And Michael could not help it. No more could he help it than could he
help responding with a snarl when threatened by a club; no more could he
help it than when he had spoiled the turn of Dick and Daisy Bell when
swept by the strains of "Roll Me Down to Rio"; no more could he help it
than could Jerry, on the deck of the _Ariel_, help singing when Villa
Kennan put her arms around him, smothered him deliciously in her cloud of
hair, and sang his memory back into time and the fellowship of the
ancient pack. As with Jerry, was it with Michael. Music was a drug of
dream. He, too, remembered the lost pack and sought it, seeing the bare
hills of snow and the stars glimmering overhead through the frosty
darkness of night, hearing the faint answering howls from other hills as
the pack assembled. Lost the pack was, through the thousands of years
Michael's ancestors had lived by the fires of men; yet remembered always
it was when the magic of rhythm poured through him and flooded his being
with visions and sensations of that Otherwhere which in his own life he
had never known.

Compounded with the waking dream of Otherwhere, was the memory of Steward
and the love of Steward, with whom he had learned to sing the very series
of notes that now were being reproduced by the circus-rider violinist.
And Michael's jaw dropped down, his throat vibrated, his forefeet made
restless little movements as if in the body he were running, as truly he
was running in the mind, back to Steward, back through all the ages to
the lost pack, and with the shadowy lost pack itself across the snowy
wastes and through the forest aisles in the hunt of the meat.

The spectral forms of the lost pack were all about him as he sang and ran
in open-eyed dream; the violinist paused in surprise; the men poked the
monkey leader of the monkey orchestra and whirled him about wildly raging
on his revolving stool; and Johnny laughed. But Harris Collins took
note. He had heard Michael accurately follow the air. He had heard him
sing--not merely howl, but _sing_.

Silence fell. The monkey leader ceased revolving and chattering. The
men who had poked him held poles and wires suspended in their hands. The
rest of the monkey orchestra merely shivered in apprehension of what next
atrocity should be perpetrated. The violinist stared. Johnny still
heaved from his laughter. But Harris Collins pondered, scratched his
head, and continued to ponder.

"You can't tell