The Truth

I’m sorry, but—”
    “I am a vampire, as it happens,” Otto went on. “But if I had said, ‘Hello my cheeky cock sparrow mate old boy by crikey,’ what vould you have said zen, eh?”
    “We’d have been completely taken in,” said William.
    “Anyway, your notice did say ‘vanted,’ so I thought it vas, you know, affirmative action,” said Otto. “Alzo, I have zis …” A thin, blue-veined hand was held up, gripping a small twist of shiny black ribbon.
    “Oh? You’ve signed the pledge?” said Sacharissa.
    “At the Meeting Rooms in Abattoirs Lane,” said Otto triumphantly, “where I attend every veek for our big singsong and tea and a bun and wholesome conversation on themes of positive reinforcement keeping off the whole subject of bodily fluids by stvict instruction. I am not any longer any stupid sucker!”
    “What do you think, Mr. Goodmountain?” said William.
    Goodmountain scratched his nose. “It’s up to you,” he said. “If he tries anything with my lads, he’ll be looking for his legs. What’s this pledge?”
    “It’s the Uberwald Temperance Movement,” said Sacharissa. “A vampire signs up and forswears any human blood—”
    Otto shuddered. “Ve prefer zer ‘b-vord,’” he said.
    “The b-word,” Sacharissa corrected herself. “The movement is becoming very popular. They know it’s the only chance they’ve got.”
    “Well…okay,” said William. He was uneasy about vampires himself, but turning the newcomer down after all this would be like kicking a puppy. “Do you mind setting up your stuff in the cellar?”
    “A cellar?” said the Otto. “Top hole!”
    First the dwarfs had come, William thought as he went back to his desk. They’d been insulted because of their diligence and because of their height, but they had kept their heads down * and prospered. Then the trolls had come, and they got on a little better, because people don’t throw as many stones at creatures seven feet tall who could throw rocks back. Then the zombies had come out of the casket. One or two werewolves had crept in under the door. The gnomes had integrated quickly, despite a bad start, because they were tough and even more dangerous to cross than a troll; at least a troll couldn’t run up your trouser leg. There weren’t that many species left .
    The vampires had never made it. They weren’t sociable, even amongst themselves; they didn’t think as a species; they were unpleasantly weird; and they sure as hell didn’t have their own food shops.
    So now it was dawning on some of the brighter ones that the only way people would accept vampires was if they stopped being vampires. That was a high price to pay for social acceptability, but perhaps not so high as the one that involved having your head cut off and your ashes scattered on the river. A life of steak tartare wasn’t too bad if you compared it with a death of stake au naturel . †
    “Er…I think we’d like to see who we’re employing, though,” he said aloud.
    Otto emerged, very slowly and nervously, from behind the lens. He was thin, pale, and wore little oval dark glasses. He still clutched the twist of black ribbon as if it was a talisman, which it more or less was.
    “It’s all right, we won’t bite you,” said Sacharissa.
    “And one good turn deserves another, eh?” said Goodmountain.
    “That was a bit tasteless, Mr. Goodmountain,” said Sacharissa.
    “So am I,” said the dwarf, turning back to the stone. “Just so long as people know where I stand, that’s all.”
    “You vill not be sorry,” said Otto. “I am completely reformed, I assure you. Vot is it you want me to take pictures of, please?”
    “News,” said William.
    “What is news, please?”
    “News is…” William began. “News…is what we put in the newspaper—”
    “What d’you think of this, eh?” said a cheerful voice.
    William turned. There was a horribly familiar face, looking at him over the top of a cardboard box.
    “Hello, Mr. Wintler,” he said. “Er…Sacharissa, I wonder if you could go and—”
    He wasn’t quick enough. Mr. Wintler, a man of the variety that thinks a whoopee cushion is the last word in repartee, was not the kind to let a mere freezing reception stand in his way. “I was digging my garden this morning and up came this parsnip, and I thought: that young man at the paper will laugh himself silly when he sees it, ’cos my lady wife couldn’t keep a straight face, and—”
    To William’s