The Compleat Werewolf

by Anthony Boucher

  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. Listen to that dope! “The dog should come into the room, give one paw to the baby, indicate that he recognizes the hero in his Eskimo disguise, go over to the table, find the bone, and clap his paws gleefully!’ Now, who’s got a set of signals to cover stuff like that? Pluto!” he snorted.

  Gloria Garton said, “Oh.” By that one sound she managed to convey that she sympathized deeply, that the trainer was a nice-looking young man whom she’d just as soon see again, and that no dog star was going to steal Fangs of the Forest from her. She adjusted her skirt slightly, leaned back, and made the plain wooden chair on the bare theater stage seem more than ever like a throne.

  “All right.” The man in the violet beret waved away the last unsuccessful applicant and read from a card: “‘Dog: Wopsy. Owner: Mrs. Channing Galbraith. Trainer: Luther Newby.’ Bring it in.”

  An assistant scurried offstage, and there was a sound of whines and whimpers as a door opened.

  “What’s got into those dogs today?” the man in the violet beret demanded. “They all seem scared to death and beyond.”

  “I think,” said Fergus O’Breen, “that it’s that big, gray wolf dog. Somehow, the others just don’t like him.”

  Gloria Garton lowered her bepurpled lids and cast a queenly stare of suspicion on the young detective. There was nothing wrong with his being there. His sister was head of publicity for Metropolis, and he’d handled several confidential cases for the studio; even one for her, that time her chauffeur had decided to try his hand at blackmail. Fergus O’Breen was a Metropolis fixture; but still it bothered her.

  The assistant brought in Mrs. Galbraith’s Wopsy. The man in the violet beret took one look and screamed. The scream bounced back from every wall of the theater in the ensuing minute of silence. At last he found words. “A wolf dog! Tookah is the greatest role ever written for a wolf dog! And what do they bring us? A terrier, yet! So if we wanted a terrier we could cast Asta!”

  “But if you’d only let us show you—” Wopsy’s tall young trainer started to protest.

  “Get out!” the man in the violet beret shrieked. “Get out before I lose my temper!”

  Wopsy and her trainer slunk off.

  “In El Paso,” the casting director lamented, “they bring me a Mexican hairless. In St. Louis it’s a Pekinese yet! And if I do find a wolf dog, it sits in a corner and waits for somebody to bring it a sled to pull.”

  “Maybe,” said Fergus, “you should try a real wolf.”

  “Wolf, schmolf! We’ll end up wrapping John Barrymore in a wolfskin.” He picked up th
e next card. “‘Dog: Yoggoth. Owner and trainer: Mr. O. Z. Manders.’ Bring it in.”

  The whining noise offstage ceased as Yoggoth was brought out to be tested. The man in the violet beret hardly glanced at the fringe-bearded owner and trainer. He had eyes only for that splendid gray wolf. “If you can only act …” he prayed, with the same fervor with which many a man has thought, If you could only cook …

  He pulled the beret to an even more unlikely angle and snapped, “All right, Mr. Manders. The dog should come into the room, give one paw to the baby, indicate that he recognizes the hero in his Eskimo disguise, go over to the table, find the bone, and clap his paws joyfully. Baby here, hero here, table here. Got that?”

  Mr. Manders looked at his wolf dog and repeated, “Got that?”

  Yoggoth wagged his tail.

  “Very well, colleague,” said Mr. Manders. “Do it.”

  Yoggoth did it.

  The violet beret sailed into the flies, on the wings of its owner’s triumphal scream of joy. “He did it!” he kept burbling. “He did it!”

  “Of course, colleague,” said Mr. Manders calmly.

  The trainer who hated Pluto had a face as blank as a vampire’s mirror. Fergus O’Breen was speechless with wonderment. Even Gloria Garton permitted surprise and interest to cross her regal mask.

  “You mean he can do anything?” gurgled the man who used to have a violet beret.

  “Anything,” said Mr. Manders.

