"I'm feeding each tank with oxygen, just to be sure their growth isn't stunted. I don't know if they need it or not. I mean, I know they need oxygen, but I don't know if they need more than the atmospheric twenty per cent. They are so marvelous. Truly marvelous to watch."
AND SO THEY WERE. MIKEY and Mole watched the small creatures continue to grow, still as unrecognizable as when they were tiny embryos. They had maintained their green color, although it had thinned to a soft creamy hue. The head had grown to better contain the eyes, but they were still large and bulbous. The small arms had grown also, but the ends had remained a cross between a fin and a hand. Their legs were the most powerful of their limbs, and hinted that their form of locomotion would be more hopping than walking. Mikey noticed a small film of down fur developing over the body.
It was only four days since they had burst from their egg sacs, and already they were almost too large for the tanks. But that didn't pose the problem that Mole had feared, for by the next day, the lab was filled with the small creatures climbing from one tank to the next.
"I think we can officially say that our little orphans are hatched, or born, or whatever these little guys have been doing. They seem to be independent of their nesting boxes, so to speak." Mole reached under his glasses and rubbed his nose. "I feel like I should be passing out cigars."
"Why's that?" Mikey asked.
"Oh, just an old custom; one in which I never had an opportunity to partake. Anyway, the next question is what to feed the little fellas."
"You don't know?"
"Not for sure, but I have a pretty good idea what they need. It's just a matter of finding something they like. I hope to hell they aren't too finicky. Never could tolerate finicky babies."
It became quickly apparent Mole had nothing to worry about. The creatures were anything but finicky. In fact, the opposite was the case. They ate everything. Mole made the discovery when he went to empty the trash and found the can in the lab empty, despite his having not emptied it for over a week. When he asked Mikey if he had attended to it, Mikey assured him he had not. When they entered the lab to investigate, they found the crew devouring a thick stack of National Geographics.
"Oh, my God, they must be starving to death to eat such stuff. I do hope we haven't raised them to this point, simply to lose them from constipation from a fiber-rich diet of National Geographics."
But the “children” continued to flourish. Mole learned that a diet of virtually anything with a carbon structure was digestible by his orphans. This was great news to Mole since he had been worried how he was going to buy food for nineteen hungry mouths without attracting attention. For the present, that would not be a problem, since he had rooms full of old newspapers and magazines. By the time his supply ran out, he would be able to develop a secondary source.
With each day, as the creatures grew, it became more apparent that they were not of earth, although they seemed to be related to the mammalian species that inhabited the continents. Mole decided to name them Molemiks.
"I've never named anything after myself. At seventy-five, I figure it's about time, but I wanted you to get credit, too, Mikey. You've been wonderful help and support. I really appreciate your keeping quiet about them. I know it's not easy for you. I'm sure you'd love to tell your friends at school about them, but I'm afraid it's just not safe. Not yet. Maybe never."
Mole's words sent goose bumps running up and down Mikey's spine, and he felt the old pain in his stomach returning. In the excitement of watching the Molemiks grow, he had almost forgotten about the missing fetus.
He knew he had been putting off the inevitable, and to wait any longer could only result in disaster. He'd have to make his move soon before it was too late.
"Are you okay, Mikey? You look a little pale. Have you been getting enough sleep? You need to get plenty of rest. I can't have my assistant getting sick on me, right?"
"I'm all right, really. Must have been something I ate."
"You haven't been into the Molemik's National Geographic supply, have you? They'd get pretty upset. I think that's their favorite magazine."
"That or the Reader's Digest." Mikey chuckled at his joke, but the laugh came out hollow, empty. He knew that it was time to take action, and it was up to him. As soon as possible, he excused himself and left the sanctuary of Mole's cottage.
Mikey had convinced himself to go home and lie down for a while to get over the sick feeling that persisted in the pit of his stomach when he ran into Luellen on the way home.
