The Mole
by Jeffrey Wikstrom

ONE [Wild Goose]

"I fought in the sewers beneath New York with the great blind white
alligator-king. He was thirty feet long, fat from sewage, and fierce
in battle... His eyes were like huge pearls in the darkness." (Neil
Gaiman, "Neverwhere," 1996.)

The rodents of the largest city in on the eastern seaboard were

like rodents everywhere, with only a few exceptions. One of these

exceptions was the organization called the Rescue Rangers, but another

difference, a more far-reaching and important difference, was the level

of citywide organization. Rats and mice everywhere are and were much

smarter than humanity expected. In New York, as throughout the

globe, the rodents organized themselves into clans and towns, but in

this place they took on a larger level of coordination: the last

surviving great underground metropolis of Staten City. Here rodents

from all over the world met, mainly to discuss engineering, visit

relatives, and drink coffee.

At least, that's the conclusion a dispassionate observer might

have reached if said observer was following the doings of Gadget

Hackwrench, Rescue Ranger, one warm spring night. Her long-lost one-

armed albino sister with moderate paranoid delusions, Widget, was in

town with her husband and young son. She and her friends were enjoying

themselves, listening to presentations, wandering through booths, and

eating bad food with the rest of the Society of Rodent Engineers

conventioneers.

Actually, eating bad food turned out to be not quite as much fun

as they had expected, and the group had split up. Gadget, who had

drunk much coffee, was in danger of being late for her meeting with

Chip, Dale, and Foxglove as she skipped into the Hotel Ratisson. The

wait for the elevator up to the rotating restaurant far above was to

her caffeinated state almost unbearable, but still she beat out Widget

and her husband.

* * *

"Look, officer, I don't see what the problem is," Chip said,

annoyed. "The elevator went through the, eh, the roof, and we broke

the window so our friend, Foxglove, a bat, could rescue the passengers.

See, because bats fly, officer." Chip didn't have a lot of respect for

the Staten City police force. That was one of the reasons he had

founded the Rescue Rangers.

"Yes, bats can fly," agreed Officer Olivia Cagney patiently as

she scribbled on her notebook. She and Lacey had been stationed in the

hotel all evening. It had been boring, with no action until now. "And

where, exactly, is this bat?"

"The passenger was injured. Foxglove carried him directly to the

hospital." Sweat beaded on Chip's forehead. Foxy's carrying capacity

was extremely limited, but he had the impression the injured passenger

was fairly small and lightweight.

"Her," Dale corrected him, stepping forward. He had taken the

stairs up to the roof and met Foxglove. "Foxglove caught a 'her.' It

was Gadget, Chip. I think her arm's broken."

The chipmunk in the bomber jacket took a few steps toward the

service elevator, then stopped.

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

The police officer sighed in exasperation. Nothing in this

restaurant all evening had made any sense. And even more bizarrely, a

black-clad female mouse appeared from where she had been examining the

wreckage of the elevator shaft. Her eyes glittered with determination

and anger and she carried a thimble with a cap in her right hand.

"Sabotage!" Widget hissed. The cop stared at her, a blank and

cowlike expression on her face. Gadget had beat her sister and

brother-in-law to the elevators, and Widget and Jürgen had missed the

one she rode up on. But Widget now saw she had been quite lucky,

unlike her poor sister. Someone would be punished.

Widget placed the thimble carefully on a table, and put her

mechanical left arm into Vengeance Position #1: fist clenched and

raised threateningly at the forces of Fate. A breeze started to blow in

through the shattered window and Widget moved to take advantage of it,

so it blew her hair and cape dramatically. She took a deep breath and

drew on the courses she had taken on ranting at the Ratigan Institute

in London.

"The elevator was modified by some sick, twisted mind to continue

accelerating until it reached the destination floor. Since this was the

top, it made like the last scene in _Willy Wonka_. It can only have

been a murderous plot directed at the next person going to the

restaurant."

"A disgruntled waiter, maybe," Chip mused. There were several

tables in sight of the elevators. One of the customers must have seen

something. Or better still, a waiter. Justice would be done, and

someone would be punished.

Widget continued her tirade, ignoring Chip. "The minions of the

law may view this lightly, but I swear upon the graves of she who bore

me and he who sired me the heart's blood of this transgressor will flow

in libation to--"

"Oh, ick..." Dale muttered. Flowing blood he found interesting

when it was badly faked in an old movie, but really, people were trying

to eat...

"--The wild, cruel gods of crunchy retribution." Widget closed

her eyes and sighed, her mouth set and determined.

"Right," Chip snapped. "I'll see if we can find an employee who

was present. Dale, go get the manager."

"Hold off there, buddy..." Cagney began. This was police

business. "I'm going to have to ask you, all of you, to come to the

station and answer a few questions."

Widget had been in that station before and she had no intention

of going back. "Looky," she said brightly with a forced smile, showing

Cagney her thimble. "I have a thimble," she added, to emphasize the

point.

"What on earth?" Cagney asked, suddenly suspicious. Her world was

spinning out of control and she didn't know who or what to blame. She

took the cup up, flipped off the top, and, not really understanding

why, took a deep whiff. Her eyes glazed over, and she fought for

balance before losing and crashing to the floor in a heap.

"Ether," Widget said with a joyless smile. "I got it

downstairs. To help Gadget settle down after all that coffee."

"Gadget's in the hospital, Chip..." Dale looked nervously at him.

He was still just standing there, motionless.

Chip bit his lip. He could hear two loud voices in his head.

The first was telling him he needed to get to the hospital and the

mouse he loved, quickly. That would have to wait, insisted the second

voice, which was listing and assessing possible methods of elevator

sabotage. He had work to do here, work he couldn't trust to anyone

else. He didn't say anything for nearly three seconds.

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

to the hospital."

Dale had already pressed the elevator button before he realized

Chip wasn't coming. "Chip?" he asked uncertainly, but his best friend

had already run off to the kitchen, Widget in tow.

* * *

"Officer Lacey?" the albino mouse in the cape asked her. Odd.

Most mice don't wear capes.

"Yes, can I help you?" Lacey wondered what had happened to

Cagney. She had said she would only be gone a moment...

The white mouse shoved a thimble under her nose and uncapped it.

Before she knew what was happening, Lacey had taken in a deep breath of

ether.

When Lacey came to, she was tied up and gagged in what looked

like a broom closet. She could see her partner, similarly bound,

leaning against the wall next to her. Man, she thought. Third time

this month.

* * *

Jiffy was a waiter. His employer, Mister Camembert, would say he

was a very good waiter, and the rest of the staff of the Ratisson

restaurant would be quick to agree. Jiffy had always wanted to wait

tables, ever since he was little. When the other squirrels would put

on masks and pretend to be Teenage Mutant Ninja Humans, Jiffy would put

on a black jacket his mother made and take their orders when they went

to a restaurant. Jiffy liked his work. It would even be fair to say

that he loved his job. This fact may have made him unique among all

the waiters in Staten City, if not the world.

Jiffy didn't like excitement. Excitement distracted people, kept

them from digesting their food properly. Excitement could get you a

bad tip. Patrons of the rotating restaurant at the top of the Ratisson

didn't come for excitement. "They come for good food, a good view, and

great service!" Jiffy used to say, until Claire made him promise to

stop (Claire did not like her job).

So when the elevator blew its shaft and two chipmunks threw their

table out a window, Jiffy started to worry. Excitement seemed to be

building. Fortunately, the restaurant was just closing when the whole

thing started, so a minimum of customers were subjected to it. Jiffy

started worrying even more, however, when one of the chipmunks (a

frightening, powerful individual in a leather jacket) and an albino

mouse in a cape incapacitated the police officers and began

interrogating the staff. This much excitement wasn't good for the

soul.

They had begun their reign of terror with Jiffy's worthy

employer, Mr. Camembert, and when that corpulent mouse rolled out of

his office, his eyes wide with fear and his brow covered with sweat,

croaking out orders that the kitchen staff and service personnel must

against all better judgment submit to the terrible inquisition a heavy

silence settled over said staff.

Once Claire had emerged, shaking and ashen-faced, Jiffy's turn

was next. He stepped into Camembert's office, noticing that someone

had turned the lights down. The Chipmunk In The Bomber Jacket was

seated at Mister Camembert's desk. The Albino Mouse With A Cape stood

near the door. Jiffy sat in the proffered chair, facing the chipmunk,

his back to the mouse.

Already he feared something had gone terribly wrong. They began

by asking him his name and address, and the names and addresses of

family members.

"Why do you want my mother's address?" he asked. He didn't

think he'd like the answer.

"Oh, don't worry about that," The Albino Mouse With A Cape

assured him. She did that thing with her smile that he had seen her do

to Camembert. "We only ask that in case you lie to us, or conceal

information. But I'm sure you'll cooperate; you don't seem to be

sucidally insane."

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

began...

* * *

It wasn't so much Good Cop, Bad Cop as Bad Cop, Sociopathic Cop.

After they had finished interrogating the staff, Chip leaned back and

tabulated the results. It wasn't pretty.

Four employees were eventually willing to sign blank confessions.

One had confessed to stealing a piece of candy when she was six. One

of the hostesses had tried to throw herself prostrate upon Widget's

mercy, but missed, hitting her paranoid rage instead. Camembert

himself had sweated off ten pounds. Two more employees had attempted

to pin the blame on a loved one rather than face down Widget's gaze,

and absolutely no one had given him any reason to believe the elevator

had been sabotaged by an employee. No one had any grudges against the

management, nor did they suspect anyone else. A quick chat with the

owner precluded the possibility the attack was by a protection

racket, rival restaurant, or bitter insurance company.

"I think this has been a blind alley," Chip said to Widget. He

needed to come up with a way to get rid of her. She had a remarkable

knack for hostile interrogation, but he needed to disprove some

theories and follow some long shots.

"What comes next, then? Track down everyone who was in the

building at the time and question them, one by one, leaving no stone

unturned, following every lead, like the dogs let loose to hunt? We

will track them wherever they hide: like the cobra and the mongoose, so

shall we be. There is no place in this universe in which they can

conceal themselves, for their guilt calls out to me, and I feel the

need for vengeance in my soul!" Widget's arm slid easily into

Vengeance Position #6 (Pointing Accusingly at the Spirits of Darkness

that Protected and Concealed the Guilty).

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

Thank God.

"Excuse me, Chip, Widget, but it's after midnight. Shouldn't we

all be getting to bed?"

Widget looked at Jürgen.

Jürgen looked at Widget.

Chip looked at them both, watching, amazed, as Widget and Jürgen

managed to have a lengthy and suprisingly complex discussion with just

their eyes. It only took a few seconds. He blushed politely.

"All right," said Widget. "We can get back to work in the

morning. Do you have any news about Gadget's condition?"

"No," Jürgen said. "But as I said earlier, her wounds were

primarily superficial. She'll be fine." Anxiety flashed over his

eyes. "We can visit her in the morning," he repeated firmly, "she'll

be awake then."

"You two go on ahead," Chip said as he rose and began picking up

his notes. "I'll be along in a few minutes. Say, Widget, could you

let the cops out of the closet on your way out?"

As Widget got up, Jürgen moved closer to Chip. "She gets like

this every so often," he whispered as she left the office. "It's...

endearing."

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

get to work.

* * *

At two in the morning, Dale was in bed reading comics, just

settling down to get a good night's sleep. He and Monterey had met

Foxy at the hospital. Gadget would be fine; she had contusions in her

arm and a dislocated shoulder. A few scrapes. Foxy had met Gadget in

midair -- she had built a parafoil out of the stuff in her pockets --

and Gadget had insisted on landing herself. She came down a little

rough, was all. Chip would, he knew, be relieved when he heard it.

Dale set down his chipmunk-sized copy of _Watchmen_ and turned

the light off. He'd scarcely had a chance to roll up in his blanket

when Chip came in and flipped the light back on. He looked tired and,

for some reason, damp.

"Hey, Chip! Good news..." Dale began sleepily.

"I need to borrow one of your comics, Dale," Chip said, tapping

his foot. "Do you have a copy of 'Sandman #8'?"

All the drowsiness slipped out of Dale as he sat bolt upright.

"What? 'The Sound of Her Wings?!' You want to borrow 'The Sound of

Her Wings?' Why, Chip?"

"There's no time to explain. I'm in a hurry. Where is it?"

Chip moved to the stack of polybagged comic books and started looking

through it. "Sam and Max... Sonic... Sonic... Sandman! This the one?"

"No, Chip, that's 'Sandman Mystery Theater,' Dale answered him

patiently. "You remember, I tried to get you to read that one?

'Sandman #8' is on the bottom." Dale was out of bed and digging

through his stack. "Now be careful with this, it's signed by the Neil

himself."

"Ah, yeah. Here it is. Good. Night, Dale." Chip slid the

comic out of the stack. The stiff cardboard backing in the bag made

rolling the comic impractical, so, balancing it on one edge, he started

pushing it out of the room. "See you in the morning."

"No problem, Chip. Always willing to help out a fellow Rescue

Ranger." Dale felt good, vindicated. He had known his comic books

would come in handy someday. "Say, Chip... why do you want it? Chip?"

But again, Chip was already gone. As Dale climbed back into bed,

he suddenly realized he hadn't had a chance to tell Chip the good news

about Gadget. He'd find out soon enough, of course; it wasn't a big

deal. Dale slept the sleep of the just.

* * *

Under any large city there is another world, miles of tunnels and

storm sewers, drains and access hatches, subway tunnels and fallout

shelters. New York is no exception. Fifty feet under the stone lions

at the public library there is a cavernous drainage tank, where eight

smaller storm drains converge. The waters are murky and cold. Here it

was said the thing made its home.

Chip slid his precious cargo down the tunnel, up to his ankles in

slow-moving water. Initially he had worried about water damage to the

comic book, but Dale was a firm believer in tight seal on the polybag.

Chip was counting his paces. It was easy to get lost this far down, in

dark tunnels barely large enough to admit a basketball. He'd heard

stories of mice getting turned around, lost for days, until heavy rain

flushed the tunnels clear.

He'd attached a penlight to the side of the polybag with duct

tape, but even so all the tunnels looked alike. It was with a sigh of

relief that he finally slid the comic onto the narrow overhang above

the drainage pool he had been trying to find again. The tightly-

wrapped parcel he had left behind on his last visit, barely an hour and

a half ago, was gone, with no trace it had ever been there.

"Sewer Al!" Chip called down to the water. His voice echoed

through the shafts. "I'm back! I have the comic book!"

Peering intently down at the surface, Chip saw the still water

begin to ripple. A few bubbles rose out from the bottom.

"TURN OFF THAT LIGHT."

The booming voice came from everywhere at once, echoing through

the pipes. Even though Chip knew it was a trick of the acoustics, he

shivered. Shaking his head, he quickly flipped the penlight off,

letting the darkness return to the chamber.

"I have the comic book you wanted, Sewer Al. What do you want me

to do with it?" This was Chip's second visit of the night. His

sacrifice of _Memoirs of Sheerluck Jones_ had won him Al's promise to

find out whether Fat Cat's minions had sabotaged the Ratisson's

elevator. Al had said that would take days, however. Days Gadget

might not have, if there were more assassination attempts. So Chip had

pressed the monstrous alligator for speed: hence, the need for Dale's

comic book.

"LEAVE IT WHERE IT IS."

In the darkness the voice was even more terrifying. Chip slipped

on the slick, damp brick platform. He heard a faint splash a few

seconds later. His fedora had fallen into the pool.

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

* * *

Herb was in a good mood. It was a quiet night in the casino, and

he had easily won nearly thirty Staten dollars off of Prickles and

Snout in a poker game. He might have resented the faint pinging sound

coming from his hat, but tonight he was willing to quit while he was

(as usual) ahead, for a few minutes at least. Pocketing his SC$30 and

excusing himself, the tall rat hurried into the men's room and removed

his stovepipe hat. He thought the thing was ridiculously ugly, but his

job required it, and all in all it was a bit of good luck that archaic

headgear was fashionable at Fat Cat's.

The tiny alphanumeric pager on his head flashed a single word:

"ASSASSINATE?" Assassinate? His principal wanted to know if anyone

had been assassinated at Fat Cat's? (No.) If anyone had attempted to

assassinate Fat Cat? (Not that Herb knew of.) If Fat Cat had

assassinated anyone? (Not hardly.) Herb sighed. He was going to

have to talk to the principal by telephone. He would have to get the

rest of Prickles' and Snout's pay some other time.

Herb stepped out of the restroom, adjusting his hat. "Aw, look

at the time," he said, gesturing to the clock on the wall. My shift's

over. I'll see you jokers tomorrow."

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

Herbie was almost out the door before he stopped and turned

around, chuckling. "Say, Snout, I've been meaning to ask you but I

keep forgetting. What's the boss up to these days? Spending all that

time in his office... I mean, I've been stuck doing door duty for weeks

now."

