A pall is cast over the convention, for the professionals, anyway, by the death of John Brunner on Friday afternoon. We speak to him briefly on Thursday afternoon when we arrive at the SECC, and I see him again in the SFWA Suite that night, noticing, when I leave about midnight, that he looks unusually tired and depressed (this isn’t retrospective foreshadowing, by the way, because I mention it to Susan when I get back to the room that night, long before we hear anything about John’s stroke). In the morning, Friday morning, we hear that John has had a stroke in the early hours of the morning, and is in critical condition at the hospital. By the afternoon, he is dead, and word of his death passes like a shock wave from person to person throughout the HarperCollins party—which is being held in a barge anchored in the River Clyde—leaving small thoughtful silences behind. Odd to be chatting to someone one moment and have him dead only a few hours later; it’s spooky, and it puts the thought of our own mortality into everyone’s minds, where it lingers like a morbid background hum for the rest of the convention.
Of course, the British professionals seem gloomy enough even before Brunner dies, and for good reason—the British science fiction industry is in ruins, with one major publisher openly stating that the science fiction market in Britain is “no longer big enough to bother with.” This impression is reinforced by the American writers who talk with British publishers about British editions of their SF novels, and who are more or less told that if they’re not writing Celtic fantasy trilogies, no British publisher is going to bother with them. One well-known middle-level British writer says that the only way he can get a science fiction book into print in Britain any more is by disguising it as fantasy, changing what otherwise would have been aliens into vampires or werewolves. In spite of the rush to fill the shelves with nothing but fantasy and horror, the dealers in the huckster room who run bookstores in Britain tell me that their customers keep telling them that they’re sick of Celtic fantasy trilogies and vampire novels and want more science fiction instead. Something is wrong here somewhere. But if the perception of the publishers that no one wants to read science fiction is wrong, there seems no way to convince the publishers of it. And the result, especially for the younger British writers, is that it’s impossible to make even a mediocre living writing science fiction unless you can sell a healthy proportion of your work to the American market. No wonder the British professionals look gloomy.
“Gloomy” is perhaps too strong a word to be used to characterize the convention in general, but “quiet” is probably moderately fair. For me, it seems like an even quieter Worldcon than last year’s convention in Winnipeg, although I think it’s technically bigger. Although there are a fairly large number of people in attendance, they’re stretched out over five or six hotels that are miles apart, much too far to walk, and so little party-hopping goes on, people tending to congregate at the bar of whatever hotel they’re staying at, and not venturing out into the dark and rainy Glasgow streets looking for other parties. We make it to the SFWA Suite in the Trusthouse Forte Hotel several times, which is probably the place where you are most likely to find at least some other professionals on any given night, but we never make it to the Central Hotel, for instance, where several big bidding parties take place, or to several of the other hotels where convention parties are going on; it’s just too much of a hassle to get there and then get back. The only night we do any real party-hopping is Friday night, when there are several publisher parties scheduled back-to-back-to-back. These have mostly blurred, although I do recall that the Orbit party, held in a grotto-like bar called The Arches, which is under the train-station, so that the whole place quakes when a train rumbles by overhead, features, on sale at the bar, a drink called a “slippery nipple,” which nobody has the nerve to ask the pretty young barmaid to give them. And that Susan and Michael Swanwick and I walk out singing “Oh, show me the way to the next whiskey bar!”, getting a very odd look from the doorman, and then get in a cab and go to the Tor party.
Glasgow itself strikes me as a grey and fairly uninteresting city, considered as a tourist destination (although, to be fair, we don’t do as much touring here as we’ve done elsewhere); much the same could be said about Philadelphia, after all, which is a pleasant enough place in which to live, but which doesn’t have all that much to really interest the tourist, once you’ve seen the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall. The weather may help to give me this impression of Glasgow, since it remains overcast and raining throughout most of the convention, and few cities are at their best when seen under these conditions. Still, I have occasion to walk into Center Square one afternoon, and, when I get there, find myself surrounded by Woolworths, Burger Kings, Tie Racks, Baskin-Robbins, McDonalds, Pizza Huts . . . almost nothing of real interest to a tourist, nothing that is quintessentially Scottish, and much of the rest of the city, as we shuttle in cabs past a maze of highway interchanges and overpasses from one hotel to another (it’s almost impossible to walk from one to the other, in some cases, even if the hotel is in plain view a block or two away, because of the Motorways you’d have to cross), seems similarly plain and utilitarian. On the other hand, the people of Glasgow seem almost universally cheerful, friendly, and helpful, which probably counts for a lot more in the long run than how many interesting ancient monuments the city has. Glasgow might well be a nice place to live, but, to invert the old cliche, I’m not sure you’d want to visit there.
When I go over to give my condolences to John Brunner’s widow, several days after his death, she breaks into sudden hysterical tears, seizes my hand, puts her head down on it, and sobs on it for several minutes.
