The Werewolf Principle (15 page)

“I wouldn't know,” he said.

“You know what I think? I don't believe you can hide at all. Someone will root you out. Your only chance is to keep moving around, not staying long at any place.”

“You've thought a lot about it?”

“No. It just makes common sense. That robe I brought for you—one of Daddy's wool ones that he is so proud of—is the kind of get-up that roving students wear.”

“Roving students?”

“Oh, I keep forgetting. You aren't caught up yet with all that's going on. They aren't really students. They're artistic bums. They wander around and some of them do paintings, some of them write books and some of them write poetry—you know, artistic stuff like that. There aren't many of them, but enough so they are recognized for what they are. And no one, of course, pays attention to them. You can pull up the hood of your robe and no one will get a good look at your face. Not that anyone would look.”

“And you think I should be a roving student?”

She ignored the interruption. “I found an old knapsack for you. It's the kind of thing they use. Some pads of paper and some pencils and a book or two for you to read. You'd better take a look at them, so you know what they are. Whether you like it or not, you see, you will be a writer. First chance you get you scribble down a page or two. So that if anyone should question you, you will look authentic.”

He huddled in the seat, soaking up the warmth. She had swung the car around to another street and was heading west. Great towering blocks of apartments rose against the sky.

“Reach into that compartment to your right,” she said. “I suppose that you are hungry. I fixed up some sandwiches and a thermos full of coffee.”

He reached his hand into the pocket and brought out a package, broke it open, took a sandwich.

“I was hungry,” he said.

“I thought you'd be,” she said.

The car went on. The apartment houses became fewer. Here and there were small villages with their gridworks of single houses.

“I could have wrangled a floater for you,” she said. “Even a car, perhaps. But both of them carry licenses and would not be hard to trace. And, furthermore, no one pays much attention to a man trudging along on foot. You'll be safer that way.”

“Elaine,” he asked, “why go to so much bother for me? I didn't ask this much.”

“I don't know,” she said. “You've had such a damn poor time of it, I guess. Hauled in from space and then turned over to the hospital and pawed and scrutinized. Put out to pasture for a while in that little village, then hauled in again.”

“They were only doing what they could for me, of course.”

“Yes, I know. But it couldn't have been pleasant. I don't blame you for running out when you had the chance.”

They rode along in silence for a time. Blake ate the sandwiches and had some of the coffee.

“This wolf?” she asked suddenly. “What do you know about it? They said there was a wolf.”

“So far as I know, there was no wolf,” he said. He consoled himself that, technically, he was right. Quester was no wolf.

“The hospital was terribly upset,” she said. “They phoned the senator to come down.”

“Me or the wolf?” he asked.

“I don't know,” she said. “He hadn't got back when I left.”

They came to an intersection and she slowed the car, pulled off to the side of the road and stopped.

“This is as far as I can take you,” she said. “I can't be too late getting back.”

He opened the door, then hesitated. “Thanks,” he said. “You've been a lot of help. I hope some day …”

“Just a minute there,” she said. “Here's your knapsack. There is some money in it …”

“Now, wait …”

“No, you wait. You will need it. It's not too much, but it will carry you a ways. It's out of my allowance. You can pay me back some day.”

He reached out and took the knapsack, looped the strap across his shoulder.

His voice was husky when he spoke. “Elaine—Elaine, I don't know what to say.”

In the dimness of the car it seemed that she was closer to him. Her shoulder touched his arm and he could smell the sweetness of her. Scarcely meaning to, he put out an arm and drew her close. He ducked down and kissed her. Her hand came up and cradled his head, her fingers cool and soft.

Then they were apart again and she was looking at him, with a sure and steady gaze.

“I wouldn't have helped you,” she said, “if I hadn't liked you. I think that you're all right. I think you're doing nothing you need to be ashamed of.”

He did not reply.

“Now, off with you,” she said. “Out into the night. Later on, when you can, let me hear from you.”