Snout shrugged as he started picking up his cards. "You know the

boss, Herbie," he began vaguely. "If you're not in on the plan you

don't know jack. These days he's playing things close."

Herb snorted theatrically, the way "Herbie the bouncer" often

did. "So you don't know anything either? Man, our talents are just

going to waste! Am I right, hm?"

Snout and Fat Cat had a complex relationship, one Herbie didn't

try to understand. One week he was part of Fact Cat's elite

troubleshooting cadre, the next on door duty with Prickles. Still, he

usually knew more about the boss's doings than most.

"Yeah, well, you know the boss," Snout said again, as if it were

an aphorism. "I think these days he's lying low. Mepps says he's

spending all his time on the Internet. Next time the boss has

something planned, I'm sure we'll be in on it."

"Internet, eh?" Herb chuckled. He'd have to find someone both

stupid and a little closer to the inside, probably Mole, but the

prognosis looked negative. "Well, I'll be going... See you jokers

tomorrow."

* * *

The only part of his job Herb really hated was actually

communicating with the principal. Lying, back-stabbing, acting as

stupid as Snout, intentionally losing every fifth or so game of poker,

the casual everyday, betrayal of being a (figurative) mole--that was

nothing next to calling that spooky alligator on the telephone.

Herb climbed the phone booth, unhooked the receiver, and used a

pencil to call the principal, collect.

"HELLO."

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

darkness.

"This is your man inside, reporting in with a request for more

information about the assignment." Best to get it over with as quickly

as possible. Herb had met his principal, once. Once. He had

nightmares about it every few weeks: the teeth larger than his own

body, the jaw so huge it could eat Fat Cat in one bite, the chthonic,

staring eyes... Best not to dwell on it.

"GADGET HACKWRENCH SURVIVED A POSSIBLE ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT AT

THE RATISSON HOTEL, IN STATEN CITY, FOUR HOURS AGO."

Gadget Hackwrench... the Rescue Ranger. Hmm. Shame she

survived. Hackwrench had been involved in a raid on the club, oh,

nearly a year ago now. Although he hadn't actually seen her, Herbie

recalled being knocked over with suction-cup darts, electrocuted, and

nearly crushed under tank-treads. Insult added to injury... he'd pay

them back for that at some point down the line. But it did make the

job easier. "Four hours ago? Then there's no way the boss was

involved. All tonight he's been up in his office, playing with his

newest toy. Fat Cat always likes to be around whenever a plan goes

down. Unless he's left in the last few minutes, the boss is still up

there."

"ARE YOU CERTAIN?"

"Sure as I am of anything. No one from this organization's been

anywhere near Staten City in days."

"GOOD." The line clicked and went dead.

Herb hung up. He needed a drink. First, though, he thought as

he remembered the time, he needed to make a transatlantic call.

* * *

Chip sat in the dark for quite a while -- he wasn't sure just how

long -- before Sewer Al spoke again. His foot had gone to sleep and he

passed the time by going over possibilities in his head.

"If it's not Fat Cat, maybe Rat Capone. He's been after Gadget

since he met her," he said aloud. He scratched his head. Widget

couldn't absolutely rule out mechanical failure. Or maybe someone else

had been the intended victim, and Gadget just in the wrong place at the

wrong time... He would need to interview her, after she'd had a

night's sleep to recover.

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

RESPONSIBLE."

"Are you certain?"

"YES."

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

but...

"GOOD-BYE."

That was all the encouragement to leave he needed. Regretting

only the loss of his hat, Chip turned on his penlight and began

making his way out of the underground. There were still plenty of

theories to be disproven. He'd need the layout of the Ratisson...

* * *

It was seven in the morning before Chip made it to the hospital.

The original blueprints for the restaurant were in his hands (it hadn't

been easy to get them from the planning office in the middle of the

night, but he had managed) as he knocked on Gadget's door. Monty

opened it.

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

mate?"

"I've been busy, Monty. What are you doing later this morning?

I'd like you to help me perform some reconnaissance at Rat Capone's

place..." Chip surveyed the room. Jürgen and Widget were sitting at a

table in a corner, eating Cheerios. "We can talk about it later. I've

narrowed the elevator sabotage down to three possible scenarios..."

"Chip?" Gadget called from the hospital bed. Her arm was in a

sling, but she looked only a little worse for the wear. "Chip, where

have you been? What happened to your hat? Monty said you didn't make

it in last night..."

"Oh, good. You're awake and without permanent damage. Gadget, I

need you to tell me exactly what happened on the elevator." Chip set

the plans down, sat next to Gadget, and pulled out a notebook. Soon he

would have someone to punish and justice could be done.

"Um, I remember I was afraid I was going to be too late meeting

you and Dale and Foxglove up in the Ratisson where you wanted me to

meet you and Dale and Foxglove..."

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

"And I remember thinking that the darned elevator was taking an

awfully long time to get to the restaurant, and anyway it would be kind

of fun if the elevator went a little faster, you know, like a ride...

It would have been really cool." Gadget sighed, a wistful look in her

eyes.

"You didn't." Chip's hand involuntarily twitched, making a

jagged mark across his notebook.

"Well, golly Chip, if I'd had a little more time to make the

parafoil, or if it had been a little windier out, I'd have been fine!"

"You rigged the elevator yourself? Again?!" Chip wiped his

forehead, then sighed. It was really kind of endearing.

Jürgen looked at his wife. "What exactly were the two of you

doing last night?" he asked her, keeping his expression blandly

pleasant.

Widget scratched her nose and looked at the tabletop. "Well..."

she began, then stopped. Her eyes widened as her mouth formed an O of

surprise. "Omigosh. Chip, I forgot to let the cops out of the broom

closet."

Chip resisted a sudden urge to bonk everyone in the room,

starting with himself. "I'll be back in... a little while," he

said as he got up. Setting his notebook down, Chip hurried out,

resolving to stop and get a thimble of coffee on his way back to the

Ratisson. Should I untie and then explain, he thought to himself, or

explain and then untie?

Gadget sighed. "He does something like this every few weeks.

It's... endearing, really," Gadget told Jürgen. "Could you

pass me a Cheerio?"

Fade to black.

TWO [Cheese Chowder]

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

-- ABOUT THREE MONTHS LATER --

Fade from black.

"Herbie the Rat" leaned back, smiled behind his dark sunglasses,

and collected his winnings. He'd been at Fat Cat's for eight months

now, and in that time, Herb had come to realize that most of the boss's

employees were truly stupid. Organizing a regular poker game had

been a stroke of genius. While he was careful to lose enough not to

rouse suspicion among his dimwitted coworkers, Herb was slowly

accumulating a small fortune in Staten City dollars.

"Well, you win again, Mister Clever Rat," Wart said, sipping his

drink. "I suppose it's time to call it a game, boys."

"Yeh," agreed Mepps. His grating whine made Herb wince. "The

boss doesn't like us playing cards while the casino is open."

"What do you say, Mole, one more hand?" Herb flashed him a

smile. Mole was an easy target.

"Uh, I dunno, Herbie. It's almost sunset, and I love to watch

the sunset." The squinting Mole yawned and stretched his stunted arms.

"Oh, well. I'll be going, then. Say, Wart, before I go... could

you do your Peter Lorre impression again?" Herb got a kick out of

cajoling the iguana into performing for him. "C'mon, just say that bit

you did last week..."

"All right, all right. 'You know, Rick, I have many a friend in

Casablanca, but somehow, just because you despise me, you're the only

one I trust.'" Wart's already bulbous eyes seemed to leap out of their

sockets as he leaned over into Herb's face, speaking with a soft

intensity.

"Great, great. I'll see you jokers later." Herbie got up

to leave. Wart's eyes reminded him it was time to check his

principal's mail drop, one last time.

* * *

The sun was setting behind the monolithic office buildings of the

city, as the Ranger Wing sped over the cool waters of the harbor,

towards the industrial park. Their prey was more agile than the Wing,

even under Gadget's piloting, but the heavy batteries mounted in the

rear of the vehicle were proving to have a longer staying power than

the pigeon.

Earlier that day the Rangers had launched a sting operation on a

group of small-time confidence artists working near the docks. The

rest of the gang (two mice and an insect) were rounded up easily

enough. This pigeon, imaginatively named Lenny the Squib, was a little

more work.

Lenny was in a panic. His only friends were in a holding cell by

now, all the money was in some evidence locker, and the Rescue Rangers

were slowly gaining on him. He needed a safe haven, and there was

nowhere to go... unless...

There! Lenny could see a large storm sewer pipe emerging out

from under a parking lot adjacent to the harbor. A slow trickle of

rainwater dripped out. It was just large enough...

Monterey Jack leaned over the side of the Ranger Wing for a

better view, almost upsetting its balance. He watched, amazed, as

Lenny the Squib dove, almost into contact with the water of the harbor.

He gasped again, when he realized the Squib wasn't attempting suicide,

but planned on landing in the sewer pipe. It was, after all, barely a

foot in diameter...

"Careful, careful..." Lenny muttered to himself. He had only

done this once before, and that had been in a dream. He clicked his

beak nervously. Almost... almost... now! Lenny lined up his attack,

clenched his beak, and closed his eyes, as he dove straight for the

small pipe. A miss would mean flying straight into a brick wall.

Lenny the Squib was about five inches tall, easily small enough

to maneuver in the pipe. He hadn't realized, however, that his

wingspan cleared one foot by a bit... The pigeon bit his tongue as he

felt the tips of his wings smash, on either side, into the thick

piping. The pain was so intense that for a moment he thought he hadn't

made it, that he'd crashed into the wall. Losing all sense of

direction, he tumbled, end over end, trying desperately to fold his

wings. In a heap he landed in the pipe, three feet from the entrance.

His wings felt like they were on fire. But when he realized it was

only his wings that ached, he almost guffawed. He wouldn't be flying

anywhere for a while. Good thing he hadn't been planning on needing to

fly. The pigeon limped up the drainpipe, into the mud.

When the Rangers saw what Lenny was doing, they held back,

uncertain what action to take. But once the Squib had landed, and all

in one piece, Chip realized that the prey was getting away.

"Gadget, we're going to have to go after him down there. Land

the Ranger Wing up on the parking lot." Chip pointed below.

"Roger, Chip. Taking her down." Gadget pulled levers and pushed

buttons, and the Wing lurched into VTOL mode, kicking up dust as it

slowly came back to earth.

The Rangers hopped out of the vehicle. Dale began unstrapping

the penlight from the bottom of the Wing as Chip assessed the

situation. "All right. Dale, Zipper, you and I are going down there.

Monty, Gadget, guard the exit in case he doubles back on us."

"Golly, Chip," Gadget began. A thoughtful look crossed her face

as she turned to look at him. "I think this may be a little risky."

All the Rangers stopped what they were doing and turned, staring

at her. An assessment of 'risky' from Gadget was something to be taken

seriously. Dale spoke first.

"Risky, Gadget? What do you mean, risky? Risky like the time we

went into orbit, or risky like the time we accidentally flew from the

East Coast to Tibet, or risky like the time Widget tried to kill us, or

what?"

"Risky like..." Gadget paused, then scratched her chin. "Did we

ever hunt a pigeon in a storm sewer drain the day the city was

scheduled to test-flood the auxiliary pumping system? Does that ring a

bell, Chip?"

"I don't think so, no," Chip replied, his expression cautiously

bland. "So risky like how, exactly?"

"Well... golly again, Chip. I can't really think of a situation

we've been in which is completely analogous to the situation you're

proposing."

"So...?" Chip had the look of a chipmunk with the distinct

feeling he was missing something.

"So... I think you should use a safety line, just in case."

Gadget smiled brightly at him. She pulled a reel of line from under

the passenger seat, fiddled with it for a few seconds, and then tossed

one end to Chip.

Chip shrugged, then looped the line around his waist several

times, secured it, and made certain Dale was also firmly secured. "You

okay there, Zipper?" Dale asked the fly.

"Fly; no need," Zipper answered, packing the most information

possible into the roughly three syllables he could comfortably

enunciate in one breath.

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

The two chipmunks lowered themselves down to the pipe opening,

Zipper following. Chip wondered, briefly, if he might happen to find

his hat in this trip through the pipes, then pushed that thought out of

his head. He knew he'd have to get a new one. But finding a size 1/16

fedora wasn't easy, even in the garment district.

* * *

Lenny was starting to wonder if this had been such a good idea.

First he had managed to get himself lost, which, all things considered,

hadn't been much of a challenge. The maze of twisty little pipes, all

alike, crossed each other so often and so randomly the Squib wondered

whether they had been designed by a sanitation engineer or if they had

been formed naturally by erosive forced of wind and water, and the city

was just lucky to be able to tap into them to use them as storm drains.

His concern increased when he started to hear the chattering of

his pursuers echoing through the pipes. While he couldn't trace the

sound, the mere fact that he could hear them following him pointed to

their being fairly nearby. He continued on, wondering if he was going

around in circles, until he began to hear another sound.

A faint rushing, roaring sound. A kind of swirling, wet, whooshy

kind of sound. It could only mean one thing. Lenny held his breath.

When the wall of water hit him, he spread his wings, letting the

current carry him out the pipe and down to the surface of the harbor.

His entire body stung, except in his wings, where he had crashed them

into the pipe. Those were completely numb. Not a good sign. At least

they weren't hurting any more, he told himself. Lenny wondered how

long he could stay conscious.

Long enough. The squib glided straight out the main pipe, a

quarter-mile from where he'd gone it. When he hit the water, he crowed

in delight. He'd outsmarted the Rescue Rangers! Granted, he'd nearly

drowned, probably broken one or both of his wings, lost his friends and

all his money, but he had gotten away!

The adrenaline rush would wear off in a few minutes, Lenny knew.

Then the pain would set in anew. He started swimming to shore with

great haste.

* * *

Dale shot out of the pipe in a roar of water. The reel spun

furiously as the line played, out of Gadget's control. The water was

coming out at such pressure that Dale had flown out with it at a

remarkable clip. Gritting his teeth, Monty leaned into the device,

eventually getting tension in the line. Dale, who was screaming all

the while, kept flying until the line suddenly went taut, at which

point he jerked straight down into the water.

"Zipper!" Gadget shouted as she and Monty began to reel Dale in.

"Fly out there and make sure he's okay!"

Fifty feet out, Dale had had the time of his life. "That was

GREAT!" he told Zipper, cackling. "We need to investigate those sewer

drains EVERY DAY! Several times!"

Zipper decided it was safe to reassure Gadget that Dale was okay,

despite private concerns.

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

Zipper's face registered shock. Dale knew that the although the

Zipper couldn't easily say it, the answer to his question was something

along the lines of "we assumed you knew."

* * *

The apartment was a hole in the wall, Herb reflected as he eased

through a gap in the only window. He had no idea how the principal

paid the rent, or for that matter afforded his expensive services. As

he walked across the bare floor, he wondered, not for the first time,

who and what his principal really was. He had only seen Sewer Al once,

on an occasion he'd just as soon forget, but on reflection he'd come to

realize that could have been fairly easily faked. Probably.

At least, he and his old friends could have faked it without too

much trouble. The only thing Herb knew for certain about the principal

was that it wasn't a front for Fat Cat. He'd spent almost three weeks

making sure of that.

"'And in three weeks I can get into the Bank of England, or a

nun's knickers,'" Herb muttered to himself. It was a bad habit he'd

started to pick up from his wife. No, his principal wasn't the boss.

He was certain of that. But what the thing was, he didn't really know.

Maybe someone else from the old firm had made a place for themself.

Herb doubted that, though; they would have told him.

The envelope roused Herb from his reverie. Big and thick and

manila, it was addressed, like all the mail Herb collected for the

principal, to 'S. Al' The return address, he noted, was a Washington-

based law firm. Herb was tempted, as always, to sneak a peek at the

contents, but he'd worked for the principal long enough to know that

was a risk he didn't want to take. He picked up the inch-thick

envelope from where it lay under the mail slot and hoisted it above his

head. Hidden under it, he saw, was another, smaller envelope,

addressed to 'Mr. Herbert:' his severance pay. Herbie set his cargo

down and opened the letter from the principal.

In the envelope, in addition to the usual sheaf of various

denominations of dollar bills, human and Staten, was a typed note. His

services, it seemed, were 'valued' by the principal, who was 'inquiring

as to the possibility of a second eight-month term of service.' Herb

almost chuckled. He had only a few days until he was due in France.

He'd drop off his pager with the legal document. Hopefully, the

principal would take "no" for an answer.

* * *

Chip clung to the side of the pipe for dear life. His safety

line had snapped and he firmly doubted his chances if he let go were

anything but minimal. Air was a problem. Chip estimated he could hold

his breath for at most a minute longer. This would have panicked him,

had he not lost all track of time.

Also the moss he was clinging to was slowly giving way. Chip

wondered if there had been some way to avoid this, maybe settle down

with Gadget or a reasonable facsimile thereof... then he shuddered as

he felt the moss tear away completely from the side of the tunnel.

