Rat Trap (8 page)

So that was the boy's new plan: Put Rat in a cage!

Stupid plan!

Wicked boy!

Rat had told him: Never, ever, ever, ever put Rat in a cage again. Was he going to disobey her about
everything
?

The father was saying, “… might work, Jeff, but there are some problems. Where are you going to hide it? The investigator will search for a thing like that.”

“Well, maybe you can—”

“No.” The father was quick to dismiss the idea. Rat was glad. She did not want to go with him. “If the investigator suspects you, he'll naturally suspect Mom and me.”

The father asked more questions: “How will you hide the rat scent in here? How will you get a habitat? Just where
will
you hide it?”

“I don't know, Dad.” The boy sounded discouraged. “I have to think some more.”

“You do that,” the father said, then his voice softened. “Listen, Jeff, I don't mean to badger you. It's just that, well, you have to be thorough if you're going to have any chance at all. Let me know what you come up with. Meantime, I'll see what I can do about borrowing a habitat.”

The father was so strange, scolding and helping. Rat was still not sure how far to trust him, so she waited until the father left before poking her head up out of the drawer.

“Father plays too much chess,” she signed. “Answer simple. The machine will hide Rat.”

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

O
PERATION
I
NVISIBLE

Two days had passed in frantic work, and now it was almost teatime.

Teatime had never been part of Rat and the boy's routine, but it was part of the routine of the scientist-who-cooks. Every day at 15:00 hours, she visited a fellow scientist to drink tea. This regularity determined when the habitat must be hidden inside the machine. Two hours later the shuttle would dock with the space station.

Not much was left of their regular routine—only eating, sleeping, and checking on Nanny. The robot remained headless, dark-eyed, and silent. The chief had given up. The computers were disconnected. One less thing to worry about. Every other minute had been spent preparing to hide Rat. The boy had scrubbed the Zero-G room with fire foam. The father had borrowed a habitat, pretending the mother needed it to run simulations of global warming. The machine had located an empty processing unit big enough to put the habitat in. And Rat had worked and worked, erasing any clues left in the space station computer network.

A loud
hiss
and
fizz
and a yelp from the boy. Rat glanced quickly away from the computer. Fire foam bubbled up on the boy's forearm. Not for the first time. He was trying to fill a small, Rat-sized canister from a big extinguisher. The connection was tricky. Sometimes, the fire foam squirted out. It stank. It was slimy.

Rat tried to ignore the boy. He had his last-minute job, Rat had hers: programming Scrub-a-Dub. The boy had named it, but it was Rat who worked out all the hundreds of details to make sure the program cleaned up every last scrap of evidence about her and finally crashed the computer, wiping out even itself. The boy would activate Scrub-a-Dub after teatime, when Rat was gone.

The intercom buzzed. It was exactly 15:00. Rat kept right on programming, but angled one ear toward the speaker. A deep, gravelly voice said, “Hello, is this the residence of Jeffrey Gannon?”

Rat was fooled, but the boy guessed right away. “Of course it is, LB.”

“How do you know this is LB? This might be a wrong number. This might be an impostor,” the machine said, using its normal voice. “Say the password.”

Annoying machine. Games were not over for it.

“That's ridiculous,” the boy said, and Rat agreed. The machine was worse than the boy. Everything was new; everything was play; everything was fun. It had never been hunted or had a leg mangled by a sniffer. The machine had no practical experience. That worried Rat.

“I know it's you because no one ever calls me.”

“But how does LB know it's you? Say the password.”

“Okay, okay. Liverwurst.”

“Correct,” the machine said. “Now the message: Bett has left for tea. Begin Operation Invisible.”

Rat liked that name. She typed the final line of code, and the program erased her from the space station's memory banks.

The boy called the father. “Dad, it's time.”

The boy wiped spilled foam from the outside of the small canister. He attached it to the jetpak harness, next to the rocket canister, then set the assembly near the spyvest on the bed. “Your stuff's all ready.”

Tap-tap-tap,

tap-a-tap-a-tap-tap.

