“Wonderful work, Mr. Wolf,” said Fafferty. “Any time we can do anything for you— And how you got into that machine-gun turret— Well, O’Breen, I’ll see you later. Got to check up on the rest of this roundup. Pleasant convalescence to you, Wolf.”
Fergus waited until the G-man had left the room. Then he leaned over the bed and asked confidentially, “How about it, Wolf? Going back to your acting career?”
Wolf gasped. “What acting career?”
“Still going to play Tookah? If Metropolis makes Fangs with Miss Garton in a Federal prison.”
Wolf fumbled for words. “What sort of nonsense—”
“Come on, Wolf. It’s pretty clear I know that much. Might as well tell me the whole story.”
Still dazed, Wolf told it. “But how in heaven’s name did you know it?” he concluded.
Fergus grinned. ‘Took. Dorothy Sayers said someplace that in a detective story the supernatural may be introduced only to be dispelled. Sure, that’s swell. Only in real life there come times when it won’t be dispelled. And this was one. There was too damned much. There were your eyebrows and fingers, there were the obviously real magical powers of your friend, there were the tricks which no dog could possibly do without signals, there was the way the other dogs whimpered and cringed— I’m pretty hardheaded, Wolf, but I’m Irish. I’ll string along only so far with the materialistic, but too much coincidence is too much.”
“Fearing believed it too,” Wolf reflected. “But one thing that worries me: if they used a silver bullet on me once, why were all the rest of them lead? Why was I safe from then on?”
“Well,” said Fergus, “I’ll tell you. Because it wasn’t ‘they’ who fired the silver bullet. You see, Wolf, up till the last minute I thought you were on ‘their’ side. I somehow didn’t associate good will with a werewolf. So I got a mold from a gunsmith and paid a visit to a jeweler and— I’m damned glad I missed,” he added sincerely.
“ You’re glad!”
“But look. Previous question stands. Are you going back to acting? Because if not, I’ve got a suggestion.”
“Which is?”
“You say you fretted about how to be a practical, commercial werewolf. All right. You’re strong and fast. You can terrify people even to commit suicide. You can overhear conversations that no human being could get in on. You’re invulnerable to bullets. Can you tell me better qualifications for a G-man?”
Wolf goggled. “Me? A G-man?”
“Moon’s been telling me how badly they need new men. They’ve changed the qualifications lately so that your language knowledge’ll do instead of the law or accounting they used to require. And after what you did today, there won’t be any trouble about a little academic scandal in your past. Moon’s pretty sold on you.” Wolf was speechless. Only three days ago he had been in torment because he was not an actor or a G-man. Now—
“Think it over,” said Fergus.
“I will. Indeed I will. Oh, and one other thing. Has there been any trace of Ozzy?”
“Nary a sign.”
“I like that man. I’ve got to try to find him and—”
“If he’s the magician I think he is, he’s staying up there only because he’s decided he likes it.”
“I don’t know. Magic’s tricky. Heavens knows I’ve learned that. I’m going to try to do my damnedest for that fringe-bearded old colleague.”
“Wish you luck. Shall I send in your other guest?”
“Who’s that?”
“Your secretary. Here on business, no doubt.”
Fergus disappeared discreetly as he admitted Emily. She walked over to the bed and took Wolf’s hand. His eyes drank in her quiet, charming simplicity, and his mind wondered what freak of belated adolescence had made him succumb to the blatant glamour of Gloria.
They were silent for a long time. Then at once they both said, “How can I thank you? You saved my life.”
Wolf laughed. “Let’s not argue. Let’s say we saved our life.”
“You mean that?” Emily asked gravely.
Wolf pressed her hand. “Aren’t you tired of being an office wife?”
In the bazaar of Darjeeling, Chulundra Lingasuta stared at his rope in numb amazement. Young Ali had climbed up only five minutes ago, but now as he descended he was a hundred pounds heavier and wore a curious fringe of beard.
Elsewhen
“My dear Agatha,” Mr. Partridge announced at the breakfast table, “I have invented the world’s first successful time machine.”
His sister showed no signs of being impressed. “I suppose this will run the electric bill up even higher,” she observed.
Mr. Partridge listened meekly to the inevitable lecture. When it was over, he protested, “But, my dear, you have just listened to an announcement that no woman on earth has ever heard before. Never before in human history has anyone produced an actual working model of a time-traveling machine.”
“Hm-m-m,” said Agatha Partridge. “What good is it?”
“Its possibilities are untold.” Mr. Partridge’s pale little eyes lit up. “We can observe our pasts and perhaps even correct their errors. We can learn the secrets of the ancients. We can plot the uncharted course of the future—new conquistadors invading brave new continents of unmapped time. We can—”
“Will anyone pay money for that?”
“They will flock to me to pay it,” said Mr. Partridge smugly.
His sister began to look impressed. “And how far can you travel with your time machine?”
Mr. Partridge buttered a piece of toast with absorbed concentration, but it was no use. His sister repeated the question: “How far can you go?”
“Not very far,” Mr. Partridge admitted reluctantly. “In fact,” he added hastily as he saw a more specific question forming, “hardly at all. And only one way. But remember,” he went on, gathering courage, “the Wright brothers did not cross the Atlantic in their first model. Marconi did not launch radio with—”
Agatha’s brief interest had completely subsided. “I thought so,” she said. “You’d still better watch the electric bill.”
It would be that way, Mr. Partridge thought, wherever he went, whomever he saw. “How far can you go?”
“Hardly at all.”
“Good day, sir.” People cannot be made to see that to move along the time line