Buffeted by cross-currents, Chip flew through the storm sewers.

In retrospect, he was glad he hadn't tried too hard to get another

fedora, since it would have been swept away by the fast-moving

currents. Unlike, say, a pigeon, Chip had no wings with which to

control his motion through the pipes. He slammed against the sides,

ricocheting down one tunnel and up another.

Just before he blacked out, Chip wondered what the heck he had

meant by 'reasonable facsimile thereof.'

* * *

"He must be caught up in there somewhere," Gadget began. "We've

got to rescue him, fast!" Deep down, Gadget wondered why she wasn't

more concerned about her friend. She was, she knew, entirely confident

he would survive intact. Perhaps it was because he always had before.

"But how, Gadget love?" Monty doubted he could swim against that

particular current. Gadget had already started working on something,

he saw.

"Look, if we stretch this net over the end of the pipe it'll

catch him when he comes flying out. Now, I just need about six inches

of thirty-pound fishing line... Monty, do you think you could run over

to that hardware store for me?" Gadget pulled out a pencil stub and a

sheaf of papers and began making notes. "Or maybe I could make an

exoskeleton strong enough that you could just walk into the current..."

She trailed off as an unconscious Chip shot out of the pipe, flew

fifty feet over the harbor, and landed with splash in the dirty water.

He sunk like a stone. "I'm on it!" Monty barked.

"Now that's odd," Gadget said to Monty's back as he ran to the

edge of the water and dove in. "Chip should be lighter than the water.

I wonder if all the little things he keeps in his jacket are weighing

him down."

Dale, who had just finished drying himself off, began to count on

his fingers. "Magnifying glass, collapsing fishing rod, paper clip,

string, knife, picture of you... shucks, I know I'm forgetting

something."

Gadget was pacing up and down the edge of the parking lot,

wishing there was something she could do to help Chip, when suddenly

she was struck with a revelation. She tried bonking herself on the

head, the way she'd seen Chip do it, but it hurt for some reason.

"Golly and gee whiz whiskers! I'm an idiot! I can just fly out there

in the Wing and pick him up! Well," she amended as she hopped into the

driver's seat and started the electric motors, "Monty will have to

actually haul him into the Wing, but it'll be much faster, and I can

pick them both up, well, not myself, the Wing can pick them up, but as

I am the pilot the Wing is basically an extension of me, for

grammatical purposes anyway and..." By this point, Dale was out of

earshot.

With the sure, powerful strokes he'd learned a very long time

ago, Monterey made his way out to where he'd seen his little pal go

down. He hadn't swum this fast since he'd outpaced a school of hungry

piranhas back in '62, and he'd been a kid then. Monty didn't see any

trace of Chip on the surface, not even a trail of bubbles of the sort

Monty usually saw when a fellow talking rodent was underwater. Taking

a deep breath, he dove under and began searching for his friend.

Gadget landed the Wing on the surface of the harbor. She was

fairly certain she was over where Chip went down. Anxiously she

scanned the surface. Monty was, after all, an unusually buoyant mouse.

Maybe she should rig up a set of SCUBA gear and go in after them...

Gadget sighed with relief as Monty suddenly bobbed to the

surface. She could see Chip's inert form in his arms. Quickly the

large mouse made his way to the side of the Wing, where Gadget tossed

down a line.

"He's inhaled some water, Gadget love," Monty said as he carried

Chip into the rear of the vehicle. "I need some room here."

Monterey Jack hadn't performed CPR since he and Geegaw had been

stranded in the upper Amazon basin, back in '73, but he remembered the

routine. "C'mon, mate, breathe!" Chip suddenly coughed violently,

spitting up water. "That's right, Chipper!"

Chip sputtered and gurgled for a second, then sat up. "The, the

line snapped," he said casually to Gadget, who had wrapped herself

around him with relief. "We're going to, to eh, have to get some

heavier stuff for the Wing. And another, another penlight." She

nodded, silent.

"You know what I think, mate?" Monty removed his hat and wiped

his brow as Gadget detached herself from Chip. She'd been more worried

than she had realized.

"You saved my life. I think... I think I owe you a meal." Chip

removed his jacket and wrung it out. It felt considerably lighter. He

hoped his collapsing fishing rod and his picture of Gadget hadn't been

damaged or fallen out. The rest of his equipment could be easily

replaced, but the rod was one-of-a-kind and the picture... well, it had

sentimental value.

"I think you think quite rightly." Monty smiled self-indulgently

as the Wing returned to shore to pick up Zipper and Dale.

Dale climbed aboard, relieved but not surprised his best friend

had suffered no permanent damage. "I think," he began, having just

caught the tilt of an earlier conversation, "I think that the city must

be testing the new auxiliary pumping system today!"

"Yeah, Dale." Gadget was more relieved than anything. She

sighed. If she hadn't hesitated the way she did, Chip's life wouldn't

have been in danger. If she'd communicated the risk more

effectively... she pushed the negative thoughts out of her mind. The

important thing was that everyone and everything was okay. Well,

almost everything was okay. "It looks like he got away, guys."

"Well then, mates." Monty smiled widely. "Now's as good a time

as any." He was hungry; it was dinnertime.

* * *

Fat Cat turned off his computer and leaned back. After a few

short weeks, the novelty of the Internet was beginning to wear off, and

the unscrupulous feline godfather needed something new to pique his

interest. Traffic on the Megalomaniac and Animal Crimelord mailing

lists had died down; his latest hobby had failed him.

It was time, Fat Cat reflected, to return to his one true love,

that which got him out of bed in the mornings and made him eager to

slice and rend the day. His criminal empire, limited as it was only by

his own capacities, had the potential to grow to a boundless size.

Someday the entire animal kingdom would bow before him, recognizing him

as the lord and master of all he surveyed, ruler of animals everywhere,

the one true king of the beasts...

Fat Cat stopped his mental rant. That last phrase left a bad

taste in his mouth. He scowled at the memory. "Every time," he said

out loud, "Every time I begin to make inroads on my true and master

plan, I am thwarted! With an astounding regularity, those insufferable

Rescue Rangers interfere with my plans. The time has come --"

Fat Cat's monologue was interrupted by a knock on his door.

"In!" he shouted. "I was talking! I hope, for your sake, that this is

happy news."

A pigeon, soaking wet, plodded into Fat Cat's office and started

dripping on his carpet. "Sorry about the water," he mumbled. "I, uh,

came straight here."

"Ah, Lenny the squib. It has been too long." Fat Cat smiled

indulgently. Money always made him feel better. "You've come with

this month's profit from our partnership, I assume?"

"Well, uh, no. You see, sir..." Lenny swallowed and began

speaking quickly. "The Rescue Rangers got wind of this job we were

doing, setting ourselves up as a contracting firm. We'd gotten a group

of mice to pay us to build them a nice set of holes, underneath a

grocery store. But when we didn't deliver, they sent someone to see

the Rangers."

Fat Cat said nothing as Lenny paused for breath.

"Vic and Sally and the hornet are all in the custody of the

Staten City Police, Fat Cat. I only got away by flying into the storm

sewers. Too small for their little plane, see --" Lenny broke off

when Fat Cat picked him up and threw him across the room. "You're,

you're not ha, happy about this," he gasped. Fat Cat was red in the

face.

"No! I am not happy about this! Every way I turn, every path I

walk, each one leads inescapably to one conclusion! SOMETHING MUST BE

DONE! I will not sit idly by and watch my empire crumble! I have

until now taken a passive stance on the issue of my rodent nemeses, but

I can see that the time has come for action! Destruction! Even total

ELIMINATION! I will see the end of those disgusting little vermin, and

their disgusting little hats! Lenny! Get up!" Fat Cat shouted. "I'm

going downstairs to address the staff. When I return, you will be

gone!"

Lenny staggered to his feet as the monstrous feline stomped out

of the room. All things considered, it had gone better than he

expected.

* * *

Early in the Rangers' history, Chip created a rule: any time one

Ranger saves another's life in the course of duty, the rescued buys the

rescuer a meal. After a few months the rule was amended, when Chip

calculated Dale owed him breakfast, lunch and dinner for the next four

years. While Gadget had found a bit of fault with his arithmetic,

nonetheless the system was revised. A congratulatory dinner was

awarded to whichever Ranger went farthest above and beyond the call of

duty in the course of a mission, paid for by the group. Although this

particular mission had not been a total success, three of the four con

artists had been captured, and that was something.

For his dinner, Monty selected the Ratisson's rotating

restaurant. The cheese chowder over cheese bread in a light cheese

sauce (served with the unfathomable cheese wine which was a house

specialty) was a delicacy the gourmand gourmet had been planning on

trying for a long time.

The ride up the elevator to the rotating restaurant was

unremarkable. Chip stood firmly in front of the control panel. Gadget

stared coolly off into space, resisting the urge to Rewire and Improve.

Monty noticed that the trip did take quite a while, but decided not to

say anything.

As the Rangers stepped off the elevator a female mouse in a black

jacket stepped forward to greet them. "Yes, hello, welcome to the..."

the hostess broke off, eyes wide. "You! What, what do you... don't

hurt me!"

Chip rubbed his temples with one hand. "Look, I explained the

situation. I apologized. I even bought you a new jacket, to replace

the one that got shredded..."

"All right, yes, you've been more than fair, sir. Just don't

hurt me! And don't smile! I had nightmares for weeks after she smiled

at me!" The waitress had taken a few steps back, until she bumped into

the wall. Her russet face was paled under the fur.

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

"Widget," Chip agreed in the same tone.

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

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

"Chip," Monterey said as he turned and gave his friend a

meaningful look, "Did you do something to this poor girl?"

"No, it wasn't me, no. Let's, eh, just sit down and eat," Chip

said. "Is that okay, eh, Claire?" he asked the hostess. "We can sit

down, right? You will serve us?"

Claire swallowed. He remembered her name. God only knew what

The Chipmunk in the Bomber Jacket might do to her if she refused him.

"All right, sir. I mean, of course. Please, follow me."

Claire led the Rescue Rangers through the crowded restaurant.

She decided to seat them in Jiffy's section. While she regretted

putting her friend in harm's way, it was the restaurant's best waiter

who was, she hoped, mostly likely to be up to the challenge of

serving... him.

* * *

"Hello, boys." Fat Cat's eyes glittered in the semidarkness

outside his casino, reflecting light from the street below. Wart,

Mepps, and Mole looked up from the collection of coins and jewelry they

had collected at the door.

"Hiya, boss," Mepps' voice set Fat Cat's teeth on edge, like a

rubbed balloon or chalk on a blackboard. "You look upset."

"I am upset, Mepps," Fat Cat agreed with a deadly calm. "For

too long, we have been suffering under the cruel yoke of a tyrant. No

more, I say! It is time for this cruelty to end!"

"You mean you're stepping down, boss?" Wart looked surprised,

then found his basic view of the universe supported when Fat Cat hit

him on the head.

"No, you nattering nitwit! I am not the tyrant! The forces

arrayed against my criminal empire are the tyrant!" Fat Cat grabbed

the iguana by his dressing-gown lapels shook him. "I'm saying I've

come up with a way to defeat our most hated enemy!"

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

Fat Cat covered his face in his hands and roared inwardly for a

few moments before he recovered. "The Rescue Rangers! I have

conceived a plan so dastardly, so subtle, that even these staunch self-

proclaimed champions of all that is saccharine and rodentate will fail

before my sinister machinations!"

That shut them up. When in trouble, use words your audience

doesn't understand, Fat Cat thought smugly.

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

plan."

"I haven't explained it yet!" Mepps flinched, expecting a blow,

but Fat Cat chose instead to elaborate on his scheme. "It has been

said that if you cannot beat your foes, you should join them. Well,

soon we shall do both!"

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

perked up.

"What I mean is that one of you will join the Rescue Rangers, and

lead them into a trap! Then, we shall fall upon them as an arrow

loosed from the string! The plan is simplicity itself. You all know

how these do-gooder activists are keen on helping their fellows!

You've all seen how quickly and completely they take fledglings under

their wing, little lost lambs, main characters in search of a coherent

supporting cast... you will be that main character, that lost lamb."

Fat Cat knew his monomaniacal rant was suffering under these constant

interruptions. "Now, whom shall I send?"

"It won't work," came a voice from behind him, interrupting him

yet again. "Not a chance."

Fat Cat spun around, staring daggers at the interloper. Herbie,

one of his door guards. The one with sunglasses and stovepipe hat.

The crimelord distinctly remembered hiring him for his prodigious size,

not his intellect. "What do you mean, rat?"

Herbie seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "What I mean

is, sir, while your idea is basically sound, sir, the Rescue Rangers

are by now extremely familiar with your little team here. They'd see

through the deception in an instant. And, also, sir, none of these

fellows are good liars. We play poker, and I can always tell when one

of them is bluffing."

"Not always," Wart muttered.

Fat Cat considered, then reached a decision. Uppity underlings

irritated him. "Well then, my immense and sartorially-challenged

friend, perhaps I should consider sending YOU on this dangerous and

intricate assignment," he said, adopting a patronizing tone. "Your

intellectual capacity is so clearly going to waste in your current

position."

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

"Well, I'm not sure I'd feel comfortable discussing the details

of such a sensitive assignment out here." Herbie surprised Fat Cat.

He had more or less expected something along the lines of 'I'm sorry, I

don't know what I was thinking, sir.' "Little pitchers, et cetera.

Let's go up to your office and talk, boss."

As Herbie and Fat Cat made their way through the casino floor,

the door guards and fee-collectors watched them go. "Now there," Snout

said to no one in particular, "goes one strange guy."

"Strange how?" Wart asked him. "Aside from his game and his

chutzpah, I mean."

"His eyes glow in the dark. It's true!" Snout saw no one

believed him. "That's why we wears the glasses. I saw him cleaning

them once when he thought nobody was around."

"I dunno 'bout that," Mole muttered.

"Ah, what do you know, Mister Has No Eyes Himself Anyway? Back

to work, everybody." Wart was something of a dandy, and he liked to

think of himself as middle management, outranking in some nebulous way

Mepps, Snout, Mole and Prickles. He turned back to sorting his heap of

change, and the rest eventually followed.

* * *

"This table is pretty near the men's room," Chip said. "I think

that hostess is holding a grudge."

"For what, exactly, Chip?" Dale asked him as he offered him a

half-a-cracker. "Now if I know Widget, and... I mean you can get

awfully worked up yourself..."

"Look, I've said I don't want to talk about it. I was

questioning the staff, Widget was with me, in retrospect things got a

little out of hand."

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

"I got you anotheronedidn'tI?"

"It was autographedChip!Autographed!"

"LookDaleIwas--"

Before the conversation could degenerate into incomprehensible

chipmunk squeaking, Zipper interrupted them, coughing loudly. "Look,"

he said in his loudest buzz. "Waiter."

Jiffy was actually hanging back a bit, trying to gather his

confidence. 'I am a good waiter,' the squirrel recited under his

breath. 'I am friendly, cheerful, and helpful. I am a credit to this

establishment. Mister Camembert said so himself. I have been named

employee of the month for five of the last seven months.' He

straightened his jacket, inhaled sharply, and went to face The Chipmunk

in the Bomber Jacket. It wasn't as if it was the Albino Mouse with a

Cape, after all.

"Hello, my name is Jiffy, and I'll be your waiter for this

evening. Can I get your drinks orders, appetizers, or perhaps you'd

like a little more time?" Jiffy had said those words more times than

he could count. When he was young, he'd practiced saying it in front

of the mirror. As he spoke he risked a sidelong glance at The Chipmunk

in the Bomber Jacket, and stepped backwards involuntarily. His

inflection never changed, however.

"Actually, I think we're ready to order," Monterey said

brightly, turning slightly to block Jiffy's view of Chip. "We'll have

four orders of the cheese chowder over cheese bread, and an apple core

for my friend in the high chair."

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

"Yes indeed, mate. And a bottle of the bonny cheese wine I've

heard so much about." Monty's wide grin seemed to Jiffy somehow

desperate. Perhaps he was being forced here, kept against his will by

The Chipmunk in the Bomber Jacket. While Jiffy sympathized with his

plight, any attempt to rescue to poor fellow within the restaurant

could only result in excitement. And excitement was just another word

for indigestion. And there would be no indigestion. Not here. Not on

his watch.

"An excellent choice, sir. I'll be back in just a few moments

with your wine." The squirrel who loved only waiting tables smiled

politely, and scampered away at the fastest speed courtesy allowed.

Chip noticed everyone at the table was staring at him, again. He

rubbed his temples, again. "Look, we'll leave a really big tip, okay?"

* * *

Nearly two hours later the Rangers were just getting up to leave

when a young busboy (clearly a new hire from the lack of deference he

gave Chip) approached the table. "Telephone for you, sir. "

Chip frowned. He wasn't expecting any calls, not here. "I'll

meet you downstairs," he told the others. "This'll just take a

second."

