Emmy and the Incredible Shrinking Rat (12 page)

“Emmy,” said Joe abruptly. “Look here.”

He had turned the pages of the yearbook back to the beginning. There, under the
B
s, was Jane Barmy's senior picture—surrounded by little hearts drawn with a red marker.

Emmy looked at Joe in disbelief. Cheswick Vole loved
Jane Barmy?

“That's why he lets her use any rat she wants,” Joe said, grinning. “At least the ones he's figured out how to use.”

“And he never charges her anything,” said Emmy sourly.

“Of course not. He's in loooove!” Joe pretended to swoon.

Emmy turned away. How anyone, even Cheswick Vole, could love someone as poisonous as Miss Barmy, she didn't know. Who cared if Miss Barmy was good-looking? She was as ugly as could be on the inside.

“Please, no!” Cecilia's voice rose. “I've nipped your finger and stomped on your food and everything
else you could think of. I couldn't bear to claw your face! There is a limit!”

“But—” began the professor.

“Anyway, how do you know
I'm
the one who can unshrink you?” she pleaded. “Maybe it's Raston who can do it!”

The professor shook his head. “Raston shrinks, you enlarge. That's why you're a pair. You did it to a cat once, in the laboratory. Don't you remember?”

“I remember that cat,” said Cecilia gloomily. “Sensitive—always getting its feelings hurt. But I have no idea how I made it grow.”

“Don't you think you could have scratched it,” the professor said persuasively, “by accident?”

Cecilia looked thoughtful. “Maybe.”

“Well, then. One more try?”

Cecilia sighed and swiped his cheek with a quick claw.

“Ow!” Professor Capybara dabbed at the cut with his hanky, looking anxiously down at his body. “Am I growing yet? Can you see me growing? Anyone?”

They all waited. And waited.

“I knew it,” said Cecilia unhappily. “Now you're bleeding again.” Impulsively, she leaned forward and
kissed the professor on the cheek she had scratched. And then, all of a sudden, she tumbled backward, because—

“Ouch!” the professor said, astonished, as he bumped his head on the ceiling. He climbed down off the table, laughing and excited. “My dear, dear Cecilia! How very clever of you! And it makes sense, yes indeed. A kiss is the opposite of a bite, you might say!” He pulled Brian from the chair and improvised a polka, dancing with short, awkward leaps. “Hooray for Cecilia! Hooray for science and the experimental method! Hoo—hoora—”

The professor wavered, buckled, and went down in a heap.

Brian backed away, appalled.

“Criminy,” said Joe. “Not again.”

“But he wasn't even mad—he was
happy
!” Inwardly fuming, Emmy climbed down the drawer pulls, hand over hand, and ran up to the professor's large and hairy ear. “Wake up, Professor! We still need you to help us figure out the potions—and what to do with the rats—and Miss Barmy—”

She stopped. Footsteps sounded outside the shop, and there was a rattling of keys.

Brian spun around. “Quick! Hide!”

He dragged Professor Capybara behind a large, locked cabinet, then sprawled in the chair again, shutting his eyes. Joe took refuge behind the stack of yearbooks. The rodents swarmed down the desk to the floor, running with Emmy to a shadowy corner.

The door creaked open. A man entered.

He was small and shabby, with thinning brown hair and trousers belted high. He dropped his keys into his pocket and looked up. “Brian!” Cheswick Vole rasped, sounding suspicious. “What are you doing up?”

“Huh?” Brian jolted upright and shook his head as if to clear it. “I've got a message for you, Uncle. From that Barmy lady.”

Cheswick's eyes brightened. “Jane sent me a message?”

Brian nodded. “She said to call her as soon as you got back, day or night, it didn't matter.”

Cheswick cracked his knuckles one after the other, smiling dreamily. “She needs me! She misses me!” He picked up the phone on the desk and began to dial.

The Rat and Sissy clung to each other as Cheswick's feet came nearer. Emmy patted their furry backs
while her eyes watched Cheswick's every move. She couldn't afford to panic—she had to think.

“Go to bed, boy,” Cheswick snapped. “This is a private conversation.”

Brian moved slowly in the direction of the stairs.

“Jane? Jane, it's Chessie …”

A voice squawked loudly. The happy glow faded from Cheswick's face.

“I'm sorry—but you said ‘the usual'—”

There was a pause, then more squawking.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Cheswick said hurriedly. “I'll get it ready right away. You can come anytime, anytime at all …” He looked at the receiver. A dial tone droned loudly into the silence.

