A taxi cab careened along a highway, just barely keeping between the lines. Inside, Noella Adams had one hand on the steering wheel and another on the vernier tuning knob of a shortwave radio under the dashboard. It was a contest for her attention between finding that elusive frequency and keeping the vehicle from becoming a fiery wreck on the side of the road. It was a good thing she didn't have a fare in the back seat at that moment; he would have been screaming, breaking her concentration.

Her dark hair kept closing like a curtain on her face, forcing her to hang her head at odd angles for gravity's assistance. The flickering light from the gauges on the tube set mixed with streetlight illumination on her pearlish face which was growing ever more contorted with frustration. The lights flashed on the zipper of her leather coat, her stud earrings, her bronze-colored eyes.

She stared a few seconds too long at the gauge, so that when she did finally glance up at the road, a huge pothole loomed in front of the car. Jerking the steering wheel hard to the left, she tried to clear it but still hit it with one of the front tires. Everything in the car—the typewriter, coffee maker, manila folders, cameras—was thrown up and down. A thermos in a cup holder sloshed its contents into her lap.

"Dangit!" she growled, wiping the hot liquid off her denim-clad thighs.

She was about to throw a tantrum when she noticed the radio static had gone away. The jarring pothole did what her fingers could not: locate the faraway signal. She laughed and slapped the dashboard with joy, then chided herself for almost messing up the radio tuning again.

Even with the volume turned up all the way, the voice still sounded like it was coming through a corroded rainspout. She strained to hear it over the noise of the rainy street, and some words were lost as it faded in and out. Still, she recognised the New York accent immediately. According to the clock, it was 2 minutes into the broadcast. She hoped she hadn't missed anything important.

"...has been seen around Car Henge in North Dakota. Sources report a large, hairy man in coveralls carrying a toolbox, take out a portable arc welder and cut off pieces of the cars. What Sasquatch wants with these old car parts is unknown."

"Sasquatch," she muttered. "Don't care."

"Our contact in Easter Island report statues leaking oil. Presumably these are from the gearboxes, though no progress has been made in reaching the inner mechanism. It is believed that the power source is salt water, and an electrical signal may yet succeed in waking up the slumbering monsters."

"Intriguing," she pursed her lips, "but I want to hear about the snakes."

"A researcher in the Vatican Library has found a nearly complete map of the hypertunnels linking cities of Europe. It dates back to the reign of Nero putting the latest date of construction at a millenium and a half ago. Access to the stations on the network is still hampered by mysterious, unscheduled construction projects. But our man in London thinks he may have worked out a route."

"Come on, get to the snakes," she whispered impatiently.

"Observers in Canada and northern Europe report that all birds ... yes, that is correct ... all birds have vanished north of the 55th parallel. For the past few weeks, all birds, even non-migratory ones, have been seen flying south, even past the equator. We are trying to learn more about their destination."

"Serpentopolis. Say Serpentolis, please," she begged the radio.

"People, something big is happening. We haven't seen this much activity on the ley lines since 1930. Keep your eyes peeled for strange goings on and send me those postcards. That is it for tonight's report. Don't let the Cats get you. This is Ghostcatcher signing out."

She growled with frustration and smacked the radio's power button.

"They might have mentioned it earlier and I'd never know! Stupid me, stopping at that convenience store. I should know better."

Noella's life was more complicated than your average tough girl from Boston. It was not the late hours, the tedious driving through the city's twisted lanes, or the freakish passengers that bothered her. She loved all that. Rather, it was her other life, the secret one, that made her feel tired and edgy all the time.

Ever since she was a toddler and saw something she wasn't supposed to see, her life had been different from most other people. While kids her age were growing up, innocently playing with their toys and learning the party line in school, she was learning to stay quiet, to blend in, to keep her secrets to herself. To say what she knew would lead to trouble. A sense of injustice grew inside her, made her seek the fringes of society for company, before ultimately she had to leave even that behind.

