Cliff woke up sweating and breathing heavily. He was in a bed, but something was not right. He turned slowly and saw the cat there, sitting on the nightstand. How long had it been staring at him? The clock said it was 7:00 in the morning. He could not remember anything about the previous night. All he knew was that he had a mind-puncturing headache.

Perhaps he had eaten something with monosodium glutamate in it the night before. Many times in the past he had given into his cravings for General Tso's chicken and regretted it the next day. But this did not feel like one of his usual MSG migraines. It was sharper, coming from a point in the back of the head. He reached back and felt a crusty scab. Maybe he fell and hit is head on something? Oh well, he was alive and didn't feel too bad in spite of the headache which even now was starting to fade away.

He pulled on a t-shirt and shorts, then padded into the kitchen to mix up a bowl of Crunch-a-lot cereal. As he was eating, he looked through his unopened mail. A letter from the electric department acknowledged his request to shut off the power. He held it taut in disbelief, re-reading it several times. This has to be a mistake. He would call them up and fix it later. But here was a letter from the gas company, also acknowledging his request for termination of service. The same was true for his cable TV and telephone. What was going on?

The cat brushed against his leg and purred, adding to his annoyance.

"What do you want? Didn't I feed you already? No, I guess not."

He popped open a can of some glistening meat substance and dumped it into the bowl. Bismarck ignored it.

Returning to the table, Cliff saw a carpenter ant scurrying across the pile of bills. Every summer, these things come back and the poison traps didn't seem to work. And now the cat seemed to be playing with them. He picked up an empty juice glass and clapped it over the ant. It ran in circles tapping its antennae on the invisible barrier.

"It's like a little machine," he thought as he peered closely at it.

Tiny little armored body segments, jointed legs, shiny eyes, it was a miracle of miniature automation. He couldn't help but smile as it shouted one word over and over in its squeaky little voice: "gotta gotta gotta..." What else would it be thinking? He remembered back to the page on Descartes in the philosophy book the cat had knocked out of the bookshelf. That guy was right about animals: soulless, unimaginative little machines. But they sure were cute.

He took an envelope from the junk mail stack and slid it under the glass. He lifted it up, glass an paper together, and walked to the front door. Out on the porch, he tilted the glass and pulled the envelope away. With a shake, the ant fell into the grass and freedom.

As it raced away through the 4-inch jungle, it said, "gotta gotta gotta" over and over until he couldn't hear it anymore.

"Crazy bugs," he laughed.

He sat back down to finish his breakast. He shovelled a spoonful of milk and cereal into his mouth and chewed. Then he stopped. His mouth slowly opened, and the wad of chewed cereal tumbled out. Bismarck watched with head cocked to the side as Cliff's brain screeched to a halt. He ran the tape in his mind over and his eyebrows collided.

"Did I just hear an ant talking?" he asked aloud.

"Quite likely," answered Bismarck. "How do you feel? Is your head any better? Do you require ibuprofren?"

"No thanks, I think I'll just lie down for a few—"

Cliff stared at her in horror.

For months, Bismarck had prepared arduously for the on-switching. She had read every one of the texts, all the essays by learned cat sages from centuries past, the papers from modern feline scientists. All of them focused on the technical side, the physiological process of reactivating the dormant psychic neural apparatus in the human brain. She was trained to spot the signs of edemas and hemmoraging. She could even give cardiopulminary rescucitation if necessary. But no where did she read anything about the precarious emotional state that inevitably followed this procedure. The feline physiologists had inconveniently left out that detail.

Certainly, anyone would jump at the chance to gain telepathic powers. But to have it done without any warning, and in this peculiar manner, is not something most of us are prepared for. One would like the chance to mull it over first, perhaps in a waiting room, filling out a waiver on a clipboard. To have birds attack one in the park (the memory was coming back to him now) and to wake up to a talking insect and cat was like being a character in a Kafka story.

