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  “This is the model with telephone capability, sir,” said Uncle Fred. “Allow me to describe its new features.”

  “Why describe when we can demonstrate?” asked the Big Cheese. “Talking Mouse Three, come with me. And Mr. Fred, please turn on your cell phone so you can be sure to hear when we call you.”

  Megan held Trey up near her ear.

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “This time it’s cool.”

  Not like on that first visit, when he’d been whisked away from this conference room to go work in the Training Department and she thought she’d lost him forever.

  Trey climbed down to the tabletop and ran to stand in front of the Big Cheese, where a couple of muscle mice fitted him with a harness and lifted the Thumbtop Two into it. Then he and the Big Cheese headed for the edge of the table, hopped down to a chair, then to the floor, and were gone.

  here are silences and then there are Silences. This was one of the second variety, a Silence in which the humans could almost hear their hearts beating. From the outside world came the happy screams of Great America, but in the foreground—nothing—nothing to distract Megan from her thoughts, which were tumbling around in an uncomfortable tangle. Was the Big Cheese just bored with the subject of her mom? Would she really get Trey back? What was going on?

  She looked at the members of the Mouse Council. No clues there. They were sitting just as still as she was, not even looking at each other. She turned to Uncle Fred, who shrugged and nodded toward the silent cell phone on the table. Be patient. Wait.

  Big help.

  The silence seemed to last forever but in fact it was only a minute or two before Uncle Fred’s phone rang. It was set on SPEAKER so everyone heard the message—Trey’s voice loud and clear, saying, “Mr. Watson, come here. I want to see you.”

  Which brought a deep chortle from Uncle Fred.

  “That’s so smart,” he said. “That’s what Alexander Graham Bell said in the first-ever phone call, human to human. And this is the first-ever call from a mouse to a human. Works for me.”

  Then he stopped smiling at the phone’s next words, which were, “A word in your ear, please.”

  Uncle Fred turned off the speaker and held the phone to his ear, swiveling to look at Megan as he did so. Then he stood up and gestured for her to stand up too.

  “We’ll be there,” he said.

  Megan felt huge again as she followed Uncle Fred out of the conference room, with Julia clinging to a braid.

  “Second corridor to the right,” whispered Uncle Fred. “That’s what Trey said. And we’re to make sure we’re not followed. Can you believe it?”

  As if he were taking part in a game, he tiptoed with exaggerated care down the corridor ahead of Megan, spinning around every few steps to make sure there was no one—no mouse—behind them. And indeed no one followed as they turned into the second corridor on the right. There was no sign of life in this corridor either, until they saw a solitary mouse standing outside a door that was different from the rest—the door to a broom closet. Trey.

  “Julia,” he said, as they came close. “You keep guard. Tell us if anyone gets near enough to overhear.”

  He waved the humans through the door and into the broom closet, which Uncle Fred seemed to fill from top to bottom. Megan noticed he was wearing the same expression that he’d had last year, when he first learned that mice had evolved. A little worried, yes, but mostly overjoyed to be right in the middle of the greatest science fiction movie of all time.

  The Big Cheese was standing beside Thumbtop Two—and it was lucky that he was still wearing his fine chain of office around his neck, because without it, Megan would never have recognized him.

  This was not the leader of a proud nation.

  This was one scared mouse, who seemed to have lost all his gravitas.

  “It’s bad stuff,” said Trey, as the humans squatted down to be nearer to mouse level. “Look.”

  “When I summoned you last Friday,” said the Big Cheese. “It was because I had just received this message from one of our operatives in the county offices. The office that deals with pests.”

  He clicked on the Thumbtop and brought up an e-mail:

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Subject: Report of infestation

  Sir, I thought you ought to know about an e-mail that just came in. It says: “Did you know there’s a building behind the Great America theme park that has a massive mouse infestation? There are thirty-two mice in one office and thirty-six in the next. I think this is disgusting and you should send in the exterminators.”

