly. "We don't care about dinner, an' we don't care about that smell of burnt water. We got bad news an' we've got to talk it out. Please get Dale, love."

The last word, spoken out loud, seemed to strike Monterey like a blow. He shook for a moment, and Foxglove was literally afraid he was going to fall over. He drew a deep breath and continued down the stairs.

***

Gadget kicked in her sleep, and woke up. Immediately, she wished she was asleep again. Her head felt like it was split in half, and there was a horrible taste in her mouth. Her entire body ached; it seemed the only part that didn't hurt was her legs. She would have to get something from the medicine cabinet. And maybe spend the day in bed. And there was a smell, something ugly. Blood. And --

-- cat --

Instantly awake, she spun her head around, twisting her upper torso. She felt a twinge, and then, above her, looking down, a cat. Big, tall, black, yellow eyes glowing in the darkness in a head bigger than her body. She choked a scream, scampered a few inches -- then pain hit her again, washing out her terror, and for an instant she would have welcomed the cat's teeth.

"Don't worry," the cat's voice rumbled. "You're in a cage."

Gadget realized, suddenly, that she was indeed in a cage. As her eyes adjusted to the light, mostly neon signs visible through the window, she got a better sense of where she was. Bars, metal, not a glass aquarium or plastic modular setup. She looked around. The bedding was fresh and clean, and there was a nesting house in the corner. There were two levels to the cage, and an exercise wheel on the higher level, with a ramp made of bars leading to the platform. The cage was on a long work table, one side against a wall. An electrical outlet was just beyond the bars -- that might be useful. There was a water bottle on the cage wall next to where the cat was standing. She had slept, curled up, under the bottle.

It was possible, she guessed, that the cat could have clawed her as she slept. But he hadn't. Slowly, she settled down. Cats usually didn't spook her this badly. But usually, she was not alone, and she had a place to run. She looked at a clock. It was about nine, and the light showed it was evening.

"You fell too far back in my mouth," the cat said amiably. "Back behind my teeth."

Gadget nodded slowly. Yes, cats didn't have molars.

"I believe I pinched you a bit, though. I think you have cracked ribs on your left side, some blood loss if my claws caught you, and possibly a mild concussion."

That, Gadget decided, was probably reasonable. Adrenaline had made the pain endurable. She got slowly to her feet, ignoring the painful twinge from her left side. "Hello," she said, finally. "My name's --"

"Hello," the cat interrupted. "I'd like to apologize. In general, I don't hunt women."

Even under these circumstances, Gadget felt insulted. "Not enough sport?" she asked.

The cat blinked. "Goodness, no, that's not the reason. Single mothers are more common than single fathers. Orphaning children ... " his voice grew distant for a moment, and suddenly returned. "is a waste. Very much a waste." He licked a paw and slicked down an ear, as though to demonstrate how very self-possessed he was. "I'm sorry if your children don't have a father."

Gadget gritted her teeth. "I don't care for the insinuation."

The cat snorted. "You're one of those animals that pretends to be a human? I'm _so_ terribly sorry I implied you actually behaved like a real mouse."

It was an old argument and a pointless one. Gadget chose to change the subject. "I don't have any children," she said defensively.

The cat looked surprised. "Indeed? Why not?"

Gadget bonked herself mentally. She should have laid claim to a litter in a nest somewhere -- there was the slender chance the cat would have let her go.

That aside, the question troubled her.

"It's complicated," she replied. "So, you're caught in here, too?" she asked.

The cat looked over each shoulder. "I suppose," he drawled.

"I'll bet," Gadget said, "that if I got out of this cage, I could make a way out of here for both of us."

The cat slowly scratched his chin with a claw. "Interesting," he finally allowed. "If there's any help I can give you to get out of your cage, please don't hesitate to ask."

Gadget grinned. Most people were pretty reasonable if you pointed out that you could work with them. "Then I'll start thinking about it," she told him.

The cat nodded and smoothly flowed off the table to the floor.

He landed wrong, and the impact shocked him. Panting, he stood awkwardly until the pangs of arthritis subsided. Half ashamed, he looked up; the mouse could not have seen him.

He remembered when he slipped like a shadow, weightless and silent, across the streets of Manhattan. When his body pulsed with pride and power, when it seemed to ask him to push it, harder, faster, and every day he knew his kills would be more perfect than those of the day before. When he could kill before the prey knew he was there, before they could register fear or panic. When his kills died with an expression of awe, as though they gave their lives willingly to fuel the master hunter that he was. When he could disdain the old and sickly. It hadn't been all that long ago.

Now his body balked when he moved, it ached in the joints, complained, failed him, and spoiled his hunting. His off days had turned into off weeks, and then months, and he had resorted to scavenging; a bitter comedown for a hunter.

Hunting was harder for him, and it would never be easy again. He could feel the gray walls closing in.

Then a human had caught him today. The cat looked down at the empty plate on the floor. It had been better than garbage. Frankly, a life here was probably the best he could ask for. He was glad he was able to cut the mouse off when she started to give her name -- it was incredibly bad form to know the name of your food. There would be one last kill, to savor and remember.

He looked at the table, and licked his chops.

***

Dale wept.

His elbows were on the table, face in his hands, and he wept so uncontrollably and sincerely that Melody couldn't look at him for long without swallowing and turning away. Foxglove was pressed close to him, wing around him. For the time being, her own grief was completely forgotten in her desire to comfort him. Monty was staring stonily out the window, either thinking, or desperately trying not to. Zipper sat at the table, sobbing periodically. Melody was distinctly uncomfortable. She was Gadget's friend, but she wasn't a Ranger -- she didn't know if they needed to be alone, or if she did...

Chip moved quietly and unemotionally through the ruins of the kitchen, leaving a trail of tidiness and order behind him. After a few minutes of this, he sat down with a sigh.

"There's a few possibilities," Chip finally said. "First, the witness may have been wrong. It's easy to understand given the circumstances. Also, humans do sometimes rescue mice from cats. I've seen it happen. Security at the show is looking for her; if she's in the Javits center, they'll find her and give us a call." He hesitated. "She's either alive, or not. If she's alive, we can help her. If she isn't, there's no harm done."

Monterey mused on that for a while. Wounds that weren't allowed to heal were harmful, and the cruelest little trick fate could play was 'Missing, Believed Killed.' He shook his head.

"We 'ave to tell 'er family," Monty finally said. "Widget, 'er grandfather."

"No," snapped Chip. "Not until we have something to tell them."

Everyone looked at the chipmunk, astonished.

"They have a right to know, Chipper," Monterey said in sensible tones.

"And they might be able to help," Dale protested.

"The Staten City Police are enjoined against operating outside of their jurisdiction," Chip said flatly. "Even if Gadget were a citizen, they couldn't do anything. Their military is mostly maritime and focuses on suppressing piracy. The Rescue Aid Society primarily exists to help human Speakers. Clayton at Ultra-Flight doesn't have an intelligence or investigation network in Manhattan." Chip leaned on the table, and continued, quietly. "However, I think we can get the assistance of what is widely regarded as the finest investigative group in Manhattan. They're small, but they have the best success rate in the country. They've been good enough to save a lot of people in the past, and they're good enough to find Gadget now. Will the Rangers take the case? Monty?"

There was a pause as Monty realized Chip was asking honestly. "Of course, mate."

"Zipper?"

An affirmative buzz.

"Dale? Foxglove?"

They blinked. "Of course."

Chip exhaled. This was good. He had to remind them who and what they were.

"But you'll ask for help anyway?" Melody asked pointedly.

Chip hesitated. He really didn't want to send Widget and Jerome the bleak, painful news that Gadget may have been killed by a cat, but the Rangers were looking into it. He would much rather give them some more information than that. Still, it seemed unavoidable. Sending word to the RAS didn't bother him nearly as much; Gadget had friends over there, but nobody very intimate.

"Yes, we'll do that," he said slowly. "I'll get the email out now. Then we'll talk about our plans for tomorrow."

***

Gadget forced down the last mouse pellet. It was, she was sure, a perfect and dietarily balanced food for mice, which would give her energy, a glossy coat, and keep her teeth from growing. But entertaining? No. Gadget preferred softer food, that wasn't as much effort to eat. She filed her teeth down every night to compensate.

Gadget carefully pulled the last gizmo out of her overalls and rested it on the floor inside the little nesting house. The collection wasn't very impressive.

