My wife got out of the car and looked around at the workmen hurrying about the disemboweled buildings and she said, "What on Earth is going on here?"
"I've finished my work and we no longer need the buildings. I'm going to write a paper about my results."
My wife looked at me appraisingly and shook her head. "I thought you meant it. But you really ought to. It would be your first."
My son asked, "What happened to the animals?"
"Turned them over to the university for further study," I lied.
"Well," he said to her, "you can't say our pop isn't a man of decision."
Twenty-four hours later, there wasn't a sign of animal experimentation on the ranch.
Except, of course, that the woods were full of volplas. At night, I could hear them faintly when I sat out on the terrace. As they passed through the dark overhead, they chattered and laughed and sometimes moaned in winged love. One night a flight of them soared slowly across the face of the full Moon, but I was the only one who noticed.
I made daily trips out to the original camp to meet the oldest of the males, who had apparently established himself as a chief of all the volpla families. He assured me that the volplas were staying close to the ranch, but complained that the game was getting scarce. Otherwise things were progressing nicely.