A piper starts playing in the SFWA Suite one night—at least one thing I’ve never seen in a SFWA Suite before. His bagpipes are almost—not quite—as loud as the voices of some of the SFWA members.
At one point, one of the Glasgow newspapers runs a story about the convention under a headline that reads something like “GROTTY WEIRDOS INVADE GLASGOW!!!!” Inside, they run a photograph of a transvestite dressed in a Las Vegas-style cat costume, his five-o’clock shadow clearly visible, with a line under the photo that says “TYPICAL SCI-FI READER.”
We have a good dinner with Mike and Carol Resnick at an Indian place called Mr. Singh’s, which had been recommended by George R.R. Martin, and where the waiter’s accent, a heavy Indian accent overlaid with a strong Glaswegian accent, is so impenetrable that we finally give up trying to comprehend what it is he’s trying to recommend to us and just gesture for him to bring it (fortunately, it doesn’t turn out to be flambéed rat head in octopus sauce, or somesuch). We have another good dinner, at a place called the Thai Royale, recommended by Daniel Korn and others, with Joe and Gay Haldeman, John D. Berry, and Eileen Gunn, during which I give Eileen her present, the Clan Gunn history, and she immediately begins to make plans to send everybody strange missives decorated with the “Weathered Gunn” tartan. Have an overpriced but congenial dinner in the French restaurant in the Marriott with Ellen Datlow and Scott and Suzi Baker.
In the midst of all this merrymaking, about half-way through the convention, Susan gets sick, the stress of the trip finally catching up with her. She spends parts of several evenings and almost all of Monday in bed, while I bring her infusions of new Brother Cadfael books.
At the Hugo Awards ceremony, Bob Silverberg gives a memorial to John Brunner which I think is heartfelt and very tastefully handled, with an especially nice touch being Silverberg’s request that the audience rise and give John a standing ovation rather than observing a moment of silence for him. Wonder which I’ll get when I go? If either.
Joe Haldeman wins a Hugo for Asimov’s with his story “None So Blind,” and Mike Resnick looks very relieved not to have lost four Hugos on the same night when he wins for Best Novella. I am very pleased to win the Hugo for Best Editor, my seventh (and no, to answer the question I’m most often asked at Worldcons, you don’t get bored with winning them after a while. Trust me on this.).
The firewo
rks display over the River Clyde, after the Hugo ceremony, adds a nice touch of class to the night.
Susan spends much of Monday in our room, still sick, but she stumbles out to join me, Jane Jewell and Peter Heck, George R.R. Martin, and Walter Jon Williams for dinner at a restaurant called The Ubiquitous Chip, so called because they don’t serve any chips there, the idea being that chips are ubiquitous everyplace else. Or something like that. None of the local people have been able to describe the interior of this place to us, just saying that it was “strange” or “bizarre,” and as soon as we get there, I see why; it’s a place outside of their experience, and so hard for them to get a mental grip on, although familiar enough to all of us—it’s a fern bar, perhaps the only one in Britain, almost certainly the only one in Scotland. They serve Nouveau Cuisine Scottish, which I find an odd and not entirely satisfactory combination. George and I, in fact, keep complaining that the meal isn’t “hearty” enough—Scottish food is supposed to be hearty, isn’t it?—although George, who loves turnips, is somewhat placated by being served a big bowl of “neeps & tatties.” Walter entertains us during dinner by describing a delicacy he came across in England, a “chipbuttey”—which turns out to be a french-fry sandwich, the cold french-fries placed on a slice of bread, mashed down a bit, slathered with butter, and with another slice of bread then placed on top to complete the sandwich.
This sounds sufficiently “hearty” even for George and me, but it’s also something you can’t order in The Ubiquitous Chip, where chips have, if you recall, been banned. We try not to be too disappointed over this . . .
On this note, the Worldcon ends.
Tuesday, August 29th—Glasgow, Dumbarton Castle, & Tarbert
Up about 8 A.M., go down to breakfast, chat briefly with Andy Porter, who is all agog, understandably enough, about the hotel right next door to his apartment in Brooklyn having burned down the night before, which news he has just discovered in the local Glasgow paper. The lobby is full of people checking out of the Marriott, and we chat briefly with folks such as Paul McAuley, Stephen Jones, Kim Jones, Mandy Slater, Janis O’Conner and her husband Bob, Marti McKenna, Charles de Lint and his wife, Norman Spinrad, Lee Wood, and so on. Go upstairs and get our suitcases, which are heavier and more bulging-at-the-seams than ever, check out ourselves, and then sit in the Marriott lobby waiting for David Kogelman to come over from the Moat House in his newly rented car and pick us up.
