His hands flew and his head bobbed. With each sentence, he grew more animated. I knew I was anthropomorphizing, but the creatures seemed excited, too. Emerging from the shadows to show themselves.

Not the panic I'd heard before. Smooth, almost leisurely motions. A dance of mutual interest?

"… why I concentrate on predators," Moreland was saying. "Why I'm so concerned with keeping them fit."

A brilliant pink, crablike thing rested atop his bony hand. "Of course, natural predation is nothing new. Back in nineteen twenty-five, levuana moths threatened the entire coconut crop on Fiji. Tachinid parasites were brought in and they did the job beautifully. The following year, a particularly voracious destructor scale was done in by the coccinellid beetle. And I'm sure you know gardeners have used ladybugs on aphids for years. I breed them to protect my citrus trees, as a matter of fact." He pointed to an aquarium that seemed to be red carpeted. A finger against the glass made the carpet move. Thousands of miniature Volkswagens, a ladybug traffic jam. "So simple, so practical. But the key is keeping them nutritionally robust."

We moved further up the row and he stopped and breathed deeply. "If it weren't for public prejudice, this beauty and her compatriots could be trained to clear homes of rats."

Shining the penlight into a dark tank, he revealed something half covered by leaves.

It crawled out slowly and my stomach lurched.

Three inches wide and more than twice that length, legs as thick as pencils, hairs as coarse as boar bristle. It remained inert as the light washed over it. Then it opened its mouth wide- yawning?- and stroked the orifice with clawlike pincers.

As Moreland undid the mesh I found myself stepping back. In went his hand; another pellet dangled.

Unlike the Australian wolf, this one took the food lazily, almost coyly.

"This is Emma and she's spoiled." One of the spider's legs nudged his finger, rubbing it. "This is the tarantula of B-movies, but she's really a Grammostola, from the Amazon. In her natural habitat, she eats small birds, lizards, mice, even venomous snakes, which she immobilizes, then crushes. Can you see the advantages for pest control?"

"Why doesn't she use her own venom?" I said.

"Most spider venom can't do harm except to very small prey. You can be sure spoiled Madame Emma wouldn't have the patience to wait for the toxin to take effect. Despite her apparent indolence, she's quite eager when she gets hungry. All wolves are; they got their name because they chase their prey down. I must confess they're my favorite. So bright. They quickly recognize individuals. And they respond to kindness. All tarantulae do. That's why your little Lycosa made such a good pet, Robin."

Robin's eyes remained on the monster.

Moreland said, "She likes you."

"I sure hope so."

"Oh yes, she definitely does. When she doesn't care for someone, she turns her head away- quite the debutante. Not that I bring people in here very often. They need their peace."

He petted the huge spider, removed his hand, and covered the aquarium. "Insects and arachnids are magnificent, structurally and functionally. I'm sure you've heard all the clichÉs about how they're competing with us, will eventually drive us to extinction. Nonsense. Some species become quite successful but many others are fragile and don't survive. For years entomologists have been trying to figure out what leads to success. The popular academic model is Monomorium pharaonis-the common ant. Many tenures have been granted on studies of what makes Monomorium tick. The conventional wisdom is that there are three important criteria: resistance to dehydration, cooperative colonies with multiple fertile queens, and the ability to relocate the colony quickly and efficiently. But there are insects with those exact traits who fail and others, like the carpenter ant, who've done quite well despite having none of them."

He shrugged.

"A puzzle."

He resumed the tour, pointing out walking stick bugs, mantises with serrated jaws, giant Madagascar hissing cockroaches topped with chitinous armor, dung beetles rolling their fetid treasures like giant medicine balls, stout, black carrion beetles ("Imagine what they could do to solve the landfill problems you've got over on the mainland"). Tank after tank of crawling, climbing, darting, crackling, slithering things.

"I stay away from butterflies and moths. Too short-lived and they need flying room to be truly happy. All my guests adapt well to close quarters and many of them achieve amazing longevity- my Lycosa's ten years old, and some spiders live double or triple that amount… Am I boring you?"

"No," said Robin. Her eyes were wide and it didn't seem like fear. "They're all impressive, but Emma… her size."

"Yes." He walked quickly to a tank in the last row. Larger than the others, at least twenty gallons. Inside, several rocks formed a cave that shadowed a wood-chip floor.

"My brontosaurus," he said. "His ancestors probably did coexist with the dinosaurs."

Pointing to what seemed to be an extension of the rock.

I stayed back, looking, steeling myself for another heart-stopping movement.

Nothing.

Then it was there. Without moving. Taking shape before my eyes:

What I'd thought to be a slab of rock was organic. Extending out of the cave.

Flat bodied, segmented. Like a braided brown leather whip.

Seven, eight inches long.

Legs on each segment.

Antennae as thick as cello strings.

Twitching antennae.

I moved further back, waiting for Moreland to play the pellet game.

He put his face up against the glass.

More slithered out of the cave.

At least a foot long. Spikes at the tail end quivered.

Moreland tapped the glass, and several pairs of feet pawed the air.

Then, a lunging motion, a sound like snapping fingers.

"What… is it?" said Robin.

"The giant centipede of East Asia. This one stowed away on one of the supply boats last year- Brady's as a matter of fact. I obtain a lot of my specimens that way."

I thought of our ride on The Madeleine. Sleeping below deck, wearing only bathing trunks.

"He's significantly more venomous than most spiders," he said. "And I haven't named him yet. Haven't quite trained him to love me."

"How venomous is significant?" I said.

"There's only one recorded fatality. A seven-year-old boy in the Philippines. The most common problem is secondary infection, gangrene. Limb loss can occur."

"Have you ever been bitten?" I asked.

"Often." He smiled. "But only by human children who didn't wish to be vaccinated."

"Very impressive," I said, hoping we were through. But another pellet was between Moreland's fingers, and before I knew it another corner of mesh had been drawn back.

No dangling this time. He dropped the food into the centipede's cage from a one-foot height.

The animal ignored it.

Moreland said, "Have it your way," and refastened the top.

He headed up the central aisle and we were right behind him.

"That's it. I hope I haven't repulsed you."

"So your nutritional research is about them," I said.

"Primarily. They have much to teach us. I also study web patterns, various other things."

"Fascinating," said Robin.

I stared at her. She smiled from the corner of her mouth. Her hand had warmed. Her fingers began tickling my palm, then dropped. Crawling down my inner wrist.

I tried to pull away but she held me fast. Full smile.

"I'm glad you feel that way, dear," said Moreland. "Some people are repelled. No telling."