PROLOGUE

His is the House of pain.

His is the Hand that makes.

His is the Hand that wounds.

His is the Hand that heals.

—H. G. Wells, The Island of Dr. Moreau

Janos Volkov was curled up, shivering, on one of the benches in Whitechapel Station. waiting for the change. Ile always knew when it was about to conic: he always dreaded it. There was no cure short of death and he could no more kill himself than he could disregard the programmed imperatives locked within the cybernetic implant in his brain.

The East London Railway platforms were deserted at this late hour in this far from the best of neighborhoods. The platform was built around an open cutting. between strong retaining walls of cool, damp stone. The roof was high. to allow for the dispersion of the fumes given off by the steam engines. Covered gaps at the top allowed the steam to escape. Giant cast-iron ribs supported the roof and large stone archways spanning the tracks served to brace the walls. The underground was still relatively new. not quite twenty years old. but like most of the soot-blackened city, the stations and the tunnels had already taken on the appearance of great age, resembling catacombs with tracks running through them.

As Volkov huddled on the platform bench in fetal position. sweating and racked with fever spasms alternating with chills, the train pulled into the station, making its last scheduled run of the day. A few passengers got off. Several of them glanced at Volkovwith disgust as they passed and quickly looked away. A tall and well-dressed

gentleman in a black inverness and top hat made a brief comment to his companion about how something should be done about the drunken derelicts cluttering up the city, though in this neighborhood, such a sight was not at all unusual. Neither gentleman seemed to have any objection to the derelict women walking the streets of Whitechapel, whose favors they had come seeking. Volkov ignored them. He barely even heard them. There was a roaring in his ears and he hugged himself tightly, his teeth chattering. His teeth were unusually long and sharp, especially the canines. He was not a tall man, but he was powerfully built, not at all the sort of physical development one would expect to accompany the dissipation of advanced alcoholism. But then, Janos Volkov was not an alcoholic.

As the last of the passengers left the platform, the measured footsteps of a police constable echoed throughout the once again deserted station as he approached the huddled figure on the bench. Constable Jones was on his way home to his wife after a long day of walking his beat. He had missed the train and he was irritated. He stood over the shivering form for a moment, his hands clasped behind his back, clutching a small truncheon as he rocked back on his heels.

"Ello, 'ello," he said in a strong Cockney accent. "Wot's this then. eh? Go on with ya, old sod, ya can't sleep 'ere."

There was no reaction from the shivering man curled up on the bench.

“'Ere, move along now," said Constable Jones. tapping Volkov lightly on the soles of his boots with his truncheon. The touch of the truncheon seemed to send a galvanizing charge through Volkov. He jerked and thrashed on the bench, as if in the throes of an epileptic fit. A low growl escaped his throat.

"'Ere, none o' that, now," said the policeman, raising his voice. "Get on with ya. Move along. I said."

He prodded Volkov in the side.

Volkov jerked around with a snarl. The policeman's eyes grew wide and his jaw dropped as he hacked away involuntarily, staring at the wild, yellowish eyes, the snarling mouth flecked with foam, the face all covered with hair, the long, protruding teeth. . . .

Volkov crouched on the edge of the bench, growling low in his throat, his clawed hands digging into the wood, his eyes staring at the policeman with a baleful glare. His unruly grey hair hung down to his shoulders, which were hunched as he crouched upon the bench, his legs bent under him, prepared to spring.

"'Ere you," said Jones. swallowing hard and backing any from him fearfully, "you stop that, now, understand?" Volkov leaped.

Constable Jones had enough presence of mind to drop down to the ground. ducking beneath the leap, which carried Volkov several yards past him. He grabbed for the whistle on the end of his lanyard, brought it to his lips, and blew three shrill blasts in rapid succession. Volkov crouched several yards away from him. growling like a beast, his teeth bared in a snarl, saliva dribbling down onto his chest. The policeman turned and ran.

Moving with astonishing speed. Volkov sprang after him and caught him before Jones had run ten feet. He leaped and brought him down hard to the stone floor of the platform, his claws digging deep into the policeman's shoulders. Constable Jones cried out and rolled over beneath him. fighting for his life. He made a fist and struck Volkov in the face with all his might, but the blow had almost no effect. With a roar, Volkov raised his right hand, fingers hooked like talons, and brought it down in a slashing motion across the constable's face.

Jones screamed as the long claws opened up his face from his left temple to the right side of his jawbone. And then the snarling mouth plunged down. Sharp teeth fastened in his throat, ripping it open, severing the jugular and sending a fountain of arterial blood spurting out into Volkov's savage face. The policeman's frenzied screams became a horrible gurgle and then there was no sound at all except for the sounds of Volkov feeding.

Inspector Grayson pulled back the bloody sheet, allowing his companion to inspect the body lying on the table in the morgue. Unlike the sallow, thin-featured and clean-shaven Grayson, he was robust, thirty-five years old, six feet tall and broadshouldered. with a tanned complexion, thinning dark hair and a thick, bushy, dark moustache. He examined the wounds in a professional manner.

"The constable's name was Jones," said Grayson. "Allan Jones. Worked out of Bishop's Gate Station. He was a good lad, according to his sergeant, strong, alert, not one to dawdle about. The body was S discovered on the Whitechapel platform by a . ." He paused to consult his notebook. ". .. a Mr. Randall Jarvis, track maintenance engineer for the East London Railway. The time of discovery was approximately four a.m. Apparently, there were no witnesses. What do you make of the wounds, Doctor?"

"Interesting," said the large man in the tweed suit. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and removed a large bowled briar. He took out a rolled leather pouch filled with shag tobacco and started to pack his pipe.

"Those slash marks across his face," said Grayson, "and the way the throat's been torn open, suggest to me some soil of sharp, pronged instrument. Like one of those garden tools, you know, what the devil do you call it?"

"A garden fork?" the doctor said, puffing his pipe alight. "No, I shouldn't think so. Something like that would tear the flesh a great deal more than this and the force with which the assailant would have had to strike should have left a bruise at the initial point of entry. Unless the instrument was filed to the sharpness of a razor. Still, that would seem unlikely, especially given the manner in which the throat was torn out. The same instrument clearly did not create both wounds.

"What the devil would have done it, then?" said Grayson.

"Unlikely as it may seem," his companion said, staring at the body and puffing out a cloud of strong Turkish tobacco smoke, "the character of the wounds would seem to indicate an animal of some sort. Those seem to be claw marks across the face of the deceased and the throat appears to have been torn open by teeth. Observe also the markings on the shoulders."

"An animal!" said Grayson. "The devil you say! What sort of animal? A rabid hound, perhaps?"

"Unlikely. If it was a hound, then it would need to be a very large one indeed. Note the spacing of the marks upon the deceased's face. Imagine the size of the paw that would have made those wounds. However, you'll notice that there are five slash marks. A dog has only four claws on its forepaw and they are hardly sharp enough to create wounds such as these."

"What then?" Grayson said. "A jungle cat? Some animal escaped from a circus or the zoo?"

"Again, not very likely, for the same reason I've just mentioned. The number of claws would be insufficient. Besides, there have been no recent reports of any such animals escaping from the zoological gardens and at present, there are no circuses in town. Look here."

He made a claw of his right hand and positioned it over the wounds.

"Good Lord!" said Grayson. "Surely you're not suggesting that a human hand could have done that!”

"A hand not unlike a human's, at the very least. You see. Grayson? An opposed thumb is called for. It is possible that a great ape might have done it, one of the larger primates. such as an orangutan. I believe there is such a creature at the Zoological Gardens. However, them have been no reports of its escaping, though it would be simple enough to make an inquiry. Even so, it would seem highly unlikely that such a creature could manage to make its way from Regent's Park to Whitechapel unobserved by anyone. It is a curious matter, indeed."

"A bloody headache. is what it is." said Grayson. "Something like this could get entirely out of hand. What would your Mr. Sherlock Holmes have made of this'!"

Conan Doyle smiled. "I was waiting for you to ask me that," he said.

"Somehow, I did not think that it was only my medical expertise that you were seeking. Those damned stories have become something of a nuisance for me."

"Come now, Doctor," Grayson said, "surely you can employ some of this art of deduction that you write of so convincingly to cast some light upon this case. After all, the creator of a detective as brilliant as Sherlock Holmes must surely possess some of his abilities."

"You flatter me, Inspector." said Conan Doyle. "However, Sherlock Holmes is dead and dead he shall remain. I have had such an overdose of him that I feel towards him as I do towards pate de foie Eras, of which I once ate too much, so that the name of it gives me a sickly feeling to this day. I tossed him over the falls at Reichenbach and there's an end to him. And although I must admit that assisting Scotland Yard in an actual case intrigues me. it would do much to increase the already intolerable clamor for more of my stories about Holmes if word of this were to get out."

Grayson cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Yes, well, with all due respect. Dr. Doyle," he said, "perhaps in that case you will understand why I would very much appreciate it if this consultation were to remain strictly unofficial. Soliciting your opinion as a medical man is one thing, however—"

"Consulting a writer of popular fiction would be quite another," Conan Doyle said. "I quite understand. The slant the newspapers would give to such a consultation could prove somewhat embarrassing to Scotland Yard. And it would be no less embarrassing to me, come to think of it, if I proved unable to assist you in any way." He chuckled and clapped the man on the shoulder. "You can set your mind at ease, Grayson. We shall keep this matter strictly between ourselves."

Grayson sighed gratefully. "I'm so glad you understand. Doctor. Frankly, I must admit that I am baffled by this case. And if, as you suggest, we are indeed faced with some wild animal running about loose in the East End, there could be widespread panic. Something must be done and quickly."

"Well, let us see what Constable Jones has to tell us about his assailant," Conan Doyle said, bending down over the body. "Hold my pipe a moment, will you. Grayson? Thank you. Now, it would seem reasonable to assume that a stout young man like Jones would not surrender his life meekly. He would certainly have struggled. Therefore, it is entirely possible that if we were to examine underneath his fingernails . . . ah, what have we here?"

"What is it?" Grayson said, leaning forward intently.

"If you would be so kind," said Conan Doyle, pointing, "I noticed a small wooden box beside that microscope there on the counter. undoubtedly it holds some glass slides. No. no, bring the entire box, please. The slide must be quite clean. Thank you. Ah, yes, perfect. Now, we shall place our find upon this slide here . .

"What is it," said Grayson, bending over and squinting at the slide. "Hair?"

"So it would appear," said Conan Doyle. "Now, the question is, what sort of hair?"

"Can you tell just by looking at it through the microscope?" said Grayson.

"To some extent," said Conan Doyle. "I have studied zoology and there are certain differences to be observed between human and animal hair, coarseness of the fibre, for example, the thickness of the shaft . . . let's sec now, ah, there we have it." He peered into the microscope. "It has been some time since I have observed various samples of animal hair through a microscope while at Edinburgh University, but I am fortunate in that I possess an excellent memory. I had given some thought to writing a monograph upon the subject, but ... well! That is curious!"

"What is it, Doctor?" Grayson said. "What do you see?" "See for yourself," said Conan Doyle.

Grayson squinted through the eyepiece, then straightened up with an apologetic shrug. "I never studied zoology," he said. "I couldn't tell that bit of hair from one plucked out of my own head.••

"If that sample had been obtained from your own head." said Conan Doyle. "I would be tempted to make a most unorthodox diagnosis of your condition, Grayson. In that event, I would suspect that you were suffering from a disease generally regarded as a form of insanity."

"And what disease would that be, Doctor?"

"Lycanthropy. Inspector Grayson. The belief that one is capable of becoming a wolf or, more specifically. a legendary creature known in folklore as a werewolf.”

1 ________

The man who came to the door of 7 Mornington Place in northwest London was of medium build, with blue eyes, light brown hair parted neatly on the side and a large, full and slightly drooping moustache that somehow did not quite seem to fit his boyish face. His eyes were expressive and alert as he gazed past Amy Robbins at the three strangers on his doorstep. They were well dressed. two men and a young woman. One man was clean-shaven, with angular features, blond hair and a hooked nose. The other was heavyset, muscular. with dark red hair and a full beard. The woman was very blond, statuesque, with an erect carriage and a very striking face.

"These people insist on speaking with you," Amy Robbins said. "I have told them you were very busy—"

"That's all right, Jane." he said, using her pet name. "How may I help you?"

"Mr. Wells?" said Finn Delaney.

"I am H. G. Wells. We have not met before?"

"No, sir. we haven't. My name is Finn Delaney. This is Mr. Creed Steiger and this is Miss Andre Cross. We have come a long way to speak with you on a matter of some importance. It concerns your writing. We understand that you are a busy man and we are quite prepared to compensate you for your time."

