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I'm partial neither to bars nor alcohol, although the occasional aperitif_can be welcome. Properly, the word refers to a dry or fizzy alcoholic beverage (a Sloe Gin Fizz is a good example), although the word has come to mean any alcoholic beverage taken before a meal. To that end, I prefer the simplicity of sweet, creamy treats, like a Grasshopper -- light on alcohol, long on flavor. As a _digestif, taken after a meal, a single shot of crème de menthe, by itself, can be a delicious and warming finish. These are things that put alcoholic beverages in their proper category: treats to be enjoyed in small quantities on an occasional basis.

Bars, generally, are filled with humans who more often take the view that alcohol makes the clock stand still, makes the brain stop twisting, makes the heart stop hurting; quantity, therefore, is more desirable than quality. It's unfair of me to tar all humans with this brush, and there are plenty of therians who fall into this trap as well. Perhaps it's the idea of it being a trap that spurs my caution. That, and the fact that so many bars are rowdy places, with loud "conversations" that may or may not contain anything remotely identifiable as language. It will undoubtedly qualify as noise, and my long sable ears are quite sensitive; I don't wish them dulled by exposure to it.

There is a place, however, that I will turn to if the events of the day have lead me to think that an hour of quiet would be the best start to my evening. Dickens House was sometimes nicknamed "Bleak," an irony in that it was far from that. It held a great deal of deep and well-polished wood in its walls, with the accents of proper leather and brass. In Margery Allingham novels, it would have been called a "saloon bar" in the proper British sense. Conversations were quiet, usually jovial, and bonhomie was limited to nods from a distance, a silent wave, or the nearly unheard-of technique of being within handshaking range before using one's voice to greet an acquaintance. The bartenders were likewise calm, efficient, and good at remembering the regulars' usual libation.

Which was why the White Russian, placed before me moments after my arrival, confused me.

One thing that makes me a good operative is that I improvise well in any situation. Rather than express displeasure or agitation, I smiled at the young coyote and said, "Earl, I'd swear that you read my mind. How did you know?"

"Your message came through just fine, Mr. Hunter." Earl grinned back at me. "Dominick let me know as soon as you came in, so that I could make it up quick and have it ready for you."

"Perfect timing." I raised the Old Fashioned glass and kept my eyes on the bartender, saluting him with it. "Za tvoye zdorov'ye, moy drug," I offered heartily before taking a sip of the libation. The balance of vodka, coffee liqueur, and cream was excellent, the ice fresh and of modest quantity, and my tongue found nothing else added to the contents. After swallowing the sip, I made an appropriately pleased sound. "And this, too, is perfect. Lovely change. Spasibo, Earl."

Knowing that the coyote would put it on my tab, I took my drink to a high-backed booth for a bit more privacy. Along the way, I surreptitiously scanned the room for a certain fox of my acquaintance. Even if he were there in disguise, I would probably have recognized him. Unlike many of my human counterparts, I don't suffer from the "one insert-species-of-choice looks like every other" syndrome. I understand the subtleties better, notice the particulars more closely. I seated myself in the booth, sure that no one else noticed me either. From my inner jacket pocket, I took a device that even my handlers didn't know about and, after activating it, tapped out a message: Thanks for the drink.

Moments later, a reply. Sorry I'm not there in the fur. Looks like a nice place, from the pictures.

You're always welcome. What may I do for you?

Minor assistance requested. Start here.

A file arrived that I would peruse more fully later. For now, I wasn't at all sure what a professor of engineering would have to do with my old friend and ensuer-of-hijinks Oleg Maksimivich Goloshchapov.

Urgent? I typed.

Mildly. Tomorrow?

Done. Meet after?

When the eel lunges for the Earl.

I switched the keyboard to Cyrillic letters for my reply.

After several seconds, the reply read, Now you are just showing off.

I smiled softly, enjoying the moment before settling in to read the file I'd been sent. I had no idea what Oleg was up to, nor which of his covers he might be using. I rather hoped it would be his jewel thief persona; those jobs always had more flair...