  “This building?” exclaimed Uncle Fred. “But who could have reported you? Like a delivery person or something? Some mailman looking through a window?”

  “It was not a mailman,” said the Big Cheese. “All our offices open onto an interior court, so none have windows humans can look through.”

  Megan was ahead of him, and a cold feeling seemed to wrap itself around her insides. If it wasn’t a human.…

  “It was a mouse!” she said. “You think it was a mouse!”

  “I know it was a mouse,” said the Big Cheese sadly. “Because that e-mail gave the authorities information no human could have known—the precise mouse-count in two adjoining offices. In due course, I am confident that we can identify the wrongdoers, though now is not the time.”

  Uncle Fred stood up, hitting his head on the low ceiling, then crouched down again.

  “Well, we’re here to help,” he said. “What would you like us to do? Go to the county offices and ask them to please stop looking for you?”

  That brought a quick “Laughing out loud” sign, though it was made abruptly, without humor.

  “That might have been a good plan,” said the Big Cheese, “but it is now too late. It is too late because of this.”

  He brought up another e-mail—the one the messenger mouse had brought into the conference room:

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Subject: DANGER

  The pest control people have guessed which building is ‘infested,’ and exterminators are coming to HQ this p.m.

  “We must evacuate the premises immediately,” said the Big Cheese. “And it is fortunate, is it not, that on the day the exterminators come, we have humans to help us—humans with wheels?”

  “Whoa!” said Uncle Fred. “You mean our Prius? Maximum capacity five humans or maybe eight hundred mice? How many are you?”

  “The latest census put our population at two thousand two hundred and forty-three,” said the Big Cheese.

  “We can rent a bigger car, right?” said Megan. “We have to save them, Uncle Fred!”

  “I don’t think any regular car would be big enough,” said Uncle Fred. “Not even an SUV. We’ll have to rent an RV. A recreational vehicle. A dirty great house on wheels. How long do we have?”

  “Leave now,” said the Big Cheese, drawing himself up to his tallest as if to make the point that even though he needed help from humans, he was still, after all, the leader. “I will give the order to prepare for evacuation.”

  He leaned forward and tapped out a brief e-mail on the Thumbtop. Before he pushed SEND, he invited the humans to read it. It didn’t take long.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Subject: Evacuation Drill

  All mice will follow evacuation drill, to be completed no later than twelve noon.

  When he’d read it, Uncle Fred reached out his hand to touch what should have been the most powerful paw on the planet, except that now it was trembling as the Big Cheese gazed imploringly at the humans who were his only hope.

  By the time Megan and Uncle Fred had scooped up their two mice and reached Main Street, the evacuation message had reached the emergency response team, and the alarm was sounding, sharp and loud, the same old bicycle horn that had warned Headquarters last year that Megan was on th
e loose, hunting for Trey.

  Then, it had sounded only once. Now there were three blasts on the horn, each louder than the last:

  oo OO oo

  oo OO oo

  oo OO oo

  Megan realized she’d never be able to give Uncle Fred a proper tour of Headquarters. Never show him the amazing research that went on there, because now the core of mouse civilization would be dismantled, packed up for evacuation. Already, as they hurried past open offices on Main Street, they could see mice pulling charts off walls where they’d been pinned, low down. Thumbtops were being lined up in the doorways of each office, ready to go. And mice were scurrying every which way as if—well, as if their lives depended on it.

  It’s amazing how fast you can move when you have to. And one of the things about moving fast to stay ahead of a looming emergency is that you don’t bother to check whether anyone is following you. You don’t notice whether or not a green pickup truck is sliding away from its parking spot as your Prius goes by.

  Uncle Fred and Megan hurried back to the hotel to pack and check out while Trey and Julia hid under the seat of the Prius with a Thumbtop, booking an RV. As Trey often said, on the Internet, nobody knows you’re a mouse, and by the time Megan and Uncle Fred ran out of the hotel, trundling their suitcases, Trey had used Uncle Fred’s credit card to reserve a vehicle that could accommodate at least 2,423 mice—2,425 if you included Trey and Julia.

