In spite of what the Transylvanians believed, a wolf is no match for a man, except under special conditions. A tiger can pull a man down—but cannot fire back at the hunters. A seal is prey to the Eskimo.
So, "werewolves." Child of fear, of Watcher propaganda, and of one-tenth fact. The animals were Insurgent chrysalids, right enough. But, for an awake Insurgent to compete with a Watcher, the Insurgent, too, had to be a man—or something like it.
The coffee had warmed up. He poured himself a fresh cup, and added cream and sugar absently. The refrigerator was empty. He reached in and turned it off. No more need for that, after tonight.
So, that was the power the Insurgents had. The only power, and the Watchers had it, as well. They could resolve their chrysalids into any form they chose—realign. A wolf could become a man—without hair on his palm, and with garlic on his breath, if he so chose. A man—a Watcher, of course—could become a wolf.
Thus, the final development. Espionage and counter-espionage. Infiltration. Spying, if you chose.
The Insurgent smiled bitterly, and drained the cup. And propaganda, of course. Subtle—most of it indirect, a good deal of it developed by the chrysalids themselves, but propaganda, nevertheless. Kill the evil ones—kill the eaters of dead flesh, the drinkers of blood. They are the servants of the Evil One.
He almost retched.
But, you could hardly blame them. It was a war, and, in a war, you play all your cards, even if some of them were forced into your hand.
Yes, and I've played genuine werewolf on occasion, when I had to.
He started to wash the coffeepot and the cup—then, threw both into the garbage can. He walked back to the radio and dialed it away from Eroica and back to baseball. The Giants were losing, Three-Zero, in the third inning.