For the Record

by McPoodle (f.k.a. Newton)

Introduction, by Alexander Christiania, Editor

This book is the sixteenth in the series Personal Perspectives, a set of narratives designed to illustrate the primary events in these early years of the Rat Republic. In particular, the two parts of Volume 16 complement Volume 15, Mrs. Brisby and the Rats of NIMH (by Anonymous) the most popular of these volumes yet published. I have selected these two narratives, the first in the series written by "outside" authors, because of the unique perspectives they lend to the crucial crises of our eighth post-Liberation year.

Because the narratives are direct continuations of Mrs. Brisby, I will summarize the events of that work here. The story begins in late summer of Year 6, when the Rats were still led by Nicodemus and still lived under the Rosebush on the Fitzgibbon farm. After years in voluntary retirement, the Rat's liberator and confidant, the mouse Jonathan Brisby, arrived with the announcement that at long last a location had been found to enact the Plan to end the Rats' parasitism on Humanity. Niodemus immediately began organizing the move to Thorn Valley. Jenner, deeply opposed to the Plan, bided his time while using his confederate Sullivan to keep the Senate bogged down in bureaucratic maneuvers. Jenner saw his chance when Jonathan Brisby was killed attempting to drug the cat Dragon as part of the move. Jenner, a master of oratory, used the Rats' grief over the loss of Brisby to rise to power, accusing Nicodemus of senility and demanding an election in which he was confident he would be elected president. Nicodemus resisted the temptation to use the Stone at this point, fearing that the Rats might give up yet more of their freedom to him. Captain of the Guard Justin stepped forward in defence of Nicodemus; but his youth was as much a liability to the cause of the Plan as Nicodemus' age. It was at this moment of crisis, just before the spring of Year 7, that Brisby's widow stepped into the picture.

Mrs. Brisby was an ordinary field mouse. Brisby had fallen in love with her and left the Rats to marry her. He never told her of his association with the Rats of NIMH. They had four children: Teresa, Martin, Timothy, and Cynthia. Late that winter Timothy had come down with a case of pneumonia so bad that moving him could mean his death. Unfortunately, he was not expected to recover before the Brisby's winter home was demolished by Farmer Fitzgibbon's plow. Overcoming her fear of heights and of her natural enemy, Mrs. Brisby appealed to the Great Owl for help, and the Owl directed her to the Rosebush.

Jenner saw Mrs. Brisby as a pawn in his attack on Nicodemus. He knew that despite his smear tactics, Justin was gaining on him in the polls and he feared that if he waited much longer, enough of the move would be complete to force the undecided Rats to go along with it out of shear inertia. He decided that another senseless death would sway them, and that this one would be no accident. He therefore led a proposal in the Senate to help the Brisbys' in moving their home to the lee of a nearby stone to protect them from the plow. Mrs. Brisby spoke briefly with Nicodemus, in this way learning the history of the Rats of NIMH and of her late husband's association with them. Nicodemus took the opportunity to entrust the Stone with Mrs. Brisby. She then volunteered to drug Dragon in the preparation for her family's move. The mouse succeeded in drugging the cat, but was captured by Billy Fitzgibbon and placed in a bird cage. Meanwhile Jenner succeeded in his plan to crush Nicodemus with the tackle used to move the Brisby home (causing it to sink into the rain-soaked mud), despite the opposition of Sullivan, who had turned against him at the idea of murder.

While in the cage Mrs. Brisby learned that Pr. Schultz had tracked the Rats to the Fitzgibbon farm and was on their way to destroy the Rosebush. Mrs. Brisby escaped from the high cage and attempted to warn the Rats about the coming of NIMH. Jenner, who was in the middle of assuming power in the wake of Nicodemus' death, saw the Stone on Mrs. Brisby and went berserk. Justin stepped forward to defend the mouse, and in the ensuing swordfight, Jenner admitted that he killed Nicodemus. With the help of Sullivan, Justin killed Jenner. By this point the Brisby home had sunk too far to be saved by the Rats. Mrs. Brisby's sorrow awoke the power of the Stone, and using this power, the home was rescued and moved. The Rats offered their allegiance to Mrs. Brisby, but she pushed forward Justin instead and he was unanimously elected president. Working together, the Rats completed their move to Thorn Valley and even tricked Pr. Schultz into thinking that the Rosebush had been inhabited by normal rats.