“Well …” Cheswick set the phone down and wiped his palms on his trousers. “Let's see. Extract of Gerbil, triple distilled, and Scent of Shrew. I think I have those bottles already made up.”

He shuffled over to the tall cabinet, fumbling with his keys, and unlocked the door. The clink of bottles followed, and then, faintly, the sound of a snore.

Cheswick's back stiffened. He put a vial back in its place and peered around the edge of the cabinet. His face turned the color of putty.

“Professor? Boss?” he whispered.

Professor Capybara's chest rose and fell in peaceful rhythm. A slight whistling sound exuded from his nose.

Cheswick smiled slowly: a big, bony smile. He moved his hand delicately among the bottles in the cabinet, selected one, and measured out three drops. He bent over the professor.

Deep in the shadows, Emmy gave the Rat a sudden shove. “Go on, Ratty—bite him.”

“N
OOOOOO!”
cried Cheswick as he shrank, down, down, until he was face to face with the Rat.

Raston showed all his teeth in a wide, sinister smile.

“Brian!” Cheswick called, his voice a thin squeak. “Don't let him bite me a third time—I could become
microscopic
—”

The Rat clutched Cheswick firmly around the middle and gave a violent twist. “It's your bad luck,” he panted, “that my cage was once papered with
Wild & Woolly Wrestling.
” He levered the little man to the floor, shifting his grip to a full nelson. “How does it feel to be
afraid,
Mr. Big Hand?”

“Wait. Don't scare him,” said Brian, crossing the floor. “Come on, Uncle. I'll put you where you'll be safe.”

“Put him in my cage,” called Sissy cheerfully. “
I
won't be using it anymore.”

The quivering lump that was Cheswick Vole looked up from Brian's hand, his eyes wide and terrified. “A … a
cage
? For
me
?”

“It's only for a little while,” said Brian kindly. “I'll get water for your dish,” he added, walking toward the back room, “and some fresh wood shavings …”

“But I just got
out
of jail!” The cry drifted plaintively over Brian's retreating shoulder until the velvet curtain cut it off. A minute later Brian returned, dusting his hands. “Okay, now what?”

The Rat cleared his throat. “No doubt you wish to thank me for gallant biting in the face of danger. But”—he held up a paw, smiling modestly—“I must hurry away; the lads are counting on me for pawball. I'm their most valuable player, you know.”

Joe choked. Emmy turned away from the Rat as she struggled to keep a straight face.

The Rat addressed Brian with dignity. “Will you open the door, sir? Sissy, after you.”

Emmy and Joe didn't laugh out loud until the door shut behind the rodents—and then they couldn't stop. Weak with reaction and relief, the professor's snores only made them laugh harder. At last, Brian
picked them up in his calloused hand. “It's no laughing matter for Uncle Cheswick,” he said sternly.

Emmy wiped her eyes, sobering. She didn't much like being picked up by a giant hand, and the thought reminded her of something else. “Crumbs—we forgot to have Sissy give us a kiss.”

Joe shrugged. “We can always do that later. Besides, I'm not sure I want to grow yet. What am I going to say to my parents about where I was all this time?”

Emmy didn't answer. Her eye had wandered to the open cabinet. The left-hand side was fitted out with drawers and a narrow counter; the right side held shelves filled with small glass vials, each with its own label.

“I've never seen it unlocked before,” Brian murmured, moving closer. He set Emmy and Joe on one of the shelves and peered in. “Essence of Hamster … Powdered Lemming Spoor … Distilled Prairie Dog Tail. What do all those do, I wonder?”

The inside of the cabinet smelled of wood and old varnish, with hints of more exotic smells lingering in the corners. Emmy walked around a bottle with a faded, peeling label. “Shrinking Rat Saliva—hey! This must be Raston's!”

“It's old, though,” said Joe, tapping at the cloudy glass. “And it's almost all gone.”

Brian nodded thoughtfully. “So some of the rodents' powers can be put in a bottle, I guess, and others you have to get directly from the rat itself.”

“Like the chinchilla footprint,” said Joe.

“But with Raston, it works both ways. He can bite you, or you can just swallow the spit from the bottle,” Emmy pointed out. She eyed a vial whose contents had separated. The liquid went from deep purple at the base to bright yellow at the top, with small flakes of bright pink sediment suspended in the middle.

“Swallow Ratty's spit? Gross,” said Joe, prowling among the bottles.

