“I wonder if Tierney somehow put out the word on us,” said Stan. “Like he sent a telegram? He’s quite the weasel, that guy.”
“Or the great shoggoth read our minds,” suggested Vivi. “It’s very tight with those flying slugs.”
“I thought all we’d see down here was the cukes and that shoggoth,” said Stan. “Not morphodite larvae.”
With what proved to be supreme overconfidence, I said, “Hell Stan, we just proved we can handle anything they throw at us!”
When we got back to our plane in the morning, our watchman told us he’d had to chase off a pair of those flying slugs—probably two of the ones who’d tried to ambush us.
“Con gusto,” said the guard, holding up his stained machete. He glanced down off the edge of the wharf. “Los peces pequeños comen.”
Con gustoLos peces pequeños comen“The lit