Unsurprisingly, Cliff did not take it well. He began to shake. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

Bismarck noticed the signs of shock. She jumped up onto the table and trotted over to his blanching face. The human needed solid facts as quickly as possible. Only when he understood what was happening would he be able to relax and process the information.

"Clifford. Listen to me carefully. Everything you know about history and biology is wrong. You have been selected by the Feline and Avian kingdoms to serve in a very important mission. For that reason, we have had to modify your brain to communicate more effectively. You are not danger. Do you follow me so far?"

Far from having the intended effect, this explanation made things worse. Much worse. She could detect rapid activity in his amygdala and adrenal glands. His heart rate doubled, then tripled. Suddenly, he was on his feet, racing out of the kitchen and down the hall. Bismarck heard him smack into the front door, open it, and slam it behind him. This did not go well.

She had to call in a report. Raising a paw, she poked a region in the air. The point sizzled and crackled, glowing brightly like a sparkler. In a moment, she heard a click that meant the call had connected.

A familiar venezuelan voice answered. "Yes? Is the human packaged and ready to go?"

"Um ... no."

"Was there a problem with the on-switching?"

"No, that part worked."

"Well, then, what is wrong? Do you require anything: container, packing materials, medications?"

"No, those things won't help. The candidate..."

"Yes, what about the candidate?"

"...has escaped."

After a crackly silence: "Did you sedate him?"

"I followed every recommendation available to me. Nowhere did my instructions say anything about sedation."

"Well, it is in the avian tomes. Is it not in yours? No, I do not suppose the feline scribes thought it was important enough."

"The point is, we have not switched on a human in hundreds of years, not since that french serf girl in Arc. Times have changed. Hearing voices has gone out of fashion for humans. It used to be associated with the divine, but now they get locked up as delusional. We could have handled this better. He should have been strapped in a comfortable position in a dim room, with the soothing fragrances of meats on trays, quiet music playing, or the sound of running water..."

"Yes, yes. We do not have the luxury of reflection on your failure. Time is running out. We have an awakened subject running loose with knowledge about us. There is no time to capture him. The simplest thing to do is have him killed and move on to the next subject."

"No!" The cat growled. "We can't just kill him."

"We have other candidates. we can put the call in now and have a human awakened by evening."

"I think we can salvage this. Please, let us try. Otherwise, it is a waste."

"What do you care about this human? This sounds like mammal coddling to me."

Bismarck mewled in her most imploring tone.

Twake sighed. "It would take an hour to assemble a squad of assassins. You have that much time to catch him."

It was a while before cliff knew where he was. Though he wasn't in great shape, he had somehow managed to run three miles, right into the heart of town.

He was hoping in vain that the voices would stop following him. But as time went on, they grew louder and clearer. Birds had debates about the nature of consciousness. Worms in the ground commented on the mintiness of the soil. A dog hoped that the road kill he heard about was still to be found. Even tiny gnats traded monosyllabic greetings. He could not block them by putting his fingers in his ears. The words originated in his own mind, not the eardrums. Yet he could tell you which animal said what with certainty.

Some might welcome a newfound ability like this. Dr. Doolittle turned it into a profitable veterinary practice. But to Cliff, every non-human vocalization was like a wave eroding the firmament below the precariously situated lighthouse of his mind. In time, it would undermine his entire belief structure and bring it crashing into the sea of madness. He had to quiet the noise so he could get the engine of reason running again.

He saw a department store. There would not be any animals in there, and perhaps the walls would muffle these voices. He raced through the doors and, exhausted, fell into a bin full of ladies' underwear. The voices were mostly gone, with only a few hushed whispers from moths and roaches. Cliff sank into the underwear and let out a long sigh. At last he could think.

Avian encephalitis. The idea popped into his mind and he clung to it like a life preserver. The birds who attacked him must have been sick with some kind of brain fever, explaining their unusual boldness. The little one bit him in the head, transferring the virus to him. Now, in the throes of fever, he was hallucinating, thinking animals were talking to him. It all made sense now.

"I'm not crazy," he squealed. "I just have a have a brain disease!"