So sit back and enjoy these two very different tales about outsiders and the Rats of NIMH: the first exploring the depths, and the other the heights, of the condition known as Life.

Part One

The evil that is in the world always comes of ignorance, and good intentions may do as much harm as malevolence, if they lack understanding. On the whole, men are more good than bad; that, however, isn't the real point. But they are more or less ignorant, and it is this that we call vice or virtue; the most incorrigible vice being that of an ignorance that fancies it knows everything and therefore claims for itself the right to kill. The soul of the murderer is blind; and there can be no true goodness nor true love without the utmost clear-sightedness.
--The Plague, Albert Camus (1947; translated into English by Stuart Gilbert, 1948)

This is the chronicle of what I did and how I felt as the crucial events of a stifling June in Washington D.C. played themselves out. I am writing this to ensure that I may never be allowed the peace of forgetting the unforgivable crime I committed in a moment of inaction.

On June 11th, I arrived for work at the Federal Bureau of Intelligence at 8 AM precisely and found I still had not been assigned a case. This was my ninety-seventh consecutive work day in bureaucratic limbo and I was determined to do something about it. It was with this eventuality in mind that I had brought my stereo to work with me. I put my disk on the turntable, turned the volume to maximum while donning my earmuffs, and then dropped the needle on the beginning of "Rage" and settled down to catch up on the latest issue of Uncle Scrooge. I didn't even reach the first solo (or the first attempted theft of the lucky dime) when I saw Chief Chenture's profile upon the glass of my door. He was composing himself for a dramatic entrance, a devastating line, and a withering stare.

The first thing Chenture saw when he opened that door was a lanky agent with his feet propped up on his desk reading a comic book and wearing fluffy blue muffs. The second thing he saw was the opinion page from last year's San Francisco Chronicle, the same one that had landed me in this dead-end situation. The "Anonymous" had been obliterated by "Rob Stetin, traitor" in huge red ink. I knew Chenture well. Twenty-two years ago, at the Second Annual St. Andrews Hotel Ball, I came to know the 399 other guests and musicians more intimately than I knew myself at the time, a knowledge that nearly drove me mad and has become the source of my skill at emotional button-pushing. Chenture wasn't one of them, but he was close enough to several of them for me to read him like a book. He called himself a patriot, but I called him a Machiavellian working for Uncle Sam. My article had exposed an ugly bit of business by "our boys" in the Pacific using purely public information and with no way to trace its authorship to me, but somehow he had found out. To a man like Chenture, an insult to his country was always taken personally. If he didn't pride himself on his calm demeanor he probably would have killed me with his service revolver in cold blood.

I turned the stereo off and removed my muffs to see if I could get something unsuitable for family consumption out of him. He looked at me contemptuously, dropped a file on my desk, and walked out with military precision.

I was in shock at my apparent victory. I was in shock again when I discovered the nature of the case I had been assigned to--the Extermination Corps were actually back in business and once again I was its only agent.

After a brief drive and a three-block walk from the "designated parking structure" through already-drenching heat and humidity, I arrived at the squat white laboratory at 9:32 AM. The door was opened by a young graduate student. Her choice of hair style bespoke of a slightly scatter-brained personality. I suspected she would make a fine mad scientist in another decade or so.

"Hello, can I help you?"

"Good morning. I'm Agent Robert Stetin with the FBI and ..." I fumbled for my badge at this point, embarrassed a bit not to remember to have it out from the first and wryly reflecting that it formed at least half the ego of most other agents I knew. The student took the opportunity to interject.

"The FBI! Finally! We have been sending in our complaints for years now and we never thought anyone would dare to touch him! It's nice to know that our government is working right for a change."

I flashed my badge, then coughed. "Actually, miss, I have been assigned to assist in the retrieval of some escaped test subjects."

