Haggopian and Other Stories

“So you get the French and the Germans attending these, er, conventions. Any others? What about the Swiss, or the Italians?”

Ferd shrugged. “Not a lot. Frogs and Belgiques, mainly. Oh, and some of the pro publishers. The Green Goblin people from over here, and occasionally one of the American outfits. Cindy Patterson was in earlier, from

Moribund. I mean, she is Moribund!” He grinned. “If you know what I mean. She said they’d have a couple of drinks and make an early night of it, be back tomorrow morning in time to see things get under way.”

Slater nodded. “I’m in a hotel just up the road. This Cindy Patterson and her American friends are staying there too. They’re probably in the bar right now. In fact there are quite a few gamers staying there. Fancy a pint?”

“Sure, why not? Nothing much is going to happen here until tomorrow.”

They went back to Slater’s hotel. In the bar were maybe two dozen people, and Ferd nudged Slater’s elbow, directing his glance to a corner table. “Cindy Patterson,” he whispered. “With Hank Merne and Darrell Le Sant. Big names!”

Slater looked. Cindy Patterson was in her early thirties, small and chubby, looking like lumpy putty and wearing glasses so thick they gave her an owlish expression. There was a plate of sandwiches on her table, and she had a tomato seed stuck in her teeth. Her companions were debating something or other while she listened, adding very little to their conversation. Hank Merne was of the same shape, size and constitution as Cindy, and Darrell le Sant was thin as a beanpole with his fair hair cropped a half-inch all over. But sinister? Forget it.

But then the door opened and in came the enigmatic pointy-beard with a bunch of friends. One of them was a Spock whose green was starting to run, and another was still wearing his “Yog loves Lavinny” T-shirt, though mercifully he’d dumped his balloons and diseased mask. The others seemed entirely normal, but very bright-eyed and excited.

“Oh-oh!” said Ferd, warningly. “The mobile mouth there is Kevin ‘Cthulhu lives’ Blacker, the gaseous guru. He’s full of it. Gives us a bad name, that one.”

Slater’s interest climbed a notch. he asked: “What’s his speciality?”

“Same as mine,” said Ferd, sourly. “The Mythos. But where I’m a fan publisher, he’s a prophet of doom! That’s his story, anyway. Hang around a bit and you’ll see what I mean.”

Blacker had spotted Ferd standing at the bar. He saw his friends into their seats at a central table, then briefly came over. He was only young, maybe twenty two, but his voice was straight from his boots. Also there was a sweet, unmistakable odour about him, so that Slater guessed he smoked the occasional funny cigarette. Blacker ordered drinks for the people at his table, turned to Ferd. He didn’t seem to notice Slater.

“Hello there, Karl,” he grunted. “Still publishing your blasphemous crap, I see.” He slapped a copy of the latest Dugong down on the bar, prodded it with a pointed fingernail. His voice sank even lower as he said: “Don’t you know that this stuff is an open invitation? Can’t you see that you’re inviting them in?”

“Course I can, Kev’,” Ferd sneered. “But I don’t recall inviting you. Do you mind? I’m enjoying a pint—or I was!”

Blacker scowled, shook his head in a half-angry, half-frustrated, pitying way, and returned to this group. Slater said: “If he’s so down on the Mythos, how come he associates with the Yog-loves-Lavinny, guy?”

“Trying to save them,” Ferd growled.

Slater’s interest went up another notch. “Are they in danger? Save them from what?”

“From themselves. A one-man Salvation Army. Danger? Yeah—they might drown in all that garbage he talks! See, there he goes, oiling his larynx.”

Blacker downed a pint of Guinness in one long pull, wiped his mouth and ordered another. And then he was off and running:

“They were here before us,” he said, his voice rising over all the other bar sounds, “they’re here now, and they’ll be here after they’ve cleared us off. The old cults are dead, gone, except in a handful of lonely, dark places. But the new cults are here in bright, shiny disguises—yes, and the new cultists are also disguised! The difference is this: that they don’t know they’re cultists! Who am I talking about?” His voice was rising as he gathered impetus. “I’m talking about you,” he prodded T-shirt in the chest. “And you,” he snarled at the Spock character. “And especially you!” He pointed across the room directly at the Americans around their corner table. “Moribund? God, how right you are! You and your acolytes, like…him!” And this time the accusing finger was aimed at Ferd.