The 14th Pan Book of Horror Stories

PATENT NUMBER Gerald Atkins

Somewhere, deep within the subsistent dimensions of animal space, lived Eddie Richardson. He was surrounded by countless millions of his own species and, yet, he was terribly alone. So alone, in fact, that he had not spoken to a single individual for the past three years. Ever since the accident that had robbed him of his identity, his personality and most of his physical being.

Eddie Richardson was human, yes, but he was also a monster created by science. The doctors had saved his life. They had given him legs of aluminium, hands moulded in green plastic, a body riddled with electrical circuits, resistors, capacitors, transistors. They had given him life. His scarred face had been restored beneath countless layers of skin grafts. His mind was constantly alert, as he tried in desperation to control his cumbersome form. He was human and, yet, he was only a machine. A living, breathing, eating, sleeping machine.

He could not run, dance, smoke or drink. He was incapable of clear speech. He could never again know the feeling of physical love or the joy of spiritual love.

Every month he had to return to the hospital so that they could stare into his plastic stomach, prod his transplanted heart and plug him into a computer to see that he was working correctly. They would oil his joints and polish his bodywork. He was human. They told him that as they soldered on some replacement transistors. They told him how much better he was looking as they pushed even more alkathene tubing into his tortured respiratory system. They told him how very lucky he was to be able to live. Live! Was this living? Or was it merely a latent death? He was human and, yet, he was not. He was a bloody machine and not a very good one at that. ‘Are you Frankenstein’s monster?’ had asked the little girl at the clinic. He had not answered verbally. He just nodded his hinged cranium and forced a weak smile across his synthetic lips.

Three days ago, Eddie Richardson died. No one knew why he had died. Electrical failure? A blown fuse? It really didn’t matter. He had donated his few remaining organs for medical research and the rest of him was buried in Windmarsh Cemetery. On the tombstone was ironically written:

‘Here lies Edward James Richardson . . . Rust In Peace . . .’

STRANGE ROOTS David Case

Anton Plotnikov was interested in werewolves.

He had been born of peasant stock in the Balkans, which undoubtedly stimulated this interest, but he had become a psychologist and therefore his interest took a scientific and rational turn, although traces of the ancient superstitions still lurked somewhere in his most primitive cells. Mainly, however, he sought scientific truth. Anton had left his unfortunate homeland after the last war and emigrated to England; took a well-paid job in research and married a passionate girl named Beta. They were reasonably happy. He bought, in due course, a fine house in the country and, with company funds, installed a small but efficient laboratory in the basement. It was understood that this laboratory would be used for the company’s profit, of course, but since Anton was a valuable and brilliant scientist he was allowed a measure of freedom. This suited Anton very well, for he was a man who saw that research must not be limited, and in his spare time (and a great deal of the company’s time, if truth be told) he began a comprehensive study of lycanthropy. This did not seem dishonest to Anton. His well-paid work involved investigation into the effects of chemical and glandular imbalance in mental disorders and Anton was convinced that the phenomenon of the werewolf was based on just that that there were scientific and medical grounds behind the legend. From time to time he reported on his work, being careful not to use the word werewolf but to mention only the chemical-psychological aspects in learned but vague terms. Since he was far more intelligent than the company men who read his reports, this worked out well enough. His work progressed. He began to spend more and more time in the laboratory and his wife, who was truly passionate, began to take a series of lovers. This suited her splendidly. Anton worked on a labour of love, Beta loved laboriously and even the company, due to recent research, prospered.

There followed a series of important breakthroughs in the study of how bodily chemistry affects the behaviour of mankind. Gradually old prejudices broke down. Freud turned over ponderously in his grave. The psychoanalysts tore their hair out by the roots and moaned that Armageddon was come. Psychiatrists carried banners of protest through the streets. Shaggy students cheerfully joined the march, passionately defending the creaking knowledge that they were creatures driven by the traumas of adolescence, warped by society, inexorably motivated by events of the past. Because they had seen their mothers naked when they were three, they threw rocks at the police. Because the police had all dreamed of being marched upon by immoral women wearing boots, they arrested the students. Because the judge had once placed his penis in his sister’s shoe, he fined them heavily. But through it all the research progressed. It became documented and understood that all forms of mental malfunction, save the minor fetishes, were caused by chemical imbalance. The students, no fools these, began to be converted, to throw stones at psychiatrists and plead in court that they were not guilty because their hormone secretions had ruled their behaviour. The judges took a tolerant view except when they had hangovers. Truth was beginning to conquer. But it was a long and difficult struggle. In the United States the psychiatrists lobbied in Congress, pressing for laws against this blasphemous research and finding direct relationships between glandular secretions and marihuana. The Congressmen seldom smoked marihuana but were well aware of the sluggish chemistry of their bodies and the lobby was defeated. But only in America did the people actually believe in psychiatry and analysis, for there it had become a social thing, a status symbol. Once analysis was proven about as valid as astrology it became even more snobbish. After all, what could be more pretentious than squandering money on a myth? The analysts found a new prosperity for a time, until reverse snobbery followed and the wealthy types began to consult with their dustmen. They called them garbage collectors. The dustmen called themselves sanitary engineers, and were quite ready to lower their trash cans and take the woes of the world unto themselves. For, after all, what is it but garbage? So the dustmen became honoured and the analysts became a luxury of the middle-class. But that was America, where such things happen. The rest of the world had never believed in psychiatry anyway, and could not afford it.

Through it all, Anton Plotnikov worked on.

He was a physiological psychologist and understood that the functions of the mind were inseparable from those of the body. He had no desire to get wealthy clients on a couch. But eventually his work reached an impasse. He had gathered all possible data, his theories were formed, and it became necessary to advance along different lines—to observe rather than theorize, to experiment rather than gather information. For this experimentation he needed money. He needed supplies. Specifically, he needed a wolf . . .

Or rather, he required the secretions from the glands and blood of wolves. He put in a request to the company. He had not produced anything of value for some time and the company demanded further details. Anton supplied them. The company could see no possible profit motive in this line of research and turned his request down. Anton was annoyed and unhappy. He brooded. Eventually, unknown to the company and against their principles, he applied for a government grant. Complicated forms were sent to him by the appropriate agencies. He was asked to outline his work and did so. The government agencies requested further details and results and assured him his application was being considered. It was filed and forgotten. Anton waited impatiently. He continued to work as best he could and submitted, from time to time, further reports. Nothing happened. Finally Anton decided he could wait no longer. He took his own savings and determined to carry on unaided. He contacted a team of Canadian ecologists and arranged to receive the necessary secretions from wolves. They were willing to help. Their work involved knocking canis lupus out with tranquillizer pellets and clamping bands on the creatures’ ears and it was not difficult to take samples of blood and hormone secretions in the process. Anton met a sinister fellow named Chowder who agreed to kidnap dogs for him. This was expensive, since he felt it necessary to use the oldest breeds of dog such as greyhounds and Afghans. But, once decided, Anton gritted his teeth and paid out his hard-earned money and in due course found his laboratory stocked with caged canines. The samples arrived from Canada. He was ready to continue his work. He spent more and more time in his laboratory. The company sent him curt reminders that his work was falling behind and Beta, extremely displeased to find their savings gone, took more lovers. Anton noticed nothing, concentrating on his work. Or chose to ignore it, it was all the same to his wife. And still, from time to time, Anton sent progress reports to the various government agencies and hoped and worked and worked . . .

