Michael Coney's story "Werewolves in Sheep's Clothing" is also a bit light-hearted. It's set in the same location as his popular January, 1994 cover story, "Tea and Hamsters." ("Tea and Hamsters" was also on the 1996 final Nebula ballot for best novelette, opposite Dale Bailey. Another F&SF story, "Solitude," by Ursula Le Guin won that category.)
About this story, Michael writes, "I wanted to write another story about Mrs. Masterson and Foss Creek . . . and I enjoy writing about sheep because of their essential craziness. It all came together here."
THE CHOTH PAID A BRIEF visit to the planet Earth in 593 BC, and left behind nothing but a memory.
Over two thousand years hater a few Choth encountered humans for the second time, knocking on the door (so to speak) of Sol Station 2 and asking for refugee status.
"Kick them back into Space and let them rot!" shouted Mrs. Rachel Masterson.
"I can't just kick them back," objected her father, commander of the Station, "that would be a racist thing to do. We must welcome them as we would welcome our own kind. Anyway, they're humanoid, more or less."
Mrs. Masterson eyed her father keenly. If there was one person in the Universe she respected, it was this tall old man. In fact he was the only person in the Universe she respected. But . . . . Had the years taken their toll at last? After all, he was ninety-three. Was that magnificent judgment becoming impaired? Was that a bead of drool at the corner of those patrician lips?
"The Choth will bear watching, Father," was all she said.
The Choth were indeed a beleaguered race. On their home world they were preyed upon by gigantic disk-shaped predators swooping down from the sky. The predators required their sun's warmth, so they maintained a station on the sunny side of their world which revolved on its axis once per standard month. The sight of the swooping monthly predators triggered a monthly savagery in the Choth, enabling them to defend themselves. The fiercest Choth survived, but it was a tough life, and once they had mastered space travel they left for more congenial worlds.
"We are here today," announced Admiral Masterson to the assembled population one standard week later, "to decide an important issue: whether to allow our friends the Choth to proceed to Earth as refugees, or whether to take the barbaric step of turning them away to die in the cold reaches of space. We are here to prove whether, as humans, we can show common humanity to this handful of unfortunates. I ask you to press the button before each of you. The green button signifies the Choth may become part of our great family on Earth, the red button condemns them to certain death."
A thousand fingers reached out; a thousand buttons were pressed.
And behind the Admiral, the giant monitor screen turned red.
The forty-seven Choth, who had been showing signs of restlessness for some hours with occasional outbursts of snarling and snapping, rose from their seats with a single howl of fury and fell upon their human hosts. Admiral Masterson withdrew to summon the security forces. As the battle mounted, he was followed by Rachel Masterson and her husband Wally. The three met with the Chief of Security, Brant Holstein, in his britanium-lined office while the battle raged through the corridors of Sol Station 2.
"Close all the airtight bulkheads, Holstein," barked the Admiral. "That will reduce the Station to controllable sectors. Then deploy your men around the perimeter of the main assembly hall. Ah!" he cried, drawing his laser pistol as he caught sight of movement near the door. "Got you, you bastard!"
They were his last words. He fired at his own reflection in the britanium wall, drilled a hole through his own heart and fell to the deck, smoking.
"I assume command!" shouted Mrs. Masterson, quick-witted as ever. "Holstein, obey the late Admiral's orders!"
Brant Holstein, laced with ox genes, big and stolid in his black uniform, said, "If I close the airtight bulkheads it'll strand my forces all over the Station. They won't be able to surround the assembly hall. If the Admiral had allowed my people to attend the meeting we wouldn't have been in this predicament. But no, we were excluded. We have animal genes so he thinks we are less than human, and not entitled to a vote. And you call this a democracy."
Mrs. Masterson, who never believed in democracy anyway, drew her pistol. "Summary execution is the penalty for mutiny, I believe."
Her husband spoke for the first time. "For God's sake, Rachel!"
"Silence, Wally. You stay out of this. Now, Holstein, will you obey my orders or not?"
"You are not in command, Mrs. Masterson. Vice-Admiral Parker is next in line."
"Parker is a fool. Parker is --"
Her further views on the Vice-Admiral were destined to remain unvoiced, however. A number of anxious Security people burst into the office seeking orders, only to find their chief being held at gunpoint.
Mrs. Masterson was quickly disarmed and took no further part in the battle of Sol Station 2.
Five years later, a fine spring morning in Foss Creek, Earth.
The sun was gilding Mrs. Masterson's little living room, reflecting prettily from the glass-fronted bookcase, the copper fire-irons, the silver coffee service and the steel components of the dismantled Heckler & Koch semi-automatic rifle.
Megan Jenkins was eyeing the weapon nervously. "Is this one of your collection?" she inquired.
Mrs. Masterson's forbidding features softened as she oiled the breech. "A splendid weapon. Nine millimeter, fifteen rounds capacity, roller locked, delayed blowback. A work of art." Swiftly she assembled it. "Here, get the feel of it."
"I'd rather not, really, Rachel. Uh, do you have many more of these things?"
Mrs. Masterson was positively beaming, a rare sight. "Thirty-three antique firearms plus ammunition, a box or two of grenades, a few tear-gas canisters, that kind of thing. I have a couple of modern weapons too; laser rifles. But guess what my favorite of all is. This will make you laugh, Megan. The good old-fashioned twelve-bore shotgun!"
"Really?"
"Webley & Scott Model 700. A kick like a mule -- a real man's gun."
"But tear-gas?"
"Excellent for putting down insurrection."
"I hardly think we're likely to get insurrection in Foss Creek, Rachel. What's our population, eighty-three?"
"One thing life has taught me," said the old lady darkly, "never underestimate the violent potential of a mob. Eighty-three? It took less than fifty to mount the Choth rebellion on Sol Station 2 when I was there. Take this afternoon's soccer game, for example. The Contemptibles are playing Lupworth United. City folk will be flocking here to watch; you know, a breath of fresh air, a spot of local color and a leavening of hooliganism. And mark my words, Megan, I'll be ready for it! As Club Manager I'm responsible for law and order at the game. The time may come when we'll be glad of a tear-gas canister or two!"
Megan finished her coffee and left with an uneasy premonition.
THE CITY DWELLERS at Yamton Dome looked forward to their Saturday afternoons in the country. A chance to get into the fresh air and the primitive byways and villages which, they told themselves, hadn't changed in a thousand years. And in a way they were right, because strict local bylaws forbade construction work, tree cutting, or anything else that might sully the myth. Truth was, the countryside had become one big tourist trap and the inhabitants of Foss Creek were almost totally dependent on tourism for their income. That, and company pensions.
The afternoon continued as fine as the morning. On such a day there were few more potent tourist attractions than the fine and ancient sport of village soccer, when muscular yokels kicked a ball and one another around a grassy field redolent of sheep dung; such a contrast to the clean and clinical non-violence of dome life.
Today's game was of particular significance. Foss Creek Contemptibles had fought their way through to the Final of the Southwestern Knockout Cup, to be played in five weeks time. Lupworth United had done likewise. So the game, although a mere league event, could be regarded as a dress rehearsal for the Cup Final.
By noon the management of the Contemptibles were gathered in the bar of Ye Olde Shippe Inne to discuss strategy under the leadership of Mrs. Masterson.
