（外文电子版资料）SK.Cycle of the Werewolf.doc

PAGE PAGE 15 JANUARY Somewhere, high above, the moon shines down, fat and full-but here, in Tarkers Mills, a January blizzard has choked the sky with snow. The wind rams full force down a deserted Center Avenue; the orange town plows have given up long since. Arnie Westrum, flagman on the GSWM Railroad, has been caught in the small tool-and-signal shack nine miles out of town; with his small, gasoline-powered rail-rider blocked by drifts, he is waiting out the storm there, playing Last Man Out solitaire with a pack of greasy Bicycle cards. Outside the wind rises to a shrill scream. Westrum raises his head uneasily, and then looks back down at his game again. It is only the wind, after all... But the wind doesnt scratch at doors ... and whine to be let in. He gets up, a tall, lanky man in a wool jacket and railroad coveralls, a Camel cigarette jutting from one comer of his mouth, his seamed New England face lit in soft orange tones by the kerosene lantern which hangs on the wall. The scratching comes again. Someones dog, he thinks, lost and wanting to be let in. Thats all it is ... but still, he pauses. It would be inhuman to leave it out there in the cold, he thinks (not that it is much warmer in here; in spite of the batterypowered heater, he can see the cold cloud of his breath)-but still he hesitates. A cold finger of fear is probing just below his heart. This has been a bad season in Tarkers Mills; there have been omens of evil on the land. Arnie has his fathers Welsh blood strong in his veins, and he doesnt like the feel of things. Before he can decide what to do about his visitor, the lowpitched whining rises to a snarl. There is a thud as something incredibly heavy hits the door ... draws back ... hits again. The door trembles in its frame, and a puff of snow billows in from the top. Arnie Westrum stares around, looking for something to shore it up with, but before he can do more than reach for the flimsy chair he has been sitting in, the snarling thing st