By the time she graduated high school, there was no question of ever joining the ranks of normal people and having a career. What could college teach her but more of the same unreality? She knew that everything important she had to learn, she would need to discover for herself. It would have ended badly, however, had she not discovered LIMOS at the right time in her life.

Perhaps you've noticed how taxi drivers often have a little shrine of some sort on the dashboard: a religious icon or a lucky charm. On a few you might see a geegaw with words imprinted on the side, a latin phrase, "Legio Insto Mundis Occultis Scientia", the origin of the acronym LIMOS. If you managed to remember that long enough to have it translated, you would learn that it means something to the effect of "The legion for the study of strangeness in the world."

Just days after leaving school, hanging out someplace with nothing to do, she was approached by an aging man with big, orange sideburns and a body like an overused beanbag chair. She was fully prepared to kick him in the groin if he made a pass at her, but the kick was never necessary. Barry, as he called himself, bought her lunch at a diner that later cost her a roll of antacid tablets. And he recruited her into LIMOS.

How they found her, as with any new recruit, is a guarded secret. But they knew, somehow, that she was like them; she had knowledge about the strange, hidden reality of the world. Nobody knows how many people belong to this organization, or how it began, but they have been around for a very long time. Always, they choose the people-ferrying profession, today driving taxis, but before that hackney carriages and hand-carried sedans. They were known in medeival times, ancient Rome, and even Phaoronic Egypt.

Experts of secret history have long wondered about the connection between the livery profession and conspiracy sleuthing. Why do they only roster members from the ranks of taxi drivers? Why not university professors or journalists? The most accepted explanation is that this profession confers some key advantages not available to others. It is fairly anonymous, the drivers not being affiliated with a major institution. The members continuously meet people from all parts of society, have the opportunity to interview them with what seems like idle chit-chat, and separate ways without ever giving their identity. Spending most of their time in vehicles makes it difficult to track them, and provides a convenient means of escape.

The structure of LIMOS is very difficult to penetrate. It is divided into numerous cells of 6 members each, one being the leader. Each usually lives in a different city, identified only by first name or a code word, specializing in a particular mystery such as Atlantis or lake monsters. They meet to share information over shortwave radios so there is no paper trail.

Each member has a particular focus of study, inspired by the event that forever changed him. Some follow the goings-on of UFOs, while others seek out Atlantis. For Noella, it is the ancient capital of the Snake empire called Serpentopolis—but we will return to that later. They compare notes and share information with the common goal of one day making sense of the enigmatic universe.

But there is danger. They uncover secrets at their peril, for some wish this information to be kept unknown, and humanity to live in the dark. These entities are not themselves human and, it is said, they possess nothing that we could construe as mercy. So LIMOS must themselves live secretly, never revealing their true nature, making their own lives a mystery.

After some time driving an aimless course, her frustration had dissipated and she was left feeling tired. Her shift was almost over and it was a slow night anyway, so she decided to set up camp and get some sleep. She steered into a disused lot where crops of weeds pushed through old concrete. In this old part of the city, tangled with industry and broken windows, she felt most at ease.

The trunk popped open, and she walked around to unload a set of orange traffic cones. After placing them in a perimeter around the cab, she connected them with thin wire, hidden inside the cones on spools. One end of each wire was connected to a bell, and the other pulled out to meet the adjacent cone ... simple but effective tresspass detector. She then sprinkled some broken glass around the car as extra protection.

Returning to the cab, she started to prepare her bed by pushing the seats down. The car was a 1981 Checker model, sadly one of the last to roll out of the factory in Kalamazoo, Michigan. Sad, because it was an extraordinarily well-built vehicle, solid enough to take daily abuse in pothole infested city streets, enormous inside, and quite handsome as cars go with a distinctive shape. She and her brother had found it rusting in an automotive graveyard, bought it for a song and dance, and restored it.