The student turned bright red. "Of...of course, Agent Stetin, come right in! My name is Julie Caruthers, and George and I will do anything we can to assist in your investigation." She sighed and gestured me inside.

Seeing her as a potential ally in the inevitable struggle about to erupt, I decided to confide in her as I removed my coat.

"I'm quite aware of your mentor's record, Miss Caruthers. I am the one who stopped his activities seven years ago." It's hard to forget the case that originally got me out of the Extermination Corps and into some real action.

"What was he doing? Or am I even allowed to know? Was he torturing animals again? Was it mind-related?"

"Well, of course I am not allowed to tell you that. Seven years ago Dr. Schultz was working on the mechanisms of memory. Were you living in Washington seven years ago, Miss Caruthers?"

"Yes."

"And do remember what you did on Halloween night of that year? Were you at a party perhaps? Were you wearing a shocking costume?"

"I...I don't remember."

"And are there any other Halloweens you have this same trouble not remembering?"

The voice of the other student, George, emerged from the doorway.

"Doesn't surprise me in the least. I always suspected that the most important part of his work on the mice and rats involved memory improvement."

It was George Sarte, one of the 400 and eight years old at the Ball.

He held his hand out and we shook. He frowned a bit, and so did I. He took his hand in mine, then he turned to Julie to speak.

At least that's what an outsider like Julie would have seen. In fact, during that short period of time George and I had had an entire conversation through our body language--one small compensation for being one of the 400. Here's a condensed translation:

"I should have known you'd be assigned to this case. Involuntarily, I see." None of the 400 could keep a secret from each other.

"How have the years been treating you, kid?"

"...and I hadn't thought out the consequences of my actions. We are all lucky I never told our secret to anyone who would believe us. I'd pity us all if people with real power knew what happened to us. I pity The Catalyst even more, for what they'd do to him."

"Or her. Or do you still think it was me? Look, it never happened again. If someone, by choice or by accident, was solely responsible for what happened at that ball, don't you think it would happen again? No, if there was a catalyst, he or she was probably the first to jump off a tall building--I know I'd do it if I thought it was me."

"Well, it was fun reminiscing, but I'm here about Schultz." As soon as I "mentioned" his name George knew everything I felt towards his employer.

"You're not as hopeless as I thought. Schultz is everything you feel, and so much worse. You are lucky he doesn't know you've been assigned yet. Now listen very carefully: the moment after he gets us alone with him, start telling yourself one thing over and over and never stop: We are not who we are." George always had this thing for obscure Shakespeare references.

"I can't tell you. In fact, I'm amazed I was even allowed to tell you that much. Now let's see if I can get this out: What he...says is...turned. Oh, well. There's so much I can't say." He looked over at Julie.

"We'll really owe you one if you can put him away once and for all."

I pulled out my dossier. "Actually, I was not provided any details on the case. Would you care to tell me about your subjects?"

Julie stepped back and looked at George. "I don't think we can."

George shook his head with a smile and gestured towards an empty office titled "Professor Ernst Schultz." It was obvious to me that there was something about that room that terrified George, and probably Julie as well.

"Well," she began nervously, "Follow me."

She stopped at the door leading to the main room of the building, the laboratory itself. She placed her hand on the knob like she was expecting to receive an electric shock from it. When this didn't happen she turned it and let us in. There were about twenty small cages lining the walls, all of them empty, although the smell told me that not too recently they had all been performing their purpose. A smaller set of cages was on a table at the far side of the room. These too were empty, with a single exception. The cage labeled G9 was inhabited by a small gray mouse. I walked over and looked down at the creature. It looked odd, out of proportion in some indefinable way. The mouse paid no notice of me but instead stared fixedly ahead. The object of its attention was a stand on the table outside the cage, on which had been propped Shelley's Prometheus Unbound. Its tiny eyes quickly swept their way across each line. Suddenly it darted forward and pressed a bar under the food dish. The apparatus before it obediently turned the page.

I looked to the students in amazement. "You can't be serious."

George was beaming. "Agent Stetin, allow me to introduce you to the last of the Mice of NIMH."

