INFILTRATION By ALGIS BUDRYS _If werewolves exist, they don't necessarily conform to all the superstitions people have. They may even know fear...._ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Infinity October 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Sunset. _They're coming for me, tonight_, he knew as he woke. Sunset. Not really--if he were to get dressed now, and go out on the street, the red globe would still be hanging over the cliffs of New Jersey. But the shadow of the building next door had fallen over his apartment windows, and he sleepily pushed a cigarette between his numb lips and swung his feet over the side of the bed, fumbling with a match as he walked over to the small radio on the windowsill and turned it on. There was a double-header between the Giants and Cincinnati--the first game was probably in its last inning. Sunset--odd, how the conditioning worked. Was it conditioning? Or were the old wives' tales not so absurd, after all? But he _could_ go out in the sunlight--had done it many times. His tan proved it. He touched silver and cold iron countless times each day, crossed running water--and he'd gone to church every Sunday, until he was twelve. No, there _was_ a core of truth under the fantastically complex shell of nonsense, but the old limitations were not part of it. He shrugged. Neither were most of the powers. Still, he liked to sleep in the daytime. His schedule seemed to gain an hour at night, lose one in the morning, until, almost unnoticeably, it had slipped around the clock. He went into the bathroom while the worn tubes in the radio warmed up slowly, and washed his face, brushed his teeth, shaved. He combed his hair, then paused thoughtfully. Wouldn't do any harm. _No full moon in here, either_, he thought, looking up at the circular fluorescent tube in the ceiling, but he noticed no impediment as he coalesced, dropped to all fours, and ran his pelt against the curry-combs he had screwed to the bathroom door. He did a thorough job, enjoying it, and, after he had realigned, walked out of the bathroom in time to hear the Giants making their final, fruitless out of the first game. Five-Zero, Cincinnati, and he grimaced in disgust. Four shut-outs in the last five games. He laughed at himself, then, for actually being annoyed. Still and all, it wasn't the first time a man became emotionally involved in a mirage. Was it a mirage? True, there weren't really any such things as the San Francisco Giants--but a man could certainly be expected to forget that, occasionally, if he were part of the same illusion at least half the time. And certainly, such stuff as dreams are made of is solid enough when you are yourself a dream.