name tag identified him, in nearly illegible handwriting, as A. Blackwood) looked up at him admiringly.
"Well, Montague," Arthur said, "Unlike you, I am not nominated for any awards this year, so there!"
"So there, what?" said the man (whose name tag said, in rather precise, clear handwriting, M.R. James), "You're bound to be up next year with that novella you had in
Cosmic Tales of Adventure,
the one about the squids in space. It was most effective."
"Oh, do stop it, Montague," Arthur said. "It was pure hack work, and you know it. I mean, squid in space—honestly!"
"I thought it was great!" the younger man (boy, really)—Al—said.
"Perhaps," murmured Montague, "you should have written about lizards in s..."
He was silenced by a look from Arthur, whose smile had evaporated. "There's a difference between truth and fiction," he whispered, quite loudly. "Please do not mention your speculations here."
"This is France, not home," Montague pointed out calmly.
"Nevertheless," Arthur said, shaking his head. "Nevertheless."
The three fell silent and attacked their breakfast instead. Orphan did not recognize any of their names, but they were obviously writers, and of that—what had the reviewer called it?—
weird fiction.
Orphan, who was drawn mainly to poetry books, was not aware of the apparent proliferation of specialist publications dedicated to the genre.
Diabolique? Terrible Tales?
He sighed. They sounded unpleasant.
"Orphan!" he heard a voice cry and, lifting his head, saw Herb come bouncing into the room, a brand-new name tag pinned to his suit. "You're only just up? Did you sleep well? I'll join you for coffee," he said and was about to sit down opposite Orphan when the three men noticed him and the youngest, Al, called out, "Herb? Herbie Wells?"
Orphan smiled to himself as Herb remained standing and said, "Yes?" in the kind of way that authors do when they suspect they are being recognized, but are not sure if they are in for a compliment or a lecture as to the lack of merit in their work.
"I'm Al. Algernon Blackwood? We exchanged letters some time back?"
"Oh,
Algernon,
" Herb said. "Of
course.
You wrote to me regarding
The Chronic Argonauts.
"
The boy blushed with pleasure at being remembered. "I thought your idea was so original! No one has written that before!" He turned to his companions and said, "This is Herbert George Wells."
"Wells, Wells," Montague murmured. "The book about the time machine, right?"
"Good stuff!" Arthur said, "Wells! Come and join us!"
Herb stood hovering uncertainly between Orphan and his new friends, looking a little like a moth caught between gas lamps. Seeing it, Orphan smiled again, and Arthur Machen, his eyes twinkling, said, "Bring your friend over, too."
Herb looked to Orphan, who nodded and stood up, and the two of them went to join the table of writers.
"So who else is here from across the channel?" Herb said once they were seated. "I've not even had a proper look at the program yet."
"Let me see," Montague said, "on the professionals' side there's yourself, Arthur, myself—though really, I am more of an academic, you know—our young friend Algernon here... who else? Stevenson is
tentatively
scheduled to be here—he is doing a book tour on the continent at the moment for
The Black Arrow,
have you read it?— and I think I saw George Chesney about—he's only been invited because of that
Battle of Dorking
of his, you know."
"I loved
The Battle of Dorking
when I was growing up," Herb said. "If I knew he was coming I'd have brought a copy for him to sign."
Arthur Machen chuckled and said, "There'll be plenty of time for that, Wells. We're all scheduled for a group signing at some point, and the dealers' room is set on the second floor. You should be able to pick up any book you like in
there.
Have you seen it yet?"
"No...." Herb said, and his eyes seemed to glaze with an inner vision of the place.
"Well, I hope Stevenson makes it," Al said. "I brought my first
"Well, Montague," Arthur said, "Unlike you, I am not nominated for any awards this year, so there!"
"So there, what?" said the man (whose name tag said, in rather precise, clear handwriting, M.R. James), "You're bound to be up next year with that novella you had in
Cosmic Tales of Adventure,
the one about the squids in space. It was most effective."
"Oh, do stop it, Montague," Arthur said. "It was pure hack work, and you know it. I mean, squid in space—honestly!"
"I thought it was great!" the younger man (boy, really)—Al—said.
"Perhaps," murmured Montague, "you should have written about lizards in s..."
He was silenced by a look from Arthur, whose smile had evaporated. "There's a difference between truth and fiction," he whispered, quite loudly. "Please do not mention your speculations here."
"This is France, not home," Montague pointed out calmly.
"Nevertheless," Arthur said, shaking his head. "Nevertheless."
The three fell silent and attacked their breakfast instead. Orphan did not recognize any of their names, but they were obviously writers, and of that—what had the reviewer called it?—
weird fiction.
Orphan, who was drawn mainly to poetry books, was not aware of the apparent proliferation of specialist publications dedicated to the genre.
Diabolique? Terrible Tales?
He sighed. They sounded unpleasant.
"Orphan!" he heard a voice cry and, lifting his head, saw Herb come bouncing into the room, a brand-new name tag pinned to his suit. "You're only just up? Did you sleep well? I'll join you for coffee," he said and was about to sit down opposite Orphan when the three men noticed him and the youngest, Al, called out, "Herb? Herbie Wells?"
Orphan smiled to himself as Herb remained standing and said, "Yes?" in the kind of way that authors do when they suspect they are being recognized, but are not sure if they are in for a compliment or a lecture as to the lack of merit in their work.
"I'm Al. Algernon Blackwood? We exchanged letters some time back?"
"Oh,
Algernon,
" Herb said. "Of
course.
You wrote to me regarding
The Chronic Argonauts.
"
The boy blushed with pleasure at being remembered. "I thought your idea was so original! No one has written that before!" He turned to his companions and said, "This is Herbert George Wells."
"Wells, Wells," Montague murmured. "The book about the time machine, right?"
"Good stuff!" Arthur said, "Wells! Come and join us!"
Herb stood hovering uncertainly between Orphan and his new friends, looking a little like a moth caught between gas lamps. Seeing it, Orphan smiled again, and Arthur Machen, his eyes twinkling, said, "Bring your friend over, too."
Herb looked to Orphan, who nodded and stood up, and the two of them went to join the table of writers.
"So who else is here from across the channel?" Herb said once they were seated. "I've not even had a proper look at the program yet."
"Let me see," Montague said, "on the professionals' side there's yourself, Arthur, myself—though really, I am more of an academic, you know—our young friend Algernon here... who else? Stevenson is
tentatively
scheduled to be here—he is doing a book tour on the continent at the moment for
The Black Arrow,
have you read it?— and I think I saw George Chesney about—he's only been invited because of that
Battle of Dorking
of his, you know."
"I loved
The Battle of Dorking
when I was growing up," Herb said. "If I knew he was coming I'd have brought a copy for him to sign."
Arthur Machen chuckled and said, "There'll be plenty of time for that, Wells. We're all scheduled for a group signing at some point, and the dealers' room is set on the second floor. You should be able to pick up any book you like in
there.
Have you seen it yet?"
"No...." Herb said, and his eyes seemed to glaze with an inner vision of the place.
"Well, I hope Stevenson makes it," Al said. "I brought my first
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