Chip followed the busboy through the kitchen to the

manager's office. They'd cleaned it up before it stained, he noticed

as he passed the break room. In the back office, Camembert was just

getting up to leave.

"Thought you might like to take your call in my office, sir," the

rotund mouse said with exaggerated politeness. He had developed a

nervous tic since Chip had last seen him.

"All right, look, I've apologized. It was a mistake. I let

things get out of hand. Please, I just... hello?" Chip sighed in

frustration as he picked up the telephone.

"HELLO."

Chip closed his eyes and started massaging his temples

preemptively. He could hear water dripping, and slow breathing echoing

through the pipes. Even over the telephone, it was not a fun and happy

sound. "Hello, Sewer Al..."

* * *

Herb strolled confidently out of the boss's office. This would

be sweet. Herb had never met a Rescue Ranger, but shortly after he

began working for the boss they had raided the casino with a Dalek.

He'd been run over and nearly electrocuted. They'd pay for that.

And with a bit of luck, he'd arrange things so that Fat Cat's

organization would be broken in the process. Herb didn't like the boss

or any of his cronies. They were, after all, a bunch of idiot losers.

It was, the big rat thought as he made his way across the casino floor,

one sweet opportunity.

* * *

"I'm telling yas, we really need to do something about the little

dodger." In the lobby of the Ratisson hotel, Monty was trying to

convince his fellow Rangers that Chip needed an intervention. "You saw

how that poor girl was afraid of the blighter!"

"Golly, Monty, I really don't think it's something we need to

worry about." Gadget scratched her head, reluctant to think ill of

Chip.

"Yeah. I mean, he thought someone had hurt Gadget, and besides,

Widget was with him. You know how Byronic she is; she ended up

encouraging him." Dale yawned. The conversation would have interested

him more if he hadn't been up so late the night before. "Chances are

most of that fear was just runoff from her. Widget likes inspiring

terror in others."

The elevator pinged as the doors opened and Chip stepped out.

"All right, let's get going. Busy day tomorrow."

"What was that phone call, mate?" Monty had taken about all he

could from his friend. "Did it have something do to with your

terrorizing the staff?"

"No, Monty. As it turns out it wasn't for me. Call was for Chip

Justice, not Chip Maplewood." Chip wasn't an especially good liar, but

he knew Monty had no reason to distrust him. "And the whole thing with

the restaurant was just... it got out of hand. I've apologized, I've

reimbursed for damages, I've even left a very good tip. I really don't

want to go into any details, so, please. Let's let it go, huh?"

Gadget smiled. "Golly Chip, if you feel that strongly about it,

I know we don't have to talk about it." She leaned in and whispered in

his ear. "But I would like to know just what you were doing with my

sister, you know..." Chip could tell it was bothering Gadget; she'd

been a little off-kilter all through the dinner.

"Some other time. Let's go, all right, team? Busy, busy day

tomorrow." The Rangers made their way out of the Ratisson's lobby and

through the streets of Staten City. Since the city of mice was

underground, they had been forced to park the Wing a considerable

distance from the hotel.

THREE [Coffee]

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

Fat Cat had once, about a year ago, made a serious effort at

finding the Ranger Headquarters. That is, he sent Mole and Mepps

wandering through the park. When they reported that the Rangers

probably lived in an invisible flying castle, the cat had leaned all

the way back in his chair and asked them how they had reached that

particular conclusion.

After the meaning of the word "conclusion" had been explained to

them, the pair described their reasoning thusly: the Ranger HQ must be

highly defended. What better than the castle on park grounds,

Belvedere Castle? Careful examination of the small keep had revealed

no Rescue Rangers, however, so Mepps and Mole had decided the Rangers

must live in a different one. Since they hadn't managed to find any

other castles on the park grounds, they reasoned it must be a flying

castle, floating up over the park. And since they couldn't see any

flying castle, it had to be an INVISIBLE flying castle.

Fat Cat had hunted many mice before he came up in the world, and

he assumed from his experiences that Ranger Headquarters was a burrow

or hole of some sort. He spent an entire summer afternoon ranging

through the park, hunting for it. When he was unable to find anything

fitting the description, Fat Cat concluded that the Rangers were

homeless vermin, living out of their bizarre little flying machine.

It took Herb about ten minutes to zero in on the big oak tree in

the center of the park.

* * *

"Hey, Zipper."

The small fly yawned and stretched. It was just beginning to get

light--probably only about six in the morning. "Hi," Zipper replied.

"What's up?"

"I have some interesting news, and I'm going to need your help.

That call I got last night was from Sewer Al." Chip was speaking

softly, hunched forward. His head was only a few millimeters from

Zipper's. "It was a warning."

"What?!" Even Zipper had heard of Sewer Al. The reptilian

oracle provided information only after a substantial payment, never for

free. "How...?"

"I don't know how he knew I was in the restaurant. I don't

really think I want to know. But Sewer Al told me that a dangerous foe

would be coming to help us. I'm not sure what that means, but it

doesn't sound good. Frankly, Sewer Al was..." Chip trailed off and

shook his head.

Zipper nodded. "Why tell you?"

"I don't know that either. We just need to be alert and ready

for anything. I can't tell any of the others. Monty and Dale could

never play cool, and Gadget, angel that she is, doesn't have a

suspicious bone in her body. I just want you to be on your guard,

especially around anyone who's excessively helpful."

"Right, Chip." Zipper had known Chip for a long time now, and he

knew well how capable he was of overreacting. Not telling Dale and

Monty seemed a bit much. And it didn't seem likely that a "foe" would

try to help them. Still, Sewer Al... The fly saluted his leader, then

yawned a second time. "Back to bed?"

"Yeah, sure. I just wanted to tell you." Chip shrugged. "It

might be nothing, after all." He rose, and left the cramped quarters

of Zipper's bedroom, a knight errant questing for breakfast.

* * *

Chip was enjoying his second thimble of coffee when Gadget came

into the kitchen. Chip took a deep breath, held it, released. "Good

morning," he said with a quick smile. The first time he saw her, every

day, he had to remind himself that he could not leap out his chair,

pick her up, and generally manhandle her.

"Morning, Chip." The gadgeteer gulped down a cup of coffee, then

sat down next him. "Chip, I've been wanting to ask you something."

Something was bothering her, Chip could tell, and not in a good

way. He braced himself for the worst.

Gadget took an extended dramatic pause before asking her

question, but when she finally began, it was at a high speed. "When I

tried to explain to you that going down into the pipes was really

dangerous and you didn't understand me and did it anyway and you almost

drowned although I knew that you wouldn't I knew you would be fine why

do you think that is Chip that's beside the point I mean are you mad at

me for not being more clear on the whole pipe danger thing because now

that I've thought about it I remember this time about a year ago when

we were at ground zero of a potato-based reactor that was entering the

first stage of meltdown and that was about as dangerous a situation as

we were ever in although now that I think about it, no one was really

hurt which is incredibly lucky if you think about it but maybe on the

other hand that just demonstrates the safety of potato-reactor

technology say now that I think about it I bet I could build a potato-

reactor in our basement that way we wouldn't have to leach city power

although we would need a source of potatoes anyway I'm way off my

original subject now which was --"

"Gadget!" A lifetime of arguing at high speeds had taught Chip

how to understand speeches delivered without pauses, but Gadget was

almost blue in the face. "Take a breath!"

Gadget gasped, then continued at a slower rate. "Anyway, Chip, I

wanted to know what you thought."

Chip sipped his coffee. This was nothing compared to 'I've

noticed you're in love with me, Chip. Kindly knock it off,' which was

what he had been afraid of. "Oh, Gadget," he began, his relief

showing, "I understood you perfectly. I just didn't want to worry

Dale. The pigeon was getting away. I couldn't let that happen. I did

let it happen, of course, but I had to try."

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

slightly. "Well."

"Later today," Chip continued, "we can go out and look for our

friend Lenny. I'm guessing he's run inland. We can take the Wing out

and start asking around."

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

"No, Gadget."

"I mean, I could get started on one this afternoon, and it would

be finished by --"

"No, Gadget."

"I guess you're right. It would have been nifty, though." A

familiar and unsettling dreamy look crossed Gadget's features.

"Mmm."

"Chip..." Gadget rose from her chair. "Has the possibility that

he drowned crossed your mind?"

"Uh... no." Chip looked surprised. "I've just assumed that he

survived the flooding."

"Me too. But do we have any real reason to think so?" She

crossed to the counter and poured herself another cup of coffee.

Chip considered. "No."

"But, golly, we're sure he's all right, aren't we?" Gadget

continued as she returned to her seat.

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

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

"Yeah. That is odd."

When Monty came into the kitchen, he found them sitting there,

with empty thimbles of coffee, staring thoughtfully into space.

* * *

When Herb reached the exterior of what he mentally labeled the

Ranger Tree, he shook his head in wonder. One branch had been planed

flat, creating a small landing strip. A door and windows were cut into

the trunk, and most ridiculously obvious of all, an awning had the

distinctive Rescue Rangers logo embroidered into it. If he had any

doubt Fat Cat's cronies deserved to be run down the primrose path he

planned on preparing, it was gone.

"No time like the present," Herb muttered. He strolled up to

the door and knocked. This was going to be a cake walk. When no

one answered he knocked again. Herb figured he could break the door

open, but he'd need to fetch a prybar of some kind.

The door was (eventually) opened by a tired-looking chipmunk in a

Hawaiian shirt. "They're in the kitchen," he said without preamble.

"Come on, I'll show you in."

This was not quite what Herb had expected. "You are the Rescue

Rangers, right? It's really kind of urgent..." He trailed off,

adjusted his sunglasses.

"Oh, sure. It's just we haven't had breakfast yet. 'Rescue

Rangers, away!' and all that. I'm Dale." The chipmunk pulled him into

the interior of the tree, shaking his hand. "We are a small but

efficient battalion of do-gooders dedicated to the... to the... shoot.

Can't remember any more. But it's only what, eight?" Dale opened a

door (Herb was amazed at how much had been hollowed out of the oak

without killing it) and led his guest into what was unmistakably a

kitchen. Herb had to stoop; the door was designed for mice, not large

rats.

"Guys, this is... um," Dale trailed off as Herb scanned the

room. There were supposed to be five of them, he knew. The fly must

be either out or still asleep. Two chipmunks, yes, that was right.

The one in the bomber jacket wasn't wearing his fedora for some reason.

Polite to that one, Herb recalled, don't want to make him angry unless

you're ready for him. Herb had heard about the Ratisson. Two mice,

too, that was also correct. The big one, only a bit less massive than

Herb although not nearly as tall, he might be trouble. Herb rarely had

to fight anyone near his size. The smaller one, Gadget, the clever

female who had built the tank that had nearly killed him...

Chip didn't like the way the tall rat in sunglasses was looking

at Gadget. "Your name," he repeated. "What is your name?"

The rat snapped out of it. "Herbie," he said. "My name is

Herbie. I'm sorry, miss, you... you look just like someone I used to

know." He smiled disarmingly. "Where are my manners? You're just

sitting down to breakfast."

"Nonsense, Herbie." Chip was all business. "If you have a Case

for us, breakfast is a small sacrifice to make. But please, join us,

and tell us the problem."

Herbie sat down at the table, as did Dale. "I'm from down near

the docks. A few weeks ago, as you know, a community of mice hired a

contracting firm to dig a set of warrens under --"

"Yes, yes." Chip interrupted him. "We know all about this.

What's the Case?"

Herbie scowled momentarily. "You were asked by these mice,

friends of mine, to round up the con men and return their funds. You

messed up; one of them got away."

Monterey shrugged. "Situation like that, it's hard enough break

up the group. The money the crooks got will be returned in a couple

days. What's the problem?"

Herbie smiled as Chip, sensing information was forthcoming,

pulled out a pencil stub and paper. "Dale, get Zipper in here, would

you? He won't want to miss this." Chip turned to his guest and smiled

as Dale ducked out of the room. "Zipper is the fifth member of the

team. He's a fly."

"A fly?" Herbie seemed nominally surprised and interested.

"Unusual that he spends so much time among mammals, isn't it?"

"Zipper and me go back a long way," Monty began, a defensive edge

creeping into his voice. "He saved me life a while back, didn't ask

for nothing in return. We've watched out for one another for years

now."

"Saved your life?" The guest was clearly interested now. "How on

earth did that happen?"

Monty coughed, slightly embarrassed. "I was in N'Orleans,

waiting for a tramp steamer from Trinidad to come in, when I got a

whiff of cheddar. Eight days later, I woke up in a garbage can,

wearing nothing but me Mack and a bonnet, lying face-down in a pile of

me own American cheese wrappers." He shuddered at the memory.

American cheese still made him queasy. "There's nothing more dangerous

than a mouse on a cheese binge. If Zipper hadn't found me, nursed me

back to health, and made me swear off cheese for life, I don't think I

could have made it out of that rubbish bin."

"Swear off cheese?" Gadget had heard most of the story before,

but not this part. "You swore off cheese?"

"Yep. Made it nearly three days, and let me tell you, those were

the second to the worst three days in me life. The worst, of course,

was back in '82, when I was hung from me ankles by a tribe of

degenerate South American tree frogs. There I was, miles from anything

remotely resembling a dairy outlet..."

"Yes, well, as I was saying," Herbie interrupted as Dale and

Zipper came into the room, "The reason I've come here is simple. I've

discovered where the last of the gang is hiding."

"You've 'discovered' this?" Warning bells went off in Chip's

head. "How, exactly?"

Herbie looked uncomfortable for a split second, which both

Zipper and Chip picked up on, but they didn't say anything. "It's an

unlikely story, I know. I own a small hotel near the docks, I guess

you'd call it a flop house. Yesterday afternoon a pigeon came in. He

got a room, paid cash, and he's been in there ever since. Late last

night, I was visiting Lola, one of the Redapple mice, and she told me

about the con artists and how one bird escaped. I put two and two

together when she described him to me, figured Lenny the Squib was my

newest tenant, and came here to let you know, fearless leader."

"Golly! That's incredible! And here we were going to spend all

day searching for him!" Gadget beamed at the guest. "How can we repay

you?"

"Well..." Herbie appeared to think it over. "He is, of course,

racking up a bill while's he's staying at my place. And my time is

certainly worth something. On the other hand, I'd be helping out

Lola... say, fifty?" Herbie had turned, was addressing Gadget.

While Gadget and Herbie discussed Herbie's finder's fee, Chip

and Zipper exchanged meaningful glances. "Suspicious?" the fly

whispered to his leader, the sibilance rendering the word almost

incomprehensible.

"A bit," Chip whispered back. "Why don't you duck out and make

sure this Lola corroborates his story. Can't hurt anything. You

remember the address?"

"Right, Chip." Zipper was occasionally irritated by the way he

so often was pushed out of the spotlight. Every time Gadget's sister,

for example, was in town, Zipper found himself alone as the rest of the

team went on wild and exciting adventures of some kind or another.

Today, however, that worked to his distinct advantage. No one noticed

as Zipper flew quietly out of the kitchen.

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

"Gotcha, mate." Monty handed Dale a small heap of cheese toast

on a plate. "Better eat it fast. We'll probably be going in a

minute."

"Tell me, Monty," Dale said as he wolfed down his meal. "Why

aren't we ever the ones to get exciting cases and interrupt other

people's breakfast plans?"

"We're too polite, mate." Monty helped himself to a third

helping of cheese toast. "Not the dramatic and neurotic players, us

fellas. More the rock-steady and underestimated support group."

"Rock-steady?" Dale looked doubtful. He didn't feel especially

rock-steady, particularly with Foxglove away. "I don't know..."

Herbie smiled, his overlong jaws and bared teeth giving him a

moderately sinister appearance. "So we're settled, then. I'll take

you back to my hotel, and you can fall upon our friend like an arrow

loosed from the string. You pay me the sixty-five, and we're done."

Gadget nodded, her face bright with a professional smile. "No

problem. Let's go, guys! Rescue Rangers, away!"

"Rescue Rangers, away," Chip agreed. "Time to get going, before

Lenny reconsiders his hideout. Monty, Dale, let's go."

"Here, Dale me pal, let's take some of this with us." Monty

scooped up some cheese toast, grabbed Dale, and followed Chip, Gadget,

and Herbie out of the kitchen.

* * *

Two miles away, Lenny the Squib paced back and forth in the dark.

His wings hurt. He had memorized the contents of his "hotel room," a

shoebox-sized chamber in a heavily modified refrigerator crate hidden

in the back of a disused warehouse. His wings hurt. After Fat Cat had

recovered from his obligatory tirade, his boss had sent him to this

flop house to lie low.

When Lenny had told the iguana at the front desk who had sent

him, she had simply nodded and said "No charge." His wings hurt. The

place was a dive, though: no lighting in the rooms, and a few Christmas

bulbs in the hallway. He wondered if the boss owned the place, or if

he had just paid the lizard off. His wings hurt. Lenny doubted he

would be here long; Fat Cat had told him the heat would be on for only

a couple of days.

