by Simon Hawke
The Hotel Metropole on Northumberland Avenue was one of London's newer and more luxurious establishments. The soldiers of the Temporal Corps were gathered in the suite occupied by "Prof." Finn Delaney and his colleague, "Dr." Steiger, under their cover as visiting academic researchers from the States. Their "secretary," Miss Andre Cross, occupied an adjoining suite, since an unmarried woman sharing rooms with two single men would have been considered a highly improper arrangement in this time period. The adjoining suites had become a temporal command post and the frequent comings and goings by the Temporal Corps soldiers stationed at various points in the city were structured to maintain the fiction of an ongoing research project funded by an American foundation, ostensibly the writing of a series of textbooks concerning the social history of England.
Members of the cleaning and maintenance staf had brought in several writing tables and they regularly found the suites cluttered with piles of books and papers which they had been specifically instructed not to disturb. The "student assistants" and "copyists" who supported the research made a point of frequenting several of the local pubs, where they could he observed in animated discussion over pints of bitters, engrossed in arguments about the history of the city and its people. Often, other patrons of the pub would be consulted for their "local expertise" and the word was that these young researchers and their professors were not bad sorts, for Americans; they were polite and enthusiastic about their subject, attentive listeners, full of questions.
No one suspected that these eager young academicians were anything other than
what they seemed. In fact, the live young men and two young women were all
soldiers from the 27th century, trained by the Temporal Observer Corps and programmed through their cerebral implants with more information about Victorian England than the average citizen could ever hope to possess. They each maintained two separate cover identities, one as members of an academic research team from America and another as British subjects. It was a complicated temporal stakeout which had taken months to set up, but for soldiers of the Temporal Corps, time was a flexible commodity.
Pvt. Scott Neilson had secured a position as a laboratory assistant at the Metropolitan Police crime lab in New Scotland Yard. Cpl. Thomas Davis had found work with The Daily Telegraph as a reporter. Pvt. Richard Larson had obtained employment with The Police Gazette. Pvt. Paul Ransome was a clerk with the Bank of England. Sgt. Anthony Rizzo was at the Public Record Office in Chancery Lane. Sgt. Christine Brant had found a job as a barmaid at the Cafe Royal. a hotbed of society gossip, and Pvt. Linda Craven was employed at the Haymarket Theatre, where she was an assistant to the wardrobe mistress and in excellent position to monitor the theatre district. They were temporal agents on the trail of a cross-time terrorist, a man named Nikolai Drakov.
"The interview of H. G. Wells did not produce any leads to the whereabouts of Drakov," Steiger was saying as he paced slowly in the sitting room of the suite. The support team was seated all around him, listening attentively. "I am of the opinion that maintaining contact with Wells is too risky. Captain Delaney does not agree. Lieutenant Crass is inclined to support Captain Delaney, but she is in favor of only the most limited contact for the present. Before we go any further with this briefing, I want to hear some feedback on that question. Opinions?"
"Is there any reason why we can't use our cover to legitimize further contact with Wells?" said Corporal Davis. "Since he's currently engaged in writing newspaper articles about everyday aspects of British life, wouldn't that support our consulting him in that capacity, as if we were asking him to help in our research?"
"No, that's definitely out," said Delaney. "Talking to people in pubs is one thing, but consulting Wells in that capacity would involve creating an episode in his life that never happened. We couldn't risk having him be involved in an academic project that never existed. We're supposed to be writing textbooks, remember? If he was to mention it in his own writings at any point, it would create the problem of having to alter any historical records he might leave. A bigger problem is that it might also affect the direction his own writing may take, since he did write historical works, and that would involve a risk of temporal contamination. Besides, he's completely dependent on his writing for his survival at this point and
he's not going to be eager to have people pestering him for help in some sort of
nebulous research project. —
"I agree•" said Sergeant Brant. She glanced at Davis and shook her head. "I don't think we can take the risk of getting close to Wells ourselves. The more contact we have with him, the more chance there is of our influencing him in some way. I'm in favor of covert surveillance. If Drakov contacts him, that may change everything, but why take unnecessary chances? We still haven't found any evidence of his presence here."
"I'm not so sure of that” said Private Neilson. "I was going to wait with this, but I think it may be important. Something unusual came up this morning at the crime lab. Late last night, a policeman was murdered at Whitechapel Station. His throat was torn open and his face was ripped to shreds. No one saw anything, but the man in charge of the case. Chief Inspector William Grayson. has issued specific orders to keep it quiet. And he's also brought in Dr. Conan Doyle to assist in the investigation in an unofficial capacity.”
"Arthur Conan Doyle?" said Delaney.
