sk.thetalisman-第67部分

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pped　with　short；　squiggly　horns　that　looked　good　for　absolutely　nothing。　Wolf　herded　them　back　out　of　the　road。　They　went　obediently；　with　no　sign　of　fear。　If　a　cow　or　a　sheep　on　my　side　of　the　jump　got　a　whiff　of　that　guy；　Jack　thought；　it'd　kill　itself　trying　to　get　out　of　his　way。
　　But　Jack　liked　Wolf…liked　him　on　sight；　just　as　he　had　feared　and　disliked　Elroy　on　sight。　And　that　contrast　was　particularly　apt；　because　the　parison　between　the　two　was　undeniable。　Except　that　Elroy　had　been　goatish　while　Wolf　was　。　。　。　well；　wolfish。
　　Jack　walked　slowly　toward　where　Wolf　had　set　his　herd　to　graze。　He　remembered　tiptoeing　down　the　stinking　back　hall　of　the　Oatley　Tap　toward　the　fire…door；　sensing　Elroy　somewhere　near；　smelling　him；　perhaps；　as　a　cow　on　the　other　side　would　undoubtedly　smell　Wolf。　He　remembered　the　way　Elroy's　hands　had　begun　to　twist　and　thicken；　the　way　his　neck　had　swelled；　the　way　his　teeth　had　bee　a　mouthful　of　blackening　fangs。
　　'Wolf？'
　　Wolf　turned　and　looked　at　him；　smiling。　His　eyes　flared　a　bright　orange　and　looked　for　a　moment　both　savage　and　intelligent。　Then　the　glow　faded　and　they　were　only　that　muddy；　perpetually　puzzled　hazel　again。
　　'Are　you　。　。　。　sort　of　a　werewolf　？'
　　'Sure　am；'　Wolf　said；　smiling。　'You　pounded　that　nail；　Jack。　Wolf！'　
　　Jack　sat　down　on　a　rock；　looking　at　Wolf　thoughtfully。　He　believed　it　would　be　impossible　for　him　to　be　further　surprised　than　he　had　already　been；　but　Wolf　managed　the　trick　quite　nicely。
　　'How's　your　father；　Jack？'　he　asked；　in　that　casual；　by…the…way　tone　reserved　for　enquiring　after　the　relatives　of　others。　'How's　Phil　doing　these　days？　Wolf！'
　　　
　　　4
　　
　　Jack　made　a　queerly　apt　cross…association：　he　felt　as　if　all　the　wind　had　been　knocked　out　of　his　mind。　For　a　moment　it　just　sat　there　in　his　head；　not　a　thought　in　it；　like　a　radio　station　broadcasting　nothing　but　a　carrier　wave。　Then　he　saw　Wolf's　face　change。　The　expression　of　happiness　and　childish　curiosity　was　replaced　by　one　of　sorrow。　Jack　saw　that　Wolf's　nostrils　were　flaring　rapidly。
　　'He's　dead；　isn't　he？　Wolf！　I'm　sorry；　Jack。　God　pound　me！　I'm　stupid！　Stupid！'　Wolf　crashed　a　hand　into　his　forehead　and　this　time　he　really　did　howl。　It　was　a　sound　that　chilled　Jack's　blood。　The　herd　of　creep　looked　around　uneasily。
　　'That's　all　right；'　Jack　said。　He　heard　his　voice　more　in　his　ears　than　in　his　head；　as　if　someone　else　had　spoken。　'But　。　。　。　how　did　you　know？'
　　'Your　smell　changed；'　Wolf　said　simply。　'I　knew　he　was　dead　because　it　was　in　your　smell。　Poor　Phil！　What　a　good　guy！　Tell　you　that　right　here　and　now；　Jack！　Your　father　was　a　good　guy！　Wolf！'
　　'Yes；'　Jack　said；　'he　was。　But　how　did　you　know　him？　And　how　did　you　know　he　was　my　father？'　
　　Wolf　looked　at　Jack　as　though　he　had　asked　a　question　so　simple　it　barely　needed　answering。　'I　remember　his　smell；　of　course。　Wolfs　remember　all　smells。　You　smell　just　like　him。'　
　　Whack！　The　goofystick　came　down　on　his　head　again。　Jack　felt　an　urge　to　just　roll　back　and　forth　on　the　tough；　springy　turf；　holding　his　gut　and　howling。　People　had　told　him　he　had　his　father's　eyes　and　his　father's　mouth；　even　his　father's　knack　for　quick…sketching；　but　never　before　had　he　been　told　that　he　smelled　like　his　father。　Yet　he　supposed　the　idea　had　a　certain　crazy　logic；　at　that。
　　'How　did　you　know　him？'　Jack　asked　again。
　　Wolf　looked　at　a　loss。　'He　came　with　the　other　one；'　he　said　at　last。　'The　one　from　Orris。　I　was　just　little。　The　other　one　was　bad。　The　other　one　stole　some　of　us。　Your　father　didn't　know；'　he　added　hastily；　as　if　Jack　had　shown　anger。　'Wolf！　No！　He　was　good；　your　father。　Phil。　The　other　one　。　。　。　'　
　　Wolf　shook　his　head　slowly。　On　his　face　was　an　expression　even　more　simple　than　his　pleasure。　It　was　the　memory　of　some　childhood　nightmare。
　　'Bad；'　Wolf　said。　'He　made　himself　a　place　in　this　world；　my　father　says。　Mostly　he　was　in　his　Twinner；　but　he　was　from　your　world。　We　knew　he　was　bad；　we　could　tell；　but　who　listens　to　Wolfs？　No　one。　Your　father　knew　he　was　bad；　but　he　couldn't　smell　him　as　good　as　we　could。　He　knew　he　was　bad；　but　not　how　bad。'　