"George, would you care to introduce our visitor?"

I turned to see Dr. Schultz behind me--I had not heard him enter. Despite wearing a heavy lab coat, there wasn't a trace of perspiration on him. The man appeared ageless, although he was supposedly in his early forties. His mother was the renowned behaviorist Dr. Patricia Schultz. Ernst Schultz graduated from Harvard first in his class. He studied under Dr. Albert Ternum; Ternum, who had developed a method for reading the genetic instructions of rats and mice decades ago. The method was a top government secret, so secret that the private sector is only just now rediscovering it. Schultz confiscated Ternum's findings at his death, which mostly consisted of the genes responsible for brain development and function. He then went to work for the "Western Division", a covert government agency given free reign to develop biological "tools" for the United States. The FBI thought this was a bad idea, and the "Extermination Corps" was our answer to the "Western Division"; it was my job description for a decade to shut Western Division down. My previous encounter with Schultz occurred after Schultz had obtained a rare African virus that rewired the genetic blueprints for converting short-term memories into long-term ones. After enhancing its virulency several hundred-fold, he deliberately released it into the atmosphere to test its effects on human beings. The man was a reputed master of emotional manipulation, but I tricked him into admitting his guilt. The Schultz affair finally shut down the Western Division, and, I thought, Dr. Schultz himself. Now seven years later, he was apparently up to something new.

"Pr. Schultz, this is Agent Stetin of the FBI."

"Stetin...Stetin...have we met before?"

I was infuriated with his insolence, but I tried to play it cool. "Yes, we met at the close of your last project."

"Oh yes, I think I remember now. The years have not treated you well, have they?"

I stood there a moment to recover my composure. "Not as well as they have you, Herr Doctor." He hated being called a mere doctor.

He shrugged, his face still a blank slate to me. "You specialize in animal cases Agent Stetin, if I remember correctly. Lost pets, misplaced hamsters? You've tried your hand with 'people' cases, but you found yourself unsuited and now you are here to help me out of my little problem." I glared at him, saying nothing. He looked towards the grads as he said, "That's good. I have some very valuable rodents I need recovered. I'm sure my students have neglected to tell you any of the details of my current work. My experiments involved improving their powers of coherent thought, so you should find this quite a challenge. The group consists of twenty rats and a few mice. I originally caught most of them on the street, but they are too intelligent to return there now, for they know they can be identified on sight. They are undoubtedly heading out of the city and from there, who knows? Do you have any questions, or have you already given up?"

I stood there for a moment, trying to force thoughts through my anger. "Why do you need to recover them?"

"I pride myself on my work, Agent Stetin. The changes I have made are inheritable, and I believe that with time a race of rats and mice as intelligent as the average man and more intelligent than some I know could be quite an inconvenience."

"Why doctor, I've never known you to care much for consequences, or the rest of the human race for that manner."

The professor was still undisturbed. "Let's just say that I need them for my work."

I could find no flaw with that argument, in fact I found it very difficult to think of anything at all other than the need to find the missing rodents, but at that moment I heard the faint sound of George turning a page in his notebook, and it gave me an idea. "So you could not recreate your work from your notes?"

Professor Schultz blinked. I was shocked to realize that I had never seen the man blink before. In no other way did he reveal his emotional reaction to my question. "My notes have been misplaced, and I need to recreate them from the mice and rats you shall recapture for me."

I looked over at the mouse in the cage. "And what about this one?" I noticed that it was staring fixedly at me with its round black eyes.

"I could try it, but there is a risk involved; using more of them will reduce that risk significantly."

"And this was the only one you recovered when they escaped?"

"Actually, Julie found this one in the return air grill. They used the ventilation system to escape, but the mice were sucked into the blower for the most part. Made a most terrible mess that was totally unsuitable for my work." The mouse shivered and looked away. "Later that day I had poison gas pumped through the system, since at that time I still thought myself in possession of my notes. Knowing your methods, I saved the mouse for you to use in finding its brethren."

"Very well. I'll start immediately with the mouse here, if you don't mind."

