"Wouldn't have helped. Nyarlhotep would have got you anyway," said Cthulhu.
"How did he get there? I mean, was your steward this Nyarlhotep fellow? Have you got a picture of your crew?" asked Stephen Speairs. It seemed an odd question, all things considered.
Dann shook his head. "Of course he wasn't. He merely summonsed him with the traditional rituals, calling down the white telephone into the sewer system which allows instant vocalizations across interstellar distances. Time and space mean little to the likes of Nyarlhotep, messenger of the elder Gods. He can appear anywhere. And it's no use hoping for a photograph. His face is never seen, or if it is, not remembered. He probably has no face."
"And how does he do this little appear anywhere trick, eh?" asked Stephen Speairs looking as if he would break out a notebook and start writing it down.
"Cthulhu does not know," said the Ammonite. "We believe it is a form of the invisible waiter syndrome. That power that enables the table service of small bistro's to vanish beyond the ken of men and Gods the instant that you look at your watch and realize that you have less than five minutes to get to a meeting with your boss, and don't have any cash and need the bill now. Nyarlhotep has mastered this and is almost impossible to stop. But he will not come near R'lyeh."
"Lucky for you this is where you ended up, Dann. So tell us about the fishing." The less I knew about this Nyarlhotep the better. Besides I had a feeling we were only getting one side of the story. The other side might be no better, but then why had the man in the hotel toilet tried to warn me about the squid?
"I strapped into the fighting chair," said Dann. "Look, pragmatism prevailed. I did have a rod support there. And the crew were hastily bolting the harpoon-gun in place, while the lure was being launched."
"And the frigging pudding. You didn't try to catch it on a fly?" I said.
Dann shook his head. "No, a lure made up to appear like a wounded Minke whale. Bob Peacock—my tackle agent—had it specially made up for me. I'd have preferred a bigger lure, but I had to have something that I could give a nice lifelike movement to; a twenty foot lure was about the limit of that. Two titanium steel 38/0 hooks , and a nice fillet of whale down the side. I'd thought about using down riggers, but decided on a surface-worked lure, as whales are air breathers and come to the surface when they're injured, and if Megalodon was at all like a great white shark, they'd attack from beneath or behind. I still remember it like it was yesterday. It was just after dawn and the sea was gray and wild . . . but empty. Just white horses, not even a seabird. My injured whale lure was struggling and we poured chum. And then Megalodon hit. Broaching the water, a full thirty feet of pure muscle and teeth, smashing into the lure. It wasn't like an express train. That's too tame. It was bulkier and faster that. It was more like the lure—and me, by the shock transmitted through the rod, had accidentally been at been hooked onto a cross between Jimi Hendrix and a Saturn rocket. The drag was screaming and smoking in spite of liquid nitrogen cooling system. Miles of high-stretch high tensile line were disappearing into the depths . . ."
"A hundred footer didn't even realize it had been hooked. It was still looking for the blue whale dinner special," said Cthulhu disdainfully.
Dann didn't appear to hear him, so locked was he in the fisherman's tale-telling trance. "I had the skipper chase the shark. There was no way I would have enough line without him following the fish. My line was still hissing through the water . . ."
"The Megalodon was cruising around wondering what the hell happened to its dinner," said Cthulhu.
"Inch by inch, I started to recover line," said Dann.
"Which, if your vessel gets right above the fish, you can do," explained Cthulhu.
"I was pumping it, exerting maximum lift," said Dann, hauling and winding at an imaginary rod.
"The Megalodon decided to come up to the surface to see if it could try a little sky-hopping for a sighting of a spout," interpreted Cthulhu.
Stephen Speairs snorted. "Sky-hopping? Flapping their little gossamer fins to keep their forty ton bulk aloft?"
Dann was so absorbed in his story that he didn't even hear the interruptions. "Suddenly it breached. This vast white body—white as many-ice edge hunters are white, just kept coming out of the water. Coming for us like an exocet. The skipper reacted fast. Swung the wheel hard-over, but a ship the size of Lady Lucinda takes a while to respond, and this huge shark was falling down on us. The impact on the water was deafening, and the ship rolled to forty-five degrees. I was strapped in, and clinging to my rod. The great fish began her second run."
"She thought it was worth looking further south," said Cthulhu.
"All night and all day the battle raged," Dann continued dreamily.
"The Megalodon swam around looking for the whale-diner for a bit," said Cthulhu.
"I was exhausted. It was a battle of wills between me and the vastest fish in the ocean. The original leviathan."
"I thought that was a whale," I said, as Dann lubricated his throat.
The drink must have got him to notice the rest of us again. "Melville had it wrong. It meant sea monster in Hebrew," he said.
"What I want to know is what happened to this Nyarlhotep character while all this was going on?" asked Stephen Speairs.
Cthulhu turned a hubcap sized eye on him. "You ask far too many questions about the faceless one. Are you one of his minions?"
