The Ultimate Werewolf Read Online Free

smoke drift away on the fog. "But you went."
    "I went. Peculiar outfit, sophisticated security system, I had a strong feeling they came from, well, I'm not sure where ... or when."
    Victor's glance was abruptly kilowatts heavier with interest. "When, you say? Temporal travelers?"
    "I don't know."
    "I've been waiting for something like that, you know. It's inevitable. And they'd certainly make themselves known eventually."
    He lapsed into silence, thinking. Talbot brought him back sharply, i don't know, Victor. I really don't. But that's not my concern at the moment."
    "Oh. Right. Sorry, Larry. Go on. You met with them . . ."
    "Man named Demeter. I thought there might be some clue there. The name. I didn't think of it at the time. The name Demeter; there was a florist in Cleveland, many years ago. But later, when I looked it up, Demeter, the Earth goddess, Greek mythology ... no connection. At least, I don't think so.
    "We talked. He understood my problem and said he'd undertake the commission. But he wanted it specific, what I required of him, wanted it specific for the contract—God knows how he would have enforced the contract, but I'm sure he could have—he had a window , Victor, it looked out on—"
    Victor spun the cigarette off his thumb and middle finger, snapping it straight down into the blood-black Danube. "Larry, you're maundering."
    Talbot's words caught in his throat. It was true. "I'm counting on you, Victor. I'm afraid it's putting my usual aplomb out of phase."
    "All right, take it easy. Let me hear the rest of this and we'll see. Relax."
    Talbot nodded and felt grateful. "I wrote out the nature of the commission. It was only seven words." He reached into his topcoat pocket and brought out a folded slip of paper. He handed it to the other man. In the dim lantern light, Victor unfolded the paper and read:
    geographical coordinates
    for location of my soul
    Victor looked at the two lines of type long after he had absorbed their message. When he handed it back to Talbot, he wore a new, fresher expression. "You'll never give up, will you, Larry?"
    "Did your father?"
    "No." Great sadness flickered across the face of the man Talbot called Victor. "And," he added, tightly, after a beat, "he's been lying in a catatonia sling for sixteen years because he wouldn't give up." He lapsed into silence. Finally, softly, "It never hurts to know when to give up, Larry. Never hurts. Sometimes you've just got to leave it alone."
    Talbot snorted softly with bemusement. "Easy enough for you to say, old chum. You're going to die."
    "That wasn't fair, Larry."
    "Then help me, dammit! I've gone farther toward getting myself out of all this than I ever have. Now I need you. You've got the expertise."
    "Have you sounded out 3M or Rand or even General Dynamics? They've got good people there."
    "Damn you."
    "Okay. Sorry. Let me think a minute."
    The corpse barge cut through the invisible water, silent, fog- shrouded, without Charon, without Styx, merely a public service, a garbage scow of unfinished sentences, uncompleted errands, unrealized dreams. With the exception of these two, talking, the barge's supercargo had left decisions and desertions behind.
    Then, Victor said, softly, talking as much to himself as to Talbot, "We could do it with microtelemetry. Either through direct micro-miniaturizing techniques or by shrinking a servo-mechanism package containing sensing, remote control, and guidance/manipulative/propulsion hardware. Use a saline solution to inject it into the bloodstream. Knock you out with 'Russian sleep' and/or tap into the sensory nerves so you'd perceive or control the device as if you were there . . . conscious transfer of point of view."
    Talbot looked at him expectantly.
    "No. Forget it," said Victor. "It won't do."
    He continued to think. Talbot reached into the other's jacket pocket and brought out the Sobranies. He lit one and stood silently, waiting. It was always thus with Victor. He had to worm his way