The room was a very plain room. It had four walls, a ceiling, a floor. But it was new to Thompson because he had never seen it before. He stood in a relaxed fashion, studying it. There was a desk in the center of the room. It was gray, but Thompson could not identify the material from which it was made. A very old man with a clipped beard sat behind the desk. A candle flickered in a brass holder on top of the desk.

"Pardon me," said Thompson.

The old man looked at him. He had been looking at Thompson for a long time. In fact, Thompson could not remember a time when the old man had not been looking at him.

"You like horror stories, I take it," the old man said. "That's why you're here. Everybody in the world likes a good horror story, at least once in their lives."

"Yes," said Thompson, filled with vague relief, "I guess that's why I'm here."

"Fine," said the old man. He reached into the desk. Where, Thompson couldn't tell. Just out of sight. No drawers slid. But his hands came out, and they held a white card. Again they vanished. This time they held a metal-pointed pen. There was ink in the pen. It shone with a night-blue luster in the candle flame.

"Name," said the old man.

"James Thompson."

"Born."

Thompson thought a minute. "March third, nineteen oh two. Is all this necessary?"

The old man seemed annoyed. "Of course. We must have all the records, in order that you may become a full-time member."

"Full-time member of what?" Thompson asked. He noticed that the pen seemed always full of ink.

"The Horror Book Club, of course," the old man replied. He scratched on the card, writing down the information Thompson had given him. Then he put both card and pen out of sight under the desk. His hands came back up, empty.

"Everything has been taken care of," he said, smiling. "You've been admitted."

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