Anton’s reports did not go entirely unnoticed. There was a bright lad named Smith in the government agency who took a certain interest and a definite amusement in the reports which trickled in. Smith had no Balkan ancestry, but was a devoted fan of Peter Cushing. He actually read the reports before filing them. Rather more improbably, he actually understood them. And, incredibly, he even took a few notes. These are a few examples:

Anton’s research, at first, proved negative.

He injected dog after dog with the various derivatives and serums he had created and found them unaffected. He was desolate. He could not see where he was blundering. But he pressed on. He could not use the same dog more than once, for that would destroy the experimental control, and was forced to employ Chowder once again. His funds sank to a new low. The dogs thrived with healthy (but normal) appetites. His wife thrived with healthy sexual appetites. Anton, who had always slumped, slumped more and found that his hair was rapidly departing. Chowder demanded more money. The company sent him an ultimatum which he tore up in a rare rage. He worked on doggedly with test tube and hypodermic, despairing but never quite losing hope. He was haggard and gaunt and, indeed, resembled a mad scientist in a bad film, holding a bubbling test tube up and regarding it with a red-rimmed eye; leering as he approached a dog with a dripping needle; talking to himself as he stirred and mixed his various brews.

And then, quite by accident, as often proves the case in scientific advance, a startling factor came to fight . . .

Anton had just received a new greyhound from Chowder and was leading it to a cage. His mind was preoccupied and he inadvertently passed close by one of the other occupied cages, containing a vague sort of terrier which had been injected several days before and shown no effects, ill or otherwise. As he led the greyhound past, the terrier suddenly thrust his muzzle through the bars and nipped the greyhound on the flank. The greyhound spun, snarling, but Anton managed to restrain it and haul it away from the aggressor. He examined the wound and found it superficial; cleansed it and applied a disinfectant and left the greyhound in a cage. He thought little of this, at the time. He was busily at work on a new serum. This serum would not be ready for a few days and, in the meanwhile, the greyhound was not injected. It stood behind its bars and regarded Anton with a solemn and baleful eye. Then it lay down and slept. Anton worked into the night until at last, exhausted, he left the laboratory and went to bed. Beta was already asleep, smiling in her dreams. Anton crawled in carefully, so as not to disturb her. This was not because he was solicitous for her slumber as much as selfish for his own. He was well aware that his wife had rather over-developed sexual urges and knew that, if she should awaken, she would undoubtedly demand servicing. Now, Anton loved his wife, no doubt of that, but his love was not inclined towards the physical. He loved scientifically or rationally and could not stand up to the rigours of sexual relations as frequently as Beta required them. Therefore, he slipped carefully in beside her and rested his weary head on the pillow. He thought he was too exhausted to sleep, but after a while he drifted off. He tossed restlessly as his tired muscles began to relax. And then he began to dream. His dreams, as his waking thoughts, invariably centred on lycanthropy. He stood in the land of Morpheus and listened to the howlings of tormented werewolves. He trembled in delight and fear. The howling grew louder, closer. He trembled more. His delight faded and his fear increased. It occurred to the sleeping scientist that the werewolves were hungry and that he was alone. It was a dark world of twisted barren trees and deep shadows and a full white moon. Anton ran through his dreams. He fled madly, with gnarled limbs snapping at his face and tangled roots gripping his ankles. He was panting and sweating. He could not run very fast. The howling was behind him, following him and drawing ever closer. He came to a shattered ridge surmounted by a solitary, mangled tree. It was an oak tree, hideously malformed. Anton decided he must climb that tree and seek sanctuary in the high branches while the werewolves raged below. He began to climb. The rough bark scraped his hands, his feet slipped seeking purchase, gravity hauled him back. He elevated himself by scant inches. The wolves were in full cry. Dark forms shot through the shadows, he saw the gleam of a yellow eye, a flash of fangs. He screamed and drew himself upwards, knowing he was too late, too slow.

And then the werewolves were upon him . . .

Anton cried out in the grip of fang and talon.

The wolves dragged him down from the tree. He rolled in the earth, screaming, as ravenous jaws tore him asunder and savage throats gulped down his flesh. He beat with feeble arms and drew his knees up to his chest, and wondered how long it would take him to die.

Then his wife said, ‘Wake up!’

Anton opened his eyes.

Anton stared, unbelievingly, at the metamorphosis.

Beta was leaning over him, shaking him.

Gradually the transformation registered in his mind. Fang and claw became well-manicured fingernails, fiendish haunches were well-turned soft flanks, hairy chests were exquisite mounds capped with delightful nipples, slavering jaws were ripe red lips. And blood lust was . . . well, just lust, he thought, with a groan.

‘Wake up,’ she demanded.

‘Not tonight, darling,’ Anton whimpered.

‘What?’

‘I’m really frightfully tired, dearest.’

Beta stared at him with a pretty frown and suddenly, shockingly, the howling came again, transcending the realm of nightmare to register in his waking mind. Anton’s eyes leaped wide, bewildered.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

Beta waited a moment, peering at him; ascertaining that he was fully awake now.

‘One of those damned brutes in the laboratory, obviously,’ she said. ‘What else? You’ll have to do something, Anton. I can’t sleep with that horrid howling.’

Anton sighed with relief.

‘Of course, dearest,’ he said, thankful that she had awakened him for something less than carnal needs. It was far easier to descend to the laboratory and administer a sedative than to ascend his wife and administer the orgastic tranquillizer. He got up and tied his dressing-gown around himself; slid his feet into well-worn slippers. He felt a chill as the perspiration of his nightmare evaporated. Beta curled up under the covers and Anton moved from the room. He was fully awake now. As he reached the top of the stairs, the howling sounded once again, and quite suddenly Anton felt another chill—a chill which had nothing to do with evaporation as it clambered up the segments of his spine.

He stood, gripping the banister, and looked down into the darkness below.

Once again the howling sounded.

It was not the howling of a dog.

Anton knew.

Anton had never heard that sound before, but somewhere deep in his primary cells he knew.

It was the cry of the wolf . . .