  “Can he— Let’s see, in the dance-hall sequence … can he knock a man down, roll him over, and frisk his back pocket?”

  Even before Mr. Manders could say “Of course,” Yoggoth had demonstrated, using Fergus O’Breen as a convenient dummy.

  “Peace!” the casting director sighed. “Peace. … Charley!” he yelled to his assistant. “Send ’em all away. No more tryouts. We’ve found Tookah! It’s wonderful.”

  The trainer stepped up to Mr. Manders. “It’s more than that, sir. It’s positively superhuman. I’ll swear I couldn’t detect the slightest signal, and for such complicated operations, too. Tell me, Mr. Manders, what system do you use?”

  Mr. Manders made a Hoople-ish kaff-kaff noise. “Professional secret, you understand, young man. I’m planning on opening a school when I retire, but obviously until then—”

  “Of course, sir. I understand. But I’ve never seen anything like it in all my born days.”

  “I wonder,” Fergus O’Breen observed abstractly from the floor, “if your marvel dog can get off of people, too?”

  Mr. Manders stifled a grin. “Of course! Yoggoth!”

  Fergus picked himself up and dusted from his clothes the grime of the stage, which is the most clinging grime on earth. “I’d swear,” he muttered, “that beast of yours enjoyed that.”

  “No hard feelings, I trust, Mr.—”

  “O’Breen. None at all. In fact, I’d suggest a little celebration in honor of this great event. I know you can’t buy a drink this near the campus, so I brought along a bottle just in case.”

  “Oh,” said Gloria Garton, implying that carousals were ordinarily beneath her; that this, however, was a special occasion; and that possibly there was something to be said for the green-eyed detective after all.

  This was all too easy, Wolfe Wolf-Yoggoth kept thinking. There was a catch to it somewhere. This was certainly the ideal solution to the problem of how to earn money as a werewolf. Bring an understanding of human speech and instructions into a fine animal body, and you are the answer to a director’s prayer. It was perfect as long as it lasted; and if Fangs of the Forest was a smash hit, there were bound to be other Yoggoth pictures. Look at Rin-Tin-Tin. But it was too easy …

  His ears caught a familiar “Oh,” and his attention reverted to Gloria. This “Oh” had meant that she really shouldn’t have another drink, but since liquor didn’t affect her anyway and this was a special occasion, she might as well.

  She was even more beautiful than he had remembered. Her golden hair was shoulder-length now, and flowed with such rippling perfection that it was all he could do to keep from reaching out a paw to it. Her body had ripened, too; was even more warm and promising than his memories of her. And in his new shape he found her greatest charm in something he had not been able to appreciate fully as a human being: the deep, heady scent of her flesh.

  “To Fangs of the Forest!” Fergus O’Breen was toasting. “And may that pretty-boy hero of yours get a worse mauling than I did.”

  Wolf-Yoggoth grinned to himself. That had been fun. That’d teach the detective to go crawling around hotel rooms.

  “And while we’re celebrating, colleagues,” said Ozymandias the Great, “why should we neglect our star? Here, Yoggoth.” And he held out the bottle.

  “He drinks, yet!” the casting director exclaimed delightedly.

  “Sure. He was weaned on it.”

  Wolf took a sizable gulp. It felt good. Warm and rich—almost the way Gloria smelled.

  “But how about you, Mr. Manders?” the detective insisted for the fifth time. “It’s your celebration really. The poor beast won’t get the four-figure checks from Metropolis. And you’ve taken only one drink.”

  “Never take two, colleague. I know my danger point. Two drinks in me and things start happening.”

  “More should happen yet. than training miracle dogs? Go on, O’Breen. Make him drink. We should see what happens.”

  Fergus took another long drink himself. “Go on. There’s another bottle in the car, and I’ve gone far enough to be resolved not to leave here sober. And I don’t want sober companions, either.” His green eyes were already beginning to glow with a new wildness.