* * *

As the Rangers piled into the hangar, Dale frowned. The Wing sat

only four, and Herbie was a very large rat regardless. There wasn't

going to be enough room for all of them. "Hey, guys," he said,

scratching his chin. "There isn't going to be enough room for all of

us in the Ranger Wing."

"Then we'll have to crowd." Chip seemed to be in a hurry.

"Can't break up the team when we're on a Case!"

"What, do you want Gadget to sit in your lap?" Dale hissed at

him. "What's gotten into you? Do we really all have to go just to

ambush one lonely pigeon?"

"Trust me, Dale. We all need to stick together on a day like

this." Chip and Dale stood shoulder to shoulder, eye to eye.

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

"I really think that the current situation--"

"That'salieandyouknowit!"

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

"Hey! Hey! Hey hey hey hey hey!" Monterey stepped between the

two chipmunks, his girth forcing them apart. "Calm down, pallies! Me

and Dale can follow Gadget, Chip, and Herbie in the Ranger Plane. Fair

enough?"

As bruised egos were smoothed over and Chip surreptitiously

bonked Dale, Gadget noticed their guest had an odd smile on his face.

"Something funny?" she asked politely.

"Oh, I was just thinking that this job is going to be even easier

than I expected." Herbie quickly regained his composure, coughed

slightly.

"You mean capturing the Squib?" Gadget's ever-present Smile for

Needy Guests brightened slightly. It was gratifying to know the

Rangers' core of competency was so self-evident.

"Yes. Of course."

* * *

As hundreds of thousands of men and women groped for coffee and

listened to "Morning Edition" on NPR, the Ranger Wing sped over the

rooftops of the city, the Ranger Plane close behind. From his position

in the passenger seat of the Plane, Dale could see Herbie in the back

of the Wing, but not Chip or Gadget; the big rat blocked the view.

"How much further do you think it'll be?" Dale asked Monty.

"We're almost to the edge of the city."

The Australian mouse was steering the Wing with one hand and

finishing off the last of his stack of cheese toast with the right.

"Can't say for sure, mate, but it shouldn't be too much longer. We're

just coming up on the warehouse district now. See?"

Dale leaned over the side of the Plane, he saw several blocks of

large, low buildings slide beneath him. "Yeah."

Suddenly the Ranger Wing dove between two buildings and fell into

VTOL. Monty circled once, then landed the Plane with a thump on the

cement of the alley a few feet from the Wing. Around them the

warehouses towered like concrete mountains. The Rangers and their new

associate quickly huddled together along one exterior wall, their

innate fear of aerial attack temporarily resurfacing.

"All right," Herbie began. "The hotel is just inside. It's

next to the tailor's and the delicatessen. Xia, the desk clerk, will

show us to his room. Any questions?"

"A tailor's and a deli? We should get out here more often."

Gadget was impressed. "I mean, we don't usually get out this far; the

case we're just now wrapping up is kind of unusual for us. I had no

idea there was a tailor's out here! I wonder if I can order some new

jumpsuits..."

"I suppose we'll have the time afterwards. I'm surprised I

didn't know about this. Do you own all three establishments?" Chip

cocked his head toward Herbie. A wealthy rat was a powerful rat, and a

powerful rat could be a "dangerous foe..."

"Sadly, no. The sandwich-maker and the tailor are self-employed.

I opened the hotel just a few months ago. Won some money in a poker

game, made it into some more money... you know how it goes, fearless

leader." Herbie stroked his overlong snout. "There's a nice little

community growing up in that abandoned warehouse. I'm glad to be a

part of it."

Gadget was charmed. It was so rare, so sadly rare, to see such a

sense of community and societal responsibility! He reminded her of

Chip, except Chip didn't smile nearly as often. All in all, Herbie

seemed like a very nice young rat. A little overly-concerned with

money, maybe, but he was a businessman. "That sounds lovely. It makes

me wish we weren't here to arrest a fugitive from justice. Now, how do

we get in?"

Herbie led the Rangers along the wall, behind a dumpster, to

where someone had widened a crack in the concrete. A small sign hand-

painted next to the entry welcomed guests to "Lake Haha," and invited

them to visit the "Reason Delicatessen," "Edward Hannover, Tailor," and

"Dock Inn."

"Lake Haha? What's that?" Dale asked Herbie.

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

replied.

"'Dock Inn'?" Monty gave Herbie a skeptical look. "I could come

up with a better name for a hotel after three days on a cheese binge

without sleep! In fact, I did, back in '77..." Monty considered

lapsing into reminiscence, but decided it wasn't really appropriate.

Not a particularly interesting story, either.

"Hey, it's not that bad a name. Could be worse." Herbie

shrugged, only a little defensive, as he and the Rangers headed into

the musty warehouse.

Inside the building Dale could see the dramatic difference

between the area immediately around the row of refrigerator crates

along the back wall and the rest of the cavernous space. Dusty and

ill-kept, the warehouse was showing signs of neglect. A large puddle

had formed in the center of the area, a mouse-sized pond. Dimly, he

could make out some toy boats moored on a dock built from popsicle

sticks.

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

"Yeah," Herbie replied. "They plugged up the storm drain and

brought in a hose to fill up the depression. Took a little work to get

it deep, though. They call it Lake Ha-Ha-No-One-Is-Using-This-Space-

So-We'll-Make-It-A-Lake. Lake Haha for short. It's also the name of

the town."

"You're kidding."

"No," Herbie said simply.

He led them to the second refrigerator crate, the one labeled

"Dock Inn" in phosphorescent paint. "This is the place,"

Herbie said. "Should I go in with you, or wait out here?"

"Wait here," Gadget told him. "This is a job for professionals,

like us." She turned to Chip. "Whose turn is it, Chip?"

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

"Yes! This is going to be great!" Dale was griing from ear to

ear. "Everybody remembers how it works, right?"

"All right. The desk clerk is expecting you, so she'll send you

right up." Herb leaned up against the crate, adjusted his sunglasses,

and watched as the Rangers marched into the Dock Inn. Hook, line, and

sinker. Only a matter of time, now. Ten minutes of research, a soft

patter, and a flophouse was all it took.

* * *

It took Zipper about a hour to find Lola. He knew where the mice

who had been duped by Lenny and the rest of the con men were staying,

so that was no problem. Just outside the city's industrial park a

small biotechnology laboratory sat surrounded by parking lot and

storage sheds. It was in one of these sheds that the large Redapple

clan of mice made its home. Their burrow wasn't especially big, but it

was convoluted, built as it was out of a heavily-modified gas

chromatograph casing. The boxlike exterior belied the mazelike

interior; the many compartments which had once contained technical

instrument components were now filled with bedding and food storage.

It was to be hoped that the lab managers never decided to take this

particular GC out of storage. The mice had knocked down a few interior

walls, but Zipper could see why they had been so eager to move.

"Lola?" As he made his way through the nest, he stopped mice and

asked them for directions. Sometimes he passed the same mouse more

than once, getting lost and moving in circles. Eventually he found

her, in a room which had once housed a control computer. Lola turned

out to be a graying, elderly fieldmouse, brown-and-gray with white-and-

whiter spots, wearing a jersey of some kind.

"Hello, Mister Zipper," she said after he introduced himself.

"How can I help you? The whole nest is grateful for your team's

assistance." Behind the plastic smile on her face, Zipper could see

the unspoken thought 'And we'll be even more grateful once we have our

money back.' It was always the same with chordates.

"Pencil?" Zipper could write better than he could speak, at

least regarding words which weren't mostly z's and vowels.

"Oh, of course. Just a second." The mouse rummaged through her

things, then produced a pencil and paper, which Zipper eagerly

accepted.

'Thank you,' he wrote carefully. 'I need to know what you know

about a rat named Herbie.'

"Herbie?" Lola scratched her chin, considered. "I don't think I

know a Herbie. I don't know any rats, irregardless."

Irregardless isn't a word, Zipper thought to himself. While he

could not express himself verbally very easily, the fly took an

interest in language (it's important to have hobbies) and it irritated

him whenever a gauche error was made. 'Are you sure?' he continued his

writing. 'Tall, dark glasses, affable?' He sketched a rough cartoon

of the large, smiling rat.

"Doesn't ring a bell, I'm afraid." The insincere smile on her

face now seemed patronizing. Vertebrates were all alike. Unless you

personally save their lives they think of you as a semintelligent

object. Little wonder the expressions "crushed like a mouse" and "as

insignificant as a chipmunk" never entered the language. This was

entirely beside the point, however.

Zipper was worried. 'That's all I need to know. Thank you.'

The few vertebrates whose trust he had finally gained seemed to be in

some kind of danger. With great haste he fled the room, returning only

to ask directions on how to get out of the boxy casing.

* * *

Lenny's wings hurt. He was starting to get worried about them;

they'd never hurt this bad before in his life. He was just considering

risking going to a doctor when a knock on the door roused him. "Just a

minute," he said, hopping to the door. As he opened it, he wondered if

Fat Cat had finally sent someone to help him out.

"Good day, sir!" Four figures rushed into the room. "As duly

self-appointed arbiters of justice..." In the semidarkness Lenny could

see them running around him in a little circle.

"...and self-declared guardians of all that is good and decent in

this world..." It was hard to tell which one was talking. A female

voice, he thought. One of the figures was bigger than the other

ones...

"...it is our duty, our sacred quest..." An English accent? Or

was it, what's the word, Australian?

"Heck, it's our pleasure to cart you back to where you belong!

But that's not all! Monterey, crack your knuckles threateningly and

tell him what he's won and what his options are!"

The big one detached from the circle. Lenny focused his vision,

saw it was a mouse in a trench coat. A very big mouse. He cracked his

knuckles in a threatening manner. "Well, mate, this is your lucky day!

You've already won an all-expense paid vacation of as many years as the

judge sees fit to grant you!"

"Now, that's free room AND board, isn't it, Monty?" One of the

smaller ones -- a chipmunk? -- interrupted him.

"Too right, Dale me lad. But that's not all! You've also won at

no additional expense the opportunity for a severe beating at the hands

of the Rescue Rangers!"

"At no cost to yourself -- let me stress that, at no cost to

yourself, that means we're footing the bill here, folks -- at no cost

to yourself you've been hunted down and surrounded! Even now, as you

can see, highly trained operatives --" Lenny spun around in place,

trying to identify the source of the brisk, enthusiastic patter.

"Oh, I don't know about highly trained, Chip. I mean, fair is

fair, and he does deserve to know that we haven't really been

practicing our nonlethal pacification techniques the way we should --"

The female again. What was happening?

"Fair enough. So I'll put it to you simple and plain, plain and

simple. See, this is all our little joke." Suddenly the figures

stopped their mad dance. The fog lifted from Lenny's mind, and he

swallowed, quite forgetting the pain in his wings. With a sobering

abruptness, he realized that he was surrounded by the Rescue Rangers,

with the biggest, Monterey Jack, directly between him and the door. A

wicked smile on his face, Chip continued his explanation. "You can

either allow yourself to be tied up and come with us to the Staten City

police, or you can get beaten into submission, tied up against your by-

then-ineffective will, and come with us to the Staten City police.

It's your call."

"All right." Lenny sank to his knees. "I know when I'm beat.

I'll go quietly." So close...

While Monty and Chip carefully tied Lenny wing-and-foot, Gadget

and Dale sat down. Dale's method wasn't as exhausting as Zipper's, but

it wasn't as simple as Monty's. "You know Dale," Gadget told him, "I

can't deny that your way gets results as much as any other, but... I

feel so silly."

"It works, Gadget. Don't knock it if it works. That's, what, a

basic engineering principle, right?" Dale always felt a little smug

after the team used his method. Zipper hadn't been there to provide

the eerie carnival/gameshow background music, he suddenly realized.

"Actually, Dale," Gadget said, warming to the topic,

"engineering principles would suggest always using Monty's method.

Hardly any risk at all, that way. And it's simple. 'Keep it

simple.'" She didn't mention the last word in the expression for fear

Dale would take offense. "See, the idea is..." She trailed off,

realizing Dale had been distracted by a shiny object on the ground.

"Never mind."

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

"Let's go."

* * *

Downstairs Herbie and the desk clerk, Xia, were engaged in

conversation when the Rangers arrived, the Squib in tow. He looked up

expectantly when they arrived.

"Well, we got him, mate, no problem," Monty said. "So we'll be

paying you that finder's fee and..."

"You!" Lenny recognized Fat Cat's door guard. "You sold me out!

When Fat Cat gets his claws on you he'll--"

"Fat Cat? What's this about Fat Cat?" Chip was interested. The

other three con artists hadn't mentioned him.

"Yeah, I've been working for Fat Cat this whole time. All of us.

He sent me out here, and when he finds out you--" Lenny was

interrupted by a fast uppercut. His head jerked back and he slumped

down, unconscious.

"Hmm. He'll be out for a couple of hours." Gadget looked at

Herbie, a very quizzical expression on her face.

"I'm sorry," he began. "I didn't mean to do that. I lost my

temper for a second. It just makes me angry that the general

estimation of my hotel is so low that Fat Cat himself assumed no one

would look for a crook like Lenny here."

"I think you have bigger worries than the reputation of the Dock

Inn," Chip told him seriously. "If Lenny here has been working for

Fat Cat, he'll come gunning for you pretty quick, just for helping us

out."

"Do you think he might attack Lake Haha?" Herbie seemed worried.

"I can take care of myself, but... maybe I had better get out of town

for a while."

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

"He can stay with us!" Gadget interjected. "I mean, Herbie here

is a nice guy and he can sleep on the couch and we won't charge you

rent or anything because you'll be our guest! Isn't that a good idea?"

Privately, Chip had reservations. For more than one reason,

really. "Eh... I guess. What do you say?"

Herb couldn't resist a moderate Sinister Chuckle. "That sounds

like a great idea, guys. There's really no one outside Lake Haha with

whom I'd rather stay. Thank you."

"Well, then, let's go!" Dale said impatiently. "It'll be

after lunchtime before we get back!"

Xia waved good-bye as Chip, Dale, Monty, Gadget, Herbie, and the

unconscious form of Lenny the Squib left the Dock Inn. Fifty bucks

from Fat Cat and another twenty from Herbie had more than bought her

cooperation.

* * *

Zipper was back at the Ranger Tree, waiting for them. He'd have

followed them to Lake Haha, except he didn't know they were going to

Lake Haha, or where Lake Haha was. where it was. The vertebrate,

Herbie, had lied to them. He paced back and forth, worrying. Since he

had lied about one thing, who knew how much of the rest of his story

could be believed? If any. He had broken out his pen and paper, using

it to write a synopsis of his encounter with Lola Redapple.

It bothered him that they hadn't come back yet -- it was almost

four in the afternoon, and Zipper had assumed that they would be back

before lunch. He paced back and forth, waiting.

It was with considerable relief that the insect witnessed the

Ranger Wing fly through the leaves, landing outside headquarters. For

a few minutes, he had been afraid his worst suspicions had been

justified, and Herbie had attacked and beaten his friends.

While Herbie and the rest of the Rangers went into the kitchen

for a late lunch, congratulating one another on a job well done, Zipper

took Chip aside and showed him his notes.

"This is disturbing, Zipper," Chip said a few minutes later. "I

guess the thing to do is confront him, tell him his story doesn't add

up. Let's go to it." He flipped through the stack of papers, then

marched into the kitchen, Zipper close behind.

* * *

"...and that was how I ended up with title to the Dock Inn," Herb

explained. They were eating it up. The creepy female was staring at

him, wide-eyed, while the stupid one and the fat one rummaged around

making sandwiches.

"Golly, Herbie," the creepy female said, "That's an amazing

story! I had no idea people bet businesses in poker games!"

"Oh, sure," Herb assured her. "I've played a great deal of poker

in the past few years. Gotten pretty good at it, too. Do you play?"

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

embarrassed.

The fat one turned to them, started chuckling. "She says it's no

fun playing cards, because once she had the odds figured she always

won."

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

that--"

"Excuse me," the psycho one said as he came into the room, the

insect close behind. "I've got a few questions for you, Herbie."

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

him.

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

little undersized ground squirrel.

"Zipper here went to visit the Redapple family this morning,

while we were at Lake Haha. He ended up talking with Lola Redapple,

and it really shocked him to learn that she'd never heard of you,

Herbie." The psycho one looked oddly smug.

"I can't imagine why it would surprise him, fearless leader,"

Herb said with a toothy smile. "I've never met Lola Redapple."

"But you said --"

"No, no, no. I know Beatrice Redapple. She'd be Lola's... oh,

brother's daughter's husband's sister. I'm afraid Zipper was talking

to the wrong mouse." Herb affected a helpless, even sympathetic,

shrug.

Psycho and Insect exchanged glances. Neither of them had total

recall, after all. They couldn't prove anything.

"If you're really interested, we can go out there and..." A

gamble, but Herb was fairly confident he had Creepy sized up.