The old lady scowled around at her committee. There was Gervaise Todd-Mortimer, the local veterinarian, sipping at a small gin-and-orange, the drink of the weakling. His son Bill, team captain and goalkeeper, long on virility but short on intellect, drinking beer, the worst thing before a game. And Anna Tyler the sociologist who had so often used soccer as a metaphor for Life that she was now unable to distinguish between the two, guzzling some herbal concoction. Losers all -- except possibly for young Bill, for whom she had a soft spot -- bequeathed to Mrs. Masterson by the previous manager whom the old lady had deposed recently in a lightning coup.
Now, as a fresh hand on the helm, she intended to take time to assess the quality of her crew, evaluating them carefully before kicking them the hell out and co-opting more compliant followers. So her father the Admiral had taught her, the wise old fellow.
"United are strong on teamwork," Gervaise Todd-Mortimer was saying. "That's how they reached the Cup Final. They have no stars. Just good all-round combination play. Pretty to watch."
"I'll have a word with Jim Bullock before the kick-off," said Bill Todd-Mortimer. "He'll chop a few of them down to size."
"I don't expect that kind of talk from a son of mine," said his father reprovingly. "We must remember what Foss Creek stands for. We play hard, but we play fair."
"Like a pack of goddamned wolves, Lupworth United are," muttered Bill rebelliously. "Always chasing, always winning the loose ball, and they seem to know where their own men are by some kind of instinct. It's scary. I'm not looking forward to this afternoon's game one little bit. We're on to a loser here, Dad. Jim could be our only chance."
Anna Tyler spoke up diffidently. "Perhaps I should address the team before the kick-off. Remind them that the opposition are only human, talk about the honor of Foss Creek being at stake, that kind of thing."
Mrs. Masterson felt herself flush with outrage. The nerve of the woman! "Might I remind you as Club Manager that the pre-game pep talk is my responsibility!"
"I beg your pardon. I was just trying to help. A good win this afternoon would be an enormous psychological boost, with the Cup Final coming up."
What kind of a sociologist was the woman, for God's sake? It was time to teach these buffoons a little strategy. "Allow me to ask you which is more important: today's little village scramble, or the upcoming Cup Final? Doesn't it occur to you that a solid defeat this afternoon might work to our advantage, lulling Lupworth into a false sense of security? This, unless I am very much mistaken," she declared, "is a game to be lost!"
A surprised silence ensued as they took this in. The effete Todd-Mortimer, however, was slow to grasp the concept, as one might expect. Inbreeding, of course.
"You're suggesting . . . . "His eyebrows had disappeared into his hairline so that he looked like the victim of a small but fiery explosion, "You're suggesting we throw the game?"
"What I actually said was that it is a game to be lost."
"We can't throw the game! It's . . . . " He searched for an appropriate expression of his horror. "It's just not cricket!"
"Throwing, as such, may not be necessary if your son's assessment of our chances can be trusted. Win or lose, it matters little in the broader picture of the full season. I am using this afternoon's event as a test-bed for our Cup Final strategy." She stood. "I declare this meeting closed. Let us adjourn to the stadium of Foss Creek Contemptibles."
The stadium consisted of a large pasture with minimal changing facilities and a few benches for spectators, on the crest of the hill above Foss Creek village. When the committee arrived in Mrs. Masterson's battered buggy the home team were busy erecting the goal posts. Meanwhile Carl Steffen's prize flock of Dorset Down ewes were grazing on the playing surface and volunteers were preparing refreshments and manning the primitive turnstiles. A trickle of spectators were arriving.
"Get those sheep off the pitch!" roared Mrs. Masterson.
"We'll handle it." It was Dexter Brood, manager of Lupworth United, climbing from the team copter. Mrs. Masterson had met him once before and, not surprisingly, conceived an instant dislike of the man. There was something coarse about Brood, something not quite trustworthy, an indefinable lack of caliber that she, as a Space Admiral's daughter, was well qualified to judge. It had nothing to do with his widow's peak, flared nostrils and permanently unshaven appearance.
She was about to tell him to mind his own damned business when, with shouts of enthusiasm, Lupworth United followed him out of the copter and raced onto the pitch. The sheep began to scurry toward the gate in the distant hedge.
"You wanted to see me, Mrs. Masterson?" Jim Bullock approached, wearing the Contemptibles' new colors of black and yellow hoops. The colors were Anna Tyler's idea. She felt that they would remind the opposition, subconsciously, of a swarm of angry wasps, causing them to hold back on crucial tackles.
"Yes. A word in your ear, Jim." She drew him around the side of the locker rooms.
"By Jesus, what's going on here?" She heard the angry tones of Carl Steffen and turned back. "Those are in-lamb ewes! Why are you chasing them all over hell's half acre? Come back here, you young jackasses!"
The task of clearing the field had escalated in a curious manner. The Lupworth United team appeared to have gone berserk, pursuing the sheep vigorously in all directions. Several players had succeeded in running their woolly prey down and hurling them to the ground. At least half a dozen grim tussles between footballer and ewe were taking place.
"Men!" barked Brood. "Stop that!" He turned to Steffen apologetically. "They can get a bit carried away, but they're good men at heart."
"But what the hell are they trying to do?"
"Farm boys, you know, salt of the earth. Never miss a chance to throw a sheep."
"It's steers you throw," snapped Steffen. "Not sheep. Any fool knows that. Now get your men back here, right now!"
Brood threw back his head and uttered a peculiar ululating cry. The distant figures turned. For a moment they remained still, then they came loping toward Brood. The sheep dashed through the open gate and made for the fence at the far end, putting as much ground between themselves and Lupworth United as was geographically possible. The players gathered around Brood, panting, mouths hanging open, awaiting orders.
"Get changed," he said shortly.
Bill Todd-Mortimer joined Mrs. Masterson and Jim Bullock.
"There's something really weird about those guys," he said.
BILL WAS SERIOUSLY concerned about Lupworth United. He'd been on a spying expedition the previous week and had seen them beat Merton Town six-nil. It had been an awe-inspiring performance. Merton had been swept aside by uncanny team-play and ruthless finishing, to the extent that Bill had wondered if maybe Lupworth had been genetically enhanced.
Genetic enhancing was the bane of big-league soccer those days, and random DNA testing was carried out before big matches to ensure that an unusually agile goalkeeper, for instance, was not part gibbon. Bill was reasonably sure, however, that there were no gibbons in Lupworth United. Their wrists did not protrude excessively from their sleeves.
After a defeatist team discussion in the locker room, followed by a hectoring speech from Mrs. Masterson, he led the Foss Creek Contemptibles onto the field to the applause of the home crowd. The team kicked the ball about aimlessly for a few moments, waiting for Lupworth who were still in their locker room, howling in unison. Eventually they emerged and the game commenced.
It was not a game Bill cared to remember. The Lupworth goalkeeper sustained a broken leg in a collision with Jim Bullock and was replaced by Dexter Brood himself, but the referee banished Jim from the game, leaving the Contemptibles one man short. Thereafter United dominated the game. It was a repetition of their victory over Merton Town: uncanny combination play with accurate passing and almost prescient running of the ball.
