They were wandering and mooning about, as always--maybe today more than most days, since they hoped it would be the day the Sun blossomed flame once more. Tropile always thought of the wandering, mooning Citizens as _they_. There was a _we_ somewhere for Tropile, no doubt, but Tropile had not as yet located it, not even in the bonds of the marriage contract. He was in no hurry. At the age of fourteen, Glenn Tropile had reluctantly come to realize certain things about himself--that he disliked being bested, that he had to have a certain advantage in all his dealings, or an intolerable itch of the mind drove him to discomfort. The things added up to a terrifying fear, gradually becoming knowledge, that the only we that could properly include him was one that it was not very wise to join. He had realized, in fact, that he was a Wolf. For some years, Tropile had struggled against it, for Wolf was an obscene word; the children he played with were punished severely for saying it, and for almost nothing else. It was not _proper_ for one Citizen to advantage himself at the expense of another; Wolves did that. It was _proper_ for a Citizen to accept what he had, not to strive for more, to find beauty in small things, to accommodate himself, with the minimum of strain and awkwardness, to whatever his life happened to be. Wolves were not like that. Wolves never meditated, Wolves never Appreciated, Wolves _never_ were Translated--that supreme fulfillment, granted only to those who succeeded in a perfect meditation, that surrender of the world and the flesh by taking leave of both, which could never be achieved by a Wolf. Accordingly, Glenn Tropile had tried very hard to do all the things that Wolves could not do. He had nearly succeeded. His specialty, Water Watching, had been most rewarding. He had achieved many partly successful meditations on Connectivity. And yet he was still a Wolf, for he still felt that burning, itching urge to triumph and to hold an advantage. For that reason, it was almost impossible for him to make friends among the Citizens; and gradually he had almost stopped trying. Tropile had arrived in Wheeling nearly a year before, making him one of the early settlers in point of time. And yet there was not a Citizen in the street who was prepared to exchange recognition gestures with him. _He_ knew _them_, nearly every one. He knew their names and their wives' names. He knew what northern states they had moved down from with the spreading of the ice, as the sun grew dim. He knew very nearly to the quarter of a gram what stores of sugar and salt and coffee each one of them had put away--for their guests, of course, not for themselves; the well-bred Citizen hoarded only for the entertainment of others. Tropile knew these things because there was an advantage in knowing them. But there was no advantage in having anyone know him.