For Noella, beyond being a mere conveyance and source of livelihood, her cab happened to make a superb mobile home. This was enhanced by some clever modifications such as a fold-out hotplate hidden in a door panel, shelves on sconces, personal items tucked in a score of secret compartments, curtains, and so on. The front passenger seat was converted into an office with a typewriter, boxes of files and supplies, and a writing table that folded out of the glove compartment.

One of the rituals of preparing for sleep was to set up the Shrine. A part of the dashboard popped off when pressed in the right place, revealing a menagerie of photos, candles, and memorabilia all centered around one person. Her brother and only sibling Steven vanished years ago, somewhere in the Yucatan region of Mexico. He was looking for Serpentopolis.

After touching each of the objects on the Shrine, she retrieved a folder from the office and opened it. This was the next part of the ritual. Inside were geological survey maps of the area in Mexico where her brother was last seen. She studied the details every night, and had memorized all the countour lines, roads, topological features, and the scribbles of notes he had made in planning his venture. If she was going to find him again, she had to know all she could.

She had always considered him to be her best, and maybe only, friend. Together, they shared a secret, bore it with difficulty, and resolved to spend their lives understanding and exposing it. Their strange life together was sparked by an incident long ago, when she was a little girl about 6 years old.

Having awoken very early one morning, just as first light was creeping over the window sill, she heard a quiet but distinct sound from downstairs. Creeping through the house, she sought the source of the lilting melody, and found it in the livingroom. There, Morris the family cat stood on the bench in front of the piano, his paws gently but rapidly pressing keys.

The song he played was exquisitely lovely, but far different from anything she had heard before. With his stubby paws, he could not play chords, but by rapidly playing notes in staccato fashion, he could simulate complex chords, almost like stroking a harp. The volume was very soft, so as not to wake the family, but he had not taken into account the excellent hearing of a child.

Wee Noella with her curly tresses sat in the pre-dawn shadows and enjoyed the performance. This was a side of Morris she had never seen before. He was normally a very staid and shy cat, somewhat cold and aloof. She had tried to play with him on several occasions, but he never seemed interested. Now, here he was, putting his heart and soul into a rapturous melody, eyes closed and mouth clearly upturned in a smile. She giggled at the sight.

Morris stopped playing suddenly. He saw the girl in her nightgown, laughing and clapping her hands. The fur on his neck and back rose. There followed an uncomfortable moment when neither of them knew what to do. Noella wanted to hug the cat, but worried that she had done something wrong and was now in trouble. She decided to smooth things over and got up to go embrace him. But Morris was back to his unfriendly self. He hissed and jumped down from the bench, running away.

She was too young to know yet that cats were supposed to be dumb animals. To see a feline playing piano would make most adults seek therapy, but a child accepted what they saw without argument. What bothered her was the strange exchange of emotion that happened. For a moment, the cat had shed his prickly exterior and showed a softer side.

Later that day, she told Steven about it because he was older and would know what to make of it.

"Did you know Morris can play piano? He can. He was playing today and I heard the whole thing."

"Only people can play piano, Nola. Cats don't know how. Maybe he was just walking on the piano keys and it sounded like music."

She was very angry at this suggestion. "No! He played piano like a person. It was very good. I liked it a lot."

"Well, maybe he's a special cat." Being 9 years old, he was smarter but still had an open mind about things. "Tell you what. we'll follow him around today and see what he does."

It was this kind of investigative spirit that she loved about her brother. He never put her down or said she was stupid. He gave her the benefit of the doubt.

The truth was, Steven had always thought there was something odd about Morris. The cat went around outside with a definite air of purpose. He had always wanted to see where it went. So he told Noella to stay close to him as he tracked their pet on its mysterious rounds. Doing their best to keep up, they followed as Morris raced along his path through backyards and alleys.

It would be natural to assume he was merely marking his territory, checking up on other cats, stalking mice and little birds. When watched by adults, Morris did try to seem like he was doing these things. Children, with their short attention spans and lack of credibility, were considered not to be as much of a threat. Still, he was not supposed to let his guard down and be followed by anybody.