Brian shook his head. “Would you swallow it, or would you inject it with a needle? I mean, when Raston bites someone, his saliva goes straight into the bloodstream.”

Emmy frowned. “True, but what about Sissy's kisses? They don't break the skin.”

“Maybe her saliva is absorbed through the pores.”

“Don't forget,” Joe said, wiping grime from the label of a stained green bottle, “some of the rodent
stuff has to be breathed in. Like when that Bushy-Tailed Rat sneezed in the professor's face and gave him the Snoozer virus.”

Emmy paced the shelf, regretting her impatience with the professor. You could study this stuff for years and never figure it all out. And yet she
had
to figure something out, and fast, in order to stop Miss Barmy and somehow keep her parents in town.

“It's all so complicated,” she said gloomily. “I wish there were some directions, somewhere.” She reached the end of the shelf and turned around to resume her pacing. “I don't mean those research notes, either. I mean simple ones that you can really understand—hey! Look!”

Brian followed her gaze and swung the right cabinet door open even wider. There, on the inside of the door, was a chart. Though written in pencil, and faint and smudged in spots, it listed each rodent's name, along with a description of its effective power, how to use it, and the suggested dosage.

“Wow,” said Joe.

“We hit the jackpot,” said Emmy, beaming. “Want to lose weight? Look at this one: ‘Trim-Bellied Squirrel. Makes the fat become thin. Pluck five belly
hairs, snip fine, and steep in one cup hot celery juice until cool. Take two teaspoons daily for twenty-four days. Repeat as necessary.'”

“Sounds appetizing,” said Joe. “What do you say we try one and see if the directions work?”

Emmy scanned the list for a clearly written entry. “‘Hairy Pawed Agouti. Grows thick hair fast.'”

Brian shifted his weight. “That one can't do any harm. He's in the back room, too.”

“It's in the interest of science, anyway,” said Joe as Brian returned with a long-legged, reddish gold rodent about the size of a cat. He set it on the desk and petted it gently as Emmy consulted the directions.

“‘Touch right forepaw to skin for thick, fast growing hair.' Where do you want the extra hair, Brian?”

Brian cradled the agouti in his arms. “I've always sort of wanted a beard,” he said shyly, and stroked the agouti's paw over his chin.

A dense mat of light brown hair spread rapidly on Brian's face, making him look years older. He moved the paw to his upper lip, and a bushy mustache appeared in seconds.

“Cool!” He reached up to touch his new beard, entranced; but the agouti, grunting playfully, patted
his nose with its paw. A sudden tuft of hair sprang from the tip and began to curl.

Brian nearly dropped the rodent in his alarm. “Oh
no
—” He ran to the back room, clanged the door to the agouti's cage, and dashed up the stairs to look in the mirror. A low moan could be heard through the floorboards.

Emmy tried to keep a straight face when Brian reappeared with scissors in his hand, snipping away at a long, lustrous beard and a particularly silky lock of nose hair. He went straight for the chart and ran his finger down the listings.

“Lasts two to three weeks,” he read, dismayed. “If rash results, discontinue use and call a doctor.”

“It could be worse,” said Emmy. “It could be permanent.”

Brian trimmed the tip of his nose again. “Hey, I think it's slowing down.”

“With any luck, you'll only have to shave your nose a few times a day,” said Joe, clinking amid the vials. “Listen, wasn't it Scent of Shrew that Cheswick was going to get for Miss Barmy? Here it is.” He pointed to a dark red bottle, half-filled with liquid.

“‘Scent of Shrew,'” Emmy read, straining her eyes to make out the tiny penciled words on the chart. “‘To cause forgetfulness. Heat to diffuse scent; exposure time—'” She passed over a smudged phrase and skipped to the next line. “‘Sensitized olfactory receptors induce selective forgetfulness when scent is re-encountered. Repeat every two weeks or as needed.'”

“So what does that mean in English?” Joe looked at Brian quizzically.

Brian's beard growth was definitely slowing. He clipped it short and tossed the hair in the wastebasket before studying the chart once more.

“Olfactory,” he said slowly. “I studied that in science. That's one of the twelve cranial nerves.”

“So it's in the brain,” said Joe thoughtfully.

“It must be connected to your sense of smell, somehow,” said Emmy.

Brian nodded. “It looks like there are two parts to using Scent of Shrew. First, you're supposed to heat it up so the scent is released into the air. After a while— I can't read how long—the smell is imprinted in the brain of anyone nearby.”

“Could you heat it up with a candle?” Joe asked with sudden interest.

