After a hike to the Big Snake district, they reached a large doorway with the most intricate wrought iron hinges Cliff had ever seen. Senescia grasped a ring on a cord with her mouth and tugged gently. Creaks and groans chattered behind the walls and the door folded in about twenty places and essentially disappeared.

They followed her through gothic passages that grew older and more intricate, with ancient-looking carvings, tapestries, paintings. Finally, they stopped at another door, this one perfectly round and wide as a house. Cliff's eyes almost popped out when he realized it was a single piece of wood, a slice from a gigantic tree with thousands of rings. Senescia pulled another cord and the mammoth slab of wood rolled slowly to one side.

"Now we are about to go in," she said to Cliff. "But first, a word of advice. The Big Snakes will speak very slowly. You must not interrupt them."

"How slowly?"

"There was a fillibuster once. It took the better part of a decade to finish. Now, please wait here while I announce your arrival to the Elders."

She slithered through the entrance.

Twake alit on a crag near Cliff's face and said, "human, do not make any mistakes. The future of all our races depends on what you say in there."

"Why does this always depend on me? 'Human do this' and 'human do that.' I am so tired of doing your dirty work and not getting any credit. If the human race knew about the thankless jobs they were doing for you... well I guess they will know soon enough."

"Clifford!" Bismarck hissed.

Cliff clapped a hand over his mouth and gave the cat an "uh-oh" look.

"Huh?" said Twake. "What do you mean? Anyway, CLIFFORD, you have done a satisfactory job so far, but we are not done by any means. When the mission is complete and we have saved all our races, you will be adequately compensated. Not until then. Understand?"

The cat and human looked at each other nervously.

"Yes," Cliff said.

Senescia returned and beckoned them to follow.

"All except for you," she pointed to Killory. "You stay out here."

"What! I'll bite you in half, you..."

"Killory, it's okay." Cliff gestured to keep cool. "Why don't you find someone to pick a fight with. We'll come find you when this is over."

The leprechaun made a rude gesture to the snake and toddled off.

Clifford strolled through the portal, followed by Bismarck. Twake stayed back. When they were out of hearing range, he tapped a bracelet on his leg.

"Mission central? This is agent T. So far so good. New information about the feline conspiracy. I have the name of a member, but do not arrest until we reach Lichtenstein. More to follow at a convenient time. That is all."

The room Cliff entered was much like the quarry Spirito had just escaped. There was a giant bowl with trails spiralling around the wall to the bottom. In the center was a circular carpet of elaborate finery. It was ringed by sixteenth marble plinths holding brass bowls filled with glowing coals and incense that threw up great clouds of smoke. It was very hard to see, but the oldest and largest snakes in the world were coiled on the carpet.

Cliff counted eight of them. The shiny scales in their massive bodies reflected the coals. Their eyes were milky and faded. They moved very slowly if at all. The tips of their tails lazily swished back and forth. Tongues flickered in the smoky air. Heads turned slowly to follow the conversation as it crept around the room.

More prominent than the dim shapes of the serpents were the sounds they made. Deep, rumbling voices spoke, laughed, and chanted with such timber as would make furniture vibrate. It was not an unpleasant sensation, and Cliff felt he could curl up with these snakes and get a very nice night's sleep.

Senescia paused between two plinths and bowed. Cliff and the others all bowed in their fashion, showing proper respect to the Big Snakes.

"Elder brothers and sisters, I bring you the ones from above, cat, bird, and human. They humbly request permission to enter the discussion."

They had been briefed earlier on the identities of the Elders:

Barnabando, the silver reticulated python, his scales the hue of platinum, clothed in grisly bearskin greatcoat and matching tophat, sipped from a hookah. He was a sculptor extraordinaire, responsible for the Living Pots collection, a series of giant terracotta urns fitted out as multistory residences with furniture and everything.

Pushnika, the black mamba, wearing bands of gold studded with deep oceanic manganese nodules, was the poet of her century. Her words could literally control the minds of any in attendance, causing many suicides during her melancholy phase, and episodes of mania when she recited odes to pleasure.