Stephen Speairs did his best to look hurt. "I get accused of everything. First being a bank manager and then a minion. I don't know which is worse."
Dann plunged back into his tale. "Eventually the runs got shorter, and I thought we might be able to bring the fish to ship. I yelled for them to ready the harpoon gun. There we were, within fifty feet of biggest fish any man had ever fought. It surfaced and I could see it properly. I called out to Hansen to fire the harpoon gun."
Cthulhu waved a suckered tentacle in despair. "And if there is one thing that Megalodons dislike it is people taking them for whales. A harpoon would be final insult."
"The man was there, ready, but frozen with fear," said Dann. "And before I could get him to fire—I didn't dare get out of the fighting chair myself—a second vast shark came up out of the deep. It was even bigger than the first one."
"And attacked the ship? Bit the line? Hauled the first one away by the tail?" I asked.
Dann shook his head sadly. "No. It had other things on its mind. And my Lady Lucinda might have survived a mere attack. But shark sex . . . shark sex is rough. Really, really rough. And when the participants in a good shark-shag weigh in at more than eighty tons each, it's even rougher on the vessel that happens to be in the way. Poor old Lucinda had not a hope in hell. She was smashed to bits, and they didn't even notice. You see, what I had assumed was a food attractant—in a species that is a little more evolved, but is evolved from a giant eating machine, where sex after dinner (because before dinner you might end up being dinner) is a good idea . . . whale chum is high class perfume. Lady-sharks dab a small quarter ton or so behind the pectorals. And my super-attractant blue whale call . . . was a super wolf whistle."
Speairs snorted. "You got your comeuppance you might say."
"So what was the bit about them being telepathic?" I asked. "I thought that meant they were going to rescue the one that was caught, I must admit."
"No," said Dann. "It just meant I was wasting my time fishing for them. That's why they've never been even accidentally trapped even as adolescents, and haven't been seen for years. I mean there are clues, like the rising number of sperm whales despite the fact that they were the number one target of whalers, and they're slow breeders, and the fact that blue whale numbers are still far reduced and only barely increasing. But they can work out where humans are, and avoid them. We're lousy eating. That's why they called Cthulhu and told him I was drifting on a piece of deck and the fighting chair, drifting toward R'lyeh. I was cast up on the stinking beach here, more dead than alive. And then Cthulhu came. I've been in her service ever si
nce, although it took some time and a fair bit of 'Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn' and understand just how widespread the cult were, and how all that kept me from Nyarlhotep was the scent of whale-blubber, before."
"So what happened to your crew? What happened to Nyarlhotep? Why was he after you, and how come he didn't succeed?" asked Speairs.
Cthulhu wrapped a tentacle around him and picked him up. "Why do want to know about Nyarlhotep all the time?" she said, suspiciously. "Who are you and what are you doing here? Speak now or be eaten, human."
Stephen Speairs plainly realized Cthulhu wasn't joking this time. He used his free hand to reach inside his jacket and produce a holographic ID card. He held it up to one monstrous eye. "Special investigator and undercover agent provocateur of the paranormal cataclysmic conspiracy branch of Borough of London Metropolitan Police," he said. "I was on the Sloan Park werewolf case. I'd just wrapped that one up. Then I got a call that there might be a lead in our search for Nyarlhotep."
"You caught a werewolf?" I asked.
"Well, it wasn't a werewolf. Not in Sloan Park. More like a weredog. Or rather a werebitch. A werePekinese to be specific. Mind you, she did wear Prada. I caught her in very the act of savaging a stockbroker. It was a fair cop she said, when the uniformed branch came and took her away," he said proudly.
"The Paranormal Conspiracy Branch?" I asked, staring at him over the rim of my glass.
"Yes," said Speairs. "They were formed just after the great exploding Canvey Island Monster invasion of o'sixteen."
"Ah, bollocks," I said. "There's no such thing."
"Not yet," said Cthulhu. "You're from the future, aren't you? We get at least one time-traveling copper showing up here every couple of weeks."
* * *
To be continued
The Quiet Man
Written by David Carrico
Illustrated by Nathan Carlisle
The spaceship settled on the Washington Mall, nose pointed toward the Capitol. The crowds seemed to coalesce around the police barricades almost immediately. Despite the risk, no one wanted to miss out on the first visit from extra-terrestrials.
Every news channel world-wide was devoting 100% of its time to this event. There were cameras all around the perimeter of the mall. The feeds were competing with each other for the eye of the viewing public. The news anchors, cool, controlled manners notwithstanding, seemed somewhat strained while they discussed the import of the event.
The craft was lean and rakish. It looked dangerous, whether or not it really was. The Secret Service and other security agencies didn't miss the import of the orientation of the nose. The Capitol and nearby buildings were evacuated immediately.
The crowds continued to swell. Banners with all the UFO cult labels began to appear. The police perimeter lines were being pushed in by the inexorable pressure of the people gathering.
Clang!