He looked around the store. All of the customers who had been pointing and staring were now trying to get away from that part of the store as fast as possible. Clerks had their hands poised near the panic buttons under the counters and security guards were starting to reach for their walkie-talkies.

Cliff knew he wasn't doing himself any good hanging around here. He needed to get to a hospital. There was one only a few miles away. He could take the bus and be there in a few minutes. But the moment he stepped outside, hundreds of animal voices would pile up in his mind again. He was trapped in this store.

Then he had an idea. He jogged over to the electronics department and selected a Spony Earzap music player. It looked like it was designed to rip apart eardrums; just what he needed. Then he asked a bored-looking teenaged clerk for assistance.

"I need the loudest music you can find. What are the kids listening to today?"

The clerk, whose nameplate read 'Charles', considered this question carefully. "Well, are you looking for something more death metal, like Iron Slab, or speed metal like Neutron Sam and the Unstable Isotopes? There's also demon metal which is not for everybody, but—"

"I don't care. I just need loud. Very loud."

"Okay. Let's go with the Death Metal then. There is a band called 'Bleeding Eardrums' that should fit the bill. Here you go, we have two albums in stock. 'Precious Colostomy' is their first album, a good effort, but—"

"Okay, I'll take them both. Please hurry."

"What's your rush, dude? Did you forget your kid's birthday or something?"

"No, it's to drown out the voices in my head."

Charles laughed, then stopped when he saw Cliff was not laughing. When Cliff remembered to laugh, it was too late. Charles rang up the order as quickly as he could and watched the man throw a handful of twenties at him and leave.

"Now there goes a future serial killer," he said to a fellow clerk. He held out the change Cliff neglected to collect and said, "bet you 11 dollars he winds up on CNN tomorrow."

At the doorway, Cliff struggled with the CD packaging. Ultimately, he got tired and smashed the case open. One of the CDs was damaged, but the other was okay. He stuck it into the player and frantically poked the buttons until sweet death metal poured into his ears, drowning out the animals.

He waited at the bus stop on the corner. It was not long before he was slumped in a seat, on the way to the hospital. He closed his eyes and smiled, nodding his head to the beat in spite of himself.

A few minutes into the journey, the bus lurched to a stop. He looked up and saw police cars surrounding the bus, flashing lights of red and blue everywhere.

"Is something the matter?" The bus driver asked an officer through the opened doors.

The officer climbed aboard. "I want everyone to remain calm and stay in their seats. We have a report that a dangerous person is on the bus. Is there a Clifford J. Puck on board?"

Cliff raised his hand meekly.

There followed a very unpleasant process of removing him from the bus, shaking him down for weapons, securing him in shackles and being placed in the back of a van -- all with a crowd of shocked bystanders pointing and covering their mouths. He recognized his third grade teacher in the crowd, and she was nodding, saying "I always knew he would..."

The doors on the van clapped shut and Cliff was left to sit in the armored cavity alone and bewildered. The radio chatter was much preferrable to the animal voices, so at least he had that to comfort him. He could handle a night in jail, but another minute of craziness was far more than he could take.

After bouncing along for a surprisingly short time, the doors opened and Cliff squinted at the light.

"Come on out, sir." The officer smiled as she held out her hand to help Cliff.

He blinked as the shackles were unlocked.

"We think that went pretty well. Four cars were all we could scramble. Was that all right?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, when your bureau called, they told us all about the undercover work you do, infiltrating terrorist organizations, and how you needed to be seen being arrested to help your street cred. They asked for six cars and a helicopter, but four cars was all we had available."

"We're just pleased pink to be helping you out sir," said her partner. "Say, do you think you could put a good word in for my cousin who wants to join the FBI? His name is Chuck Payle. Really appreciate it!"

"Well," said the first officer, "here you are, right where they said to drop you off. The local SPCA."

Cliff nodded, stunned, as the officers waved goodbye and drove away. He was aware of a conspicuous silence and turned to see dozens of animals staring at him through the window of the SPCA. The door opened on its own. Cliff took a few steps forward and stopped. Suddenly, he was knocked to the ground from behind. Many jaws clasped his shirt and shorts and dragged him into the office. The door slammed shut behind them.