"Well, I must say, your offer is appreciated. but quite unnecessary. Do come in."

They entered the modest, but comfortable rooms. "May I offer you some tea?" said Wells.

"Please don't trouble yourself, Mr. Wells,•• said Steiger. "We won't take up much of your time.•"

"No trouble at all. Please, come this way."

He led them to a small and tidy study, filled with bookshelves and a writing desk. The desk had some papers spread out on it and a wastebasket beside the desk was filled with crumpled paper. Several of the crumpled sheets had missed the wastebasket.

"I have been busy writing articles for the Pall Mall Gazette," said Wells, picking up the errant litter. "Merely some light sketches, dialogues and essays, an occasional book review . . . excuse me, you are American, are you not?"

"Yes, Mr. Delaney and 1 are from the States." said Steiger. "Miss Cross is originally from southwest France."

"I see. Again, how may I help you? You mentioned something about my writing. I am astonished that anyone in America could be familiar with it. I have only recently begun my journalistic career."

"We were not quite so much interested in your articles for the Gazette." said Andre, "as in a story you once wrote called 'The Chronic Argonauts.' "

"Good God!" said Wells, sitting back with surprise. "That was some seven years ago! It was printed in the Science Schools Journal. I was only twenty-one at the time and woefully incompetent at writing fiction. I abandoned it after only three installments because I realized that it was hopeless and that I could not go on with it." He shook his head. "The story was clumsily invented and loaded with irrelevant sham significance, an entirely inept romance with the most absurd, rococo title. What possible interest could you have in it?"

Steiger spoke carefully. "Well, actually, Mr. Wells, it was not the story itself so much as the idea that intrigued us. The idea of traveling through time, that is. We are academicians of a sort, specializing in the sciences, and as such, our reading tends to be quite diversified. We were struck by the fascinating combination of ingredients in your story, philosophy, science, fiction. .. ."

"Science fiction," said Wells, pursing his lips thoughtfully. He smiled.

"Something of a contradiction in terms, is it not?

You know, it's interesting that you should say that, because lately I have been giving a good deal of thought to writing some short fictional pieces with a sort of scientific slant. My editor, Harry Cush mentioned that Lewis Hind, the literary editor of the Gazette's supplement, the Budget. might be interested in just that sort of thing. Short pieces that can be read in one sitting, you know. I had even given some thought to resurrecting that old story you just mentioned. rewriting it perhaps, with an entirely different slant."

"How did you happen to come by it?" said Andre. "I mean, what suggested it to you?"

Wells frowned. “I honestly don't recall. Miss Cross. You see, for years, I had been seeking rare and precious topics, 'Rediscovery of the Unique!' 'The Universe Rigid!' The more I was rejected, the higher my shots had flown. All the time. as it turned out. I had been shooting over the target. All I had to do was lower my aim—and hit. To be quite honest. I found the secret only recently in a hook by J. M. Bathe, called When a Man's Single. One of the characters in Barrie's book spoke of a friend of his who managed to sell articles based upon the most insignificant and everyday occurrences—the repairing of a pipe, the selling of a pair of old flower pots to a hawker, that sort of thing—and I realized that here was the formula for my salvation. I had been quite ill, you see, and my incapacity forced me into giving up my teaching and looking elsewhere for my livelihood. Writing seemed to be the only recourse for a man in my condition. Thankfully, I am much improved now, but things have come to such a pass that I am presently earning more money with my articles than I ever did in my class teaching days. It all started with a simple little piece on staying at the seaside and I've been dashing them off ever since. Apparently, people like to read that sort of nonsense. Frankly, I am both amused and astonished that my work should have attracted sonic scholarly interest . . . but 'The Chronic Argonauts,' of all things! How on earth did you manage to stumble upon it?"

"Our library collects a wide variety of periodicals. Mr. Wells," Delaney said.

"We were quite intrigued by what you might call some of the metaphysical implications in your story, unfinished though it was. We were anxious to discuss some of your ideas with you and. when circumstances brought us to England, we thought we would try to look you up."

Wells shook his head and chuckled. "Metaphysics? I am afraid that 1 cannot be of much help to you people in your ... uh. researches. I have sonic slight scientific training. true, but the idea of traveling through time is ludicrous, of course. Only a crank would take such a thing seriously."

He paused for a moment and cleared his throat uneasily. "Of course, I am not suggesting for a moment that you are cranks, you understand. Who is to say what strange courses will not lead to scientific knowledge? Science is a match that man has just got alight. And it is a curious sensation, now that the preliminary sputter is over and the flame burns up clear, for us to see only our hands illuminated and just a glimpse of ourselves and the patch we stand on visible, and all around us . . . darkness still." Wells smiled. "A slight paraphrase from my own 'Rediscovery of the Unique.' "

Has anyone else, that is, besides Mr. Cast at the Gazette, spoken to you of such matters?" said Andre. "Glimpses into the future of scientific endeavor such as traveling through time or biological experimentation?"

"What manner of biological experimentation?" Wells said, frowning faintly.

"Well, purely fictional, of course," said Andre. "The sort of thing one might make a story of. Examining the social implications of scientific discoveries, for example."

“Ah. I see. How very fascinating that a woman should be interested in such things. You arc, I perceive, one of these progressive women. Mind you, I entirely approve. Above all. I respect intelligence in women. Especially the intelligence to strive for social reform. I regard the idea of women in the work force. treated equally, as absolutely essential to our progress. But then I perceive that I am straying from your question. No. I do not recall discussing such ideas with anyone in particular. Such things as traveling through time I regard as useful fictional devices, tricks whereby one might pretend to look ahead and sec where our present course may lead. as you suggest. However, I must confess that I am still somewhat at a loss as to what your specific interest in all of this may be."

"Well, there is a . . . colleague of ours," said Steiger, "a Mr. Nikolai Drakov, who has been pursuing some rather, well. I

suppose you would think them farfetched experiments in the physical sciences. We thought perhaps you might have met him. "

"Drakov. A Russian gentleman?"

Delaney leaned forward intently. "You have met him?"

"No, no. I was merely commenting upon the name," said Wells. "No, it is entirely unfamiliar to me. Do you mean to tell me that I have inadvertently touched upon an actual topic of scientific research'? With a story such as 'The Chronic Argonauts"? It seems truly difficult to believe."

"Well, not specifically. Mr. Wells." said Delaney. "Let us say that you have strayed close to a somewhat peripheral field of study that our colleague is engaged in. However, it seems to have been purely coincidental."

"Indeed! How very odd! And how very intriguing. Tell me. is it possible that I might meet this Mr. Drakov?"

"Regrettably," said Delaney. "we have no idea of his current whereabouts. You see, Mr. Wells, it is a somewhat delicate matter and, well, if we may speak quite confidentially . ."

"By all means," said Wells. puzzled.

"Professor Drakov has been pursuing research that is quite esoteric and frankly, more than a little dangerous. It has not been very well received and it has caused him some difficulties that resulted in his disappearance. He had been working very hard, you see, and we have some reason to suspect that he has suffered some distress, a lapse, if you will, which caused him to feel persecuted and well— " -

"You are concerned about your missing colleague. about his health, and you are seeking information as to his whereabouts," said Wells. "And something in what I have written led you to believe that I may have discussed certain ideas with him'?"

"Apparently, we were wrong," said Steiger. "We're sorry to have taken up so much of your time. Mr. Wells."

“Think nothing of it," Wells said. "I regret that I could not be of assistance to you. but I have never met the gentleman and this is the first time that I have ever heard his name. You have reason to believe that he may seek me out?"

"We think it's possible that he may come here," said Andre. "And we are quite concerned for him. I suppose it is an unlikely possibility, but if by chance he should contact you, Mr. Wells, he may seem quite lucid, but if you were to humor him, andperhaps inform us confidentially—

"Without letting him know that I have spoken with you?" Wells said.

"We merely wish to sec that he receives the proper attention," Steiger said. "Or to satisfy ourselves that he has fully recovered from his collapse."

"I see. Well. I suppose there is no harm in it. How long will you remain in London?"

"Until we have completed our inquiries," said Steiger. "In any event, we will leave word where we can be reached at the Hotel Metropole. where we are staying."

"Well, if I should hear from your friend. I will certainly let you know." said Wells.

"Thank you," said Andre. "And now we really should leave you to your work."

Wells escorted them out.

"What was that about?" said Jane, after they had left.

"Most peculiar," he said. "Something about a crank professor involved in some sort of mysterious research and disappearing after suffering a breakdown. They thought I might have knowledge of him because of something they had read in one of my stories. Something which apparently by coincidence touched upon the nature of his research. I can't imagine what that might be: they were quite reticent about it. Very strange, indeed." He shook his head. "It seems that one of the hazards of the writing profession is that one attracts all manner of disquieting individuals. I must be sure to speak to Cust and instruct him not to give out my address."

"Well, that was a waste of time," said Steiger as they rode in their coach back to the hotel. It would be another year before Frederick Lanchester produced the first English four-wheeled car and Herbert Austin began to build his design in Birmingham. The traffic in London was still predominantly horse-driven, although there were quite a few bicycles and many chose to travel by rail in the underground. The Industrial Resolution was still relatively young.

Finn Delaney took off his top hat, loosened his tic and unbuttoned the bottom of his waistcoat. He looked at Steiger with amazement. "You call having an opportunity to meet H. G. Wells a waste of time?"

"I'm not as overwhelmed by literary celebrities as you seem to be," said Steiger wryly, "especially when they're teatime socialists. Besides, I was referring to the fact that we're no closer to finding Drakov than we were when we started this wild goose chase. If you ask me, we're really reaching this time."

"You didn't seem to think so when General Forrester suggested the idea," said Andre. Of the three, she was clearly the most uncomfortable. She did not appreciate the tightly constricted waists of late Victorian female fashions, so necessary to the highly desired "hourglass look." She preferred clothes that provided greater freedom of movement and she found the fashions of the Victorian era too tight in some places and too long and loose in others. She also did not care for the style which called for her to wear her hair up and she absolutely loathed the hats.

"Okay," said Steiger. "I'll admit I thought it was an interesting coincidence that he wrote about time travel in The Time Machine and biological experimentation that sounded a bit like genetic engineering in The Island of Dr. Moreau, but that doesn't mean Wells had contact with people from the future."

"It's a rather uncomfortable coincidence that the scientist Drakov abducted from the Special Operations Group's genetics project is also named Moreau," said Delaney.

"And that the beast-men Wells wrote about happen to resemble some of Moreau's genetically engineered creations. The point is that Wells hasn't yet rewritten 'The Chronic Argonauts.' The Time Machine will not be published for another year and The Island of Dr. Moreau did not appear until 1896. I think the Old Man was right. We need to satisfy ourselves that there was no temporal contamination involved in Wells' writing those stories."

"And by doing that, temporal contamination is exactly what we risk," said Steiger. He sighed. "Look, don't get me wrong, I respect Forrester and I thought this was a good idea at first, but I think Drakov has become an obsession with him. He once had a chance to kill him and he didn't do it, because he couldn't kill his own son. I'm not blaming him for that he couldn't have known what it would lead to, but the trouble is he's blaming himself and he won't let up. Something like that has to affect a man's judgment. I don't think contacting Wells was very smart. For all we know, Wells had forgotten all about that story. How do we know he didn't start thinking about it again as a result of our having brought it up? Okay, if that's the case, then no real harm's been done. After all. The Time Machine was written and WC didn't actually change anything. Maybe all we did was provide some reinforcement. But unnecessary contact with people who are influential in their time periods is risky. Wry risky. I think its better just to have him watched discreetly."

"We can do that," said Delaney, "but I think it's also important to establish contact. We need to be in a position of maximum effectiveness if Drakov shows up and causes a temporal disruption. Wells is going to become a pivotal figure in this time period. He's going to have contact with people like Einstein, Churchill, Roosevelt and Stalin--"

"As I recall, he found a lot to admire in Stalin," Steiger said dryly."Only one of history's greatest butchers."

"We know that," Delaney said, "hut Wells didn't. Don't forget, Roosevelt also found a lot to admire in Stalin at first. At the time, a lot of people thought he represented real hope for Russia. Dismissing Wells as a 'teatime socialist' is doing the man a real injustice. Creed. He was against Fascism and he was the first to Warn the world of the dangers of atomic warfare. And he also had the nerve to warn Stalin. to his face, that stifling dissent and instituting class warfare would do Russia a great deal of harm. He realized that the United States and the Soviet Union would become the superpowers of the 20th century and he was concerned about the effect of Stalin's policies not only on his own people, but also on world opinion. As Wells saw it. the United States and the Soviet Union had the same long-term goals—social progress—

and their means of reaching those goals were also the same—industrialization. It made sense to him that the two nations should work together, only he saw that what Stalin was doing was pushing them further and further apart."