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The morning air was crisp, especially as the sun had barely risen. The park was nearly empty. Two humans, each walking a non-sapient dog, moved in two different directions, a good distance away from me. I sat on a bench near the walking trail that avoided much of the hindpaw-or-foot traffic, waiting for a dog of my own -- specifically, a Husky who was Siberian both in the genetic and the native sense. Dmitriy Mikhailovich Khabensky, professor of engineering, was a naturalized citizen, early 40s, generally slim of build but with just a few extra pounds about his middle (which was testimony to his enjoyment of good food). Happily, that description was precise enough for me to mark his entry to the park in plenty of time. The photo in his file did him a disservice, but so many such photos are like that. When a photograph is taken discretely, without permission, and from a distance through a telephoto lens, it's hardly likely that the subject will strike a pose to show his finer profile.

He did his best to ignore my presence as politely as possible. It was not his nature to be mean, merely private. As he came near enough, I spoke gently, and in Russian. "Good morning to you, Dmitriy Mikhailovich."

The dog's surprise at hearing not only his name but the Russian words was acute. Replying in Russian, he asked gently, "How do you know me?"

"I beg your forgiveness, first for being brazen, then for needing to be overly discreet. I merely wish to know about one of your students."

A bit of hesitation. "Are you police?"

"Of a sort. It is important that I find Shelby Greiner."

Khabensky again spoke cautiously. "Is he in some sort of trouble?"

"I don't believe so, although I must qualify it by saying 'not yet'."

The Husky's expression showed deep concern. "Your phrasing is worrisome, good fur. Shelby is in danger?"

"Hopefully not." I considered him. "Are you close to all your students?"

"The good ones, the ones who really show an interest in their work, yes." For the first time, the dog showed a small, warm smile. "He shows interest, promise, even insight. This one would go far."

"I believe that is part of why I need to find him."

After hesitating for a few moments, the Husky finally sat next to me. "This is all very melodramatic, good fur. Is this some elaborate charade?"

I smiled at him. "YA ne veshayu tebe lapshu na ushi." Thinking it might help my case, I resorted to English. "My name is Hunter, and I work for a very discreet branch of law enforcement. Young Greiner is not on some government watch list, nor are you. Neither of you is in danger of arrest or other entanglement. I was told to ask you about him, to ask if could help me find him."

Breathing a little easier, the Husky also spoke in English, his accent showing only mildly. "I saw him last, over a week ago. It is not like him to miss classes, nor to stay away from laboratory work. I had no way to contact him, to see if perhaps he is ill or has simply gone away somewhere. I hesitate to call hospitals or police; he is adult, in no need of guardianship, and I am not his keeper."

"Yet you are concerned for him."

He smiled weakly. "My soft spot for the good ones."

"Perhaps you can tell me about the last time you saw him."

"And now, you sound like the investigator on a crime show." Dmitriy's ear twitched, but he kept his muzzle calm. "I have no strange clues or unusual behaviors to help you, Hunter. We last spoke at his usual class with me. He asked a question about his homework, showed appreciation for my answer, and left the classroom." The Husky managed a larger smile. "The topic was not the solution to the problem of cold fusion."

"So we can rule out kidnapping by hostile forces." I returned his smile genuinely. "He left alone?"

"With a few other students, his friends." The growing light around us was mirrored in his eyes. "Ignacio Santos and Moses Willis."

"Have they attended classes since then?"

"Yes. You can find them?"

"Without doubt." I rose; he followed suit and took my proffered forepaw. "You may also have no doubt that I will contact you with information when I have it. May I ask you to keep this conversation to yourself for now?"

Giving my forepaw a squeeze with his own, he grinned, saying, "U menya ne cheshutsya zuby."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A good university campus has its own atmosphere, a mix of youth and age, promise and uncertainty, education through the study of academia, zythology, and experimentation (in any number of informal labs) involving sex. I remembered my own misadventures with varying amounts of success in all arenas; when I graduated, I had official and unofficial certifications in the necessary topics, with quite a few instructors (in all realms) who were very satisfied with my efforts.

Despite the many very pleasant memories that this campus sparked in me (does every campus have That Certain Spot on its grounds that is infamous for making out?), it was not the one where I'd spent so many happy hours not too many years ago. It took me a little while to orient myself, and then to find the main library, and then the study tables where the students had agreed to meet me.