Twake walked angrily up and down the coffee table, occasionally grabbing a coaster with his beak and throwing it for effect. His feathers were floofed outward, meant to make him look larger and meaner, but to Cliff it looked hilarious.

"I ask myself, why am I wasting a fine day where I could be enjoying the sun, nibbling a croissant, reading a good book? Instead, I am talking to a moronic, feces-throwing hominid, who just now had to be captured and restrained, putting a further strain in my budget? You are stupid beyond all metrics, and you stink like rotting meatscraps in the dumpster behind a butcher's shop."

Cliff found it impossible not to laugh at the bird's abuse. The sight of an enraged bird would have been amusing even without the heavy dose of tranquilizer. Puffed out like a green clown's wig, beak emitting high-pitched squeaks, little legs stomping all over his chest, it was bizarre on the level of a cartoon. Cliff was reminded of Marvin the Martian. He wished he could remember some of the insults. They were quite good.

"Waitaminit," he slurred. "I'll let all that other stuff go, but I do not throw my own excrement."

"Shut your mouth bones! Do you have any idea how much trouble you have caused me today? The expense reports... the schedule revisions... the irritating calls every hour from that prick of a patagonian parrot who is my micromanaging boss..."

"You're so cute," Cliff gushed.

Twake turned around. "Is there something I can shock him with? A bare wire, perhaps? I just need to get my point across." This earned a bitter glare from the cat.

Cliff looked around and recognized his living room. He was in his reclining chair, cinched in with nylon straps. The straps were actually quite comfortable. There was an aroma of incense (at the cat's insistance). The curtains were drawn, so the place was dark but for a single lamp pointed at him.

From out of the shadows trotted a big form, too big to be a cat. It exuded a stinky odor from its snout that tickled as it sniffed around. Suddenly, Cliff's face was smothered in warm, wet, sliminess. The saint bernard retracted his tongue and said, "You okay? You okay? You okay? YIPE!"

Twake had flown to the ground to bite the dog in the paw.

"Your services are no longer needed. Leave now."

"Okay, me go." The dog left slowly, pecked in the toes by the insistant bird.

Bismarck leapt into Cliff's lap. "How are you, Clifford?"

"M'okay. 'Cept I'm sick. I got this problim with my brain. Keep 'magining aminals talking talking."

"No, you are not sick and you are not imagining. We have always had this ability, and you humans do too, except that we have installed failsafes. Normally, your telepathy is turned off, but in extreme situations, we..."

"Peck me in the head?" Cliff suddenly remembered the horrible event the day before. He thought the little bird looked familiar.

"Microsurgery, yes. We regret any discomfort."

"So why am I not freaking out right now?"

"You did panic before, so we administered a large dose of sedative which will make you..."

"More compliant," finished the bird who fluttered up to the edge of a lampshade. "The cats and birds have united in a special mission. We require a human to perform certain tasks. If you have questions make them brief."

"Yeah," said Cliff, "I have a lot of questions. Like what portion of my brain has swollen with fever to the point of causing these amazingly realistic hallucinations?"

Twake looked at the cat. "He seems to be an idiot. Shall we proceed to the next candidate?"

"Let me handle this," Bismarck sighed. "I will give you a full explanation now, Clifford. Listen carefully because we do not have time to repeat the details. Several hundred millenia ago, there were three intelligent species on earth: cats, birds, and snakes. Humans did not reach sentience until much later, as a result of our efforts to develop intelligent servants. Do you understand so far?"

Cliff nodded and reached out to stroke the cat, who moved out of the way. "Stop that. I just tongue-groomed myself an hour ago."

"You know how I know I'm dreaming?" Cliff asked. "Your story is crazy. But Darwin makes sense."

"Ah yes, Darwin," chuckled Twake. "Quite a precocious human. The Galapagos finches were studying him. They planted the idea of Evolution in his brainpan to see whether humans could adapt to the new paradigm shift. Fascinating reverberations from that."