"He was hopelessly naïve” said Steiger patiently. "He was one of those socialists who had this great dream of a world state, a utopia where everybody pulled together in the name of the common good. It always worries me when people start talking about 'the common good.' Once they start talking about it, they haven't got very far to go before they start passing laws for 'the common good.' Unfortunately, no one ever seems to agree on what 'the common good' is. The Council of Nations is a perfect example. A thousand years later and they're still trying to figure it out. That's how the Time Wars came about, remember? Present the present, fight your battles in the past; it's for 'the common good.' Notice how well that worked out? Seems to me somebody else in the 20th century had a great idea for a 'world state.' It was what Hitler called the Third Reich, wasn't it?"

"Oh, come on," Delaney said. "Wells wasn't talking about that kind of world state. He dreamed about a race of supermen, a sort of modern Samurai, but he wasn't talking about anything like Hitler's master race. His modern Samurai was an analogy for the type of people we are, educated and technologically sophisticated citizens of a democratic society. He foresaw a great deal of what actually did happen, a shrinking world, growing interdependence based on technology. He wrote about it in When the Sleeper Awakes, imagining a world in which everything was bigger and more crowded, there was more air transportation, more diversified and bigger economic speculation. He wrote about the future in A Story of Days to Come and A Dream of Armageddon and Anticipations. That 'teatime socialist,' as you call him, that young man who seems so happy right now to have found the secret of writing hack journalism successfully. later saw the future almost as clearly as if he had traveled there himself. Doesn't that make you wonder?"

"Maybe it would if he was a bit more accurate in his predictions," Steiger said. "That socialist 'world state' he was dreaming of, for example. It never did happen."

"Didn't it?" Delaney said. "To someone from this time period, our society might look a great deal like a socialist world state. In his autobiography, Wells wrote that one of the things he wanted most was to see a new form of education, particularly new ways of teaching old subjects. He was the first to envision something he called the subject of Human Ecology, where history wasn't taught from a perspective of memorizing useless facts and dates. but from an analytical standpoint, making it relevant to social movement. As he put it, "the end of all intelligent analysis is to clear the way for synthesis." He felt that only a sound analysis of history could bring it into context with current affairs and enable the forecasting of probable developments. As he put it; looking at life not as a system of consequences, but as a system of constructive effort. He was talking about Futurism, Creed, a field that didn't even begin to come into its own until the late 20th century! He was one of the first writers to recognize that there would be a change brought about in human relationships and human endeavors by increased facilities of communication. When McLuhan said the same thing in the 1960s, everybody thought it was an incredibly original insight, Because he called himself a socialist, Wells has been misjudged by history, criticized as being naive. In fact, he was among the first of the so-called socialists to attack Marxism, because he believed that it was based on a medieval approach, ignoring the use of scientific imagination.

"Look at the world he came from," Delaney said, gesturing outside the coach window. "A society built around a rigid class structure, the beginnings of industrialization in a world where illiteracy was the rule rather than the exception. People in this society were criticized when they tried to rise above their class, their 'station' in life. Wells realized that an industrial society built on a class system would have to wind up exploiting an uneducated working class. In this time period, the only visible alternative to that was socialism Phis was a time of labor demonstrations and riots. Wells was

responding to the temper of the times. He didn't sec how the system of weekly wages employment could change into a method of salary and pension without some son of national plan of social development. Socialism seemed to offer an answer."

"Share the wealth," said Steiger sarcastically. "From each according to his ability, to each according to his need, is that it? Christ, Finn, don't tell me you're seriously defending that kind of thinking!"

"I'm not. That was the Marxist line. But strictly speaking, labor unions are a socialist concept. Forget the word 'socialist' for a moment. Wells said, 'So long as you suffer any man to call himself your shepherd, sooner or later you will find a crook around your ankle.' Wells looked at America and said. 'The problem of personal freedom is not to be solved by economic fragmentation; the Western fanner last his independence long since and became the grower of a single special crop, the small shopkeeper either a chain-store minder or a dealer in branded goods, and the small entrepreneur a gambler with his savings and a certain bankrupt in the end.' Are those the words of a Communist or are they the words of someone who already saw the trend towards multinationals?"

"I hadn't realized you were such an authority on Wells," said Steiger. "You're quoting stuff that wasn't in the mission programming tapes. You couldn't have had time to bone up on his writings just to prepare for this assignment. Why the intense interest?"

"Because it all started with temporal physics. I've never fully understood 'zcn physics' and anything that I can't understand tends to drive me crazy," said Delaney.

"Hell, temporal physics drives everybody crazy," Steiger said. "There can't be more than a handful of people who've even got a grip on it. But ...what does that have to do with H. G. Wells?"

"The idea of temporal physics first appeared in science fiction." said Delaney. "and Wells was one of the lint to write what we now know as science fiction. He admitted that he didn't really understand physics, yet in some of his early essays. he was grasping at the same ideas scientists such as Planck and Bohr and Einstein grappled with. In that essay he mentioned to us so casually. 'The Universe Rigid.' he tried to explore the idea of a four-dimensional frame for physical phenomena. Ile tried to sell it to Frank Harris at the Fortnightly Review, but Harris rejected it because he found it incomprehensible and Wells wasn't able to explain it to him because he didn't fully understand it himself. He was reaching, trying to come up with something he called a 'Universal Diagram.' It took a genius like Einstein to formulate those ideas and revolutionize scientific thought, but Wells was already intuitively heading in that direction. He couldn't really see it, but he knew something was there.

"Once I realized how far ahead of his time Wells was," Delaney continued.

"I became interested and started studying his writings. People tend to think of him as merely a writer of imaginative fiction, but he was much more than that. He was an uncanny forecaster. He predicted Feminism, sexual liberation, Futurism and multinational economy. What Wells called 'socialism' wasn't really all that different from the democratic ideals of America from the late 20th century onward, Women in the work force, Sexual equality, Public education, Labor unions. National health plans, Social Security. What Wells did not realize was that these socalled 'socialist' ideas could exist within the framework of a capitalist society. But imagine how he would have perceived the society we came from, where governments don't behave like independent nations so much as like interdependent corporations. Would he have understood the subtle distinctions? I don't think so. The Council of Nations would have seemed like the governing body of a world state to him and, in a way, it almost is, Technological development created a world structured like a spiderweb—touch one strand of the web and you create movement in all the other strands as well. To someone from this time period, it would look like a single entity, a 'world state.' You're focusing on the socialist label, but remember that the socialist of the late 19th century became the liberal of the 20th century. Wells wrote about the unfeasibility of economic fragmentation, but political fragmentation also proved unfeasible. We never did develop exclusively along the lines of socialism or capitalism or libertarianism. What eventually happened was a sort of natural synthesis brought about by technological development and a shrinking economic world. It began in the 20th century, when America started to adopt certain so-called 'socialist' ideas to put them into practice in a democratic society and the Soviet Union began to adopt certain 'capitalist' ideas and put them to work in the framework of a totalitarian, communist society. They were still paying lip service to different ideologies and they were still antagonistic, but the technoeconomic matrix was already placing them on a course that would eventually intersect. Not even war could stop it. And that was precisely what Wells predicted, except he didn't use the same terms. Instead of a world state, what we wound up with is a sort of 'world confederation,' because the techno-economic matrix became a more powerful motivating force than any political ideology. It became a political ideology in itself and if you read him carefully, you'll realize that Wells knew it would happen!"

Steiger pursed his lips thoughtfully and sat in silence for a moment, thinking.

"You still think it was a waste of time?" said Andre.

"Maybe not," said Steiger. "And you're right, Finn, it does make me wonder. But the question is, did Wells arrive at his conclusions on his own or did they come about as a result of temporal contamination? And if they did ... what can we do about it?"

From the outside, the Lyceum Theatre resembled a small Greek temple, with its six tall columns supporting the roof over the entrance . Originally a concert hall, it later housed a circus and Madame Tussaud's first London wax museum. It was the meeting place of the Beefsteak Society and renamed the 'theatre Royal Opera House in 1815. After being destroyed by a fire, it was rebuilt and reopened as the Royal Lyceum and English Opera House. In 1871, an unknown actor named Henry Irving was hired to take the leading roles in the productions staged by Col. Hezekiah Bateman. Within a few short years, Irving had taken over the management of the Lyceum and he had become the rage of London, acclaimed as the Hamlet, the actor's actor. As he rehearsed the company in his own adaptation of Lord Tennyson's Becket. Henry Irving had no idea that he would soon reach the peak of his career by becoming the first actor to receive a knighthood.

"No, no. no!" he shouted, storming across the stage and running his hands through his long hair, his long, thin-featured face distraught. "For God's sake, Angeline, you must project!"

He said the word "project" as if it were two words, rolling the "r" (or emphasis. His strong, mellifluous voice filled the empty theatre.

"You are understudying Miss Ellen Terry! Consider the burden, the responsibility that is upon your shoulders! You arc whispering! No one shall hear you beyond the second row!"

The young blond actress covered her face with her hands. "I'm sorry, Mr. Irving," she said in a small voice. "I . . . I am not feeling very well. I ..."

She swayed and almost fell. Irving caught her, a sudden expression of concern upon his face He lifted her chin and looked into her face intently. "Good lord. Angeline, you're white as a corpse!"

"I am sorry. Mr. Irving." she said her voice fading. "I fell ...cold ... so very cold . . ." She sagged in his arms.

"Angeline!" said Irving, holding her up. "Angeline? Heavens, she's fainted. Stoker! Stoker!"

Irving's manager, a large, red-headed man with a pointed heard, came hurrying from the wings.

"Help me with her," Irving said. They gently lowered her to the stage.

"Angeline?" said Stoker. He picked up her hand and patted her wrist. There was no response. He placed his hand upon her forehead, then felt her pulse. "Dear God," he said. "She's dead!”

Irving gaped at him, thunderstruck. —Dead!" lie shook his head. "No, that's not possible. She merely swooned."

"There is no pulse, I tell you!" said Stoker. tic bent down and put his car close to her mouth and nose. "Nothing. Not a whisper of a breath.”

"Mother of God," said Irving. "And I said she was as white as a corpse!" He put his hand to his mouth.

Stoker felt for a pulse in her throat. He shook his head with resignation. "Her heart's stopped beating," he said "Hello? What's this?"

He pulled aside the lace at her throat. There were two small marks over her jugular vein.

"What is it, Bram?" said Irving.

"Take a look," said Stoker.

"Pinpricks?"

"More like bite marks," Stoker said.

"What?"

"Look how pale she is," said Stoker softly. "White as a corpse," he murmured, repeating Irving's words.

"What are you talking about?" said Irving.

"I am almost afraid to say it," Stoker said. "Perhaps my imagination is merely overactive. But those marks are not imaginary."

"Bram, for God's sake! What is it?"

"Have you read Carmilla. by Le Fanu?” Stoker said.

Irving stared at him uncomprehendingly. " What? Sheridan Le Fanu, the novelist? What are you . . . “ His voice trailed off as he stared at the marks on Angeline's throat. "You mean that story about a countess who was a—" He caught himself and lowered his voice so that only Stoker could hear him, "—a vampire?" He swallowed hard and shook his head. "No, no, that is absurd, a fantasy. Such creatures don't exist."

"How can we say for certain?" Stoker said. "I admit it sounds incredible. Henry. but how else can you explain those marks upon her throat?"

"She must have accidentally stabbed herself with something. a brooch. perhaps."

"Twice? Both times, directly over the jugular vein

"No. I have heard enough." said Irving. "I am sending everyone home before you have the entire cast in a panic."

"I do not think that would be wise," said Stoker. "The police will probably want to question everyone."

"The police! Must we have the police?"

"I see no avoiding it." said Stoker. "We have a dead young woman on our hands and no explanation for her demise. The police will have to be called in. An investigation must he

Irving passed his hand riser his eyes. "Oh, dear Heaven! Very well, Bram, you handle everything. But for God's sake, be careful what you tell them! Please, make no fanciful suggestions. As for myself, I am quite done in by all of this. God, she died in my very arms! If the police wish to speak with me, they can find me at home, but if there is any way it can be avoided--

"I will handle things. Henry." said Stoker.

"Yes. Yes, you'll see to everything, won't you?"

"I always do," said Stoker.

"And for Heaven's sake, no wild theories about ... you know."

Stoker glanced up at him and then looked back down at the dead girl. "Yes," he said. "I know."