After the half-time break, which Lupworth United spent howling in their locker room, the second half followed the pattern of the first. Already three goals down and reduced to ten men, the Contemptibles showed no sign of recovery and United goals came with almost monotonous regularity. Only the courage of Bill Todd-Mortimer in goal was preventing a basketball score. Time and again he threw himself at the feet of onrushing strikers until the premonition grew within him that, any moment now, his luck would run out and he would get himself killed. But he was captain, by God, and his father was watching, not to mention Janet Remmers, all tits and legs. It was no time for quitting.
Five minutes from the final whistle the ball rolled toward the left touchline. The Lupworth striker had anticipated the pass and gathered it neatly with the outside of his right foot, stroking the ball forward. He feinted to the right, then took the ball past the outstretched leg of a defender.
Bill's premonition became a certainty. This was it.
The striker cut in toward goal, glancing up. Two, three maroon Lupworth shirts were closing in for the kill. Bill's defenders were nowhere. The striker was clearly debating chipping the ball across to his waiting team-mates; then unexpectedly he decided to go it alone. Bill advanced in a scuttling crouch to narrow the angle, arms outstretched, despairing. Tourism was a mug's game. Tomorrow he'd make for Yamton, get a job under the clean umbrella of the dome. Something behind a desk. Something unconnected with boots and kicking.
The striker's right foot struck the ball a meaty thump, aiming to curl it inside the far post. Bill flung himself up and back, and got the fingertips of his left hand to the ball -- just a touch, but enough to divert it harmlessly over the crossbar.
The applause faded and a stillness settled over the ground. The ball had gone -- but the maroon shirts were still closing in on Bill. He jumped to his feet, fear clutching at his heart. Four Lupworth players surrounded him, legs flexed like crouching animals. Their mouths hung open, panting, and it seemed to Bill that their tongues lolled out over unnaturally sharp teeth. They wore hungry grins.
Now it was time for quitting. With a yell of fright he burst through the Lupworth men and fled.
Anna Tyler pushed open the door of the Foss Creek locker room. It was her duty, following a defeat, to offer grief counseling.
Naked figures stood all around in attitudes of dejection. "Jeez, we really struck out today," said one.
"What a goddamned catastrophe! Eleven-nothing! I feel ashamed, you know that?"
"Let's go with that thought," Anna urged.
"What kind of a chance do we stand in the Cup Final, for Pete's sake?" asked another. Although it was meant as a rhetorical question, it drew several responses, all negative.
"We're gonna get creamed!"
"Go with it!" exhorted Anna. "Let it all out!"
"We're a bunch of dorks!" someone contributed tearfully.
"It's all Jim's fault!" came an accusing whine. "Getting himself sent off, the pisspot!"
"Yeah! What chance did we have with ten men!"
Anna was pleased. "That's good. That's healthy and normal. That's what we need, a scapegoat."
Jim Bullock, immensely naked, loomed up angrily. "Let's get this straight, I did what I was told! I was told to take out their goalie and that's what I did. Was it my fault the ref saw me do it ?" He glowered around, huge fists bunched. "Which of you called me a pisspot? Jeez, I'm gonna smash your face in, whoever the hell you are!"
"Not now, Jim," said Anna quickly. "I'll give you individual counseling afterwards."
"Oh?" said Jim nastily. "I reckon you've done enough talking, lady. Who do you think you are anyway, coming in here with us all undressed?"
"I can assure you, nakedness means nothing to me."
"Okay, then take your goddamned clothes off!"
"Yeah! Yeah!" roared the team.
Anna backed toward the door. "This is very good. I like the way it's going. We're letting it all hang out. That is to say, not literally hang out, I wouldn't want you to think -- "
"What in God's name is going on in here?"
"Oh, Mrs. Masterson," cried Anna, relieved. "It's just our post-game grief counseling. We won't be long. Did you want me for anything?" she asked hopefully.
The squat and toadlike figure of Mrs. Masterson surveyed the fleshy contents of the locker room. "Is Bill Todd-Mortimer present?"
"Here!" A haggard figure spoke from the distant recesses of the room.
"Are you all right, Bill? They didn't . . . break your skin in any way?"
"Just the usual cuts and bruises in the line of duty, Mrs. Masterson."
"No, uh, bites or anything like that?"
"Bites?"
"Bites, as with teeth." She surveyed the team with glittering eyes. "Carl Steffen has just notified me that several of his sheep sustained serious bites while being removed from the field by Lupworth United. I think you will agree this is unusual. So I advise all of you to take no chances. Go to your doctor and get shots."
In the amazed silence that followed, Bill Todd-Mortimer was heard to say, "I knew there was something weird about those guys."
Sunday morning, and a lined and elderly face stared out of the visiphone screen trying to look sincere and honest. The sincerity came across well because a desperate plea was being made. The honesty lacked conviction however, because the call came from Yamton Penitentiary. The face belonged to Wally Masterson.
"Stasis?" snapped Mrs. Masterson. "What do you mean, stasis? You're supposed to be doing time, for God's sake!"
"These days they allow stasis as an alternative. I've applied for it. All I need now is a recommendation from you. Prior good behavior, that kind of thing."
Wally was a tricky little devil -- that was how he'd gotten away with embezzlement for so long -- but he couldn't fool her. "You want me to recommend you for suspended animation, is that what you're saying?"
He licked his lips. "Something like that."
"For the full term? That would be ten years?"
"Nine. I've served one." The long face was twisted in supplication. "It's been hell, Rachel. I'll never see the light of day again, at my age."
"And rightly so! You have a debt to pay to Society, Walter Masterson, and by God you're going to pay it! There's too much pandering to criminals these days. Private showers, 3V in all rooms, fresh linen daily. Horseback riding, yachting, all at the taxpayers' expense. It makes me sick!"
"So you'll write the Governor a recommendation for stasis? You wouldn't want me to spend nine years yachting, would you?"
Mrs. Masterson snorted. How dare that little wimp use his sarcasm on her! Wally needed time to reflect on the error of his ways. Nine years would be about enough. "Hell will freeze over, Wally," she snapped, "before I recommend you for stasis! But meanwhile I need to pick your brains. No doubt you recall the Choth insurrection on Sol Station 2?"
There was a mutinous expression on his face. "You mean when your dad panicked and loosed off his laser pistol at his own reflection? And you tried to shoot the Security Chief and got yourself deported?"
"Your recollection of events is at variance with mine, Wally. My father did not panic, but he was ninety-three and his eyesight was failing. Be that as it may, with him dead there was a regrettable lack of leadership and I sought to fill the vacuum. I was foiled only by Security buffoons. But all that is beside the point. Tell me, what was the final outcome of the Choth insurrection? What happened to the Choth after I left the Station?"
"Well now, wouldn't you like to know."
The impertinence of the man! "Wally, I warn you! There are sinister happenings in Foss Creek that bear a marked resemblance to the happenings prior to the Choth insurrection! Now answer my question. I can find out from other sources if you persist in this stubbornness!"
"No, you can't. It was all hushed up. The records were destroyed and people's memories were doctored. I slipped through the net. There was something about the Choth, you see, that really scared people. They were like a horrible legend come true. Much better to forget the whole thing." He was grinning wickedly.
"Tell me, you fool!"
"Not until hell freezes over," he said distinctly. "If then."
"Weren't you a little hard on him, Rachel?" asked Megan Jenkins as Mrs. Masterson resumed their interrupted morning coffee.
