"All right, here's my proposition - I'll take him off your hands."
"Off my hands," Styles repeated.
"Exactly. We both understand he has no future with you. Oh, I expect to compensate you, of course, but in as much as he is worth nothing to you now, I wouldn't think we'll have to do a lot of haggling over the price."
"No, I wouldn't think so," Styles agreed. He tilted his head to one side and stared down into Pastory's bright little eyes. "May I ask, Doctor, precisely what your interest is in the Animal Boy?"
"I don't see as that is of any importance to our transaction."
"Call it curiosity."
Pastory sighed and spoke rapidly, like a man who knows he is talking over his listener's head. "I am a researcher in psychobiology. The, er, phenomenon of the boy's physical change is of great interest in my field. I want to complete a series of experiments that will shed greater light on his condition."
"And maybe make you a few dollars?"
"I am a researcher, Mr. Styles. Monetary gain is not important to me."
"Ah, yes, of course. Forgive me."
Pastory nodded brusquely. His eyes flicked hungrily up to the curtained stage.
"But as you saw tonight," Styles continued, "this phenomenon, as you call it, is not so reliable."
"There are laboratory methods of triggering the process," Pastory said. "Shall we get down to business?"
"I'd like to hear more about these laboratory methods," said Styles.
"I don't think they would be of much interest to you. Highly technical, you understand."
"That so? What makes you think these methods of yours will work?"
"Because they have before." Pastory was losing patience. "I assure you it is nothing you could duplicate here. The boy was in my care for a short period about a year ago and I was making significant progress until an interruption by outsiders brought my experiment to an end."
"What a shame," Styles commented.
"Yes, yes, but that's not important now. I can pick up where I left off. How does a hundred dollars sound for transferring the boy to me?"
"A hundred dollars. My, my." Styles rubbed his nose thoughtfully.
"I'll make it two hundred just because I am eager to resume my work with the boy."
"You must be."
"That's cash, of course."
Pastory reached for his wallet. He opened it and slipped out four fifty-dollar bills. He was careful not to let Styles see how much more he was carrying.
Bateman took the money. "Ah, yes, two hundred United States dollars." He held the bills up one at a time to the light bulb that was suspended from the top of the tent. He grasped them by the edges and snapped them out. "Crisp new currency; yes, indeed."
"The money is quite genuine," Pastory said. "Can I see the boy now?"
Even from behind the curtain Malcolm recognized the voice of Wayne Pastory immediately. He felt that his past was catching up with him from all directions.
He parted the curtain just a crack and peered out into the tent. The sight of the doctor made him shiver with remembered terrors.
As the conversation continued between Pastory and Bateman Styles, Malcolm's high spirits of a short time ago plummeted. The showman, his friend, was actually dickering to sell him out. Malcolm felt a sob rise in his chest. He forced it back. His vision blurred as tears squeezed into his eyes.
He let the curtain close and sank slowly to his knees. His face was feverish, yet his body shook with a chill. He felt the muscular spasms that preceded the change. He ground his teeth and fought for control.
Be reasonable, he told himself. He couldn't blame Bateman for taking a few dollars from Pastory. Malcolm knew he would never go back to that hateful clinic anyway. Holly was waiting for him. Why did it matter to him what kind of a deal Bateman made with Pastory? His body jerked convulsively.
"Do we have a deal?" Pastory said.
Styles continued to hold the bills in both hands. "Let me be sure I understand," said Styles. "You are offering mc two hundred dollars for the boy. I take the money and you take Malcolm."
"Yes, yes, can we get on with it?" The doctor looked at his watch. "My time is limited."
"Yes, well, so is mine. So let me tell you without further palaver what you can do with your two hundred dollars. You can take these bills, roll them up, and stuff them one at a time up your ass."
Pastory blinked. He stared at the showman. "I don't think I understand what you're saying."
"I don't know how I can make it any plainer."
"Is it a matter of more money?"
"It is a matter of you getting the hell out of my sight. So you're a doctor. Good for you. I'm a carnie. Been one all my life. I'll tell you something about carnival people, Doctor: we have a code of our own, and we try to live by it. Sure, we may work a scam here and there, put pictures out front of attractions we don't have inside, weight the milk bottles so they won't tip over. But there are some things we do not do. We don't sell human beings. Not for two hundred lousy dollars. Not for any price. Now get the hell out of my tent."
Styles let the four fifty-dollar bills flutter to the dirt floor. Pastory stared at him for a moment, then bent to pick them up. When he straightened again his face was mottled with anger.
"You don't know what you're doing. Malcolm is not just another boy. He is a unique specimen of active lycanthropy. I want him."
"Get out of here," Styles said. "I can't stand to look at you."
Pastory reached out and seized the lapels of Styles' brightly checked coat. "Damn you, old man, you can't do this to me. I want that boy. I will have him!"
Styles opened his mouth to shout, and Pastory's fingers moved up to clamp around his throat, shutting off his air. The smaller man squeezed. The tendons stood out like cables in his forearms.
Styles' eyes bulged. His face turned an unhealthy bluish color. He scrabbled ineffectually, trying to pry loose Pastory's fingers. He staggered backward, Pastory following, until the smaller man's grip was broken.
Styles pulled in a wheezing breath. He gave a strangled cough, clutched at his chest, and staggered into one of the tent supports, making the canvas shiver. His eyes rolled up into his head and he fell heavily to the dirt floor, his chest heaving. Pastory came over and stared down at him. Styles body bucked once, twice, then lay still.
Pastory looked quickly toward the entrance to the tent. Assured that no one had heard the short scuffle, he ran to the stage at the far end, mounted it, and pulled aside the curtain.
The hate-filled face that glared up at him from the crouching figure only faintly resembled the boy Malcolm. The muzzle was pushed well forward, the eyes slanted deep green, the ears pointed and cocked. The black upper lip curled back to show the outsized killing teeth. It growled.
Pastory spread his hands as one does with a strange dog to show he carried no weapon. He advanced slowly.
"It's all right, Malcolm. No one is going to hurt you. You remember me, don't you? I'm your friend. You know that. I'm going to take you back with me to where no one hurt you again."
Another growl. The creature drew back slightly. The shoulders and deep chest were covered with coarse hair. The clothing he had been wearing hung in tatters.
Pastory could barely contain his excitement. This was furthest along in the change he had yet seen the boy. He ached to get Malcolm back to the laboratory. This time there would be no bungling Kruger to mess things up.
"Come along now," he said, putting just the right note authority into his voice. "There is nothing more for you here. Your place is with me."
The answering growl this time was deeper. The teeth seemed to have grown.
For the first time, Pastory felt a small doubt about his ability to control the boy. He took a step back. "I'm here to help you, Malcolm. Now stop this foolishness and come along."