Bimbos of the Death Sun (11 page)

Faber sighed with relief. He’d done it! The conquest had been made. Another couple of hours and she might let him kiss her.

Brenda was thinking that it was about time he’d got around to asking her, and wondering when she should go and get her belongings from behind the curtain in the video lounge. Hotel rooms were expensive, and of course she hadn’t booked one. She thought she could put up with another half hour of this drivel, and then she had to get him laid so that she could get some sleep. Late nights made her puffy.

Appin Dungannon was back in front of his computer monitor scowling at the words “Tratyn Runewind.” The evening had not been altogether unpleasant. He had tossed and gored several obnoxious fans, and he had quite enjoyed the exercise of heaving folding chairs at an incarnation of his cretinous Rune warrior. He had been in quite a venomous mood that evening, probably because of the chapter he’d been working on before dinner, but now it was time to write the most hackneyed part of a Runewind book, the ending. He should be able to knock it off in an hour or two, and that would leave the early morning for proofing and final corrections, which need not be too extensive. Some post-teen English major enslaved to the
publisher to proof copy could go through and make sure that Runewind’s horse was not black on one page and brown on another. Really, he didn’t know why they bothered. The demented fans who read the series had hours of fun devising plausible explanations for his sloppiest screw-ups. They would churn out endless articles in their unreadable mimeographed excrescences trying to explain why Runewind’s sword changed lengths or why his mother was known by two different names. So far, the two likeliest explanations—apathy and Chivas Regal—had not been suggested.

He felt almost virtuous to be slaving away at the keyboard in the small hours of the morning, especially considering that he’d had other offers. Several of the less grotesque femmefans had hinted at a willingness to add a night with an Eminent Pro to their list of celebrity memorabilia. Dungannon usually declined these offers for a variety of reasons: proofs of age could be faked, and lawsuits were a nuisance; some of the girls might carry the
Andromeda Strain
as well as having read it; and, most daunting of all, he could never go through with such an encounter without imagining the evening written up in a grubby fanzine. “Is Runewind’s Sword a Dirk? A Blow-by-Blow Account of Appin Dungannon’s Bedside Manner.” The very thought of such an article could cripple his strongest lust. And since the fen had no more privacy sense than a bee and no knowledge of copyright, such an article once written would be reprinted by every zine in fandom. It would be harder to kill than the ax man in
Friday the Thirteenth
. Sleep alone, thought Appin Dungannon, safety first. He hated the fen too much to give them such a weapon. Might as
well give a chimp a hand grenade.

There were corrections to make, and other details to be attended to, but they could wait until he was sober. Appin Dungannon retrieved his disk,
yawned, and watched the monitor screen go dark. And so to bed.

Marion yawned. “Well, what did you think of your evening in Middle Earth?”

Jay Omega finished arranging the contents of his pockets on the dresser top. “Well, I wouldn’t want to live there,” he grinned.

“No. I don’t suppose you would. But then you happen to be particularly well suited for this planet, lucky for you.” She sat down beside him on the bed and began to rub his back.

“You seem to get along pretty well yourself,” he pointed out, arching a shoulder blade.

“Just like my cat,” she laughed, scratching the shoulder. “Are you going to purr?—I suppose I do get along well these days, but it was an acquired skill. In high school I was too smart and too puppy-fat to be anything but miserable. That was what made the SF group so appealing: we were all outcasts together. Even after all these years it stays with me. I can’t help feeling that I get along in the world only because I learned what was expected and how to go about things. Like Marco Polo in China—functioning, but not really belonging. You, on the other hand, seem to have been born knowing how to cope.”

Jay Omega nodded. “Like an IBM computer with BASIC built into its ROM. No programming for it necessary.”

“Whatever that means,” frowned Marion. “I suppose so. You enjoy all the things that other people consider necessary evils—yard work, meetings, teaching undergrads. I used to think you were a saint, but after knowing you a year, I’ve decided
that saints aren’t saints, either. They are just people who happen to enjoy doing things the world approves of. And sometimes I think to myself that if we’d gone to high school together you wouldn’t have asked me out, and it annoys me—still!”

“I’d have been afraid to. You can be rather fiercely feminist sometimes.”

“At the moment, I don’t feel that way at all. Are you sleepy?”

“Not anymore,” said Jay. “In fact, I think I’ll go down to the video room. I heard they were going to show
War Games
at midnight. It has a lot of computer technology in it. Want to come?”

Marion shook her head. I’ll just stay here and take a cold shower, she thought grimly.

M
iles Perry could open one eye just wide enough to see a six and a four on his digital alarm clock. That meant he had been allowed at most three hours of sleep. He groped for the shrieking telephone, and managed to find it without making further demands on his eyes.

“Huh—what?” he croaked into the earpiece.

The responding voice advanced him three levels toward wakefulness.

“Yes, Mr. Dungannon! Good morning!—You want what?—Oh. Room service. I’m sure the hotel has it. Would you like me to give you that number? I could look it up.”