  “No, thank you, colleague.”

  Gloria Garton left her throne, walked over to the plump man, and stood close, her soft hand resting on his arm. “Oh,” she said, implying that dogs were dogs, but still that the party was unquestionably in her honor and his refusal to drink was a personal insult.

  Ozymandias the Great looked at Gloria, sighed, shrugged, resigned himself to fate, and drank.

  “Have you trained many dogs?” the casting director asked.

  “Sorry, colleague. This is my first.”

  “All the more wonderful! But what’s your profession otherwise?”

  “Well, you see, I’m a magician.”

  “Oh,” said Gloria Garton, implying delight, and went so far as to add, “I have a friend who does black magic.”

  “I’m afraid, ma’am, mine’s simply white. That’s tricky enough. With the black you’re in for some real dangers.”

  “Hold on!” Fergus interposed. “You mean really a magician? Not just presti … sleight of hand?”

  “Of course, colleague.”

  “Good theater,” said the casting director. “Never let ’em see the mirrors.”

  “Uh-huh,” Fergus nodded. “But look, Mr. Manders. What can you do, for instance?”

  “Well, I can change—”

  Yoggoth barked loudly.

  “Oh, no,” Ozymandias covered hastily, “that’s really a little beyond me. But I can—”

  “Can you do the Indian rope trick?” Gloria asked languidly. “My friend says that’s terribly hard.”

  “Hard? Why, ma’am, there’s nothing to it. I can remember that time in Darjeeling—”

  Fergus took another long drink. “I,” he announced defiantly, “want to see the Indian rope trick. I have met people who’ve met people who’ve met people who’ve seen it, but that’s as close as I ever get. And I don’t believe it.”

  “But, colleague, it’s so simple.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  Ozymandias the Great drew himself up to his full lack of height. “Colleague, you are about to see it!” Yoggoth tugged warningly at his coattails. “Leave me alone, Wolf. An aspersion has been cast!”

  Fergus returned from the wings dragging a soiled length of rope. “This do?”

  “Admirably.”

  “What goes?” the casting director
demanded.

  “Shh!” said Gloria. “Oh—”

  She beamed worshipfully on Ozymandias, whose chest swelled to the point of threatening the security of his buttons. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he announced, in the manner of one prepared to fill a vast amphitheater with his voice. “You are about to behold Ozymandias the Great in—The Indian Rope Trick! Of course,” he added conversationally, “I haven’t got a small boy to chop into mincemeat, unless perhaps one of you— No? Well, we’ll try it without. Not quite so impressive, though. And will you stop yapping, Wolf?”

  “I thought his name was Yogi,” said Fergus.

  “Yoggoth. But since he’s part wolf on his mother’s side—Now, quiet, all of you!”

  He had been coiling the rope as he spoke. Now he placed the coil in the center of the stage, where it lurked like a threatening rattler. He stood beside it and deftly, professionally, went through a series of passes and mumblings so rapidly that even the superhumanly sharp eyes and ears of Wolf-Yoggoth could not follow them.

  The end of the rope detached itself from the coil, reared in the air, turned for a moment like a head uncertain where to strike, then shot straight up until all the rope was uncoiled. The lower end rested a good inch above the stage.

  Gloria gasped. The casting director drank hurriedly. Fergus, for some reason, stared curiously at the wolf.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen—oh, hang it, I do wish I had a boy to carve—Ozymandias the Great will ascend this rope into that land which only the users of the rope may know. Onward and upward! Be right back,” he added reassuringly to Wolf.

  His plump hands grasped the rope above his head and gave a little jerk. His knees swung up and clasped about the hempen pillar. And up he went, like a monkey on a stick, up and up and up—until suddenly he was gone.

  Just gone. That was all there was to it. Gloria was beyond even saying “Oh.” The casting director sat his beautiful flannels down on the filthy floor and gaped. Fergus swore softly and melodiously. And Wolf felt a premonitory prickling in his spine.