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The column upon which I stood fell smoothly towards a broad ledge, not quite at the very bottom of the huge enclosure but just one of a great many terraces that buttressed the lower part of the wall. The top of the pillar reached floor level and stopped, and the circle of red light faded almost instantly. After a second or two, there was not even the faintest of marks to distinguish where the miles-high column of rock that has supported me had oozed into the ground beneath my feet. The Old Ones had long ago perfected the art of fluid masonry: the ability to persuade solid rock to flow and shape itself as if it were a soft plastic. It was a magic that was denied to Goblins - although I knew of one nearly successful attempt to steal it - but it was one which allowed the Old Ones themselves, or their chosen guests, to go almost anywhere within or on the surface of this world. I stepped forward, carefully avoiding treading where I thought the join between column and pavement would have been, and looked around. I was standing on a featureless plateau of smooth stone stretching apparently endlessly to left and right and with a vertical rock wall behind me. I strode over to the edge and looked over; it was a long drop to the next terrace far below. All was quiet and still, with no movement that I could detect anywhere. "Findo Gask," a deep voice boomed beside me, "Good evening and welcome, once again, to our abode." I jumped out of my skin, not quite literally, and only instincts honed over millennia prevented me from falling to my death. An Old One had materialised not twenty feet from where I was standing. Where previously there had been a smooth unbroken surface, there was now a low circular dais perhaps twenty feet in diameter which looked exactly as if it had been extruded from the stone floor. Indeed, it almost certainly had been. Goblins say that all humans look the same. This isn't true, of course; at least if, like me, you get enough practice in identifying specific individuals. On the other hand, the Old Ones are genuinely indistinguishable, at least to my eyes. This might well be the same individual who interviewed me on previous occasions, but there was no way to be sure. And there was no point asking for a name; I'm told they do actually have names in their own language, but these are never divulged to. Besides, there is no need: we are given to understand that the Old Ones have their own means of communication, that they are perpetually in contact will all others of their kind, that anything said to any of their number is heard by all, and any response - and a response is not always guaranteed - is given on the basis of an informed consensus. As for appearance, well, there are enough vague references, apocryphal stories and frequently-retold legends in your own history - or mythology - for you to already have a good idea. Many humans would say that the Old Ones resemble dragons: four clawed feet, two enormous leathery wings, a long serpentine neck and tail, and head adorned with multitudinous horns and fangs. Others would think of them as demons, or shadu, or basilisks; your mileage may vary. But all would agree that the Old Ones are powerful, ancient and not to be treated lightly; think deeply first and answer any question with complete honesty is the advice usually given. I guess I recovered from my shock fairly quickly. After all, I was expecting something of this kind. Trying to cover my confusion - out of a instinctive sense of self-preservation rather than with any serious expectation of succeeding - I strode in the direction of the low pedestal where the Old One lay curled up like a cat making itself comfortable on a cushion. "Hello," I said simply, "I believe I've been summoned." A snort, accompanied by a tiny puff of smoke from the nostrils, was the only immediate response. Taking the hint, I stopped at a polite distance and waited. "Indeed," the Old One said after a pause, with a slight tinge of frustration in his voice, "It seems that we once again have a requirement for your services." There was the faintest sense of movement from behind me. A stone chair had extruded itself from the floor next to where I stood, accompanied by a low plinth whose upper surface was unblemished except for a shallow bowl. I sat, pulled off my hat and tossed it on the table, then rummaged in my pockets for cigarettes. This was going to take some time if I was being provided with an ashtray.
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Part 5