The Werewolf Principle

27

Willow Grove, Blake told himself, was a town that he had known sometime in the past. Which was impossible, of course. Perhaps a place very like a place that he might have read of, or at some time had seen a picture of, but he never had been here.

And yet, as he stood on the street corner in the early morning light, old memories kept nagging at him and a pattern in his mind kept matching the things that he was seeing — the way the steps up to the bank ran kitty-cornered off the pavement, and the massive elm trees that grew around the little park at the far end of the street. There would be, he knew, a statue in the park, standing in the centre of a fountain that was dry more often than it ran, and an ancient cannon mounted on its massive wheels, its barrel bespecked by pigeon dirt.

Not always matching, but also noting differences. A hobby shop and jewellery store occupied the building where the garden store had been and a new front had been imposed upon the barber shop, which was still a barber shop, and over all of it, over the entire street and town, lay an oldness that had not been there when he last had seen it.

Last had seen it!

Could he, he wondered, have ever seen this town?

How could he have seen it and forgotten it till now? For, technically at least, he should be in possession of all he'd ever known. In that instant back in the hospital it all had come back to him — all that he had been, all that he had done. And if that had been so, why and how had the memory of Willow Grove been withheld from him?

An old town — almost an ancient town — no flying houses perched on their gridded foundation blocks, no airy masses of apartment complexes rising on its outskirts. Solid, honest buildings built of wood and brick and stone, built where they were meant to stay, with no roving tendencies tied into their functions. Some of them, he saw however, had solar power plants spread awkwardly across their roofs, and on the edge of town there had been a larger municipal solar plant, apparently used to pump energy into those houses which were not so equipped.

He shifted the knapsack to a more comfortable position on his shoulder and pulled the cowl of the robe more closely about his face. He crossed the street and wandered slowly up the pavement and on every hand were little things that jogged loose memories. There were names now as well as places. Jake Woods had been the banker and Jake Woods could, surely, no longer be alive. For if he had ever seen this town, it must have been more than two centuries ago. And Charley Breen and he had run away from school and gone fishing in the creek and had caught some chub.

It was incredible, he told himself; it was impossible. And yet the memories kept on piling in on him, not vague and shadowy, but incidents and faces and pictures from the past, all three-dimensional. He remembered that Jake Woods had been lame and had carried a cane and he knew what kind of cane it was — one that was heavy and of a shiny, hand-rubbed wood. Charley had had freckles and a wide, infectious grin, and Charley, he remembered, had always led him into trouble. There had been Minnie Short, an old, befuddled woman, dressed in rags and walking with a weird sort of shuffling trot, who had worked part-time as a book-keeper at the lumber yard. But the lumber yard was gone and in its place stood a glass-and-plastic agency for floaters.

He reached a bench that stood in front of a restaurant across the street from the bank and sat down on it heavily. There were a few people on the street and as they went past they stared at him.

He felt fine. Even after the hard night of Quester's running, his body still was fresh and strong. Perhaps, he told himself, it was because of Thinker's stolen energy — an energy transferred from Thinker to Quester and from Quester on to him.

He slid the knapsack off his shoulder and let it rest beside him on the bench. He slid the cowl back from his face.

People were beginning to open up the shops and stores. A lone car came thrumming gently up the street.

He read the signs and none of them were familiar. The names of the stores, and of the people who owned and operated them, all had changed.

On the floor above the bank the windows bore gilt lettering advertising the occupants — dentists, doctors, lawyers. Alvin Bank, MD: H. H. Oliver, Dentistry; Ryan Wilson, Attorney-at-Law; J. P. Leach, Optometrist; Wm Smith — Wait a minute, there! Back up! Ryan Wilson. that was it! Ryan Wilson was the name that had been mentioned in the message.

There, across the street, was the office of the man who had indicated in the note that he had something of interest to impart.

The clock above the door of the bank said it was almost nine o'clock. Wilson might be in his office, or would be coming soon. If the office still were closed, he could stay and wait for him.

Blake got up off the bench and crossed the street. The door that opened on the stairs leading to the floor above the bank was rickety, and it creaked and groaned as he pushed it open. The stairs were steep and dark and the brown paint that covered the treads was scuffed and peeling off.

Wilson's office was just down the hail, and the door stood open.