She had a mouse-sized Leatherman tool, a present for being Maid of Honor at her sister's wedding. It had a wirecutter and a saw blade, but she doubted either was up to cutting through the wire cage. There was a sewing kit, and a white LED flashlight she was using to see. She had a small first aid kit, which she had already popped open for some ibuprofen. She had tubes of J-B Weld, and some WD40, and not a single idea of how to use any of this to escape. She sighed. It was no good trying to force inspiration. Monty had talked her out of carrying explosives by tossing one of her satchel charges onto a picnic table: the detonation had obliterated two hamburgers and critically damaged a chicken leg. Despite that demonstration of sensitivity to shock, she wished she had some RO Blade now.

Setting the first aid kit where she could reach it easily, she took the zipper at her collar and pulled down, took her arms out of her sleeves, and pushed her overalls down. She gasped momentarily, something was sticking her overalls to her body. Applying gentle pressure, she was able to get it down around her waist. She was surprised to note they felt stiffer, like they had the time Dale had mistaken starch for laundry detergent. She looked down and paled.

Her undershirt looked like it had been splattered with reddish-brown paint. She closed her eyes for a moment, as though wishing it away; opening them again showed there was no change. Looking at the lining of her overalls showed the blood had soaked into them as well. She started to lift the undershirt and winced. There was nothing for it but to go to the water bottle. Taking the first aid kit with her, she wished she had a bucket, and could do this in relative privacy.

The cat was nowhere to be seen, but that didn't mean he wasn't there. The room was dark and could have been designed intentionally to give a cat cover for surreptitious reconnaissance. Taking handfuls of water, she splashed them against her ribs, hoping to soften or wash away the clotted blood that glued the undershirt to her fur. Once it was thoroughly saturated, she pulled to free it, felt it give a little, and repeated the process until the undershirt finally came off.

It hurt to move her left arm, so she took her right arm out of its sleeve and pushed the undershirt off her left arm. She snapped the wet shirt and examined it. There were holes down along the left side. Her overalls were intact, so the damage was caused by abrasion instead of an actual puncture. Which was probably why she was still alive.

Next, she ran her fingers lightly down her right side. There was no particular softness or pain, which matched the condition of her undershirt. Reluctantly, she moved a finger down the wet fur on her left side. She paused each time she found a clot, and gently tugged it out of her fur. It looked a lot worse than it was, she realized with relief. The blood had soaked into her clothes and clotted instead of draining away.

She winced when she found an abrasion injury on her back, and set about washing the clot away and applying antiseptic. Under her left breast she found a very sore patch; touching it made her gasp aloud. No, not something minor, she realized ruefully. The cat was right; she had some broken ribs, and maybe a bruised lung. Fortunately, it was too low for her to have hurt her heart.

She had some bandages, but not enough for this. She took her undershirt - - she couldn't imagine putting it on again anyway -- and cut two long, wide strips, doubling them up. She then took a sterile bandage and held it directly to the cracked area, padding it with more rags from her undershirt. She then tied a slip knot on one of the two long strips and pulled it against the bandage, holding it just tight enough to keep the packing from falling.

It had to be pulled tighter, and without a lever to use like a tourniquet, she could only see one way to do it. She tied the loose end of the bandage to the second strip, looped it around a bar of the cage, and braced her feet against the cage.

The slip knot tightened, driving out her breath. She forced herself to inhale, to confirm it wasn't tight enough to keep her from breathing, and applied a little more pressure. Securing the knot, she relaxed. The pressure would probably keep her ribs immobilized. She lifted her left arm gingerly. Definitely better.

***

FROM: ALBACORE@WoodsHoleResearch.com TO: General_Mailing_List

At approximately 2330 hours GMT on December 18th, the SRV Albacore will dive below the Polar ice cap. We will be out of communications until we approach close enough to the Icelab 5 research station to use their relay equipment.

We should be able to respond to emails by December 23rd, and may be out of blackout before then. We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause.

-- Captain Jürgen, commanding officer, SRV Albacore.

Chip heaved a long sigh of relief.

On of his concerns was that Widget would insist on being involved in the investigation. He had his doubts about working with the albino mouse. Oh, certainly, she was skilled at her profession, and if Chip had wanted something more in her line -- like, say, the destruction of a ship or the incineration of a city block -- he would have welcomed her input with unfeigned enthusiasm.

And she would probably be good at getting confessions. In fact, this was his concern. He had no doubt that when unleashed, Widget would have collected a score of confessions, some admitting the murder of her sister, others confessing to selling her as a harem slave, and still others confessing her kidnapping for ransom. With a short discussion of flensing, Widget would probably get people to accept responsibility for the assassination of JFK, setting the Reichstag fire, and Don Bluth's scripts. He knew this, somehow, as certainly as he knew his name. Perhaps it was experience gathered in a similar yet diverging parallel dimension.

As it was, Widget was three days from Staten City. Adding time for the message to reach her, and the Furies might not dock at Staten City until Christmas Eve at the earliest.

Melody heard the sigh of relief, but didn't understand its motives. She looked at Chip suspiciously.

***

Adopting the US Navy's tradition, they called this part of _Albacore_ "Sherwood Forest." It was one of the largest open places on the boat, holding a double row of vertical cylinders, painted green. Large, blocky numbers identified each one: 01 to 10; odd numbers to port, even numbers starboard, low numbers closer to the bow.

"These are the vertical launch tubes," Widget explained. "We carry a set of anti-aircraft rockets."

"Human subs carry nuclear missiles this way, but I suppose you don't have any atomic warheads," Syril joked. Shiro-san chuckled appreciatively.

Widget's laughter was a little strained. "There's ten tubes, but two of them were unloaded for this trip," she explained. She stopped by Vertical Tube 01, and rested her left hand on the round handle on the hatch in its side. She zipped and buttoned up the parka she was wearing. "It's cold in there," she warned Syril.

Syril shouldered her Minox camera and sealed her parka. *You're going to the ice cap, so bring a sweater,* she thought sarcastically. She had been surprised how cold it was aboard _Albacore._ She wore her sweater most of the time. She did a double take. Widget hadn't taken her hand off the hatch -- she had zipped and buttoned using her right hand alone. Oh, it wasn't terribly hard to do it one-handed, but it was so much easier with two hands that Syril couldn't help but notice.

"Why were the tubes unloaded?" Syril asked.

Widget undogged the hatch and swung it open with some effort. It was big, heavy, and solid, and opened into the tube before swinging back out again, like the doors on airplanes. "To make room. The other one has the docking mechanism we need to latch into Icelab 5. After you."

"No," Syril said politely, "after you." She took her Minox out as though to photograph Widget stepping into the tube. Actually, the reporter didn't want her host slamming the door behind her and flooding the tube while tittering evilly. Widget ducked to step through the open hatch and Syril snapped a picture.

Following her host through the hatch, Syril noticed they had stepped into a smaller cylinder within the vertical tube, which filled the tube like a piston. It was made of something transparent. Shiro fit a transparent panel over the entrance, bolted it down, grinned and closed the hatch.

The sound of the hatch being secured had a terribly final quality to it in Syril's opinion.

"Now what?" Syril asked. There was barely room for the two of them; clearly it had been built for one mouse.

"Now Shiro-san will flood the tube."

There was the sound of a loud rush of water which froze Syril in terror for a moment, until she realized their little chamber was water tight. As the water cascaded down on top of the transparent roof and cascaded down around the sides, it got colder. Instinctively, Syril took a shot of the water pouring down; she wasn't sure it would come out, but if it did, it would be spectacular. Once the tube flooded, there was a soft hum as the two launch hatches swung open.

There was a jolt and the chamber began to float upwards. "To dock with Icelab 5," Widget explained, "we need someone in here to tell the helmsman how to turn, and when to stop the boat." The chamber lurched to a stop just a bit outside the hull.

Then Shiro-san turned on the lights.

Syril's jaw dropped. They were below the ice cap, looking up. The soft milky white ice, carved in gentle waves by the action of water currents gave the illusion they were flying upside down over snow-covered hills. Sometimes, the pressure of massive ice packs grinding together combined with the rushing water to produce bizarre, twisted shapes like something on some alien landscape. At times, the ice turned strangely translucent, pockets of clarity or seas of an unearthly blue.

"Don't use your flash," Widget hinted gently. "It'll reflect off the Lexan."

Syril started snapping pictures; four in quick succession, as though she was afraid it would stop. The impression they were looking down instead of looking up was so intense she had to fight vertigo. Then she began taking pictures more carefully, choosing her shots.