"Yes, the same man who wrote the Sherlock Holmes stories." said Neilson, nodding. "He's very sharp. He examined the body and concluded that the wounds on the face were inflicted by a clawed hand, with four fingers and an opposed thumb, and that the wounds on the throat were probably made by animal teeth. He also checked the fingernails of the deceased and found several small hairs, which he examined under a microscope. He said the hair apparently came from a wolf. I couldn't confirm that, because Doyle took the samples with him for further study, but I was able to examine the body. There was a significant loss of blood, which could be accounted for by the severed jugular, but there were also traces of human saliva around the wound. I couldn't find any more hair samples, but I managed to obtain some skin scrapings from under the deceased's fingernails. There's a limit to what I can do given the primitive equipment at the crime lab, so I brought the samples with me. I'll admit it's a long shot, sir, but I think there's a chance we may be looking at some custom-tailored DNA here. I'd like permission to clock back to base and see if there are any lupine chromosomes in this sample.”
"Wait a minute." said Steiger, “lupine chromosomes? Are you telling me you think this policeman was killed by a werewolf?"
"Well, you did say not to overlook any possibilities, sir, no matter how farfetched or remote,— said Neilson. "Since we know Drakov's been creating humanoid lifeforms through genetic engineering, I considered the various possibilities. Conan Doyle could be wrong, in which case we've got
somebody running around in the East End who apparently likes to drink human
blood and needs one hell of a manicure. Or else Doyle is right and those hairs he found were wolf hairs, in which case it could he that we've got a psycho with a blood fetish who's also got a trained wolf. Or maybe he puts sonic sort of metal claw tips on the ends of his lingers and wears a mask made out of real wolf hair, to make people think he's a werewolf. Or . . . he's really a werewolf. Chromosome mapping of the skin scrapings should tell us if we're dealing with a normal human or one that's been genetically designed."
Private Larson glanced from Neilson to Steiger. "A werewolf? Jesus, Fleet Street would have a field day with that. Especially after the Whitechapel murders."
"That was six years ago," said Corporal Davis, who was assigned to The Daily Telegraph. "There weren't any newspaper records of killings in London at this
time that would lit that sort of pattern. Either it was completely hushed up or we've got a possible temporal anomaly on our hands."
"I think this may be the break we've been looking for, sir.— said Neilson. "We know Drakov had Moreau design hominoids patterned after
characters out of mythology, such as those creatures you encountered on your last mission. Well. why not a werewolf?"
"It's wild, but it sounds like just the sort of thing he might do," Delaney said, glancing at Steiger. "I say we check it out. It shouldn't take long."
"Do it,'• Steiger said to Neilson. "Set your warp disc for a thirty-second clot:Muck. I want that chromosome analysis now."
"Yes, sir," said Neilson. He programmed his warp disc and disappeared, clocking ahead to TAC headquarters in the 27th century.
He reappeared exactly thirty seconds later, looking tired and needing a shave. He looked slightly ill. Temporal transition often produced nausea and dizziness and some soldiers never became accustomed to it.
Well?" said Steiger.
"There's no doubt about it, sir," said Neilson, for whom hours had passed. "I've been up all night, going over the results. I had them run the samples three times to verify the results. They came out the same each time. The chromosome maps of the samples show definite hybridization with lupine genetic material. probably virally fixated. It's got our genetics people tremendously excited. They say
it's extremely sophisticated engineering, very trick. They're guessing that there's a
hormonal trigger, which would make the change cyclical. Most of the time, the infected person probably looks completely normal, but once the hormonal cycle triggers expression of the lupine genes. a definite physical change would occur. It looks like we've got a real live werewolf on our hands, sir."
Damn," said Steiger. "We've hit pay dirt. Good work. Neilson. You've
earned some rest. Go next door and get some sleep."
Neilson grimaced wryly. "Are you kidding? Who could think of sleeping at a time like this?"
"I want you to get some rest," said Steiger. "I'm going to need everybody at a hundred percent from now on. We can't afford any mistakes. A genetically engineered werewolf is bad enough. Conan Doyle's involvement raises the stakes. This could get real tricky."
"What about Wells?" said Delaney. "All things considered, we'd better keep tabs on him, too."
"Right," said Steiger. "It's not a wild goose chase anymore. Neilson, you follow Conan Doyle's involvement in the case down at the police lab. Keep me informed of Inspector Grayson's progress. I want to he notified the minute any similar killings occur. Rizzo, I want a report from the Public Record Office on all recent real estate leasehold transactions within the last six months. Ransoms, ditto with recent depositors at the Bank of England, anyone who opened accounts containing significantly large sums. Drakov likes to high roll. If he's here, you can be sure he's got a pile of money with him. I want those two lists compared as soon as possible. Brant, you're assigned to H. G. Wells. I want him under twenty-four- hour surveillance as of now. Private Craven will relieve you. You'll work in shifts. Quit your cover jobs, I'll want you completely mobile from now on. Andre, you take Conan Doyle when he's not down at the police lab. Be careful, we know he's highly observant, so don't get spotted. Finn. you relieve Andre. Davis and Larson, I want you two to continue covering Fleet Street. You know what to look for. If any of this breaks, try to get assigned to the stories. I want to be kept up to date on anything the newspapers get a hold of, before they get the information."
"Sir, if the story does break in the papers." said Davis, "we'll be expected to write something. How do you want us to handle the coverage?"