Moses Willis was a large, dark-skinned human male, older than the usual college sophomore; he had served several years in the military in exchange for getting at least some of his college degree paid for. Engineering had interested him during his time in the service, and he apparently had enough fortitude for Khabenskyto keep encouraging him. The man seemed genuinely grateful for his opportunity, and he was putting in the effort to make it work.

Ignacio Santos, a junior, was a firefox of largely conventional markings, his dark brown eyes sparkling with intelligence and some suspicion as to my motives. "No," he said softly into the quiet of the library, "we haven't heard from him. That's why we're here -- in case you know something."

"I'm very much in the dark, Mr. Santos. I need to find him; that's what I know, and that's what I'm trying to do."

"And you said he's not in trouble, right?" the human reiterated.

"Only if he's made some for himself in the past week."

"You think he might have?"

"I think that I don't know what's happened to him, and it may be that you two were the last to see him."

"Don't," the red panda said softly. "Makes it sound like he's dead."

"You're right. I'm sorry." I nodded my apologies to the yowen. "I only mean that Professor Khabensky saw you two with Mr. Greiner when the three of you left his classroom and that he -- the professor, I mean -- hasn't seen him since."

Slowly, Santos seemed to relax. "Thank you."

"You're fond of him?"

The fur of a firefox's mask makes it difficult to see a blush; his general body language told a bit more of the tale. "We're friends."

"You shared your fur," Willis said softly.

"We weren't lovers!" Santos' voice was loud enough to attract some frowns from others a few tables down.

"I wouldn't think less if you were," the Black man soothed. "I know I'm human, but I try to understand the idea of sharing your fur. It's intimate, not always about sex, but it's about contact and closeness. You and Shelby were close enough to share that."

Carefully, I said to Willis, "That sounds important to you."

The man looked down for a moment before admitting, "It's something that humans don't seem to know how to do. When two people strip off, it means having sex, or that's what seems to happen. I guess I'm envious of the closeness. It's a deep connection, like maybe the comfort of..." He trailed off, looking uncertain. "Maybe I don't know what I'm talking about."

"It sounds to me that you do. What were you going to say? The comfort of... what, do you think?"

Another moment of hesitation. "I don't want this to sound prejudiced somehow. I see puppies or kittens -- you know, non-sapient ones -- and they just cuddle, like comfort or warmth or security... I probably sound stupid."

"Not at all," I told him. "That's an astute observation."

"I think doing that must be really..." The look on his face showed his own need, and one that he feared might not be easily met. He turned to the red panda, asking gently, "Is that where you went off to?"

Santos hesitated. After several seconds, I took up the thread. "Let's start with what happened when you left the classroom."

Clearing his throat self-consciously, Willis continued, "When we left class, the three of us, we said we wanted to talk about the projects coming up, about the homework in general, that stuff. We went over to the Union, got some food, sat and talked for maybe an hour or so."

"What time was that?"

"Class let out a little before 11, then the walk, getting food... lunchtime, busy, ya know? Anyway, I had another class at one, so we split up about then."

I turned back to the firefox, who continued to look uncomfortable. "Did you go with Shelby?"

The reply took a few moments to materialize. "I wanted to. He was... helping me."

"Schoolwork?"

"No."

For better or worse, I let discretion rule the moment. "When did you see him last?"

"About 1:15, 1:30 maybe. We came here, to the building, and he said he had something to check. I wanted to go with him, or wait for him, but he said he wasn't sure how long he'd be, so we could get together later. He ran up the steps, and I left him to it."

"Where did you go?"

"Just walked around for a while. Got back to my dorm about 3:30 or so. My roommate was out, so I had the chance to take a nap." The young firefox made himself smaller, there in his seat. He looked up at me, frightened. My involvement made Shelby's disappearance that much more serious, and the possibility of the worst outcome seemed to hover just behind his eyes.

"Ignacio." Willis put a hand gently to his fellow student's shoulder. "I got no fur to share, but I got two ears that work pretty well."

Rising slowly to take my leave, I leaned over to whisper to them, "I'll make sure you're notified, just as soon as I find out anything certain. Try not to worry too much."