"This is incredible," Syril said in an awed voice.

"Don't stand so close to the window. Your breath will freeze on it. Yes, it is incredible," Widget agreed. "There's a ventral dome so you can look down and see the ocean floor, but we didn't put in a dorsal dome because we couldn't think of a reason for it. I'm glad we needed one for Icelab 5 -- this is one of the prettiest things I've seen underwater."

Syril hesitated. She reminded herself that she was supposed to be writing a puff piece on this maniac -- maybe it would be a good time to talk to her, now that she was behaving like a reasoning creature. "What does it make you think of?"

"Someplace," Widget said slowly, "someplace different, where beautiful things happen."

"A Fairy Kingdom," Syril laughed. "Like in the stories you read when you were a little girl."

"Like the myth of Orestes," Widget said with a nod.

Syril's smile froze. "The ... what?" she asked, unsure she had heard correctly. It had sounded like she had said 'the myth of Orestes.'

Widget laughed gently. "Orestes. Who killed his mother for murdering his father. Orestes is then pursued by the Furies." She smiled. "They hounded him to the brink of madness, and over, and back. Implacable and merciless, subject to neither man nor god." Her voice trembled with emotion. "I think it was when I read that I realized what I wanted to be." She looked away and blinked, a tear rolling down her face, which she hid as though ashamed.

Syril's smile was twitching around the edge. *How am I going to put a positive spin on that?* she asked herself. *"Widget has always taken inspiration from the classics of Western literature."*

*** Chip had managed to catch a few hours of sleep. He stretched in his bed, below Dale, and considered going back to sleep. He looked at the watch on the wall. It was almost six. He rushed down to the kitchen, started some water boiling, and tossed four coffee beans into Gadget's Grind-O. One bean for him; three for Gadget.

When the fourth bean landed, he realized what he had done, and sank into a chair. He was breathing hard, trying to keep from crying.

Was this what it would be like? Would he spend the next few weeks turning when he imagined her voice, setting a place for her, reminding himself to tell her when he heard something interesting?

Yes, he realized, yes he would. He thought of all the best, brightest moments of his life in last years, and she was part of them. He heard her voice, and her laugh, and he felt her hug. The smell of ozone when she electrocuted herself again. The adrenaline rush when he heard her say, "oops." He even missed her cooking. Well, maybe not her cooking. And he knew he would never smell burning oil again without being reminded of her. She was the sun for him, closer than his own right arm, and the void her passing left would be a long time filling.

"She's dead and I never told her I love her," he said. "She's dead and I --" he covered his mouth, choking the sobs, banged the table, twice, hard. He took a deep breath. No. He wouldn't release it. Not now. Not that way.

He had to concentrate. He had to stay on line.

Despite what he had said yesterday, he didn't have much hope for finding Gadget alive. Humans did rescue mice from cats, sometimes. But they didn't take the mice with them. No, if Gadget had been alive, she would have been taken to the aid station by other mice.

Chip smiled. He knew what he had to do.

Chip had little trouble finding it. It wasn't with the Rangers' equipment, because they all felt uncomfortable with the thought of actually using it. But for the sake of the person who gave it, Gadget didn't want to throw it away, either. And so, it was under her bed, still in its case. And next to it was the second part of the present.

He slung it over his shoulder, and carefully lifted the box it had come with. Brass was heavy.

Chip hesitated at the door. "Gadget," he said softly to the room, "Gadget, I don't think you'd want me to do this. But I need to, Gadget. I'm sorry. I can't start living again until we know for sure."

He turned off the light and went to the runway.

***

"Good morning, Atropos -- did you sleep well?" Cosgrove walked past his new cat with a polite nod. He was mostly over his old obsession with superstitions, and smiled at himself when he remembered how frightened he had once been of black cats. From Atropos' sullen tail swishing, Cosgrove knew the cat was anxious and that it would be unwise to approach him. It was much better to let cats walk towards you. He blew on his coffee and went into the next room, with the mouse cage.

"Good morning, Lucky," he said brightly. He smiled. The mouse was nowhere to be seen, which meant she was probably in the nesting house. Yesterday, he had last seen her dozing under the water bottle. This meant she was still alive. He couldn't bear the thought that his rescuing Atropos might have meant the death of another critter, especially one that reminded him of another mouse he had known some time ago.

In the nesting house, Gadget woke up. She peeped out of the door, and saw her rescuer.

Her memories clicked. She had spotted him at the Cyberdyne booth, and had taken a few steps closer to see if it was really him. Then she had seen the cat tensing for a jump, on some other mouse. She had responded instantly, knocking him away, and gotten caught herself.

Cosgrove took out a pair of wirecutters and started cutting a hole in the side of the cage. Fascinated, Gadget walked out to watch. Now that is was light in the room, she recognized Cosgrove's old workshop. It had been completely renovated, cork floor, unused racks for equipment, fresh paint. There was a near-chaos clutter of a hard working designer, in a room that was obviously being professionally cleaned. Cosgrove had moved up in the world; Gadget was happy for him.

"Would you like to know what I'm doing, Lucky?" Gadget shrugged and smiled endearingly. He smiled. "I'm making a little change to your house. It'll make it easier for me to feed you."

He carefully cut the wire, holding each bit with his off hand and stacking them in a pile outside the cage. Gadget watched him work, fascinated, and waited for him to turn away. She took a deep breath, ignoring the way it hurt her chest. She dropped to all fours and bolted.

She was slow. Her left foreleg was clumsy, barely able to support her weight; it threw her off stride. She was out the hole, and her left foreleg collapsed on the landing; she hit the pile of cut wires, grabbed one as though it would keep her from skittering off the table. She flew off the edge, and something heavy pinched her tail, and it jerked her to a stop.

Cosgrove lifted her by her tail, as she swung, pendulum like. She hid the wire behind her back as he looked at her.

He clucked, disapprovingly. "Now, don't do that, Lucky," he said gently, wagging a finger in mock lecture mode. "You'll hurt yourself."

The cat was watching, eagerly, from the floor. "Mya -- a -- a -- ack!" he sounded. Gadget gulped.

Cosgrove shook his head sadly. "Or someone will." Cosgrove inverted his empty coffee mug and tucked her under it while he returned to work. He inserted a circular gate, and firmly bolted it in. Gadget opened her coveralls and slipped her length of wire away. He rummaged again in a bag from a pet shop, inserting a long amber tube, threaded on the inside, through the circular gate. He connected the end of the tube to a small birdcage. Opening the spring-loaded door, he sprinkled in some bedding, and added a full water bottle and a dispenser filled with ... mouse pellets.

Cosgrove took her out of the glass, and gently placed her into the feeding chamber. He patted her twice, and closed the top. Since the spring on the door was broken, he had added a luggage bag padlock to hold it closed. Later he would replace it with a simple latch. "Goodbye, Atropos, Lucky," he said. "I'll be back this evening!"

Gadget looked around. Yes, this would make it harder to escape when he fed her. The passage into the feeding chamber was small enough that he could keep it covered easily with his hand.

She looked around the cage for a weak spot. She considered attacking the door, but the lock was out of reach. She took the wire out of her coveralls and smiled at it.

"I've got it," she said.

"And what is that?" asked the cat politely.

"This," Gadget said, "is the lever I will use to move the world."

"I don't understand," the cat said slowly.

"Can you get me a straw?" she asked. "Cosgrove probably has straws around." She gasped. "Oh no!"

"What's wrong?"

As usual, paying attention to a technical problem had driven a purely personal disaster clear out of her mind. She dropped the metal bar, and moved her hands slowly to her ashen face.

"I was in a coffee mug, and I didn't lick up any of the syrupy remnants! I'm ... caffeine free!"

***

The report sounded rather like a bottle rocket going off. Of course, Chip was wearing ear protection.

There was a recoil, but it was controllable, if you kneeled. Chip let the hot weapon roll off his shoulder and lowered it gently to the runway next to him. He took another .22 rimfire cartridge out of the satchel and slipped it into the end, where it engaged a clamp which held it in place. This time it was easier; perhaps the heat from the first round had expanded the barrel. He hoisted the Darned Nearly Recoilless back onto his shoulder, noticing its warmth, its surprisingly comforting weight, and the sharp smell of gunpowder. It smelled the same as model rocket engines; he associated the fragrance with Gadget. With that thought, he sighted the target, blinked away a tear, and fired.