"Hey, Mikey, have you seen it?" Luellen yelled to him from the other side of the street. It surprised Mikey to hear her speak to him. She was in his homeroom at school, but had never recognized his existence.
"Seen what?" he asked, a bit perturbed by her vagueness.
"Buzz's freak in a bottle, of course."
Mikey suddenly went cold all over. Where had he been hiding for so long that such a nobody as Luellen would know about the secret? God, the Sunday Herald would surely have it on the front page by morning.
"Well, have you?" Luellen had crossed the street and was standing before the cold statue that had moments before been Mikey.
"Ah, no. I mean, yeah. Ah...have you?" Mikey tried to bring himself back to the present moment.
"Why, of course. I just came from there. Buzz's folks kicked a bunch of us kids out just a few moments ago. Golly, it was neat. Horrid little creature, but neat."
Had Buzz's folks found out about it? Had they seen it? Mikey was too afraid of the answer to ask. He knew he could not go home and lie down, though. Not yet. He had a job to do. One that he had already put off for too long. One that only he could perform.
Mikey figured that dinner time was as good as any to break into Buzz's room. Everyone in the family would be downstairs at the table. He'd either go straight through the door, if they didn't keep it locked, or he'd climb the trellis that was outside Buzz's room and into his window. He hoped the first was possible. He didn't like the thought of climbing a shaky trellis. Unfortunately, when he arrived at Buzz's house, he found the door securely fastened.
So, up the trellis it'll be, he thought. No problem. I'm a lightweight. It'll hold me—I hope. He scurried around to the far corner of the house and cautiously peered into the window of the kitchen. The whole family was there, just saying the blessing. It made Mikey feel awkward to listen to their prayers—kinda cheap and lowlife. He lowered his gaze and returned to the trellis.
At least the window seems to be cracked open, he thought, as he looked up to his destination fifteen feet above him. I'll just slip up that trellis like a snake, through the window, grab the pickle jar from the closet and skidder back down. No one will ever know who did it. It'll be simple. Mikey refused to let his mind wander to the question of how he'd "skidder" down a trellis with a pickle jar in his hands. He'd figure that out at the top.
Mikey grabbed the horizontal rung of the trellis above his head and pulled on it a couple of times. It seemed secure enough, certainly for his light body. He heaved a heavy sigh, thought about crossing himself, but since he wasn't Catholic, figured he better not fool around with that stuff. Without looking up, he started to climb. Sooner, and with more ease, than he had expected, he was at the open window peering into Buzz's room. A small desk lamp gave off enough light for Mikey to see that no one was in the room.
Being a cat burglar was easier than he had imagined. The only tricky part was sliding the window open further without falling off the trellis. But his luck held and the window slid easily. Mikey eased himself through the window and into the room, making a low thump as he half fell onto the floor. He lay on the floor listening for any indication that he'd been heard. After a few seconds, he raised himself to his hands and knees and crawled to Buzz's closet.
The light was much poorer in the closet. Mikey felt around on the floor, tossing shoes and toys from one side of the closet to the other. Then he remembered that Buzz had placed the jar on the shelf above the rack of clothes. Mikey st
ood up and tiptoed over to the desk. He half pulled, half carried the desk chair to the mouth of the closet. Stretching himself to his fullest height, he was just able to reach his hands to the shelf. He felt around again, hoping to feel the smooth cool surface of the jar, but felt only folded clothes and a few boxes that were probably games. He stretched himself out again, trying to reach into the dark corners of the closet. Being a small cat burglar had its advantages, but it also had its disadvantages.
It was while Mikey was fully extended and standing on his tiptoes that the chair decided to slide out from under him. He felt the first movement of it under his feet, but was too far off balance to save himself. The next thing he knew, the chair was gone and he was trying desperately to hang onto the shelf. Unfortunately, the shelf was composed of two separate pieces of wood that were simply resting on supports at either end of the closet. No one had ever gotten around to nailing them there, so Mikey found himself falling into the rack of clothes clutching half of the shelf.
