“You are a sick man. Your ribs are broken and they ache. You can never make the trip by yourself you need my help. If you wish you can order me to be silent. It is most necessary to the Church that you get back safely to the Pope with your report you cannot put yourself before the Church.”
“Go!” Thomas cried. “Go back to Nicodemus . . . or Judas! That is an order. Obey!”
“You do not think do you that I was really conditioned to obey your orders. I will wait in the village. If you get that far you will rejoice at the sight of me.”
The legs of the robass clumped off down the stone passageway. As their sound died away, Thomas fell to his knees beside the body of that which he could hardly help thinking of as St. Aquin the Robot.
His ribs hurt more excruciatingly than ever. The trip alone would be a terrible one . . .
His prayers arose, as the text has it, like clouds of incense, and as shapeless as those clouds. But through all his thoughts ran the cry of the father of the epileptic in Caesarea Philippi:
I believe, O Lord; help thou mine unbelief.
The Compleat Werewolf
The professor glanced at the note:
Don’t be silly— Gloria.
Wolfe Wolf crumpled the sheet of paper into a yellow ball and hurled it out the window into the sunshine of the bright campus spring. He made several choice and profane remarks in fluent Middle High German.
Emily looked up from typing the proposed budget for the departmental library. “I’m afraid I didn’t understand that, Professor Wolf. I’m weak on Middle High.”
“Just improvising,” said Wolf, and sent a copy of the Journal of English and Germanic Philology to follow the telegram.
Emily rose from the typewriter. “There’s something the matter. Did the committee reject your monograph on Hager?”
“That monumental contribution to human knowledge? Oh, no. Nothing so important as that.”
“But you’re so upset—”
“The office wife!” Wolf snorted. “And pretty damned polyandrous at that, with the whole department on your hands. Go away.”
Emily’s dark little face lit up with a flame of righteous anger that removed any trace of plainness. “Don’t talk to me like that, Mr. Wolf. I’m simply trying to help you. And it isn’t the whole department. It’s—”
Professor Wolf picked up an inkwell, looked after the telegram and the Journal, then set the glass pot down again. “No. There are better ways of going to pieces. Sorrows drown easier than they smash. Get Herbrecht to take my two-o’clock, will you?”
“Where are you going?”
“To hell in sectors. So long.”
“Wait. Maybe I can help you. Remember when the dean jumped you for serving drinks to students? Maybe I can—”
Wolf stood in the doorway and extended one arm impressively, pointing with that curious index which was as long as the middle finger. “Madam, academically you are indispensable. You are the prop and stay of the existence of this department. But at the moment this department can go to hell, where it will doubtless continue to need your invaluable services.”
“But don’t you see—” Emily’s voice shook. “No. Of course not. You wouldn’t see. You’re just a man—no, not even a man. You’re just Professor Wolf. You’re Woof-woof.”
Wolf staggered. “I’m what?”
“Woof-woof. That’s what everybody calls you because your name’s Wolfe Wolf. All your students, everybody. But you wouldn’t notice a thing like that. Oh, no. Woof-woof, that’s what you are.”
“This,” said Wolfe Wolf, “is the crowning blow. My heart is breaking, my world is shattered, I’ve got to walk a mile from the campus to find a bar; but all this isn’t enough. I’ve got to be called Woof-woof. Goodbye!”
He turned, and in the doorway caromed into a vast and yielding bulk, which gave out with a noise that might have been either a greeting of “Wolf!” or more probably an inevitable grunt of “Oof!”
Wolf backed into the room and admitted Professor Fearing, paunch, pince-nez, cane and all. The older man waddled over to his desk, plumped himself down, and exhaled a long breath. “My dear boy,” he gasped. “Such impetuosity.”
“Sorry, Oscar.”
“Ah, youth—” Professor Fearing fumbled about for a handkerchief, found none, and proceeded to polish his pince-nez on his somewhat stringy necktie. “But why such haste to depart? And why is Emily crying?”
“Is she?”
“You see?” said Emily hopelessly, and muttered “Woof-woof” into her damp handkerchief.
“And why do copies of the JEGP fly about my head as I harmlessly cross the campus? Do we have teleportation on our hands?”
“Sorry,” Wolf repeated curtly. “Temper. Couldn’t stand that ridiculous argument of Glocke’s. Goodbye.”
“One moment.” Professor Fearing fished into one of his unnumbered handkerchiefless pockets and produced a sheet of yellow paper. “I believe this is yours?” Wolf snatched at it and quickly converted it into confetti.
Fearing chuckled. “How well I remember when Gloria was a student here! I was thinking of it only last night when I saw her in Moonbeams and Melody. How she did upset this whole department! Heavens, my boy, if I’d been a younger man myself—”
“I’m going. You’ll see about Herbrecht, Emily?”
Emily sniffed and nodded.
“Come, Wolfe.” Fearing’s voice had grown more serious. “I didn’t mean to plague you. But you mustn’t take these things too hard. There are better ways of finding consolation than in losing your temper or getting drunk.”
“Who said anything about—”
“Did you need to say it? No, my boy, if you were to— You’re not a religious man, are you?”
“Good God, no,” said Wolf contradictorily.
“If only you were If I might make a suggestion, Wolfe, why don’t you come over to the Temple tonight? We’re having very special services. They might take your mind off Glo— off your troubles.”
“Thanks, no. I’ve always meant to visit your Temple—I’ve heard the damnedest rumors about it—but not tonight. Some other time.”
“Tonight would be especially interesting.”
“Why? What’s so special