2 ________

Electricity had come to London. but it had not yet arrived in Limehouse. Westminster Bridge was the first place to receive electric lighting in 1858, but it was not until 1887 that the first station of the Kensington and Knightsbridge Electric Lighting Company was opened. The first large power station started operation in Dwptford in 1889; the London Electricity Supply Company was formed and the city was lit electrically from fleet Street to Aldgate, but it took a long time for electricity to completely replace gas and in 1894, much of London was still illuminated by gaslight. The gas companies were consuming over six million tons of coal per year and the malting effects could be seen in London's famous fogs. An atmosphere permeated by soot particles had blackened the city's buildings and it was frequently so thick that coach traffic was forced to move at a snail's pace and pedestrian trawlers often became lost in their own neighborhoods due to lack of visibility.

The lime kilns around the docks which gave Limehouse its name dated back to the 14th century. It was a center of shipbuilding, a part of the industrial East End. Most of the area's residents were employed in the shipyards and on the ducks and most of them were poor. There was a large population of immigrant Chinese, especially around the Limehouse Causeway, where gambling houses and opium dens could be found by those in search of London's more decadent diversions. It was in Limehouse that Sax Rohmer's evil Oriental mastermind, Fu Manchu, made his London headquarters.

Just off the Limehouse Causeway, in a tiny side street that was little more than an alleyway, there was a small apothecary shop owned and operated by an elderly Chinese named Lin Tao. The old man was bowed and wrinkled, with a stringy white beard that reached halfway down his chest and a white braid that hung down his back to his waist. His forehead was high and he always wore a small, embroidered cap, not unlike a Jewish yarmulke. His slanted eyes, rather than giving him the so-called "cruel" aspect stereotypically attributed to his people. were soft and kind. He spoke English excellently, in a quiet, musical voice with a Chinese accent, and he lived in the back rooms of his establishment with his young orphaned granddaughter, Ming Li, whom he was educating in the trade.

Ming Li preferred to go by the name Jasmine, which had been bestowed upon her by an old ship's captain who frequently came to Lin Tao's apothecary shop for a preparation to ease the pain of his arthritis. Jasmine was the scent she wore and most of Lin Tao's non-Chinese customers called her by that name. She was nineteen years old and very beautiful, with thick, jet black hair that hung down to her hips and a narrow, oval face. She was as slender as a bamboo stalk and her legs were long and exquisitely formed. She had long since learned what most men wanted from her, but she was not as vulnerable as she looked. Although few people knew it, her grandfather, for all his withered appearance, was a master of an ancient Oriental form of combat and he had taught it to his granddaughter. In China, he had once been an important man. It was for that reason they had left, booking passage on a freighter of the Blue Funnel Line. Lin Tao had become too important and too well known. And his age had made him vulnerable to ambitious younger men. He had started anew in London and in Limehouse; he had become a respected man in the Chinese community. A man of authority, A man whose granddaughter no one in the know would touch, because an insult to Ming Li would have meant death. Besides, Jasmine knew how to protect herself. And Jasmine was in love.

The man Jasmine was in love with lived upstairs in a small room above the apothecary shop. He helped her grandfather in the shop and he seemed to know a great deal about the apothecary's art, though his knowledge was of a different sort than Lin Tao's. They often spent long evenings in discussion over tea, sharing their respective knowledge. The man was secretive about his past, but Lin Tao understood that and he had instructed Jasmine not to bother him with questions. He respected his boarder's privacy. He also respected his wisdom. This man had come into the shop two months ago, looking for work. He had been penniless. At first, her grandfather meant to turn away this bearded stranger with the shabby clothes, but it quickly became apparent to him that this man had culture. He also possesed a great deal of unusual knowledge, though he would not say how he came by it. He had proper manners, unusual in an occidental, and he spoke the language of the mandarins as if he had been born in China. He also spoke a number of other languages with equal fluency, a definite advantage in a community of Chinese and Lascars and numerous other foreigners, many from the ships that called at the West India Docks. He said he was a doctor. When Jasmine was alone, she sometimes said his name out loud to herself, enjoying the sound of it. Morro. Dr. Morro.

In her imagination, she had created a romantic past for him, knowing nothing of his real history. He had once been an important man, a man of position, but something terrible had happened, some tragedy which had hurt him deeply, making him turn his back on everything he knew. He kept this secret hurt close to his heart, punishing himself for whatever it was that he had done. He was an older man, old enough to be her father, but Jasmine did not see him in that light. She wondered what it would be like to ease his hurt, to take it from him with her love. to help him find his way to a place of position in the English society as a respected physician, a surgeon perhaps, in one of London's better hospitals with an office of his own in Harley Street and a fine home in Grosvenor Square which she would share with him as his wife.

But, although Dr. Morro was always kind to her, his manner towards her was more that of an uncle than a potential lover. He did not look at her as other men did, with desire clearly written in his eyes. And he was often preoccupied, so that sometimes he did not hear her when she spoke to him and she had to raise her voice slightly to break through his train of thought. There were times when he would be sitting with her grandfather, drinking tea and talking quietly, and they would abruptly stop their conversation the moment she came in. Then they would resume it once again, as if casually, but Jasmine knew that they were no longer talking about the same thing. Her curiosity got the best of her and she started to eavesdrop on their conversations. She learned that Dr. Morro was looking for a man, a man he was certain had to be somewhere in London. An evil man. And Jasmine knew that this evil man had somehow been the cause of Dr. Morro's troubles. His name was Drakov. It was not an easy name for her to say. Nikolai Drakov.

The Hotel Metropole on Northumberland Avenue was one of London's newer and more luxurious establishments. The soldiers of the Temporal Corps were gathered in the suite occupied by "Prof." Finn Delaney and his colleague, "Dr." Steiger, under their cover as visiting academic researchers from the States. Their

"secretary," Miss Andre Cross, occupied an adjoining suite, since an unmarried woman sharing rooms with two single men would have been considered a highly improper arrangement in this time period. The adjoining suites had become a temporal command post and the frequent comings and goings by the Temporal Corps soldiers stationed at various points in the city were structured to maintain the fiction of an ongoing research project funded by an American foundation, ostensibly the writing of a series of textbooks concerning the social history of England.

Members of the cleaning and maintenance staf had brought in several writing tables and they regularly found the suites cluttered with piles of books and papers which they had been specifically instructed not to disturb. The "student assistants" and "copyists" who supported the research made a point of frequenting several of the local pubs, where they could he observed in animated discussion over pints of bitters, engrossed in arguments about the history of the city and its people. Often, other patrons of the pub would be consulted for their "local expertise" and the word was that these young researchers and their professors were not bad sorts, for Americans; they were polite and enthusiastic about their subject, attentive listeners, full of questions.

No one suspected that these eager young academicians were anything other than what they seemed. In fact, the live young men and two young women were all soldiers from the 27th century, trained by the Temporal Observer Corps and programmed through their cerebral implants with more information about Victorian England than the average citizen could ever hope to possess. They each maintained two separate cover identities, one as members of an academic research team from America and another as British subjects. It was a complicated temporal stakeout which had taken months to set up, but for soldiers of the Temporal Corps, time was a flexible commodity.

Pvt. Scott Neilson had secured a position as a laboratory assistant at the Metropolitan Police crime lab in New Scotland Yard. Cpl. Thomas Davis had found work with The Daily Telegraph as a reporter. Pvt. Richard Larson had obtained employment with The Police Gazette. Pvt. Paul Ransome was a clerk with the Bank of England. Sgt. Anthony Rizzo was at the Public Record Office in Chancery Lane. Sgt. Christine Brant had found a job as a barmaid at the Cafe Royal. a hotbed of society gossip, and Pvt. Linda Craven was employed at the Haymarket Theatre, where she was an assistant to the wardrobe mistress and in excellent position to monitor the theatre district. They were temporal agents on the trail of a cross-time terrorist, a man named Nikolai Drakov.

"The interview of H. G. Wells did not produce any leads to the whereabouts of Drakov," Steiger was saying as he paced slowly in the sitting room of the suite. The support team was seated all around him, listening attentively. "I am of the opinion that maintaining contact with Wells is too risky. Captain Delaney does not agree. Lieutenant Crass is inclined to support Captain Delaney, but she is in favor of only the most limited contact for the present. Before we go any further with this briefing, I want to hear some feedback on that question. Opinions?"

"Is there any reason why we can't use our cover to legitimize further contact with Wells?" said Corporal Davis. "Since he's currently engaged in writing newspaper articles about everyday aspects of British life, wouldn't that support our consulting him in that capacity, as if we were asking him to help in our research?"

"No, that's definitely out," said Delaney. "Talking to people in pubs is one thing, but consulting Wells in that capacity would involve creating an episode in his life that never happened. We couldn't risk having him be involved in an academic project that never existed. We're supposed to be writing textbooks, remember? If he was to mention it in his own writings at any point, it would create the problem of having to alter any historical records he might leave. A bigger problem is that it might also affect the direction his own writing may take, since he did write historical works, and that would involve a risk of temporal contamination. Besides, he's completely dependent on his writing for his survival at this point and he's not going to be eager to have people pestering him for help in some sort of nebulous research project. —

"I agree•" said Sergeant Brant. She glanced at Davis and shook her head. "I don't think we can take the risk of getting close to Wells ourselves. The more contact we have with him, the more chance there is of our influencing him in some way. I'm in favor of covert surveillance. If Drakov contacts him, that may change everything, but why take unnecessary chances? We still haven't found any evidence of his presence here."

"I'm not so sure of that” said Private Neilson. "I was going to wait with this, but I think it may be important. Something unusual came up this morning at the crime lab. Late last night, a policeman was murdered at Whitechapel Station. His throat was torn open and his face was ripped to shreds. No one saw anything, but the man in charge of the case. Chief Inspector William Grayson. has issued specific orders to keep it quiet. And he's also brought in Dr. Conan Doyle to assist in the investigation in an unofficial capacity.”

"Arthur Conan Doyle?" said Delaney.

"Yes, the same man who wrote the Sherlock Holmes stories." said Neilson, nodding. "He's very sharp. He examined the body and concluded that the wounds on the face were inflicted by a clawed hand, with four fingers and an opposed thumb, and that the wounds on the throat were probably made by animal teeth. He also checked the fingernails of the deceased and found several small hairs, which he examined under a microscope. He said the hair apparently came from a wolf. I couldn't confirm that, because Doyle took the samples with him for further study, but I was able to examine the body. There was a significant loss of blood, which could be accounted for by the severed jugular, but there were also traces of human saliva around the wound. I couldn't find any more hair samples, but I managed to obtain some skin scrapings from under the deceased's fingernails. There's a limit to what I can do given the primitive equipment at the crime lab, so I brought the samples with me. I'll admit it's a long shot, sir, but I think there's a chance we may be looking at some custom-tailored DNA here. I'd like permission to clock back to base and see if there are any lupine chromosomes in this sample.”

"Wait a minute." said Steiger, “lupine chromosomes? Are you telling me you think this policeman was killed by a werewolf?"

"Well, you did say not to overlook any possibilities, sir, no matter how farfetched or remote,— said Neilson. "Since we know Drakov's been creating humanoid lifeforms through genetic engineering, I considered the various possibilities. Conan Doyle could be wrong, in which case we've got somebody running around in the East End who apparently likes to drink human blood and needs one hell of a manicure. Or else Doyle is right and those hairs he found were wolf hairs, in which case it could he that we've got a psycho with a blood fetish who's also got a trained wolf. Or maybe he puts sonic sort of metal claw tips on the ends of his lingers and wears a mask made out of real wolf hair, to make people think he's a werewolf. Or . . . he's really a werewolf. Chromosome mapping of the skin scrapings should tell us if we're dealing with a normal human or one that's been genetically designed."

Private Larson glanced from Neilson to Steiger. "A werewolf? Jesus, Fleet Street would have a field day with that. Especially after the Whitechapel murders."

"That was six years ago," said Corporal Davis, who was assigned to The Daily Telegraph. "There weren't any newspaper records of killings in London at this time that would lit that sort of pattern. Either it was completely hushed up or we've got a possible temporal anomaly on our hands."

"I think this may be the break we've been looking for, sir.— said Neilson.

"We know Drakov had Moreau design hominoids patterned after characters out of mythology, such as those creatures you encountered on your last mission. Well. why not a werewolf?"

"It's wild, but it sounds like just the sort of thing he might do," Delaney said, glancing at Steiger. "I say we check it out. It shouldn't take long."

"Do it,'• Steiger said to Neilson. "Set your warp disc for a thirty-second clot:Muck. I want that chromosome analysis now."

"Yes, sir," said Neilson. He programmed his warp disc and disappeared, clocking ahead to TAC headquarters in the 27th century.

He reappeared exactly thirty seconds later, looking tired and needing a shave. He looked slightly ill. Temporal transition often produced nausea and dizziness and some soldiers never became accustomed to it.