Fireworm Rishrosh, a weaver of stories, wore something that resembled solid froth. He smoked a long pipe that was carved from the trunk of a tree.

Lellican the chasm asp, the clothes designer, was draped in her finest beaded shawl that told a coded history of the last thousand years of snake culture.

Manicondi, a great cobra, wore simple white, baggy cotton. He was the celebrated chef of a thousand spices. His dishes, all of them poisonous, seduced many a food critic to his or her death. What better way to die than in the throes of palletic passion?

Voole, the anaconda, swathed in gold-embroidered blue silken pajama, was an opera composer and critic, author of the Orange Moon Pentology, an epic show months in duration that few have had the stamina to endure.

Wigwens, the sea serpent, tear-shaped diamonds glued beneath his eyes, was a tragic clown. He had once been banished to the Far Tunnels for making the whole of snakedom weep with his antics.

Zanziba the magician, once caused her entire audience to disappear for a week. During that time, it is said that she stole every timekeeping instrument from their houses and later returned them to the wrong owners.

"Come," rasped a very gravelly, baritone voice, slow and cultured. It came from Barnabando, his monacle glinting in the fire light. "The Council of Big Snakes welcomes you. Sit down and be comfortable."

Cliff self-consciously walked onto the carpet and sat in a puffy sphere that was like a bean bag chair but unbeknownst to him was full of mealworms. Occasionally, one would slip out a hole in the stitching and skitter through his hair.

"You are just in time to watch the execution with us. The trolls will bring in the prisoner presently."

A little snake hurried up to the elder and whispered in his ear.

"I am informed the trolls are having a sit-down strike. Well, just drag her into the room then."

Several pythons pulled a lumpy sack into the room on the end of a rope. The sack rustled as its occupant struggled and shouted. The snakes peeled the bag away, revealing a very unhappy Noella.

"Wait! Is she the one who drove through the wall yesterday?"

"Yes," said Bismarck, "now don't interrupt the procedings. We must not upset the decorum."

"Wait! Stop!" shouted Cliff.

He rushed over to Noella and helped her sit up, against the weight of the shackles and chains. The padlock alone was the size of a bowling ball.

"What is it now?" rasped Manicondi, unaware of what was going on. "Did I forget my execution goggles again?"

Zanziba's neck flattened with irritation.

"Human! Why do you irk us with your sudden movement and loudness? Please wait until after the ceremony to observe the finished product."

"Just what are you going to do to her?" he asked. "And why are you going to do it?"

Voole rolled his eyes. "Oh really! I should think the reason this human is slated for death should be obvious. She caused considerable damage with her motor carriage yesterday, knocking over the statue of an exalted ancestor and, most importantly, causing several snakes embarassment by soiling themselves from the fright. Furthermore, she has no one to vouch for her, unlike you who have the seals of the Bird and Cat kingdoms on your person."

Cliff understood the situation now. The snakes did not care who would be executed, as long as somebody was made a scapegoat. Appearances were more important than justice. If they did not make an example of her, the faeries would sense weakness and their bargaining position would be worse.

"Perhaps you did not know it," said Cliff, slipping into his arbitration voice, "but this human female belongs to an organization of investigators. If you want to keep this city a secret, you will have to let her go. Otherwise, this place will be swarming with nosy intruders forever."

"But," said another snake elder, "someone must be held accountable. It is simply a fact that no disgrace can go unpunished. Perhaps you would like to take her place?"

"I have a better idea," said Cliff whose altruistic streak did not go quite that far. "Have you thought about using an effigy?"

"You mean, a symbolic representation of the human? We think that would be decidedly less satisfying than to hear the screams and witness the agonized writhing of the actual person."

"True, true. But if all you need to do is demonstrate a maniacal need for veangeance, then an effigy often works just as well, if not better. Considering that your anger extends not just to humans but birds and cats, this act will vindicate only one third of your anger."

