“You again!” said the stump mistress. “You’re the burdock stuck to my behind, aren’t you? You’re not expected back. Didn’t you get the message?”

“There’s been an emergency,” said What-the-Dickens. “I have to report a catastrophe.”

“Whatever,” said Old Flossie. She sounded as if What-the-Dickens could say nothing that might deserve her full attention. Indeed, she turned to address the runway assistants. “Speaking technically, the arriving agent needs to touch down on the runway by exactly the first ray of sunlight. But this wastrel is standing on some sort of plinth, not on the runway itself. Make a note of it.”

“It’s not a plinth,” said What-the-Dickens. “It’s a tooth, a tiger tooth. Now, about Pepper —”

“About Pepper,” said Old Flossie, “— or the skibberee previously known as Pepper — I note that she is absent. She hasn’t fulfilled her mission. She’ll be dealt with accordingly. Pity, but there you are.” She put her hand to her eyes and scanned the skies. “Even she can’t argue that she almost made it. Where is she?”

“Steady yourselves for bad news,” said What-the-Dickens feelingly. “She’s been hurt, and captured.”

He expected this report to be greeted with silence, at least. But Old Flossie only harrumphed and remarked, “She’s been well-trained. She’ll know what to do.” The other skibbereen, giggling without much focus, returned to their tasks.

They picked up little whisks made of five or six evergreen needles and swept the tree stump clean. Then, in artful artlessness, the welcoming crew arranged several dead leaves and a pinecone on it. Very convincing, thought What-the-Dickens. Any human being tramping through the woods would imagine that nothing was amiss. Nature was busy rotting and thrusting itself into life again with its usual force, incoherence, and charm.

Without comment What-the-Dickens surrendered the Tavenner tooth and the Gangster tooth. The tiger tooth he would not surrender. “I shall deliver it personally to Doctor Ill,” he said. “A token in memory of Pepper.”

“In memory of whom, dear?” asked Old Flossie pointedly. “Anyway, I don’t believe you’re welcome here.”

He followed her into the sweet haven of Undertree Common anyway. The various domestic skibbereen were at work, keeping the colony clean and orderly. Each at the assigned task. Unnamed, uncounted, and un troubled.

Then, suddenly, there was Silviana, the very same, in her full skirts sweeping along a corridor reciting something to herself. What-the-Dickens felt respect and nerve bloom in him at once, and before he could talk himself out of it, he reached out and touched her on the shoulder as they drew abreast of each other.

“You were wonderful at the Duty Pageant,” he told her.

She reeled back against the wall, far more startled than he’d expected her to be. “Heavens!” she said.

“I’m sure everyone says this to you all the time but — well, I’m new — and I never saw anything like it before.”

“I have no doubt,” she said, regaining her composure. And fluttering her eyelids.

“And I have some terrific new material for you — about Pepper and a tiger tooth. It’ll wow ’em.”

“You don’t talk to the likes of her, you,” said Old Flossie, and tried to give him the back of her hand, but he ducked.

“My name is Silviana,” she said. “I have a name,” she asserted, and curtsied, mostly to herself.

“Deeply impressed,” said What-the-Dickens. “I do too. What-the-Dickens, at your service.”

“If you’ve decided to oppose Doctor Ill, let’s get it over with,” said Old Flossie, tugging at What-the-Dickens. “We mustn’t keep Doctor Ill waiting.”

“I haven’t decided to oppose anyone,” said What-the-Dickens. “I want to explain to him about Pepper. Maybe he’ll have some idea about what to do.”

“I have no doubt,” said Silviana, more insistently than before.

“Miss Silviana, you must forgive him, and forget all about this,” said the stump mistress. “He’s a simpleton, no more, no less, and he won’t be in residence much longer.”

“I have no doubt about that,” she replied, a bit wistfully, and she fled down the hall in a thistly rustle of skirts.

“She has no doubts,” mused What-the-Dickens. “None at all. I have nothing but doubts.”

“A skibberee who doesn’t know when to clam up is a skibberee with a big problem,” barked Old Flossie. “Now, not another word out of you until Doctor Ill asks you a question.”

They walked on. I’m more at home here now, thought What-the-Dickens, because I know it better. I know this corridor, these lights, this stump mistress.

But I’m less at home here now, too. Because I know it better.

The paradox made his wings ache.

“He’s cruel, isn’t he?” said What-the-Dickens. “The crown, I mean. Your boss.”

“Ask no questions!” said Old Flossie sternly, and at once, as if she’d anticipated the remark. “He has our good at heart. It’s easy to prattle off an opinion about his manner or methods, but he’s kept us safe for many years. In the world at large, we’re small.” She continued in a softer voice. “You’re very young yet, and preposterously thick. Perhaps you haven’t quite taken in the measure of us. We’re quite small. Very, very small and fragile. He’s our crown. Don’t disrespect him.”

“That mouse he’s muzzled. And rides around on!” Suddenly What-the-Dickens was offended. “Hardly better than caging a Bengal tiger.”

