Wolf lit a cigarette in silence and handed the pack to Ozymandias. “When you came in just now,” he said at last, “what did you see?”
“You as a wolf.”
“Then it really—I actually—”
“Sure. You’re a full-fledged werewolf, all right.”
Wolf sat down on the rumpled bed. “I guess,” he ventured slowly, “I’ve got to believe it. And if I believe that—but it means I’ve got to believe everything I’ve always scorned. I’ve got to believe in gods and devils and hells and—”
“You needn’t be so pluralistic. But there is a God.” Ozymandias said this as calmly and convincingly as he had stated last night that there were werewolves.
“And if there’s a God, then I’ve got a soul?”
“Sure.”
“And if I’m a werewolf—hey!”
“What’s the trouble, colleague?”
“All right, Ozzy. You know everything. Tell me this: Am I damned?”
“For what? Just for being a werewolf? Shucks, no; let me explain. There’s two kinds of werewolves. There’s the cursed kind that can’t help themselves, that just go turning into wolves without any say in the matter; and there’s the voluntary kind like you. Now, most of the voluntary kind are damned, sure, because they’re wicked men who lust for blood and eat innocent people. But they aren’t damnably wicked because they’re werewolves; they became werewolves because they are damnably wicked. Now, you changed yourself just for the hell of it and because it looked like a good way to impress a gal; that’s an innocent-enough motive, and being a werewolf doesn’t make it any less so. Werewolves don’t have to be monsters; it’s just that we hear about only the ones that are.”
“But how can I be voluntary when you told me I was a werewolf before I ever changed?”
“Not everybody can change. It’s like being able to roll your tongue or wiggle your ears. You can, or you can’t; and that’s that. And as with those abilities, there’s probably a genetic factor involved, though nobody’s done any serious research on it. You were a werewolf in posse; now you’re one in esse.”
“Then it’s all right? I can be a werewolf just for having fun, and it’s safe?”
“Absolutely.”
Wolf chortled. “Will I show Gloria! Dull and unglamorous indeed! Anybody can marry an actor or a G-man; but a werewolf—”
“Your children probably will be, too,” said Ozymandias cheerfully.
Wolf shut his eyes dreamily, then opened them with a start. “You know what?”
“What?”
“I haven’t got a hangover anymore! This is marvelous. This is— Why, this is practical. At last the perfect hangover cure. Shuffle yourself into a wolf and back and— Oh, that reminds me. How do I get back?”
“Absarka.”
“I know. But when I’m a wolf I can’t say it.”
“That,” said Ozymandias sadly, “is the curse of being a white magician. You keep having to use the second-best form of spells, because the best would be black. Sure, a black-magic werebeast can turn himself back whenever he wants to. I remember in Darjeeling—”
“But how about me?”
“That’s the trouble. You have to have somebody to say Absarka! for you. That’s what I did last night, or do you remember? After we broke up the party at your friend’s temple…tell you what. I’m retired now, and I’ve got enough to live on modestly because I can always magic up little…Are you going to take up werewolfing seriously?”
“For a while, anyway. Till I get Gloria.”
“Then why shouldn’t I come and live here in your hotel? Then I’ll always be handy to Absarka! you. After you get the girl, you can teach her.”
Wolf extended his hand. “Noble of you. Shake.” And then his eye caught his wristwatch. “Good Lord! I’ve missed two classes this morning. Werewolfing’s all very well, but a man’s got to work for his living.”
“Most men.” Ozymandias calmly reached his hand into the air and plucked a coin. He looked at it ruefully. It was a gold moidore. “Hang these spirits; I simply cannot explain to them about gold being illegal.”
From Los Angeles, Wolf thought, with the habitual contempt of the Northern Californian as he surveyed the careless sport coat and the bright-yellow shirt of his visitor.
This young man rose politely as the professor entered the office. His green eyes gleamed cordially and his red hair glowed in the spring sunlight. “Professor Wolf?” he asked.
Wolf glanced impatiently at his desk. “Yes.”
“O’Breen’s the name. I’d like to talk to you a minute.”
“My office hours are from three to four Tuesdays and Thursdays. I’m afraid I’m rather busy now.”
“This isn’t faculty business. And it’s important.” The young man’s attitude was affable and casual, but he managed nonetheless to convey a sense of urgency that piqued Wolf’s curiosity. The all-important letter to Gloria had waited while he took two classes; it could wait another five minutes.
“Very well, Mr. O’Breen.”
“And alone, if you please.”
Wolf himself hadn’t noticed that Emily was in the room. He now turned to the secretary and said, “All right. If you don’t mind, Emily—”
Emily shrugged and went out.
“Now, sir. What is this important and secret business?”
“Just a question or two. To start with, how well do you know Gloria Garton?”
Wolf paused. You could hardly say, “Young man, I am about to repropose to her in view of my becoming a werewolf.” Instead he simply said—the truth, if not the whole truth—“She was a pupil of mine a few years ago.”
“I said do, not did. How well do you know her now?”
“And why should I bother to answer such a question?”
The young man handed over a card. Wolf read:
FERGUS O’BREEN
PRIVATE INQUIRY AGENT
LICENSED BY THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA
Wolf smiled. “And what does this mean? Divorce evidence? Isn’t that the usual field of private inquiry agents?”
“Miss Garton isn’t married, as you probably know very well. I’m just asking if you’ve been in touch with her much lately.”
“And I’m simply asking why you should want to know.”