Recoilless weapons are inherently less efficient than standard weapons, and the barrel of Widget's .22 DNR was very short. So, the bullet didn't have the energy it would have if fired out of a standard gun. Despite that, it hit the target pretty hard by rodent standards, blasting the block of balsa wood in half, and sending it off the end of the runway.

Chip was astonished. He had expected the target to survive longer. He grinned. Yes, he thought, remembering the first time he had seen one of these, he believed this would stop a cat.

He looked around, and picked his next target: the branch of a tree ten feet away.

***

Contrary to corporate rumor, Bachman's office did not have a plaque reading "Abandon Hope All Ye who Enter Here." It would have been redundant, for her name was on the door.

Trevor stood in front of That Door, nerving himself to face Alice Bachman, Cyberdyne's Vice-President in charge of technical development. Ever since the terrorist attack in California, Cyberdyne's development staff had moved to New York. Trevor touched his lip where his moustache had been; another nervous habit. He had been proud of his moustache, but his superior had asked him to shave it before the trade show. Trevor was well aware of the adage that a company which demanded your facial hair would next demand your very soul; but he didn't mind, as he never used it.

Trevor stepped in, hoping the fact it was December 19th would moderate the impending storm. It was Saturday, but NERD-Ex would run till Tuesday, making it a work day for him. And for her? She despised time off, and called it stealing from the company.

She had inspirational posters framed on her wall. "The Company is Mother and Father." "Be Happy You Have A Job For The Moment." "Blessed Are The Meek, For They Are Edible." "To Be Merciful Is To Be Unjust."

Bachman believed in starting chew-outs with small talk. It gave the victim hope, and seeing this hope die was what she lived for. "How did the weekly Marketing teleconference go, Trevor?"

Trevor smiled to himself. Hope began to glisten in his eyes. "A bit strange, ma'am," he said. "All the attendees were in the same room because of NERD-Ex, so there was nobody to turn on the remote station. We set the camera to show the room we were in, so we could see ourselves on the monitor and have the meeting like we normally do."

"Uh, good..." Marketers were worse than users. Bachman looked up from behind the desk. "I understand Mister Cosgrove made a perfectly reasonable request yesterday, and you ... demurred," she said softly, with a trace of astonishment. "Explain and justify this extraordinary demurring of yours."

Sweat beaded from every pore as Trevor contemplated the terrible results of his demurrement. Bachman sighed, sated for the moment.

"Ma'am," Trevor said apologetically, "It wasn't a business-related request. He wanted my jacket to wrap around a stray cat."

"I didn't ask if it was business related," Bachman interrupted quietly. "Mister Cosgrove is a gentle, kindly soul, and he enjoys a gentle, kindly working culture. His rare contacts with other employees of Cyberdyne will meet with friendly co-operation ..." here her eyes hardened "...even if I have to send him your severed head through inter-office mail."

Trevor understood that she was displeased.

"Since you did not give him your jacket, he was badly scratched. Had you given him the jacket, I would have replaced it tenfold."

"I'm ... sorry, ma'am."

"Good. Doesn't it even occur to you to ask whence comes my extraordinary interest in Cosgrove?"

"No ma'am."

Bachman nodded, satisfied. "You are a spineless weasel."

"Yes, ma'am," Trevor nodded proudly.

Despite Bachman's character flaws, and they were many and deep, it is only fair to point out she spoke from the Human position of ignorance about the true state of small animals. Had she known, she would never have offended weasels and complimented Trevor by comparing the two.

"Then I'd like to offer you a promotion to Cosgrove's personal caretaker. In such a capacity, you would need to know why I'm so interested in Cosgrove's work."

"If you think so, ma'am."

"Very well." She leaned back. "As you know, cybernetics is the science of making machines behave like living things."

Trevor made a mental note. After five years in the company, even marketers were expected to know such technical details.

She went on. "Ironically, it's much easier to program a computer to do calculus than to walk across a room on two legs. Millions of years of evolution have programmed this so well into our brains that it's hard for us to understand how we do it. It would be like asking a bird to teach us how to fly, or asking you how to be a toady."

He blushed under the complement. Bachman had indeed been possessed by the Christmas spirit. "Cybernetics is the science of getting millions of dollars worth of electronics to accomplish tasks that any child can perform. A key element of this is pattern recognition." She tapped her "Born to Downsize" coffee mug. "How do I know this is a coffee mug, and not an ashtray?"

"Because you said it was," Trevor said loyally.

"Mister Cosgrove has programmed machines which can tell tomatoes from red peppers, and do it with chips with less memory than the one that runs my air conditioner. Cosgrove's former employer, Gribbish, was unable to grasp the enormity of this feat. And so, Gribbish fell to the teeth of Cyberdyne as the sheep falls to the wolf." Bachman laughed merrily. "Do you grasp the enormity? Do you? Do you, little marketer?"

"No, ma'am."

"If Cosgrove can teach an eight-bit processor the difference between peas and corn, he can teach a Speedball processor the difference between an M-1A1 Abrams and a T-80. Are you beginning to understand the possible applications to the SkyNet project?"

"No, ma'am," squeaked the terrified marketer.

"Good," Bachman leaned back with a satisfied smile. "Do you understand that you will make sure Cosgrove has everything he needs or wants within the constraints of a half-million dollar annual budget or I will personally reassign each of your internal organs to a different subsidiary?"

"Yes, ma'am!"

"Don't slam the door on your way out."

"Thank you ma'am. Merry Christmas."

"I beg your pardon?" She had had most of her childhood memories removed to increase storage space, and to allow her to focus on her job. So, the phrase was unfamiliar to her. "Christmas" was an annual excuse for a work slowdown.

"I mean, have a profitable fourth quarter."

"Ah," she nodded. "Thank you."

***

The five Rangers had made their station on one of the beams supporting the ceiling. They were above the bombe and overlooked the Cyberdyne exhibit. While Foxglove listened to the conversations behind the desk, Chip stared through a pair of binoculars and Dale, Monterey and Zipper stood by.

"Suppose the guy who caught the cat didn't work for Cyberdyne?" Dale asked. "He might not show up at all."

"Possible," Chip agreed without looking up, "but unlikely. First, I doubt that any stray cats are likely to wander out onto the floor. It's too loud and

busy."

"Right," Dale agreed.

"Which means the cat was probably brought in by someone, who probably picked him up that morning, because otherwise the cat would be home."

Dale nodded again. It made sense.

"But a cat's not likely to get away from a human who's watching him. And, if he does, he's going to be running away -- not catching mice. Which means the cat was unattended, maybe in a box or something."

"An' if the box was left unattended in Cyberdyne's booth," Monterey finished, "the human either worked for Cyberdyne or knew someone who did."

"Exactly," Chip agreed. "So someone's bound to talk about the cat. And if they say who has the cat, Zipper follows him home and reports back."

"I'll bet I could follow him home, too," Foxglove offered.

"Zip's a real specialist at this. He's best suited to be a fly on the wall. You listen to their conversations." Chip hesitated. "Of course, we might get two suspects. In that case, Zipper will follow one and you'll follow the other."

Foxy beamed and nodded.

***

Melody paced in the Ranger Tree. Yes, she had to admit, it was understandable that the Rangers didn't want an outsider tagging along. But she didn't want to sit around, either. Chip had asked her to "monitor replies to the mail" he had sent out yesterday. Or that he claimed to. She discovered the device he had used wasn't set up to store outgoing messages, so there was no way to be sure.

There was a knock at the door, and Melody jumped to. Anything to take her mind off that line of reasoning.

"Hello," Melody said brightly to the tall female squirrel wearing a seed pearl necklace.

"Hello, dear," the squirrel replied. "I'm June. I brought Gadget some books," she said, fanning a set of rodent-sized paperbacks with titles like "You and Your Pups," "104 Cheese Related Names for Your Baby," and "Mothers of Fatherless Children: Coping With The Shame Of Being A Tramp."

"Gadget's ... out," Melody said lamely. She stared at the books, and her knees grew wobbly. No. That was absurd. She laughed at herself for thinking it. "I'm her friend, Melody. Won't you come in?"

"Thank you," June said politely. "Would you mind if I asked for some coffee and cake?"

"I don't think we have any cake," Melody apologized.

"Well, I'll just make some, then. Excuse me!" She darted off to the kitchen.

