“A vile slander on animals,” Michael said.
Galen went on, without appearing to hear him.
“You see, I am sure, how the various traditions mingle-pre-Christian superstitions, perversions of Christian theology, and a variety of mental aberrations, ranging from paranoia to autohypnosis and hallucination. But the elements of the classic Western werewolf legend are explicit. Some werewolves, as in the popular films, are helpless victims of a curse, involuntary skin-turners. Most are not innocent; they seek the change by diabolical means and use their animal form to satisfy bestial desires. According to these accounts, it is the soul, or astral body, of the man that takes the animal form. The real body lies in a cataleptic coma, barely breathing; but the astral form is actual, physical, in that it can inflict pain and death, and feel pain and death. Any wound inflicted on the animal is reproduced on the sleeping human body, and drawing the animal’s blood forces it to resume human shape. In some traditions, the beast can only be killed by a silver bullet, or by a sword which has been blessed by a priest. When death occurs, the body of the beast disappears and the body of the lycanthrope is found with the same wounds that killed the animal. Intelligent observers have already suspected the werewolf’s human identity because of such signs as hairy palms and eyebrows that meet in the middle. He is often strangely affected by the full moon. Has Gordon any of these traits, Mrs. Randolph?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Linda said disgustedly. “Those are old wives’ tales.”
Meeting Galen’s gently ironic eye, she began to laugh, helplessly.
“Oh, dear…that’s probably the craziest thing I’ve said yet. Maybe I’m not as far gone as I thought I was. No, I think Gordon belongs to your second category. How was it you phrased it? ‘The ability of a warlock to assume animal form was one of the powers granted by Satan to his disciples.’”
“It makes sense,” Galen said. “Given his past history, his dabbling in demonology as a young man, and his desire for control over others.”
Linda’s insane desire to laugh broke out again at the sight of Michael’s stupefied expression.
“Wait a minute,” he gasped. “First you said…And now you’re saying…”
“You seem to be degenerating,” Galen snapped. “I’m not telling you what I believe. I am endeavoring to ascertain what Randolph himself believes.”
“I think he believes it,” Linda said stubbornly. “What I just said.”
“I don’t know,” Michael said.
Galen rose. He seemed taller; from where Linda sat, on a low chair by the desk, he seemed to tower over her.
“Maybe we’d better ask him,” he said.
For the last few minutes, Linda had been partially aware of background noises, but in the immediacy of the conversation she had paid little attention. Now the meaning of the muffled sounds came home to her-a doorbell ringing, footsteps down the stairs and along the hall, the rattle of locks, and the opening and closing of the door. She sprang to her feet. The footsteps were coming down the hall, toward the study. Footsteps she knew. Gordon’s steps.
II
She was on her feet, halfway to the window in a mindless flight, when Galen’s hand caught her arm. His grip was as hard as steel.
“I’m sorry, I meant to warn you,” he said; the even voice contrasted alarmingly with the intensity of the hard hand on her wrist. “He came more promptly than I expected. Trust me, Linda. This has to be done.”
Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Michael.
“Just keep quiet,” he said rapidly. “Don’t look surprised, at whatever I say, and don’t contradict me or volunteer anything. If you weren’t half-witted tonight, I wouldn’t have to tell you-”
There was no time for further speech. The door of the study opened. Linda had a glimpse of the impassive manservant who had admitted them to the house; behind him was Gordon.
Without meaning to move, Linda managed to get behind Galen. He had released his grip on her arm. There was no need for further constraint, and he must have known it. She was as incapable of movement as she was of speech.
Gordon’s fine dark eyes moved slowly over the three faces confronting him.
“My poor little errant wife,” he said, “and-friend. I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting you, Dr. Rosenberg, but of course your reputation is well known. It was good of you to call me.”
“Sit down, Mr. Randolph,” Galen said equably. He did not, Linda noticed, offer the other man his hand.
Gordon took the chair indicated. He seemed perfectly at ease, except for the weariness in his face-normal in a man who has been trying to track down an insane wife.
Carefully, he did not look at Linda. He was acting again, and doing it well, simulating wary concern, pretending he didn’t want to frighten her… He looked at Michael instead, and a pathetic shadow of his old charming smile touched his mouth.
“Sorry, Mike. I’ve been a little off my head the last few days, or I wouldn’t have thought-what I’ve been thinking. And all the time you were planning this. I’m eternally in your debt.”
It was a little obvious, even for Gordon. Linda knew quite well what he was doing, but being able to analyze his methods did not make her immune. Huddled on the low hassock where Galen’s ruthless arm had deposited her, she fought a doubt she had thought long conquered-doubt of Michael, and of the doctor to whom he had brought her.
Michael said nothing. He was standing, as if he felt more secure on his feet. His wooden-faced silence did nothing to relieve Linda’s doubts.
The silence deepened. Galen, who had seated himself behind his desk, picked up a pen and began scribbling with it. His eyes intent on the meaningless doodles with which he disfigured the pristine surface of the desk blotter, he was humming under his breath, and-Linda realized-flatting badly.
It was a crude trick, but Gordon succumbed. Linda didn’t see the crack in the barrier at first, it was so small. Only later, when she recalled the interview, did she appreciate Galen’s over-all strategy.
“I’m grateful to you, too, Doctor,” Gordon said. “But I don’t quite understand…May I speak to you alone?”
“Why?”
Galen did not look up from his doodling. Critically he studied a scribble which looked like an arrow, and carefully added three oblique lines to represent the feather at the end of the shaft.
“To discuss what’s to be done.”
“That concerns all of us,” Galen pointed out. “Your wife has told me a very disturbing story, Mr. Randolph.”
He looked up; and Linda, who had felt the full effect of that passionless stare, was not surprised to see Gordon recoil slightly.
“Disturbing?” he repeated.
Galen, who had returned to his drawing, nodded vaguely.
“In what way?”
Galen shook his head and went on doodling. By now the precise movements of his pen had caught everyone’s attention. Gordon was almost craning his neck to watch, and the distraction had shaken his concentration.
“I must insist, Doctor,” he said; his voice was no longer pleasant.
“On what grounds?”
“Why-because she is my wife. I have the right-”
“You have no right.” Galen’s voice was remote. “Your wife has placed herself under my care. I called you in to ask you about certain statements she has made, not to report to you.”
Gordon rose to his feet in a single powerful surge, his face distorted by the expression few people other than Linda had seen. Disregarding his instructions, Michael took a step forward, but it was Galen who stopped Randolph, with a single small gesture of his right hand, so quickly done that Linda could not have described it.
The effect on Gordon was astounding. He fell back, his face losing its color. Then, as if compelled, he leaned forward and looked at the drawing Galen had made.
“The College,” he said, in a choked voice. “You are one-”
“Oh, yes,” Galen said cheerfully.