Blake went into the outer office, which was empty. In an inner office a man sat in his shirt sleeves, working on some papers, with others stacked high in a basket on the desk.

The man looked up. 'Come on in, he said.

'You are Ryan Wilson?

The man nodded. 'My secretary isn't here as yet. What can I do for you?

'You sent me a message. My name is Andrew Blake.

Wilson leaned back in his chair and stared at him.

'Well, I'll be damned, he finally said. 'I never thought I'd see you. I thought you were gone for good.

Blake shook his head, bewildered.

'Have you seen the morning paper? Wilson asked.

'No, said Blake. 'I haven't.

The man reached for a folded copy that lay on the corner of his desk and flicked it open, facing it towards Blake.

The banner screamed:

IS MAN FROM THE STARS A WEREWOLF?

The read-out said:

HUNT STILL GOES ON FOR BLAKE

Plastered underneath the banner, Blake saw, was a picture of himself.

Blake felt his face freezing, fought to keep it frozen, betraying no expression.

Within his brain he felt Quester stirring frantically.

— No! No! He screamed at Quester. Let me handle this. Quester quieted down.

'It's interesting, Blake said to Wilson. 'Thanks for showing me. Have they got around to posting a reward?

Wilson flicked his wrist to fold the paper, put it back on the corner of his desk.

'All you have to do, said Blake, 'is dial the phone. The number of the hospital is…

Wilson raised his hand. 'It's no concern of mine, he said. 'I don't care what you are.

'Even if I were a werewolf.

'Even if you were, said Wilson. 'You can turn around and leave if that should be your wish and I'll go back to work. But if you want to stay, there are a couple of questions I am supposed to ask you and if you can answer them…

'Questions?

'Yes. Just two simple questions.

Blake hesitated.

'I am acting, Wilson told him, 'for a client. For a client who died a century and a half ago. This is a matter which has been handed down, generation after generation, within the fabric of this law firm. My great-grandfather was the man who accepted the responsibility of carrying out the request of the client.

Blake shook his head, trying to shake the fog out of his brain. There was something terribly wrong here. He had known it the moment he had seen the town.

'All right, he said. 'Go ahead and ask your questions.

Wilson pulled a desk drawer open, took out two envelopes. One he laid aside, the other one he opened, taking out a sheet of paper that crackled when he unfolded it.

The attorney held the sheet in front of him, squinting closely at it.

'All right, Mr Blake. he said. 'First question: What was the name of your first grade teacher?

'Why, her name was, said Blake, 'her name was…

He groped blindly for the answer and all at once he had it.

'Her name was Jones, he said. 'Miss Jones. Ada Jones, I think. It was so long ago.

But it was, somehow, not so long ago. Even as he said how long ago it was, he suddenly could see her in his mind. Prim, old-maidish, with a fuzzy hairdo and a stern set to her mouth. And she'd worn a purple blouse. How could he have forgotten that purple blouse she wore?

'OK, said Wilson. 'What did you and Charley Breen do to Deacon Watson's water melons?

'Why, said Blake, 'we — say, how did you find out about that one?

'Never mind, said Wilson. 'Just go ahead and answer.

'Well, said Blake, 'I guess it was a dirty trick. We both felt badly after we had done it. We never told anyone. Charley stole a hypodermic from his father — his old man was a doctor, I suppose you know.

'I don't know a thing, said Wilson.

'Well, we took this syringe and we had a jar of kerosene and we gave each of the melons a squirt of kerosene. We poked the needle through the rind. Not much, you understand. Just enough so the melons would have a funny taste.

Wilson laid down the paper and picked up the other envelope.

'You passed the test, he said. 'I guess that this is yours.

He handed the envelope to Blake.

Blake took it and saw that there was writing on its face — the words formed in the shaky penmanship of the very old, the ink faded to a faint, dull brown.

The writing said:

To The Man Who Has My Mind

And underneath that line a signature:

Theodore Roberts

Blake's hand shook and he let it fall straight to his side, still clutching the envelope, and he tried to hold it stiff and straight so it would stop its shaking.

For now he knew — now he knew again, now it was all there, all the things he had forgotten, all the old identities and faces.

'That is me, he said, forcing his stiff lips to move. 'That was me. Teddy Roberts. I am not Andrew Blake.