"Hard?" exclaimed the old lady. "My God, he's lucky his case was heard on Earth. If he'd been convicted on Sol Station 2 it would have been the trepan for him. There's no room for embezzlers on Sol Station 2, thank God!"
"But Rachel . . . . " Megan was horrified. "How can you talk like that? He's your husband!"
"Which proves my judgment is unbiased. Wally is a dirty little crook who deserves all he gets. Lucky for him my father's dead. He'd have horsewhipped the wretch for the way he took the family name and disgraced it! You know what's wrong with the criminal justice system?"
"Crooks get off too lightly?" guessed Megan.
Mrs. Masterson shot her a suspicious look. If there was one thing she couldn't stand, it was insincerity. Allowing her friend the benefit of the doubt, she continued, "Precisely, and this application of Wally's is a prime example. What's jail for, eh? Punishment, in the form of confinement and endless boredom relieved by moments of degradation, right? So what does Wally apply for? Stasis, for God's sake. Stasis!"
"I suppose it's cheaper that way. Food and accommodation, I mean. I'm told they keep them in big filing cabinets in a deep freeze."
"But don't you see, you fool? Stasis means he'll wake up without even knowing nine years have gone by. Where's the punishment in that, eh? And all the time he's cozily asleep, I'll be getting older. By the time he's released he'll be fitter and sharper than I, and he'll be able to run rings around me, the slippery little swine!"
"I doubt that will ever happen, Rachel."
Again there was something suspect in Megan's tone, and Mrs. Masterson was about to react unfavorably when the visiphone buzzed again. With an oath the old lady activated the screen. Didn't people know better than to keep calling on a Sunday morning? Shouldn't they all be in church?
It was Carl Steffen. "You're responsible for that goddamned soccer team, eh?" he snapped.
"I am Manager of Foss Creek Contemptibles, although I fail to see the relevance of such a question on a Sunday morning."
"That's a Yes, is it? Okay, lady, so get your butt up to my farm right now, and bring Todd-Mortimer with you!"
"Really! I will not be spoken to -- "
"If you want to use my meadow as a soccer ground in future, that is."
"I see." She switched off the screen, flushing. First Wally and now Steffen. What had happened to good old country courtesy this morning? "Why are you hanging around here, woman?" she snapped at Megan. "Can't you see I have business to attend to?"
"No, I can't allow that," said Gervaise Todd-Mortimer firmly, as they approached Carl Steffen's farm. "It's simply not on, you know."
Mrs. Masterson was using the short journey as an opportunity to discuss team tactics. "Nonsense! Players switch teams all the time. All I'm suggesting is your son sign on as Lupworth United's goalkeeper for the next couple of weeks, and convey intelligence to me. Then, shortly before the Cup Final, he transfer back to us. Nothing could be simpler."
"Spying? It's unethical. And anyway, Bill was badly frightened by United. You'd never persuade him to join such a peculiar outfit."
Mrs. Masterson snorted. "Peculiar, yes. That's what I want to get to the bottom of. That's why I ordered Jim Bullock to disable the United goalkeeper, so your son could take his place."
"What!" Gervaise Todd-Mortimer stiffened with outrage. "You mean Jim deliberately crippled that man?" He took a deep breath. "Please accept my resignation from the Committee of the Foss Creek Contemptibles Soccer Club, Mrs. Masterson."
"Gladly. Now, as to the matter of young Bill--" She broke off. They'd turned into the driveway of Steffen's farm, and the house had come into view.
It seemed to be surrounded by sheep.
"Hungry, are they?" suggested the veterinarian.
Mrs. Masterson grunted. "It is as I expected. Carl Steffen is under siege." She stamped on the brake as a sheep wandered in front of the buggy.
"Under siege? Don't be ridiculous . . . . " He broke off, staring. "My God! Look at the expression on the face of that sheep!"
"Quintessential evil, I think you will agree. The Mark of Cain."
Todd-Mortimer recovered quickly. As he'd found out to his cost on other occasions, it was possible to fall under the spell of the peculiar dream world in which Mrs. Masterson lived. "Just a fleeting impression. Sheep always look at you weirdly; ask Steffen. They drive him crazy with their staring. No, these sheep are merely waiting to be fed."
"I think you will find we are in the presence of something infinitely more sinister," said Mrs. Masterson significantly.
This seemed to be borne out as they approached the house. Sheep crowded the buggy, snarling. The terrified face of Steffen peered from a window. He flung it open. "Drive right up to the door! Don't let the bastards get near you!"
Mrs. Masterson pulled up immediately beside the front door and killed the engine. As the buggy sank to the ground, hooves scrabbled at the windows and a host of woolly faces stared in, red eyed, jaws agape and slavering. Steffen cracked open the front door of the house, immediately adjacent to the car. Mrs. Masterson opened her door and stepped quickly through, followed by the veterinarian. A sheep tried to force itself between the buggy and the wall and became trapped, snarling and snapping. Steffen slammed the front door behind them.
"By us," he muttered. "What a morning." He took a deep breath and confronted Mrs. Masterson. "So. What do you have to say for yourself, woman?"
"I fail to understand what you're talking about."
He began to check off points on trembling fingers. "I allow your goddamned soccer team to play on my field. Yesterday the players chased my ewes all over the place and grappled with them. Sheep were bitten, and this morning they try to attack me. The connection is obvious. Jesus Christ, woman, I barely escaped with my life!"
"If you remember, it was Lupworth United who grappled with your sheep. They are beyond my area of responsibility, as well you know."
"Lupworth United, Foss Creek Contemptibles, what's the difference? As a result of injuries sustained while being removed from the soccer pitch, my ewes have contracted a mystery illness."
"I can't talk to you, you clown." Mrs. Masterson swung round on Todd-Mortimer. "You've seen the sheep. What's your diagnosis?"
"Give me a chance. I haven't examined them yet. When did you first notice these symptoms, Carl?"
"At daybreak when they started hurling themselves at my front door, trying to get at me." Steffen mopped his brow. "I tell you, I've had it with sheep, and the hell with local color. They tell me llamas can be quite docile."
Todd-Mortimer had opened the window and was regarding the ewe trapped between car and wall, directly beneath him. "Do they seem to be frightened of water, at all?"
"Rabies, you mean?" Steffen uttered a bark of laughter. "Rabies was eradicated fifty years ago!"
The veterinarian drew himself up. "A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing, Carl. However, I don't think . . . . "He leaned out of the window. "The explanation could be quite simple. An extremely painful eye infection has spread through the flock -- notice the redness, the inflammation as we call it in the medical profession? These animals are mad with pain. Treat the eyes and you solve the problem."
"Okay, treat them, then," said Carl Steffen nastily. "And good luck to you."
"I will treat the animal beneath us as a test case; I think I can reach her from here." He took a bottle from his bag, soaked a cloth and leaned out of the window again. "A spot of argyrol will do the trick, I think . . . There we are. Did you say something, Mrs. Masterson?"
Mrs. Masterson, who was reading the label on the bottle, had in fact grunted skeptically. "I hardly think this snake oil will solve anything."
"Argyrol is a recognized and well-respected palliative in cases of eye infection." He glanced out of the window. "The animal is already calming down."
They joined him. Incredibly, he was right. The ewe had stopped snarling and stood quietly, gazing up at them with mild eyes.
