He undid the first small button. "Yeah?" "I went out there last week. And it is quite relaxing. I've felt much happier this week." Wheelan got to the second button before he realized what she had said. "Karen, you're kidding!" "No. So you see, it's nothing so terrible." Wheelan stood up. "Damn it. Damn it!" Karen rose, reaching behind her to rebutton her sweater. "You're being pretty intolerant." "Damn it, the whole town!" He backed away, his feet sinking deep in the cold sand. Karen shrugged. "Don't take it so big." She looked up at him hopefully. "Well, you'll at least drive me home?" Belatedly, Wheelan said, "Sure. Come on." Near his car he said quietly, "Now I'm really going to get them." * * * * * It wasn't until the next Wednesday that Wheelan had his leaflets ready to hand out. The local printers had, one way and another, refused the job. He'd had to have them done in Santa Monica. The two cub scouts he'd hired to help him had both come down with something late Tuesday. Wheelan stationed himself on Chambers Drive near the two largest tourist motels early on the clear June morning. He had handed out five of his anti-lycanthropy leaflets when Chief Harold Neff drove up on his official motorcycle. Wheelan spotted him a block away by his gold-painted crash helmet. It was the only one on the force. "Hi, there, Glenn," said Neff, after he'd parked the cycle in a red zone. "What are you up to?" Wheelan frowned at the chief's broad, tanned face. "I'm agitating, Hal." Neff rubbed his jaw. "Without a permit, though?" "As a matter of fact, yes." The chief nodded. "You'll have to stop. You can't hand out those things without a permit." Wheelan tucked his box of leaflets up under his arm. "Who do I see about a permit?" "Me, Glenn." Chief Neff flipped off his helmet and stroked his crewcut, looking down the street. "Let's go down to the Blue Oasis and have a beer and talk." "Can you drink while on duty?" "Beer." He took Wheelan's arm. "What about your motorcycle?" "Won't come to any harm." In one of the Blue Oasis's dark leather booths Neff said, "Don't you like the way the old town's blossoming, Glenn?" "Cats make me feel crawly," Wheelan said, pushing his schooner back and forth in front of him. "Why, even the slums are a sight to see. And San Miguel's getting to be a well-liked spot. Like Capistrano and Disneyland. Being well-liked is good for a town's civic pride." The chief grinned at Wheelan. "I think there's something basically wrong with people turning into cats." Wheelan made up his mind not to drink the beer. "There might be something wrong in it if people did it out of spite or for mischief, Glenn. But I think most competent authorities will agree that Mr. Balderstone's method has a real, honest-to-gosh therapeutic value." He looked straight at Wheelan. "There's a lot of nervous tension these days, Glenn. Even teaching in Pasadena you must have seen that."