From: wismith@amelia.nas.nasa.gov (William R. Smith)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.books
Subject: rab fest - part 3  (long)
Date: 5 Oct 92 19:10:36 GMT
Article-I.D.: nas.1992Oct5.191036.25826
Distribution: usa
Organization: NAS, NASA Ames Research Center, Moffett Field, CA


    			The Case of Stilton
		           Episode Three



Sburgfort here again.  I was at Susan the Gear's "abode" checking out
the rebber cult.  They were having a coven meeting and I had accidentally
intercepted their secret messages on my computer.  I'd now infiltrated
the group and was trying to determine what they were up to.  No good,
that was for sure, but exactly what remained hidden.  Once I found out,
I'd know what to do, assuming they didn't find me out first.

We were just returning from the garden "tour".  The next order of business
was the compulsory watching of the ritual video.  As we all walked back
into the house there was another guest who'd arrived while we were in the
garden.  I hung back as the others filed into the narrow hallway leading
to a room at the back of the house.

When the stranger edged near the hallway I joined him so we could walk in
together.  He was of moderate build, with a Robert Frost shock of white
hair, only his was combed, a white goatee, red flannel shirt, and casual
brown slacks.  He was a cross between a logger and Colonel Sanders.  That
would be lumberjack for you East Coast types;  loggers are in the West,
lumberjacks are in the East.

"Hi, we haven't meet," I said, extending my hand. "I'm William," giving
him my traveling name.

"Oh, I'm John McCarthy," he said in a quiet, yet strong tone.

Ah ha!  I was pretty sure this was another of the Circle of Eight leaders
of the rabber cult.  I'd need to watch out for this one.  He had a 
commanding presence.  If he wasn't in the Circle of Eight and I got a
vote, he'd of gotten mine for the job.  I was drawn to him and pushed
away at the same time, like alternating current.

We entered the small room at the back of the house.  I found a seat on the
left of a small couch.  All the others except Logger John were seated
on the couch, in chairs, or on the floor.  Susan was near the TV and VCR
at one end of the room that was lined with filled bookcases.  Everyone
was quieting down waiting for the video to start.  Susan announced it
and that's when I learned it was from Marky of New York, yet one more of
that sinister Circle of Eight.

The video opened with a picture of a bookcase, panning slowly across the
spines.  Some title could be read, others not.  It all looked ordinary
enough.  Maybe we were taking an inventory, like people do to back up
their insurance claims.  The camera panned down to books lying on a table. 
There was some music in the background, like the start of that British TV
show Masterpiece Theater, only their music is much bouncier than this. 
The camera moved to a personal computer with something written on the
screen.  It was hard to read and several in the group were struggling
to make it out.  It was a welcome to our rab fest, as they called this 
enclave meeting.

Now we could hear Marky of New York talking.  He was saying something
about reading books, and which books to read tonite.  This was obviously
a code, because it made no sense to me, but the others were nodding as if
hypnotized.  Now a hand held a book for a close up.  It was _HALO_ by
Maddox.  Was this the Maddox, who with his side-kick Turner Joy, can stir
up more trouble in an evening than you can get out of in seven years? 
Was this book about shampoo?  No clues.  _HALO_ was set down and we
saw Marky.

He was casually leaning against the desk that held the computer.  He
appeared tall, but camera angles can be tricky.  He was very dapper,
dressed in well creased grey slacks, cashmere sweater, and dark blue
smoking jacket.  This was a high ranking rabber leader for sure.  He
looked like Hugh Heffner minus the pipe.  He was talking in soothing
tones, willing the audience into his power.

His voice droned on about this book and that book.  The others were so
attentive I again assumed it was a code.  The order of titles given 
determined the cipher to use tonite.  Something like that.  Finally he
settled on something to read:  _Howard's End_.  Now we were getting
somewhere.  I had a few questions.  Who was Howard?  And how exactly did
he meet his end?  The compass needle of suspicion was swinging around to
Marky and now we were talking murder.  I was in deeper than I expected.

I couldn't make heads or tails out of what he read.  He was reading something
about a bloody tea party and not a murder.  And not once did I hear Howard's
name, or how they offed him.  Everyone else is nodding and smiling like
they knew what was coming down.  I was still in the dark.

Marky read while sitting on a small couch.  When he finished reading he
closed the book, set it on the desk.  Then the most extraordinary thing
happened:  he introduced us to his cat.  This cat had been reading over
Marky's shoulder.  The cat's name was Bertie, after Bertrand
Russell claimed Marky.  More likely after a mideval witch named Bertie the
Bad.  Bertie was obviously Marky's familiar, an unholy alliance.  The
witchcraft scenerio was gaining support.

Marky smiled that "I'm in control and you don't know it yet" smile and wished
us Happy Rab Fest like its Happy New Year.  The camera then starts to pan
around the room and finally outside to the skyscrapers of NYC at night. 
This keeps on for five or six minutes and everyone is still staring at
the TV transfixed.  Reminded me of that Andy Worhol movie of the Empire
State Building.  You know, lasts for 20 hours and no plot.  Susan shuts
the VCR off and we start migrating back into the living room.

Cap'n fido has now opened several bottle of Mouton Cadet, a nice
Bordeaux red wine, from the wonderful folks who brought you Lafite
Rothschild.  God, these rabbers could form the Palo Alto Eating and
Drinking Society.  The buffet was piled with sliced bread, thinly sliced
smoked turkey and ham, and an assortment of mustards that required a 
serious raid on Sonoma-Williams.  There were also two hunks of cheese.
One was a pale, solid, mild cheese reminiscent of Jarlsberg.  The other
was about the size of a Vespa motor scooter tire and was bluish-whitish-
ellowish and smelled like mold.  It was, indeed, a British blue cheese
called stilton.  Given the other British culinary feats I was familiar
with, steak and kidney pie, bubble and squeek, toad in the hole, I
approached this smelly, squishy round with caution.  It was actually
quite good once you got past the appearance.

On a side board were two expensive pump thermoses with coffee and 
something the rabbers talked about at length:  Madelines.  They must
be ritual food like communion hosts.  What they are, I'll tell you, are
football shaped sponge cake, like flattened Twinkies without the cream
filling.  Twinkies are better, but the rabbers are going ga-ga over these
things.

Conversation died down while everyone filled their plates and sat around
the living room.  There was an undercurrent of excitement about what
was coming next.  I didn't know what to expect.  It turns out I was to
participate in one of the most bizarre rituals ever whitnessed.


			End of Episode Three


5 Oct 92