“He lost the use of his legs, you know. You, the nosy question-asker, haven’t asked how.”

“Pepper called it a dental accident.”

“Everything in our lives is a dental accident, you idiot. Actually, the incident was an attack by the little vermin who call themselves the colony of Sequoia Heights. Northwest Sector, Division D. Uppity sort. Doctor Ill was the first one into the fray, you know. The crown of Sequoia Heights was riding a captive iguana, who savaged Doctor Ill’s legs. But Doctor Ill never paused. He’s a military hero. Bolstered by his courage, our troops withstood the attack, and we fended off our enemies. He wasn’t Doctor Ill back then. He was a mere Agent of Change. Name of Aking.”

What-the-Dickens raised an eyebrow. So an Agent of Change could become an upper? In certain circumstances? Pepper hadn’t known this.

Old Flossie misunderstood his silence. “The name Aking derives from ‘baking soda.’”

“Oh.”

“So he knows strategy firsthand,” finished Old Flossie. “Now shhhh, we’re here.” They knocked and were bade to enter the crown’s chamber.

Muzzlemutt prowled back and forth in his little cage. Doctor Ill was reading an old scrap of advertising copy about mintyfresh dentifrice.

“Oh, it’s the little anomaly, what’s-its-name,” said Doctor Ill, with boisterous good humor.

“What-the-Dickens,” he said.

“Yes, that’s it. And your accomplice, that quirky good-for-a-joke agent-in-training. What was her name?”

“Pepper,” he answered, a little irritably. “Don’t you remember? She was on a mission last night — a final mission to qualify for her license as an Agent of Change.”

“Of course,” said Doctor Ill blandly. What-the-Dickens had the sense that Doctor Ill would have said “Of course” in response to any report he heard, whether it be that Pepper the tooth fairy had come home triumphantly, or had been reported missing in action, or by popular acclaim had been nominated as the next President of the United States.

“I have something distressing to report,” began What-the-Dickens, but Old Flossie nudged him and hissed in his ear, “Are you incapable of remembering the rules? You don’t speak until you are asked a question.”

“What’s the report, stump mistress?” asked Doctor Ill.

“Most of the agents returned with their matériel. The rogue element here, What-the-Dickens, arrived more or less on time, having secured the teeth of both clients.” Old Flossie sounded impressed despite herself. “The rookie on probation is late and presumed incompetent.”

“She’s probably dead by now,” said What-the-Dickens hotly. “Her name was Pepper.” He realized his mistake. “Is Pepper. Her name is Pepper.”

“She didn’t quite have the goods, did she?” remarked Doctor Ill.

What-the-Dickens construed this as a question, and answered it. “I think she did,” he stated. “She took care of me when we first met, though I’m sure I dragged her down. Then in her makeup mission, she was given a second assignment. We even managed to finish that task, too, and get back on time. I mean, I did, on her behalf.”

So I’ve decided not to lie, he observed to himself. Well, might as well be banished for telling the truth.

“You worked together.”

“Is that such a big deal? You gave her two missions: two agents working together did the job. Two equals two.”

“Hmm,” said Old Flossie. “They say a lot of things about what equals what, but does it add up to anything? Stuff and nonsense. Math is a myth, as Doctor Ill always says.”

“Well, together we fulfilled her requirements,” continued What-the-Dickens. “So though she is presumed dead by now, I want to petition that Pepper be granted her license anyway.”

Doctor Ill’s eyebrows went up. “What good does it do to grant a license to a corpse?”

“Honor,” said What-the-Dickens. “Honor, and memory, I guess.”

“Forget it,” said the crown. “You’re getting above yourself, little orphan boy. Leaving your wild calculations aside, you might as well know that I set her a daunting task to teach her a lesson. To fulfill two missions — intentionally sited at a great distance one from the other — was a virtual impossibility. She couldn’t achieve those tasks even with your illegal help.”

“But she did — or we did, I mean,” he said.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Are you saying you set her up to fail?”

“She needed taking down a peg. She didn’t have the right stuff, I’m afraid, and I had to prove it to her. If you come back in her stead, with both teeth claimed at the correct outlets — well, it only proves you cheated in some way. It isn’t possible for a skibberee to cover so much ground in such a short time.”

“Well, I had help,” he began to explain. “The slipstream of a truck on the highway — and a bird of my acquaintance —”

“You protest none of my assertions, I see. Also you proudly claim credit for breaking the rules. Skibbereen don’t work in pairs and they don’t accept help from strangers.” Doctor Ill rubbed the back of one of his ears and looked weary.

“A truck isn’t alive, and the bird was no stranger; she was my stepmother, in a very incidental manner —”

“We don’t accept help. I appreciate that you’re a slow learner, and inexperienced in the ways of our trade, but even so.”

“All these rules. You train up Agents of Change,” he begged. “So, why not change?”

“Silence.” This was not so much thundered as sighed. “I can see I’m going to have to discuss colony policy with you if you’re to be an Agent of Change.”

“What?” said What-the-Dickens.

“Ask no questions,” said Old Flossie automatically, though she sounded surprised herself.