A brief time later, Melody sank her teeth into a slice of freshly-cooked angel food cake with strawberry glazing which brought tears of joy to her eyes. There was, she decided, something to be said for the generations of sexual role stereotyping and complete absence of job opportunities which had found their ultimate expression in June. Of course, Melody did not want to be a housewife, but part of her wished she could have one. Surely a bit of social inequality was a small price to pay for angel food cake this good, as long as someone else was disadvantaged.

"Gadget off gallivanting in her condition," June sniffed. "I don't know what's wrong with that woman. Of course, her sister's worse -- carrying one baby to term out of a litter, and then getting fixed, no doubt because an entire litter would interfere with her career! Sniff!" she sniffed again. June had no idea that Widget had a high-risk pregnancy and was acting under doctor's orders, and would never have broached the subject if she had.

"Gadget's condition?" Melody probed.

June looked at her, startled. "You didn't know?" she asked.

Melody looked away. It wasn't hard to guess, but it was hard to believe. Gadget had always been affectionate, but curiously reticent about boyfriends and associated issues. It had been difficult to get her to open up about her first and disastrous relationship, and Melody had only been in intermittent touch with her for months at a time. Melody would have guessed her friend was relationship free, but still waters ran deep.

"I haven't seen Gadget yet. I guess she wanted to tell me in person." Melody exhaled slowly. That might also explain why Chip had been so worried at Trackball's. For some reason, that disturbed her. Chip had seemed to know, even then, that Gadget was in trouble... "Yes, Chip behaved a bit strangely yesterday."

June started, and looked away quickly. As though Melody had touched a nerve. "Yes," June said, in a low, strained voice, thinking of the horrible revenge he had in store for Jürgen. "He ... frightens me a little. I have the feeling something terrible is going to happen."

Melody's expression hardened. She understood now.

Chip had a history of violence in his personal relationships. Hence, the BA meeting. When Melody first met Chip, she suspected there was something going on; nothing concrete; they looked at one another a bit long, their hands touched...

But since then, Gadget had fallen in love with somebody -- a mouse, someone able to give her a baby. Not Chip. And he was trying to keep others from investigating Gadget's death.

Chip had, perhaps, killed her.

Melody's jaw set. She had to find proof, one way or the other. For herself and for Gadget.

***

First, Gadget had taken the straw the cat gave her and bit off a three centimeter length. Next, she had carefully disassembled the electric plug on the wall next to the cage, taking an inch-long Phillips head and a small, flat screw barely half a centimeter long.

Mixing some J-B Weld epoxy, she inserted a plug in one end of the straw, carving a shallow cone in the doughy material. She set the straw, plug end down, impaling the end on the short screw. She turned it around a few times to insure she had a good rotating bearing, removed the screw, and set the straw down with the plug on the bottom, like a container waiting to be filled. Next, she took the long screw, and slathered it with WD-40, using all of the light oil she had.

Next, she cleared a spot in a corner down to the metal floor. Taking some bedding, she made a small pile. With the flint in the Leatherman, she started a fire.

This was the dangerous bit. If the fire spread to the rest of the bedding, she'd have to run to the feeding chamber and hope it stayed restricted to the main cage. She wasn't going to take her eyes off that fire.

Making a small container out of another length of straw, she started melting bits of J-B Weld, pouring it into the plugged straw with the swivel base. She had to work quickly, or the J-B Weld in the straw would harden prematurely. Once she thought she had enough, she took the long screw, and inserted it carefully into the straw. Once she was sure it was balanced, she stubbed out the fire, drenching every spark with water.

She sighed and looked at her creation. In a short time, the J-B Weld would be stiff enough to bore holes into. It would take a few hours to harden to full strength. Since impatience would ruin everything, she resolved to spend longer than that.

***

Chip lowered his binoculars and sighed. He didn't want to bring this up, he really didn't. But it was better now than in the middle of the case.

"Guys," he said quietly, "there's something important we have to discuss. We have to find Gadget."

Foxglove and Dale nodded seriously. Monty and Zipper looked at one another uncomfortably. It seemed an obvious thing to say -- too obvious for Chip.

"Of course, pally," Monterey said, probing.

"I mean, we have to find her, alive or dead."

Monterey stared at Chip. He couldn't possibly mean ... ?

Foxglove snorted. "Chip, how are we going to find her if she's inside a cat?"

There was silence as they considered the matter. Foxglove paled. "Chip, no."

"I brought the recoilless Widget gave us," Chip went on relentlessly. "We'll kill the cat, and we'll find Gadget."

Foxglove shuddered, long and hard. She turned away. "Chip, no. Please. We can't." Killing the cat was bad enough, but...

"For God's sake, Chipper," Monterey pleaded. He had a mental image of his best mate's little girl, half digested -- he gasped and turned away. Zipper covered his mouth and closed his eyes.

"It's the only way," Chip insisted. "We can't have a question mark here. She deserves better from us. And..." he cleared his throat. "We have to save her, or bury her. I can't ... I can't not know. I have to know if it's too late --" he cut himself off.

Zipper was breathing hard.

Monterey was thinking back, fifteen years or so. A little girl was talking to him, looking up so eagerly it was impossible to say no...

"Hi Uncle Monty; wanna help me with my helicopter beanie?"

Of course he had. He hadn't realized she could actually get airborne wearing it. Gadget had discovered torque and a sprained ankle on the same afternoon... he had told the old joke about how any landing you could walk away from was a good one while carrying her home, and she had thought it was the cleverest thing she had ever heard.

"We can't," Monty said simply. "Chip, we can't."

Zipper buzzed, nervously.

"Zipper, you're not strong enough to make the cut," Chip said softly. Zipper sighed, long, incredibly relieved.

"Not me," Foxglove said. She was still shaking. "I'm sorry. I can't even think about it."

Dale closed his eyes. "I'll do it."

When he opened them, everyone was staring at him, as though the couldn't believe what they had just heard. He barely could himself.

"No," Chip shook his head. "It was my idea --"

"No," Dale interrupted. "I said I'll do it. Zipper can't do it. I don't want Foxglove to do it. Monty shouldn't have to do it. Chip, I'm not going to let that be your last memory of her. The discussion's over."

"Nobody's going to do it," Monterey barked out. "Nobody." He swallowed.

"It's the only way to be sure, Monty," Chip pointed out.

"No," the mouse said gruffly. "It don't matter what I want, or what you want. Gadget wouldn't want us to. That's all that matters."

"That cat is dead anyway," Chip said inexorably. "When Widget gets back here, she will kill it."

Monty folded his arms. "Not if I 'ave anything t' say about it, she won't."

"Think she'll listen?"

"That's between me an' her. Chip, don't take this on yourself. It's a road you can't turn back from."

Foxglove suddenly turned her head down to face the display. She strained, visibly listening. "Chip," she said finally, "That's him! The red haired guy with glasses and a moustache."

"Clyde Cosgrove!" Chip gasped out. That might explain why Gadget had been walking towards the Cyberdyne display yesterday -- she had helped him over a bad patch some months ago. "Zipper," he ordered, "Follow him home."

Zipper looked dubious. he pointed out.

"We know where he lived," Chip corrected. "In an apartment owned by his boss, Gribbish. Now he works for Cyberdyne and I'd be surprised if his apartment went with him."

"Jest to be safe," Monty suggested, "we oughtta check 'is old address out anyway."

Chip hesitated, and nodded. "Yes. Zipper, you stay here in case he leaves before we get back. Foxglove, stay here so you can keep listening. Monty, you're in charge. Dale, let's go."

"Nuh-uh," Monty shook his head blandly. "I'm coming with you."

Taking shallow gasps, Gadget jogged in the exercise wheel. She couldn't breathe too deeply or her cracked ribs would start to ache again. She couldn't run on all fours or her left foreleg would collapse. She stopped, unable to keep it up, swinging back and forth in the wheel. She couldn't move faster than a brisk trot, and that not for long.

It was a good thing that the cat would be co-operating with her once she broke out. If it came to a race between her and the cat, she would lose. Her scuttling abilities were at a low ebb. She could either wait a month or two for her ribs to heal, make her escape when the cat was distracted, or trust him. The third option suited her naturally sunny and buoyant outlook on life.

#3436

CYBERDYNE FOOD TECHNOLOGY DIVISION FORMERLY GRIBBISH KITCHEN APPLIANCES -- "The Weak are culled; the Herd is strengthened."

"That explains a lot," Chip mused.