The savage cry faded away, seeping into the fabric of the house and running out into the night, but the fierce echo still reverberated in Anton’s heart. His scientist’s mind was able to baffle and channel the sound, directing it along the course of reason, but in his Balkan heart the drums of fear were beating. He stood very still. His hand gripped the railing. He was aware of a clock ticking in a recess down the hall and the slight creaking of the bed as his wife shifted her position. Then he began to tremble. This reaction was symptomatic of two emotions, far different and yet inextricably linked. There was the fear and there was also surging joy. He became a man divided, his sentience separated by the flat, calm plane of reason, dissected cleanly and sharply so that his two halves were linked only by the connecting chain between those two emotions, breaking through the calm surface of the rational division exactly as the chain of an anchor runs down from the ship to the dark anchor at the depths. Joy was the ship, riding above the deep, light and buoyant. Fear was the anchor, heavy and cold, slowly turning far below. The sails of the ship billowed and strained as joy sought to run gaily before the wind of success but that solid anchor restrained it on the groaning chain. And Anton was restrained as these antagonistic elements waged their tug of war within the corporal shell. He stood trembling for long moments. He was well aware of the conflict but could not join in, could not take sides in the struggle. He was an objective observer, no more, and his observation was hampered, the bathysphere of reason could not descend to the depths of the anchor. The pressures were too great, the cold too severe, the amorphous submarine creatures too formidable. No light was reflected at that depth. The clock ticked on, the bed was silent now. Anton told himself that he was about to realize the fruits of his labours, the truth of his theory, the verification of his predictions, and these thoughts sent the wind at gale force behind the anchored vessel. But then the cry sounded yet again, wild and piercing, and the anchor plummeted down. The chain, fully extended, creaked and strained. The anchor was rebounding, threatening to drag the ship beneath the surface and send Anton in mad thoughtless flight.

Then the chain snapped.

Fear settled slowly into the mire and Anton was free.

Anton went very calmly down to the laboratory . . .

He opened the door very slowly, just a crack, without fear now, but with great caution. It was dark inside. The door scraped slightly and the sounds of carnage increased for a moment, horrible growlings and violent snarls. Anton waited, holding the door firmly, until the noise subsided a bit and then slipped his hand in to fumble for the light switch. The flesh crawled up his forearm, he half expected powerful jaws to close on his hand and his fingers felt like icicles in the process of melting, the drips running back down his arm. Then he pressed the switch and bright, overhead lights burst on. There was an abrupt and profound silence in the sudden glare. The silence was somehow more menacing than the sounds, with the sinister and minatory implications of soundlessness—the silent stalk, the controlled savagery awaiting prey. Anton risked an eye around the corner of the door. Then he sighed with relief.

The cages were all intact.

He opened the door further and looked about the laboratory. The dogs were cringing, every aspect of their bearing implying terror, backed in the corner of their cages, tails curled between their legs, necks bristling, all facing towards the back of the room. Anton looked along the line of their fearful vision. There was one dog which was not cringing, and Anton cringed when he looked upon it.

It was the greyhound.

And it was terrible.

The brute, frozen in sudden illumination, stared back at him. It had been fixed in the instant of a snarl, lips drawn back in a rictus. It was hideous and it was, somehow, changed. Its coat was shaggier and coarser, its eyes were wild, its fangs yellow and dripping. It poised on coiled haunches. Anton felt shelves of horror slough down his back. And then the beast sprang. It crashed against the bars and fell back. The bars were stout. They shook but held. The brute sprang again. The cage quivered. Again it fell back, snarling now, and the other dogs began to whine and whimper pitifully. Anton went into the room and closed the door behind him and for a long time he stood there looking at the thing which was no longer quite a dog . . .

Anton was not thinking logically.

He thought only that he must somehow stop that terrible howling. He moved to the work bench and prepared a powerful sedative. His hands were remarkably calm. The beast continued to throw itself against the bars, slobbering with blood-lust. Anton did not dare approach the cage. He considered, thinking carefully, and finally fastened the hypodermic to the end of a measuring stick, the needle extending beyond the end. Then he advanced, holding this makeshift weapon like a spear. The hound howled in a frenzy as he drew near, obviously seeing Anton as raw meat. Froth flew in heavy shards from its jaws. Anton approached as near as he could and extended the stick. The dog ignored it, straining its terrible muzzle through the bars, attempting to reach Anton. The needle slipped into the brute’s shoulder and Anton pressed in, injecting the sedative, as the dog spun, snapping at the wound. The powerful jaws splintered the stick and the hypodermic hung for a moment from the shaggy shoulder. Then it dropped out as the beast renewed its attack on the bars. Its violence reached a new peak of fury before gradually subsiding. The drug took effect. The dog’s motions became uncertain, its legs splayed. Presently it sat down, curling in a circle; and laid its head on its forepaws. Those glowing yellow eyes began to close. And all the while, even as the lids came down, it looked with hatred and hunger at Anton.

It took great courage to open that cage.

The dog was unconscious, no doubt of that, but it took great courage nonetheless for a man of Balkan peasant ancestry to enter that cage. But he did it. It was necessary, he knew, to take samples of blood and glandular secretions, and his hands were still incredibly calm and quiet as he did so. Then he locked the cage again and took his samples back to the work bench. And only then did the fact—the startling fact—strike him. He stared at the test tubes and then he turned to stare at the dog. He realized that the greyhound had not been injected with any form of serum. For an instant he was stricken with regret, thinking that the creature had gone mad with rabies or some other canine disease and then he remembered that the dog had been bitten by the terrier. His mind very precisely followed the steps of scientific reasoning. The terrier had been injected with the serum but had not reacted as predicted. The terrier had bitten the greyhound. The greyhound had reacted exactly as predicted for the terrier. Then precise reasoning shattered and the truth struck him like an axe between the eyes.

He had discovered a chemical imbalance which was infectious.

Contagious madness . . .

And horror . . .

From that point, all further investigation fell in place exactly as Anton had predicted. He was delighted; saw himself unravelling the dark secrets through which his ancestors trembled in the Transylvanian nights. There had been a solitary oversight in his former work and, now that aleatory circumstances had bridged that gap his work followed a logical and evident trail. The aggressive whim of a dog had founded knowledge. Anton’s error was in overlooking the necessary intermediate state; in failing to see that the substance might need to mature in the living tissue of a host, combining with saliva and blood and hormones which acted as a catalyst and changed the substance from dormant to malignant. Now that problem was resolved, Anton knew, his work could continue quickly, results would be rapid, perhaps even financial aid would be forthcoming. He decided to submit a new report as soon as the next stage of investigation was completed.

