Tropile callously emptied the water pitcher over the man. The Keeper sneezed and sat up groggily. He focused his eyes on Tropile and agonizedly blushed. Tropile said harshly: "I wish to see the new sun from the street." The request was incredible. Even after the unbelievable obscenities he had heard, the Keeper was not prepared for this; he was staggered. Tropile was in detention regarding the Fifth Regulation. That was all there was to it. Such persons were not to be released from their quarters. The Keeper knew it, the world knew it, Tropile knew it. It was an obscenity even greater than the lurid tales of perverted lust, for Tropile had asked something which was impossible! No one _ever_ asked anything that was impossible to grant, for no one could ever refuse anything. That was utterly graceless, unthinkable. One could only attempt to compromise. The Keeper stammeringly said: "May I--may I let you see the new sun from the corridor?" And even that was wretchedly wrong, but he had to offer something. One always offered something. The Keeper had never since babyhood given a flat no to anybody about anything. No Citizen had. A flat no led to anger, strong words--perhaps even hurt feelings. The only flat no conceivable was the enormous terminal no of an amok. Short of that-- One offered. One split the difference. One was invariably filled with tepid pleasure when, invariably, the offer was accepted, the difference was split, both parties were satisfied. "That will do for a start," Tropile snarled. "Open, man, open! Don't make me wait." The Keeper reeled and unlatched the door to the corridor. "Now the street!" "I can't!" burst in an anguished cry from the Keeper. He buried his face in his hands and began to sob, hopelessly incapacitated. "The street!" Tropile said remorselessly. He himself felt wrenchingly ill; he was going against custom that had ruled his own life as surely as the Keeper's. But he was Wolf. "I _will_ be Wolf," he growled, and advanced upon the Keeper. "My wife," he said, "I didn't finish telling you. Sometimes she used to put her arm around me and just snuggle up and--I remember one time she kissed my ear. Broad daylight. It felt funny and warm--I can't describe it." Whimpering, the Keeper flung the keys at Tropile and tottered brokenly away. He was out of the action. Tropile himself was nearly as badly off; the difference was that he continued to function. The words coming from him had seared like acid in his throat. "They call me Wolf," he said aloud, reeling against the wall. "I will be one." He unlocked the outer door and his wife was waiting, holding in her arms the things he had asked her to bring. Tropile said strangely to her: "I am steel and fire. I am Wolf, full of the old moxie." She wailed: "Glenn, are you sure I'm doing the right thing?" He laughed unsteadily and led her by the arm through the deserted streets. V