Well?" said Steiger.

"There's no doubt about it, sir," said Neilson, for whom hours had passed.

"I've been up all night, going over the results. I had them run the samples three times to verify the results. They came out the same each time. The chromosome maps of the samples show definite hybridization with lupine genetic material. probably virally fixated. It's got our genetics people tremendously excited. They say it's extremely sophisticated engineering, very trick. They're guessing that there's a hormonal trigger, which would make the change cyclical. Most of the time, the infected person probably looks completely normal, but once the hormonal cycle triggers expression of the lupine genes. a definite physical change would occur. It looks like we've got a real live werewolf on our hands, sir."

Damn," said Steiger. "We've hit pay dirt. Good work. Neilson. You've earned some rest. Go next door and get some sleep."

Neilson grimaced wryly. "Are you kidding? Who could think of sleeping at a time like this?"

"I want you to get some rest," said Steiger. "I'm going to need everybody at a hundred percent from now on. We can't afford any mistakes. A genetically engineered werewolf is bad enough. Conan Doyle's involvement raises the stakes. This could get real tricky."

"What about Wells?" said Delaney. "All things considered, we'd better keep tabs on him, too."

"Right," said Steiger. "It's not a wild goose chase anymore. Neilson, you follow Conan Doyle's involvement in the case down at the police lab. Keep me informed of Inspector Grayson's progress. I want to he notified the minute any similar killings occur. Rizzo , I want a report from the Public Record Office on all recent real estate leasehold transactions within the last six months. Ransoms, ditto with recent depositors at the Bank of England, anyone who opened accounts containing significantly large sums. Drakov likes to high roll. If he's here, you can be sure he's got a pile of money with him. I want those two lists compared as soon as possible. Brant, you're assigned to H. G. Wells. I want him under twenty-fourhour surveillance as of now. Private Craven will relieve you. You'll work in shifts. Quit your cover jobs, I'll want you completely mobile from now on. Andre, you take Conan Doyle when he's not down at the police lab. Be careful, we know he's highly observant, so don't get spotted. Finn. you relieve Andre. Davis and Larson, I want you two to continue covering Fleet Street. You know what to look for. If any of this breaks, try to get assigned to the stories. I want to be kept up to date on anything the newspapers get a hold of, before they get the information."

"Sir, if the story does break in the papers." said Davis, "we'll be expected to write something. How do you want us to handle the coverage?"

"Keep it reasonably straight," said Steiger. "Above all else, I want to avoid any sensational coverage that comes too close to the truth. Cooperate with the police. They'll appreciate reporters working with them for a change. That should give you an inside track. I don't want anybody writing stories about werewolves.

Play the other reporters off against each other. Do whatever you can to keep a lid on this."

"Yes. sir."

"All right. Drakov is here. probably somewhere in London. I want him nailed this time. The command post will he manned around the clock. I want that creature found and neutralized. but Drakov is the first priority. If you find the creature, don't kill it unless you absolutely have to. It could lead us to Drakov."

Neilson cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, sir, but with all due respect. I think we'd better concentrate on taking out the creature first. As soon as possible." I understand your concern. Neilson." said Steiger. "but Drakov has to be stopped and we're not going to be getting any reinforcements. Considering the crisis, we were lucky to get you people. We can try to minimize the loss of life, but there's no avoiding the fact that we're going to have casualties."

"I don't think you understood me, sir." said Neilson. "I'm sorry. I'm a little tired; I guess I didn't make it clear. Loss of life is not the only problem. There was just enough of the viral genome left in the lupine hybrid to render it infectious. This creature is contagious. sir. If any of its victims should happen to survive, there's a good chance they'll come down with a serious case of lycanthropy .'•

Steiger stared at him. "Infectious DNA?"

Delaney gave a low whistle, "Trust Drakov to come up with a real nightmare. Anybody know where we can get a good supply of silver bullets?"

"Why do you even bother to ask me for my opinion'?" said Ian Holcombe, the Yard's chief of forensics. "Why not simply trot down to Baker Street and ask Mr. Sherlock Holmes? He'll look at the soil markings on the dead girl's petticoats and tell you in which cow pasture she had her last assignation. He'll smell her handkerchief and trace down her lover through the chemist's where he bought her perfume. And then he'll examine the callosities on the lover's hands and prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the blackguard strangled her and there you'll have your case solved, neat as a pin. What do you need with me?"

"Steady on, Holcombe." Grayson said wearily. "I merely asked Dr. Doyle for his opinion on the case. Don't get your back up. I should think you'd be glad for the help. It's not as if you lack for things to do."

"Wolf hairs, indeed!" said Holcombe. "Wolves in London! Next I expect he'll he telling us that Westminster Abbey is infested with vampire hats!"

"Ian, just tell me what caused this young woman's death and I'll cease troubling you." said Grayson. "I've had a long night and I am very tired. I haven't even had an opportunity to cat breakfast this morning."

"Well, I beg your pardon," Holcombe said with exaggerated courtesy, snorting through his thick moustache. "You're not the only one who's overworked, you know. My assistant hasn't shown up yet and I'm trying to do twenty things at once. Tell me, do you think you could manage to bring me a corpse that expired in some ordinary manner, shot or stabbed or hacked to pieces with an axe, perhaps? Why do you insist on finding people who have been torn to pieces by wild animals or drained of all their blood?"

"Holcombe, what in Heaven's name are you talking about?" said Grayson.

"This girl," said Holcombe. gesturing at the sheet-shrouded body on the table.

"She died from shock brought about by a profound loss of blood. Insult to the system, you know. It's astonishing that she had the strength to move about at all."

"What caused it?" Grayson said.

"Undoubtedly, she was bled by Sweeny Todd, the demon barber of Fleet Street." Holcombe said sarcastically. "Perhaps it happened when she went in for her shave. Or some Styrian countess gave her a love bite. how should I know? Why not call Le Fanu and ask him? Better yet, call Robert Louis Stevenson. Maybe Mr. Hyde was in need of a transfusion."

"Ian. please . . .." said Grayson, shutting his eyes.

"Well, look for yourself ,” said Holcombe, throwing back the sheet. "All I could find were those two marks on her throat there. See? It's obvious. Varney the Vampire has claimed another victim. Call Thomas Prest, he wrote the book, ask him what old Varney has been up to lately. Scribblers of penny dreadfuls in the crime lab! I've never heard of such a thing! This isn't Scotland Yard anymore, it's a bloody literary society. Ah. Neilson, there you are! Where the devil have you been? You look as if you have been up all night. Do you think I could manage to distract you from your carousing long enough to get some work done?"

"I'm sorry. Dr. Holcombe," said Neilson, putting on his apron. "I'm afraid I overslept this morning. I—"

"I don't wish to hear any excuses. I'd simply be tremendously flattered if you managed to show up on time. This place is a veritable madhouse. People coming and going, why already this morning you have missed Miss Mary Shelley. She was here with Inspector Grayson, looking for the odd spare part or two."

"Ian, is it even remotely possible that I might get a straight answer from you this morning?" Grayson said, exasperated.

"I don't know how she managed to lose such a great deal of blood," said Holcombe. "There. are you satisfied? I've proven my ineptitude. Perhaps she was a hemophile. Perhaps young Neilson did it, he was obviously out all night, stalking unwary actresses. Open your mouth. Neilson, let's see your teeth."

"Sir?" said Neilson. frowning.

"We seem to be infested with wolves and vampires this week," said Holcombe.

"Do try to keep up, Neilson. Inspector Grayson has promised us a surprise later in the afternoon. He's going to bring us someone who's been turned to stone by one of the Gorgon sisters. Oh, and while you're at it. after you've finished cleaning up, see if you can find me a large mallet and a wooden stake. It wouldn't do to have this young lady stumbling about the lab and knocking things over after we have closed up for the night."

There was a knock at the laboratory door. Neilson opened it to admit Conan Doyle. "I was told that I could find Inspector Grayson here," said Doyle.

"Ah. there you are, Watson!" said Holcombe. "Come in. conic in. the game's afoot! Professor Moriarty has bitten an actress in the neck and we're all terribly concerned! Do let me know how it all comes out. I'm off to down a few pints myself. at the pub across the street. I'm obviously only in the way here!"

He stormed past an astonished Conan Doyle and slammed the door on his way out.

"Has that man gone mad?” said Doyle.

Grayson sighed. "Please accept my apologies. Dr. Doyle. I'm afraid that Holcombe's not himself today. Apparently, his professional pride's been stung a bit over—"

"Say no more, I quite understand." said Conan Doyle. "In point of fact, I am something of an interloper here. I think I can understand his irritation."

"Ian Holcombe's a good man," said Grayson. "I suspect his irritation is directed more at himself than at you. It seems I've brought him another body to confound him.•'

"What'? Not another one?" said Doyle, coming closer.

"No, not a 'werewolf this time," Grayson said, smiling wryly. "This time, we apparently have the victim of a vampire."

"A what?"

" See for yourself." said Grayson. "Miss Angeline Crewe, an actress with Mr. Irving's company at the Lyceum. She collapsed on stage during a rehearsal and apparently died within moments of her collapse. Notice the marks upon her throat."

"Hmmm. yes. I see." said Conan Doyle. "Definitely teeth marks. And cause of death was a significant loss of blood?"

"Yes, that is what Holcombe said. An insult to the system, as he put it. Surely you're not suggesting that she was killed by a vampire?"

"Rubbish, Grayson." said Conan Doyle. "That's utter nonsense. What have we to do with walking corpses who can only be held in their graves by stakes driven through their hearts? It's pure lunacy. However, the vampire of legend was not necessarily a dead man. A living person might have the habit. I have read, for example, of the old sucking the blood of the young in order to retain their youth. We must seek our answers among the natural, rather than the supernatural phenomena."

"What do you mean?" said Grayson.

"There are any number of contributing factors that could combine to sustain the legend of an undead vampire." Conan Doyle said. "For example, did you know that teeth appear longer in an exhumed corpse because the tissue of the gums" shrinks after death?"

"I didn't know that," Grayson said.

Conan Doyle nodded as he examined the body. "It's quite true. In the past, there were few, if any, truly reliable tests for death, you see, and this gave rise to an uncommon number of premature burials. You will, no doubt, be familiar with the practice once followed by many of the coffin makers, who had devised various sorts of bellfries to stand atop the graves, with ropes leading down through tubes into the coffins so that someone buried prematurely could pull upon the rope and ring the bell as a signal for rescue. It never proved to be a very practical solution. Exhumed corpses found with blood upon their mouths were sometimes thought by the more imaginatively inclined to have left their graves and fed upon the flesh of the living. The actual explanation was a great deal less dramatic, though no less tragic. They were not really dead at the time of their burial and when they awoke in their coffins. they often bit themselves in their frenzy to escape. Also, for a long time, there was ignorance of the tact that hair and nails continue to grow for some time after death. This also contributed to the erroneous belief that the corpse was still 'living.' Unusual soil conditions in various parts of the world, particularly in volcanic regions, can result in an antiseptic environment that delays decomposition, which would account for reports of unusual preservation of dead bodies. Again, people often seized upon the more melodramatic explanations rather than the actual truth. Incomplete observation is worse than no observation at all, Grayson, and under properly observed conditions, all such things can be logically explained. Someone happens to see a so-called body leave a mausoleum and we have a report of walking dead, when a more careful investigation would undoubtedly have unearthed —you will excuse the pun—the explanation that a derelict had broken into a tomb to find shelter from the cold."

"But you spoke of living persons having the habit of vampirism," said Grayson.

"Quite so." said Conan Doyle. "There was, for example, the famous case of the notorious Gilles de Rais of France, tried in the year 1440 for the murder of over two hundred children. He stabbed them in their jugular veins and allowed their blood to spurt upon him so that he could drink it while he abused himself. At approximately the same period, there was also a Wallachian prince named Vlad Dracula, who built the citadel of Bucharest in 1456 and was so fond of impaling people upon spikes that he became known as Vlad Tepes, from the word repo in his native language, meaning 'spike.' He impaled over twenty thousand Turkish prisoners after one battle alone. From there, perhaps, stems your folklore concerning impaling vampires with wooden stakes. And then there was the case of the Hungarian countess, Elizabeth Bathory, brought to justice in the year 1611 for the killing of over six hundred young girls. She tortured them in her dungeons, bled them and then bathed in their blood, supposedly to benefit her complexion."

"Good God," said Grayson.