The noise echoed between the buildings. The lower half of the spaceship nose split into clamshell doors and began to open. The crowd recoiled for a moment, then pressed forward when a ramp descended to ground level. A figure strode down the ramp into the sunlight and was greeted by a collective "Aah."
Leonine was the only word that described him. Tall, somewhat cat-like, with a blocky head and a huge mane of reddish-gold hair, he was impressive. The TV anchors were uniformly silent, unable to muster words to capture and frame the moment. He moved out away from the craft, until even the shadow of it was some distance behind him. Everyone watched while he reached up and touched something on his collar.
"I am Commander Khuran." No speakers were in sight, but his voice resonated and reverberated throughout the space. "We are the Sha'Chá. These are our children." Six giant holograms sprang into being above the Mall, rotating and circling so that all could see them clearly. If the commander was leonine, these were more feline. Different colors, different patterns, different clothing. "We have tracked them here. Take us to them, bring them here, or tell us what happened. We await them." With that, he touched his collar again, clasped his hands behind his back, and settled in to wait.
When the response came, it was not from the government. A man in a black uniform pushed his way to the front of the crowd. People got out of his way as quickly as they could. The rather large rifle he was carrying may have had something to do with that. Before the nearest policemen could get to him, he ducked under the tape and jumped the barricade. When the cops tried to follow him, they found themselves blocked by something no one could see.
Everyone watched while he strode across the grass toward Commander Khuran. The news anchors broke into almost apoplectic commentaries.
The man stopped when he was perhaps twenty feet from the commander. He laid the rifle down on the ground, dropped his pistol belt on top of it, then unfastened and shrugged off his body armor and equipment vest. He discarded the cap, so that he stood bareheaded in the sunlight, blond hair stirring in the breeze. He gave a bow to the commander, then assumed a similar posture.
Commander Khuran beckoned to the man. He straightened. When he spoke, his voice was heard as well as the commander's had been previously.
"I can tell you what has happened to them. I will tell you what has happened to them."
At that, the crowd went nuts. The police had their hands full dealing with the crowd, but they were pushed back until they encountered an unseen barrier around the craft, the commander and the man in black.
Slowly, the noise began to die down. Cameras began to turn again to the two figures standing facing each other within the cleared area. Commander Khuran beckoned again, waving a hand at the ship in obvious invitation. The figure in black stood still for a moment, then began walking, almost marching, toward the ramp. The commander fell in beside him, and together they entered the spaceship. The ramp retracted. The doors closed. And everyone in the world was left wondering.
* * *
Ten years later
Rowf was doing his dog thing, sniffing everything in sight and watering every tree and bush we passed by. I swear, that dog's bladder proved that the outside of something can be smaller than the inside.
I was walking along and looking at the stars, something I do a lot of. The sky was really black, and the stars just glittered in it. Beautiful. One of the things that makes me believe God is an artist. I find that a calming thought.
Rowf stopped so suddenly I just about fell over him. "What's up, dog?" I laid my hand on his neck, feeling the hair rise. His ears were perked forward. I could hear the slow rumble of a warning growl coming from his throat. After a moment, I could hear what he heard—someone crashing through the brush.
I like my privacy—I have my reasons for that—so my property is very clearly posted No Trespassing. The fact that someone was blundering around on it in the dark lifted my hackles along with Rowf's. It also stirred some memories that had lain quiet for a lot of years. I headed in the direction of the noise, Rowf trailing along behind.
The crashing grew closer and closer. Someone with no woods sense was running hard in the dark, risking a fall and a broken limb or worse. I stopped where I was, waiting. After a moment, I could see her. Light clothing, long hair, looking back over her shoulder when she burst through the brush and ran headlong into my chest with an "Oof".
Now I freely admit that I'm a big man, and right then I still had my winter beard on and was dressed in some rather grungy working clothes. I'm not sure I would have wanted to run into someone who looked like me on a dark night. But she clung to my shoulders, panting.
"Please . . . please . . . don't let them get me."
"Don't let who get you?"
"Three men . . . kidnapped me . . . tried to rape me . . ."
Okay, this was a bit more serious than trespassing.
"They . . . have guns . . ." she continued.
Yeah, a lot more serious than trespassing.
"Can you run some more?" I looked at her standing there, panting and trembling. "Right. Stupid quest
ion." Fortunately, she was a little bit of a thing. I scooped her up and started back down the hill to my place. Rowf followed along, looking back and whining every few steps.
It didn't take long to get back to my workshop. I opened the door and motioned her inside, then closed and locked the door after I flicked on the lights. The fluorescent shop lights came on, and we stood there blinking for a moment, and I got a good look at her. Short, maybe five foot two inches. Chestnut hair, a little longer than shoulder length, rather tousled at the moment. Jeans, a sweater, running shoes, all muddy—pretty light clothing for a spring night in northern Michigan. She didn't look like much more than a kid.
Jim Baen's Universe-Vol 2 Num 3 Page 24