A werewolf among us

across from his. "Jubal's main interest is sculpture, but he designs cutlery, dishes, goblets, what-have-you, as a diversion. In order to spare himself all the manual labor involved in molding and machining the finished product, he programs his designs into Teddy. The Reiss Corporation, as an option, has especially designed and programmed Teddy to perform well in all phases of silver-working. He has his own workshop on the first level, near the garage."
    "And you?" St. Cyr asked.
    "No talents," Hirschel said, smiling. The cyberdetective noticed that the large, rugged man curiously resembled the head of the wolf behind him when he smiled.
    Immaterial.
    "Why is that?"
    "I'm not a resident in the house, merely a biannual guest. I never came under Jubal's influence when he was on this hypno-keying kick many years ago."
    "You sound as if you thought that hypno-keying was a bad idea."
    "Depends on what you want out of life," Hirschel said.
    "What do you want?"
    "The same thing that I traipse from world to world in search of every year of my life—adventure, danger, excitement."
    "And the artist has none of that?"
    "Only secondhand."
    "If you have so little in common with the family, why do you return every other year to visit?"
    "They're my only relatives," Hirschel said. "A man needs a family now and again."
    St. Cyr nodded. "How old are you?"
    "Sixty."
    "Six years older than Jubal." When Hirschel nodded, the cyberdetective asked, "Are you wealthy?"
    The big man evidenced no dissatisfaction with St. Cyr's prying. "Quite wealthy," he said. "Though I'm not as wealthy as Jubal, by even a fraction." He smiled the wolfs smile again and said, "That still makes me suspect, doesn't it? Perhaps even more than before."
    "Are you mentioned in Jubal's will?"
    "Yes," Hirschel said, still smiling. "I receive the least of all those included—unless, of course, I'm the only survivor."
    St. Cyr looked at the wolf. For a moment he felt that its glass eyes had shifted their dead gaze, stared directly at him. He blinked, and the eyes were where they should be, fixed on the air, cold, dry.
    "I guess that will be all for tonight," he said, standing.
    Hirschel did not rise to see him to the door, but the panel slid open as he took a few steps toward it.
    At the door St. Cyr turned and looked at the wolf, looked at Hirschel, said, "The wolfs head there…"
    "What of it?"
    "It's one of those now extinct?"
    "Yes."
    "And is that how the
du-aga-klava
is supposed to appear in its animal shape?"
    Hirschel turned in his chair and examined the long-snouted, wickedly-toothed beast. "Pretty much that way, I suppose, though a deal larger and far more ugly."
    St. Cyr cleared his throat and said, "Why did Climicon label the wolf for extinction?"
    "It was a predator, a very dangerous animal," Hirschel said "It was not at all the sort of thing you'd want running loose in the woods on a rich man's paradise."
    "Then why let the boars live?"
    Hirschel clearly had not considered that conflict before. He looked surprised, turned to examine the wolf again, frowned. "You've got a good point there, for a boar can be twice as deadly and mean-tempered as any wolf."
    "No ideas?"
    Hirschel shook his head; his black hair bounced, fell back into place. "You'll have to ask Climicon about that, but they surely had their reasons."
    "I'll find out in the morning," St. Cyr said.
    "Let me know what you learn."
    "I will. Good night."
    St. Cyr stepped out of the room, oriented himself by the paintings on the walls and walked the length of the long corridor to his own suite.
    In his bedroom, stretched out full length on the enormous waterbed, he said, "I've still got nothing concrete to go on, no base to build the case from."
    A few things.
    "Nothing."
    Bits and pieces.
    "Like Hirschel's curious resemblance to the wolf when he smiles?"
    Immaterial.
     

FOUR: An
Ugly Incident
     
    "Visitor, Mr. St. Cyr," the house computer said.
    The cyberdetective sat up, swung to the edge of the shifting bed and stood. "Who is it?"
    "Mr. Dane Alderban," the house told him.
    "Just a minute."
    "Holding, sir."
    St, Cyr took off his suit jacket and draped it over a chair, put the largest of his unopened suitcases on the bed, opened it, quickly dumped out the contents, ran his fingers along the cloth lining and watched it curl back from the concealed pocket in the bottom. He removed a handgun and a chamois shoulder holster, amused as he always was that this one requirement of his profession had