Seize the Night

realizes that he is one of their successes. Whatever the reason, he more often than not plays his I'm just-a-good-old-dumb-dog game when he's around anyone other than Bobby, Sasha, and me.
    While he doesn't insult Roosevelt with that deception, Orson remains as taciturn as a turnip, albeit a turnip with a tail.
    Now, sitting on a chair, raised on a pair of pillows, daintily eating milk soaked bits of cinnamon bun, Mungojerrie made no pretense to being an ordinary cat. As we recounted the events of the past twelve hours, his green eyes followed the conversation with interest. When he heard something that surprised him, his eyes widened, and when he was shocked, he either twitched or pulled his head back and cocked it as if to say, Man, have you been guzzling catnip cocktails, or are you just a congenital bullshit machine? Sometimes he grinned, which was usually when Bobby and I had to reveal something stupid that we had said or done, it seemed to me that Mungojerrie grinned way too often. Bobby's description of what we glimpsed through the faceplate of Hodgson's bio-secure suit seemed to put the feline off his feed for a few minutes, but he was first and foremost a cat, with a cat's appetite and curiosity, so before we finished the tale, he had solicited and received from Roosevelt another saucer of milk-soaked crustulorum .
    “We're convinced the missing kids and Orson are somewhere in Wyvern,” I said to Roosevelt Frost, because I still felt weird about directly addressing the cat, which is peculiar, considering that I directly address Orson all the time. “But the place is just too big to search. We need a tracker.”
    Bobby said, “Since we don't own a reconnaissance satellite, don't know a good Indian scout, and don't keep a bloodhound hanging in the closet for these emergencies …”
    The three of us looked expectantly at Mungojerrie.
    The cat met my eyes, then Bobby's, then Sasha's. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if pondering our implied request, then finally turned his attention to Roosevelt.
    The gentle giant pushed aside his plate and coffee cup, leaned forward, propped his right elbow on the table, rested his chin on his fist, and locked gazes with our whiskered guest.
    After a minute, during which I tried unsuccessfully to recall the melody of the movie theme song from That Darn Cat , Roosevelt said, “Mungojerrie wonders if you were listening to what I said when we first arrived.”
    “'Lots of death,'” I quoted.
    “Whose?” Sasha asked.
    “Ours.”
    “Who says?”
    I pointed at the cat.
    Mungojerrie managed to look like a swami.
    Bobby said, “We know there's danger.”
    “He's not just saying it's dangerous,” Roosevelt explained. “It's a … sort of prediction.”
    We sat in silence, staring at the cat, who favored us with an expression as inscrutable as that on the cats in Egyptian tomb sculptures, and eventually Sasha said, “You mean Mungojerrie's clairvoyant?”
    “No,” Roosevelt said.
    “Then what do you mean?”
    Still staring at the cat, who was now gazing solemnly at one of the candles as if reading the future in the sinuous dance of the flame upon the wick, Roosevelt said, “Cats know things.”
    Bobby, Sasha, and I looked at one another, but none of us could provide enlightenment.
    “What, exactly, do cats know?” Sasha asked.
    “Things,” Roosevelt said.
    “How?”
    “By knowing.”
    “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” Bobby asked rhetorically.
    The cat twitched its ears and looked at him as if to say, Now you understand.
    “This cat's been reading too much Deepak Chopra,” Bobby said.
    Frustration pinched Sasha's face and voice. “Roosevelt?”
    When he shrugged his massive shoulders, I could almost feel the cubic yard of displaced air wafting across the table. “Daughter, this animal communication business isn't always like talking on the telephone. Sometimes it is just exactly as clear as that. But then sometimes there are … ambiguities.”
    “Well,” Bobby said, “does this ball-bearing mousetrap think we have some chance of finding Orson and the kids, then getting back here alive—any chance at all?”
    With his left hand, Roosevelt gently scratched the cat behind the ears and stroked its head. “He says there's always a chance. Nothing is hopeless.”
    “Fifty-fifty chance?” I wondered.
    Roosevelt laughed softly. “Mr. Mungojerrie says he isn't a bookmaker.”
    “So,” Bobby said, “the worst that can happen is that we all