Dale nodded, not quite listening to Chip. Behind them, Monterey sat with his arms folded, his stomach in knots. They would find Gadget shortly. One way or another. Chip put the Wing into hover mode. "Anyone remember which floor Cosgrove lives on?" he asked.

"I remember the window overlooked the alley," Dale pointed out. Chip nodded and ducked the Wing between #3436 and #3438.

"Somewhere in the middle, I think," Monterey interjected. "More towards the top."

"We'll look in each window," Chip decided. "Starting in the middle and heading up."

"I don't think we can land on th' window sills," Monty pointed out. "Too narrow."

Chip looked up. "Maybe on an air conditioner window unit..."

Gadget flourished her straw. Once the epoxy had set to a taffylike consistency, she had punched six holes around the center of the straw with the point of the lever she had sharpened with her Leatherman's file. The J-B Weld had since attained full hardness. "Ready to go," she told the cat triumphantly.

The cat studied her, head on his paws. "Exactly how is this supposed to work?" he asked politely.

Instead of answering, Gadget walked to one end of the cage and started to clear away the bedding, down to the bare metal pan which formed the floor. Like most bird cages, this one had a floor that could be pulled out like a shelf for cleaning. She inserted the end of the lever between the floor and the wall of the cage and pulled.

Her ribs complained so sharply tears sprang to her eyes. She blinked them away and pulled again. The shelf moved slightly, perceptibly, maybe the width of her hand. She walked to the other corner of the cage and repeated the process there. The floor had to go out straight, or it would bind and lock up.

After several tries, she had pushed the floor out by maybe a quarter of an inch. Exhausted, she considered her next step.

"Allow me," he purred gently. He rose to his feet, stretched, and sauntered around the cage. Hooking the protruding floor with his claws, he pulled, soon widening the gap to about an inch.

"That's enough," she called. "I can squeeze through that." She smiled. "It's amazing how easy things are when you work together," she said.

"Oh yes," the cat agreed solemnly. He could almost taste her already. "How are you going to lift the edge of the cage?"

"With this." She positioned the straw carefully, wedging it against the lip of the cage. She took her lever, inserted it into her improvised jack, hoped the WD-40 would keep the screw from adhering to the epoxy, and started turning it.

It worked. The cage slowly lifted upwards, the gap between the edge of the cage and the floor widening slowly. Every motion made her ribs ache. Soon, the cage was high enough off the ground she could squeeze under it.

Relieved, she rolled under and stretched, a spasm in her side reminding her she shouldn't. She blinked. Where had the cat gone?

"Cat?" she asked.

There was no reply.

She took a few steps away from the cage, closer to the edge of the table. Perhaps he had jumped down.

"Cat?" she asked again.

Behind an oscilloscope, the cat tensed and prepared to pounce.

"That's it," Chip said flatly.

From this angle, they couldn't see the work table with Gadget's cage, but there was no mistaking the workshop. Chip brought the Wing down for a landing on an air conditioner wall unit under the window, and engaged the electromagnets in the landing gear.

The batteries were nickle-metal hydride and would last for at least half an hour. "We can get in through th' air conditioner," Monty suggested. "I can get this panel off."

"Right," Chip said with a nod. "I'll come in after Dale."

When Monty was safely out of line of sight, Chip took Widget's .22 DNR and slipped the strap on.

Gadget wasn't sure what tipped her off. Maybe it was a slight rush of wind she heard but didn't register, or pure instinct.

When the cat lept, she spun and dropped, swinging the sharpened end of her lever. It was mostly the cat's own weight and speed that drove it partly into his foreleg. The impact, transmitted through the lever, sent it out of her hand and Gadget into a half spinning roll off the edge of the table. The cat landed on his injured foreleg, which folded under him. He crashed onto the smooth surface of the table and slid off.

Gadget landed badly, but the cat's impact shook the floor. He got up slowly, shook his head, while Gadget tried to stand. She looked for cover or concealment, found the latter in a slipper sitting on the floor under the table. She stumbled over to it, hid behind it. She wanted desperately to lie down, but she knew if she did, she wouldn't be able to get up again. Her side felt like one long bruise, and her ribs ground with every inhale. She was running on adrenaline, she knew. She needed good cover before she fainted.

It was tempting to crawl into the slipper, but she doubted it would be long enough to keep the cat's claws at bay. She shook her head, forcing herself to look around. Cover. Cover. The floor was almost bare of anything that could conceal a mouse. And she knew she couldn't climb. She cursed the professional cleaning service.

There was a clank from the air conditioner. Reflexively, she and the cat looked at it. _Why would the air conditioner make a sound? It's December!_ she thought.

A panel popped off the air conditioner. Monterey Jack peeped out. Relief flooded her. The guys were here. All she had to do was get to them.

The cat was silent, utterly still. Unless they looked directly at him ... but if the cat heard her ...

It was no contest, not really.

"Monty!" she yelled, cupping her hands. "There's a cat --!"

Silently, the cat bounded towards her. He had a limp, she noticed. Left foreleg.

She was alive?

For an instant, the three Rangers glanced at one another, as though assuring themselves they hadn't imagined it. It was a curious sensation; a moment of elation squashed by her message, and the obvious, urgent need to do something.

Chip pushed past Dale. The chipmunk didn't notice as Monterey and Dale saw his weapon and reflexively covered their ears. He unslung the DNR, aimed, squeezed. It was louder without the ear protection.

Chip hadn't practiced against a moving target. He missed, of course.

Gadget was so focussed on the cat she didn't notice the report right away. She knew the cat would land exactly where he wanted to, so she waited for him to make the last leap, and ran to her right. She felt the wind as he passed and she dashed out to the open floor.

Chip dropped the rifle. He didn't need it. There was no way they'd have time to get a reload from the Wing. He handed Dale his safety pin and line. "Tripwire, under the table," he ordered. "Monty, you take the high road."

Dale nodded and raced off. Monty hesitated. "Take care of Gadget, Chipper," he said in a gruff voice.

Something in his tone made Chip do a double take.

The cat paused for a moment when he saw two chipmunks leap down to the floor and a mouse jump up on the table. Why weren't they running? And who had set off a firecracker? The hesitation gave Gadget the time she needed to get under the table, where some general clutter seemed to offer refuge.

Chip skidded to a halt next to her. "Chip," she forced out.

"Gadget," he replied.

She smiled, and a sudden fit of coughing drove her to her knees. The spasm seemed to go on forever, but it was only for a second or two. When it stopped, she touched her mouth. Her paw came away bloody.

"Oh, no," she whispered. She tried to stand. And she couldn't.

He swallowed, hard. "Come on," he said firmly. He picked her up before she knew what he was doing, cradling her in his arms while he watched the cat, pacing towards them.

"Chip!" she protested. "You'll never make it --"

"We will," he replied automatically. He started moving carefully, one eye on the cat and the other on a box of cables. Maybe that would give good cover...

A mouse is to a cat less than what a human is to a Tyrannosaurus Rex. Mice and chipmunks simply do not win fights with cats. At best, the mice can evade the cat long enough to escape. The cat has speed and power, but it also has momentum. A mouse's best chance is to wait for the cat to attack, and then dodge at the last minute. But it was a risky game, and the cat only had to win once.

And Gadget knew Chip would never pull it off while he was carrying her. She considered her options: she could cooperate with him, or argue to make him see reason, or struggle. But she doubted she would convince him, and she knew struggling would just make it more likely the cat would kill them both. That left the first option.

Which would probably get Chip killed.

Monty stood on the table, and watched the cat. He knew where Chip was, and he knew he'd stay with Gadget until they were both killed.

No, a cat can't be beaten by a mouse. But it can be delayed. Two for one is good math, especially when the two were good mates, and the one had seen better days.

It was strange. Monterey had been terrified more times than he admitted; he had been angry frequently. But now that he had made a conscious decision to die, he felt nothing but calm, and peace, as though he was being rewarded for making the right choice.

The cat started to move, and Monty saw it in slow motion, and he knew he wouldn't miss.

The cat jumped. Chip dodged. His foot slipped; he spun in mid air and landed on his back, cushioning Gadget's impact with his body. She started to weep, and it wasn't because of the pain. They hadn't gone far enough. Chip was about to die with her.

Monterey Jack dropped from the tabletop. He had timed it perfectly. He landed on the cat's head, driving it down against the floor. The cat sprawled into an unintentional somersault, its eight pound body crashing. Monty jumped off, turned to face Chip and Gadget, roared, "GO!" and turned back to face the cat.