"Yes, shocking examples of human brutality at its worst," said Conan Doyle, "hut nevertheless, brutality practiced by living humans, not dead ones. This sort of vampirism, Grayson. is a grotesque aberration, an insanity which I suspect may have its roots in a twisted sexual depravity. However, it is a disease of the living. not the dead. As for this poor girl, there is no question but that she was bitten in the neck by another human. A human with sharp teeth, however, quite possibly filed, in the manner of the cannibal tribesmen of New Guinea. As to the massive loss of blood, there could be any number of explanations. Possibly, she was a bleeder. a hemophiliac, or perhaps she was profoundly anemic. She may have lost a great deal of blood in some other manner upon which I would not care to speculate given so little evidence, but I would venture to suggest, if I may, a careful investigation of her co-workers and associates. There is a strong possibility that practices of perversion may have been involved here. In such a case, it will be difficult to ferret out the truth, as such secrets are darkly kept. But in any case I would not recommend that you trade in your truncheon for a string of garlic bulbs."

You have missed your calling, Dr. Doyle," said Grayson. You would have made a brilliant detective.–

"Nonsense," said Doyle. I am merely well informed on a wide variety of peculiar subjects, of little use to the average man, but of some value to one who writes romances. Besides, I have not the temperament for police work.

"Well, the literary world's gain is Scotland Yard's loss," said Grayson.

"And I will conduct a thorough investigation of Miss Crewe's fellow actors and her friends, as well. I am most grateful for your assistance. Speaking of which—"

"Ah. yes, of course." said Conan Doyle, "The hair samples." He frowned.

"Most unusual. They are extremely like a wolf's, but then again, they do not quite compare. You may be seeking a man with unusually coarse hair of a steel gray or silver color. In such a case I would expect this coarseness to extend to his features, as well. He would be very hirsute. a primitive looking sort of individual, possibly of Mediterranean blood."

"You can tell all this from some samples of his hair?" said Grayson, amazed.

"Simple inference and deduction, Grayson, based upon what we know of physical types. In any case, you would be looking for an unusually powerful man. It would have taken one to bring down a strong man such as Constable Jones. Some savage derelict perhaps, but undoubtedly a madman. As for the nature of the wounds, I have a theory about the weapon which might have been used, but I would like to consider it some more." He looked down at the body of Angeline Crewe and frowned. "It may even be possible that this poor girl's death is connected with the murder of Constable Jones. Savagery is the common factor, Grayson. Savagery and bloodlust."

3 ___________

The Cafe Royal, at 68 Regent Street, was not the sort of place Inspector William Grayson frequented. It was a hit too rich for his blood and he had never cared much for French food. He preferred a public house and the congenial company of the working classes. The Cafe Royal was more a gathering place for writers and artists, not really his sort at all, in spite of what Ian Holcombe might think. On the ground floor of the Royal was a cafe, a grill room and a luncheon bar. The basement held a wine cellar and a billiard room and the upper floors were private rooms.

The manager conducted Grayson to the Domino Room. The decor was fashionably elegant. Grayson thought it was a hit much. The seats were all upholstered in red velvet and the tables topped with marble. The corners of Grayson's mouth turned down slightly as he saw the people at the table they were heading for. They were all poufs. Their postures and affected gestures were unmistakable. But then, he had expected this. He had, after all, come to the court of the so-called "Apostle of the Utterly Utter."

Oscar Wilde was at the height of his success. The leader of the Aesthete movement, Wilde's belief was that art had no real use and existed only for its own sake. As such, claimed Wilde. art knew no morality. "A book," he said, "is either written well or badly, it is not mural or immoral." Grayson did not consider himself particularly competent to judge whether or not Wilde's books and plays were written well or not, he was content to leave that to the reviewers, but he had read Wilde's controversial novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray, and while he did not quite agree with the reports in the press that called it "filthy." it certainly addressed the question of morality. The character portrayed in it was completely immoral.

Grayson had no difficulty recognizing Oscar Wilde in the group. The man had been caricatured extensively in the press. He was the oldest one among the young men at the table. Grayson guessed his age at about forty. The author, poet, dramatist and lecturer was a large man, on the plump side, though Grayson thought he was a good deal slimmer than the newspapers portrayed him. He was not a badlooking man, though his manner and the softness of his features were decidedly effeminate. Grayson knew he had a wife and two children. but his preferences seemed to lie in a less family-oriented direction. His manner of dress was elegant. He wore a dark, well-tailored coat and striped trousers, his silk cravat was tied perfectly, his hair was neatly combed and parted in the middle and he wore a fresh buttonhole. He looked every inch the gentleman, albeit an elaborately flamboyant one.

"Mr. Wilde." Grayson said.

Wilde held up Grayson's card, which the manager of the cafe had given him, and glanced at it insouciantly. "Inspector Grayson," he said in an appealing, almost musical voice. "It is not often that I receive a calling card from Scotland Yard. So tell me. Inspector, am I to be inspected?"

The young man at his side tittered, setting off a small chorus of birdlike noises from the others. Grayson recognized Lord Alfred Douglas, the twenty-four year old son of the Marques of Queensberry. The son was not much like his sporting father. He was a pretty, spoiled-looking boy; in fact, he could easily have been Dorian Gray himself.

"I would like to ask you a few questions. Mr. Wilde, if I may." said Grayson.

"Goodness, a police interrogation." Wilde said. " I trust that I am not about to be arrested'?"

"Why. Mr. Wilde,” Grayson said, affecting an innocent tone, "have you done anything to be arrested for?"

The playwright smiled. "I suppose that would depend upon what one considers criminal," he said. "I can think of any number of reviewers who believe that I should be arrested for my work and others who feel that I should be arrested for my manner. Tell me. Inspector, in which class would you fall?"

"The working class. Mr. Wilde." said Grayson.

"Oh, well done, Inspector!" Wilde said. "I hardly expected to find wit in Scotland Yard."

"It takes wit to do what we do, Mr. Wilde.” Grayson said. "Perhaps not your sort of wit, but wit nonetheless.”

"I see. I take it you do not approve of me, Inspector Grayson," Wilde said.

“I do not know enough about you personally to approve or disapprove.” said Grayson. "I could conjecture, but then the law does not deal with conjecture. The law is concerned with proof, which may be very fortunate for you. On the other hand. if you were speaking of my disapproval as concerns your work. I am afraid that I must disappoint you. I quite enjoyed your play. Lady Windermere's Fan, and 1 found Dorian Gray quite interesting."

"Indeed?" said Wilde. "Interesting is a rather ambiguous word. You did not find it 'filthy' or 'immoral.' a 'dangerous novel,' as the newspapers called it?"

Grayson saw that Wilde's young cohorts were hanging on his every word, expecting to see him poignant the policeman with his wit. Perversely, Grayson decided to play out the game, if for no other reason than to deny them the pleasure of seeing him flustered.

"Didn't you yourself say that art was neither moral nor immoral?" Grayson said.

"I did, indeed," said Wilde, a slight smile on his face, "but then I was asking your opinion."

"My opinion, since you ask," said Grayson, "is that with Dorian Gray, you seem to have contradicted yourself."

"The well bred contradict other people." Wilde said. "The wise contradict themselves. But what an unusual reaction! Tell me, Inspector, just how did I manage to contradict myself?"

"Well, you've stated that art is neither moral nor immoral,” Grayson said. "but in Dorian Gray, you have presented a young man who is utterly immoral, devoted only to his own pleasures and perverse desires, and in the portrait which ages in his stead. you clearly imply that it is not only age which results in the portrait's growing ugliness, but the immoral deeds committed by the ever youthful Gray: evil, as it were, having an obvious malforming effect upon the soul. A very Catholic idea, Mr Wilde, even a very moral one. And in the end of the story, Dorian Gray's sins finally catch up with him and he receives his, just desserts. One might well ask, how can a story be neither moral nor immoral, and yet still have a moral'?"

"Grayson, you positively overwhelm me!" Wilde said, beaming. "I refuse to even try to trump such a refreshingly original review! There is clearly more to you than meets the eye. Would you care to join us'?"

"No, thank you, Mr. Wilde," Grayson said. "I am afraid I have a number of inquiries yet to make."

"Well, then, I shall not waste any more of your time. How may I help you?"

"I understand you are familiar with the company currently playing the Lyceum." Grayson said.

"Henry Irving's production of Becket?" Wilde said. "Indeed, I am. Has there been some sort of trouble?”

"One of the young actresses has died," said Grayson. "A Miss Angeline Crewe. She collapsed on stage last night during a rehearsal. It seems she had not been well. The cause of death has not yet officially been determined and we are merely making some inquiries of her friends and co-workers, purely a routine matter."

"How tragic," Wilde said, "but I fear I did not know that young woman. That is to say, I did not know her very well. She was an understudy, I believe. Rather too prim and proper for an actress. We exchanged greetings on occasion, but that is all."

"Did she seem unwell to you at the time?" said Grayson.

"No, I would not say so," Wilde said. "A bit pale, perhaps, but then she was very fair complected."

"Yes, that would follow," Grayson said. "It seems that she was quite anemic. You would not, by any chance, happen to know if she was a bleeder?"

"Not to my knowledge,” Wilde said.

"Apparently she was keeping company with a certain young man," Grayson said. He consulted his notepad. "A Mr. Hesketh.”

"Tony Hesketh?" Lord Douglas said. surprised.

"Yes, that is the name." said Grayson. "You know the young man?"

"Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I do." said Douglas. Grayson noticed Wilde give Douglas a sidelong look. "I am surprised to hear that he was keeping company with

. . . an actress."

"Friend of yours. Rosie?" said Wilde, a touch too casually.

"I haven't seen him for some time," said Douglas.

"It seems that no one has," said Grayson. "Any idea where I might find him, Lord Douglas?"

Douglas gave an elaborate shrug. "The last time I saw Tony, he was otherwise engaged. Not with an actress. I mean." He said "actress" as if it were a distasteful word. "He was with a dark, Mediterranean looking gentleman."

"Mediterranean?" said Grayson. "Could you describe him?"

"Tall, slim, black hair, swarthy. but in an elegant sort of way," said Douglas.

"Well mannered and well dressed. A man of obvious means. He was foreign, a titled gentleman. He was a very striking looking man. I remember he wore a top hat and an opera cape. I do not recall his name."

"When exactly was this, Lord Douglas?" Grayson said. "Oh, I can't be sure," said Douglas. "Two weeks ago, perhaps'! Maybe three."

"And where was this?"

"Why, at the Lyceum," Douglas said.

"You would not, by any chance, happen to know where I could reach this gentleman'?" Grayson said.

"Haven't the faintest," Douglas said.

"Well, if you should happen to see him again, or Mr. Hesketh, perhaps you'd be kind enough to let me know," Grayson said,

Douglas shrugged.

"Something tells me, Inspector Grayson, that this matter is not entirely routine, as you put it." said Wilde. "Do you suspect some sort of foul play in this young woman's death?"

"I am merely making inquiries, Mr. Wilde."

"I see. Well, Bram Stoker would be your man, then. He manages all of Henry Irving's affairs and he is the Lyceum Theatre's mother hen."

"I see. Well, thank you for your help," said Grayson. "And if you see either of those gentlemen again, I should very much like to speak with them."

"So would I, Inspector," Wilde said, glancing curiously at Douglas. Grayson was glad to leave. Wilde seemed likeable enough, despite his nature, but he did not care much for the coterie surrounding him, particularly the young Lord Douglas. It was, felt Grayson, a dangerous association, especially given the character of the boy's father.

His thoughts would prove prophetic. Within a year, the Marquess of Queensberry, outraged by his son's relationship with the notorious Wilde, would accuse Wilde of being a sodomite. And Wilde, urged on by the irresponsible Douglas, would ignore the entreaties of his friends and commit the greatest mistake of his life by suing Queensberry for libel, thereby placing the burden of proof for the accusation upon Queensberry's counsel, who would come to trial prepared to bring forward a number of young men to testify that Wilde had committed "indecencies" with them. Wilde would drop the suit on the third day of the trial on the advice of his counsel, but by then it would be too late. Like many artists who were ignorant of the subtler realities of life, Wilde never understood the importance of the distinction between what was widely known and more or less ignored in certain social circles and what was legally proven in a courtroom, where it could not be ignored. On the same day he dropped the suit; Wilde would be arrested and eventually sentenced to two years of hard labor. He would serve the full sentence and upon his release, would be shunned by the society that had once lionized him. Ile would spend the remaining three years of his life in exile and die in Paris, yet in spite of everything, he would retain his spirit to the end. On his deathbed in the Hotel d'Alsace, while suffering from the acute pain of cerebral meningitis, he would jokingly complain about the aesthetically unappealing wallpaper in his bedroom.

"It is killing me," he would say with his last breath. "One of us has to go." As for Lord Alfred Douglas, the instigator of it all, he would emerge from the affair unscathed and go on to write a book about his relationship with Wilde. So much for the ironies of life.