"That's the irony of the medical profession," said Todd-Mortimer. "No matter how efficacious the remedy itself, you still need the good old human element to diagnose and prescribe. Argyrol is almost forgotten now, a drug of the twentieth century. But the point is, I remembered it. And now we have the means to save your flock, Carl."
Mrs. Masterson was wondering at a strange expression on Steffen's face; was it disappointment? Then something else caught her eye. "Take a look at that, Todd-Mortimer," she snapped. "You will observe that all the other animals are calming down too. The sickness has run its course. So much for your miracle cure. It was pure coincidence, no more. The bane of the research scientist."
The sheep were moving away from the house, drifting quietly through a broken fence into a meadow, bleating, dropping their heads and beginning to graze on the short spring grass. "Well, I'm damned," said Steffen. "You never know, with sheep. I've always said so."
"Perhaps I should treat the rest of the flock now," suggested Todd-Mortimer. "As a precautionary measure."
"Forget it, Gervaise. This has cost me enough already. And besides . . . . " The curious expression returned to Steffen's rough features. "Never mind."
"Fools!" snapped Mrs. Masterson. "You think this is the end of it? This kind of complacency almost cost us Sol Station 2! It started with just such an outbreak as this. Red eyes and a great deal of snarling and slavering."
"They have sheep on Sol Station 2?" asked Steffen, surprised.
"Sheep? No, of course they don't have sheep, you blockhead. I'm talking about people like you and me; honest human citizens infected by the bite of the Choth, who had been invited aboard against my expert advice and who had risen against us. If only people had listened to me, my father would be alive today!"
"Unless he'd died since from unrelated causes."
"Exactly, and within hours of the Choth attack a full-blown insurrection broke out. And this time human fought human, red eyed, snarling and slavering."
"All of them?" Todd-Mortimer was interested from a professional standpoint. "All of them slavering?"
Mrs. Masterson uttered a click of impatience. "Do I have to spell it out? Slavering humans fought non-slavering humans."
"What about the Choth? Were they slavering or non-slavering?"
"The Choth always slaver. And if you don't realize why some of the humans were slavering too, it was because they'd been infected by the bites of the Choth. Fighting to preserve peace, my father was killed." She regarded them solemnly. "It was a great loss to the Service."
"Well, too bad," said Steffen. "But I fail to see what that has to do with my sheep. We have no Choth here, do we? What do they look like, anyway?"
"Humanoid. Tall. Hairy, particularly about the hands. Long muzzle-like jaws and pointed teeth. They visited Earth centuries ago, which accounts for certain myths."
"Myths? Wait a minute," said Steffen. "Just wait a goddamned minute. You can't be suggesting --"
"Precisely, Mr. Steffen. Your animals may appear quiescent at the moment, but that is their cunning. Be advised, Mr. Steffen, you have a flock of were sheep out there."
"And all they did was laugh, which shows how professional standards have slipped in recent years. Here I present them with a perfectly acceptable explanation for the curious behavior of not only the sheep, but Lupworth United too, and they laugh. I told them: today Lupworth United, tomorrow the world! But they were unable to grasp that simple concept. Sometimes I wonder if the peaceful life of the country has a numbing effect on the intellect."
Sunday afternoon in Mrs. Masterson's cottage. Her audience consisted of Anna Tyler, whom she'd called in to discuss the psychological implications of yesterday's game, and Megan Jenkins, who made a useful foil.
"But why did the sheep all calm down?" asked Megan.
"Certainly not because of any muck that fool Todd-Masterson used, because he only treated one animal. My guess is it had been happening for some hours, gradually, at the setting of the full moon. Mark my words, the beast still lurks within those sheep. As it lurks within Lupworth United, waiting only for the next full moon to unleash its devilish potential."
"Lupworth United are werewolves too? Really, Rachel, isn't that a little far-fetched?" But Megan glanced nervously out of the window as though expecting to see Dexter Brood himself hiding in the bushes, needle-ranged and slobbering.
"The evidence was right before our eyes and we failed to see it. The pre-game howling. The way they combined in offense instinctively -- just like a pack of wolves hunting. The barely controlled threat toward young Bill Todd-Mortimer. Fortunately for him he recognized it for what it was, and fled. Otherwise, I shudder to think what might have ensued."
Anna Tyler was doubtful. "Well, what would have ensued?"
"As I told you: I shudder to think."
"Yes, but you must shudder to think something. You can't just shudder. There has to be some possibility that you're shuddering at."
"Must I spell it out, woman? If young Bill hadn't fled, they would have torn him limb from limb!"
"I hardly think so. My guess is, they'd have patted him on the back the way soccer players do, and resumed play. To me, a pat on the back is much more likely than unprovoked dismemberment. I think most people would agree with me."
"I certainly wouldn't. Knowing the Choth the way I do."
"The Choth? What have the Choth to do with all this?"
"The Choth were involved in the slaying of Mrs. Masterson's father, the Admiral," Megan reminded Anna.
"Unfortunately Sol Station 2 does not experience a full moon as such," the old lady explained, "there being few exterior portholes. If it were otherwise, the more intelligent crew members would have agreed with my diagnosis soon enough. As it was, the Choth acted in accordance with their internal time clock and rose as one man, or should I say one alien. When my poor father fell, I made every effort to take over the Station but Security was staffed with dunderheads, and force of arms prevented me."
"You paint an intriguing picture, Mrs. Masterson," said Anna. "I almost wish I'd been there. Although I must object to the use of the word werewolf. The Choth are lunar afflicted persons through no fault of their own."
Their host snatched a book from the coffee table. "Clearly you are not aware of the gravity of the situation. I suggest you listen to a learned opinion." She started to read. " 'Those gifted with the power of changing their form tend to assume a festial personality.' Now, cast your mind back to yesterday's game, and tell me what those words convey to you." She stared fixedly at Anna, and when the sociologist's eyes dropped she shifted her gaze to Megan. "Revealing, isn't it?"
"You're suggesting Lupworth United behaved in a festial manner?" quavered her neighbor. "They were a little odd, but festial? I don't like the sound of that."
Anna Tyler's tone was severe. "Really, Mrs. Masterson, I find this kind of talk distressing. Merely because these afflicted persons -- afflicted by our standards, remember -- behave in a manner you consider unusual is no reason to accuse them of festiality. I'm speaking of the Choth on Sol Station 2, of course. You have not yet made a credible connection between the Choth on Sol Station 2 and Lupworth United here on Earth. Festial personality? I hardly think so."
"You're talking in riddles as usual, woman. I said bestial personality."
"You said festial."
"All right." Mrs. Masterson handed her the book. "Read it yourself."
Anna glanced at the page. "Yes, it says bestial personality here, so obviously you misread it. My God!" she exclaimed. "Have you seen what this book is, Megan?" She held it up to show the jacket, a bold representation of a pinkly naked woman in the arms of a black-cloaked, sharp-fanged villain. "Myths and Monsters of Medieval Times." She closed it with a sharp report. "Hardly your dependable work of reference, huh? So how do you propose to stop werewolves taking over the South Western Soccer League, Mrs. Masterson? Open fire with silver bullets?"
"That is quite the most ridiculous suggestion I've heard today, and I've spent some time with Gervaise Todd-Mortimer already. Everyone knows the story of silver bullets is a myth. In the early stages of the insurrection on Sol Station 21 shot two Choth dead with silver bullets I'd cast myself as an experiment. It was soon revealed they'd died because of my accuracy, not because of any mystical properties of silver. I'd shot them through the heart."
