Copernicus IV had two moons. One was grey, the other was blue.
“The grey one is fine,” Mrs. Crumb told her children, passing a paw over her youngest’s ears. “Keep the grey moon to your left, and you’ll be fine. You won’t be spotted until you’re safely out of range. But avoid the blue. The blue moon foretells danger.”
Her latest brood nodded gravely, fuzzy heads bobbing in unison, tails twitching. Watching them, she knew with a pang deep in her heart that at least one would forget her warning within the week.
Two days later, it was their time for their first family picnic, a nighttime endeavor darting on swift silent feet beneath shining metal poles and into the kitchen. Moonlight shone gleaming through the window.
“Shh,” she hissed. “Father will lead the way. If Copernicus the Fourth comes, remember – keep the grey moon to your left!”
Each of her children lifted their left paw in confirmation that they’d heard the method.
Mrs. Crumb nuzzled whiskers with her husband, then touched each of their paws as they followed Mr. Crumb out the mousehole door into the midnight gloom. It was a precautionary farewell, but that her children need not have fear to overcome their excitement.
The path to the nook went well, silent padding and quick steps. She gave her children encouraging nods on the rare occasions when one looked back, and when her husband confirmed that it was time for a break underneath what their human benefactor called a “table.” His fur glistened with the effort of directing the group.
Shining pillars of metal gleamed dully, rising to wooden tops that blocked the sky. She never liked this part. It was too exposed, too hard to keep the children silent when there were morsels waiting – but they wouldn’t be enough to sustain the family as it grew, and they’d need to know the full path eventually.
A gesture, and the family moved on. She caught a glimpse of movement and froze. From above, in the window, watched two moons – one blind and grey, one glowing blue.