Mikey lay at the bottom of the closet, dazed by the accident. So, this is what it feels like to be a discarded shoe, he thought and giggled at the strangeness of the idea. I wonder if I've broken anything, besides the shelf.
He was still wondering about all this when he realized that he was no longer alone in the room. He slowly dug himself from the pile of old shoes and crawled to the front of the closet. There he ran into a new pair of shoes—those being worn by Buzz at that very moment.
"What the hell are you doing in there?" Buzz asked.
Mikey started to say, "Pretending to be a discarded shoe," but thought the joke would be lost on Buzz, who didn't appear to be in a very good mood at the moment.
"Well, ah, it's this way...." Mikey stammered, as he stood up.
"Never mind, I know. You've come to sneak another look at the jar, haven't you? Well, you're too late."
"Ah, no. I mean, yeah, that's it. What do you mean, too late?"
"Too late, that's what. Too late because my folks found out about it and confiscated it. It's no longer in my possession."
Mikey stood there stunned. Buzz’s folks had found out about it. The adults knew! It was only a matter of time before they found out about Mole and the small creatures. The secret was out, and it was all his fault.
"You haven't told them where we found it, did you?"
"No, the inquisition hasn't taken place yet, but they'll find out. Parents have ways to make their kids talk. I'll end up spilling my guts to save whatever privileges I can. I'll probably still be confined to my room until I'm twenty-one.
"Listen, Mikey, I'm sorry. I'll hold out as long as I can, but warn the rest of the guys. Big shit is about to hit the fan. Run for the hills."
Big shit was right, Mikey thought. This would ruin Mole and his plans for the small Molemiks. He had to warn Mole. He had to tell Mole the whole story about how his trusted friend and assistant had double-crossed him from the very beginning. Mikey had no choice now. It was his only chance to save them.
THE DOOR TO MOLE'S cottage was locked. Not unusual, but Mikey couldn't get Mole to respond to the doorbell or his knocking. He beat on the door for the third time, sweat beading up on his forehead. Could they have already found out about Mole's experiment and have taken him and the Molemiks away? Nah, the news couldn't have spread that fast. Then, why didn't Mole answered his damn door?
Mikey remembered where Mole hid the spare keys to the front door, and walked over to the turned over flowerpot to retrieve them. Mole had a nasty habit of locking himself out of his own house at times, and on one of their first meetings, Mikey had watched as Mole had remedied his mistake with the hidden keys. As Mikey brought the keys back, he pounded one last time on the door, but then started to unlock it without waiting further.
Once inside, Mikey called out to his friend, but the large stacks of books and magazines seemed to swallow the sound. No one responded. The fear mounted in the pit of Mikey's stomach. They've got him. Somehow, they found out sooner than was possible, and they've taken him away. I'll never see him again. And he'll figure out that it was me who double-crossed him. He'll never know the real story. Mikey ran down the stairs to the lab, almost tripping and taking the last six feet on his head.
"Mole! Are you down here? Please, Mole, answer me!"
Silence. Mikey pushed the door to the lab open. The only sound was the harsh, annoying squeak of the door's hinges. Inside was as quiet as a tomb, or more accurately, a child's playroom when the child has gone away to college. Each tank was empty, the oxygen pumps were still. No one was home. Mole and the Molemiks were gone.
Mikey sat on the bench next to the lab table. His head dropped into his hands, and he started to cry. The more he cried, the harder he gripped his face with his hands. The tears trickled through his fingers and down his wrist. "I'm sorry, Mole. I'm so sorry. I wanted to tell you. I really did. Oh, God, I wish I had told you."
"Told me what, Mikey?"
Mikey jerked his head up to find Mole looking down at him, a worried expression on his face. But it was not a look of anger, rather one of concern. "What's the matter, boy? You can tell me whatever it is that's troubling you. I'm your friend."