22

The eating place stood in the apex of a Y where the road forked in two directions. In the half-light of not-quite-dawn, the red sign that stood above its roof showed pink.

Blake limped a bit more rapidly. Here was a chance to soak up a little warmth while he rested, an opportunity to stow away some food. The sandwiches Elaine had provided him had carried him through the long night of walking, but now he was hungry again. With the coming of morning, he'd have to find a place where he could get some sleep and still be hidden—a haystack, perhaps. He wondered if there still were haystacks, or if even such simple things as haystacks had been swept away since he had known the earth.

The wind whipped wickedly out of the north and he pulled the cowl of the robe forward around his face. The strap of the knapsack was galling his shoulder and he tried to readjust it, to find an area of skin that had not been chafed, but it seemed that no such area remained.

He finally reached the diner and crossed the parking lot in front of it, climbed the short flight of stairs to the door. The place was empty. The counter gleamed from polishing, the chrome of the coffee urn shone brightly in the light of the lamps that marched across the ceiling.

“How are you?” asked the Diner. The voice was that of a brassy, wise-cracking waitress. “What will it be this morning?”

Blake looked around, seeing no one, then realized the situation. Another robotic installation, like the flying houses.

He went across the floor and sat down on one of the stools.

“Cakes,” he said, “and some bacon. And coffee.”

He let the knapsack slip off his shoulder and lowered it to the floor beside the stool.

“Out early, aren't you?” asked the Diner. “Don't tell me you have walked all night.”

“Not all night,” said Blake. “Up early, that is all.”

“Don't see many of you fellows any more,” the Diner said. “What is your racket, friend?”

“I do a little writing,” said Blake. “At least, I try to do it.”

“Well,” said the Diner, “at least you get to see some of the country. Me, I'm stuck here all the time. I never get to see anything at all. All I get is a lot of talk. Not,” said the Diner, hastily, “that I dislike hearing talk. At least it's something to occupy my mind.”

A spout poured a gob of batter on the griddle, moved along a traveling track to pour a second and a third, then snapped swiftly back to its original position. A metal arm mounted beside the coffee urn unfolded, extended itself and tripped a lever above the griddle. Three slices of bacon slid out and flopped upon the griddle. Deftly the arm descended and separated them, nudging them into a neat row.

“Want your coffee now?” asked the Diner.

“If you please,” said Blake.

The metallic arm grasped a cup, held it under the faucet of the urn and raised it to activate the spout. Coffee poured out, the cup filled, the arm swung around and deposited it before Blake, then dipped down underneath the counter, came up with silverware, politely pushed the sugar dispenser closer to his reach.

“Cream?” the Diner asked.

“No, thanks,” said Blake.

“Heard a good story the other day,” the Diner said. “Fellow in here the other day sprung it on me. It seems that …” Behind Blake, the door came open.

“No! No!” screamed the Diner. “You cut out of here. How often do I have to tell you never to come in when I got customers.”

“I came in to see your customer,” said a squeaky voice.

The sound of the voice spun Blake around.

A Brownie stood just inside the door, the bright, beady eyes glittering above the rodent snout, the high-domed skull flanked by the tasseled ears. Its trousers were striped green and pink.

“I feed it,” wailed the Diner. “I put up with it. People say it's good luck to have one of them around, but this one never brings me anything but trouble. It is full of tricks. It is impertinent. It has no respect for me …”

“That's because you put on human airs,” the Brownie said, “forgetting that you are not a human, but a stand-in for a human, taking away an honest job that a human might perform. I ask you why anyone should have respect for you?”

“No more handouts for you!” screamed the Diner. “No more sleeping in here when the nights are cold. Nothing more for you. I've had my fill of you.”

The Brownie disregarded the tirade, came briskly across the floor. He stopped and made a formal bow to Blake.

“Good morning, honored sir. I hope I find you well.”

