The trainer who hated Pluto had a face as blank as a vampire’s mirror. Fergus O’Breen was speechless with wonderment. Even Gloria Garton permitted surprise and interest to cross her regal mask.
“You mean he can do anything?” gurgled the man who used to have a violet beret.
“Anything,” said Mr. Manders.
“Can he— Let’s see, in the dance-hall sequence…can he knock a man down, roll him over, and frisk his back pocket?”
Even before Mr. Manders could say, “Of course,” Yoggoth had demonstrated, using Fergus O’Breen as a convenient dummy.
“Peace!” the casting director sighed. “Peace…Charley!” he yelled to his assistant. “Send ’em all away. No more tryouts. We’ve found Tookah! It’s wonderful.”
The trainer stepped up to Mr. Manders. “It’s more than that, sir. It’s positively superhuman. I’ll swear I couldn’t detect the slightest signal, and for such complicated operations, too. Tell me, Mr. Manders, what system do you use?”
Mr. Manders made a Hoople-ish kaff-kaff noise. “Professional secret, you understand, young man. I’m planning on opening a school when I retire, but obviously until then—”
“Of course, sir. I understand. But I’ve never seen anything like it in all my born days.”
“I wonder,” Fergus O’Breen observed abstractly from the floor, “if your marvel dog can get off of people, too?”
Mr. Manders stifled a grin. “Of course! Yoggoth!”
Fergus picked himself up and dusted from his clothes the grime of the stage, which is the most clinging grime on earth. “I’d swear,” he muttered, “that beast of yours enjoyed that.”
“No hard feelings, I trust, Mr.—”
“O’Breen. None at all. In fact, I’d suggest a little celebration in honor of this great event. I know you can’t buy a drink this near the campus, so I brought along a bottle just in case.”
“Oh,” said Gloria Garton, implying that carousals were ordinarily beneath her; that this, however, was a special occasion; and that possibly there was something to be said for the green-eyed detective after all.
This was all too easy, Wolfe Wolf-Yoggoth kept thinking. There was a catch to it somewhere. This was certainly the ideal solution to the problem of how to earn money as a werewolf. Bring an understanding of human speech and instructions into a fine animal body, and you are the answer to a director’s prayer. It was perfect as long as it lasted; and if Fangs of the Forest was a smash hit, there were bound to be other Yoggoth pictures. Look at Rin-Tin-Tin. But it was too easy….
His ears caught a familiar “Oh,” and his attention reverted to Gloria. This “Oh” had meant that she really shouldn’t have another drink, but since liquor didn’t affect her anyway and this was a special occasion, she might as well.
She was even more beautiful than he had remembered. Her golden hair was shoulder-length now, and flowed with such rippling perfection that it was all he could do to keep from reaching out a paw to it. Her body had ripened, too; was even more warm and promising than his memories of her. And in his new shape he found her greatest charm in something he had not been able to appreciate fully as a human being: the deep, heady scent of her flesh.
“To Fangs of the Forest!” Fergus O’Breen was toasting. “And may that pretty-boy hero of yours get a worse mauling than I did.”
Wolf-Yoggoth grinned to himself. That had been fun. That’d teach the detective to go crawling around hotel rooms.
“And while we’re celebrating, colleagues,” said Ozymandias the Great, “why should we neglect our star? Here, Yoggoth.”
And he held out the bottle.
“He drinks, yet!” the casting director exclaimed delightedly.
“Sure. He was weaned on it.”
Wolf took a sizable gulp. It felt good. Warm and rich—almost the way Gloria smelled.
“But how about you, Mr. Manders?” the detective insisted for the fifth time. “It’s your celebration really. The poor beast won’t get the four-figure checks from Metropolis. And you’ve taken only one drink.”
“Never take two, colleague. I know my danger point. Two drinks in me and things start happening.”
“More should happen yet than training miracle dogs? Go on, O’Breen. Make him drink. We should see what happens.”
Fergus took another long drink himself. “Go on. There’s another bottle in the car, and I’ve gone far enough to be resolved not to leave here sober. And I don’t want sober companions, either.” His green eyes were already beginning to glow with a new wildness.
“No, thank you, colleague.”
Gloria Garton left her throne, walked over to the plump man, and stood close, her soft hand resting on his arm. “Oh,” she said, implying that dogs were dogs, but still that the party was unquestionably in her honor and his refusal to drink was a personal insult.
Ozymandias the Great looked at Gloria, sighed, shrugged, resigned himself to fate, and drank.
“Have you trained many dogs?” the casting director asked.
“Sorry, colleague. This is my first.”
“All the more wonderful! But what’s your profession otherwise?”
“Well, you see, I’m a magician.”
“Oh,” said Gloria Garton, implying delight, and went so far as to add, “I have a friend who does black magic.”
“I’m afraid, ma’am, mine’s simply white. That’s tricky enough. With the black you’re in for some real dangers.”
“Hold on!” Fergus interposed. “You mean really a magician? Not just presti…sleight of hand?”
“Of course, colleague.”
“Good theater,” said the casting director. “Never let ’em see the mirrors.”
“Uh-huh,” Fergus nodded. “But look, Mr. Manders. What can you do, for instance?”
“Well, I can change—”
Yoggoth barked loudly.
“Oh, no,” Ozymandias covered hastily, “that’s really a little beyond me. But I can—”
“Can you do the Indian rope trick?” Gloria asked languidly. “My friend says that’s terribly hard.”
“Hard? Why, ma’am, there’s nothing to it. I can remember that time in Darjeeling—”
Fergus took another long drink. “I,” he announced defiantly, “want to see the Indian rope trick. I have met people who’ve met people who’ve met people who’ve seen it, but that’s as close as I ever get. And I don’t believe it.”