The father came in. Scientist! Run!

The impulse was strong, but Rat forced herself to stay at the keyboard, even as the father came toward her. Bending over her, he drew a finger down the screen to scan the lines of code. His scent was similar to the boy's, only with sharper tones and more complicated odors.

“This is fantastic. An extremely advanced algorithm.” The father dipped his chin to look at Rat. “Did Rodengenics teach you that?”

Rat shook her head. She typed,
RAT MADE THAT.

“You're really something,” the father said, but it was worry, not admiration Rat saw in his expression. “They must want you back very badly. Look here …”

The father stepped away from the desk. He reached into a pocket and brought out a silver ball the size of a grape. “This might help if … if things go wrong. It's a scrambler.”

The father had made that for Rat? Why?

She cocked her head, studying him. A scrambler was a very special electronic tool. It could zap the brain of any sniffer that came within a few feet of it. But it would not work from inside a habitat. The father was a good strategist. He would not waste time building that if he did not think there was a good chance Rat might need it.

The boy understood this, too. “You think we'll fail, don't you?”

“Not at all. It's a good plan. You know me, this is just a contingency. A backup. Deep backup.” To Rat's ear, the father's words lacked conviction. He was pretending, to keep up the boy's confidence. The boy needed confidence. He was the one who must meet the investigator, talk with him, fool him into believing he knew nothing about Rat.

The father underestimated the boy. He had fought Nanny to save Rat, had defied Rat to come up with a better plan, had worked hard with his brain to make sure she would not be caught.

“You will succeed,” Rat signed. “Rat is sure.”

“Don't worry, Jeff,” said the father. “This is a precaution in case the habitat is discovered. It'll give Rat a fighting chance if she has to make a run for it.”

If Rat had to run, the scrambler would keep her safe from sniffers' jaws, but she would not be invisible anymore.

“Run where?” the boy asked.

“That's right—we'll need a rendezvous.”

“Not here,” the boy said. “Mom's lab?”

“Yes,” Rat signed. “Under sink. Meet there.”

Rat had scrounged for food under that sink.

“Let's hope we won't have to.” The father handed the scrambler to Rat. She twirled the grape-sized ball in her forepaws. “Sorry it's so big. I didn't have the right tools. Will you be able to carry it?”

Rat had the perfect pocket. With a big yawn and a gulp, she swallowed the scrambler.

“Ah … efficient,” the father said. “Jeff, I'll meet you in the biology lab with the habitat. Rat, good luck.”

By the time the father was out the door, Rat was on the bed, rolling to wrap the spyvest around her. She smoothed along the Velcro seam, then shook herself head to tail to settle her hairs under its snug fit. She frisked the vest: flashlight, spider wire, screwdriver. All her tools were in the right pockets.

Satisfied, she stepped under the boy's hand holding up the jetpak. He steadied it on her back while Rat pulled the straps tight across her belly. When the boy let go, the unexpected weight of the new fire-foam canister dimpled the mattress under her toes, putting her off balance.

It would be hard work, carrying all this gear, at least until she moved
in
to the lower gravity rings. Rat did not complain, though. She liked having two control knobs. She liked having full pockets. She liked having a scrambler in her belly. The combination of new things felt very sophisticated, like having real spy gear again.

Rat climbed up the cubbies. The boy stood on the bed and swung open the grate covering the vent. Rat sprang inside, then paused. She signed, “Remember. If investigator is Dr. Vivexian—”

“I know, I know. Be
very
careful,” the boy said. “You've signed that so often, it's burned into my eyeballs like a hieroglyph.”

“What's that?”

“An ancient kind of writing.”

“Before typing?”

“Way before.” The boy laughed. “Ask LB. You'll have lots of time. See ya soon.”

The boy dropped the grate shut.
Clack!

Rat turned on the fire foam. The canister spluttered and hissed, squirting foam behind her as she retraced her path to the Photonics lab. The spray wet her tail. It fizzed and tickled on the bare skin. Ick! Rat sprinted, poured on the speed, loosening and extending each leg to the max. Ears and whiskers flattened against the wind she made. It felt delicious. She would not be able to move like this for a long time, not once she stepped into that box.