If Chip had been alone, he knew, the chipmunk would have stayed behind to help him. As it was, with Gadget barely able to walk ... well, it was okay, and he wished them well.

Monterey jumped and grabbed whiskers. A cat's body can bend like rubber; he knew the cat would knock him off, and would do it quickly, but Monterey wanted to make it cost. The cat lept into the air and tossed his head, howling, hurting himself as he tried to dislodge the grimly determined Australian mouse. Then the cat got him with a rear claw, and sent him flying. Monterey's only thought was satisfaction that it was away from Chip and Gadget.

Monty hit the ground, stunned. He couldn't move, but he could see the cat was gathering for a leap. Monty thought he heard Gadget, somewhere, far away, screaming his name.

_Good-bye, love,_ he thought.

The cat stopped in mid air, and crashed to the floor. Suddenly Monterey saw the lasso around the feline's foreleg, the other end wrapped several times around a table leg. Held taut by Dale.

After the crash, Dale raced out from under the table. Monty got to his feet, mostly to tell him he was all right.

The cat got up, slowly, and fell down.

He tried to stand again, and again he fell.

With a long sigh, the cat folded his legs under his body and stared down at Monty, sphinxlike.

"Mouse," the cat demanded imperiously, "What is your name?"

All thoughts of running left Monty's mind. "Monterey Jack."

"I am called Mungo," the cat replied. "This fool of a human prefers 'Atropos.'"

Monty nodded slowly. Mungo. The name was familiar for some reason. "Humans are like that," the mouse agreed.

The cat closed his eyes, and Monty suddenly realized he was old, very old. "Yes, they are, Monterey Jack. It was a ... good fight. I've decided to let you and your friends go."

Monterey tried to feel angry at the cat's arrogance, or relief at the fact he would live. But he couldn't. All he could see was a battered old warrior, who had lost his last battle, and was trying to salvage the tattered remnants of his own pride.

His last battle -- save one. Save only the battle everyone loses, eventually.

"Thank you, Mungo," Monty said politely, taking off his helmet and goggles. "It was, like you said, a good fight."

Mungo smiled, just slightly.

As Monty and Dale walked back, Gadget felt the tension drain slowly out of her. "Don't put me down," she whispered.

Chip blinked and looked at her. "Of course not."

Gadget felt herself blush. "I cracked some ribs. It hurts when they shift."

Chip was starting to blush. "Okay."

Hesitating, slightly, they moved their faces closer together. Gadget wrapped her tail around him. And then their eyes were closed and their mouths clung.

They kissed three times before they opened their eyes again. Gadget felt herself trembling, or maybe it was him, or maybe both of them. His hand supported the back of her head, and suddenly, amazingly, Chip started to cry. He pushed his face against her neck.

"Gadget," he whispered. "Gadget, I was so afraid..."

She stroked him until he settled down. He grinned, weakly. "Gadget, it'll be easier to carry you up the wall if you ride piggyback. Can you stand up?"

"Sure," she nodded. She wanted the moment to last forever, but she wanted to get home, too. She was tired, sweaty, and in bad need of a toothbrush, comb, and hot water.

Monty looked at her. He remembered once, after a narrow escape, how he had looked up at a cloud and stood riveted, for minutes. It had seemed he had never seen anything so beautiful before. He felt the same way now.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Whaddya mean?"

"You were looking at me funny. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Monty said with a sudden smile, drawing her gently close, like something made of spun glass.

Gadget frowned slightly. "Then why are you crying, Monty?" she asked softly, pulling back a little to look up at him searchingly.

He had no way to really put it into words, this feeling of profound gratitude so deep that he was sure it was as tangible as his heart or his lungs. With infinite tenderness he smoothed her hair back from her face and kissed her brow.

She smiled up at him, a quiet understanding in her crystal blue eyes. "I love you too, Monty."

"I think we better get goin'," he said, gruffly.

"Yes," Chip agreed. "Gadget, can you hold onto my back when I climb?"

"Yes," Gadget said immediately.

Chip grinned at his oldest friend. "Nice work with the line," he said.

Dale grinned back. "Aw, I'm not _totally_ useless," he shrugged.

On the way up to the air conditioner, Gadget suddenly felt another physical need push to prominence.

"Chip," she asked urgently, "do you have any coffee?"

"No, sorry."

"Chocolate?"

"No."

"Cola?"

"No."

"No-Doze tablet?"

"No."

"Chocolate covered espresso bean?"

"No."

"Can we stop off at Starbucks on the way home?"

He hesitated. "I'll get you something from Starbucks while the doctor's looking you over."

"That can wait."

"You were coughing blood."

"Oh, right."

"Well," Doctor Skinner said while Gadget gnawed a third chocolate covered espresso bean. "You'll be happy to know your lung isn't punctured. You were bleeding a bit in your mouth, and you aspirated a bit. Nothing to worry about."

"That's a relief. I thought I really hurt myself."

"You did," Skinner said easily. "You've got some cracked ribs, you're exhausted, and, well, you've been inside the mouth of a cat. You look worse than when you first met your sister."

"Do you have to bring that up?" Gadget muttered darkly.

"So, take it easy for a couple of days. The last thing you need is to fall down a staircase. Your ribs will heal up in a couple of months."

"And how do we treat that?"

"We'll make you a stiff support to hold your ribs still. It'll be a few days." Skinner looked up and grinned. "Go home, take a shower. Merry Christmas."

"Yes," Gadget said thoughtfully. "Very."

She looked outside. The sun was going down, and she was looking forward to her own bed.

They swung by the Javits Center to pick up Foxglove and Zipper, and exhausted, went back home.

Gadget leaned on Melody as her friend dried her carefully, and helped her out of the shower.

"Sorry about this," Gadget apologized.

Melody grinned. "Gadget, I'm so glad to see you're okay I'd empty your bedpan if you needed one."

"Which I don't," the inventor assured her.

Gadget probably didn't need Melody's help to put on a bath robe, but it couldn't hurt. "Would you like me to stay around for a few days?" Melody asked.

"You have a race to run."

"Well, yeah..." Melody hesitated. "Look, why don't I spend the nights here, then? I could work with Ultra-Flight during the day, and help you at night if you need it."

"That sounds great," Gadget agreed. "Clayton might even be able to get someone to fly you there and back -- he's really happy to be helpful."

Melody held Gadget's hands. "And Gadget, if there's anything I can do, I'm there for you."

"Thank you," Gadget smiled.

"I mean, if you want to talk."

"Thanks."

"Talk about anything at all."

"Okay, I will."

"Anything you might be embarrassed to talk about."

"Uh ... okay. Gotcha."

"Because I can keep secrets."

Gadget nodded. "I know."

They looked at one another, Melody anxious, Gadget smiling happily and wondering just what Melody might be talking about.

Melody sighed. Obviously, Gadget didn't want to open up about her pregnancy just now. Well, she had had a nasty time. It was understandable.

Gadget had barely been tucked into bed when Monty showed up, carrying a delicious-smelling tray. "You must be starved," Monty grinned. "Tuck in. The rest of us'll eat downstairs." Gadget took his advice. Enthusiastically. In fact, it looked like she would have fallen upon anyone between her and the food and consumed him utterly. When the door to Gadget's room closed, Monty whispered to Melody.

"I kinda cooked that for her special. We don't 'ave much else but breakfast cereal. Sorry."

"Breakfast cereal sounds great." Actually, it sounded appalling, but so what?

Chip leaned out of the hangar. "Monty, can you give me a hand with the Wing's batteries?"

"Be right there, Chip. Melody, I'll see ya downstairs."

Melody had mixed feelings on seeing Chip. She sorted through them on the stairs down. Certainly, the chief one was pure embarrassment. She had completely misread the chipmunk, and she felt nothing but gratitude over the fact she hadn't been able to share her suspicions with someone else.

On the other hand, she argued, defending herself, Chip did have a history of violence. He was going to BA -- that meant he assaulted someone in his immediate family on a regular basis.

Melody sat down at the table with a sigh. Dale was eating with great appetite.

"Where's Foxglove?" Melody asked.

"Out getting food," Dale explained. "Zipper usually eats in his cubbyhole." Dale didn't say it was because his meals tended to ruin everyone else's appetite.

Melody poured herself some cereal and filled her bowl with milk. She returned to her earlier thoughts. No, there was something seriously wrong with Chip. He was addressing it, but still -- using physical violence on someone in a domestic dispute couldn't be justified.

