The request was incredible. Even after the unbelievable obscenities
he had heard, the Keeper was not prepared for this; he was staggered.
Tropile was in detention regarding the Fifth Regulation. That was
all there was to it. Such persons were not to be released from their
quarters. The Keeper knew it, the world knew it, Tropile knew it.
It was an obscenity even greater than the lurid tales of perverted
lust, for Tropile had asked something which was impossible! No one
_ever_ asked anything that was impossible to grant, for no one could
ever refuse anything. That was utterly graceless, unthinkable.
One could only attempt to compromise. The Keeper stammeringly said:
"May I--may I let you see the new sun from the corridor?" And even that
was wretchedly wrong, but he had to offer something. One always offered
something. The Keeper had never since babyhood given a flat no to
anybody about anything. No Citizen had. A flat no led to anger, strong
words--perhaps even hurt feelings. The only flat no conceivable was the
enormous terminal no of an amok. Short of that--
One offered. One split the difference. One was invariably filled with
tepid pleasure when, invariably, the offer was accepted, the difference
was split, both parties were satisfied.
"That will do for a start," Tropile snarled. "Open, man, open! Don't
make me wait."
The Keeper reeled and unlatched the door to the corridor.
"Now the street!"
"I can't!" burst in an anguished cry from the Keeper. He buried his
face in his hands and began to sob, hopelessly incapacitated.
"The street!" Tropile said remorselessly. He himself felt wrenchingly
ill; he was going against custom that had ruled his own life as surely
as the Keeper's.
But he was Wolf. "I _will_ be Wolf," he growled, and advanced upon the
Keeper. "My wife," he said, "I didn't finish telling you. Sometimes she
used to put her arm around me and just snuggle up and--I remember one
time she kissed my ear. Broad daylight. It felt funny and warm--I can't
describe it."
Whimpering, the Keeper flung the keys at Tropile and tottered brokenly
away.
He was out of the action. Tropile himself was nearly as badly off; the
difference was that he continued to function. The words coming from him
had seared like acid in his throat.
"They call me Wolf," he said aloud, reeling against the wall. "I will
be one."
He unlocked the outer door and his wife was waiting, holding in her
arms the things he had asked her to bring.
Tropile said strangely to her: "I am steel and fire. I am Wolf, full of
the old moxie."