From: wismith@amelia.nas.nasa.gov (William R. Smith)
Subject: rab fest - part 4  (long)
Organization: NAS, NASA Ames Research Center, Moffett Field, CA
Date: Thu, 8 Oct 92 17:15:12 GMT

    			The Case of Stilton
		           Episode Four



Sburgfort here again.  I was trying to learn as much as I could at the
sinister rabber coven that I'd infiltrated without getting caught.
The magnificent buffet was being whittled down by the participants
when Susan the Gear, in whose "abode" this secret organization convened,
announced the central event in the evening of rituals.  I couldn't have
been more appalled if they'd trotted in abducted street kids for 
sacrifice.  They were all gleefully prepared to read aloud from books!

They'd take turns reading from books!  Can you believe it?  I can only
think of one or two activities more depraved to perform in public.  The
others seemed eager for this obscene spectacle to begin.  I for one
was shrinking into the couch cushions.

It was worse than I imagined.  Because of my position in the room, Susan
asked if I'd go first.  All the stories about initiations where the
inductee has to perform a crime to prove he's one of the gang zipped
thru my mind.  We'll hold him down and you pull the trigger.  I was had
for sure.  If ever the ol' brain needed to do a one and a half gainer,
this was it.  These fiends would have me for desert if I didn't come
up with something.

Now I remembered about everyone bringing a book.  They weren't talking
about accounting books, they were reading books -- and I didn't have one.
But I had just finished a book and tried to think of something appropriate.
Cap'n Fido was an Oxford man and had been to public school in England.
Paul Roberts, the tall, young man at the other end of the couch had 
also been to Oxford, decades after Fido.  I'd overheard them before the
video show.  "Is ol' whats-his-face still doing the ..."

I could maybe score a point and keep my skin if I could just remember
a passage from the book.  To ease the nervousness, I gulped the Mouton
Cadet like it was Pizza Hut chianti and nearly choked.  Not cool.
Ah yes, it was coming.  From "Flashman and the Redskins":

	There is no question that a public school education is an
	advantage.  It may not make you a scholar or a gentleman or
	a Christian, but it does teach you to survive and prosper -
	and one other invaluable thing:  style.

"Very good," agreed Cap'n Fido.  He then launched into a serious monologue
about Flashman in "Tom Brown's School Days".  Paul made like the Tar
Baby and didn't say nothing.  Logger John gave a short discourse on
American frontier life, trappers and traders of the far West, General
Phil Sheridan and the Indian wars, construction of Conestoga wagons,
and the price of buffalo jerky after Bill Cody had his way with the
southern herd on the plains.  No one noticed as I sneaked back to the
wine bottle, rivulets of sweat wetting my shirt.  I'd squeaked thru.
Praise Flashman.

The honors now passed to my right, where Janine, I think it was, sat
behind a Matterhorn of books she'd brought.  After a quick glance thru the
stack she selected "The Guns of August", and read about the causes of war.
She forgot to mention being forced to read aloud to hostiles as a leading
cause.

This sparked a lively discussion about the World War.  Cap'n Fido was
remembering Churchill's role in the whole thing.  Seamed to be some
lingering bitterness about Churchill and the Near East.  Discussion
continued for a while on various related and unrelated topics.

When it was Heidi the Wolf's turn she read a lengthy piece about some
English family at the start of the Second World War.  There were letters
from various family members maligning other family members and complaining
about rationing.  Royal connections too, a Lord Peter Wimsey, a Harriet
Vane and numerous uncles and great aunts.  Quite dreary actually, but the
rabbers ate it up.  Cap'n Fido was clapping his hands like a child at a
magic show.

You too may have noticed the rabbers preoccupation with wars, especially
the start of wars.  Could I be whitnessing the planning of yet another?
I was going to pay more attention to the side conversations that swirled
around after every reading.

Heidi, obviously on a roll, read something else that really threw me
off the scent.  She had an odd piece about "bedworthiness", written
by Dorthy Sayers to some guy.  Interesting subject, but the language
was quaint and cutesy; not as racy as the title would lead you to
believe.  The rabbers were giggling and nudging each other like seventh
graders at the sperm and egg lecture. I headed back to the Mouton Cadet.

Dani Zweig, a smallish, pleasant young man with a ready smile, was
really excited when his turn came.  He wanted to play a game.  Oh God,
spare me.  He was going to read a passage and we had to guess when it
was written.  What in the world was going on?  Ignoring the groans and
pained looks, Dani plunged ahead.  Christ, what a dreary piece this was
about peasants living in mud huts and starving on moldy food and groveling 
in the fields.  Yuk.

Was this another coded message, this time about social unrest prior to
the war the rabbers seemed obsessed with?  After a few half hearted
guesses, Dani gleefully announced it was 13th Century from "Piers
Ploughman".  Could have fooled me.

Then a most curious thing happened.  Logger John sitting quietly in a
corner easy chair told us he hadn't brought a book, but would recite
from memory the entire Newton's "Principia Mathematica" for us in
Latin.  After respectful protest about the late hour he agreed to
recite a poem from his youth, and proceeded with a catchy ditty about
a Hottentot.  When John was thru, as was the habit, another discussion
started, this one about the role of Hottentots in British politics.  A
side discussion focused on the politically correct term for Hottentots,
Bushmen and Pygmies.  Seems everybody wants to be called something else. 
I made a note that the rabbers international web extended to Africal a well. 
I was overwhelmed by the scope of their evil interests.

The readings over, people drifted back to the buffet for more coffee and
flattened Twinkies.  They'd wrecked havoc on the solid yellow cheese, but
that was nothing to how the stilton looked.  It had been attacked from the
top and side and looked like a blue-green algae sculpture of Mount St.
Helen's North side.  Complete with blue- green mud flow.

People huddled in small groups, talking private conspiracies.  I edged closer
to two of the Circle of Eight leaders.  John and Francis were quietly and
earnestly engaged in a chat about small arms control in Britain.  Now we
were getting somewhere.  I edged even closer.

"Clayton really caught you short with all his facts and dates," said 
John with a "gotcha" smile and a twinkle in his eyes.

"Yes, he did," replied Francis, "but did anyone check up on his information?
I didn't.  He could have just made it all up."

"Wouldn't it be funny if he stopped you in your tracks with totally 
fabricated data?  He sure made it sound convincing."

"Well, he is the rabber small arms expert," said Francis, deflecting the
idea he could have been duped.

"Naytheless ...," John trailed off.

The party was winding down.  Some were leaving while others knotted together
in quiet conversation.  I was going to hang around to see if I could make
any sense of the evening's events.  There was lots to think about.

I stayed about half an hour, my mind swimming with possible plots, 
conspiracies, evil deeds, international intrigue and Mouton Cadet.  The
remaining rabbers stood in a circle in the middle of the living room and
plotted the best way to overthrow Stanford University, various departments,
and the newspaper.  I weaseled to the door and looked back as I slipped out. 
The disgusting blob of stilton was gone!



			End of Episode Four


7 Oct 9


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