Dale broke into her thoughts. "Is that Captain Crunch in your bowl?" he asked.

She blinked and looked down. "Why, yes, it is," she said.

When Chip and Monty made it downstairs, they found Melody and Dale in what might have been a compromising position. The chipmunk was lying on the table, held there by muscine hands clamped tight around his throat. Dale was staring at the ceiling, glassy eyed, emitting soft, choking noises. Melody was whispering softly, "Die... die..."

Chip and Monty paused and looked at one another.

"Melody, could I ask you to stop throttling your host?" Chip asked politely.

They gave her time to reply, but she did not.

"I think th' poor sheila has drifted inta her own obsessive world of hate an' revenge," Monty observed. "She can only be jarred outta it by unconsciousness or electroshock."

"Like Widget," Chip agreed with a sigh. "Should we interfere?"

"Probably," Monty nodded. "Dale, can ya hear me?"

They waited for a reply, but didn't get one.

"Dale," Chip asked, "please lift your hand if you can hear me."

Dale lifted the requested appendage.

"I'll get the curare to relax her muscles," Chip offered. "Maybe Gadget could whip up an AC taser --"

"Simpler solutions first," Monty shook his head. "Dale, lift ya left arm an' roll t' the right."

Following Monty's advice, Dale was able to break the hold. Chip dove to grab his friend, while Monty immobilized Melody by picking her off the ground by her waist. She tried to run, but with her feet clear of the floor, the hissing, spitting bundle of hate was unable to reach her target.

After a short time, sanity returned to her eyes. Cautiously, Monty returned her to the ground, ready to grab her if she was to bolt.

Tears brimmed in her eyes. "I'm so sorry," she said.

"I'm okay," Dale assured her with a cough.

"Not you," she spat out. "Chip, I'm sorry. I thought less of you because you hit Dale. But Dale deserves to be hit."

"Huh?" Chip asked.

She nodded solemnly.

"Hey-" Dale began.

Monty interjected, trying to change the subject. "Melody, maybe I can take your food up to the guest room."

"Yes," Melody agreed. "Yes, perhaps that would be for the best." She fixed Dale with a withering glare. "I hate you," she assured the blinking chipmunk. "I hate you for unleashing the monster in my soul."

"Sorry," Dale apologized.

"Meetings are every week," Chip told her.

Melody looked thoughtful, and nodded. Monterey took her out of the room.

The first thing Cosgrove noticed on returning home was a bullet hole in the wall. After rooting about on the floor for a few minutes, he found a tiny cylinder, barely large enough to hold a 22 caliber round.

Examining the device under a jeweler's loupe, he saw the mechanism, a tiny handle and trigger, a shoulder rest, and a set of illustrated firing instructions, with pictures of a tiny mouse following the steps.

Cosgrove leaned back, contemplated the ceiling, and considered.

Mungo walked stiffly up to him and meowed.

Cosgrove picked him up and set him in his lap. "Well," he mused, "whatever happened here, I don't think you had anything to do with it." Perhaps he should talk this over with that nice Ms. Bachman.

Mungo was silent, stunned at this casual transgression of his personal space. The human started stroking him quietly. Mungo was uncertain how he should respond. Nobody had touched him tenderly since his kittenhood. Mungo looked up at the human. There was some curiosity there. For the first time, he wondered why this human had taken him in and fed him, and was now lavishing affection on him. "Nice" was only a word to the old cat, but even he could recognize it in action.

Mungo rested his head on Cosgrove's lap. He closed his eyes and began to purr, finally reconciled.

The next morning, Gadget was feeling well enough to make it down to her workshop. Monty's present had deformed some more, and Gadget was becoming concerned. There was a knock at the door.

"Just a minute," she sang out, quickly covering the presents with tarps. It was Sunday, and Christmas would be the following Friday.

Chip stepped in, holding his fedora nervously. "Gadget, I have something I want to ask you."

"Okay." She looked at him brightly.

"Will you do me a favor?"

"Sure. What?"

"I'm going to ask you something, and I have the feeling something's going to distract us. So please don't get distracted."

This was new. Gadget nodded. "All right, you have my full attention."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Chip swallowed. "Gadget, when --"

Zipper tore in and started buzzing urgently.

Gadget frowned and sniffed. "Why, yes, Zipper -- I do smell smoke."

"Gadget," Chip interrupted, "I'm sorry, but you're getting distracted. Zipper, this will just take a minute."

Zipper and Gadget looked at one another sideways for a moment. "Zipper, I did promise," Gadget apologized. Zipper pursed his lips and finally nodded.

Chip took a breath. "Gadget, when --"

Foxglove swooped into the room. "Guys, there's smoke coming out of the kitchen and Dale's checking it out and I could just about scream --"

Chip interrupted gently. "Foxglove, please. Gadget and I were just talking."

"But --" the panicked bat began.

"Foxglove," Gadget patted her shoulder. "Just a moment."

Foxy didn't like it, but Gadget and Chip seemed adamant.

Chip paused, to make sure he had the floor. "Gadget, when --"

Dale rushed in, trailing smoke and sparks. "Guys, Monty sent me down here to get --"

"Dale," Chip barked, "Quiet!"

Dale looked at Chip in shocked disbelief. "But --"

"Sweetie," Foxglove said, "You're interrupting."

Dale looked frantically from one face to another, searching for support and finding none. "But --"

Chip whipped out his Bonk Log and held a pencil poised, in the most threatening way possible. Getting the hint, Dale shuffled over next to Foxglove, who moistened two fingers and put out the flame dancing on one ear.

Chip looked at each of the three in the audience in sequence, searching for the slightest desire to interrupt, and was gratified to see it not. With any luck at all, Monty would be too busy fighting the fire to come downstairs. He turned to Gadget, licked his lips.

"Gadget, when --"

Furious, Monty stormed into the room. His clothes were singed and ashes fell from him with every angry step. "Thanks _lots_ for helpin' me put out the --"

"Monterey Jack," Chip hissed, and slowly turned to face him. Monty gulped. From the chipmunk's tone, he half expected Chip's eyes to be glowing with red fire and his teeth to be serrated like a cat's. They weren't, but Chip's expression was nevertheless unsettling in the extreme. Monterey had the distinct feeling that Chip was about to manifest hitherto unknown and destructive powers upon the body of one Monterey Jack. Monty gulped audibly.

"S--sorry, Chipper, mate," he apologized abjectly.

The eyes didn't leave him, but the voice became more modulated, more normal. It was a Chip who could be reasoned with. At least he no longer seemed supernatural.

"We will discuss your little conflagration in due time," Chip assured him. "But for now -- silence. Utter silence. Am I understood?"

He was. Nodding quickly, the others made it clear that they would wait silently, modulating their breathing and heartbeats to the least distracting tones possible.

Satisfied, Chip turned back to Gadget, who was beginning to realize something was up.

"Gadget, when --"

With this, Chip cast a suspicious eye at the four statuelike creatures at the wall. None moved. Foxglove had the sudden urge to sneeze. She fought it desperately.

"Gadget, when --" He hesitated.

Gadget nodded, encouraging him.

"Uhm," Chip said, rubbing his neck, "nothing."

Foxglove sneezed.

"Chip," Foxglove finally commanded, "just say it." She smiled at him.

Chip grinned back, and took the plunge. "Gadget, when I thought you were dead, all I could think of was how I never told you this. And I can't let this chance go. Gadget, since I've come to know you, every time I've felt tired or afraid or I wanted to give up, I thought of you and how I wanted you to be proud of me. When I wake up, I think of having coffee with you. You're my inspiration, Gadget, and my days revolve around seeing you. Gadget, I am so frightened of losing you as a friend that I can't help but feel this may be the biggest mistake of my life, but Gadget, I want to give you more than friendship."

He went silent. Gadget was watching him, stunned and wordless. He sighed.

"Gadget, if you don't want it, please pretend I never said that," he said lamely.

Gadget took a step over to him, and put her arms around him. Shyly, she kissed him on the ear.

It felt right. She was holding him, and he was holding her. And they weren't frightened, in danger, and it wasn't a friendly hug. She knew he wanted her, and he felt so right in her arms it was as though she would never let him go.

"Chip," she said, her voice suddenly cracking, "yes."

At that moment, Monty's present exploded. The tarp covering it prevented a deadly spray of aluminium shards, but the noise and abrupt flood of cheese was nevertheless distracting. Two of the people in the room barely noticed.