"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."
"Is that right," Thompson said aloud. He had begun to wonder whether membership in this club was exclusive. The candle kept on burning, but it stayed the same size.