In the morning, the greyhound was awake and placid. No traces of the madness were visible and the other dogs no longer regarded it with fear. Anton rubbed his hands together at this discovery, this proof that the disease waxed and ebbed in accordance with a cycle. It was predictable by inductive reasoning and explained the old legends of werewolves undergoing metamorphosis when the moon was full but, more important, it seemed to prove that his experiment was valid—that no unidentified virus had caused the madness but that it had been purely chemical. He continued with his work. He spent a great deal of time analysing the substances drawn from the greyhound and in due course discovered that it was the saliva which acted as the catalyst. He experimented with the saliva and found, further, that he was unable to create a serum which was effective in the initial injection stage—that it could only be transferred from one living organism to another in a blood-saliva-blood cycle. This complicated his work somewhat, in that he had to persuade the dogs to bite one another. But he managed. The laboratory became a bedlam, a howling house of horrors, as, from time to time, several dogs went mad simultaneously. Anton grew accustomed to it. His wife did not, but after a few days of objection seized upon the noise as an excellent excuse for spending nights away from home. Her love life prospered. And, unhindered by her protests, Anton’s work advanced. He placed two infected dogs in the same cage and waited for the madness to come upon them. However, the smaller dog went mad first and tore the larger asunder. In a very short time only a few scraps of hide, shattered bones and evil, dark stains remained to testify to the larger beast’s existence. Anton saw that the cycle was affected by the animal’s weight and metabolism. He constructed a double cage, separated by a sliding door which he could operate from a distance and put an infected dog in each side. One was an Alsatian, the other a Staffordshire terrier. The terrier went berserk first and the Alsatian cringed and quivered. But several hours later the Alsatian, too, went mad. Anton drew the separation from between the cages. The two savage brutes were at one another instantly, with a ferocity both fascinating and appalling. The terrier, bred to fight, retained its inherited ability despite the madness; went low and slashed across and the Alsatian was down. The terrier tore at his opponent, ripping great mouthfuls of flesh from it while it still lived—and, while it still lived, the Alsatian continued to tear at his killer’s belly. Anton winced and felt his stomach churn as he realized this was more than a fight to the death; realized that the fight was incidental to the fact; realized that the two dogs were eating each other alive!

He had to hurry from the room and vomit.

When he returned the Alsatian was dead.

The terrier was eating the body. The terrier’s belly had been torn out and his entrails hung down in slippery coils and, from time to time, he mistakenly tore a mouthful from his own intestines as he fiendishly satisfied the mad hunger.

Anton went right back out and vomited again.

Two weeks after the first attack, the greyhound again underwent metamorphosis. The other infected beasts followed similar patterns, although the time cycle varied. Anton calculated and observed and made a fairly accurate chart and drew a graph correlating weight to frequency of madness. When this was done he projected the figures to include the normal weight of a man, and saw that the cycle would complete itself approximately once every month in an average-sized human being. This projection pleased him. It was in accord with the full moon cycle of the legend. He carried this line of prediction further, into unsubstantiated theory, and saw the possibility that the moon was more than a coincidence. Lunatics are a fact. A man often feels strange urges, looking at the full moon. The glandular secretions can be stimulated in many ways and, just as the adrenal glands release hormones when a creature is angry or frightened, so might the substance of madness be released by the mood of the moon. As soon as this theory had taken form, Anton was excited. He was also frustrated, for obviously he would be unable to prove it—could not deliberately inject madness into a human. But he felt it to be true and, taking it as the initial premise, he logically pursued possibilities and concluded that, in a human, the metamorphosis would be even more startling than in a dog. A man can reason and a mind can be caused to reason in twisted patterns and the process, in man, would be psychological as well as physical. In the ability to reason lies the capacity for insanity. In the dogs the disease was purely chemical but in the mind of a man . . .

Anton shivered.

He had a distinct image, behind closed eyelids, of a peasant walking the rolling hills in the light of a full moon—a peasant who had been bitten, some time before, by a wild dog. He saw this unfortunate man pause; saw him stir restlessly, a captive of urges beyond and below his comprehension; saw him tilt his head back and gaze up at the moon. The white light washed his upthrust face. He shuddered. He frowned, wondering what illness was upon him. He was unable to take his eyes from the moon. It hung above him like a slender disc of silver, compelling, demanding . . . inexorable. The peasant sank to the ground, on all fours. His face was still thrust back. Strange sounds emanated from his tightening vocal chords, he felt his teeth, they seemed too large for his mouth; felt his fingers, crooked, the nails too long. But his mind was that of a man, and slowly he realized what was happening to him—understood the unspeakable curse upon him. And in that moment he was no longer a peasant. He was not a wolf, but he was something other than a man. And through it all his tortured mind continued to work, his reason forced into alien channels, his thoughts misshapen, mangled beyond evil, beyond human comprehension.

And then he would howl . . .

And presently another peasant would come along—a peasant who had not been savaged by a wild dog—with hurried steps through the night. And the one who was no longer quite a man would be waiting.

And a legend would be born anew.

Anton shook his head violently to clear these hideous images from his mind.

It was a thing he would never see, he told himself.

After all, he could not experiment on a man.

Could he?

Anton completed a long and detailed report and sent it off to the government agency where, eventually, it came into the hands of the bright, young lad named Smith. Smith was certainly no fool. In fact, he was even more intelligent than the shaggy students who carry banners in protests. Smith realized instantly that this was an incredible discovery. He lowered the report and stared into space for a while. His lips moved. He mumbled, ‘Contagious glandular malfunction,’ several times, letting it sink in. And then he drew up a brief report of his own and sent it to the head of his department. This gentleman knew that Smith was bright and had nothing else to do anyway, and he actually read the report. He nodded and hummed and smoked his pipe, but he read it. He read it over a second time and then a third. Presently he understood what it meant. His mind was ponderous but large. It turned slowly but remorselessly and, like a millstone, ground concepts into a fine powder of their separate parts. And when his grist-mill of a mind had finished, he applied himself to the all-important problem of rearranging the parts into a whole which would be profitable.

Well, men being what they are, and departmental heads of government agencies more so, he came to his decision. One assumes he was guided by patriotism. He sent Anton’s report and Smith’s report and an explanatory (although totally incomprehensible) covering note of his own, along to a certain unnamed research building. This building, and the agency it housed, was unnamed because the general public, not wise and patriotic like the heads of departments, is less tolerant and even inclined to stage protest marches against such agencies.

He sent it, in other words, to the biological warfare department . . .

Alvin Johnstone, who was a secret agent or spy of sorts, left his motorcar in his private parking-place and entered the unnamed agency building which housed the central office. The laboratories were located elsewhere but within this edifice the decisions were taken, the judgements made, the results coordinated. Johnstone passed through the system of clearance and identification and went on up to the Chief’s office. The Chief had summoned him. Johnstone did not mind working for this particular agency and knew how to calm the troubled waters of the conscience with the soothing oils of patriotism; how to rationalize that, if he did not do the job, someone else would. The Chief, on the other hand, had never felt the need for justifying his offices and knew, without really thinking about it, that expediency outweighed ethical and humanitarian ideals. He was an organizer, a practical man of the type necessary to direct scientists, whom everyone knows are impractical. He did not look practical. He looked more like an auctioneer, a jolly fellow who took snuff and wore handpainted ties. He chuckled a great deal. But beneath this façade he was pragmatic and efficient and knew the value of biological warfare—believed it superior to more conventional methods of destruction because it did not destroy the wealth of the enemy country, left the cities standing and the treasures intact and killed only living things which, after all, are only of evanescent value.

The Chief was glancing at a report when Johnstone entered. He was wearing one of his favourite ties. It had a woodpecker on it. He had a pencil in one hand and was making his own notes to add to the file. He made methodical notes. He glanced up from under a shaggy brow.

‘Ah, Johnstone,’ he said.

‘Morning, Chief.’

Johnstone took a seat.

‘We seem to have an interesting thing here,’ said the Chief. ‘Don’t know if it will prove feasible for us or not. Not really our field. Not virology, actually. But it’s a new concept and there appears to be no other agency to deal with it. We might have to set up a special branch if it proves worth while. In the meanwhile I think we’d better look into it thoroughly.’

