“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.”
O’Breen rose and began to pace around the office. “We don’t seem to be getting very far, do we? I’m to take it that you refuse to state the nature of your relations with Gloria Garton?”
“I see no reason why I should do otherwise.” Wolf was beginning to be annoyed.
To his surprise, the detective relaxed into a broad grin. “Okay. Let it ride. Tell me about your department. How long have the various faculty members been here?”
“Instructors and all?”
“Just the professors.”
“I’ve been here for seven years. All the others at least a good ten, probably more. If you want exact figures, you can probably get them from the dean, unless, as I hope”—Wolf smiled cordially—“he throws you out flat on your red pate.”
O’Breen laughed. “Professor, I think we could get on. One more question, and you can do some pate-tossing yourself. Are you an American citizen?”
“Of course.”
“And the rest of the department?”
“All of them. And now would you have the common decency to give me some explanation of this fantastic farrago of questions?”
“No,” said O’Breen casually. “Goodbye, professor.” His alert green eyes had been roaming about the room, sharply noticing everything. Now, as he left, they rested on Wolf’s long index finger, moved up to his heavy meeting eyebrows, and returned to the finger. There was a suspicion of a startled realization in those eyes as he left the office.
But that was nonsense, Wolf told himself. A private detective, no matter how shrewd his eyes, no matter how apparently meaningless his inquiries, would surely be the last man on earth to notice the signs of lycanthropy. Funny. “Werewolf” was a word you could accept. You could say, “I’m a werewolf,” and it was all right. But say “I am a lycanthrope” and your flesh crawled. Odd. Possibly material for a paper on the influence of etymology on connotation for one of the learned periodicals.
But, hell! Wolfe Wolf was no longer primarily a scholar.
He was a werewolf now, a white-magic werewolf, a werewolf-for-fun; and fun he was going to have. He lit his pipe, stared at the blank paper on his desk, and tried desperately to draft a letter to Gloria. It should hint at just enough to fascinate her and hold her interest until he could go south when the term ended and reveal to her the whole wonderful new truth. It—
Professor Oscar Fearing grunted his ponderous way into the office. “Good afternoon, Wolfe. Hard at it, my boy?”
“Afternoon,” Wolf replied distractedly, and continued to stare at the paper.
“Great events coming, eh? Are you looking forward to seeing the glorious Gloria?”
Wolf started. “How—what do you mean?”
Fearing handed him a folded newspaper. “You hadn’t heard?”
Wolf read with growing amazement and delight:
GLORIA GARTON TO ARRIVE FRIDAY
Local Girl Returns to Berkeley
As part of the most spectacular talent hunt since the search for Scarlett O’Hara, Gloria Garton, glamorous Metropolis starlet, will visit Berkeley Friday. Friday afternoon at the Campus Theater, Berkeley canines will have their chance to compete in the nationwide quest for a dog to play Tookah the wolf dog in the great Metropolis epic “Fangs of the Forest,” and Gloria Garton herself will be present at the auditions.