Even I knew how stupid that sounded.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Passing by the checkout desks near the front doors, my superior powers of observation noticed student ID cards being linked to books being checked out, and my razor-sharp mind had a brilliant idea. Put another way, I saw this scheme on some old cop show I'd seen, and I thought to put it to the test.

After being quite politely shown to the office of the head librarian, I found myself in the company of a human female who showed no clichéd features usually covered by the term "matronly." An older woman of comparatively slim build, solidly formed, an air of control without being overbearing, she nonetheless would be a formidable opponent in any attempted dispute of overdue fines. The lady offered me a smile that was an interesting mixture of ingratiating and professional.

"Privacy issues being so prevalent in the world today, Mr. Hunter," she began, "the proper procedure would be for me to ask if you have some form of warrant."

"I have only my credentials and a sense of urgency in connection with the student's disappearance."

She nodded. "You have no other leads or means of finding him?"

"None yet."

"Candor is rare, in these circumstances. Let me make no promises, but if you would give me the student's name...?"

"Shelby Greiner."

With a smile, she first made sure that I couldn't see the computer screen, then asked me to verify the spelling of the last name. "For the record," she said, "I don't think that there are any volumes in our library that would provide better lessons in weapons and bomb-making than one could find on the internet." After a pause, she nodded again, adding "Hardly anything revolutionary or dangerous on this list, unless you're part of that faction which believes that books which make you think should be banned."

"I most certainly am not. Shall you grant me access?"

"Let me not impede anyone who can make a request in the future perfect tense."

She invited me to join her, and I cast an eye down the list of recent checkouts. "May I press my luck and ask for a printout of this page? Just these last few months."

"Did you spot anything to give you a clue, Mr. Hunter?"

"Only that there's almost nothing on this list that appears to link with his degree in engineering."

"Must they do?"

"Apparently," I admitted, "I may have made that foolish assumption."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I sat in a quiet corner of the Amore Bistro, waiting for the furson who had set this mad quest in motion. There was solace to be had both in the hot tea I'd ordered and the fact that his sly suggestion of time and place were too foolish to be considered a proper code of any kind. Long ago, some wag of a cartoonist had penned a comical rewriting of a certain popular song: "When an eel lunges out, and it bites off your snout, that's a moray..." Combined with a need to express a time, surely the 2nd Earl Gray -- an early 19thcentury Prime Minister of England -- would have enjoyed the tea named after him at the time of "afternoon tea," or 4pm. If my fellow fur meant "high tea," which was anywhere between 5-7pm, I'd be in for a wait; the "clue" was so obvious that I wagered on the American prejudice of tea-time being a four-o'clock affectation.

"When the frost is on the pumpkin..."

A softly-whispered voice at my shoulder made me turn toward it. I saw who and what I expected to see: a large (Northern) specimen of _Vulpes vulpes,_his ears slightly taller than typical for the species, his eyes bright, clear, almost motionless yet catching everything. He was togged in an outrageously cliché trench coat (although of fine manufacture, not some cheap knock-off), and he pretended not to have spoken at all.

"The celery stalks at midnight," I replied, mimicking his spy-game sign-countersign role-playing. "Now sit the hell down and tell me what you're messing about with this time."

Chuckling softly while doffing his coat, the fox regarded me with familiar good humor. "What good is growing up if one cannot play sometimes?" He sat carefully, well in control of his muscles, a nod to his old skills as a dancer. Looking over the various food items on the table, he nodded approvingly. "You've remembered sweet and savory both, moy drug; well done."

"Unless you start explaining, you'll have about ten seconds to enjoy it before I do something very painful to you."

"Attempt to sing 'La Donna e Mobile' again?"

"Does the brand name of 'Planters' mean anything to you?"

Squirming, the fox frowned at me. "How very common, Hunter."

"Five seconds."

"Entirely personal, no espionage, nothing even remotely unlawful. Dare I to have some tea now?"

"You have earned a brief reprieve. Help yourself to the sandwiches and pastries; I'll pour."

He selected one of the miniature Victoria sponge cakes, a segment of a carrot and raisin sandwich (cut in a diamond shape), and one of the egg and bacon brioche soldiers, which both of us were partial to. I avoided including the Marmite out of sheer civility and, although tempted, I left the coronation egg mayo sandwiches for another time. The aroma from the steaming tea was full in my nostrils; the Amore Bistro had a source for the tea which used genuine oil of bergamot rather than an artificial substitute. I had considered asking for milk and vanilla, to make a classic London Fog, but that, too, could wait for another time.