Johnstone waited, watching the woodpecker.

The Chief gathered the reports together and turned them; shoved them across to Johnstone. Johnstone winced at the thickness of the pile.

‘Shall I read in depth?’ he asked.

‘Skip the technical stuff for now. Probably wouldn’t understand that anyway. Just get the main idea. Rather amusing, really. Don’t know if this Plotnikov fellow knows what he has here. Not sure I do, myself. But, not to put too fine a point on it, the man seems to have discovered a method of creating, well, yes, ah, werewolves . . .’

Johnstone looked at the Chief.

The Chief looked right back at him.

‘Well, yes, really,’ he said.

Johnstone read the reports.

After a few pages he found his interest growing to the extent that he read more than he skimmed. The Chief took some snuff and continued to jot down ideas on his pad. He did not sneeze when he took snuff. Had he sneezed he would have used handpainted handkerchiefs. Presently Johnstone stacked the papers neatly and looked up.

‘I see,’ said Johnstone.

‘I thought you might.’

‘It seems truly horrible.’

‘But will it be effective? That’s the point. No sense in horror just for the hell of it, eh?’

Johnstone had no reply to that.

‘However, if the information in these reports is correct, and if it can be adapted for use against human beings . . . well, I’ve been jotting down a few of the advantages which come to mind. Have a look.’

He turned his pad towards Johnstone. Johnstone looked at the neat outline.

This was the list of advantages:

Johnstone passed the notepad back.

He made no comment.

The Chief said, ‘You know, of course, that we’ve long toyed with similar ideas. LSD in the water supplies, that sort of stuff. But that’s cumbersome and impractical, almost impossible to manage. This is different. If this disease proves contagious all the difficulties are removed. We would only have to inject a few prisoners of war and send them back across the fines. Or even inject a few of our own men—volunteers, one supposes—and send them in. They wouldn’t develop the symptoms, but they’d carry the disease. And the fear.’

‘I can’t imagine many men volunteering for that.’

‘Hum. Well, perhaps it wouldn’t be necessary to let them know all the details, eh?’

Johnstone, patriotic rather than expedient, winced.

‘Of course, we might use animals as carriers . . .’

Johnstone nodded.

‘But an animal might well wander back across the lines, you know. I wouldn’t fancy that.’

Johnstone stared at the woodpecker and said, ‘I don’t much like this idea, Chief.’

The Chief chose to ignore that.

‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘I want you to call on this Plotnikov. Get a general impression. I’m having a thorough check-up done on the man. He’s a foreigner, you know. Have a look at some of these dogs. Find out if the serum can be taken orally. Things like that.’

‘Right,’ said Johnstone.

He stood up.

‘Oh, Johnstone . . .’

Johnstone turned back.

‘Better eat some garlic and carry a crucifix, eh? Ho ho ho. I can just imagine all those communist Slavs sitting in the wine cellars while a plague of werewolves howls through the streets. Scare hell out of ’em, eh?’

The Chief was chuckling. Johnstone left. The Chief took some snuff.

Anton, who would have been troubled had he known where his report had been directed was, at the moment, troubled instead by his wife’s absence. Anton had laboured through the night and, by morning, completed analysis of a skin sample taken from an infected animal. The results had been enlightening. He had discovered a great amount of porphyrias in the infected cells, a substance which, in excess, caused human skin to be particularly sensitive to sunlight. In the extreme form of this condition, Gunther’s disease, the victim has flesh hideously corrugated from sunburn, sprouts unnaturally coarse hair, and his teeth are discoloured to a reddish hue. The relation between such unfortunate sufferers and the appearance legend attributes to werewolves was obvious, and Anton was well pleased with his discovery. He was so pleased, in fact, that he decided to relax for the rest of the day. He left the laboratory in a fine mood. He felt like talking. He felt so fine he was not even loath to perform his marital duties, and went up to the bedroom. But Beta was not there and the bed had not been slept in. Anton stood in the doorway for a moment, disappointed and confused. It occurred to him that his wife had not been home very much at all during the last few weeks; that she had stayed out many nights without even mentioning where she had been. He frowned as he realized this, and regretted that he’d been so engrossed in his work that he hadn’t fully appreciated the fact before. Anton, in his way, loved his wife. It had never occurred to him that there was any danger of losing her, and certainly he had not questioned the state of her fidelity, but now terrible doubts assailed him. He sank down on the bed and passed a hand across his brow. He fancied he could remember little danger signals, small changes in Beta which had registered and been stored below the level of actual comprehension but which came clustering to awareness now. He remembered seeing her come home several times, smiling and satisfied, her movement gracefully tired, exactly as she had appeared in the early days of their marriage, before Anton’s sexual prowess had ebbed. And Beta had not even made demands on his services during the last weeks, which had seemed a relief at the time but now seemed minatory. Anton began to brood. He felt helpless. He had no idea of how to behave in such circumstances. He was a polite man and hated unpleasant scenes and accusations—feared to let on that he knew, let alone to issue an ultimatum. Beta might scorn an ultimatum, might leave him if he attempted to disrupt her affairs. It was very frustrating. Anton sat there on the unused bed and he brooded and he brooded. He was still brooding when Alvin Johnstone arrived . . .

Beta Plotnikov turned over languidly and kissed her current lover. He was, she thought, the best of her long line of lovers, although she always thought that about the latest one. It was a satisfying way to think. Her lover’s name was Hancock and he was a robust and virile gentleman, a physical education instructor and ex-paratrooper. He was well-built and strong. He was not very intelligent. In fact, truth be known, he was slightly moronic. But that suited Beta admirably. It provided a complete contrast with her husband, who was slight and slumping but highly intelligent. It provided the best of both worlds, as far as Beta, passionate but none too bright herself, could see. Hancock grunted when she kissed him.

‘I’ll have to be off now, darling,’ she said.

‘Uh,’ said Hancock.

‘Miss me?’

‘Uh.’

‘Love me?’

Uh.’

‘Think I’m beautiful?’

‘Not exactly an eyesore.’

Compliments came seldom from Hancock. Beta kissed him gratefully. Then she swung her long legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. Hancock scratched his geometrically muscled belly. He watched her dress. He seemed slightly confused by the whole thing. He had never, despite his sinews and muscle, had much success with women. But Beta had responded instantly to his very first grunt and he was still, vaguely, trying to figure out why; whether he had mysteriously become irresistible or whether there were nymphomaniac factors involved. He wondered, also, about the husband.

‘Listen,’ he said.

Beta listened, perhaps expecting another compliment.

‘What about your husband?’

‘What?’

‘Doesn’t he wonder where you sleep?’

‘Oh, he only thinks about his work.’

‘That’s funny,’ said Hancock, who never thought about his own work, even while working.

‘He’s not suspicious, don’t worry.’

‘Not worried. Just wondered.’

‘Anton doesn’t even notice that I’m gone,’ said Beta.

But he had, he had . . .

