“I’ll be all right,” the girl said.
“Sure you will. Here’s your room.”
The rooms had been parts of much larger rooms once. Now they were subdivided with green-painted partitions of some stuff like heavy cardboard. The old woman went into the girl’s place and turned on the light. “Bed’s here; dresser’s there,” she said. “Washstand in the corner, but you have to bring your water from the bathroom. No bugs—we fumigate twice a year. Clean sheets.”
The girl was feeling the edge of the door. Her fingers found a chain lock and she smiled.
“There’s a dead bolt too,” the scarred young man said.
The old woman said, “Your room’s next door. Come on.”
H
is room was much like the girl’s, save that the cardboard partition (it had been liberally scratched with obscene words and pictures) was on the left instead of the right. He found that he was acutely aware of her moving behind it, the tap of her stick as she established the positions of the bed, the dresser, the washstand. He locked his door and took off his soaked coat and hung it on a hook, then took off his shoes and stockings. He disliked the thought of walking on the gritty floor in his wet feet, but there was no alternative except the soggy shoes. With his legs folded under him he sat on the bed, then unhooked the communicator from his belt and pushed 555-333-4477, the ruler’s number.
“This is Westwind,” the scarred young man whispered.
The ruler’s face appeared in the screen, tiny and perfect. Again, as he had so often before, the young man felt that this was the ruler’s real size, this tiny, bright figure—he knew it was not true.
“This is Westwind and I’ve got a place to sleep tonight. I haven’t found another job yet, but I met a girl and think she likes me.”
“Exciting news,” the ruler said. He smiled.
The scarred young man smiled too, on his unscarred side. “It’s raining very hard here,” he said. “I think this girl is very loyal to you, sir. The rest of the people here—well, I don’t know. She told me about a man in the terminal who tried to molest her and another man who wanted to protect her. I was going to ask you to reward him and punish the other one, but I’m afraid they were the same man—that he wanted to meet her and this gave him the chance.”
“They are often the same man,” the ruler said. He paused as though lost in thought. “You are all right?”
“If I don’t find something tomorrow I won’t be able to afford to stay, but yes, I’m all right tonight.”
“You are very cheerful, Westwind. I love cheerfulness.”
The good side of the scarred young man’s face blushed. “It’s easy for me,” he said. “I’ve known all my life that I was your spy, your confidant—it’s like knowing where a treasure is hidden. Often I feel sorry for the others. I hope you’re not too severe with them.”
“I don’t want to aid you openly unless I must,” the ruler said. “But I’ll find ways that aren’t open. Don’t worry.” He winked.
“I know you will, sir.”
“Just don’t pawn your communicator.”
The image was gone, leaving only a blank screen. The young man turned out the light and continued to undress, taking off everything but his shorts. He was lying down on the bed when he heard a thump from the other side of the cardboard partition. The blind girl, feeling her way about the room, must have bumped into it. He was about to call, “Are you hurt?” when he saw that one of the panels, a section perhaps three feet by four, was teetering in its frame. He caught it as it fell and laid it on floor.
The light the old woman had turned on still burned in the girl’s room and he saw that she had hung up her coat and wrapped her hair in a strip of paper towels from the washstand. While he watched she removed her black glasses, set them on the bureau, and rubbed the bridge of her nose. One of her eyes showed only white; the iris of the other was the poisoned blue color of watered milk and turned in and down. Her face was lovely. While he watched she unbuttoned her blouse and hung it up. Then she unhooked her communicator from her belt, ran her fingers over the buttons once, and, without looking, pressed a number.
“This is Westwind,” she said.
He could not hear the voice that answered her, but the face in the screen, small and bright, was the face of the ruler. “I’m all right,” she said. “At first I didn’t think I was going to be able to find a place to stay tonight, but I have. And I’ve met someone.”
The scarred young man lifted the panel back into place as gently as he could and lay down again upon his bed. When he heard the rattle of her cane again he tapped the partition and called, “Breakfast tomorrow. Don’t forget.”
“I won’t. Good night.”
“Good night,” he said.
In the room below them the old woman was patting her straggling hair into place with one hand while she punched a number with the other. “Hello,” she said, “this is Westwind. I saw you tonight.”
AFTERWORD
It was not until I prepared to write this author’s note that I realized that long before I wrote this story the great G. K. Chesterton had written an entire book in which all the members of a gang of revolutionaries, save its head and one other, were spies for assorted police agencies and government bureaus.
Its head was God.
The book is
THE HERO AS WERWOLF
