The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents

The rats all looked again at the remains of the book.

“It's a lie,” said Peaches.

“Maybe it's just a pretty story,” said Sardines.

“Yes,” said Dangerous Beans. “Yes.” He turned his misty pink eyes to Darktan, who had to stop himself from crouching, and added: “Perhaps it's a map.”

If it was a story, and not real life, then humans and rats would have shaken hands and gone on into a bright new future.

But since it was real life, there had to be a contract. A war that had been going on since people first lived in houses could not end with just a happy smile. And there had to be a committee. There was so much detail to be discussed. The town council were on it, and most of the senior rats, and Maurice marched up and down the table, joining in.

Darktan sat at one end. He really wanted to sleep. His wound ached, his teeth ached, and he hadn't eaten for ages. For hours the argument flowed back and forwards over his drooping head. He didn't pay attention to who was doing the talking. Most of the time, it seemed to be everyone.

“Next item: compulsory bells on all cats. Agreed?”

“Can we just get back to clause thirty, Mr, er, Maurice? You were saying killing a rat would be murder?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“But it's just—”

“Talk to the paw, mister, 'cos the whiskers don't want to know!”

“The cat is right,” said the mayor. “You're out of order, Mr Raufman! We've been through this.”

“Then what about if a rat steals from me?”

“Ahem. Then that'll be theft, and the rat will have to go before the justices.”

“Oh, young—?” said Raufman.

“Peaches. I'm a rat, sir.”

“And… er… and the Watch officers will be able to get down the rat tunnels, will they?”

“Yes! Because there will be rat officers in the Watch. There'll have to be,” said Maurice. “No problem!”

“Really? And what does Sergeant Doppelpunkt think about that? Sergeant Doppelpunkt?”

“Er… dunno, sir. Could be all right, I suppose. I know I couldn't get down a rat hole. We'll have to make the badges smaller, of course.”

“But surely you wouldn't suggest a rat officer could be allowed to arrest a human?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” said the sergeant.

“What?”

“Well, if your rat's a proper sworn-in watchman… I mean, a watchrat… then you can't go around saying you're not allowed to arrest anyone bigger than you, can you? Could be useful, a rat watchman. I understand they have this trick where they run up your trouser leg—”

“Gentlemen, we should move on. I suggest this one goes to the sub-committee.”

“Which one, sir? We've already got seventeen!”

There was a snort from one of the councillors. This was Mr Schlummer, who was 95 and had been peacefully asleep all morning. The snort meant that he was waking up.

He stared at the other side of the table. His whiskers moved.

“There's a rat there!” he said, pointing. “Look, mm, bold as brass! A rat! In a hat!”

“Yes, sir. This is a meeting to talk to the rats, sir,” said the person beside him.

He looked down and fumbled for his glasses. “Wassat?” he said. He looked closer. “Here,” he said, “aren't, mm, you a rat, too?”

“Yes, sir. Name of Nourishing, sir. We're here to talk to humans. To stop all the trouble.”

Mr Schlummer stared at the rat. Then he looked across the table at Sardines, who raised his hat. Then he looked at the mayor, who nodded. He looked at everyone again, his lips moving as he tried to sort this out.

“You're all talking?” he said, at last.

“Yes, sir,” said Nourishing.

“So… who's doing the listening?” he said.

“We're getting round to that,” said Maurice.

Mr Schlummer glared at him. “Are you a cat?” he demanded.

“Yes, sir,” said Maurice.

Mr Schlummer slowly digested this point too. “I thought we used to kill rats?” he said, as if he wasn't quite certain any more.

“Yes, but, you see, sir, this is the future,” said Maurice.

“Is it?” said Mr Schlummer. “Really? I always wondered when it was going to happen. Oh, well. Cats talk now, too? Well done! Got to move with the, mm, the… things that move, obviously. Wake me up when they bring the, mm, tea in, will you, puss?”

“Er… it's not allowed to call cats ‘puss’ if you're over ten years old, sir,” said Nourishing.

“Clause 19b,” said Maurice, firmly. “‘No-one is to call cats by silly names unless they intend to give them an immediate meal’. That's my clause,” he added, proudly.

“Really?” said Mr Schlummer. “My word, the future is strange. Still, I daresay everything needed sorting out…”

He settled back in his chair, and after a while began to snore.

Around him the arguments started again, and kept going. A lot of people talked. Some people listened. Occasionally, they agreed… and moved on… and argued. But the piles of paper on the table grew bigger, and looked more and more official.

Darktan forced himself to wake up again, and realized that someone was watching him. At the other end of the table, the mayor was giving him a long, thoughtful stare.

As he watched, the man leaned back and said something to a clerk, who nodded and walked around the table, past the arguing people, until he reached Darktan.

He leaned down. “Can… you… un-der-stand… me?” he said, pronouncing each word very carefully.

“Yes… be-cause… I'm… not… stu-pid,” said Darktan.

“Oh, er… the mayor wonders if he can see you in his private office,” said the clerk. “The door over there. I could help you down, if you like.”

“I could bite your finger, if you like,” said Darktan. The mayor was already walking away from the table.

Darktan slid down and followed him. No-one paid any attention to either of them.

The mayor waited until Darktan's tail was out of the way and carefully shut the door.

The room was small and untidy. Paper occupied most flat surfaces. Bookcases filled several of the walls; extra books and more paper were stuffed in between the tops of the books and any space in the shelves.

The mayor, moving with exaggerated delicacy, went and sat in a big, rather tatty swivel chair, and looked down at Darktan. “I'm going to get this wrong,” he said. “I thought we should have a… a little talk. Can I pick you up? I mean, it'd be easier to talk to you if you were on my desk…”

“No,” said Darktan. “And it'd be easier to talk to you if you lay flat on the floor.” He sighed. He was too tired for games. “If you put your hand flat on the floor I'll stand on it and you can raise it up to the height of the desk,” he said, “but if you try anything nasty I'll bite your thumb off.”

The mayor lifted him up, with extreme caution. Darktan hopped off into the mass of papers, empty teacups and old pens that covered the battered leather top, and stood looking up at the embarrassed man.

“Er… do you have to do much paperwork in your job?” said the mayor.

“Peaches writes things down,” said Darktan, bluntly.

“That's the little female rat that coughs before she speaks, isn't it?” said the mayor.

“That's right.”

“She's very… definite, isn't she?” said the mayor, and