"Nonsense!" Creepy interrupted him, just as he expected. "Chip,

Zipper, I'm surprised at you both!"

"Well, Gadget, I..." Herb stroked his chin as Psycho tried to

defend himself to Creepy. He was more or less in love with her, Herb

suddenly realized. No wonder he was crazy.

Stupid gave him one of Fat's sandwiches, which he gratefully

accepted. "Thank you, Dale, Monterey. Frankly, I'm starving."

* * *

It was about two when there was another knock at the door.

Herbie was lounging with Dale on the sofa, taking up most of it. They

were engrossed in the Afternoon Movie, "Marathon Man." Monty was out

with Zipper, taking one of their long, cheese-related walks.

Gadget and Chip were continuing their Monopoly game. Chip got

her to play for an hour or so at a time three or four times a month.

Though they both knew Gadget would eventually crush him in a veritable

vise, Chip insisted on playing the six-month-old game out.

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

The source of the knock turned out to be a small mouse, a young

male in a T-shirt and sandals. "Excuse me, sir," the mouse began, "is

this the Rescue Rangers?" Seeing Chip nod, he continued. "Thank God.

My name is Warren. I'm from the far side of the park, and I've, um,

lost my little sister."

Chip looked thoughtfully at the boy, then turned his head.

"Gadget!" he called over his shoulder. "Dale! We've got some work to

do!"

* * *

"She can't have gone far," Warren said as he led Chip, Gadget,

Dale, and a bored Herbie across the park. "I just turned around and

she was gone. My mother said to come to you if something happened

while she was gone..."

"Don't worry, Warren," Gadget said for the fourth time. "I'm

sure she's right around here. We're professionals; this is what we

do." She looked around. "Now, where do you live?"

Warren pointed to one of the maple trees. "Up there. But she's

not up there. I checked."

Chip considered. "Dale, run up there and give the place a good

once-over. Check out the rest of the tree, too. Gadget, let's start

checking these trees around the maple."

Dale sighed. He often wondered whether Chip deliberately

manipulated situations to be with Gadget. He'd given up on her not

long after he'd met Foxglove (still in Texas for another twelve days,

six hours, and thirty-seven minutes!) but still Chip's behavior

irritated him. He was always doing these little things to be with her;

nothing that couldn't be chalked up to coincidence or unconscious

behavior, but still... Dale wished Chip would come out and say

something to her, rather than sublimate his frustration. It was

tiresome.

He had just started over to the tree when Herbie tapped him on

the shoulder. "Mind if I trail along?" he asked Dale. "It's

awfully quiet down here."

"Oh, uh..." Dale looked over, saw that Chip and Gadget had

already led Warren up a tree. "Sure. Sure, Herbie. I'll show you how

a Rescue Ranger does things!"

The two of them scampered up the tree like forest animals (or at

least like one forest animal and one urban but versatile animal). Dale

quickly spotted the nest and climbed in, Herbie following. Inside were

two rooms, one a sitting area and the other a bedchamber. They were

sparsely decorated and not very big; Warren's family wasn't wealthy.

He'd be sure to mention that to Chip, in case he hadn't realized it.

This would be pro bono work.

"Hey, check this out." Herbie, who had barely fit in through the

doorway, was bending over a small stack of books. "You don't see this

every day. Must be where all their money goes." There were only a few

very small press companies in Staten City, which had a sizable

percentage of the world's. Rodent-sized books were a luxury item; most

small animals with an interest snuck into human libraries at night.

"Yeah, well. No little girl squirrel here. Let's check out the

rest of the tree and report back." Dale was halfway out the small

doorway before he realized Herbie wasn't behind him. He turned to see

the big rat leafing through a rodent-sized copy of "Three Men in a

Boat," by Jerome K. Jerome, and sniggering. "Herbie!"

"Yes. Coming. 'And then it was George's turn, and he trod on

the butter.'" Dale shook his head in wonder (didn't he realize this

was a crisis situation? Here he was, fooling around...) then left the

nest too quickly to see Herbie stuff the book under his sweater.

"Right behind you, Dale."

* * *

"How old is your sister, exactly?" Chip surveyed one of the

maple trees. Really, he should have handed the kid over to Gadget, who

was now up a pine.

"Bridget's three, sir." Warren was polite, at least. "Just

gotten the hang of climbing."

"Have any particular interests? Maybe there's somewhere she

would have gone?" Chip didn't hold out much hope of getting anything

useful from Warren. If little Bridget was especially fond of, say, the

big fountain, Warren would have checked there already.

"No, sir. She just likes climbing." Warren followed him as he

leaped from a high branch of one maple to a slightly lower branch on

another. "I really don't know where she is."

"Well, you just stay calm, Warren. We'll..." Chip trailed off.

He could see Dale from here, moving along a thin branch of the big

maple toward a small and frightened-looking little girl. "Stay here,

Warren. I see her." Chip dropped to all fours and scurried across the

tree, hoping he got there before the branch snapped under Dale's

weight. It wasn't going to hold, he was sure of that; from his

angle he could, unlike Dale, see the thinness.

* * *

"Hey... there... little... girl..." Carefully, carefully, Dale

moved out along the branch towards the terrified child. Herbie was

somewhere behind him, understandably willing to leave this particular

job to the professional. Dale reasoned that if the branch could

support a three-year-old squirrel, it could surely hold a full-grown

and slightly overweight chipmunk. He was just beginning to suspect

there was a hole in his logic when the branch cracked under him,

shaking it violently.

It was hard enough hanging on, Dale thought as the tree branch

shuddered beneath him. At its end he could see the little girl

clinging on for dear life.

Staying put for the time being, Dale wondered if he could talk

the girl in. "What's your name?" he called out. "Little girl, what's

your name?"

No response. That wasn't going to work, then. He could see her

eyes, big as nickels -- no, quarters -- even from this distance.

"Okay, then," he shouted. "You just stay there."

As he started to back off the thin bough, Dale heard it crack

again. He froze as the reedlike living dowel shook a second time,

longer and harder. He wasn't going anywhere, either. "Just a minute,

now, girl," he called out. Don't panic. Don't let go. Don't look

down. Dale wasn't sure whether his mental instructions were for the

girl, or himself.

* * *

Herb was on a lower limb by this point, where they were thicker

and sturdier. He went over his options in his head. He could break

the branch the rest of the way along the crooked fault which had

developed, letting Stupid fall. This would eliminate him as a threat

and save the bother of taking him down later. At the same time,

though, it wasn't quite what the boss wanted: the Rangers, alive,

delivered to him. And Psycho seemed suspicious of him. Wouldn't do to

encourage that. He could do nothing, which was his current choice of

action. Or...

He could save them both. This would cement some trust between

him and Stupid, and probably Creepy too, empathetic as she was. On the

other hand, it would be a bit of work. He'd need to hurry, too -- he

could see Psycho approaching.

Herb smiled as a plan snapped into focus. The best part about it

was the knowledge that Stupid would be first scared out of his wits,

then kicking himself for not having thought of it first. Herb began

climbing to the base of the bough on which Stupid and the kid were

stuck.

* * *

Chip had just gotten into shouting range when his heart sank. He

watched in horror as the limb shook violently and began to fall.

"DALE!" He could see his oldest friend hanging on for dear life as the

bough broke completely, falling...

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

tree tightening.

The bough fell... almost a foot. The thick canopy under the

branch caught the large limb before it had fallen more than a half-

second. Bridget, not understanding the situation, squealed in delight

as a woozy-looking Dale picked her up and carried her along a primary

limb, back to her nest.

Up where the branch had broken, Chip saw Herbie smile. He had

broken the branch, cutting it evenly so that it fell horizontally.

Herbie had good reason to be pleased with himself: if not for his quick

thinking little Bridget might have panicked and let go, falling

straight past the branches which had caught her, twenty-five feet to

the ground. He shuddered at the thought. Something deep within him

found the image preternaturally repellent.

Chip sighed, wiped his brow, and went to congratulate the hero of

the hour. Probably ought to buy him dinner while he's here, he thought

to himself.

FOUR [Blood Pudding]

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

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

well?"

Herbie didn't look like he had been sleeping well. The big rat

was sitting, hunched, at the kitchen table. He had taken his

sunglasses off and was rubbing his eyes, gently. "Good morning,

fearless leader. Got a second?"

Chip looked Herbie over as he poured himself a thimble of coffee.

He didn't really trust Herbie; there were too many holes in his story.

But he couldn't prove anything, and, truth be told, Chip was starting

to wonder if Sewer Al hadn't been just trying to rattle him. Chip owed

Herbie, if nothing else, a meal. "Sure, Herbie. What can I do for

you?"

Herbie, keeping his eyes covered with his right hand, reached for

his sunglasses and put them on with his left. He straightened up,

cracked his knuckles, and rose out of his chair. "First of all,

fearless leader, my name is Herb. Pass me some coffee?"

"Sure, eh, Herb." Chip slid over his untouched coffee and poured

himself another. "What's this about?"

Wordlessly, Herb smiled as he stepped closer to Chip. Grasping

the hot thimble of freshly-poured coffee, he lifted it into the air and

splashed it straight into the chipmunk's face, simultaneously kicking

him in the stomach.

Chip went down, doubling over on the floor, gasping for breath

and grunting at the pain. The scalding-hot coffee streamed down his

face: Herb had poured the full pot of it onto him. Then he started

kicking him brutally.

It took Chip a few seconds to collect himself enough to roll away

from Herb and leap to his feet. He wasn't really hurt, not yet. He

opened his mouth to shout for help as he retreated to behind the table.

All his worst fears were confirmed. Before he could actually make any

noise, however, Herbie was on top of him, shattering the table,

slamming his fist into Chip's mouth.

"See, I work for Fat Cat," Herb hissed as he pummeled Chip

savagely. "I'm going to capture your little team, fearless leader, and

turn you over to him." That should be enough.

Chip tasted metal as his mouth filled with blood. He suspected

Herb had broken one of his teeth. He tried to fight back, but the big

rat was easily three times his size. Most irritatingly of all, his

jacket was getting damaged. Teeth grew back, after all. Not the time

to worry about that. Bigger priorities. Have to get out of the

kitchen. Have to wake the others, take the psycho rat down as a group.

Have to...

Herb looked down at the unconscious form of fearless leader.

Piece of cake. Anyone from the old firm could have taken this joker

down. He glanced about the room, surveying the damage. Spilled

coffee, broken table, some blood on the wall. He took out the twine

from where he'd secreted it on one of the kitchen chairs and started

tying fearless leader up.

"Decisions, decisions," Herb said aloud. "Leave the body here,

or move it to another room? Best to leave it here." Herb was

nominally certain Chip would be out for a considerable amount of time,

but just to give himself a good and large window he set him in one of

the chairs and tied him to it. Then he threw all the kitchen knives

out the window. Fearless leader would have to hop, in the chair, to

his girl's workshop to get at a good cutting surface. Plenty of time.

* * *

Early that morning, Herb had broken into a pharmacy and stolen

some ether. It was a simple matter to sedate Dale and Gadget without

waking them. He tied them up, gagged them, and carried them into the

main room. Monterey Jack was his last target.

Herb poured more ether into his rag. Rather than try to sneak

the bottle inside, he'd left the stuff on the landing strip outside and

made a trip each time he gassed a Ranger. Herb picked up the rag and

entered the main chamber of Ranger Headquarters.

Herbie stopped when he saw Monterey Jack standing over the inert

forms of two of his teammates. Monty stared at him, his eyes narrow.

Herb wondered if he could get the rag over Monty's head in a fight,

then decided it was too risky. He dropped the ether and launched

himself unceremoniously at Monty. The rat was bigger than his prey,

although not by as much as usual.

Monty readied himself as the traitor jumped at him, wishing only

he had his toothpick or some other weapon. As Herb came down on top of

him, Monty ducked down and forward, letting the larger rat roll over

him. He spun round as Herb leapt to his feet and threw a punch.

Monty dodged around the blow, slamming into Herb, trying to knock him

down. Herb took a step backwards but did not fall, as his massive body

was too solidly braced to knock over.

Monty punched him in the stomach, two, three, four times. Herb

doubled over, sidestepping as he did so. His glasses flew off, and in

the dimly lit room, Monty could see his eyes glowed a sick yellowish

color. Monty crossed the room, picked up a domino from near the front

door, and threw it at the traitor. Herb ducked down behind the sofa,

avoiding the projectile. When he came back up, he held Gadget in one

hand. Smiling wickedly, he threw her drugged body at Monty.

Monty ran to catch his old friend's daughter, ignoring Herb long

enough for the rat to grab the domino. Wielding it like a club, he

leapt onto the sofa, which broke under him, and advanced on the Ranger.

Monty tried again to knock Herb down, using a low football tackle. It

was a maneuver which had always worked before, but Monty usually used

it against small mice, squirrels, and the like. Herb swatted at Monty

with the domino, until Monty landed a rabbit punch square on it,

sending the domino flying out of Herb's hands. Then Monterey made the

mistake of throwing a punch wide enough for Herb to catch.

Monty had fairly large hands for a mouse, but Herb had

unnaturally large hands for a rat. He palmed Monty's fist in one hand,

stopping the punch. Herb squeezed, grinding his teeth in effort, and

flames shot up Monty's arm. Popping sounds... Monterey gasped in pain

as Herb grasped his other hand, holding him down. Dimly, he could feel

Herb kicking him as he blacked out. Neither of them had said a word.


* * *

Herb hoped Monterey Jack wasn't too badly hurt. The more he was

wounded, the less easily he could harm Fat Cat's cronies. And Chip

wasn't going to be able to take them all on by himself. Not

considering how easily Herb had beaten him down. Still... Gently, Herb

carried the three captured Rangers out of the tree trunk, and down to

the ground below. He loaded them into the Rangermobile, which he

piloted directly into a tree.

About five minutes of driving practice later, Herb had the basics

of steering the infernal device down. He kept up a constant stream of

swearing under his breath as he drove his three prisoners to the Happy

Tom cat food factory. Herb believed could have built a better

suspension than this piece of junk's, given enough time. Arthur could

probably have made something better in his sleep.

* * *

Fat Cat's casino was open almost until gloaming, Herb knew, and

the employees there weren't going to be fully awake and alert until

afternoon. Midmorning would be the best time for the operation to go

down, which was why his timetable required the three prisoners be

delivered fairly early in the morning.

Herb parked the Rangermobile behind the cat food plant and

carried the three of them up to the roof in two trips. They had

regained consciousness on the ride over, but were too securely tied up

to accomplish anything. Dale had struggled weakly when Herb carried

up, but hadn't been able to escape his bonds.

He considered just carrying the Rangers into the casino and

leaving them on the floor, but decided it would be best to wake Wart

and the others up. The boss would want them up and guarding the

prisoners, especially once Herb told him fearless leader had gotten

away. He pounded on the metal casino door, producing, he knew, an echo

within that was almost unbearable.

It was only a few moments before Mepps opened the door. "Aw,

man, Herbie," he whined. "Don't you know what time it is?"

"Oh, buck up, Mepps." Herb slipped back into "Herbie-the-

bouncer" mode. "Check out what I've got here."

Mepp's green eyes widened as he took in the sight. Fat Cat and

the boys had captured Rescue Rangers before, but never this particular

combination. Maybe this time they'd stay caught! "Should I go tell

the boss?" he asked Herbie.

"You know, I think you should," Herbie replied. "I'll wait here

in case they try to escape."

Mepps hurried into the gloomy casino, up the stairs, and

disappeared up the stairs to Fat Cat's office. Herb chuckled as he

imagined the boss's reaction to being woken up, then discovering he had

three Rescue Rangers prisoner. The sound of a slamming door echoed

through the casino, followed quickly by a baritone, incoherent rumble.

Finally Fat Cat emerged from the top of the staircase. Mepps was

nowhere to be seen.

"This had better be good, rat." Fat Cat was, Herb noted with

surprise, not wearing his usual purple jacket. Instead, the boss was

dressed in a red dressing gown not unlike Wart's. Reasonable, he

supposed, considering the time.

"Good? It's fantastic," Herb replied flatly. "Take a look."

He opened the door and pointed to the pile of bodies he had set just

outside. The change in the boss's expression was gratifying.

Fat Cat tossed back his head and cackled. "MOLE! SNOUT! Get out

here!" he shouted. The tone of his voice conveyed a strong sense of

urgency, calling up images of cats feasting on the bodies of smaller

animals. It was only a few seconds before the professional cronies

piled out of a side room.

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

"Carry these piles of dung to the back." Fat Cat suppressed his

glee at another Fiendish Plan having carried itself to a successful

conclusion, when he suddenly realized. "Rat, Herbie, you there," he

began. "Why are there only three bodies here, instead of five?"