‘Then I understand,’ said Alvin Johnstone, as they came up from the laboratory, ‘that the initial attack follows within hours of being bitten and a cycle develops subsequently, but the disease is continuously infectious. Is that right?’

‘Yes, that’s correct,’ Anton said.

They moved into the library-study. Anton looked about vaguely, not accustomed to visitors and uncertain as to the etiquette involved. He shifted his meagre weight about. Johnstone leaned against a bookcase. Johnstone had been very subtle, even after discovering that Plotnikov was hardly versed enough in social intercourse to recognize the difference, and now he debated the advisability of several diverse approaches. They were silent for some time.

At last Anton said, ‘If I’d known you were coming, sir, I could have arranged for a demonstration. As it is, I have no uninfected canines at present . . .’

‘Oh, we don’t doubt the truth of your reports.’

‘I’m pleased that interest has been aroused in my work. I . . . I wonder . . . just which government department are you representing?’

‘Oh, research. General research. We haven’t actually assigned your work yet. Haven’t decided in which branch it should be included. Not a common field, as you may well imagine.’

Anton smiled. Then, immediately, he looked worried.

‘But you do think I’ll get a grant?’

‘Oh, yes. Yes, I should think so. A great deal depends on my report which, I might say, will be favourable.’

‘Oh, thank you.’

‘Perhaps a grant from . . .’ Johnstone paused, smiled. ‘Perhaps medical research. In the stricter sense. But tell me . . . how would your serum affect a human being?’

Anton, unsuspecting, said, ‘Well, in theory, that is just what I am seeking to prove. That the legend of the lycanthrope has pathological roots, and that, in the past, this disease was not uncommon. Now, of course, it is very rare indeed. I can’t honestly claim my studies will be of medical value, you know. Oh, there are—one hears of—isolated instances from time to time. But they are seldom investigated. Prejudice and scientific incredulity and fashionable scepticism combine against truth in this case . . .’

Anton paused and peered at Johnstone. Johnstone looked very interested, tilting his head in concentration, and Anton began to lose his nervousness as he spoke of a topic close to his heart and mind.

‘There are many, oh so many, cases recorded in history, of course. And in what is now thought of as mythology. Lycaon, transformed into a wolf by Zeus—that is possibly the first known example. Odysseus’ men transmuted into swine. Even in the Bible we have Nebuchadnezzar thinking himself an ox and eating grass—although that is more properly termed boanthropy, it is simply a variant symptom of the disease. Oh yes, there are many instances one might quote. However, as I say, the disease is no longer common, if it exists at all. It can hardly be a medical study . . .’

‘Oh, it exists,’ said Johnstone.

‘Oh?’ said Anton.

‘You have created it,’ said Johnstone.

And he smiled politely.

In due course Anton’s limited social sense sent a message to his mind. He offered his guest a seat. Johnstone took it, pulling his sharply creased trousers up, smiling all the while. Anton sat opposite. He fidgeted. He alternately smiled and frowned. It occurred to him to offer a drink, but he did not know where, or even if, his wife kept alcohol in the house. But Johnstone seemed perfectly at ease, perfectly satisfied with the situation and the development of the interview, and eventually his attitude caused Anton to relax a bit. Johnstone smoked. Anton hastened to fetch an ashtray; could not find one and dashed back to the laboratory to return with a culture tray. Johnstone deposited ash with self-confidence, like a Roman casting salt over the ruins of Carthage.

‘But if your serum, as it stands, were administered to a human? Would the effect be the same, or similar, to that with the dogs?’

Anton nodded slowly.

‘In theory, yes. The adreno-salivary effect would cause hormone secretions which, in turn, would cause the victim to undergo mental and physical symptoms. His metabolism, growth, behaviour would all be affected and he would, I believe, think himself a wolf . . . or a wolf man. I must confess that I shudder at the thought. Some inherited fear passed down chemically through the genes, perhaps.’ Anton looked slightly sheepish. ‘And yet, despite this revulsion, I have always felt myself drawn to study such morbid pathogenic conditions. Man has strange, perverse motivations, I fear.’

Johnstone nodded knowledgeably.

‘Of course, we can’t know for certain. I mean, we can’t actually experiment with a man.’

‘Um. I wonder.’

Anton raised his brows.

‘In the name of science . . .’

Anton’s brows went higher and higher.

‘A volunteer, of course.’

‘Good heavens, I couldn’t do that. Why . . . why, it would be monstrous!’

Johnstone looked placid.

‘You do understand that it must be transferred via living saliva. Surely no man would volunteer to savage another? Or, worse, to submit to the infected bite, knowing the expected results? Surely not . . .’

‘Oh, it might be arranged. For the good of science.’ Johnstone looked sharply at Anton. ‘And for the good of the country,’ he added. ‘You have not, perhaps, realized the potential value of your discovery as a weapon . . .’

Anton was appalled.

‘I . . . I don’t know . . . I don’t think I could allow myself to work on a morbific in a practical sense . . .’

‘Um. It was just a thought, you understand.’

Anton nodded.

‘Just a casual thought. Quite natural, really. I mean, one always does think first of one’s country, does one not?’

Johnstone’s glance pinned Anton like a butterfly on a display board. Anton squirmed. He had never thought much of his country, or any country. But he had thought often of a government grant. Very slowly and uncertainly and tentatively, he nodded.

‘What I mean,’ said Johnstone, softly, ‘in war, things are sometimes justified which normally . . . you do understand? Against an enemy, a threat to our happiness and freedom and way of life . . . You do see what I mean?’

Anton, in the grip of doubts, not fully understanding, still fixed on the pinpoints of Johnstone’s gaze, continued to move his head up and down.

Then Johnstone broke the spell.

‘However, we needn’t discuss that for the moment. It was just an idle thought that occurred to me. Continue with your good work and I’ll submit my report and we’ll try to get you some money.’

He stood up. Anton jumped up, relieved to be freed from the pins. He walked to the door with Johnstone and they shook hands. Johnstone left smiling. Anton looked after him. Anton was not smiling. Anton had never before known that it was acceptable to treat one’s enemies outside one’s moral code. It was a novel and intriguing concept. Of course, Anton had never had an enemy. He stood there in the open doorway while Johnstone got in his car and drove off. Then he stepped back and started to close the door; paused as his wife’s car came down the road and turned into the drive. Anton leaned against the door. His wife was smiling behind the wheel. She looked very satisfied and happy. Anton had never had an enemy before . . .

Beta came up to the door with that leisurely long-legged stride, kissed her husband en passant, and walked down the hallway. Anton turned, watching the swing of her hips with an interest unusual for him and turmoil in his mind. Beta went up the stairs. Anton started to close the door, then paused once again as that sinister character named Chowder emerged from the trees fringing the drive. Chowder had orange hair and, for a moment, Anton believed that a gigantic sunflower had appeared on the scene. Chowder was facing in the other direction, rubbing his corrugated neck and staring after Johnstone’s car. Then he turned with a heavy scowl and came clumping up to the door. Anton, who was never quite comfortable with Chowder in the house and who had, indeed, noted the way the man sized up the silverware, waited nervously. Chowder stopped on the steps.

