“Never despair, colleague. I’ve learned that magic gets you into some tight squeezes, but there’s always a way of getting out. Now, take that time in Darjeeling—”
“But what can I do? I’ll wind up like Confucius the werechow and live off charity, if you’ll find me somebody who wants a pet wolf.”
“You know,” Ozymandias reflected, “you may have something there, colleague.”
“Nuts! That was a joke. I can at least retain my self-respect, even if I go on relief doing it. And I’ll bet they don’t like na**d men on relief, either.”
“No. I don’t mean just being a pet wolf. But look at it this way: What are your assets? You have only two outstanding abilities. One of them is to teach German, and that is now completely out.”
“Check.”
“And the other is to change yourself into a wolf. All right, colleague. There must be some commercial possibilities in that. Let’s look into them.”
“Nonsense.”
“Not quite. For every kind of merchandise there’s a market. The trick is to find it. And you, colleague, are going to be the first practical commercial werewolf on record.”
“I could— They say Ripley’s Odditorium pays good money. Supposing I changed six times a day regular for delighted audiences?”
Ozymandias shook his head sorrowfully. “It’s no good. People don’t want to see real magic. It makes ’em uncomfortable—starts ’em wondering what else might be loose in the world. They’ve got to feel sure it’s all done with mirrors. I know. I had to quit vaudeville because I wasn’t smart enough at faking it; all I could do was the real thing.”
“I could be a Seeing Eye dog, maybe?”
“They have to be female.”
“When I’m changed I can understand animal language. Maybe I could be a dog trainer and— No, that’s out. I forgot: they’re scared to death of me.”
But Ozymandias’s pale blue eyes had lit up at the suggestion. “Colleague, you’re warm. Oh, are you warm! Tell me: Why did you say your fabulous Gloria was coming to Berkeley?”
“Publicity for a talent hunt.”
“For what?”
“A dog to star in Fangs of the Forest.”
“And what kind of a dog?”
“A—” Wolf’s eyes widened and his jaw sagged. “A wolf dog,” he said softly.
And the two men looked at each other with a wild surmise—silent, beside a bar in Berkeley.
“It’s all the fault of that damned Disney dog,” the trainer complained. “Pluto does anything. Everything. So our poor mutts are expected to do likewise. Listen to that dope! ‘The dog should come into the room, give one paw to the baby, indicate that he recognizes the hero in his Eskimo disguise, go over to the table, find the bone, and clap his paws gleefully!’ Now, who’s got a set of signals to cover stuff like that? Pluto!” He snorted.
Gloria Garton said, “Oh.” By that one sound she managed to convey that she sympathized deeply, that the trainer was a nice-looking young man whom she’d just as soon see again, and that no dog star was going to steal Fangs of the Forest from her. She adjusted her skirt slightly, leaned back, and made the plain wooden chair on the bare theater stage seem more than ever like a throne.
“All right.” The man in the violet beret waved away the last unsuccessful applicant and read from a card: “‘Dog: Wopsy. Owner: Mrs. Channing Galbraith. Trainer: Luther Newby.’ Bring it in.”
An assistant scurried offstage, and there was a sound of whines and whimpers as a door opened.
“What’s got into those dogs today?” the man in the violet beret demanded. “They all seem scared to death and beyond.”
“I think,” said Fergus O’Breen, “that it’s that big, gray wolf dog. Somehow, the others just don’t like him.”
Gloria Garton lowered her bepurpled lids and cast a queenly stare of suspicion on the young detective. There was nothing wrong with his being there. His sister was head of publicity for Metropolis, and he’d handled several confidential cases for the studio; even one for her, that time her chauffeur had decided to try his hand at blackmail. Fergus O’Breen was a Metropolis fixture; but still it bothered her.
The assistant brought in Mrs. Galbraith’s Wopsy. The man in the violet beret took one look and screamed. The scream bounced back from every wall of the theater in the ensuing minute of silence. At last he found words. “A wolf dog! Tookah is the greatest role ever written for a wolf dog! And what do they bring us? A terrier, yet! So if we wanted a terrier we could cast Asta!”
“But if you’d only let us show you—” Wopsy’s tall young trainer started to protest.
“Get out!” the man in the violet beret shrieked. “Get out before I lose my temper!”
Wopsy and her trainer slunk off.
“In El Paso,” the casting director lamented, “they bring me a Mexican hairless. In St. Louis it’s a Pekinese yet! And if I do find a wolf dog, it sits in a corner and waits for somebody to bring it a sled to pull.”
“Maybe,” said Fergus, “you should try a real wolf.”
“Wolf, schmolf! We’ll end up wrapping John Barrymore in a wolfskin.” He picked up the next card. “‘Dog: Yoggoth. Owner and trainer: Mr. O. Z. Manders.’ Bring it in.”
The whining noise offstage ceased as Yoggoth was brought out to be tested. The man in the violet beret hardly glanced at the fringe-bearded owner and trainer. He had eyes only for that splendid gray wolf. “If you can only act…” he prayed, with the same fervor with which many a man has thought. “If you could only cook…”
He pulled the beret to an even more unlikely angle and snapped, “All right, Mr. Manders. The dog should come into the room, give one paw to the baby, indicate that he recognizes the hero in his Eskimo disguise, go over to the table, find the bone, and clap his paws joyfully. Baby here, hero here, table here. Got that?”
Mr. Manders looked at his wolf dog and repeated, “Got that?”
Yoggoth wagged his tail.
“Very well, colleague,” said Mr. Manders. “Do it.”
Yoggoth did it.
The violet beret sailed into the flies, on the wings of its owner’s triumphal scream of joy. “He did it!” he kept burbling. “He did it!”
“Of course, colleague,” said Mr. Manders calmly.