He turned smoothly on his heel and walked towards his office. "Go right ahead. You know where I'll be if you have any more questions. George, could I talk with you for a moment?" George gave me a brief lost look before following the professor into the room, closing the door behind him with a loud click.

INSERT ABOUT FIFTY PAGES OF STORY HERE. THE GIST OF IT WOULD BE THE FOLLOWING:

As Agent Stetin gains the trust of the mouse, whom he names Gina, he investigates Schultz. He discovers that Schultz's true reason for recovering the rats is because they destroyed two related viral strains he had been cultivating in the lab attached to his expensive house (where four step-brothers spend their waking moments satisfying his every whim). The first formula created the Rodents of NIMH. The second one he believed to be the key in a plan he had formed with a secret cadre to take over the world. Schultz hoped to be able to extract the first strain from the brains of the rats and to use that to recreate the vital second strain. On discovering this Stetin tries to free Gina, but finds that he is now under the hypnotic control of Dr. Schultz. Stetin has in fact been falling apart throughout the course of the book, haunted by the thoughts of 399 people at a ball long ago that are now permanently etched into his brain. Alongside the glimpses into the worst sides of human behavior is the knowledge that hundreds of those people have killed themselves or others to get away from the same curse. Stetin's defense against the voices is a recording made of the band at that ball, a band he played the drums for. His constant references to this record form the basis for the book's title. Stetin finds that George is also a slave of the biochemical psychologist, but Julie reveals to him that she used fear to convince Schultz that he didn't need to extend his control over her. Under Schultz's influence, Stetin invents two gadgets: a machine for detecting and tracking sources of intelligence, and a disintegration gun. The latter would be required by Schultz to clean up the evidence before anyone investigates, since he knows that Stetin has succeeded in getting Chenture suspicious.

Stetin uses Gina and the detector to capture the Rodents of NIMH at an abandoned warehouse. When Schultz is in the midst of his gloating, Julie uses this moment to free Gina from her cage and give her the disintegrator, since she is the only one capable of killing Schultz. Schultz in shock releases Stetin as he gains total control of Julie. Stetin has his opportunity to act, but he fails to take advantage of it before Gina uses the disintegrator to destroy herself. During this crisis the Rodents have made their escape under mysterious circumstances, but this is no consolation to Stetin, who considers himself responsible for not preventing Gina's suicide by killing Schultz.

Part One ends that this point, with Stetin's failure. However, to bridge the rest of the way to Part Two, Stetin must reveal bits and pieces of the following sequence of events throughout the narrative: Immediately after the Schultz case, Stetin resigned from the FBI in self-disgust, in this way learning that his opinions about Chenture were all wrong. He later contacted one of the men he rescued during his brief career working on non-animal cases. The two of them formed a partnership to work on better means of running farms. In his opinion Washington and the nation as a whole have gone insane in the years following his departure. He suspects that Schultz is not only to blame, but has probably succeeded in his plan and is now secretly ruling the world. Stetin is certain that the end of civilization is nearly here, and that the Rodents of NIMH will survive that massacre and form the basis of the new world that is to come. During the later chapters of the story, we learn that his partner has left him and that he is working with a boy from a neighboring farm, a Paul Fitzgibbon. Stetin finishes writing his story the day before he learns that Schultz has arrived at the Fitzgibbon farm with the purpose of gassing a particular rose bush....

Conclusion

(which actually wouldn't be in Part One at all since it leads to a happy ending, but I like it, so I'll keep it here for a little while longer)

It was Professor Ernst Schultz.

"Mr. Stetin, I've decided that it would be most appropriate if we ended our differences in person. I am calling from a gas station five miles from the farm of a Henry Fitzgibbon. When I get there I have the owner's permission to gas every last rat on the premises, but I am only interested in twenty very special rats, and their descendants."

My phone hit the cradle before he hung up.

I called Paul in. "Do you want to help me on a case?"

"Do I? What do I have to do?"

"Follow my instructions explicitly. I just learned that an exterminator is coming to your farm to kill some rats...inorganically."

"When will they ever learn! I've told them time and again the cost to the soil of..."

I handed him the receiver. "Why don't you tell your family that yourself?"