He sat up now, wondering where the phone book would be hidden. “What’s that, sir?—Well, no, I don’t suppose the hotel room service would go to Burger King to get you an egg and cheese
croissant.—Oh. I see. Yes, sir. It’ll take me half an hour to get dressed.—Fifteen minutes, yessir. Fifteen minutes to get dressed.—And I should tap on your door to let you know it’s there.—Certainly, sir. I’m on my way.”

To a madhouse, thought Miles Perry, hanging up the phone. Why had he agreed to supervise this con? It was going to be the longest weekend of his life. He just knew it. Of course, he knew exactly why he had agreed to run the con. It would make him very important among the area fen, gain him prestige with the national organizations, and it made him feel delightfully important, something he never felt while managing the grocery produce section at Food Lion. It was an ego trip—but it took its psychic toll.

Marion had almost been awakened by the sound of the shower, but she discovered that if she put her head under both pillows, she could ignore it enough to go on sleeping, incorporating a Tahitian waterfall into her last dream.

Jay Omega pulled back the bed covers. “Wake up, sunshine!” he said, tickling her foot. “Time to commute to fairyland.”

Marion groaned. “May an orc eat you for breakfast.”

Jay Omega pushed a copy of the Rubicon program under the pillow. “Lots of things to do today. No time to sleep.”

“My god,” she moaned, stretching and making a grab for the bedspread. “Not only do you have a Ph.D. in engineering and the ability to fix cars, you’re also a morning person. Or a morning android. The possibility that you are human gets
remoter all the time.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere. Get up or it’s the wet washcloth on your neck.”

She looked at him curiously. “Are you that anxious to get to the con?”

“No. It doesn’t start for another two hours. That will give us time to eat breakfast and to visit an auto parts store I know that opens at eight. I need a master cylinder for my clutch. Then, if you insist, we can go to the con.”

Marion threw a pillow. “Shut up, Android, or I’ll unplug your surge protector.”

Jay Omega grinned. “I think you already have.”

“Really?” She sat up, smoothing her hair. “I think we have time for that.”

“Too late. I’ve already showered.” He started to rummage in his suitcase. “Hurry up, will you? I’m starving!”

Marion yawned and ambled to the bathroom. Maybe he really is an android, she thought.

In the video lounge those pulling an all-nighter were watching the credits to
The Day the World Ended
roll up the screen.

“Man, I knew the rain was going to kill the mutants,” said Bill Fox, flipping off the television. Because of his status as a mechanical engineering major at Tech, Fox, a member of the Rubicon steering committee, was in charge of the video room.

The six people sprawled on chairs and couches throughout the room went on sleeping. Two other video junkies yawned and stretched. “I thought that was a lot scarier last time I saw it,” one remarked.

“How old were you then?”

“About eight.”

Joseph Bonnenberger, still in his lair in the corner, looked up to see why the sound had stopped. “Television,” he said.

“Breakfast time,” said Bill. “Knock off ’til nine. Gotta go get something to eat.” He watched Bonnenberger dump his change on the end table. “Candy machines are in the hall next to the lobby, man.”

“Anybody got a program handy?” asked a sleepy Star Fleet officer, uncurling out of a lounge chair.

“Yeah,” said Bill. “Usual stuff starts at nine. Videos, wargames, art show, hucksters. Then at ten, there’s a live-action
D&D
game that begins in the lobby. Real weapons strictly forbidden. And the art pro will have a seminar also at ten.”

“Is Dungannon talking today?”

“One o’clock in the auditorium. Anything else you need?”

“Just a toothbrush.”

“Use your finger.” Bill Fox scooped up the videos and started out the door, nearly colliding with Brenda Lindenfeld in the hall.

She was still wearing her velvet gown, but her expression had softened considerably from the fierce scowl of the night before. She was escorted by a scrawny young man in a green turtleneck who walked beside her when hallway space permitted it.

Bill Fox turned back to the video lounge. “Hey! Who was that guy with Brenda Lindenfeld?”

Bonnenberger looked up from his book. Since he and Bill were alone in the lounge, he decided to venture a quip. “Her lunch,” he said.

You always got more of Bonnenberger when there was no one else around.

Walter Diefenbaker hoped the registration clerk would be back from breakfast soon. He should have asked someone to bring him something from McDonalds. Now he had a choice between peanut butter crackers from the vending machine or missing the live
D&D
game. Dief was not a fantasy person, but he did allow himself an occasional frivolity, and the role-playing sounded like a lark. Today his tweed jacket sported a button reading:

IS THERE REALLY A CANADA,
OR ARE ALL THOSE GUYS JUST KIDDING?

He should check with Miles, though, to see if he could be spared for the duration of the game. If one of the staff volunteers failed to show up. Miles would need someone to pitch in. Where was Miles, anyway? He hadn’t been around all morning.

“Hello!” said Marion, leaning over the registration desk. She had changed her
Avengers
costume for a preppy-looking navy blazer and canvas skirt. “Jay has gone upstairs to get his books. When would you like him to set up?”

Dief shrugged. “Whenever. How long can he stand to autograph? We did want to talk to him, though. The local physicist who was going to lecture on quasars at eleven has canceled out, and we were hoping that Dr. Omega might be willing to conduct a writing seminar.”

“I don’t know. Surely Appin Dungannon …”

“Surely
not
Appin Dungannon.”