“Very well,” said Blake, amusement struggling with a deep sense of foreboding. “Would you have some breakfast with me?”

“Gladly,” said the Brownie, leaping to the stool next to Blake. He perched on it, with his feet dangling above the floor.

“Sir,” he said, “I will have whatever you are having. It is most generous and courteous of you to ask me, for I hunger greatly.”

“You heard my friend,” said Blake, speaking to the Diner. “He will have what I am having.”

“And you will pay for it?” asked the Diner.

“Most certainly I will.”

The mechanical arm scooped up and flipped the baking cakes, moved them toward the griddle's front. The sprout began spraying out new gobs of batter.

“It is a treat to eat a regular meal,” said the Brownie, speaking confidentially to Blake. “Most people give me scraps. And while hunger cannot choose, the inner creature sometimes craves more consideration.”

“Don't let him take you in,” the Diner cautioned Blake. “Buy him this breakfast, if you must, but then shake free of him. Don't let him fasten onto you, or he will suck you dry.”

“Machines,” the Brownie said, “have no sensibilities. They are ignorant of the finer instincts. They are callous to the suffering of the very ones they are meant to serve. And they have no souls.”

“Neither have you, you heathen alien,” raged the Diner. “You are a chiseler and a moocher and you are a parasite. You use humankind most unmercifully and you have no gratitude and you don't know when to stop.”

The Brownie slanted his rodent eyes at Blake and lifted both of his hands, palms upward, in a hopeless gesture.

“Well, you don't,” the Diner said, aggrieved. “There is solemn truth in every word I said.”

The arm scooped up the first three cakes, put them on a plate, ranged the bacon alongside them, punched a button and caught, with great dexterity, the three pats of butter ejected from a chute. The arm set the plate in front of Blake, darted down underneath the counter and came up with a jug of syrup.

The Brownie's nose twitched with pleasure. “They smell delicious,” he said.

“No snitching!” screamed the Diner. “You wait till yours are done.”

From far off came a faint moaning bleat.

The Brownie stiffened, its ears stretched up and flaring.

The moaning came again.

“It's another one of them!” the Diner yelled. “They are supposed to warn us well ahead of time, not come sneaking up on us like this. And you, you no-good chiseler, are supposed to be out there, listening for the first sign of them. That's what I feed you for.”

“It's way too soon for another one,” the Brownie said. “There shouldn't be another one through until late this evening. They are supposed to spread themselves out, to use different roads so one road doesn't have to put up with them all the time.”

The moaning came again, louder and closer—a lonesome, wailing sound trailing off the hills.

“What is it?” asked Blake.

“It's a cruiser,” the Brownie told him, “One of these big sea-going freighters. It has a load of something that it's carried all the way from Europe, maybe from Africa, and it came ashore an hour or so ago and is coming up the road.”

“You mean it doesn't stop when it reaches shore?”

“Why should it?” asked the Brownie. “It travels on the same principle as the ground cars, on a cushioned jet stream. It can travel on either land or water. It comes up to shore and never hesitates—just goes booming down a road.”

Metal screeched and thudded on metal. Blake saw that great steel shutters were creeping across the outside of the windows. Clamps swivelled out of the wall and moved against the door, snugging it tight.

The moaning filled the room now and far off there was a terrible howling, as if a gigantic storm moved across the land.

“All battened down!” The Diner screamed to be heard above the noise. “You guys better hit the floor. This sounds like a big one.”

The building was shaking and the noise was a numbing cataract that poured from all directions to fill the room to bursting.

The Brownie had nipped beneath the stool and was hanging tightly, both arms wrapped about the metal standard on which the stool was mounted. His mouth was open and it was evident that he was yelling at Blake, but his voice was engulfed and drowned out by the howling that was coming up the road.

Blake threw himself off the stool and hugged the floor. He tried to hook his fingers into the floor, but the floor covering was a hard, smooth plastic and he could get no grip on it.