"It is true," said Zanziba. "As a symbol, it is weak. So shall we add the cat and bird to the ceremony?"

Bismarck hissed loudly and her hair stood on end.

Twake whispered harshly to Cliff, "What are you doing, you idiot?"

"No, an effigy would be better. Picture this: a hippogriff with head of a human, body of a cat, wings of a bird all in one. All of your pent-up violence directed on that one figure."

"Hm... It could be produced from papier meche, brightly painted, hung from a string. Snakes could take turns bashing it with a pole. It has the benefit that all snakes may partake in the revenge act."

"And!" Cliff raised both index fingers. "You can fill it with candy to simulate the eviscerated organs spilling on teh ground."

The elders laughed with delight. "How wonderful! We think it would be a very satisfying spectacle indeed. We will commission an artist to produce this effigy at once. Assign the task to the celebrated papier mache artist P. Nyatta."

Cliff sagged with relief. He had never had to use his arbitration skills to save anyone's life before, and he hoped he would never have to do it again.

Noella tried to clap her hands. She had to wait to cheer until a troll could be brought in to unlock her chains and remove the gag. As the troll did this, cries of "scab!" could be heard in the halls outside. When finally released, Noella hobbled over to Cliff to give him a kiss.

"Escort the female to the artist's residence where she will sit as model for the head of the effigy. The P. Nyatta vengeance ceremony will be rescheduled for the banquet tonight. We shall now listen to Rishrosh continue his story about the mystery of the Great Meat Manquet of 200 years ago. It has been twenty five years in the telling, and we are almost to the end."

Rishrosh was at least 120 years past his prime. His story seemed to ramble for hours with no point. It was as baroque as the tracery of a gothic cathedral. Plots diverged in subplots and sub-subplots with scores of characters. Even middle aged snakes would have found it too difficult to follow.

Twake fell asleep after the first half hour. Bizmarck held on for only an hour. Senescia drifted off at the 90 minute mark. But somehow Cliff stayed awake.

He reached into the bag of tricks he used during his years as an arbitrator. He ran television commercials in his mind. He played piano tunes with his tongue on his teeth. He chewed on his tongue until it bled. He stabbed his thighs with a ballpoint pen. Twice he entered a state of hallucination and had to resort to deep tantric self-hypnosis to find his way back.

After six hours, the story trailed off into incomprehensible fog. Rishrosh, realizing he had forgotten the point of the thing ended by quoting an obscure philosopher and laughed. The other snakes roared with laughter. Cliff joined them with a nervous chuckle.

"Human, you are still with us?" asked a surprised Barnibando. "It is rare being who can follow the ramblings of a master serpant tale weaver. We are amazed and filled with respect. We know now you are worthy of speaking to us."

The other snakes rumbled their agreement.

"We will work with you," said Lellican, "on improving the relations with the other races. We are impressed with your handling of the faerie situation." She coiled the end of her tail around his neck and caressed his cheek.

"You aren't upset?" Cliff said sheepishly. "Your servants are harder to manage now that they have all these rights and demands."

"Well, perhaps we are a little perturbed, but in truth, we are mostly relieved. We had been worried about a much more violent revolt than the one yesterday. You kept the passions well under control, better than we could ever do. Well done."

Cliff looked at Bizmarck who winked back.

"And anyway," said Voole, his bushy whiskers ruffling as he wheazed, "we are very old and have seen many things. We can learn how to do things more fairly."

"Now," said Barnabando, "let us address the issue that has been on our hearts for many lifetimes."

With surprising speed, he grasped Bizmarck around the middle with his tail and lifted him up. Glaring at the cat with one eye, he said, "with you, cat and bird, we are not happy."

In like manner, Manicondi scooped up Twake who was busy scribbling notes. He tried flapping his wings, dropping his notepad and pencil, but the grasp was too strong. Flattening her neck, the snake said, "it is an ancient pain that we nurse, and though I have long dreamed of cooking up a great bird and cat stew, it would not make me feel better."

