Cthulhu Lives!: An Eldritch Tribute to H. P. Lovecraft Read Online Free PDF Page A

to.
    So he went on his way, leaving the two old men to their stories.
    The frightening thing about Buckingham Palace, the most insidious arrogance, was how much it had not changed. The Scots Guard arrayed themselves around the gates, but it was otherwise the same. It told London that They were not frightened of the people – ‘ We do not have to defend ourselves from you .’
    The only notable difference to the Palace was the state of the telegraph towers. Steepling wooden poles, they had connected the Queen to the airdock towers at Greenwich. The telegraphs had fallen into disrepair now, the wires dangling useless and the poles split with rot. The palace had no use for them, not since the continental governments cut communications. As for the airdocks themselves, They hated anything which took them further away from water.
    He presented himself to the gate. The guard there just snapped his heels and asked Fisher to follow, marching off to a side door. Fisher did so, and was led through ante-chambers and narrow halls, into a book-lined study and out, and finally to a gallery with high ceilings and windows, and an unlit hearth at its centre.
    The guard left, after instructing him to wait. And wait he did, standing in the spot he’d been left in. Fear that being discovered out of place would earn a punishment rooted him to the spot.
    But minutes passed, and then tens of minutes, until boredom more than bravery sent him over to look at the paintings along the wall. They were so many, and so large. The first was a seascape, featuring a battle of a hundred ships. He recognised HMS Victory in the fray, and surmised that the artist had depicted Trafalgar. He admired the bold strokes and fine detail. Everything was captured through the smoke and movement of battle.
    He moved onto the next, and found himself at a loss. It showed a land battle, although he couldn’t identify the regiments, or even the armies. Two sides fought in a barren landscape, under a red sky. Not the red of sunset, either. Fisher got the impression of a sky deliberately and perpetually crimson, with black clouds sailing over the ruined scenery. The men who fought did so not with an appearance of determination or pride, but with the wild delight of zealots. Even those caught in the blasts of cannon or pierced with bayonets seemed to have no regrets, no sadness. It was as if they would gleefully die or kill for their cause, and welcomed either with equal relish.
    “Magnificent, are they not?”
    He caught himself, crushed the urge to spin, and managed to turn calmly. A man walked towards him, slim and unassuming, dressed well but sombrely. He was pale, too. What Fisher had first taken for a powdered wig of the old style was in fact a shock of grey hair, and the man’s cheeks weren’t rouged, but bore the redness found under the rimmed eyes of someone who had not slept well in a long time.
    “They are,” he said, keeping his voice pleasant and agreeable.
    “These,” the man pointed to the Trafalgar painting and its neighbours, “were originally hanging in the National Gallery.” He waved past the last painting Fisher had looked at. “These others were... Well, I’m not exactly sure where they came from, but her Majesty desired them hung.”
    Fisher’s glance followed the man’s gesture. He saw more of the paintings of the latter sort. The next in line was dominated by the livid greens of rainforest. Vines and grass crept up a statue which hurt his eyes when he tried to focus. He blinked, and looked back at the man. “Sorry, sir. I am at a disadvantage,” he said.
    “Of course, my apologies. My name is Benjamin Disraeli. I have the good fortune to be the Prime Minister for Her Most Ancient and Imperial Highness, may she live forever.”
    Fisher recognised the man then – what he had become, anyway. Disraeli had been Prime Minister before Tesla’s demonstration, and had remained so. There was never a question of elections being held. But the man