Chapter Twelve

The world is so constructed—some would say so well-constructed, and others would like to throttle them—that events cannot go on forever, or even for long, without a touch of comic relief or at least irony. So it was that about 6:30 AM, New York time, a newly-assigned Disaster Line Attendant was sawing logs at a dusty desk, in a dusty office that was scheduled to be sealed off and forgotten several days ago—by the attendant himself. That was before his promotion from janitor, and he wasn't used to being up this early in the morning.

Artwork by Keith Elder

As a consequence, Dennis—for that was the former janitor's name—had nodded off over his phone and his "Furry Highland Lasses" magazine, dreams of reddish-brown fur and short plaid skirts skipping through his brain. Janitors had an odd habit of getting promoted suddenly at Rescue Aid, even the silly ones now and then. The recently upgraded Dennis snorted and twitched his whiskers in his sleep, his feet kicked up on the desk underneath a halogen lamp. Little besides the bits of broken plaster, the miniature 1979 United Nations calendar yellowing on the wall, and Dennis' well-scuffed shoes gave the impression of his being anything but a cheese tycoon taking a well-earned snooze. His earpiece and microphone, trailing wire from beneath his tweed cap, were another sign that he probably had duties other than sleeping and reading questionable literature. In his short experience as Disaster Line Attendant, nothing had come through the earpiece except a misplaced pizza order, so he wasn't too concerned. Chasing the russet-furred, saucy young highland mousy miss through that flower-strewn, dream-hazy glen was a far more pleasant pursuit than drinking enough secondhand Starbucks coffee to stay up listening for--

"HEY!! IS ANYBODY—scrape, thump Gadget, are you sure this buzzing in your paws goes away? You mean I can't let it go without losing the conn--IS ANYBODY LISTENING TO THIS FRIGGING THING?" Devin's voice boomed through Dennis' earpiece. Dennis howled back in shock and pain, kicking the desk lamp to bits and fumbling for the volume control as feedback screeched into his ear. Turning it down, he thanked God he'd paid attention when Bianca had shown him how to work the earpiece. A few marr seconds o' that and I'd a lost ma hearin', he thought hazily. And just as he'd been closer than ever to actually catching that mouse-maid in his dream--

"Good marnin, Reschue Aid 'Ciety," Dennis forced himself to say, keeping a civil tongue in his head only by sheer willpower. It'd better be a bleedin' disaster, or I'll tairn it into one, he vowed. Ach, ma pore ear! "D'saster Line Desk, Dennis speakin'."

"Dennis!" exclaimed the voice on the other end, at a much more manageable volume. "This is Devin Packard—I met you while I was up there." Dennis could hear Devin cover the phone and turn away, talking to someone. "It's the janitor," Devin didn't muffle quite well enough.

"No, Ah'm naught the janiter na more, you silly veterinary. Ah've been pra-moted, and Ah'm lis'nin out for people like you in tribble on this here D'saster Line. Yar the farst caller all marnin." Devin harumphed and corrected himself. "Ma farst caller evver. What seems ta be the problem?"

"A disaster," Devin stated flatly. "What's your security clearance?"

Dennis frowned. He wasn't actually a lazy sort but he'd hoped, for the best of reasons, to never answer a disaster call. "They upped et to a Level Three," Dennis drawled cautiously, with a hint of pride. "Tho thar's some things Ah'd rather not know."

Devin made a sound, a unique blend of agreement and disgust, that Dennis couldn't quite decipher. "I know how you feel," Devin replied. "I can only call the main situation here a massacre. Rescue Rangers—the original unit—all wiped out except for Gadget Hackwrench." Dennis gasped, and was about to say something comforting and endearingly Scottish, but Devin headed him off at the pass. "Dennis, I don't have much time to chat. Can you plug us into the video network?"

Dennis pulled off his tweed cap and scratched the scraggly fur beneath. "Beg pardon, Mister Devin, but yer callin' in on an audio line." Either Devin or the line itself hissed at him, making him wince. "And it's got a good crackle in it. You canna expect us ta hook up a newfangled viddy-whatever to the likes of—hello?"

A rustling, thumping sound told him that someone was taking the phone from Devin. The slightly hoarse but definitely familiar voice growled through the line at him. "Dennis—you're probably a good janitor, but you've got a lot to learn now. The answer to 'Can you plug us into the video network?' or any other vitally important question is not 'No.' The correct answer is 'I don't know, but I'll damn well find out.' Then you go and find out. Okay?"

"Yes, Miss Hackwrench," Dennis meekly answered, flushing from ear to ear with embarrassment. There are some people you just really don't want to tick off, for the sake of your own health, sanity, or career, and Gadget fell into at least two of those categories. "Ah'll see what's ta be done."

Gadget sighed. "I'll tell you what's to be done. See the line running into the wall?"

Dennis turned and looked. Electricians and telecomm techs had swarmed the office yesterday, taking the phone out of the old closet and linking it up with the new building-wide system. Sure enough, the line ran into a new wall-mounted plate with one spare jack. "Ah see it, ma'am," he confirmed.

"Take the line and move it to the bottom jack. It should be marked 'Data.' C'mon, Scotty, warp speed."

Button images by Keith Elder