"The grand city of our dreams," Voole shook his jowls as he shouted, "was never built. Instead, we lived here all these centuries, in these dark caves, living only on rage and hope."

"Can we remove the bars from this prison?" asked Zanziba, her nose almost touching Cliff's. "Have you come to liberate us from the jail of eternal hatred?"

"Or," said Barnabando, tightening his grip on the Bizmarck, forcing him to cough up a hair ball convulsively, "are we destined to stay here, apart from the world forever, growing ever more warped and twisted until we are like demons in our own hell?"

All the snakes now looked to Cliff as if this were a play and the cue came for him to speak his lines. He felt a wave of panic, knowing that everything depended on him. He couldn't think of anything to say. He could only watch the faces of his cat and bird friends as their eyes bulged out from being squeezed.

"The outrage you suffered," the words rolled out of his mouth on their own, "is incalcuable. How can we do anything to mend the horrific pain you are feeling now? Nothing will bring sufficient justice, but we can start to walk the long road of healing today." Where was he getting this stuff? He had no idea, but they sounded good. "We beg of you to spare us your wrath and start to iterate your demands that we will do our best to fulfill."

The serpants were still for a moment. They looked at each other and seemed to smile. Yes, he had said the right things. They loosened their grips on the animals.

"Well spoken, human," said Voole. "We see that you truly understand the gravity of this situation. You see to the depths of our humiliation. We can begin now to climb out of the well of injustice."

"First," said Prushnika, pointing her tail upward, "we demand a formal apology. It must be etched on a platter of pure gold in a serifed typeface, delivered within the week by distinguished representatives of your species who will read it allowed before a full audience of snakes."

"You have it," said Bizmarck with a hoarse throat, still dangling in the air.

"Second," said Manicondi, "we want Paris. The whole city."

"No," said Twake, "we can't give you a human city."

"Irksome," said Manicondi. "Well, then, give us the Iron Chef of Japan that he may cook exclusively for us."

"Third," said Barnibando, "and this is not open to negotiation, get rid of Martha Stewart. Off her. Or send her to another planet."

"And get rid of mullets," added Voole. "Erase them from history."

Twake sighed. "We'll work on those. Anything else?"

"A guinnea pig pipeline to our city."

"A huge cake stuffed with ferrets."

"A supertanker of blood plasma."

"Is that all?" asked Bizmarck. "Can we offer you the moon too?"

"Hm..." Voole thought. "No, that's enough for now. We'll let you know if we think of anything else."

"Provisionally," said Barnibando, "our score is resolved."

They put down the bird and cat. "Sir Bizmarck and Sir Twake," said Barnibando, "thank you for coming here to end the feud. Henceforth, you and a small number of others of your kind will be welcomed with esteem in our realm. Let the heralds go and spread the word."

The snake opened a large jar and out flew a swarm of little winged faeries to bring the news to all parts of Serpentopolis.

The cat and bird looked shaken but relieved. "We're going to catch hell for this list of demands," said Bizmarck.

"Is there anything else?" asked a snake elder.

"Yes, old one." Senescia read from a parchment. "There is the matter of the Ants."

"Is this the matter that prompted the Kingdoms of Cat and Bird to mount such a risky enterprise to end the Feud?"

"Yes," said Cliff. "That's why we are here."

"Then it must be very important."

"It concerns the future of all living creatures on the planet."

The cat, bird, and human took turns explaining. Twake used a holographic projector to show a giant model of an ant. The cat used his most convincing tone of seriousness to show on charts the progress of the ants. Cliff gesticulated emphatically. In the end, they waited for a reaction. The elders thought long and deeply, never in a hurry to make an important decision.

"It would be most inconvenient if the ants rampaged across the earth," Pushnika declared at last.

"I concur," said Voole. "Perhaps we ought to convene an assembly of the Snake Academy of Sciences at once."

Almost instantly, doors around the room opened and snakes began to file in. Lights turned on to illuminate them. In a few minutes, the room was filled with distinguished looking snakes.