“Sure, I guess. If you smeared it on the top and sides of a candle, it would probably work.”

Joe nudged Emmy. “We were right, then. It was in the candle, during silent reading—”

“While I was with that nutty Dr. Leander,” said Emmy indignantly, “making up stuff for him to write down—”

“And everybody forgot you even existed, at least until it wore off.”

“But why would people just forget about
me,
and nobody else?”

“That's the second part,” said Brian. “All Miss Barmy had to do to make sure you were completely ignored was to put the same scent on you before you went to school. For two weeks or so, whenever anyone in class caught a whiff of it, they'd just sort of blank you out. Selective forgetfulness, see? Their eyes would see you, their ears would hear you, but their brains wouldn't register the fact.”

Emmy narrowed her eyes. “So that explains why she was always dabbing something behind my ears, or rubbing weird gunk on my hands.”

Brian nodded. “She could have put it in your shampoo, or made you drink it so it would be on your breath.”

“It would be great stuff for a spy to use,” Joe said with enthusiasm. “You'd be just as good as invisible, to the right people.”

“It would wear off after a while, though,” said Emmy, thinking back. “Kids would start to notice me, a little, and I'd think things were changing—and then all of a sudden, they'd look right through me again. I suppose that meant Miss Barmy had just made another classroom visit,” she added grimly.

“She must have made sure she didn't smell it herself,” said Brian suddenly. “I'll bet she plugged her nose with wax or something.”

“Could be. She always sounded like she had a cold.” Joe turned a narrow pink bottle and looked closely at the label. “Isn't this the other one the Barmster wanted?”

“Distilled Extract of Gerbil,” Emmy read, squinting. “Maturity ® 3. Full effects after 24 hours.” The rest of the penciled entry was too faint to read, and she looked at Brian, bewildered. “What does that
mean? If you use it, you become three times wiser or something?”

A small crease appeared between Brian's eyebrows. “Becoming more mature,” he said slowly, “is a good thing. So why would Miss Barmy want something like that?”

Joe shrugged. “At least it can't hurt anybody.”

There was a sudden, sharp rap at the door, as if someone had hit it with a stick.

Brian turned pale.

Inside the cabinet, Joe looked at Emmy in consternation. “That's her now.”

Emmy's mouth went dry. “No—it can't possibly—”

“Yes it can,” said Brian grimly. “Uncle Cheswick said she could come anytime, remember? And he promised her Scent of Shrew and—”

“Don't give it to her!” Emmy breathed.

“Of course not, but—” Brian straightened and looked over his shoulder. “Find me something I can give her instead,” he said quickly as the door was rapped again, “and stay out of sight. I'll stall her while you look.” He swung the cabinet doors nearly shut.

“Better cut your nose hair again,” Emmy called.

“Right,” muttered Brian, shooting a glance behind the cabinet. The professor had stopped snoring, but still looked sound asleep. Brian sighed and walked to the door, a pudgy teenager with a foot-long beard.

“Joe, what can we give her?” Emmy whispered, her heart pulsing like a bird's in her throat.

“
I
don't know!” Joe's whisper was almost as panicked as hers. “If only Ratty were here, he could shrink her like he did Cheswick—”

“That wouldn't work,” said Emmy, feverishly searching the chart by the narrow crack of light Brian had left them. “Cheswick has been bitten before—Ratty told me—but Miss Barmy hasn't. She'd squish Ratty flat before he could bite her a second time.” She took a series of deep breaths, as the professor had done, and felt herself calming down just a trifle—enough, at any rate, to think.

“Listen, Joe. You read the labels one by one. I'll check the chart.”

Joe nodded vigorously, squinting at the nearest bottle. “Jerboa Juice,” he said under his breath.

Emmy's eyes were becoming accustomed to the half light. “An infusion of courage,” she read softly. “No good. We don't want her to become
braver.
”

“All right, then—Springhare Spit.”

“That one just makes people jumpy—keeps them awake.”

She nearly jumped
herself
as Brian's voice sounded from the entryway, low and gruff. “Miss Barmy, I presume?”

“Where is Cheswick?” snapped Miss Barmy. “How many different assistants does he need?” Her cane rapped impatiently on the floor. “I have an emergency; he said he would have something ready for me.”

“I'm very sorry, ma'am, but Unc—I mean, Mr. Vole—is busy.”

“What do you mean,
busy
?”

The menace in Miss Barmy's voice turned Emmy's knees weak. She sat down abruptly on the shelf and gripped the edge with both hands.