I spent the entire trip wondering how I could have figured out it was my student's farm before Schultz did, but eventually concluded that the NIMH Rodents would have taken all precautions against anyone learning that. In my pockets I fingered the two items I had grabbed before leaving: the final version of the Intelligence Detector, and a small dart gun. The latter was there entirely out of irrational fantasies revolving around Dr. Schultz bending over at a convenient time.

As I expected, we arrived at the Fitzgibbon's farm half an hour after Schultz. He had the nerve to use a truck with the NIMH logo. My hopes of using Paul as a delaying tactic had failed. A large rosebush I had never managed to notice before had been uprooted by a bulldozer and cyanide gas had been pumped inside. Yet all was not lost, for not a single tell-tale body had been found.

Schultz turned from the hole to greet me. "Ah, if it isn't my dear consultant, 'Doctor' Stetin! What a surprise to find you here. I hope my methods are satisfactory to you?"

I turned and walked away to examine the extent of the possible tragedy.

Henry Fitzgibbon advanced on his eldest son. "Take a whiff, son--not a trace of gas in the air. I made Dr. Schultz promise me personally."

Paul shook his head and began explaining soil ecology again. As Schultz and Sarte were calibrating their Intelligence Detector, I went to the hole and confirmed an odor I had detected myself. Positioning myself on the other side of the bulldozer from Schultz and Sarte, I pulled out my Detector and scanned the area on the Norwegian Rat band. The entire hole radiated advanced intelligence, but the signal was several hours old. This plus the garbage that had been planted there made it obvious that the Rodents had had advanced warning--perhaps by monitoring the Fitzgibbon's phone calls.

It occurred to me that one or more of them might be watching this operation to see if Dr. Schultz was tricked into thinking these were ordinary garbage-eating rats he had barely failed to catch. Such an act would prove fatal, since they had never learned about the Intelligence Detector. Because there was absolutely no chance that they would trust me, my only hope lay in rendering them unconscious and getting them out of the range of Schultz's device. Making sure that no humans were watching, I switched my device to the wide band and carefully scanned the map that appeared on my screen. As I was doing this I casually pulled my tranquilizer gun out and put in my lowest-dosage needle.

The former thorn bush appeared as an oval-shaped splotch just "north" of the center of the screen. One corner of it had a strong but fading pinpoint--perhaps this was the home of A-9? The other bright spots were myself in the center, Schultz in the "west" (a bit further off), and the strongest, a sparkling pinpoint right over my left shoulder. Keeping my eyes firmly away from that spot, I peeked around the bulldozer and saw Sarte and Schultz pouring over a map laid on the hood of a rusting car. I had to act fast. I whirled and shot my gun.

A small tan-and-white field mouse collapsed into the nook of a tree. I went up to it and confirmed that it wasn't a lab mouse. I checked my Detector--the source was gone. I stood there, my device and gun hanging limply from my fingers, as I tried to figure this out. Schultz had never touched this mouse and yet....

It took nearly a full minute to come to me, a mental breakthrough that Schultz's ego would forever prevent him from making. I got a cage out of the NIMH truck, placed the mouse inside, and retreated to the side of the house to wait for it to awaken.

About ten minutes later the creature wearily raised itself up and looked around, pulling a small scrap of fabric around itself for comfort. It appeared panicked for a couple of seconds, then it calmed itself and warily cast its gaze at its surroundings, thereby proving my theory. I believe it tried to stare me down, but I ended any such contest by picking up the cage and bringing it to eye level.

"Keep your ears open," I told it in a low voice. "This will prove interesting."

I walked over to the scientist and his assistant.

"What is it now, Stetin?" George was trying to appear tough in front of his boss.

"Gentlemen," I said, "Those were not the rats you were looking for."

Schultz smiled broadly. "I was expecting your counter-attack eventually, but I didn't think it would prove this pathetic. Are you referring to the refuse? Obviously planted."

"Oh, I've got much better evidence then that. It appears that the Intelligence Detector detects no such thing." I placed the cage on the car hood.