"So how do you propose we handle this problem, Mrs. Masterson? If there is a problem. Perhaps we should face the real truth, that Lupworth United are a better team than Foss Creek Contemptibles."
"There are broader issues, as I've told you," said the old lady darkly. "I'd hoped this discussion might have been productive of a solution, but I should have known better. No. My only course may be to call my husband at Yamton Penitentiary and make certain concessions in return for information. I'm not looking forward to it. Wally has a frugal personality and will always drive a hard bargain."
"Are you sure you don't mean a brugal personality?" asked Anna Tyler innocently.
THE NEXT WEEK PASSED without incident until Friday evening, when Mrs. Masterson opened her door in response to a frantic knocking and found Bill Todd-Mortimer standing there. Glancing nervously over his shoulder he hurried indoors and flopped into a chair, blinking at the light.
"I can't do it, Mrs. Masterson. No way. I don't care what you tell Dad about me and Janet Remmers, I'm through."
She regarded him, frustrated. What a prime example of the spineless youth of today! He looked pale and shrunken, his clothing unkempt, his hair over-long. What he needed was a few years in the Space Service; that might make a man of him, if it wasn't too late already. "Janet Remmers is not the kind of girl with whom your father would like you to associate," she said significantly.
"I know that! And I don't care! You tell him! Go on, pick up the phone and tell him! I'm calling your bluff!"
A different approach was needed. Bill was a good lad, basically; merely a victim of poor parenting. "I never bluff. Let us discuss this quietly and rationally, Bill, man to man. Clearly something has frightened you, and I accept that. You may speak freely."
He dropped his gaze. "It's Dexter Brood," he muttered.
"I thought it might be. Tell me what happened, in your own words."
"Eh? Whose words did you expect me to use?"
"Your own. That's what I said. Omit nothing."
Her voice seemed to calm him, as a Foss Creek sheep calms at the waning of the moon. He relaxed visibly, took a deep breath, and began.
"I called Mr. Brood at Lupworth like you said, and said I was interested in playing for him, and could I have a trial. That's the way you do it, see; you ask for a trial. I didn't tell Dad or the men; they wouldn't understand. Anyway, Mr. Brood was interested because his goalkeeper is still in hospital, compound fracture, he'll be on crutches for months. I'll say this for Jim Bullock, he does a good job."
"Yes, yes. A sound young man. Get on with it, please."
"You said omit nothing. Anyway, I went to Lupworth this morning and they put me in goal and fired balls at me and I did okay, I guess, because Mr. Brood asked me to call him Dexter. He had the papers all ready for me to sign. Just one thing, he said. Our men all take these shots. And he had the hypodermic all full and ready."
"Hypodermic, eh? No question of biting, then? So that's how he does it."
"Monkey-gland treatment, he called it. He said soccer teams had been using it for centuries. He said it wasn't a performance-enhancing drug or anything illegal like that; it was all natural ingredients, like granola. But I backed off. He had a funny look in his eye. Kind of . . . gloating, you know what I mean?"
"You've had a very narrow escape, young Bill." She should never have sent him unprotected to Lupworth. She'd allowed her enthusiasm for the team to sap her common sense.
"I'm real funny about hypodermics; I've seen Dad use them on animals too often. Sometimes the animal drops down dead, just like that. Embolism, Dad says, luck of the draw, he says. I don't like to take chances."
"So you made good your escape."
"I said I had to get something from my buggy. When I reached it I jumped in and drove off." His eyes were wide, reliving the flight. "And the whole team came running after me, howling. Then later I saw their team copter humming around up there. I pulled under some trees until it was gone. But they knew which way I'd be heading, all right."
"They won't come after you now, Bill. Brood was driven by disappointment, nothing more. He doesn't realize the value of your intelligence to me."
"But I didn't find anything out."
"You found out enough." She stood. "You have confirmed my suspicions, and I thank you. The matter of Janet Remmers and the abortion clinic will go no further, have no fear. And now . . . " She sighed. "I have no option but to call my wretch of a husband."
It was not an easy course for a proud woman to take and Mrs. Masterson procrastinated, hoping to be overtaken by events, such as a change in legislation governing stasis or a tragic accident involving the Lupworth United copter and the entire team. Saturday afternoon arrived without incident, however. Foss Creek Contemptibles beat Galton Town by four goals to one. It was during Anna Tyler's subsequent triumph counseling that Gervaise Todd-Mortimer dropped the bombshell.
Smiling round at the jubilant team, he remarked, "This bodes well for the twenty-second."
Mrs. Masterson corrected him. "The twenty-ninth. The Cup Final is on the twenty-ninth, my good man. A fine set of fools we'd have looked if we'd showed up for the game on the twenty-second."
"The date's been changed," said Anna Tyler. "Didn't you know?"
"No, I did not know. Changed? Why was I not informed, as Team Manager? Who made this decision, anyway?"
The veterinarian said uncomfortably, "Obviously there's been a breakdown in communication. Dexter Brood put in a request to the South Western League; something to do with Lupworth's crowded fixture card. Anna and I agreed as a matter of course. It's a trivial matter, surely?"
"A trivial matter?" Couldn't the imbeciles see the significance of the date? "A trivial matter? And you agreed without consulting me? Fools! Don't you understand why they wanted to change the date? Don't you know what the twenty-second is?"
They stared at her, baffled. The team crowded around the trio, naked and open-mouthed. A boardroom dispute. This was more fun than the game itself.
"It's exactly one lunar month from last week's game!" the old lady shouted. "Take a look at that calendar on the wall, and by the way I don't know how they can allow such disgusting pictures to be printed! The weekend of the twenty-second is the time of the full moon!"
"Oh, no," muttered Todd-Mortimer. "Not werewolves again."
"Werewolves?" someone repeated anxiously.
"There are no werewolves," said Anna Tyler quickly, sensing alarm and despondency spreading throughout the team. "There never were any werewolves. It's all a myth!"
"Yeah, just let me tell you all what happened to me over at Lupworth," said Bill Todd-Mortimer.
"Werewolves?" The whisper spread rapidly. People began to recall odd incidents in the previous week's game. Things began to fit together. A pattern formed in fertile young minds. Consternation spread.
"I always said there was something weird about those guys," said Bill Todd-Mortimer.
Swiftly, capably, Anna Tyler switched her approach from triumph to grief counseling, while Mrs. Masterson hurried home to her visiphone.
"Wally, you may now tell me what happened on Sol Station 2 after my departure. The future of the human race is at risk, and although I have little time for the human race as such, I have no wish to lose the conveniences of Society."
"You mean you'll recommend me for stasis?" The joy in the little toad's face was pathetic to see.
"You have my word as a gentleman, as it were. Provided your information is satisfactory."
"Wait a minute. Just wait one goddamned minute, Rachel. I've known you a long time. How do you define satisfactory?"
"It must result in the victory of Foss Creek Contemptibles over Lupworth United at the South Western Cup Final."
"What's that got to do with anything?" he asked, puzzled. Mrs. Masterson began a succinct explanation of recent events, and after a while he began to nod intelligently. "Yeah, yeah," he said finally. "I get the picture. Okay, you have a deal. Now, listen carefully. This is what happened. Soon after you were thrown off the Station there was a clamp-down. The whole place was in quarantine and movement was restricted; you know how easy it is for panic to spread in a Station."