"Keep it reasonably straight," said Steiger. "Above all else, I want to avoid any sensational coverage that comes too close to the truth. Cooperate with the police. They'll appreciate reporters working with them for a change. That should give you an inside track. I don't want anybody writing stories about werewolves.
Play the other reporters off against each other. Do whatever you can to keep a lid on this."
"Yes. sir."
"All right. Drakov is here. probably somewhere in London. I want him nailed this time. The command post will he manned around the clock. I want that creature found and neutralized. but Drakov is the first priority. If you find the creature, don't kill it unless you absolutely have to. It could lead us to Drakov."
Neilson cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, sir, but with all due respect. I think we'd better concentrate on taking out the creature first. As soon as possible." I understand your concern. Neilson." said Steiger. "but Drakov has to be stopped and we're not going to be getting any reinforcements. Considering the crisis, we were lucky to get you people. We can try to minimize the loss of life, but there's no avoiding the fact that we're going to have casualties."
"I don't think you understood me, sir." said Neilson. "I'm sorry. I'm a little tired; I guess I didn't make it clear. Loss of life is not the only problem. There was just enough of the viral genome left in the lupine hybrid to render it infectious. This creature is contagious. sir. If any of its victims should happen to survive, there's a good chance they'll come down with a serious case of lycanthropy .'•
Steiger stared at him. "Infectious DNA?"
Delaney gave a low whistle, "Trust Drakov to come up with a real nightmare. Anybody know where we can get a good supply of silver bullets?"
"Why do you even bother to ask me for my opinion'?" said Ian Holcombe, the Yard's chief of forensics. "Why not simply trot down to Baker Street and ask Mr. Sherlock Holmes? He'll look at the soil markings on the dead girl's petticoats and tell you in which cow pasture she had her last assignation. He'll smell her handkerchief and trace down her lover through the chemist's where he bought her perfume. And then he'll examine the callosities on the lover's hands and prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the blackguard strangled her and there you'll have your case solved, neat as a pin. What do you need with me?"
"Steady on, Holcombe." Grayson said wearily. "I merely asked Dr. Doyle for his opinion on the case. Don't get your back up. I should think you'd be glad for the help. It's not as if you lack for things to do."
"Wolf hairs, indeed!" said Holcombe. "Wolves in London! Next I expect he'll he telling us that Westminster Abbey is infested with vampire hats!"
"Ian, just tell me what caused this young woman's death and I'll cease
troubling you." said Grayson. "I've had a long night and I am very tired. I haven't
even had an opportunity to cat breakfast this morning."
"Well, I beg your pardon," Holcombe said with exaggerated courtesy, snorting through his thick moustache. "You're not the only one who's overworked, you know. My assistant hasn't shown up yet and I'm trying to do twenty things at once. Tell me, do you think you could manage to bring me a corpse that expired in some ordinary manner, shot or stabbed or hacked to pieces with an axe, perhaps? Why do
you insist on finding people who have been torn to pieces by wild animals or drained of all their blood?"
"Holcombe, what in Heaven's name are you talking about?" said Grayson.
"This girl," said Holcombe. gesturing at the sheet-shrouded body on the table. "She died from shock brought about by a profound loss of blood. Insult to the system, you know. It's astonishing that she had the strength to move about at all."
"What caused it?" Grayson said.
"Undoubtedly, she was bled by Sweeny Todd, the demon barber of Fleet Street." Holcombe said sarcastically. "Perhaps it happened when she went in for her shave. Or some Styrian countess gave her a love bite. how should I know? Why not call Le Fanu and ask him? Better yet, call Robert Louis Stevenson. Maybe Mr. Hyde was in need of a transfusion."
"Ian. please . . .." said Grayson, shutting his eyes.
"Well, look for yourself ,” said Holcombe, throwing back the sheet. "All I could find were those two marks on her throat there. See? It's obvious. Varney the Vampire has claimed another victim. Call Thomas Prest, he wrote the book, ask him what old Varney has been up to lately. Scribblers of penny dreadfuls in the crime lab! I've never heard of such a thing! This isn't Scotland Yard anymore, it's a bloody literary society. Ah. Neilson, there you are! Where the devil have you been? You look as if you have been up all night
. Do you think I could manage to distract you from your carousing long enough to get some work done?"
"I'm sorry. Dr. Holcombe," said Neilson, putting on his apron. "I'm afraid I overslept this morning. I—"
"I don't wish to hear any excuses. I'd simply be tremendously flattered if you managed to show up on time. This place is a veritable madhouse. People coming and going, why already this morning you have missed Miss Mary Shelley. She was here with Inspector Grayson, looking for the odd spare part or two."
"Ian, is it even remotely possible that I might get a straight answer from you this morning?" Grayson said, exasperated.
"I don't know how she managed to lose such a great deal of blood," said Holcombe. "There. are you satisfied? I've proven my ineptitude. Perhaps she was a hemophile. Perhaps young Neilson did it, he was obviously out all night, stalking unwary actresses. Open your mouth. Neilson, let's see your teeth."
"Sir?" said Neilson. frowning.