The shaft branched. An awkward step to shut off the foam—she did not want to have to come back through it—then she flashed down the branch to the scientist's apartment: dark and empty. No good smells. Only the stink of the fire foam in the air. Just how it was supposed to be. She made an about-face at the grate, turned on the foam, and dashed for the lab.

“Oooo, that tickles,” the machine said when Rat dropped onto the main console, foaming over the places she had stepped while trying to steal the laser.

“Really?” the boy said.

“No. LB has no sense of touch on that console. LB was pretending.”

Rat shut off the foam. She stood at the edge of the console with stinky bubbles all around her. Her ribs pressed hard against the spyvest with each breath. She looked at the boy and the machine. Jokers, both of them. Yet she must trust them. They were a team. It was good. It was bad. Rat had only her own mistakes to worry about before. She hoped she was not making a mistake now.

“We should install the habitat,” the machine said. “Bett may return unexpectedly.”

The habitat module rested on a wheeled cart, a plain box with solid walls a few rat-lengths long and wide and tall. The life-support equipment was hidden in a thick floor. The open door faced Rat. The inside had been painted pretty colors: greens and oranges and yellows, the colors of outdoors. A joke by a wicked scientist who had never lived in a cage.

Rat stared at the thing. Her teeth grated. Go in there? The boy's plan was a good plan. But that door! It could not be opened from the inside. Once it closed behind her, her safety would depend completely on the boy and the machine.

The boy slipped his hand under her belly. He was going to put her inside!

Dead end. Trap. Stay out!

Rat splayed her paws, desperately grappling the edges of the door frame. The boy did not try to force her in. Good thing. Rat would have bitten him if he had. He set her back on the machine's console.

“Not ready, huh?”

“Will not be put in a cage, even by you.”

“Sure, Rat. I'm sorry.” The boy wheeled the habitat module up against the console. Rat saw the stash of food and water and the soft blanket the boy had packed inside.

“As soon as Jeff puts the habitat module in Processor D and connects the communications cables, LB will be able to visit with you. LB will make sure there is light and a nice temperature.”

That was something, Rat told herself. Still, she could not move.

“Do not be afraid, Cousin Rat.”

Rat spun to face the machine. “What know about fear?”

“LB knows fear.” The machine sounded hurt. “Cousin Rat taught LB when you tried to steal the laser. LB learned there is danger and that LB has no defenses. LB was never afraid before. LB is now.”

Rat's fault. It did not seem a good thing to have done. The machine had been happy in its box. But Rat was not entirely sorry she had taught it about fear. It meant the machine understood Operation Invisible was not a game.

Rat turned to face the door. For the first time since discovering sunshine, she willingly stepped into a cage.

“Watch that tail,” the boy said.

Rat flicked the last inch out of the way.

Click!
The door closed, sealing Rat inside with complete darkness and a silence that made her ears ring. She did not have to see the walls to feel their solid closeness. Usually Rat liked that, but this was not an air shaft, with a way forward and a way backward and side shafts here and there.

With a burst of unnecessary speed, she rushed around the box, touching, smelling, discovering: soft blanket; water dispenser; food packets—peanut butter, oaty oats, swiss cheese, liverwurst; food bowl—empty, fill it soon; smooth walls; ventilator grille—no fresh air yet; litter box—that was an improvement, as she really did not like the toilet; and a squeaky exercise wheel.

Besides Rat, that was it: a small world, quickly mapped. Itch! Under the spyvest. Dare she take it off? Would there be any warning if things went wrong?

A tilt; a jolt. The faintest whisper of a scrape as the boy slid the habitat into Processor D. The dullest click as he attached the cables. The habitat was so well insulated, she would never even hear a sniffer if it rolled over the top.

A light came on, confronting Rat with the painted walls. She should have brought a sunspot poster. Maybe the machine could show her some pictures of the sun later. The air fan purred. Tiny vibrations from the life support equipment under the floor tickled her toes.