"I know," said Mrs. Masterson with feeling.
"Communication with the outside world was cut off. You can guess why that was. They didn't want news to leak out that we'd got werewolves aboard; you know how sensitive people are about werewolves. If they were werewolves. So the Choth were loaded into their old ship and sent away. Those of us who'd been infected were cured."
"How?"
"I don't remember."
"You must remember. Try, you fool! I'm warning you, Wally!"
His voice took on a plaintive whine. "I'm doing my best, Rachel. People's memories were selectively erased. Hell, some of us didn't even remember our own names, afterwards. But you know what memory erasure's like; it works in patches. I could remember more than most. I remember you being shipped out, and that guy stowing away, all that stuff."
Mrs. Masterson's ears pricked up. "A stowaway? On my shuttle? I never heard about that."
"Jesus, yes." He chuckled. "There was a helluva stink when they found him gone. Rankin Sanders, his name was, you probably wouldn't remember him. People reckoned he'd been the first human infected by the Choth, and it had really taken a hold on him by then. Me, I was lucky, I never let the Choth near me. But they'd have arrested Sanders when the shuttle reached Earth, wouldn't they?"
"There was no search. It's possible word got through too late. Would he be a big man, hairy, widow's peak?"
"That's him."
"He is now masquerading under the name of Dexter Brood," she said with certainty. "Well, now we know with whom we're dealing, but there's little I can do about it except take my twelve-bore to the swine, and I have no wish to face a murder trial at my age. No, Wally, I regret that without details of the cure for this malady, I cannot recommend you for stasis."
She could almost see his crooked little mind racing. It was ironic that the fate of the human race had to depend on such as him. "You mentioned your veterinarian buddy," he said finally, "and the sheep. Did the animal he treated calm down before the rest, or at the same time?"
Now there was an interesting line of thought. Wally could be onto something. "To the best of my recollection, that ewe became quiescent almost five minutes before the others," she said slowly. "I remember because that dolt Todd-Mortimer had time for a bout of childish boasting."
"There you are, then." He glanced over his shoulder, a habit of his before imparting information. "Now let's run through that sequence of events again, and maybe I'll have an idea or two . . . . "
During the next two weeks, Foss Creek residents were pleasantly surprised by Mrs. Masterson's lack of activity. Certainly she attended an away Contemptibles fixture, but it was reported that she confined herself to shouting epithets at the opposition and had not engaged in any controversy. The Contemptibles had won handily; a good warm-up for the Cup Final. The Final itself was to be played at Foss Creek; Lupworth having waived the neutral ground option in return for Contemptibles agreeing to the changed date. Amazingly, Mrs. Masterson made no attempt to get the original date of the Final restored.
So at one o'clock on Saturday, 22 April, the Lupworth United copter descended toward Foss Creek out of a clear blue sky. The narrow lanes were choked with buggies from Yamton Dome and surrounding areas, and temporary stands were being bolted together by the villagers. The South Western Knockout Cup Final was by far the most important event of the year, from the tourism point of view. The Newspocket cameras were there, all set to broadcast the event live from London to Land's End.
Gervaise Todd-Mortimer, who had retracted his resignation until after the Final, met Anna Tyler outside the Contemptibles' locker room.
"Here come Lupworth." He watched the red-eyed and unshaven opposition climbing from their copter. "They look a little under the weather today. This bodes well for Contemptibles. By the way, where's Mrs. Masterson?" He cocked an ear toward the locker room door. "It's time she gave the pep talk. I don't hear her voice in there. Perhaps," a welcome thought occurred," she's ill, too."
"It would take a serious illness indeed to keep her away from the Cup Final," said Anna. "You realize her involvement with the team stems from loneliness? With her husband in jail, the team is all she has. Anyway, her buggy's parked over there."
In fact Mrs. Masterson was less than ten meters away, having arrived earlier. Together with Megan Jenkins she was busy in the utility room behind the locker rooms. Here were stored the goal nets, the spare balls, the corner flags and the ancient ground-effect mower, together with a clutter of farm implements and old sacks of herbicide and fertilizer accumulated over the years. Here also was the hot-water tank and the air-conditioning plant.
"Oh, my God," Megan was muttering. "Oh, my God. I can't think how I ever got into this. I wish you'd explain what you're doing, Rachel. On second thoughts, I don't want to know. No, tell me. I may refuse to be involved."
"Stop your whimpering, woman, and keep a sharp look-out. The fewer who know about this the better, and I have no doubt you would crack under interrogation. This is no time for cowardice. The fate of the human race is in our hands!"
Megan eased the door open and peered out. "They've arrived. Oh, my God, Lupworth have arrived. I'm not cut out for this kind of thing. What shall I do if someone wants to come in here?"
"Deny them entry. Fend them off." Mrs. Masterson busied herself at the far wall. "Can you see that imbecile Todd-Mortimer? I asked him to bring his veterinary supplies in case there was a problem with the sheep again."
"Mr. Todd-Mortimer has his bag. The sheep are all penned in the field below. They seem to be crowding the fence. They're acting very strangely."
"Of course they're acting strangely, you fool. It is the time of the full moon and they sense the presence of kindred spirits."
"But they're dangerous! Why haven't they been dealt with? If you're right, they only have to bite someone and they turn into a . . . a werewolf!"
"Exactly. But try telling that to Carl Steffen. He likes them this way. He says they put on wool at a phenomenal rate. And between you and me, Megan, their very wolfishness appeals to something in that man. Take a deep look into Steffen's eyes the next time you meet him. Tell me what you see there."
"Really, I'd rather not, Rachel."
Mrs. Masterson uttered a grunt of satisfaction, her first task complete. "There. All ready now, I think. Yes, I hear them next door." The sound of howling carried through the dividing wall. "All that savagery, so barely held in check. It would be quite inspiring, were it not the enemy. Now, you hold the fort, Megan. I shall be gone less than a minute."
She left her companion moaning with terror and walked briskly around the side of the building.
"Ah, there you are, Mrs. Masterson." Gervaise Todd-Mortimer was relieved. "The lads will be expecting your pre-game pep talk."
"All in good time." She leaned casually against the Lupworth door and, behind her back, slipped a key in the lock and turned it. "I have a few further tasks to perform." She hurried back to the utility room.
"You can't come in! You can't come in!"
"It's me, you fool. Step aside, there's no time to lose." She returned to the far wall. "There. That should settle their hash."
The howling died away. Shouts of discomfort filtered through the wall. "What have you done, Rachel?" quavered Megan. "In God's name, what have you done?"
The shouts turned to yelping screams. There was a distant pounding of fists on the door. "Time to leave, Megan. Nobody will come here, now the diversion has commenced. Your part in this day's work is done."
"My part in what?" But Megan's agonized questions faded as she put distance between herself and the utility room. "And why are you wearing that awful mask?"
Mrs. Masterson listened to the din from the Lupworth locker room with satisfaction. That should take some of the steam out of them. When she judged they'd had enough, she removed the tear-gas canister from the air-conditioner, slipped it into a larger cylindrical container, screwed the lid down tightly and removed her mask. She walked casually to her buggy, locked the container inside and joined the throng outside the locker-room door, which by now was shaking to heavy blows from both sides.