‘That feller a copper?’ he asked.

‘Who?’

Chowder jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

‘Feller wot just left.’

‘Good heavens, no.’

Chowder squinted suspiciously.

‘That so? Looked like a copper to me. I can smell coppers a mile away. You sure he weren’t no copper?’

‘Not at all. The gentleman was from a government agency.’

‘Oh. Oh, that explains it. Same smell, you know. I thought maybe they were on to us.’

‘On to us?’

‘ ’Bout them nicked dogs.’

Anton, who had never considered the illegal aspects of purchasing stolen dogs, and perhaps had not even realized they were stolen, looked puzzled.

Chowder said, ‘Huh. Well, I come to see if you were ready for another delivery. Got a new scheme worked out. Real complicated and clever. Reckon to make a raid on White City just after the dog races, get the lot. Bit expensive, but they’ll be better than your run o’ the mill hound.’

‘Actually, it appears that any sort of dog will do,’ Anton said, and Chowder’s face fell. Anton glanced back into the house. He looked to ascertain if any valuables were in the hall before inviting Chowder in, but as he did so his gaze fell on the stairway where Beta had ascended and instantly a plan sprang upon his mind. He blinked. He turned back to Chowder. He didn’t hesitate.

‘I may have another job for you,’ Anton whispered.

‘Yeah? What’s that then?’

‘Shhh.’

Chowder looked about.

Anton bit his fingernails.

‘Well?’

‘My wife . . .’

‘Yeah? You want her kidnapped too, huh?’

‘No, no. But I . . . I wonder . . . do you think you might follow her?’

‘Might. Why?’

‘I fear she is . . . well, perhaps . . . being untrue to me.’

‘Huh?’

‘That perhaps she loves another.’

‘Like that, is it, mate?’

‘I fear so.’

‘Sure, I’ll follow her for you. I know how it is. My own wife ran off with an Armenian. I didn’t follow her, though.’

Chowder nodded in sympathy. Anton nodded nervously. After they had finished nodding they made their plans.

The Chief snapped his snuffbox shut and tilted his chair back. Johnstone had just finished his verbal report. The Chief was wearing a different tie. It had a naked woman painted on it and when the Chief, as he sometimes did, pressed a bulb attached behind the tie, the naked woman’s breasts ballooned. It was very clever. But he didn’t press the bulb now, he shuffled through some papers.

‘Initial check-up on this fellow Plotnikov. Seems a genuine type. Background okay. Company he works for did a thorough inquiry on him. Industrial secrets and such. Much more careful than our counter-intelligence boys, actually. More important, one assumes. His wife runs around with other men. But she’s English, so that’s all right. But you say he didn’t seem keen on the idea, eh?’

‘Not very.’

‘Pressures?’

‘Well, he needs the money. Then there are the dogs, of course. Obviously stolen. Not mongrels, good-looking dogs. Could blackmail him with that.’

‘Pretty weak. Perhaps we’d better have a Chinaman seduce the wife. Let Plotnikov find out about it. Well, we can work that out later.’

‘Do we have an Oriental operative?’ Johnstone asked.

‘Hell, no. But we’ve got some yellow paint. Same thing, isn’t it?’

‘I expect so.’

‘Anyway, we’ll think of something. This is too good to miss. Werewolves! Why, this could be the start of a new Empire.’

Johnstone smiled politely.

The Chief pressed the button.

Hancock sat up abruptly.

Beta slid down from his neck.

‘Thought I saw something peculiar at the window,’ he said.

‘What, darling?’

‘Well, it looked like a bloody great sunflower.’

‘Nonsense, dearest.’

‘I guess you must be right.’

‘But it was romantic of you to think of flowers, dear.’

‘Huh,’ said Hancock.

In the cages, the dogs watched with baleful eyes and, at the table, Anton and Chowder leaned close together like Russian anarchists. Anton was pale. Chowder, whose own wife had left him for an Armenian, was gleeful.

‘She’s got a man, all right,’ he said.

‘Oh dear.’

‘I followed her, see. Real careful. Professional. She never twigged a thing. Well, she went to this ’ere flat and used her own key to open it. It was a basement flat, so I nipped round to the side to have a dekko through the window. And let me tell you, they didn’t waste no time. I’m nippy on my feet, you know. Got to be in my trade, ducking and diving. But quick as I was, they were hard at it by the time I got to the window. Hard at it, they were. I’ll say. Really going to town. Not just a casual poke, like what one gets in an alley, either. Real lovey-dovey stuff. All that kissing and love-biting . . .’

‘Love-biting?’ asked Anton, in his grief.

‘Sure. You know. Like when a bird nibbles your neck so that the blood comes oozing through the skin and then later your old lady spots the mark and gets so annoyed that she runs off with Armenians. That sorta stuff.’

Anton, vaguely, had heard of such things. He even thought he recalled Beta trying to do it to him, on their honeymoon, although he couldn’t be sure. Chowder was proceeding to reveal the sordid details, but Anton’s mind had stuck at the words ‘love-biting’. They played over and over again on a jammed track in his mind. Love-biting. Love-biting. Love-biting. Love-biting. And then, somehow, the words became detached from one another. They registered separately. Love. Biting. Love. Biting. His wife loved another man. His wife bit another man. The other man was Beta’s lover. Therefore the other man was Anton’s enemy. It was perfectly all right to bite an enemy. Johnstone had told him so. Sparks flew across gaps in Anton’s mind. Anton thought and thought.

‘Oh dear,’ said Beta. ‘I do believe I’m going down with a horrid cold.’

She blew her nose daintily.

‘Perhaps you’re run down, dear,’ Anton said. ‘You’ve been out too much. You should relax at home.’

‘Yes, dear,’ she said, not hearing him. ‘I do hope it doesn’t get worse. I have an important social engagement this evening.’

Anton winced.

‘Perhaps I’ll phone Doctor Blackshaw. Dreadful nuisance, though. I can never see why, if you’re a doctor, you can’t give antibiotic shots and things.’

‘I’ve explained before, dear. I’m not a medical doctor. It’s a different thing.’

‘More useful if you were.’

She blew her nose again.

Anton blinked. Anton looked down at his hands. Anton pursed his lips.

‘I suppose I could give you an injection of, ah, penicillin, darling,’ he said.

‘Oh, could you? That would be convenient.’

‘Yes, of course I could,’ he said. ‘I could give you a shot.’

And, presently, he did.

‘I won’t be able to come tomorrow, dear,’ said Beta Plotnikov.

‘Why’s that?’ asked Hancock.

‘My husband.’

‘Suspicious, is he?’

‘Oh no, poor dear. He never suspects a thing. Not a thing. He doesn’t even notice those marks you leave on my neck sometimes. That’s how easy it is to deceive him. It makes me feel wicked sometimes when I think how innocent the poor dear is. So deliciously wicked.’

‘Well, come to think of it, you are son of wicked. Glad you’re not my wife.’

‘Oh, I’d never cheat against you.’

‘Huh.’