“Well, it appears there is a position open,” said Doctor Ill. “You’ll be on probation, of course. It takes a while to get licensed. But you seem like Agent material.”

As simple as that. I’m in, he thought.

“You’ve got something rather magnificent in your arms,” continued the crown. “Tribute, I imagine. What is it?”

“The tooth of a wild beast.”

Doctor Ill scratched the stump of one of his missing legs. “Where did you come across it?”

“I extracted it from the mouth of a tiger.”

“Hah! A likely story. Still, it’s impressive.” Doctor Ill picked it up and whistled at the weight. He tilted the tiger tooth toward the cage where his mouse was penned.

The mouse reared back in terror, squeaking.

“This could come in handy, I see,” said Doctor Ill ruminatively. “If we ever found ourselves needing to attack another colony, we could mount this on a stake and carry it like a totem. It would terrify those libertines over at Watermill Corners.”

“If we’re so small — so fragile — why do we attack one another’s colonies?”

“It’s the economy, stupid,” said Old Flossie. “Supply and demand and consolidation of resources. It’s all an accounting problem when you get down to it.” She sounded somewhat tired, for the first time. “All in good time, you’ll learn. Little by little. Small doesn’t mean tender.”

“It doesn’t add up,” said What-the-Dickens forthrightly.

“What does?” she snapped back. “That things should ‘add up’ is a whole lot of hooey, if you ask me.”

“If we’re so small and scared and mean,” countered the orphan skibberee, “why do we bother? Why do we do it? Why do we put wishes in the way of humans, where they can find them and use them? To spend our time that way seems too noble, when those humans hardly deserve wishes of any kind!”

Doctor Ill had finished tucking the tiger tooth on a shelf of mementos, where it looked truly terrifying. But his expression, when he turned back, was anything but dreadful.

“Dear boy,” he said. “It is really very simple. We plant the possibility of wishes coming true only in the paths of human children. Children still trust that when they wish on something bright — a birthday candle, a penny in a fountain —”

“A shooting star,” interjected Old Flossie.

“— that their wish will come true. Wishing is the beginning of imagination. They practice wishing when they are young things, and then — when they have grown — they have a developed imagination. Which can do some harm — greed, that kind of thing — but more often does them some good. They can imagine that things might be different. Might be other than they seem. Could be better.”

“But what is in it for us?” demanded What-the-Dickens. By now he was cross nearly to the point of tears. “Everything in our life is a trade, I’ve learned. What do we get out of it?”

Neither Old Flossie nor Doctor Ill spoke for a moment. “It cheapens skibbereen to talk about it,” said the stump mistress in something of a growl. “We struggle to be proud, even if we’ll never be mighty. The truth is this: We skibbereen have very little lives, but see — we can sometimes do some good.”

“And why do we bother?” concluded Doctor Ill, rhetorically. “I don’t really know. Because it helps our little lives seem less small, perhaps. That is all.

“Anyway” — he clapped his hands, startling Muzzlemutt — “welcome to our small, small life here at Undertree Common. May you be as happy as it is socially useful to be.”

He looked as if he were about to grasp What-the-Dickens’s hands. But skibbereen don’t touch each other, as Pepper had often said, so Doctor Ill merely clasped his own hands and rubbed them vigorously, as if congratulating himself on his speechifying.

“What I’m wondering about Pepper —” began What-the-Dickens. Before he could stutter his question to its conclusion, however, the fireflies in wall recesses began, suddenly and in unison, to blink. They flashed a sequence of cool-water colors, from baby blue to electrified cobalt.

“Blue alert!” brayed Old Fossie.

“Enemies!” hissed Doctor Ill, nearly turning blue himself. “Foreign agents breaching our borders! To your stations, kinmates!”

What-the-Dickens, still rubbing his wing tips in disbelief, was abandoned as Old Flossie and Doctor Ill half ran, half flew, so helter-skelter that it was more like skelter-helter. Right out the door of the office. This is to say, Old Flossie ran and Doctor Ill flew, for although he lacked the use of his legs, his wings still worked just fine.

Enemy attack! thought What-the-Dickens. So soon after being conscripted. Wouldn’t you know it.

Could it be a ruse to test my civic loyalty? That would be just like them… .

Nonetheless, he hurried up to the cage of the mouse. He fiddled with the gate and flung it open. “You better skedaddle while the skedaddling is possible.”

But the mouse had been in captivity too long, and he was terrified of the tiger tooth. Of course he would be! Mice didn’t even like cat’s teeth, did they, and this was a tooth of the crown cat.

What-the-Dickens didn’t have time to be persuasive. “Sorry, mate,” he said to the wee timorous beastie. “The coast is clear, so I’ve gotta scram. Best of luck to you and all that.”

The mouse said, Luck? What’s luck? No one heard him but What-the-Dickens. But the orphan skibberee could not afford the time to decide whether he was imaging what animals could think or he was actually hearing them. The alarms were now blinking in the corridors as he hurried after the crown and the stump mistress. Flashes of acid yellow striped the blackout darkness.