"What in heaven's name is going on?" she asked.
"There are lads dying in there!" Todd-Mortimer cried. "This is a terrible thing! They accept our hospitality and now this happens. I feel personally responsible for this tragedy!"
"If you hadn't retracted your resignation you wouldn't feel so responsible, you fool. Anyway, they don't sound as though they're dying, although they may need some medical attention when they emerge. Why don't you let them out, for heaven's sake?"
"Nobody can find the key!"
"Key? Oh, it so happens I might have a spare." She rummaged in the pockets of her tweed jacket. "Here we are. The work of a moment."
The door burst open and Lupworth United emerged at speed, headed by Dexter Brood and bringing with them a powerful odor of sweat and tear gas. They milled around half-naked, coughing and rubbing streaming eyes. Eventually Brood was able to identify Todd-Mortimer and staggered up to him.
"You bastards! Sabotage, that's what this is. I'm going to make a formal complaint to the South Western League. You'll pay for this, Todd-Mortimer!"
Mrs. Masterson intervened. "A most unfortunate accident, the air conditioner must have sucked some kind of herbicide in from the utility room. Dangerous stuff, herbicide, when it gets in the eyes. Fortunately Mr. Todd-Mortimer has an excellent antiseptic in his bag."
"For God's sake, Mrs. Masterson, I'm not a doctor!"
"You would withhold succor from these poor wretches on a technicality? Answer me this, man! Is argyrol suitable for application to human eyes or not?"
"Yes, but --"
"Then apply it, Todd-Mortimer!"
Lupworth United crowded around the veterinarian, coughing and weeping, begging for his palliative. "Oh, Jesus," someone wailed. "I'm going blind!"
"Do your duty, Todd-Mortimer! Remember the Hippocratic Oath!"
Public pressure was overwhelming. The veterinarian bowed to it, opened his bag and poured a generous measure of argyrol onto a swab. One by one Lupworth United received treatment, finishing with Dexter Brood himself. "There's something goddamned strange about this," he jerked out between bouts of coughing. "I'm going to take a look at that utility room."
"Praise be to God!" someone shouted joyfully. "I can see!"
"Just jog around a bit now," Mrs. Masterson advised them. "Get some air into your lungs. You'll be all right. Meanwhile we'll get some fresh air into this room."
Within five minutes Lupworth United were able to return to the locker room. Brood gave Todd-Mortimer a suspicious backward glance as the door closed behind him. "All right, men!" they heard him cry. "Let's hear that old Lupworth howl!"
But the response was feeble. After repeated exhortations from their manager, an impatient voice was heard to reply, "The hell with the Lupworth howl, that's kid's stuff. We've come here to play soccer."
"You've what?" shouted Brood incredulously. But even his surprise sounded forced and insincere.
Mrs. Masterson favored Todd-Mortimer with a rare and delicate smile. "Argyrol, you see, Gervaise. It contains silver."
Her meaning sank in gradually. "Oh, no. You're not still riding that hobby-horse, are you?"
He was still shaking his head when the two teams trotted out of their locker rooms and lined up for the Newspocket pre-game interviews.
After all the excitement, the game itself was an anticlimax. Ninety minutes passed pleasantly, Foss Creek Contemptibles defeating their opponents by six goals to one in a one-sided contest. A notable feature of Lupworth's play was their lack of cohesion and teamwork. As the final whistle sounded the players shook hands. The Contemptibles lined up to receive the Cup and the congratulations of the local dignitaries, while Lupworth United slunk off to face Dexter Brood.
Mrs. Masterson, involved in the congratulations, did not see quite how the brawl started outside the Lupworth locker room. By the time she became aware all was not well, Dexter Brood was in full flight toward the distant forest, pursued by most of Lupworth United.
At this juncture the police copter came into view.
"Dexter Brood was wanted by Unipol because of the Choth genes he'd brought back from Sol Station 2," Mrs. Masterson explained to Megan Jenkins, as the two women sat drinking sherry that evening. "Once a person is bitten, the gene is carried through the bloodstream, multiplying and attaching itself to one's very chromosomes. One becomes a different being, subject to the monthly Choth cycle. A werewolf."
"Ugh." Megan shuddered. "But I still don't understand how Lupworth United were cured of their, uh, wolfishness."
"Silver, of course. Any fool knows werewolves can't take silver."
"But you told us the story of silver bullets is a myth!"
Mrs. Masterson stiffened. "My late father, the Admiral, taught me the value of flexibility in the face of changing circumstances. I have never denied the possibility of success with ancient remedies. I merely noted that argyrol, with which Todd-Mortimer cured the first sheep, contains silver. Applied to the eyes, it enters the bloodstream and attaches to the werewolf gene. This causes the gene to drop away from the chromosome. Yes, it's astonishing how often ancient knowledge comes to the aid of our beleaguered species."
"So are you going to call your husband and back his application for stasis?"
The old lady looked surprisingly cheerful in the face of a prospective defeat. "I am a woman of my word, and I shall do it now. By the way, it might be inadvisable to go outdoors for a while."
Within seconds the eager face of Wally appeared on the screen. "Did it work?"
"I am able to report one hundred percent success. I must say, Wally, you have a talent for the devious."
"So you'll recommend me for stasis?"
"Most certainly. And I have further good news for you, Wally. In order that we may resume our life together uninterrupted, I am applying for stasis too."
Conflicting emotions chased one another across the face on the screen. "You are? Nine years, you mean?"
"Nine years, Wally. We shall be together again in the blinking of an eye. Reunited."
She disconnected, cackling delightedly. Wally's face faded slowly from the screen, frozen open-mouthed.
"If that little creep thinks he can get the better of Rachel Masterson," said the old lady, "he can think again. My work in Foss Creek is finished. I shall rejoin Wally on his release and ensure he does nothing further to disgrace the family name."
"Are you sure there isn't another reason, Rachel?" asked Megan slyly. "I mean, it wouldn't be that you miss having him around, would it?"
"Absolutely not!"
"Nine years . . . . " mused Megan. "It's a long time." A slow anticipatory smile spread over her face, to be replaced by sudden anxiety. "What's that? Did you hear something outside?"
There came a crash at the front door, and a dreadful snarling, worrying sound. Megan jumped up and ran to the window. Hereabouts the ancient cottages were set among tall, gnarled and ivy-covered trees climbing from the broad inlet to the shoulder of land comprising Carl Steffen's hobby farm.
Among the trees a pack of sheep was questing, wild-eyed and savage, drooling. Suddenly the figure of a man in rags burst from cover and sprinted off down the lane toward the village. The sheep sighted him and pounded in pursuit, bleating menacingly. Their quarry glanced over his shoulder with fear-crazed eyes. It was Dexter Brood.
"Yes, I guessed the sheep might flush him out." Mrs. Masterson joined Megan at the window. "So I released them. Useful animals, were sheep. Almost a pity the public outcry will result in their destruction."
As Brood and the sheep rounded a corner in the lane and disappeared from view, both the Newspocket and the Police copters appeared overhead, following the hunt as it moved north. The sounds diminished. A watery sun peered through the bare branches and peace descended once more on that quiet corner of Earth.
Mrs. Masterson sighed, bored already and looking forward to stasis. It would be good to have Wally back, if only for the opposition he provided.
~~~~~~~~
By Michael Coney
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