  After that it was easy.

  They turned in the Prius at its rental company and took a taxi to the RV place, where Trey had booked a shiny silver RV that blew Megan’s mind—so huge, so tall, and so enticing, with all its closets and bathroom and kitchen, and seats that turned into beds. But Uncle Fred looked decidedly daunted as he piloted the thing off the lot and into the traffic in a series of jerks and lurches that made Julia and Trey cower down in the cup holders where they were traveling.

  They jerked their way into the parking lot of a strip mall, where Uncle Fred used up at least three parking spaces as they bought two big bags of mouse food plus kitty litter and two trays to spread it on. Then Uncle Fred hurried into an office supply store to buy a couple of cardboard boxes, each big enough to transport one mouse research team at a time.

  The parking lot by Headquarters was still blessedly empty, and Headquarters itself was calm. Megan had half expected to find scenes of panic, or at least frantic activity, but if there had been any, it was over. Main Street was paved with phalanxes of mice waiting politely for deliverance, each with a sign-mouse in front carrying a piece of card glued to a wooden matchstick with the name of a department: Accounting, Business, Climate, Cool It, Crop Futures, Education, Engineering, Forward Planning—a score of departments in alphabetical order, plus the mousekeeping and security teams that kept Headquarters going.

  Way down at the far end of Main Street, where the light was dim, Megan saw a glint of gold from a piece of fine chain as the Big Cheese, like the captain of a sinking ship, prepared to be the last to leave.

  Loading everyone into the RV went fast. The humans would place a cardboard box on its side, a department would march in, stand absolutely still for the ride, then march out to stand in neat rows on the floor of the RV, waiting.

  “Shouldn’t we spread them out?” Megan asked, as the floor started filling up. “Maybe put some guys on the seats? Or the table?”

  “Later,” said Uncle Fred, almost sprinting back for another load. “Let’s get them all out of here first.”

  It didn’t take long to finish airlifting everyone to safety in the RV. Almost everyone. Megan was just emerging with the World Hunger Department, and Uncle Fred was way back at the other end of Main Street, collecting the Mouse Council and the Big Cheese himself when Trey saw it.

  “Uh-oh,” he whispered from Megan’s shoulder.

  Through the open doorway, he had seen a man pulling on a white jumpsuit of the sort people wear when they are working with very strong chemicals. And a van was parked next to the RV.

  A white van with big letters on its side:

  EXTERMINATOR

  We’ll Get the Best of Your Pest

  he man in the white jumpsuit hadn’t seen Megan yet, but was walking slowly toward the RV. In a couple of seconds he’d look through a window and see more mice than you could exterminate in a lifetime, all lined up in rows, the way they had been unloaded.

  Megan’s first instinct was to drop the box carrying the World Hunger Department and rush back to the protection of Uncle Fred, who was still way down at the other end of Main Street, scooping up the last box of mice. But that would be disastrous, of course—and Trey knew it.

  “Say something!” he whispered urgently from her shoulder. “Distract him!”

  “Hi there!” Megan called out. The man stopped advancing on the RV. But what came next? How could she possibly explain the box she was carrying? If it had a lid she could pretend it was office supplies, but lids don’t work for rapid mouse transport, and she’d folded the top flaps down into the box to make it easier for the mice to march in. Now she started to rotate the box so the open side would be against her body, but she was too late. The man in the white suit took a couple of quick steps toward her.

  “Hand over those mice, little lady!” he called out. “Don’t try to kill them yourself! Leave that to the professionals!”

  “No, it’s okay,” she said. “They’re…”

  What could she possibly say? That these mice were her friends? That they had evolved and were every bit as smart as he was?

  It was Trey who gave her the words she needed. “Tell him we’re an act!” he whispered. “Performing mice!”

  “They’re part of my act,” Megan said.

  “We perform at Great America,” Trey whispered.