"Please, bird! These callous interjections risk damaging his psyche beyond repair."

"Yeah, blah blah." Twake flew off to look at something on the other side of the room.

"Now, as I was saying, Clifford, a long time ago, there were three intelligent species, each with its own society. We lived well enough, but were ambitious for something more. We cats needed help to build the grand cities of our imaginations. Our paws are not ideal for this kind of labor. Likewise, the avians needed assistants to carry out their scientific research. And the snakes needed pampering so they could follow their artistic inspiration."

"Snakes are artists?" Cliff squinted.

"After a fashion," mused Twake. "I can't say I appreciate their post-saurian magenta period, but generally they are pretty good."

"Now, we all realized we wanted more than we could accomplish on our own. We knew enough about genetics to influence development of the lesser species. Dogs were the first attempt, but they were too slobbery and jumpy, and they couldn't hold tools well enough. The apes were a little better, but limited in language ability and difficult to organize. The neanderthals were nearly there, but had irritating habits. You, the humans, are the final culmination of our efforts."

Cliff frowned. "The culmination... of your efforts?"

"Yes."

"So what you are saying to me is that you genetically engineered my species to be your slaves?"

"They do learn fast!" said Twake.

Cliff shook his head. "Frankly, I just don't see it. I mean, you go around naked and need us to feed you. Meanwhile, we travel in jets and rockets."

"We let you think you are superior," said the bird, "because the truth would crush you. Most of your inventions are crap. I mean, reality TV? Come on!"

"A little blunt," said Bismarck, "but generally true. Instead of 'slaves' I prefer the term 'subcontractors'. And as for the technology, you probably would have stumbled on it eventually, but to speed up the tempo, we do most of the R & D and slip the designs under the door so you'll build them for us."

"Makes no sense at all," said Cliff. "You expect me to believe that you controlled the course of human events by slipping pieces of paper under doors?"

"Well, it's a bit more complicated than that," said Bismarck, raising a paw. "The field of social engineering has evolved over time into a—"

Twake fluttered off the chair, landed on Cliff's forehead and peered disconcertingly with his little black eye into Cliff's. "Why do you think your predecessors worshipped animals as gods? Sometimes we would appear in glowing light or some other special effect to get your attention. Occasionally, as the need arised, we would have to communicate more directly, so we would choose a special human and reactivate their psychic channel. To your ancestors, this seemed like a god delivering a prophesy. But really, it was just a carefully worded set of instructions to keep you going on the right path. Like programming a simple computer. Why we ever let monotheism take hold I will never know."

"There were miscalculations," asserted the cat licking her paw nervously. "Many of the so-called prophets went mad. Some were thought to be witches. Whole wars were triggered by misunderstood prophesies. The Crusades were a disaster."

Twake shrugged. "Learning process. We have found that as human society evolves, we have to adjust our methods. Fortunately, we now have the perfect tools." He flapped over to the kitchen table to pick up a pile of mail in his beak. He flew back with difficulty and dropped them in Cliff's lap.

"Bills?"

"Bureaucracy. The single finest invention for control we have ever developed. We alter a memo here, create a fake subdepartment there, shuffle money through offshore accounts, the wheels turn, and out the other end we get what we need. If someone starts to uncover the hidden wires of control, there is a show trial and a human gets canned. It's perfect."

"So this is all about control, is it? You get your kicks out of ordering people around for your perverse whims?" The sedative was starting to wear off now, and Cliff was developing a terrible headache.

"Now, Cliff," said Bismarck softly, massaging his chest with his paws. "This isn't all one-sided. Your species is like the junior partner of a business. In time, you'll rise up to the right level and we can make you a full partner. We can romp around the universe in starships and have a fun time."

"Okay, I'm not saying I totally buy into this, but what's in it for me? If I help you with this mission, whatever it is, will I get some kind of reward, like a lot of money or a nice job?"

"There might be some perks," suggested Bismarck.