　　And　Wolf　threw　his　head　back　and　howled　again；　a　long；　chilly　ululation　of　sorrow　that　resounded　against　the　deep　blue　sky。
　　
　　　INTERLUDE
　　
　　Sloat　in　This　World　（II）
　　
　　From　the　pocket　of　his　bulky　parka　（he　had　bought　it　convinced　that　from　the　Rockies　east；　America　was　a　frigid　wasteland　after　October　1st　or　so…now　he　was　sweating　rivers）；　Morgan　Sloat　took　a　small　steel　box。　Below　the　latch　were　ten　small　buttons　and　an　oblong　of　cloudy　yellow　glass　a　quarter　of　an　inch　high　and　two　inches　long。　He　pushed　several　of　the　buttons　carefully　with　the　fingernail　of　his　left…hand　pinky；　and　a　series　of　numbers　appeared　briefly　in　the　readout　window。　Sloat　had　bought　this　gadget；　billed　as　the　world's　smallest　safe；　in　Zurich。　According　to　the　man　who　had　sold　it　to　him；　not　even　a　week　in　a　crematory　oven　would　breach　its　carbon…steel　integrity。
　　Now　it　clicked　open。
　　Sloat　folded　back　two　tiny　wings　of　ebony　jeweler's　velvet；　revealing　something　he　had　had　for　well　over　twenty　years…since　long　before　the　odious　little　brat　who　was　causing　all　this　trouble　had　been　born。　It　was　a　tarnished　tin　key；　and　once　it　had　gone　into　the　back　of　a　mechanical　toy　soldier。　Sloat　had　seen　the　toy　soldier　in　the　window　of　a　junkshop　in　the　odd　little　town　of　Point　Venuti；　California…a　town　in　which　he　had　great　interest。　Acting　under　a　pulsion　much　too　strong　to　deny　（he　hadn't　even　wanted　to　deny　it；　not　really；　he　had　always　made　a　virtue　of　pulsion；　had　Morgan　Sloat）；　he　had　gone　in　and　paid　five　dollars　for　the　dusty；　dented　soldier　。　。　。　and　it　wasn't　the　soldier　he　had　wanted；　anyway。　It　was　the　key　that　had　caught　his　eye　and　then　whispered　to　him。　He　had　removed　the　key　from　the　soldier's　back　and　pocketed　it　as　soon　as　he　was　outside　the　junkshop　door。　The　soldier　itself　he　threw　in　a　litter…basket　outside　the　Dangerous　Planet　Bookstore。
　　Now；　as　Sloat　stood　beside　his　car　in　the　Lewisburg　rest　area；　he　held　the　key　up　and　looked　at　it。　Like　Jack's　croaker；　the　tin　key　became　something　else　in　the　Territories。　Once；　when　ing　back；　he　had　dropped　that　key　in　the　lobby　of　the　old　office　building。　And　there　must　have　been　some　Territories　magic　left　in　it；　because　that　idiot　Jerry　Bledsoe　had　gotten　himself　fried　not　an　hour　later。　Had　Jerry　picked　it　up？　Stepped　on　it；　perhaps？　Sloat　didn't　know　and　didn't　care。　Nor　had　he　cared　a　tinker's　damn　about　Jerry…and　considering　the　handyman　had　had　an　insurance　policy　specifying　double　indemnity　for　accidental　death　（the　building's　super；　with　whom　Sloat　sometimes　shared　a　hashpipe；　had　passed　this　little　tidbit　on　to　him）；　Sloat　imagined　that　Nita　Bledsoe　had　done　nipups…but　he　had　been　nearly　frantic　about　the　loss　of　his　key。　It　was　Phil　Sawyer　who　had　found　it；　giving　it　back　to　him　with　no　ment　other　than　'Here；　Morg。　Your　lucky　charm；　isn't　it？　Must　have　a　hole　in　your　pocket。　I　found　it　in　the　lobby　after　they　took　poor　old　Jerry　away。'　
　　Yes；　in　the　lobby。　In　the　lobby　where　everything　smelled　like　the　motor　of　a　Waring　Blender　that　had　been　running　continuously　on　Hi　Speed　for　about　nine　hours。　In　the　lobby　where　everything　had　been　blackened　and　twisted　and　fused。
　　Except　for　this　humble　tin　key。
　　Which；　in　the　other　world；　was　a　queer　kind　of　lightning…rod…and　which　Sloat　now　hung　around　his　neck　on　a　fine　silver　chain。
　　'ing　for　you；　Jacky；'　said　Sloat　in　a　voice　that　was　almost　tender。　'Time　to　bring　this　entire　ridiculous　business　to　a　crashing　halt。'
　　
　　　CHAPTER　17
　　　Wolf　and　the　Herd
　　　
　　　1
　　
　　Wolf　talked　of　many　things；　getting　up　occasionally　to　shoo　his　cattle　out　of　the　road　and　once　to　move　them　to　a　stream　about　half　a　mile　to　the　west。　When　Jack　asked　him　where　he　lived；　Wolf　only　waved　his　arm　vaguely　northward。　He　lived；　he　said；　with　his　family。　When　Jack　asked　for　clarification　a　few　minutes　later；　Wolf　looked　surprised　and　said　he　had　no　mate　and　no　children…that　he　would　not　e　into　what　he　called　the　'big　rut…moon'　for　another　year　or　two。　That　he　looked　forward　to　the　'big　rut…moon'　was　qui