  “We do a show at Great America,” said Megan obediently.

  And for the first time today she was glad to be wearing the new dress and the shiny shoes that made it look as if she were absolutely ready to go onstage, or wherever you go with a mouse act.

  Another man was leaning against the van, pulling a white jumpsuit over his clothes.

  “Take a look at this, Luis!” the first man called out. “She says those mice are part of an act. You ever hear of such a thing? Performing mice?”

  The man called Luis came over, the top of his white suit still unzipped and hanging around his waist.

  “No way!” he said. “Mice don’t perform. Mice are dumb. Real dumb. Know what I always say about mice, Al?”

  “The only good mouse is a dead mouse?” said Al.

  “Yeah, that’s what I always say,” said Luis.

  While they were talking, Trey whispered a new word into Megan’s ear. Robots.

  “They’re robots,” said Megan. “Robot mice. And this robot,” she added, jerking her head toward Trey, “is programmed to give them instructions. Here, I’ll show you.”

  She put the box on the ground then picked Trey off her shoulder and held him out on the palm of her hand, so the mice in the box could see his signs as he went into a series of stiff MSL commands. And on those commands, the World Hunger Department marched out of its box and divided into two sections, then four, like a human high school band, ending with slow pirouettes and deep bows in unison before marching back into the box.

  “See?” said Megan, feeling braver. “No way real mice could do that.”

  “No way,” agreed Luis.

  “So that’s what’s in the building?” said Al. “Robots? Someone reported it was infested, but you’re telling me it’s just robots?”

  “You got it!” said Megan.

  “Well, isn’t that the darnedest thing,” said Luis. He’d zipped up his white suit but now he unzipped it again. “Never seen robots like that. Hey, I’ll tell my kid. He’s crazy for that sort of stuff. You’ll be in that big theater place, right? What time are you on?”

  That flummoxed Megan for a moment, because she had no idea when shows happened at Great America, and she felt herself starting to go red.
But at that moment Uncle Fred emerged from the Headquarters building, where he’d been listening in the shadows with the Big Cheese on his shoulder and the box holding the Mouse Council in his hands.

  “Pretty good act, right?” he said to the men. “You can check the times on the Great America Web site.”

  He unloaded the Mouse Council onto the last empty piece of floor in the RV, lifting the Big Cheese into the little old birdcage, which he’d hung from the rearview mirror, its door tied open so no one could think the leader of the Mouse Nation was a prisoner.

  “He’s the chief robot,” Uncle Fred explained to the exterminators. “Gets pride of place.”

  The two men had followed Uncle Fred to the RV, and although he was carefully blocking the doorway, they could plainly get a glimpse through the windows of the mouse-mass now covering the floor.

  And if one mouse lost it…

  Megan remembered Curly’s account of being captured by Joey last year, before Joey learned the truth about mice. Curly had gone straight into WWAWMD mode: “What Would A Wild Mouse Do?” Because there is no way you should show any human (except for the four who Knew) how smart you are. If anyone decided on a strategy of WWAWMD right now, it could mean DEATH. But to Megan’s relief, the rows of mice stood stock still, like robots on a toy-store shelf.

  “I’d show you some of their moves,” said Uncle Fred, “but we don’t want to run the batteries down before the show.”

  Al had a goofy smile on his face, and Luis was shaking his head in admiration. “Well, good luck with it,” he said. “We’ll have to check out the building, of course, but hey, no rush.”

  “Megan, want to take a last look?” asked Uncle Fred. “Make sure there’s no robot left behind?”

  He handed Megan an empty box and sat firmly on the step of the RV so that no one could get any closer to his robots, while Megan checked Headquarters for anything that might give Luis and Al a hint that intelligent beings had lived there. There wasn’t much—just a few sheets of paper taped to the walls at mouse height. A map of the Middle East. A financial report on cheese from The Economist. And a battered picture of a cat from the shooting range, where young mice with elastic bands had practiced catapulting paper clips at the enemy.