She nuzzled him.

‘But, anyway, I can’t see you tomorrow. Anton has asked me to stay at home with him. Says he’s been working hard and is going to take the whole day off and relax. He does work terribly hard, you know. So I guess I owe him one day of my time, after all. And he seemed so . . . well . . . almost demanding about it. Sort of worried, too. As if maybe he was afraid I’d refuse.’

‘Well, that’s okay then.’

‘I won’t sleep with him, of course.’

‘Huh? He’s your husband, isn’t he?’

‘Why, of course. But I simply couldn’t be unfaithful to you, dearest.’

‘Huh,’ said Hancock, and after a while they began to bill and coo and, because she was not going to see him for a whole day, Beta felt she should make the most of this occasion, and squirmed and moaned and, soon enough, they were gyrating in the horizontal gavotte and, in the towering heights of œstral heat, they kissed and kissed . . .

Later, while dressing, Hancock paused to look in the mirror. Hancock was vain about his muscles and smiled at the deltoids. Then, abruptly, he scowled.

‘What’s wrong, my love?’ asked Beta, from the bed.

‘Huh! I don’t know about your husband, but my pupils are no fools. What the hell are they going to say about these marks on my neck, huh?’

Beta giggled.

Later she went home.

Anton, for a time, suffered misgivings and regrets. He tried to convince himself that the man who had cuckolded him deserved to be punished, but found it feeble justification; tried, rather medievally, to believe that it was in the hands of the gods, like trial by combat, for he had no way of knowing whether Beta would actually kiss her lover fiercely enough to transmit the disease, nor even, other than in theory, whether it would prove effective against a human being; tried, even, to believe his actions were motivated by a desire to increase scientific knowledge. But none of these forms of rationalization were strong enough to deceive his doubts. He went through turmoils and upheavals of thought. He even worked, for a time, on the antidote he had been considering—worked desultorily, however, knowing as he turned from aspect to aspect that no antidote would be found without weeks and months of labour, and soon gave up the effort.

Then Beta came home.

She came home radiant and happy, and as he looked at her Anton felt his doubts fade. He felt the justification which he’d been unable to find within his own mind, in his wife’s obvious satisfaction. He no longer resented her infidelity, and no longer worried about it—did not know, of course, that Hancock was but one of many, and that her behaviour would not be changed by Hancock’s elimination. The peace of accomplishment stilled his troubled thoughts and he came to regret but one thing—that he would not be able to take credit, in his next report, for having created—well, whatever it was that he had created. He was not absolutely sure what that would be. He waited, with interest, for the next day to pass, certain that the evening newspapers, perhaps even special editions, would bring him the results of his experiment.

That night, he made love to his wife.

He did not, however, allow her to kiss him.

There was a full moon.

Anton had not planned it that way—had not even realized that such would be the case—but when he became aware of the fact he felt a tingle. It seemed so very appropriate. It seemed to place the stamp of fate’s approval upon his act. He had only to wait. He waited. The day passed slowly. Anton did not know the relevant data about Hancock’s weight and metabolism, and therefore could not predict with any certainty when the madness would strike the man, but he knew it would be within twenty-four hours. The only thing necessary was to keep his wife safely at home during that period. Beta, however, had showed signs of restlessness during the day. It was the first day she had spent at home for some weeks. As the afternoon wore on Anton began to fear she might make some excuse to slip away, and he could think of no way to convince her, short of the impossible truth, that she must not be with her lover that day. Doing her best to be a dutiful wife, temporarily, Beta was determined to remain with Anton, but she was surprised by her own nervous energy, her own restless wanderings from room to room. She wondered whether her feelings for Hancock—for what else could cause her dysphoria other than the enforced separation?—were deeper than she had imagined them to be. And yet Hancock did not seem connected with her restlessness. She merely felt an overwhelming urge to leave the house—to divagate without any particular goal, even to take a long and uncharacteristic walk through the darkening countryside. This confused her. She could not understand the impulse. Presently she forced herself to take a seat by the window in the library-study, determined to fight down her restlessness.

Anton, at his desk, glanced towards his wife from time to time. He could just see the angle of her profile from behind, but it was sufficient to note the internal struggle reflected in her expression. She wants to go to him, he thought. He was worried. What if she simply got up and left? Anton did not know how to prevent this, short of physically restraining her, and even that was doubtful. Anton was not strong. Truth be known, he was exceptionally weak. Beta was a big, healthy woman. Anton felt sure she was stronger than he, and certainly fitter. He watched her hand open and close upon the arm of the chair and he worried. He thought of how it would be if she went to her lover—if she were in his arms when the disease came upon him in all its horrible fury. After a while he rose and moved very quietly to the door. He turned the key in the lock and then returned to his desk and placed the key at the very back of the drawer; locked the drawer as well. It would be very embarrassing, he knew, if she demanded the key, but any degree of unpleasantness was far better than letting her go. He felt better with that precaution taken; went over to stand behind her chair and place his hand on her shoulder. Together they looked out at the moon. It was very bright, a silver disc behind shredding clouds. There were a few stars. Anton stood quietly for a time. Beta seemed tense beneath his hand. Usually, at the slightest touch, she took it as encouragement and began to squirm. But now she was still and taut. He wondered what occupied her thoughts—told himself, with a twinge of sadness, that she must be thinking of her lover. Then anger replaced the anguish. She would think of him, perhaps, but she would never again rest in his arms. She would never again come home flushed and weary with love, her pure throat blemished with those marks of passion . . .

Anton stiffened.

Those marks of love . . .

His mouth dropped open, his heart stopped for a moment and then thundered. His terrible oversight came cascading into his mind. If Beta had infected her lover and he, in turn, had kissed her in that manner . . . afterwards . . . when his glands were already secreting the hormones . . .

Anton looked down at his wife.

She sat very still. He saw only the side of her face. But he saw her hand, as well, and her hand was hooked over the edge of the arm-rest. Hooked like a claw. The veins stood out in the back of her hand and ran in pronounced ridges up her forearms. Anton stepped back. Beta did not move. Beta was looking at the moon. The moonlight fell over her face. Anton walked backwards to the door, his eyes fixed upon her. She did not move at all. He reached behind his back and grasped the doorknob. But the door was locked. The key was in the desk and the desk was in the centre of the room. Anton stood there for some time, unable to advance. And then, with the fibre of his body blurred by terror, he started to tiptoe towards his desk. He made no sound. But he had not yet reached the desk when his wife stood up. She stood up quickly and stiffly, facing the window. Anton halted. He had not reached the desk. He stood motionless and looked at his wife and she stood motionless and looked at the moon.

And then his wife turned around.

What had once been his wife turned around.

Anton crouched, quivering, against the locked door. His ancestry screamed in his mind. He whimpered, the sound of a small and helpless animal, transfixed by the glowing eyes of the predator.

Then Beta moved towards him.

She moved slowly. Anton looked at her burning eyes and he looked at her crooked hands and he looked at her ravenous mouth . . .

Anton was totally insane before she reached him . . .

Which was probably just as well for him . . .