Before he could take a bite from one of his sandwiches, I said, "No one told you to stop explaining, Oleg."

The fox's nimble tongue produced a fine raspberry, which might not have gone well with the soldier he still held in his forepaw. "Tell what you know of engineering."

"Mechanical, electrical, chemical, structural, social, micro, genetic...?"

He stopped in mid-chew, giving me a mildly sour look. "Already, you know more than me."

I raised my cup in salute before taking a sip. "The course that young Greiner is taking from Professor Khabensky covers basics, mostly in terms of mechanical engineering. He doesn't seem to have any idea why Greiner would be singled out for anything beyond being a bright, interested student."

Oleg offered his thanks for letting him finish a soldier and sip some tea by nodding and saying, "So now we have the crux of the matter."

"Be still, my fluttering heart," I deadpanned. "Why don't you start by explaining your part in all of this."

"Call it concerned friends and relatives."

"Greiner's, I presume?"

"Da."

"Including yourself."

"One of me, yes."

I couldn't help but smile at the phrasing. Oleg had several particularly good cloaks, and even a few merely-adequate ones for use in a pinch. The fox once bluffed his way into a humans-only corporate boardroom, got the board to change its segregationist policies, made the people think it was their own idea, then bluffed his way back out so skillfully that the bunch of them swore that it was a human who had led them out of the darkness. I had visions of him becoming the Pope one day, although he would probably consider it to have a poor return on the investment of his time and talent (apart from reclaiming the billions-worth of gold, art, and so forth). For the record, despite the fox's nigh-magical abilities, there's no indication that he has more than one tail.

Helping myself to a sandwich, I asked, "Why did you send me to his professor first?"

"I thought he might have been the last to see him."

"Nearly enough," I nodded, then told him of the two classmates and their stories. "They're worried about him, too."

"Good that he has friends. They were of no further help?"

"Perhaps not, but meeting them at the library gave me another idea." From my jacket pocket, I withdrew the paper that the head librarian had printed out for me. "His reading list from the university library."

Oleg glanced through it, a frown appearing across his brow. "I do not understand how this is relevant."

"My idea was to get some insight into what he might have been thinking about most recently. As his professor joked, it was not about discovering some astonishing insight into an engineering breakthrough. A few of these books are more relevant to engineering courses that Greiner might take next year; that shows him to be interested, intelligent, forward-thinking, all relative to his major. The rest, however..."

"Psychology, philosophy... a few memoirs." The fox considered, taking tea as if hoping it would fortify his thinking. "This gives me no clues."

"All right, my vulpine friend -- cards on the table. What do you know?"

"Nothing, beyond that the kit seems suddenly to have vanished. He has not enough money to travel, to support himself, to strike out on his own, and he has not expressed any desire to do so. He is age of majority, yes, but he is also good student, has strong family, friends..."

I looked at him carefully. "You're hinting at abduction."

He slumped back in his seat. "I did not wish to prejudice your search. Yes, that is what we fear."

"Any motives?"

"None. Parents are not rich, he holds no secrets, is key to no crime, no witness to wrongdoing. There has been no ransom demand, no information or contact..." The fox's ears splayed in frustration. "I joke with you, make light, hoping that our worst fear is not true."

"Whistling past the graveyard." I reached out to pat his arm briefly. "Do not give up hope yet. If you have roped me into this, your ordinary resources have found nothing. Hospitals, police, word on the street..."

"All empty. Circulated his picture. Nothing."

"You have his photo with you?"

Reaching into his pocket, Oleg withdrew a device similar to my own. A few quick taps, and a face appeared that looked strangely familiar to me. Not at all identical, but similar. I looked at the face on the screen, noting the fur color, the shape of the muzzle, the color of the eyes, the overall set and design of the ears.

"Shelby Greiner is a red raccoon," I said softly.

"Yes. A rarity, generally, but not the only one in his lineage." The fox regarded me curiously. "Is this important?"

"It depends on whether or not someone was paying attention."

...to be continued