The janitor had already opened the front door of Wheeler Hall, but the building was deserted. Wolf had no trouble reaching the second floor unnoticed or finding his classroom. He had a little more trouble holding the chalk between his teeth and a slight tendency to gag on the dust; but by balancing his forepaws on the eraser trough, he could manage quite nicely. It took three springs to catch the ring of the chart in his teeth, but once that was pulled down there was nothing to do but crouch under the desk and pray that he would not starve quite to death.
The students of German 31B, as they assembled reluctantly for their eight-o’clock, were a little puzzled at being confronted by a chart dealing with the influence of the gold standard on world economy, but they decided simply that the janitor had been forgetful.
The wolf under the desk listened unseen to their gathering murmurs, overheard that cute blonde in the front row make dates with three different men for that same night, and finally decided that enough had assembled to make his chances plausible. He slipped out from under the desk far enough to reach the ring of the chart, tugged at it, and let go.
The chart flew up with a rolling crash. The students broke off their chatter, looked up at the blackboard, and beheld in a huge and shaky scrawl the mysterious letters
ABSARKA
It worked. With enough people, it was an almost mathematical certainty that one of them in his puzzlement—for the race of subtitle readers, though handicapped by the talkies, still exists—would read the mysterious word aloud. It was the much-bedated blonde who did it.
“Absarka” she said wonderingly.
And there was Professor Wolfe Wolf, beaming cordially at his class.
The only flaw was this: He had forgotten that he was only a werewolf, and not Hyperman. His clothes were still at the Berkeley Inn, and here on the lecture platform he was stark naked.
Two of his best pupils screamed and one fainted. The blonde only giggled appreciatively.
Emily was incredulous but pitying.
Professor Fearing was sympathetic but reserved.
The chairman of the department was cool.
The dean of letters was chilly.
The president of the university was frigid.
Wolfe Wolf was unemployed.
And Heliophagus of Smyrna was right. “The essence of magic is deceit.”
“But what can I do?” Wolf moaned into his zombie glass. “I’m stuck. I’m stymied. Gloria arrives in Berkeley tomorrow, and here I am—nothing. Nothing but a futile, worthless werewolf. You can’t support a wife on that. You can’t raise a family. You can’t— Hell, you can’t even propose . . . I want another. Sure you won’t have one?” Ozymandias the Great shook his round, fringed head. “The last time I took two drinks I started all this. I’ve got to behave if I want to stop it. But you’re an able-bodied, strapping young man; surely, colleague, you can get work?”
“Where? All I’m trained for is academic work, and this scandal has put the kibosh on that forever. What university is going to hire a man who showed up naked in front of his class without even the excuse of being drunk? And supposing I try something else—say one of these jobs in defense that all my students seem to be getting—I’d have to give references, say something about what I’d been doing with my thirty-odd years. And once these references were checked— Ozzy, I’m a lost man.”
“Never despair, colleague. I’ve learned that magic gets you into some tight squeezes, but there’s always a way of getting out. Now, take that time in Darjeeling—”
“But what can I do? I’ll wind up like Confucius the werechow and live off charity, if you’ll find me somebody who wants a pet wolf.”
“You know,” Ozymandias reflected, “you may have something there, colleague.”
“Nuts! That was a joke. I can at least retain my self-respect, even if I go on relief doing it. And I’ll bet they don’t like naked men on relief, either.”
“No. I don’t mean just being a pet wolf. But look at it this way: What are your assets? You have only two outstanding abilities. One of them is to teach German, and that is now completely out.”
“Check.”
“And the other is to change yourself into a wolf. All right, colleague. There must be some commercial possibilities in that. Let’s look into them.”
“Nonsense.”
“Not quite. For every kind of merchandise there’s a market. The trick is to find it. And you, colleague, are going to be the first practical commercial werewolf on record.”
“I could—They say Ripley’s Odditorium pays good money. Supposing I changed six times a day regular for delighted audiences?”
Ozymandias shook his head sorrowfully. “It’s no good. People don’t want to see real magic. It makes ’em uncomfortable—starts ’em wondering what else might be loose in the world. They’ve got to feel sure it’s all done with mirrors. I know. I had to quit vaudeville because I wasn’t smart enough at faking it; all I could do was the real thing.”
“I could be a Seeing Eye dog, maybe?”
“They have to be female.”
“When I’m changed I can understand animal language. Maybe I could be a dog trainer and— No, that’s out. I forgot: they’re scared to death of me.”
But Ozymandias’ pale-blue eyes had lit up at the suggestion. “Colleague, you’re warm. Oh, are you warm! Tell me: why did you say your fabulous Gloria was coming to Berkeley?”
“Publicity for a talent hunt.”
“For what?”
“A dog to star in Fangs of the Forest.”
“And what kind of a dog?”
“A—” Wolf’s eyes widened and his jaw sagged. “A wolf dog,” he said softly.
And the two men looked at each other with a wild surmise—silent, beside a bar in Berkeley.
“It’s all the fault of that damned Disney dog,” the trainer complained. “Pluto does anything. Everything. So our poor mutts are expected to do likewise.