Herb smiled apologetically as Mepps, Snout, and Mole carried

Dale, Gadget, and Monty's struggling bodies into the back. "One of

them got away -- the psychopathic one, the leader. Well, and the

insect, but it hardly counts. I'm sorry about that, but I had my hands

full with the other three at the time." He shrugged. "I suppose

you'll have to keep an eye open for a few days."

"You mean we, of course, don't you, Herbie my friend?" Fat Cat's

eyes glittered; he saw in Herbie a useful new tool, someone smarter

than dirt, perhaps even someone to replace Wart as Trusted Lieutenant.

"There's a real place for you here, my boy."

"Oh, I don't think so, boss. I need to get out of here; I'm due

to catch a plane in a couple of hours. Thanks for the offer, though."

Herb's back was to the door. He leaned against it. "There's just the

little matter of my pay. We agreed to another two hundred seventy-

five?"

Fat Cat bit his lip, narrowed his eyes. "I don't know, Herbie,"

he said airily. "It's an impressive sum; might take a while to get it

together. If you stick around a few days..."

"No." Herb wasn't about to take any guff from an overdressed

loon. "It's imperative I be in Europe this afternoon. All I want is

to collect my money and git."

"I can't change your mind, then? Nowhere to go but up..." Fat

Cat sighed, then pulled a roll of bills out of his coat. One, two, two

fifty, two seventy, two seventy-five. Enjoy the cheese shops of France

and Switzerland, rat."

"Oh, you'll see me again," Herb lied. "In just a little bit,

boss man, just a little bit." He turned and left the casino, noting

the time as he went. Plenty of time to get to the airport.

* * *

The world came back to Chip in stages. He was just starting to

settle down to a nice quiet dreamworld, where a reasonable facsimile of

Gadget was in love with him and there were no rats... It caused him no

small pain to be forced back to a world in which no one who looked like

Gadget loved him and rats were plentiful and mighty.

He'd been in a fight, and he'd lost it badly. While he was

unconscious -- how long had that been? Chip had no idea. While he was

unconscious the rat had tied him to a chair. Experimentally, Chip

flexed his muscles. He'd been tied up too tightly to wriggle out--have

to hop over to the knife drawer. Why Herbie, no, "Herb," had done what

he did Chip could only guess. Fat Cat. He'd mentioned Fat Cat. Why

was he still here in the kitchen?

Chip rocked back and forth, trying to get the chair off-balance.

It wasn't easy, but after a few tries he was able to roll himself

forward, onto his feet. This wasn't much of an improvement, as his

ankles were tied to the chair legs. However, he managed a sort of

hobble.

When the chipmunk in the coffee-stained-and-torn bomber jacket

made it to the knife drawer, he tried to open it with his teeth. It

was at this point he remembered Herb had broken them. Pain shot up

into his brain when they came into contact with the drawer's knob.

"All right," Chip said to himself. "I need to think." He was still

thinking, mainly about how angry he was, when Zipper found him.

* * *

Zipper was in his room, swathed in a rag dripping with ether.

Herb hadn't considered him a worthwhile catch: Fat Cat wouldn't care if

the fly wasn't in the group. As the ether evaporated and the breezy

Ranger Tree was filled with fresh air, Zipper regained consciousness.

He felt ill. As he staggered out of his bedroom towards the kitchen,

he smelled the ether. Not recognizing the scent, the plucky fly

wondered if Monty had been cooking up something new.

He wandered into the main chamber, still feeling kind of woozy.

He noticed the sofa was broken and one of the dominos that formed the

steps up to the landing strip had been moved. Scraps of twine were

scattered about the room. Foxglove and Dale must have been up late

last night together, Zipper thought to himself.

He moved towards the kitchen. Curiously, whatever Monty was

making smelled much less intense outside the kitchen than in the main

chamber, or his room. This entire chain of thought was pushed out of

his mind, however, when he saw the kitchen. Unless Dale and Foxy had

tried their hands at baking, something had gone horribly wrong. The

kitchen table was in shambles, and there was a puddle of coffee on the

floor. Zipper barely noticed this, however; his attention was glued on

the form of Chip, sitting tied to a kitchen chair, staring at the knife

drawer. Zipper saw that Chip's body was covered with bruises, bruises

strong enough to be seen clearly through his fur. Foxglove was in

Texas, Zipper suddenly remembered. FOXGLOVE WAS IN TEXAS!

"CHIP!" Zipper shouted. He tried to fly over to his friend, but

lost his balance once he left the ground. Trying to clear his head,

the fly ran to the knife drawer and began rooting through it.

"Zipper! Am I glad to see you!" Chip sounded better than he

looked. "Can't find a knife? That's doesn't surprise me. See if you

can get a knife out of Gadget's workshop."

"What happened?" Zipper turned towards the workshop, disappeared

through the doorway.

"Herbie happened," Chip called to him. "He was, eh, working for

Fat Cat. He must have taken the others to the casino. Smell that?

He's drugged them. We've got to, eh, rescue them, Zipper!"

Zipper reappeared, dragging a razor blade. "Hold still," he

ordered. Chip winced preemptively as the fly carefully sliced through

the twine holding him to the chair. Zipper managed not to cut Chip,

although one sleeve of his jacket would have to be repaired. "Drugged

me, too."

Chip stood up, then sat back down almost immediately. "Okay," he

said carefully. "Good job, Zipper. Just let me catch my breath." He

rubbed his temples.

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

"Your guess is as good as mine, buddy." Chip stood up carefully.

This time, the blood didn't rush from his brain. "We don't really have

time to worry about it. We need to rescue them."

Chip sighed. "All right. The guys are almost certainly in the

casino. Let's get over there and scout it out. There's no time like

the present. Since there aren't any windows, eh, in the thing, we

should be able to... wait a minute. Are there windows in Fat Cat's

casino?"

Zipper shrugged. It had been a long time since he had spent time

at Fat Cat's casino. "Don't think so."

"Hmm. I guess not. But, eh... where was I?" Chip wondered if

he had any cracked ribs. "Windows, yeah. The, eh, the casino is

dependent on electrical power. Cutting the power should at least

distract and confuse them."

Zipper looked thoughtful as they made their way out of the

kitchen. "Not easy," he muttered.

"Yeah, I know. Feel like you can fly? It's almost nine thirty.

Herb attacked me at six thirty; we've got to hurry. Let's go." He and

Zipper hurried down to the garage.

* * *

Chip didn't like piloting the Ranger Wing. It wasn't that it was

heavier-than-air flight, which he privately regarded as a quiet

miracle. He had, after all, been a designer of paper airplanes once.

It was the complexity of the machine: Chip knew he was not a natural

pilot. The number of moving parts made him nervous. But needs must,

when the devil drives.

The Ranger Wing flew through the air towards Fat Cat's casino.

Really, that was part of what attracted him to Gadget, Chip thought.

Her near-magical power to create incredible, incredible things at

rapidity was something he'd never seen in another mouse, not even her

sister. That it was familiar enough to take for granted...

The Wing lurched as Chip, his mind elsewhere, accidentally turned

on the spoilers. "Drat!" Zipper, sitting in the passenger seat of the

airplane for the first time in his life, shot him a look.

"No problem, no problem, almost got it..." Chip wrestled with

the controls, trying to remember how to increase speed. The Wing hung

in the air uncertainly, then kicked forward. "Try the throttle,

idiot," he muttered, mentally bonking himself. "All right. Here we

are."

The Wing landed, with only a few more bumps than usual, in the

alleyway behind the Happy Tom cat food plant, right next to the

abandoned Rangermobile.

* * *

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

him.

He was lying next to Monterey Jack on the floor of Fat Cat's

casino, behind a baccarat table. He assumed Gadget was on the other

side of Monty, but couldn't really be sure. Dale knew it had been half

an hour at least, because he had been staring at the analog clock on

the wall above him for that long. He had woken up that morning only to

find himself tied up and piled into the back of the Rangermobile with

Monty and Gadget. Herbie had carried him up to Fat Cat's casino,

tucked under one arm. He listened as the rat (that rat!) negotiated

his fee and fled. The only good thing about this morning, aside from a

vague and abstract masculine pleasure at having been tied up and

stuffed in the back of a car with Gadget, the effect of which stuffing

being mostly destroyed by Monty's presence, was the knowledge that Chip

and Zipper were out there somewhere.

Tied and gagged as he was, Dale had assumed for the past half-

hour that there wasn't anything he could do to escape. Like Herbie,

Fat Cat, and his various cronies, the chipmunk had forgotten one of the

primary differences between his species and that of mice. He bit down

on the gag, his large incisors snipping it in two. Spitting out the

pieces, he tried to roll himself to where he could free Monty's hands,

but found he had been affixed in place by a loop of string around two

legs of the baccarat table.

'Keep trying,' he thought to himself as he craned his neck. He

could just reach the twine that held his right arm. A quick bite and

it was gone. With one arm free he was able to lever himself to a

position to free the other, then his legs. Granted, Chip probably

would have freed himself a half-hour earlier, but still Dale was a bit

pleased with himself. Quickly, he chomped through Monterey's bonds,

and, as that brawny mouse stretched, Gadget's.

Cautiously, the chipmunk in the tacky shirt stuck his head up,

over the baccarat table. On the far side of the casino, he could see

Wart and Mole sitting near the door. On the ground near them, Mepps

and Snout were snoring. A porcupine Dale didn't recognize was sitting

at the bar, drinking a glass of something transparent. Dale ducked

back down to where Monty and Gadget were crouching.

"Golly," Gadget whispered. "What happened? Where's Chip?

Monty, are you all right?" Gadget hadn't regained consciousness until

after she had been set the casino floor.

Dale followed Gadget's gaze and noticed for the first time Monty

was sporting a black eye and holding one hand carefully with his other

hand. "It's nothing, Gadget love. Just a few bruises. I can tell yas

what happened. That rat, Herbie! He gassed both of yas and took us

here to Fat Cat's!"

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

He was interrupted by Wart's distinctive voice. "Mepps, go check

on the prisoners!"

"I don't want to do it again," they could hear Mepps bleat.

"Let me go back to sleep."

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

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

porcupine. Sounded firm.

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

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

across the casino floor.

"Oh, dear. Get ready to scatter," Gadget said suddenly. "One...

two... three... NOW!"

As Mole stuck his head over the baccarat table, Monty ran to the

left and Gadget ran to the right. Dale tried running back, but hit a

wall. Mole scooped him up as Snout and Mepps, alerted by Gadget's

shout, chased after the remaining two captives.

"Prickles! Cover the door!" Wart moved to one wall, started

closing and locking doors. The casino floor was huge, taking up most

of the ground level of a structure that took up half the roof of a

large industrial plant. There were enough tables and slot machines

that the two Rangers could remain hidden from their pursuers for a good

long time. Wart wasn't brilliant, but his almost-average intelligence

placed him heads and shoulders above most of the rest of Fat Cat's

gang. He recognized the need to contain the leak.

"I got one! I got one!" Mole was almost jumping up and down

with glee. It was one the first things he'd done right in the four

years he'd worked for Fat Cat. "Look, Wart! I got one!"

Wart stared beadily at the strange little rodent as he continued

his locking routine. "How did you escape, Ranger?" He spit the last

word as if it were an insult.

Dale affected a mysterious look. "We in the Rescue Rangers have

our ways and means of descending your crude ropes and gags!"

"Descending?" Wart looked puzzled.

"Transcending, sorry."

Wart still didn't understand, but Dale didn't care. "Let's take

him up to Fat Cat, Mole. Mepps, Snout and Prickles should be able to

keep the others in here for a while." High above them, Zipper sighed

in frustration. This was a bit of bad luck. Looking down, he could

see Gadget and Monty were doing a good job of playing tag with the two

thugs chasing them, but it was only a matter of time.

* * *

Chip was pacing back and forth as Zipper emerged from a

ventilation duct. Quickly he explained the situation.

"All right. We've got to cut power to the lights inside.

That'll distract Prickles long enough for me to slip inside. Once I'm

inside, I find them and we slip out the front door. Once Gadget and

Monty are out, we can worry about Dale." Chip looked more nervous than

he sounded.

Zipper shrugged, and flew across the roof to the circuit box. He

knew from experience that the breaker for Fat Cat's casino floor was

the one labeled "backup exhaust fans."

* * *

Gadget, like Monty, was running hither and thither around the

slot machines, trying to wear down their pursuers, when suddenly she

was struck with an idea.

Fat Cat's casino used mainly reconditioned old Liberty Bells, a

small 19th century mechanical design of slot machine. Having known she

was going to want to pry open a slot machine, she pulled a screwdriver

out from her jumpsuit and inserted it experimentally into a crevice in

one of the Bells. Mepps' feet weren't much faster than his wits; she

was able to get the casing open before he caught up to her.

Gadget started running laps around the casino, building up a

solid lead on the skinny cat, then pausing in front of the Liberty

Bell, Rewiring and Improving. As she finished one she moved on to

another, managing to rig one slot about every three minutes. The next

time his casino opened, Fat Cat would quickly find himself jackpotted

into bankruptcy.

* * *

Dale enjoyed some things, but not others. He knew he was hardly

unique in this regard, but often wished that whatever Activities

Director controlled the luxury liner that was his life would pay a

little more attention to his comment card. More "Mystery Science

Theater 3000" with Foxglove, less getting carried up staircases by

sweaty moles.

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

powers --"

"Can it," Wart suggested.

Worth a shot.

"How about this," Dale said thoughtfully. "You let me go, and

we'll just pretend this whole thing ever happened. I'm willing to

forgive and forget..."

Mole stopped. "Really?" he asked eagerly.

"Ignore him, you stupid little furry thing," Wart ordered him.

"He's trying to confuse you."

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

"No, he didn't! He said he would forgive you!" Wart knew it was

futile, but he tried to reason with Mole.

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

"No!"

"Aw, man..." Mole hefted a struggling Dale over one shoulder and

continued up the stairs.

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

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

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

"Humph."

* * *

Fat Cat was in a good mood, despite the loss of Herbie's

employment. A particularly interesting thread, on the proper usage of

claws in intimidating underlings and other vermin, was taking up most

of his attention when the knock on his door came. That would be Wart,

reporting the excellent news that the remaining member of the execrable

Rescue Rangers had been caught, detained, and was even now awaiting Fat

Cat's intimidating claws. There was still the insect, of course, but

the crimelord intensely doubted he was a threat.

"Come in, Wart." Fat Cat closed his eyes, leaned back, put his

feet up, and waited for the good news. Like magic, it came.

"We've caught one of the Rescue Rangers, boss. A chipmunk!"

Wart sounded excited, and well he should. This was the beginning of a

new era for Fat Cat's criminal empire, and Wart was lucky enough to be

in on the ground floor. The feline crimelord was the first to admit

that Wart had his faults. He might not be a particularly bright young

iguana, but he did a killer impression of Peter Lorre and his loyalty

was beyond question.

"Mmm. And baby makes four, leaving only the insect, who I think

it is fair to guess won't be giving us much trouble, am I right Wart?

Have a drink," Fat Cat said magnanimously. Then he made the mistake

of opening his eyes.

Wart bit his lip. His attempt to put a positive spin on a bad

situation had backfired. Fat Cat looked very disappointed and angry--

on him, the two expressions were identical--to see the chipmunk in

question was not the stubborn one with the fedora, but the funny one

with the loud shirt. The one who had already been captured.

Fat Cat tried a trick from the Internet, scraping his claws

across the desk, throwing up curlicues of wood shavings. "What

happened, Wart?" the feline asked mildly. 'Mild' wasn't his forte, but

he managed. "Did I ask too much of you? I realize it's a difficult

job, keeping a tied and bound prisoner from throwing off his ropes and

making a run for it, but I must confess I really thought you were up to

the task."

Wart swallowed, nervous.

"Tell me," Fat Cat continued softly. "Tell me, where are the

other two? They didn't..." He sliced deep into the expensive oak desk.

"They didn't get away, now did they?"

"No, sir," Wart was relieved to report. "They're pinned down on

the main floor. It's only a matter of time before Mepps and Snout

catch them. I've locked all the exits and Prickles is watching the

main door."

"Hmm." Fat Cat had to admit Wart had done his best. "Send

Herbie to..." He trailed off, was silent. "You!" he suddenly cried,

his attention on the chipmunk. "How did you escape?"

Dale met Fat Cat's stare steadily. "I ate the gag." His voice

was even. "By now Chip and Zipper will be down there, and Snout and

Mepps are probably tied up. My teammates will be up here in just a few

minutes."

Mole's grasp on him was starting to slip. The subterranean

animal was sweating profusely. Maybe he could wriggle out. He'd need

a distraction, though.

The lights died. Perfect.

* * *

Gadget let out a "Gee whiz whiskers" as the electric lights above

her suddenly failed. In the dark she had a hard time manipulating the

control mechanism on the slot machine. She pulled out a pocket

flashlight fashioned from a Christmas bulb and held it in her teeth.

Lucky she had known she was going to want to be able to see in the

dark.