Grumbling, Schultz pulled out his Detector and swept it around the area, Sarte peeking over his shoulder. A twitch of the nostrils was the only sign he gave of his sudden agitation. Sarte's eyes went nearly as large as saucers.

"That's...that's impossible!"

Schultz glared at him. "Will you please examine the specimen?"

George picked up the cage and slowly began turning it around. I noticed that the mouse kept its eyes continuously on myself and Schultz.

"Common field mouse, female, middle-aged, a mother at least twice, proportioned...normally. She hasn't taken the formula."

They were both silent for a few moments. From George's expression at least I knew I had them.

Schultz averted his gaze from the cage to his Detector. He silently passed the device to Sarte, and the latter followed the implied command by smashing the device into its component parts on the car hood. This managed to gain the attention of the Fitzgibbons, who ran over to see what was the matter.

Schultz faced them. "We are finished here. The rats were not infected."

Mr. Fitzgibbon turned livid and slammed his fist down on the hood, cutting it on the shards of the broken device. "Now stop right there! You didn't kill a single rat! What guarantee do I have that they won't come back?"

Schultz advanced until they were face to face. "I do not think they will come back as strong as before. I could hunt the rest of them down, but I'm afraid that will be quite...expensive. Now do you have any more use for our valuable time?"

The farmer visibly shrank. "No, no, that will be all," he whispered.

The scientist then turned on me. "This is not finished, Stetin. I want those rats, and I won't stop until I've found every last one of them. You're going to think about that, Rod Stetin, at nights, wondering if I'll ever find them. You better hope you find them first, Rod, you better hope you find them before I'm told where they are."

I just laughed. "That's not the nature of the game, Schultz. I don't have to do anything, because the detector was your last card. You'll never find them."

Schultz shrugged. "Who needs rats anyway? I've been playing a new game since you left the field, and in this game I don't need you or them to win. I release you, Rod Stetin. Release you to your guilt." He continued on to the truck, his lap puppy following at his heels.

I tried to bask in the satisfaction of finally doing something right in my life, but I noticed that Billy Fitzgibbon was trying to press through the adults to get a look at the mouse, so I took the cage back to my car in hopes of leaving her some message to possibly take to the Rodents about Gina. Unfortunately Paul was there waiting for me, so I silently released the mouse and got in the car. I think she was still staring at me as we left.

This, then, is the final human chapter in the saga of the NIMH Rodents. It was a bit foolish of them to live so close to our civilization, but it was probably necessary to prepare for the feat of living entirely on their own. If they succeed, they may have something interesting to contribute back to us in another few decades, that is assuming there is a human civilization in existence when they re-emerge. I regret not being able to tell them about Gina's sacrifice, but I am also perfectly aware that I want to tell them mainly to ensure that my own place in their history is not that of a villain.

I have had no contact from George Sarte since that last confrontation, but I'm certain that for once Schultz was true to his word and has given up on the Rats and the Mice. He had that other project he was working on, and whether he will use it to save or to damn humanity I will leave entirely to Fate.

Farmer Fitzgibbon's uncle finally died three weeks after Schultz's visit and I moved in a month later. I have been spending the last year writing this account and musing about the little field mouse that proved so crucial at the very end.

She lives somewhere on my new farm, raising a family of little field mice alongside a male field mouse that probably dictates her every move. At one time she must have been the intellectual giant of her community, yet today biology has relegated her into a role requiring much less abstract and much more concrete thinking. What stumped my opponents was the fact that she did not become so intelligent because she was bio-engineered, or because of exposure to the best in human non-fiction. She became the pinpoint on my screen because she was innately curious and because she had the strength of will to fight the social and genetic urges that quickly make most female rodents into subservient drones of their fathers and mates. She was probably this way long before NIMH's rodents stopped by her farm, although if she had the courage to overcome the fear of the unnatural and approach them, she would have learned far more then mere observation of nature ever would have taught her. If this is true, if she knew them, then she is my only link to them. It is an idle fantasy for a man that has relinquished all power to change the course of events. But for some illogical reason it mutes the recorded voices in my head and lessens the need to listen to that infernal record.

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