But as Grayson left the Cafe Royal, his thoughts were not concerned with Oscar Wilde and his flirtations with disaster so had said. "possibly of Mediterranean blood." And Doyle had also hinted at the possibility of perversion being involved, secrets darkly kept. Some not kept so darkly or so well, thought Grayson. wryly. Douglas had not left much doubt as to the character of Tony Hesketh. Links were forming. A swarthy, foreign gentleman linked to Tony Hesketh. Hesketh linked to Angeline Crewe. Angeline Crewe was dead and Tony Hesketh was missing. And the last place any of them had been seen was the Lyceum Theatre. It was time to have another talk with Mr. Bram Stoker.

Tony Hesketh's sanity was hanging by a thread. He did not know where he was. He knew only that he was in a dark, damp cell, barely illuminated by a single torch set into a sconce in the stone iv-all. It was like a dungeon in a medieval castle: what little he had seen of it when he was brought here was in ruins. He heard the distant drip of water. He could not move to explore his surroundings because he was manacled to the wall, his arms chained to an iron ring above him. He could barely remain standing to support his weight and when he sagged down from exhaustion, the chains sent a wrenching pain through his shoulders. His coat had been removed and his white shirt had been ripped open, exposing his throat and chest. He was cold, but there was a burning pain in his neck, at a spot on his throat directly over the jugular vein.

He did not remember how he came here. The last thing he could recall was going down to Whitechapel with his new friend, his rich, exotic and exciting friend, and they had walked through the thick fog together, fog so thick that Hesketh couldn't even see where he was going, but his friend had taken him by the hand and led him, promising a wild. new experience and then somehow they were here, in this ruined castle— how could there possibly be a castle in Whitechapel!—

and he was led down to the dungeon as his friend walked ahead of him, carrying a torch, and it looked as if no one had disturbed the dust of centuries, as if they had somehow stepped out of London and into another place in another, long forgotten time. And then the nightmare had begun.

The sun was going down. Tony Hesketh could not see outside but he knew the sun was going down as surely as if there were a window in the dungeon cell. After three weeks in this horrifying place, three weeks of the same, mind-numbing, terrifying routine, he knew. His eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light and on the far side of the cell; he could see the large black coffin carved from ebony and worked with intricate designs and silver filigree, resting on a marble pedestal. He remembered the chilling words that had been spoken to him the night he had been brought here and chained to the stone wall.

"I will sleep close to you now. I will remain with you until the change has taken place."

He had not known what those words meant then, but he knew now and it frightened him beyond all measure. He could feel it happening. After the first time, he had been sick, retching uncontrollably, his stomach cramping his vision blurring. Then he became racked with fever and then chills. Sweat poured from every pore. He soiled himself repeatedly, but the chains were never taken off and now he stank, encrusted with his own filth. And he was starving. He wasn't given any food. From time to time, he was allowed a drink of water, but lately it no longer satisfied his thirst. His thirst now was for another kind of drink. It filled him with loathing but he could not resist the urge.

The sun was down. Tony Hesketh hung from his chains and whimpered. The lid of the coffin opened slowly, with a creaking sound. Like a wild animal, Tony strained against the chains. The manacles hit deeply into the soft flesh of his wrists and blood began to flow. In spite of himself, the sight of it excited him.

"It is almost finished. Tony,•• said the man standing before him, dressed in elegant black evening clothes and a long. silk-lined opera cape. "Soon now, very soon, your new life will begin."

"Oh, God," moaned Tony. "It hurts. It hurts so much, please, can't you make it stop?"

"Are you hungry. Tony?"

"No. no. please, no more, not again—"

"You are hungry, aren't you?"

“No!”

"Aren't you?"

"Yes!" Tony whispered savagely. "Yes, let me, please . . ." "Then give me what I need."

"Yes, do it." Tony whispered. "do it now!"

He bent his head back exposing his throat. Warm lips caressed his neck and then he felt the fire of sharp fangs penetrating the soft skin of his throat and he moaned then shuddered as he exploded in a violent climax. His mouth was opened wide in ecstasy, revealing long, protruding teeth.

It was getting very late and Goodtime Gordy still hadn't found a customer. The night was chilly and her shawl was threadbare, but she could not seek refuge from the cold or even buy herself a nip of gin to warm up her insides. She had run out of money and there'd be no crib for her tonight unless she found a means of paying for it. The trouble was, it was a buyer's market and with every passing day, Gordy had less and less to sell.

It was the young ones, she thought miserably. More of them every day, younger and prettier, still with all their teeth, where did they all come from'? All that was left for her to do was to sell herself more cheaply. At this rate, soon she'd be giving it away. She didn't know what she was going to do. She was getting old and ugly and she looked worn out. The few teeth she had left were loose, her hack was hurting her, her eyes were sunken and bloodshot and her nose was veined with ruptured capillaries from a steady diet of gin. She was twenty-eight years old.

A hunched over figure shambled inwards her through the mist and she quickly prepared to make a desperate pitch. She loosened her shawl and opened up her blouse, pushing up her breasts. She had to remember to smile with her mouth closed. so as not to reveal her missing teeth.

"'Ello. Ducks," she said, striking a saucy pose. " 'Ow's about a bit o'—

"

Two hairy hands shot out and grabbed her by her shoulders with incredible strength. She felt claws sinking deep into her flesh. She heard an animal growl and saw a face more horrible than anything that she had ever seen in her worst nightmares. She had time for one, brief, piercing scream.

Steiger poured himself a shot of straight Scotch whiskey and tossed it down, then refilled the glass. There had been two more killings. First the actress, Angeline Crewe. drained of almost all her blood, and then a Whitechapel streetwalker named Glynnis Gordon, "Goodtime Gordy" to her friends, found in an alley with her throat torn out. They had been unable to keep that one out of the papers. Her body had been discovered by two of her neighbors and they had spoken to reporters. One paper had run the story under the headline, "Return of the Ripper?" Another proclaimed. "Whitechapel Murder in the Style of Springheel Jack!" And there were no leads. Nobody had seen a thing.

It was maddening. The file search of recent depositors at the Bank of England and recent real estate leaseholds had produced a large number of correlations which Rizzo and Ransome were busy checking out, but it was taking too much time. Brant and Craven were now on full-time surveillance duty, watching H. G. Wells, but he was going on about his normal routine and nothing unusual had happened. For all they knew, nothing would. It could be simple coincidence that Wells had foreseen so many future developments, coincidence that he had written about a scientist named Moreau who was engaged in biological experimentation, coincidence that he had written about time travel. And there had been nothing unusual in Conan Doyle's behavior. either. He kept consulting with Inspector Grayson, but otherwise, he did not seem to he involved in any temporally anomalous events. Only Neilson had come up with any signilicant information as a result of his cover position at the crime lab. What he had come up with wasn't much, but it was cause for worry.

"I think we've got at least two of them." Neilson was saying. "The Crewe murder was different from the other two. She fits the classic profile of a vampire's victim in fiction. Whatever happened to her, she apparently went along with it willingly, or at least willingly in the sense that she wasn't assaulted with the same physical force as the other victims. There may have been some other form of duress, perhaps psychological, maybe even biochemical, because she apparently never complained about what happened to her."

"What do we know about her?" Steiger said.

"From what Grayson told Conan Doyle in my presence." Neilson said,

"all I know is that she had recently arrived in London from Richmond Hill. Her family is very well off. They weren't very pleased about her wanting to become an actress. She was seeing a young man named Tony Hesketh, who has apparently disappeared. Hesketh may have been bisexual. Ile was close to some of the young men in Oscar Wilde's circle and he was last seen at the Lyceum Theatre in the company of a dark, foreign looking man dressed in elegant evening clothes and an opera cape, described as a Mediterranean type, a gentleman, elegant and striking looking, with a title."

"Sounds like Count Dracula." said Finn Delaney. Steiger gave him a sharp look. "You don't think . . ."

"I was only kidding." said Delaney. An anxious expression crossed his face. "I think."

"Let me see those lists," said Andre. She grabbed the lists of recent bank depositors and real estate leasehold transactions and started scanning them.

"Oh, come on," said Steiger. "Drakov would never be that obvious."

"I don't know," said Delaney. "It could be just the sort of thing that would amuse him, throwing down the gauntlet that way. Jesus, a genetically engineered vampire. And if such a creature's genetic makeup was also contagious—"

"It would be, knowing Drakov," Steiger said.

"How about that for temporal terrorism?" said Delaney. "Unleashing a plague of vampires and werewolves on Victorian London. And the timing is positively macabre. Just one year before Brain Stoker started work on Dracula. One year before The Time Machine was published."

"And it was always believed that Stoker based his character on the historical Dracula from the 15th century," said Andre, still scanning the lists. "Drakov might just have decided to make the character truly historical. And the similarity of their names, that would only be one more thing that would make the idea appeal to him."

"Anything?" said Steiger, watching her scan the lists. She shook her head.

"You know, we may be overlooking something, sir." said Neilson. "What about rentals?"

"Jesus, rentals!•• Steiger said. "How the hell would we ever track down rentals? There's just no way!"

"Possibly not, sir," Neilson said, "but on the other hand, would Drakov really go in for a bed-and-breakfast sort of deal? I mean, it doesn't seem very likely that he'd rent ordinary moms like your average London boarder. He'd want something bigger, probably, more private. An unused estate, maybe, or a warehouse—"

"A warehouse!" said Delaney. "And all the killings so far occurred within the same general area, the East End of London, within easy access of the docks on the Thames."

"Neilson, you seem to be the only one who's doing any thinking around here." Steiger said. "Start checking the warehouse district on the docks during your off-duty hours from the crime lab. I'll try to get you some help. There can't be that many warehouses standing empty, so you can automatically eliminate the ones in active use. Maybe we're finally getting somewhere. Christ, it's like looking for a goddamn needle in a haystack. Somehow, we've got to get a break on this."

"What about the newspaper reports?" said Andre.

"Not much we can do about them now," said Steiger. "I'd rather have them writing about a new series of Ripper murders than vampires and werewolves loose in London."

"There's one more thing, sir,•" Neilson said. "The man who's missing, Tony Hesketh. It may not be a bad idea to stake out his apartments. If he returns, he may no longer be the same if you know what I mean. He's been missing for about three weeks. I don't know how long it would take for the viral genome to bring about a mutation, but if he's not dead, he may provide us with our first real lead."

"Good idea," said Steiger. "I'll pull Rizzo off the estate search and assign him to watch Hesketh's rooms. Have we got an address on him?"

"Not yet, sir," Neilson said, "but I might be able to sneak a look at Grayson's files and get it."

"All right, do it. But be careful. Don't get caught. We can't afford to have you sacked from your job at the lab. It's been our only source of information so far."

"I'll be careful, sir.–

"Okay. get going." Steiger checked his watch. "Who's watching Conan Doyle now? Craven?"

"Yes. I had her relieve me for about an hour so I could make the briefing." Andre said.

"All right, get back there. She'll have to relieve Brant at Wells' house in several hours and I want her to be fresh." "How are you holding up?" said Delaney.

"I'm not getting much sleep, if that's what you mean," said Steiger. "But then holding down the fort has never been my style. I'll be glad when something breaks and we can stop stretching ourselves so thin. But until then, it's got to he a waiting game." He tossed back another drink. "I only hope we won't have to wait too long."

The small, slightly built man with the prematurely grey hair and beard stood in the entrance to the offices of the Pall Mall Gazette, holding a folded copy of the paper in his hand and glancing around nervously.

"Excuse me," he said, stopping a young man walking past him "are you on the staff here at the newspaper?"

"Well, after a fashion. I suppose,–said the young man. "How may I help you, sir?"

"My name is Moreau. Dr. Phillipe Moreau. The gentleman who wrote this story, about the killing in Whitechapel_•• "The murder of the prostitute, you mean?"

"Yes. I was wondering if I could speak with him."

"Well. I am afraid he is not in the office at the moment. Dr. Moreau, and I have no idea when he will return. I was just leaving myself. I am not actually on staff here: I write occasional articles, but perhaps I can assist you?"

"Oh, I see. Well, I don't know. Mr.—"

"Wells."

"Thank you, Mr. Wells, but I don't think that will be necessary” said Moreau. "Perhaps I should not even have come. I just thought, perhaps—"

"Why don't we sit down?" said Wells. "There is obviously something troubling you. If there is anything that I can do to help, I will certainly try."

"Yes, all right," said Moreau, taking the seat Wells indicated. They sat down at a desk.

"Now then." said Wells, "what about this murder?"