* * *

Chip ran, fast and low, through the door as he opened it. This

was no mean trick, but Prickles wouldn't be able to see much in the

dark, but the door, ajar as it was to the daylight outside, would make

him extremely visible until he got away from it.

As he galloped into the casino the way only a chipmunk can, he

saw the weak point in his plan, too late. In the dark he wouldn't have

a chance of finding his friends. Still, he kept moving.

Rounding a barely-perceived corner in the hallway formed by the

banks of slots, Chip saw a faint light on the far side of the casino.

Gadget. It had to be Gadget.

He was halfway across the floor when his view of the puddle of

light was blocked by a large, moving shape. Herb? Snout? Mepps?

Prickles? It was too big to be Mole or Wart. Chip rather hoped it was

Herbie. He pulled from a pocket in his jacket the collapsing fishing

rod Gadget had given him for his last birthday and continued to run

forward at full speed.

* * *

Gadget decided to risk concentrating on her work, figuring the

cover of darkness would keep Mepps and Snout from her. For Gadget,

deliberate concentration was risky -- she tuned out her surroundings,

focusing only on the task at hand.

She was so focused she didn't notice Mepps approaching, or turn

her head when that grating individual suddenly screeched in pain.

Chip, several feet behind Mepps, had cast his fishing rod and snagged

the back of Mepps' neck. He braced against a slot as he jerked the rod

back, setting the heavy hook in Mepps' ratty hide.

"Wha?" The skinny cat found himself on his back with the

chipmunk on top of him before he fully understood why the back of his

neck felt as if it had been stung by a wasp.

"Quiet," Chip ordered. Acting quickly, pulling Mepps' hat down

below his eyes, plucking at his whiskers, and generally irritating the

cat. It wasn't Herb "Herbie" Traitorous Rat Scum, but it'd do. He

needed Mepps on his stomach, though, and though the cat was a

relatively small example of his species, he was still too large for the

smaller chipmunk to flip. Chip hopped off his prey, waited.

As expected, the cat slowly climbed to his feet, trying to pull

his hat up. Chip ran between his legs, tripping him, forcing him down.

Once the cat was face-down there wasn't much trouble keeping him

that way.

Mepps was never much of a problem. The really sad thing was,

Chip had done this to him before. Several times. Most recent was just

last week. He whined incoherently.

"Gadget, give me a hand tying Mepps here up, will you? Gadget?

Gadget!" No wonder she hadn't turned around. She was concentrating.

Chip, unwilling to get off Mepps and allow the cat to regain

verticality, hunted through his jacket for a few seconds before

settling on his paper-clip-bent-into-a-hook. Affecting an athletic

stance, he threw it straight at the back of Gadget's head. It didn't

weigh much.

"Ow!" Gadget stopped whatever she was doing with the interior of

the slot machine and turned, moving her flashlight from her mouth to

one hand, rubbing the back of her head with her other hand. Her

expressive face showed irritation, which gave way to surprise, joy, and

concern in rapid succession. "Chip! I'm sorry, I was concentrating.

You're all right! Your face! What happened to your jacket? The

sleeve is all sliced up..."

"Herbie." The one word of explanation was enough for the

gadgeteer. "Help me, eh, tie Mepps up, hm?" Chip pulled a coil of

string out from his jacket.

"Sure, Chip." Gadget set down her screwdriver and hurried to

Chip's side. Inwardly, Mepps sighed. He was used to constant

humiliation, of course -- he worked for Fat Cat, after all -- but

something deeply buried and feline rebelled at the thought of a mouse

walking around on his back. The skinny cat tried thrashing around,

succeeding only in extracting a swift kick to the head from Chip.

Resigned to his usual fate, Mepps was still as Chip and Gadget quickly

tied him up, gagged him, and dragged him into a crevice between two

banks of slot machines.

When Chip asked Gadget what she had been concentrating on, he was

treated to a brief lecture on the design and function of mechanical

slot machines, including the methods used to rig them. Chip cut Gadget

off when he saw the possibilities. He climbed up on a slot machine as

Gadget worked on it, keeping watch for Dale and Monty, not to mention

Herbie, Wart, Snout, Prickles, Mole, or Fat Cat.

* * *

On the far side of the casino, Monterey Jack was trying to think.

He had been separated from Gadget early on, was being chased by Snout.

That was a bit of bad luck: Snout was one of Fat Cat's bouncers, the

one he used whenever he needed extra muscle. Unlike Mepps or Wart,

Snout refused to lie quietly whenever the Rangers tried to subdue him.

He insisted on fighting.

Normally Monty liked fighting, found it a pleasant way to spend

time. But Herbie had broken his hand, he suspected, and anyway, not

having anything to tie him up with, he would need to beat Snout

into unconsciousness. And that would be loud, and require some time,

and Prickles or another heavy might investigate. Monty was fairly

confident that, given a functional hand, he could take down just about

any one of Fat Cat's cronies in a fair fight. Two or more against one,

though, that was just too much.

"Think, Cheeser, think," the big mouse muttered to himself.

Snout was also considerably faster than Mepps; Monterey was forced to

keep moving. It had been bad enough when the lights were on, but now,

in the dark, he kept worrying he was about to run into a wall. The

dark...

The next time he rounded a corner, Monty ducked down behind a

blackjack table. In the darkness, he could see the outline of Snout,

and hear him cursing, having lost the scent. Sometimes the simplest

ways worked best.

The blighter began searching for Monty, looking around and under

tables, behind slot machines, et cetera. Monty waited until he was

fairly certain Snout's back was turned, then emerged from his hiding

place and stealthily made his way towards the center of the casino. If

he could find Gadget, perhaps they had a chance. He saw a puddle of

light, moved towards it.

* * *

"Wart!"

"Yessir?"

"It's dark, Wart."

"Yessir."

"The lights have gone out."

"Yessir."

"Mole, go check the circuit box." Fat Cat's eyes adjusted

quickly, so he was able to make out his lackey's salute and watch Mole

turn and leave. He leaned back in his chair. Something bothered him,

quite aside from the probable act of sabotage, but he couldn't quite

put his finger on it.

Then he realized what the problem was. Fat Cat considered doing

another threatening claw bit, but realized it would be lost on Wart,

dark as it was. He grimaced. "Wart."

"Yessir?" Wart wondered if he was repeating himself too much,

decided against varying his response.

"What happened to the chipmunk Mole was carrying?" Fat Cat knew

the answer, of course, but he wanted an excuse to hit someone.

Wart sighed. "He must have dropped him." Wart winced as Fat Cat

hit him on the head.

"Go get him and bring him back here." Quiet menace was working

well on Wart. Fat Cat could feel a megalomaniacal speech building up

inside him, however. "And fetch Herbie, too." He would have to

consult his sole competent employee.

"Herbie's left already, boss." Wart adjusted his dressing gown.

The boss knew that. Fat Cat had never made a mistake like that before.

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

mood.

* * *

Dale had been loose in Fat Cat's casino before, a few times.

Always then, though, the lights had been on. Dale didn't recall the

upper stories as being nearly this mazelike.

He was just starting to worry when he heard the unmistakable

sound of Mole moving through a hallway coming from around a corner.

Hello, he thought. What's this poor fellow up to? Concealing himself

behind a handy plant, Dale ducked down out of sight as Mole turned the

corner. Chortling on the inside, silent on the outside, Dale started

trailing the corpulent animal, hoping they would be heading back down

to the main floor.

* * *

Prickles was not a complex entity. All around him animals ran,

ran, ran through life, never stopping their worry and their fear.

Strange ambitions, unfathomable actions, queer loyalties. Codes of

honor and senses of duty. Prickles didn't go in for any of that. He

did a job, and he did it fairly well. His work was of a certain

quality, one Fat Cat seemed to enjoy. Prickles simply did his job.

He didn't feel he owed Fat Cat his life or even health: while he

did work as a bouncer, those mice whom he threatened were largely too

weak, small, drunk, or all three to make his work risky. Prickles was

not an especially dedicated lackey.

When the lights went out and someone slipped inside the casino

through the door Prickles was supposed to be guarding, he did nothing.

After all, it was his task to keep them in, not out. The porcupine

leaned against the door and waited. If he heard Mepps cry out, he

didn't respond. Sooner or later the lights would come on, and at some

point after that, he would get paid.

* * *

Chip was pleased to see Monty, even more so Dale. The only

obstacle remaining in their escape was Prickles. The four Rangers hid

in the dark, plotting, as Gadget finished rigging the last slot

machine. About sixty percent of them were altered.

"Okay, is everybody all right? Aside from Monty's hand and my

teeth." Chip's eyes darted from one shadowy figure to another as he

whispered. "We need to get past Prickles. That's won't, eh, be easy."

"Isn't there a back door, or anything? Ventilation ducts?" Dale

was nearly positive there had been more than one way out of the giant-

cat-shaped casino the last time he had been there.

"Not any more. Fat Cat's sealed them all up, except for grilles

too small for anyone except Zipper." Chip sounded impatient, anxious.

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

go?"

"I don't think so, Gadget."

"Hmm. Then how about... golly, I know! We can blind him!"

Gadget pulled her Xenon-flash camera out of a pocket. "Lucky thing I

knew I was going to want to blind a porcupine last night, when I set

out my clothes for the morning!"

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

Gadget looked slightly mollified. "Golly, no, Chip. I

just figured I was going to want to open slot machines, see in the

dark, and blind a porcupine..."

"But not cut glass?"

"No, why?" Gadget looked at her friend, bewildered. Maybe

Herbie had hit him harder than she realized.

"All right, all right." Monty sighed. "He won't be out for

long, Gadget love. How are we going to get away?"

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

Chip's head.

* * *

Zipper was just starting to wonder if maybe he should go back

into the casino and try to find his vertebrate friends when they

suddenly appeared, piling out of the ajar main door of Fat Cat's casino

and running very quickly to the Ranger Wing.

"Hey, guys! Guys!" They didn't even acknowledge him until the

plane was up in the air, moving away from the casino at speed.

"Zipper! Hey there, little pally! Glad to see you're all right.

Herbie got us pretty bad, huh?" Monty was sporting what Zipper could

tell was a broken hand. He hoped they were on their way to a hospital.

"I'm sorry about your shirt, Dale." Chip looked over to the

naked chipmunk sitting next to him.

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

past Prickles." Dale shrugged.

"Hey, yeah!" Zipper looked questioningly at the group. He

recalled a large and spiny individual guarding the front door. "How'd

you get..."

"...past him?" Gadget finished his sentence. "Golly, it's

complicated. See, I used my camera to distract him, and then Chip and

Dale used Dale's shirt and Chip's fishing rod to... Hm." She broke

off. "I hope he's all right. That was a pretty bad fall. Prickles

was only doing his job, after all. I wouldn't want him permanently

injured because of us."

"I'm sure he'll be all right, Gadget. He was well enough to

stand, after all. Worst-case scenario he's in bed for a couple of

weeks. Prickles will be fine." Herbie, on the other hand... Chip

owed him a debt, and he knew the rest of the team would be only too

willing to help him make payment. Soon enough...

The Ranger Wing flew, exactly as designed, through the air en

route to the Staten City hospital.

* * *

The odds of winning the highest prize on Fat Cat's modified

Liberty Bells was approximately one in five hundred thousand. The

sirens indicating the four hundred thousand dollar jackpot generally

sounded about twice a year. Fat Cat made most of his money through the

casino, using it to fund his many projects to acquire various rare and

gourmet foods. It therefore was to the feline crimelord's tremendous

surprise and fear that almost before the casino had opened the

congratulatory sirens were wailing.

He was up in his office when he heard the sound. It did happen

occasionally; there was no statistical reason it was less likely to

happen just after the casino opened than six hours into the shift. He

rose, to congratulate the winner and escort him or her out.

Fat Cat froze as a second siren joined the first. Then another,

and then another. Fat Cat rushed to the casino floor at a dead run,

taking the stairs five at a time.

The slots were paying out. Six of them showed the three Smiling

Fat Cats which signaled jackpot. Most of the others were spitting out

quarters, and five- or one-dollar chips. His employees acted quickly,

clearing out the slots area, but even still, Fat Cat had lost a king's

ransom in just a few minutes. Someone had sabotaged him. Someone had

sabotaged him in more than one way: Herbie had abandoned him, left the

country, refused Fat Cat his remarkable talents. Clearly, Herbie the

unpleasant rat-thing had added insult to injury. Briefly, he

considered simply taking the coins back and refusing to cash in the

chips.

No. If he did that, no one would ever come to the casino again.

It would be a permanent blight on his business's reputation. Better to

simply accept the loss and try to recover. Still, close down the slots

tonight.

Reasoning finished, Fat Cat was ready release some aggression.

The cat let out a good bellow, and released some pent up energy. "My

empire is CRUMBLING!"

As he herded rats away from the slots, Mepps cringed. The reason

Fat Cat kept him on the payroll was coming up, he could tell. The

beating he had taken at the hands of the cruel and psychotic head

Rescue Ranger and his dozen big giant friends had left a gash in the

back of his neck that still smarted.

"My empire is crumbling, and WHY?! Is it my fault? Of course

not! This cannot be! I am a criminal mastermind! My plans are

unerringly conceived, brilliantly acted upon. No, the blame must

rest -- the fault must clearly lie -- with another! Yes, there is one

individual, one who has caused this! There can be no other; it is

HERBIE who has done this!"

For no (readily apparent) reason, a support beam suddenly fell to

the ground behind Fat Cat, crushing three slots and making a resounding

crashing noise. Rats began to dive for cover as Mepps, right on cue,

let out his Howl of the Horribly Damned. It was, as always, perfect.

"And I swear," Fat Cat continued at the top of his lungs, "I

swear that I shall not rest until he has been found and brought before

me--"

"Meaning it's us who won't rest, I guess." Snout was whispering

to Prickles, whose leg was now in a cast. "You know the boss."

"--And I have given him the proper PAYMENT!" His sense of

theatrics satisfied, Fat Cat finished his speech and looked about.

Total silence, except for the sirens on the slots.

"CHEERS!" Wart shouted suddenly.

There was a wave of the traditional prolonged and stormy applause

as the patrons of Fat Cat's Casino realized the boss wasn't going to

refuse to pay out. Wart sighed. He was going to have to find Herbie

and hurt him. He didn't think that was going to be easy.

EPILOGUE

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

Flight 117, 10:35 New York to Paris, took off on schedule. Herb

considered that a bit of good luck, since he had no way of knowing how

long it would take Chip and Zipper to rescue their comrades. He had no

real doubt that fearless leader would be able to save his teammates;

Herb knew all too well how ineffectual his former comrades in the

boss's organization were. He leaned back against the garment bag in

which he had smuggled himself aboard, and smiled. His eyes glowed

amber in the gloom, behind his sunglasses.

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

loud.

"Hm? You talking to me?" The only other rodent in the luggage

compartment, a rotund hamster, looked his way.

"No, just talking to myself... Say, you play poker?" Herb could

always use a few extra bucks.

"Sure, pal, I'll give you a run for your money. I'm Gil, from

Central Park. Going to France to visit relatives. Yourself? Where

are you from?" He sat down to play.

Herb started shuffling. "My name's Herb. I'm from... oh, lots

of places. Staten City originally, got caught near there, ended up a

lab rat. Lived under a rosebush for a while. Had some friends, but

they moved off upstate somewhere." Keep up a patter, Herb. Distract

him. "I travel around a lot. Stayed with them for a while, but..."

Herb began dealing. "...couldn't stand the lifestyle. Wandered back

here. I'm going to Paris to meet up with the wife, whom I have not

seen in..." Herb clicked his tongue. "...six months." He looked up,

met Gil's gaze with a smile. "And I think you'll find that you'll give

me a run for your money."

As Herb began to systematically loot Gil of his life savings, he

wondered if Luwini would be happy to see him. Her temper was

mercurial.

HARDLY THE END; TWO MORE YET TO GO.

Based on characters owned, body and soul, by the Disney Corporation,
with much aid and permission from John Nowak. (The following grows
rapidly out of his "Sovereign 1," was originally conceived as a thank-
you note to him, and would never have reached this point without his
encouragement. Observe the section beginning with the third
paragraph.) The whole, including Jiffy, the Squirrel Who Loved Only
Waiting Tables, is copyright 1999 by Jeffrey Wikstrom, if it matters.
Email me at jeffwik@hotmail.com if you liked it or especially if you
didn't. Or not. It's your life. But like all bad writers, I hunger
for feedback. Quotations appear from "The Columbia Dictionary of
Quotations," (c) 1993 by Columbia University Press. Exceptions are the
line from "Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog)" by Jerome
K. Jerome, available from Project Gutenberg, and Hunter's line from
Neil Gaiman's "Neverwhere," (c) 1996 by Neil Gaiman. Fat Cat's
Internet claws trick was originally used by Shere Khan in an episode of
"Tale Spin," and was suggested by John Nowak. Did I mention I needed
to thank John Nowak? I did? Well, it bears repeating. This is
probably far more information than you wanted. Sorry.

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