The Shibboleth hulks before them, a thing out of time, its skin a sloughing mess and its mouths full of feelers. Some of the expedition vomits; some clutch their heads.
Percy steps forward.
“We have not come so far to hesistate at a thing like this,” he says, steaming in Antarctic air. “Stand aside. We will enter the city of madness!”
“What dost thou seek therein?” hisses the Shibboleth in a dozen languages.
“The tomb,” says Percy, “of dread Chtulu!”
It snorts. “Who?” it says.
“Chtulu!” says Percy, less certain.
“Thou art not from around here,” it giggles, looming, “art thou?”