"Learned snakes, have you read the transcript?"

In unison, they answered, "we have."

"What do you recommend?"

One snake stood up. "Elders, I am Crispicadia. I have been studying the ants all my life, and I believe I understand them like no other. We have a miniature hive in Serpentopolis on which I have experimented. We also have the Great Book of Antology, which my assistants are bringing in as I speak."

Two snakes pushed a cart with a huge tome on it. They positioned it right in front of Crispicadia and pried open the cover with great struggle. "Bear with us, elders. We normally have an elf to do this, but now they are demanding a gold nugget per page turn." He leafed through the pages.

"Here it is. The problem the ants now work on is a three-dimensional tangram. The object is to piece together a large set of irregular fragments to build a perfect cube. They proceed like a computer, exhaustively trying every combination one at a time. The cube slowly takes shape from the bottom up. They keep track of remembered patterns with polished stones they roll about."

"So," said an elder, "we should be able to set back their progress by fiddling with these shiny pebbles."

"We have tried this in our simulation. In theory, we ought to be able to set them back a billion iterations by moving the stones into another configuration, or by taking some pieces off of the cube. But it seems that the ants are highly sensitive to manipulation. They viciously guard the perimeter of the calculation arena. Any attempt to breach this is met with force."

"Force? Please explain."

"A snake researcher was stripped to the skeleton in less than fifteen seconds."

"I see. But surely these mechanistic creatures can be fooled somehow. Have you tried a disguise?"

"We figured the most promising tactic would be to mask our scent. The ants identify all threats though chemical markers. After thousands of attempts, many killed researchers, we were able to get past the perimeter."

"Excellent!"

"But, then one of us crushed an ant by accident. You see, every surface is covered with a dense population of ants. Something on the order of ten thousand ants per square cubit. And if you injure even a single ant, it will trigger a chemical alarm and summon hourdes of venomous guard ants."

"Yes, I see that is a problem. But have you tried other means, such as floating on a balloon, or sending a robot? We have tried those and many other methods. But even when we can cross the threshhold and reach the tangram, it will not help. The ants have error detection in the form of redundant registers. There are millions of ants dedicated to performing internal consistency tests several times a minute. Any change would have to be performed in a hundred places at once, which is simply impossible. So the result is always a system crash."

"And what happens when this crash occurs?"

"A total breakdown in the hive order. The ants stream out of the hive and strike at anything in range. They have destroyed whole buildings and devoured many research teams. It is... unthinkable."

The ant scientist began to sob at the memory of his lost companions.

"If covert manipulation is not feasible, ought we to place a bomb in the hive, to detonate in case things get out of hand?"

"No, elder. This is inadvisable. While you might destroy one hive, there are millions more all linked together, all around the world. The main hive in Luxembourg is just the central processing unit. There are many other units saving memory registers and performing other functions. Destroy one hive and the rest will go berserk."

"Then you are telling us this problem is intractible?"

"There is one thing, elder. The tome mentions the recipe of a pheremone that will make all the ants docile for a few minutes, allowing us to reset the calculation safely. But the recipe is missing because this is only an excerpt of a much more complete original version. In the human uprising most of our libraries were destroyed, and we were only able to escape with a few tomes and records, such as this one. But there is a repository that has remained safe, and we believe it contains the full antology knowledge."

"Alexandria?"

"Precisely."

"Then we must assemble a crack team of our best snakes to retrieve this book. Notify the Sigma Squadron and have them dispatch 6 of the best trained professionals."

This order had been anticipated for hours, so the team was in fact already waiting outside the hall. No sooner had the order been issued than the doors crashed open and in drove a very sleek looking car. Its dimensions (ten feet wide, 15 feet long, but not more than a foot in height) made it appear like a black carpet unrolling. Six heads stuck out from the top, wearing smoky black helmets and goggles.

"The Sigma Six Squadron is ready!" said the leader, rising from the vehicle, flanked by his 5 excellent companions.