Mikey sniffed the tears back as best he could and accepted the wrinkled handkerchief from Mole. “I.... I know you are, Mole, but I don't think I'm much of a friend. I... I've... Oh, I don't know where to start." Suddenly it dawned on him that if Mole was still here, perhaps the Molemiks were also. "Where were you? I looked all over, and no one was here. Where are the Molemiks?"
"Oh, we were out back. Our little friends are doing outstandingly. I swear they're already able to understand what I tell them. I think within a day or so, they'll be talking back. I'm serious. I took them out back to show them the garden and, well, to show them where the other one is buried. They loved it outdoors, but they wouldn't stay out of the trees, so I thought it was best we come back in before someone saw us. They are really quite well behaved. Mikey, are you all right?"
The tears streamed from Mikey's eyes again at the mention of the pet cemetery. "He's not there, Mole. He's not been there for some time, and I'm afraid they've already found out about the Molemiks, and I don't know what we can do about it, and ..."
"Whoa, hold on there. What are you talking about?" Mole sat down next to Mikey on the bench and brushed the hair out of his eyes. His touch was light and warm, and it soothed the boy's nerves. "Perhaps you should start at the beginning and tell me the whole story."
BY THE END OF THE STORY, Mole's worry lines had deepened into furrows running across his forehead.
"Tch, tch, boys will be boys," he said, over and over. Mikey's tears had dried by the end, but now threatened to return. "Mikey, it's okay. You made some mistakes, but I understand. Really, I do. Believe it or not, I was once a young boy myself and I also wanted very much to be accepted by the other kids."
"You mean, you're not mad at me?"
"No, no, of course not. What you did was wrong, but I think you've more than punished yourself. Meanwhile, we've got work to do. We've got to decide what to do to protect our little friends. I'm afraid the authorities will be far less lenient and understanding with them."
"Where are they, anyway?" Mikey asked, suddenly realizing that they had not come down to the basement with Mole.
"Oh, I left them upstairs cleaning the place up."
"Not really!"
"Well, yes, actually I did. I told you they are very quick to learn things. I figured this place has been a dump long enough, so I gave them instructions to take all the old papers and books and things, and to place as much of it as possible in the back bedroom. And I made them promise not to eat anything until I had a chance to look it over. But we better get upstairs and find out what mischief they've gotten into. They're a little like monkeys. They mean well, but they've got this little streak of mischief in them."
Mole was right. As the two of them climbed the stairs, they saw several of the Molemiks scurry across the doorway of the basement,
books and magazines balanced precariously on their heads. In the short time the clean-up crew had been at work, many changes had taken place. They seemed to be natural organizers. They had stacked each book, magazine, and periodical in the back room, books in one corner, magazines in another. Only the National Geographics were missing.
"Okay, guys or gals, whichever you are. What did you do with your favorite tidbits? You promised no eating until I checked it out.” One of the Molemiks, apparently a ringleader, since others were taking orders from his hand signals, pointed upwards towards a small square opening in the ceiling.
"My lord, that's the attic. They found the attic. I swear in the forty-odd years I've lived in this house, I don't think I've ever been up there. Never any easy way to do so. It doesn't have a stairway like you see in the newer homes."
As he spoke, two of the Molemiks stuck their heads out from the opening in time to catch a clutch of National Geographics from their work buddies below.
"This is incredible, Mikey! They are already categorizing what should go where. I wonder why they've picked such an inaccessible area to store their favorite food.
"Oh, it doesn't matter now, I guess. What does matter is that we must figure out a way to protect them, and quickly. You say that the kids in the neighborhood know where the fetus came from?"
"I'm afraid so, at least a few of them. That'll mean that most of them know it by now. And if I know Buzz, he won't be able to hold out long against his parents' threats. And when he starts talking, I doubt he'll leave out anything."
Mikey absent-mindedly picked up a newspaper from the floor, one of the few that had not been segregated to the rear room. He looked down at the front page, a vague feeling of recognition forming as he tried to read the headline.
BIOLOGIST MARCUS ALDRAM ARRESTED IN BOLIVIA
Fantastic Fables of Foster Flat Page 17