The kids shadowed their cat to an old warehouse by the disused train tracks, where he slipped inside the building through a gap in the wall boards.

"I'm gonna look inside," said Steven.

Noella looked around nervously. "I want to go home now."

"In a minute, Nola. First, let's see what Morris is doing in there. We came all this way, so it would be a shame not to know, right?"

She waited pensively as he peeked through a cracked window. When he whistled quietly with disbelief, curiosity pushed her fear aside.

"Can I see? Can I see too?"

Steven said, "we have to go."

He took her hand and they ran all the way back home.

That evening, she asked him what it was he saw through the window.

"I'll draw it for you."

He got his drawing tablet and crayons and carefully jotted a diagram. It showed a large machine and many cats around it. The cats were seated on pillows, and the pillows floated in the air. The machine was black with spikes and sharp edges. Parts of it glowed green.

"What is that?" she asked.

He just shrugged.

"Let's ask Morris!"

Steven didn't see any harm in this, so they found the cat in one of his favorite napping stations and held up the drawing for him to see.

"Look, kitty!" Noella said. "We saw your machine thingy."

Morris reacted the same way he did when he was discovered playing piano, only more intensely. His eyes opened very wide and his ears flattened. He hissed so loudly it made the kids jump backward. Frightened, they ran upstairs and stayed in their rooms. The next day, the cat and their drawing were gone. They never saw Morris again.

Noella and Steven tried to press for more information, asking grown-ups and looking in the library for clues. Being young kids, they were tolerated and occasionally scolded for their obsession. Years went by and they slowly lost interest in the mystery. They got on with the business of becoming young adults.

Steven went on to college, studying ancient history and anthropology. What he learned awakened his interest in the feline mystery once more. He tried to share with her the strange details, but she was too busy being a teenager to grasp the significance. The strange thing that happened with Morris was far in the past and had little to do with the things she was interested in, like boys, music and fashions.

One day he came home from school. He looked haggard and unkempt. In the past he had always been well groomed and neatly dressed. Something had clearly changed in him while he was away, and it was not just due to the bad dormitory food.

"Steven, what's going on? Why do you have all your stuff in your car?"

"Nola, I'm taking some time off from school. There's something I need to check out. I'm going to Mexico."

"Why on earth would you be going there? Spring break was months ago."

Once again, Steven tried to explain to her the things he was learning. He had access to many resources at university: anthropology journals, ancient historical documents, detailed maps. He had taken a class on Mayan history and learned about their deities, including the jaguar and serpent gods. He spoke very quickly, fuelled by his new habit of taking wakefulness pills and washing them down with coffee.

"So I'm going to find the City of Snakes. It's mentioned by all the great civilizations: Ancient Rome, Sumeria, the Egyptians, the Mayans. This is the lynch pin. If I can crack this, I'll have it all figured out."

She looked doubtful. "You aren't getting sick, I hope. Mom said there was a virus going around in your dorm."

"Listen, sis. We know there is some conspiracy going on. The intelligent cats are just a tiny piece of the puzzle. Everything I've been researching hints that the answers could be found here. I have to go and check it out."

"Okay, fine. You'll call me when you get there, right?"

"I'll send you tons of postcards and pictures. You'll see me with a great tan. I promise."

As he drove away, she waved him off. It was to be her last memory of him. He never called, never wrote. There was an investigation. The police determined he had reached his destination in Mexico. He rented a room, hired a guide, then disappeared. They treated is as a kidnapping, but there was never a ransom demand. The case went cold.

Noella blamed herself for what happened. If she hadn't told him about the piano playing perhaps he wouldn't have followed the cat. He might never have developed the obsession. He would have gone on to lead a normal life, raised a family, been there for Thanksgiving and Christmas. For that matter, she would have had a normal life too, and not lying under an army surplus blanket in a Checker cab staring at colored dots and terrain markers.

After half an hour soaking her gaze in Mexican jungle, she lay her head on the maps, closed her eyes, and entered the uncomfortable world of dreams.