Clifford Simak: The Werewolf Principle

— Quiet, quiet, said Quester. You are better where you are. There is too much grief, too much bitterness for you outside of here.

Outside of here? he wondered. And remembered some of it. A woman's face, the tall pines at the gate — another world seen as one would see it through a wall of running water, remote and faraway and improbable. But he knew that it was there.

— You shut me in! he shouted. You must let me go.

But Thinker paid no attention to him. Thinker went on thinking, all his energies directed towards the many pieces of information and of fact — the great black towers, the mustard-coloured domes, the hint of something or someone barking out the orders for the universe.

His strength and will wore off and he sank into the blackness and the quiet.

— Quester, he said.

— No, said Quester. Thinker's hard at work.

He lay and raged wordlessly at the two of them, raging in his mind. But raging did no good.

I did not treat them that way, he told himself. When I was in the body, I listened to them always. I did not shut them out.

He lay and rested and the thought was in his mind that it was better to stay in the comfort and the quietness. What did this other matter, whatever it might be? What did Earth matter?

And there he had it — Earth!

Earth and humanity. And the both of them did matter. Not, perhaps, to Quester or to Thinker — although what mattered to the one of them must matter to all three.

He struggled feebly and he did not have the strength, nor perhaps the will.

So he lay back again and waited, gathering strength and patience.

They cared for him, he told himself. They had reached out and taken him in an hour of anguish and now they held him close, for healing, and they would not let him go.

He tried to call up the anguish once again in the hope that in the anguish he would find the strength and will. But he could not recall it. It had been wiped away. He could claw at the edges of it, but could not get a grip upon it.

So he snuggled close against the darkness and let the quiet come in, but even as he did he knew that he would struggle to break free again, feebly, perhaps, hoping, more than likely, that he would not succeed, but knowing that he must keep on and on, never ceasing, because there was some not entirely understood, but compelling reason that he should.

He lay quietly and thought how like a dream it was, a dream wherein one climbed a mountain, but could never reach the top, or one in which one clung to a precipice until his fingers slipped and then fell endlessly, filled with the terror of the falling and of hitting bottom, but never reaching bottom.

Time and futility stretched out ahead of him and time itself, he knew, was futile, for he knew what Thinker knew — that time was not a factor.

He tried to put his situation into correct perspective, but it refused to fall into a pattern against which perspective could be measured. Time was a blur and reality a haze, and swimming down towards him through the haze came a face — a face that at first meant not too much to him, but, finally, he realized, of someone that he knew, and then, at last, a face, half seen in darkness, that was imprinted on his mind for ever.

The lips moved and he could not hear the words, but they, too, the memory of them, was blazoned in his mind.

When you can, they said, let me hear from you.

And that was it, he thought. He had to let her know. She was waiting to hear what had happened to him.

He surged up out of the darkness and the quiet and there seemed to be a roaring all about him — the outraged roaring protest of the other two.

Black towers spun in the darkness all about him — black spinning in the dark, with the sense of motion, but no sight. And suddenly sight as well.

He stood in the chapel and the place was dim with the feeble light of the candelabra and from outside he could hear the moaning of the pines.

There was someone shouting and he saw a soldier running up the aisle towards the front, while another stood, startled, with his rifle raised.

'Captain! Captain! bawled the running man.

The other soldier took a short step forward.

'Take it easy, son, said Blake. 'I'm not going anywhere.

There was something tangled about his ankles and he saw it was his robe. He kicked it free and reached down to lift it and hang it on his shoulders.

A man with bars upon his shoulders came striding down the aisle. He stopped in front of Blake.

'I am Captain Saunders, sir, he said. 'Space Administration. We have been guarding you.

'Guarding me? asked Blake. 'Or watching me?

The captain grinned, just slightly. 'Perhaps a bit of both, he said. 'May I congratulate you, sir, on becoming human once again.

Blake pulled the robe more tightly about his shoulders. 'You are wrong, he said. 'You must know by now you're wrong. You know I am not human — not entirely human.

Perhaps, he thought, only human in the shape he now possessed, Although there must be more to it than that, for he'd been designed as human, had been engineered as human. There had been change, of course, but not so much change that he was un-human. Just un-human enough, he thought, to be unacceptable. Just un-human enough to be viewed as a monster by humanity.

'We've been. waiting, said the captain. 'We've been hoping…

'How long? asked Blake. 'How long has it been?

'Almost a year, the captain said.

A year! thought Blake. It had not seemed that long. It had seemed no more than hours. How long, he wondered, had he been held, unknowing, in the healing depths of the communal mind before he had come to know that he must break free? Or had he known from the first and struggled from the moment that Thinker had superseded him? It was hard to know, he realized. Time, inside the disassociated mind, might be robbed entirely of its meaning, might become useless as a yardstick for duration.

But long enough, at least, to effect some healing, for now the terror and the sharp-edged agony was gone, now he could stand and face the prospect that he was not human in sufficient measure to claim a place upon the Earth.

'And now? he asked.

'My orders, the captain said, 'are to take you to Washington, to Space Administration, as soon as it is safe to do so.

'It is safe right now, Blake told him. 'I will cause no trouble.

'It's not you I mean, the captain said. 'It's the crowd outside.

'What do you mean the crowd?

'This time a crowd of worshippers. There are cults, it seems, which think you are a messiah sent to deliver man from all the evil in him. And at other times there are other groups that denounce you as a monster — You'll pardon me, please, sir. I forgot myself.

'These groups, said Blake, 'the both of them, have given you some trouble?

'At times, the captain said. 'At times a great deal of it. That is why we must sneak out of here.

'But wouldn't it be better to just walk out? Put an end to it?

'Unfortunately, said the captain, 'it's not a situation that can be handled quite so easily. I may as well be frank with you. No one except a few of us will know that you are gone. The guard will still be kept and…

'You'll go on letting the people think that I'm still here?

'Yes. It will be simpler that way'

'But some day…

The captain shook his head. 'No. Not for a long, long time. You will not be seen. We have a ship waiting for you. So that you can leave — if you want to go, of course.

'To get rid of me?

'Perhaps, the captain said. 'But it also will enable you to get rid of us.

Earth wanted to get rid of him, perhaps afraid of him, perhaps merely disgusted by him, a loathsome product of its own ambitions and imagination that must be quickly swept underneath the rug. For there was no place for him on the Earth or in humanity, and yet he was a human product and had been made possible by the nimble brains and the weasel understanding of Earth's scientists.