There was sweat on Mike Cleary’s forehead, and sweat trickling down his back and under his armpits.
“Got them,” he said. “Oi’ve got them!”
And quite illogically, since that was now his firm belief, he took the pint bottle from his hip pocket and finished the rest of its contents at a single gulp.
Darkness, and roaring.
And it was the sudden cessation of the roaring sound that wakened Mitkey. Wakened him to utter and stygian blackness of a confined space. His head ached and his stomach ached.
And then, suddenly, he knew where he was. The rocket!
The jets had stopped firing, and that meant he was over the line and falling, falling toward the moon.
But how—? Why—?
He remembered the radio pick-up that would be broadcasting sounds from the rocket to the professor’s ultra-short-wave receiver, and he called out despairingly, “Brofessor! Brofessor Oberburger! Help! It iss—”
And then another sound drowned him out.
A whistling sound, a high shrill sound that could only be the rush of the rocket through air, through an atmosphere.
The moon? Was the professor right and the astronomers wrong about the moon, or was the rocket falling back to Earth?
At any rate, the vanes were gripping now, and the rocket was slowing rather than accelerating.
A sudden jerk almost knocked the breath out of him. The parachute vanes were opening now. If they would—
Crash!
And again blackness behind the eyes of Mitkey as well as before them. Blackout in blackness, and when two doors clicked open to admit light through balsa bars, Mitkey did not see them.
Not at first, and then he wakened and groaned.
His eyes came to focus first on the wooden bars, and then through them.
“Der moon,” he muttered. He reached through the balsa-bar gate and unlatched it. Fearfully, he stuck his little gray nose out of the door and looked around.
Nothing happened.
He pulled his head back in and turned around to face the microphone.
“Brofessor! Can you hear me, Brofessor? Iss me, Mitkey. Dot Vhitey, he double-grosses us. Vhite paint I got on me, so I know vhat happened. You vere nodt in on it, or der vhite paint vould not be.”
“It vas dreachery, Brofessor! By mine own kind, a mouse, I vas doublegrossed. Und Vhitey—Brofessor, he has der X-19 brojector now! I am avraid vhat he may be blanning. Iss wrong, or he vould haf told me, no?”
Then silence, and Mitkey thinking deeply.
“Brofessor, I got to get back. Nodt for me, but to stop Vhitey! Maybe you can help. Loogk, I can change der broadcaster here into a receifer, I think. It should be easy; receifers are simpler, no? Und you quick build a ultra-shordt sender like this vun.”
“Yess I stardt now. Goot-bye, Brofessor. I change der vires.”
“Mitkey, can you hear me, Mitkey?”
“Mitkey, loogk, I giff instructions now und I rebeat effery half hour for a vhile, in gase you gannot get der first time.”
“Virst, vhen you haf heard insdructions, shudt off der set to safe bower. You vill need all der bower left in der batteries to stardt again. So do not broadcast again. Do nodt answer me.”
“Aboudt aiming und calculating, later. Virst, check der fuel left in der dubes. I used more than vas needed, und I think it vill be enough because to leaf der light-grafity moon vill need much much less bower than to leaf der Earth. Und…”
And over and over, the professor repeated it. There were gaps, there were things he himself could not know how to do without being there, but Mitkey might be able to find the answers.
Over and over he repeated the adjustments, the angle of aiming, the timing. Everything except how Mitkey could move the rocket to turn it, to aim it. But Mitkey was a smart mouse, the professor knew. Maybe with levers, somehow—if he could find levers—
Over and over and far into the night, until the good professor’s voice was hoarse with fatigue, and until at last, right in the middle of the nineteenth repetition, he fell sound asleep.
Bright sunlight when he awakened, and the clock on the shelf striking eleven. He rose and stretched his cramped muscles, sat down again and leaned forward to the microphone.
“Mitkey can you—”
But no, there was no use in that. Unless Mitkey had heard one of his earlier sendings the night before, it would he too late now. Mitkey’s batteries—the rocket’s batteries—would be worn out by now if he still had the set connected.
Nothing to do now but wait, and hope.
The hoping was hard, and the waiting was harder.
Night. Day. Night. And nights and days until a week had gone by. Still no Mitkey.
Again, as once before, the professor had set his wire cage trap and caught Minnie. Again, as before, he took good care of her.
“Mine Minnie, maybe soon your Mitkey vill be back mit us.”
“Budt Minnie, vhy can’t you dalk like him yet? If he made an eggsnineteen brojector, vhy did he nodt use it on you? I do nodt understand. Vhy?”
But Minnie didn’t tell him why, because she didn’t know. She watched him suspiciously, and listened, but she wouldn’t talk. Not until Mitkey got back did they find out why. And then—paradoxically—only because Mitkey had not yet taken time to remove the white paint.
Mitkey’s landing was a good one. He was able to crawl away from it, and after a while to walk.
But it had been in Pennsylvania, and it had taken him two days to reach Hartford. Not afoot, of course. He had hidden at a filling station until a truck with a Connecticut license had come along, and when it took on gasoline, it took Mitkey, too.
A last few miles on foot, and then at last—
“Brofessor! Iss me, Mitkey.”
“Mitkey! Mein Mitkey! Almost I had giffen up hope to see you. Tell me how you—”
“Layder, Brofessor. I tell you all, layder. Virst, vhere iss Minnie? You haff her? She vas lost vhen—”
“In der cage, Mitkey. I kept her safe for you. Now I can release her, no?”
And he opened the door of the wire cage. Minnie came out, hesitantly.
“Master,” she said. And it was at Mitkey she was looking.
“Vot?”
She repeated, “Master. You are a vite mouse. I am your slafe.”
“Vot?” said Mitkey again, and he looked at the professor. “Vot iss? She speaks, budt—”
The professor’s eyes were wide. “I do not know, Mitkey. Neffer she speaks to me. I did not know dot she—Vait, she says about vhite mice. Maybe she—”
“Minnie,” said Mitkey, “do you nodt know me?”
“You are a vhite mouse, master. So I speak to you. Ve are nodt to speak except to der vhite mouses. I did not speak, so, until now.”
“Who? Minnie, who are nodt to speak except to vhite mouses?”
“Us gray mouses, master.”
Mitkey turned to Piofessor Oberburger. “Professor. I think I begin to understand. It is vorse than I—Minnie, vot are der gray mouses subbosed to do for der vhite mouses?”
“Anything, master. Ve are your slafes, ve are your vorkers, ve are your soldiers. Ve obey der Emperor, and all der other vhite mouses. Und virst all der gray mouses vill be taught to vork und to fight. Und then—”
“Vait, Minnie. I haf an idea. How mudch iss two und two?”
“Four, master.”
“How mudch iss thirdeen und tvelf?”
“I do not know, master.”
Mitkey nodded. “Go back der cage in.”
He turned again to the professor. “You see? A liddle, nodt mudch, he raises der lefel of indelligence of der gray mice. Der zero-two leffel, vhich iss his—so he iss chusdt a liddle smarter than der other vhite mice, und many dimes as smardt as der ordinary mice, who they vill use as solchers und vorkers. Iss diabolical, no?”