"You were expecting I would jump at the opportunity, weren't you? Well, what if I say no? You can't make me do anything, can you?"

The bird stared him right in the face. "We can do horrible, horrible things to your body that you could not begin to imagine."

Bismarck swatted him away. "No, no, no. Nothing is going to happen to you. Just cooperate and everything will be fine."

"Seriously, what will you do if I refuse to help?"

"Er... well..." Bismarck hesitated.

"We can send you to the moon," said Twake softly, "where you will push crates around for the rest of your life."

Cliff considered that image for a moment. "Sounds like fun, actually."

"No," they said in unison. "It is not."

"All right," said Bismarck. "I am going to let you up now. Can we trust you?"

Cliff nodded.

"Be aware," said Twake, "that I have a device here which will deter you from uncooperative behavior." He gestured with his beak toward a silver bracelet around his ankle.

The cat pulled at the straps with her mouth and they slipped off. Cliff stood up, a little unsteadily from the sedation, flexed his arms and stretched his back. He felt like his clothes were made of stone.

"Can I make some coffee?"

"By all means," said Bismarck. "And get me a saucer of cream too."

The group settled in the kitchen. The bird, ever mindful for its own security, alit on the corner of the table, where Cliff had placed a cheese danish. The cat sat on the floor, lapping up milk.

"I'm glad to see some things don't change," said Cliff, grinning. "Okay, so will this operation take long? I have to be at work on Monday."

"Do not worry about your occupation," waved Twake. "We sent your letter of resignation already."

"What?" Cliff slammed his mug on the table, nearly splashing the bird. "What gives you the right..."

"Human, your daytime labor assignment ought to be the least of your concerns. There is less than a 50 percent chance you will even live to see next week."

"Is this true?" Cliff stared at the cat, who continued lapping.

"Mm-hmm," said Bismarck.

"I must be losing my mind."

"More drugs?" asked Twake.

"No, no, it's okay. You know, I am actually starting to get kind of excited about this. My life is so... boring, usually."

"Heh, you got that right," said Twake, his mouth full of food. "That's one of the reasons you were chosen. You're such a loser that no one would miss you if you didn't come back."

"Huh? What do you mean," said Cliff with a look of hurt.

"Face facts, boy. You are thirty years old, you push paper for a living, you have no sexual partner, no real friends to speak of. All your activities are pointless in the grand scheme, and actually kind of sad. I mean, who collects stamps? You should be thanking us for the injection of meaning in your life. None of your human peers will ever know, of course."

The cat tried to swat the bird but couldn't reach him. "No, don't listen to him, Cliff."

"But it's true," Cliff said ruefully. "All of it is true. I am a loser."

"Listen to me. I am a cat, so I am closer to you genetically. I know what I'm talking about here, because as an anthropologist I've watched humans all my life. You are not a loser. There are qualities about you that make you special, in fact, indispensible for our operation. Your intelligence, your creativity, your natural gifts at organization and analysis. These were all factors in our choice."

"Pff!" The bird spat out his mouthful of food. "Special gifts! You amuse me."

"Well," said the cat, undeterred, "I think you have gifts, Clifford. I really do."

"Thanks, Bismarck."

There was a moment of quiet as Cliff sipped coffee and thought hard. At length, he said, "Okay, I'll go along with it."

"Capital!" cheered the bird. "Cat, do you have the form?"

"Yes, it's here in my collar."

Twake teased a tiny white speck out of Bismarck's collar and dropped it on the table. He pecked it once and the thing started to hiss and smoke. It grew unto a full-sized sheet of paper.

"This is a non-disclosure agreement. You can't read it, because it's in Bird. Just sign your name at the bottom."

"What kind of Faustian deal is this? Am I selling myself into slavery? Oh, I forgot. I am a slave already."

"This is purely for our legal department. Really, I don't care what happens to you."

"Okay, fine." Cliff quickly scribbled something at the bottom of the paper.

"Good!" Twake clicked the cap back onto the pen and his eyes twinkled. "Now we own you. I mean, now we can get started."