"Well, I have a daughter, you see," Moreau said hesitantly. "That is, I had a daughter. I have not seen her for quite some time. She came to London and, well. I have been searching for her—"

"And you thought perhaps this dead girl could be your daughter?" said Wells. "You wanted to satisfy yourself as to her identity?"

"Yes, precisely." said Moreau. "The newspaper gave her name as Gordon. I know, but it is possible that she had taken another name...."

"I understand," said Wells. "However, if that had been the case, we would really have no way of knowing, you understand. You realize that the odds of this poor murdered girl being your missing daughter are really quite small." -

"Yes, yes, highly unlikely, I know," said Moreau, "but something told me—I just simply had to know, you see. Perhaps if I could speak to someone who had an opportunity to view the remains . ."

"I do not know if that would help you. Doctor," Wells said. "As I understand it, the body was . . . well, the poor girl's face was damaged beyond all recognition. Her neighbors identified her mainly by her clothing and a few personal possessions. The murder was quite savage. Considering the odds, why subject yourself needlessly to such an ordeal?"

"You don't understand," said Moreau, "I must know. The nature of the wounds, the manner in which—" He suddenly caught himself and stopped.

"What about the nature of the wounds, Doctor?" Wells said. watching him carefully. "Why should that happen to interest you?"

"Nothing, you misunderstood Inc." said Moreau. "I am merely distraught. I should not have come here. Forgive me for taking up your valuable time . . ."

"One moment, Doctor," Wells said, catching him by the arm.

"Please," said Moreau. –Let me go."

"Not just yet, Doctor," said Wells. "I do not think that I misunderstood you. And something tells me that you are not being entirely truthful with me. Why come to the newspaper? Why not go to the police?"

"Yes, undoubtedly that is what I should have done," Moreau said, “I merely thought that —"

"Why don't we go see the police together?" Wells said. "We can go right now."

"No, really, thank you, but there is no need for you to trouble yourself. It's really quite—"

"You really do not want to go to the police, do you?" said Wells. "Why is that? What are you afraid of"

Moreau looked at him with alarm. "I see what you are thinking," he said.

"You think perhaps I may have had something to do with this crime."

"I am merely wondering why you seem reluctant to go to the police." Wells said. "Why are you so interested in this murder? What is it about the nature of the wounds? What do you mean? You are not really seeking a missing daughter. are you?"

“Yes, of course I am,— Moreau said. "Why else would I be so concerned?"

"That is what I would like to know. Dr. Moreau," Wells said. "You are obviously an educated man, and yet the newspaper reports clearly stated that the dead girl was a Cockney. strictly working class. Moreover, your accent is slight. but definitely French, I think, as is your name. I suppose it is possible that an educated French gentleman could have a daughter by a Cockney mother. but then if that were so, why would you be reluctant to go to the police? That would be the natural avenue of inquiry for a man seeking a missing daughter, would it not?"

A number of the people in the office had become interested in the conversation. "What is it?" one of them said. "Some sort of problem?"

"Please," said Moreau in a low voice. "I cannot discuss this here."

"I think we had best get to the bottom of this, Dr. Moreau," Wells said.

“No, let me go," Moreau said, pulling away, but Wells would not let go. Moreau's sleeve was pulled back, exposing a strange-looking bracelet. It caught Wells' attention. It was made from an unusual black material, with small, numbered studs arranged upon it in a pattern.

"What's this?" said Wells, looking down at it.

"Don't touch it!•• Moreau said, jerking his arm back violently.

"I think perhaps we had better speak with the police," said Wells.

Moreau looked around frantically, seeing himself being hemmed in.

"Please," he said, "I beg you no police. They would not understand. I swear to you. I am no criminal."

"Who is this chap, Bertie?" one of the other reporters said. "What's he on about?"

"Have we got some kind of trouble here?" another said. "Please," Moreau said softly. And then his eyes grew wide. "Bertie?" he said. "Herbert Wells?"

"Yes ,•• said Wells, looking at him strangely.

"Herbert George Wells?"

"How is it that you happen to know my full name, Doctor'?" Wells said. "I did not give it to you and I do not use it professionally… I am certain we have never met."

"Please, Mr. Wells," Moreau said, "I promise to answer all your questions, but we must speak somewhere in private. I assure you that I have no personal involvement in this killing but I believe I know who was responsible."

"Very well." said Wells, "but I promise you that if you do not adequately explain yourself. I will summon the police."

Moreau nodded. "Very well, I shall accept that. But please let us speak in private."

"There is a small teashop just down the street," said Wells. "Come, we can talk there. Give me your ann."

You think I will try to run away?" Moreau said.

"I think you are a desperate man. Dr. Moreau." said Wells. "There is an edge of hysteria in your voice and panic in your eyes. Very well, we shall simply walk together, but if you run off, rest assured that I am quite capable of giving the police a completely accurate and detailed description of you."

Moreau nodded. They left the building together and started walking down the street towards one of the teashops operated by the Aerated Bread Company.

"What is that curious bracelet on your wrist?" said Wells. "If I told you the truth" Moreau said "you would not believe me. You would think me mad."

"I never leap to uninformed conclusions, Doctor," Wells said.

"No. you wouldn't," said Moreau, smiling. "Not you.—

Wells frowned. "I find your remarks most puzzling. You behave as if you knew me."

"In a manner of speaking, I do." Moreau said. "Shall I tell you what I know? You are at the moment living with a woman whom you introduce to your neighbors as your wife, although she is not your wife. At least not yet. Her name is Amy Catherine Robbins and you call her Jane. She was a student of yours. You left your wife, Isabel for her. You were not always a journalist. You used to teach once under Professor Huxley at the Normal School of Science in South Kensington. You have two brothers. Frank and Freddy; you have been astigmatic from an early age and your health was always poor. You almost died of appendicitis in your youth and you broke your leg when you were seven years old—"

"Good God!" said Wells. "How is possible that you know so much about me?"

"I will tell you the complete truth, Mr. Wells." Moreau said "because I am in desperate need of help and I believe that you can give it to me, but I must tell it to you slowly, otherwise you will surely think me mad. I must convince you that I am not. More than you could possibly realize depends upon it."

"What manner of doctor are you?" Wells said. "Are you a physician or one of these mystics who claims the ability to read minds and such?"

"I would have an easier time convincing you that I am capable of reading your thoughts than of who and what I really am." Moreau said. "I am a professor and I am also a scientist. specializing in the biological sciences."

"Biological experimentation?" Wells said suddenly.

"Yes," Moreau said, glancing at him sharply. "What made you ask that?"

"Scientists engage in experimentation, do they not?"

"Yes. I suppose they do." Moreau said. "Still, it was curious that you should say that."

"Let us return, for the moment, to the topic at hand," said Wells. "This murder. You claim you know who was responsible? A patient of yours, perhaps?"

"No." said Moreau. "I do not see patients. But the man I am seeking, the one who I believe may be responsible for this, is without question insane. He was once a sort of colleague of mine. His name is Drakov."

"Nikolai Drakov?" Wells said.

Moreau stopped, frozen in his tracks, staring at him wildly. "How did you know that?"

Wells took his arm. "It appears that we both have some surprises for each other." he said. "I will answer your questions just as soon as you have answered mine."

They reached the ABC teashop and went inside. There were several couples in the shop, mostly young, lingering over tea and biscuits. The advent of the teashops was a blessing to young couples in a time where a "proper" young woman couldn't think of going alone to a young man's apartment. To young people without a lot of money, a teashop was the perfect place to meet. Nothing could be considered improper about taking a walk together then spending some time enjoying a "cuppa" and a biscuit or two. It was a date that any young man could afford.

They took their seats at a small table and ordered a pot of tea. Wells saw that Moreau had been staggered by his knowing Drakov's name. Strange, he thought, he had never been much good with names, but he had remembered that one because of the peculiar circumstances under which he had heard it. He wondered what connection there might be between those three Americans who had come to call on him and this curiously intense Frenchman.

Wells scrutinized him closely. Moreau was a small man. perhaps five foot five or six, slightly built, sharp featured. foxlike. He was younger than he seemed to be. Wells guessed he was in his early forties. but he looked older. It wasn't only the grey hair. There were crow's-feet around his eyes, which were red from lack of sleep. He was pale and there were worry lines around his mouth and above the bridge of his nose, between his eyebrows,. He was clearly a man under a great strain.

"Before we discuss this any further," said Moreau "you have to tell me how you know Drakov's name. You've seen him? You know where he is? You must tell one!"

"Calm yourself, Dr. Moreau." said Wells. "In point of fact, I do not have to tell you anything. What I should be doing is taking you to the police. If you have knowledge about a crime that has taken plate, it is your duty to give that information to the authorities. I agreed to speak with you in private because you promised you would explain yourself. Well then, explain."

Moreau stared at Wells for a moment, then briefly closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "What if I were to tell you that I have come here from the future?"

"From the future," Wells said, watching him uneasily. He chose his words with care. "If you were to tell me that, Dr. Moreau, if that is indeed your name. I would have a great deal of difficulty believing you. I doubt that anyone could substantiate such a fantastic claim."

"Nevertheless, it is true," Moreau said. "I am a time traveler. Mr. Wells. And what is more. I can prove it to you.–

4 ________

The frenzied screams woke Stanley Turner and he leaped out of bed and rushed to the window. He threw it open and looked down into the courtyard. The woman lying on the cobblestones below wasn't screaming anymore. She was lying on her back and a man was bending over her. In the fog and the dim light from the streetlamp at the entrance to the courtyard. Turner couldn't see much more than their shapes. He shouted, but there was no reaction from the killer. Across the courtyard. several of the neighbors had thrown open their windows as well. but the killer seemed oblivious to his audience.

"Wot is it?" Turner's wife said, sitting up in bed and clutching the covers to herself, frightened by the screams which had awakened them. "Stan. woes

'append?"

"Stay 'ere," Turner said, moving from the window. He rushed out of the small apartment, pausing only long enough to grab a large carving knife. and ran down the stairs. He encountered one of his neighbors in the hall, Joe Tully. a brawny man who worked in the slaughterhouse and picked up beer money as a bareknuckle boxer.

"There's a murder—," Tully started.

"I know, I saw!" said limier. "Quick, let's get the bloody bastard!"

They ran out into the courtyard, along with three other men who came out in various states of undress from the other buildings. Shouting to each other, they ran towards the murderer, still bent over the body in the narrow courtyard of the cul-de-sac. They were almost on him when he suddenly turned to face them. growling like a wild animal. The five men were brought up short, staring with shock at the face all covered with hair, blond dripping from the snarling mouth.

Before any of them could mow, the werewolf leaped and brought down one of the men. A vicious swipe with a clawed hand cut off his scream. The remaining four men were galvanized into action. One of them brought a club down hard upon the creature's back, but it had no effect. Turner leaped in with his knife. He felt a hairy hand grabbing his own with an iron grip and yanking hard and the next thing he knew, Stanley Turner was sailing through the air. He struck the building wall on the opposite side, hitting with his back and shoulders. He heard a crunching sound and he dropped down to the cobblestones, stunned. He heard another scream as the man with the club was lifted high overhead and flung down upon the wrought iron fence so hard that his body was impaled by the iron spears at the top. They entered his back and penetrated his chest. The massive Joe Tully was flung aside as if he didn't weigh a thing and then another vicious swipe of the claws blinded the other knife-wielding man. As he screamed, slashing about him blindly with his blade, the werewolf plunged a hand deep into his stomach and ripped out his intestines.

The courtyard became filled with screams as people from the rooms above watched the figures struggling in the fog. Joe Tully came at the creature with his fists up in a boxing stance, the corded muscles in his shoulders standing out, his barrel chest thrown out, his left arm held out in front and his right cocked before his chest. He took a swing with his left list and the creature caught it in its right hand. Tully swung his right and the creature caught it with its left. Holding Tully's clenched fists tightly in its hands, the werewolf began to squeeze. Tully struggled, kicking at the creature, then howled with pain as the bones in his fingers shattered. He was forced down to his knees and then the creature let go of his ruined hands and grabbed his hair, jerking his head back violently, exposing the throat. The claws descended with a whoosh and Tully's throat was slashed so deeply that his head was almost completely severed from his body. Then the creature came towards Turner.

"Turner sat with his back against the wall, holding the knife before him in both hands. His hands were shaking. He couldn't move. His back was broken. He saw the horrifying apparition approaching. heard the screams from above, felt the creature's fetid breath and then—

"Janos." a deep voice said from somewhere behind the creature.

The werewolf turned.

Turner heard the shrill blasts of a police whistle somewhere close by, in the fog.

"Come. Janus. Enough."

The werewolf turned hack to Turner, snarling, eager to finish him off.

"I said enough, Janos! Come!"