Carl Hiaasen – Native Tongue

“Who’s that?”

“The voles,” Winder said. “They’ve got names now.”

“Really?” Will Koocher looked doubtful. “I always called them Male One and Female One.”

“Not anymore. Kingsbury’s got big plans, PR-wise. The little mango curies are going to be famous—don’t be surprised if the networks show up tomorrow.”

“Is that so,” Koocher said, with not the wildest enthusiasm. Winder sensed that the scientist disapproved of anthropomorphizing rodents, so he decided to lay off the Vance-and-Violet routine. Instead he asked about the tongue.

“Well, it really is blue,” Koocher said stiffly. “Remarkably blue.”

“Could I say indigo?” Joe Winder was taking notes.

“Yeah,” said Koocher, “that’s about right.” He started to say something more, but caught himself.

Joe Winder asked: “So what killed off the rest of them? Was it disease?”

“No, same old story. The encroachment of mankind.” Koocher unfolded a map that illustrated how the mango vole had once ranged from the Middle Keys up to Palm Beach. As the coastline surrendered to hotels, subdivisions and condominiums, the voles” territory shrank. “They tell me the last known colony was here, on North Key Largo. One of Kingsbury’s foremen found it in 1988, but so did a hungry barn owl. They were lucky to save the two that they did.”

“And they mated for life?” said Winder.

Koocher seemed amused. “Who told you that?”

“Chelsea.”

“That figures. Voles don’t mate for life. They mate for fun, and they mate with just about anything that resembles another vole.”

Winder said, “Then here’s another dumb question: Why were there only two in our exhibit? They’d been together, what, a year? So where’re all the bouncing baby voles?”

Edgily, Koocher said, “That’s been our biggest disappointment.”

“I did some reading up on it,” Winder said. “With your typical Microtus, the female gives birth every two months. Each litter’s got eight or nine babies—at that rate, you could replenish the whole species in a year.”

Will Koocher shifted uncomfortably. “Female One was not receptive,” he said. “Do you understand what that means?”

“Do I ever.”

“This was an extreme case. The female nearly killed the male on several occasions. We had to hire a Wackenhut to watch the cage.”

“A guard?” said Joe Winder.

“To make sure she didn’t hurt him.”

Winder swallowed a laugh. Apparently, Koocher saw no humor in the story. He said, “I felt sorry for the little guy. The female was much larger, and extremely hostile. Every time the male would attempt to mount her, she would attack.”

Joe Winder put his notebook away. He’d think of a way to write around the reproduction question.

Koocher said: “The female vole wasn’t quite right.”

“In what way?”

But Koocher was staring past him. Winder turned and saw Charles Chelsea on the other side of the glass door. Chelsea gave a chipper, three-fingered salute and disappeared.

The doctor said, “Now’s not a terrific time to get into all this. Can we talk later?”

“You bet. I’ll be in the publicity office.”

“No, not here. Can I call you at home in a day or two?”

Winder said sure. “But I’ve got to write the press release tonight. If there’s something I ought to know, please tell me before I make an ass of myself.”

Koocher stood up and smoothed the breast of his lab coat. “That business about the networks coming—were you serious?”

“Cute sells,” Winder said. “You take an offbeat animal story on a slow news day, we’re talking front page.”

“Christ.” Koocher sighed.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Winder said. He hadn’t meant to come off as such a coldhearted prick. “I know what these little critters meant to you.”

Will Koocher smiled ruefully. He folded the habitat map and put it away. He looked tired and sad, and Winder felt bad for him. “It’s all right,” the young scientist said. “They were doomed, no matter what.”

“We’re all doomed,” said Joe Winder, “if you really think about it.” Which he tried not to.

Bud Schwartz parked the pickup truck under an immense ficus tree. He told Danny Pogue not to open the doors right away, because of all the mosquitoes. The insects had descended in a sibilant cloud, bouncing off the windows and the hood and the headlights.