"No, it's all right," she said. "When I was a kid I had a tarantula as a pet."

"I didn't know that," I said.

She laughed. "Neither did my parents. A friend gave it to me when her mother made her get rid of it. I hid it in a shoebox in my closet for weeks. Then my mother discovered it. One of the more memorable episodes of my childhood."

"I have tarantulas," said Moreland. Excitement tinged his voice. "They're really quite wonderful, once you get to know them."

"Mine wasn't that big, maybe an inch long. I think it was from Italy."

"Probably an Italian wolf spider. Lycosa tarentula. Here's something for you, Alex: the bite of the Italian wolf was once thought to cause madness- weeping and stumbling and dancing. That's how the tarantella dance got its name. Nonsense, of course. The little thing's harmless."

"Wish you could have been there to convince my mother," said Robin. "She flushed it."

Moreland winced. "If you'd like to see another one, I can oblige."

"Sure," she said. "If it's okay with you, Alex."

I stared at her. Back home she called upon me to swat mosquitoes and flies.

"Love to see it," I said. Mr. Macho.

"I'm afraid you'd best leave him outside, though," said Moreland, looking at Spike. "Dogs are still basically wolves, and wolves are predators with all the hormonal secretions that entails. Little scurrying things may set off an aggressive response in him. I don't want to upset him. Or them."

"Humans are predators, too," I said.

"Most definitely," said Moreland. "But we seem to be naturally afraid of them, and they can deal with that."

We tied Spike to a tree, gave him a cheese-flavored dog cracker, and told him we'd be back soon.

Moreland took us to the hangarlike building. The entrance was a gray metal door.

"The Japanese officers' bath house," he said, releasing a key lock. "They had herbal mudpits here, wet and dry steam, fresh and saltwater pools. The saltwater was brought up from the beach in trucks."

He flipped a switch and light flooded a windowless room. White tile on all surfaces. Empty. Another gray door, closed. No lock.

"Careful, now," he said. "I have to keep the light dim. There are thirteen steps down."

Opening the second door, he flicked one of a series of toggles and a weak, pale blue haze stuttered to life.

"Thirteen steps," he reiterated, and he counted out loud as we followed him down a stone flight, grasping cold metal handrails.

The interior was much cooler than the main house. At the bottom was a sunken area, maybe sixty feet long. Concrete walls and floors. The floors were marked by several rectangles. Seams, where concrete had been poured to fill the baths.

Narrow windows so high they nearly touched the ceiling let in feeble dots of moonlight. Translucent wire glass. The blue light came from a few fluorescent bulbs mounted vertically on the walls. As my eyes got accustomed to the dimness, I made out another flight of stairs at the far end. A raised work space: desk and chair, storage cabinets, lab tables.

A wide aisle spined through the center of the sunken area. Metal ribs on both sides: ten rows of steel tables bolted to the concrete.

The tables housed dozens of ten-gallon aquariums covered by wire mesh lids. Some tanks were completely dark. Others glowed pink, gray, lavender, more blue.

Random spurts of sound from within: flutterings and scratchings, sudden stabs, the ping of something hard against glass.

The panic of attempted escape.

A strange mixture of smells filled my nose. Decayed vegetation, excreta, peat moss. Wet grain, boiled meat. Then something sweet- fruit on the verge of rot.

Robin's hand in mine was as cold as the handrails.

"Welcome," said Moreland, "to my little zoo."

He led us past the first two rows and stopped at the third. "Some sort of classification system would have been clever, but I know where everyone is and I'm the one who feeds them."

Turning left, he stopped at a dark tank. Inside was a floor of mulch and leaves, above it a tangle of bare branches. Nothing else that I could see.

He pulled something out of his pocket and held it between his fingers. A pellet, not unlike Spike's kibble.

The wire lid was clamped; he loosened it and pushed, exposing a corner. Inserting two fingers, he dangled the pellet.

At first, nothing happened. Then, quicker than I believed possible, the mulch heaved, as if in the grip of a tiny earthquake, and something shot up.

A second later, the food was gone.

Robin pressed herself against me.

Moreland hadn't moved. Whatever had taken the pellet had disappeared.

"Australian garden wolf," said Moreland, securing the top. "Cousin of your Italian friend. Like tarantula, they burrow and wait."

"Looks as if you know what it likes," said Robin. I heard the difference in her voice, but a stranger might not have.

"What she likes- this one's quite the lady- is animal protein. Preferably in liquid form. Spiders always liquefy their food. I combine insects, worms, mice, whatever, and create a broth that I freeze and defrost. This is the same stuff, compressed and freeze-dried. I did it to see if they'd adapt to solids. Luckily, many of them did."

He smiled. "Strange avocation for a vegetarian, right? But what's the choice? She's my responsibility… Come with me, perhaps we can bring back some memories."

He opened another aquarium at the end of the row, but this time he shoved his arm in, drew out something, and placed it on his forearm. One of the vertical bulbs was close enough to highlight its form on his pale flesh. A spider, dark, hairy, just over an inch long. It crawled slowly up toward his shoulder.

"Does this resemble what your mother found, dear?"

Robin licked her lips. "Yes."

"Her name is Gina." To the spider, now at his collar: "Good evening, señora." Then to Robin: "Would you like to hold her?"

"I guess."

"A new friend, Gina." As if understanding, the spider stopped. Moreland lifted it tenderly and placed it in Robin's palm.

It didn't budge, then it lifted its head and seemed to study her. Its mouth moved, an eerie lip sync.

"You're cute, Gina."

"We can send one to your mother," I said. "For old times' sake."

She laughed and the spider stopped again. Then, moving with mechanical precision, it walked to the edge of her palm and peered over the edge.

"Nothing down there but floor," said Robin. "Guess you'd like to go back to Daddy."

Moreland removed it, stroked its belly, placed it back in its home, walked on.

Pulling out his doctor's penlight, he pointed out specimens.

Colorless spiders the size of ants. Spiders that looked like ants. A delicate green thing with translucent, lime-colored legs. A sticklike Australian hygropoda. ("Marvel of energy conservation. The slender build prevents it from overheating.") A huge-fanged arachnid whose brick-red carapace and lemon-yellow abdomen were so vivid they resembled costume jewelry. A Bornean jumper whose big black eyes and hairy face gave it the look of a wise old man.

"Look at this," he said. "I'm sure you've never seen a web like this."

Pointing to a zigzag construction, like crimped paper.

"Argiope, an orb spinner. Custom-tailored to attract the bee it loves to eat. That central "X' reflects ultraviolet light in a manner that brings the bees to it. All webs are highly specific, with incredible tensile strength. Many use several types of silk; many are pigmented with an eye toward particular prey. Most are modified daily to adapt to varying circumstances. Some are used as mating beds. All in all, a beautiful deceit."