“I don’t think it was him, then.”
“I don’t either.” The girl was silent for a moment, then said, “I wouldn’t have minded it so much if I hadn’t been so tired.”
“I understand.”
“Would you find the lady and ask her to show me to my room?”
“Maybe we could meet in the morning for breakfast.”
The blind girl smiled, the first time the scarred young man had seen her smile. “That would be nice,” she said.
He went behind the bar and touched the old woman’s arm. “I hate to interrupt the game,” he said, “but the young lady would like to go to her room.”
“I don’t care about the game,” the old woman said. “I just watch it because everybody else does. I’ll get Obie to take care of things.”
“She’s coming,” the scarred young man said to the blind girl. “I’ll go up with you. I’m ready to turn in myself.”
The woman was already motioning for them and they followed her up a narrow staircase filled with foul odors. “They pee in here,” she said. “There’s toilets down at the end of the hall, but they don’t bother to use them.”
“How terrible,” the girl said.
“Yes, it is. But that way they’re getting away with something—they’re putting one over on me because they know if I was to catch them I’d throw them out. I try and catch them, but at the same time I feel sorry for them—it’s pretty bad when the only wins you have left are the games on the wall and cheating an old woman by dirtying her steps.” She paused at the top of the stairs for breath. “You two are going to be just side-by-side—you don’t mind that?”
The girl said, “No,” and the scarred young man shook his head.
“I didn’t think you would and they’re the last I’ve got anyway.”
The scarred young man was looking down the narrow corridor. It was lined with doors, most of them shut.
“I’ll put you closest to the bathroom,” the old woman was saying to the girl. “There’s a hook on the bathroom door, so don’t you worry. But if you stay in there too long somebody’ll start pounding.”
“I’ll be all right,” the girl said.
“Sure you will. Here’s your room.”
The rooms had been parts of much larger rooms once. Now they were subdivided with green-painted partitions of some stuff like heavy cardboard. The old woman went into the girl’s place and turned on the light. “Bed’s here; dresser’s there,” she said. “Washstand in the corner, but you have to bring your water from the bathroom. No bugs—we fumigate twice a year. Clean sheets.”
The girl was feeling the edge of the door. Her fingers found a chain lock and she smiled.
“There’s a dead bolt too,” the scarred young man said.
The old woman said, “Your room’s next door. Come on.”
His room was much like the girl’s, save that the cardboard partition (it had been liberally scratched with obscene words and pictures) was on the left instead of the right. He found that he was acutely aware of her moving behind it, the tap of her stick as she established the positions of the bed, the dresser, the washstand. He locked his door and took off his soaked coat and hung it on a hook, then took off his shoes and stockings. He disliked the thought of walking on the gritty floor in his wet feet, but there was no alternative except the soggy shoes. With his legs folded under him he sat on the bed, then unhooked the communicator from his belt and pushed 555-333-4477, the ruler’s number.
“This is Westwind,” the scarred young man whispered.
The ruler’s face appeared in the screen, tiny and perfect. Again, as he had so often before, the young man felt that this was the ruler’s real size, this tiny, bright figure—he knew it was not true.
“This is Westwind and I’ve got a place to sleep tonight. I haven’t found another job yet, but I met a girl and think she likes me.”
“Exciting news,” the ruler said. He smiled.
The scarred young man smiled too, on his unscarred side. “It’s raining very hard here,” he said. “I think this girl is very loyal to you, sir. The rest of the people here—well, I don’t know. She told me about a man in the terminal who tried to molest her and another man who wanted to protect her. I was going to ask you to reward him and punish the other one, but I’m afraid they were the same man—that he wanted to meet her and this gave him the chance.”
“They are often the same man,” the ruler said. He paused as though lost in thought. “You are all right?”
“If I don’t find something tomorrow I won’t be able to afford to stay, but yes, I’m all right tonight.”
“You are very cheerful, Westwind. I love cheerfulness.”
The good side of the scarred young man’s face blushed. “It’s easy for me,” he said. “I’ve known all my life that I was your spy, your confidant—it’s like knowing where a treasure is hidden. Often I feel sorry for the others. I hope you’re not too severe with them.”
“I don’t want to aid you openly unless I must,” the ruler said. “But I’ll find ways that aren’t open. Don’t worry.” He winked.
“I know you will, sir.”
“Just don’t pawn your communicator.”
The image was gone, leaving only a blank screen. The young man turned out the light and continued to undress, taking off everything but his shorts. He was lying down on the bed when he heard a thump from the other side of the cardboard partition. The blind girl, feeling her way about the room, must have bumped into it. He was about to call, “Are you hurt?” when he saw that one of the panels, a section perhaps three feet by four, was teetering in its frame. He caught it as it fell and laid it on floor.
The light the old woman had turned on still burned in the girl’s room and he saw that she had hung up her coat and wrapped her hair in a strip of paper towels from the washstand. While he watched she removed her black glasses, set them on the bureau, and rubbed the bridge of her nose. One of her eyes showed only white; the iris of the other was the poisoned blue color of watered milk and turned in and down. Her face was lovely. While he watched she unbuttoned her blouse and hung it up. Then she unhooked her communicator from her belt, ran her fingers over the buttons once, and, without looking, pressed a number.
“This is Westwind,” she said.
He could not hear the voice that answered her, but the face in the screen, small and bright, was the face of the ruler. “I’m all right,” she said. “At first I didn’t think I was going to be able to find a place to stay tonight, but I have. And I’ve met someone.”
The scarred young man lifted the panel back into place as gently as he could and lay down again upon his bed. When he heard the rattle of her cane again he tapped the partition and called, “Breakfast tomorrow. Don’t forget.”
“I won’t. Good night.”
“Good night,” he said.
In the room below them the old woman was patting her straggling hair into place with one hand while she punched a number with the other. “Hello,” she said, “this is Westwind. I saw you tonight.”
It was not until I prepared to write this author’s note that I realized that long before I wrote this story the great G. K. Chesterton had written an entire book in which all the members of a gang of revolutionaries, save its head and one other, were spies for assorted police agencies and government bureaus.
Its head was God.
The book is The Man Who Was Thursday. You can find a copy if you look, and I suggest you read it.
The Hero as Werwolf