Susan is sicker than ever, at the stage where she’s stumbling around like a zombie, seeming only partially conscious and practically bumping into the walls, and I’m having severe doubts about the wisdom of taking this post-convention trip with her in the state that she’s in. I’m exhausted myself, and in that bleakly depressed state that conventions usually leave me in these days, so it seems as if, all things considered, we might be better off just staying in the Marriott for the few days between now and Friday, when our flight home is scheduled to leave from Glasgow Airport. We committed ourselves before we left home, however, to this trip up to Tarbert in Argyll, where Lisa Tuttle and Colin Murray live, and we already have reservations at the Tarbert Hotel there; George R.R. Martin and Parris and David Kogelman are also headed up to Tarbert today, Scott and Suzi Baker are already there, staying with Lisa and Colin, and the idea is that we’re all going to get together for a post-Worldcon party . . . an idea that looked a lot more desirable before the trip than it does now. But Susan says that she may as well be sick there, with friends nearby, than sick here in the hotel by herself after everyone we know has left, which makes a certain amount of sense, and David has made a car rental reservation based on the idea that we’re going to share driving and expenses with him, so I guess we are going to be going to Tarbert after all, in spite of everything—although I doubt that Susan, who can barely lift her head, is going to be doing all that much of the driving.
David arrives, we load our stuff into his rental car, and we drive over to the Moat House hotel, where we have a quick lunch in the lobby bar with George and Parris. Finally, in the usual Glasgow drizzle, we all set off, Susan and I in David’s car (David has good-humoredly agreed that Susan is probably not in the best shape in the world for driving at the moment, so he does all the driving himself—but, as he says, he’s an ex-cab-driver, and so is used to long uninterrupted stretches of driving . . . although this is the first time he’s ever driven in Britain before, which makes for a few unnerving moments), following George and Parris in their car. The idea is that we’re going to drive to Tarbert caravan-style, led by George and Parris, who have been there before, with a stop just outside of Glasgow at Dumbarton Castle. Unfortunately, we overshoot Dumbarton Castle, going almost all the way to Helensburgh before we realize that we’ve missed the turn. Determinedly, George turns around and we all caravan back through Dumbarton, this time spotting both the turn-off and the Castle itself, which, coming south, dominates the horizon, looming up as it does on the top of a very high hill; it’s amazing we all managed to miss it coming the other way.
We drive down to the car park at the foot of Dumbarton Castle. Susan decides that she is too sick and exhausted to climb up the several long flights of very steep stairs to the castle ruins on top of the hill, so she stays behind in the car, reading a Brother Cadfael book, while the rest of us set off up the stairs, through a steep and narrow passageway where the portcullis once was, and so up to the open grassy area on top of Dumbarton Rock, where the castle’s artillery batteries were once set into the side of the hill, and several huge old cannons still point their mutely gaping mouths out over the wide estuary of the River Clyde, commanding the approach from the sea. George says that he likes “manly” castles, grim foreboding fortresses and frowning military strongpoints rather than places full of tapestries and fancy furniture, like Cawdor, and he seems pleased with Dumbarton; although there’s not really much of the original structure left intact, the castle—or what’s left of it—does have an impressive location, perched several hundred feet up in the air on top of dome-shaped Dumbarton Rock (said to be the last bit of their homeland many Scottish refugees from the Highland Clearances saw as they sailed into exile, never to return)—it’s not difficult to imagine the castle defenders pouring boiling oil and flaming pitch down on unfortunate Vikings or Englishmen or whoever might be trying to scramble up the steep cliffs in order to press home an attack. I doubt that many of them made it—and, indeed, I don’t think that Dumbarton Castle was ever taken by direct assault.
Leaving the Castle behind, we stop for a snack at a little pub in Helensburgh—George finally finding someplace where the food is hearty enough for him, having a steak pie that he raves about for the next three days, whenever we eat somewhere else—and then make the long but extremely pretty drive to Tarbert, through a high mountain pass and then south along the side of Loch Fyne, where, after having hidden all afternoon, the sun comes out at the end of the day long enough to paint the water with orange and gold.
At Tarbert, a small fishing village set along either arm of a V-shaped harbor, we find that the Tarbert Hotel is being used as a location for the filming of a BBC mini-series called A Mug’s Game; the downstairs pub, where a scene in the show is being shot as we arrive, is full of actors and cameramen, and the only flight of stairs leading up to the guest rooms, a steep and narrow one, is snarled with wires and lights and blocked by loitering members of the technical crew, who also spill over into and have taken over much of the cramped and tiny hotel lobby, where the registration desk is. We have trouble even getting into the hotel, as a member of the tech crew is stationed outside to refuse anyone entry, then have trouble getting anyone to come out to the registration desk to give us our rooms, as the hotel proprietor is off somewhere seeing to the needs of the TV crew. Then we have to wait, impatiently, in order to be able to get up to our rooms, since there’s no way to get up the stairs while the scene in the pub is actually being shot. (For most of the next two days, the TV crew will swarm over the hotel, making it difficult to get in and
out of it as we wish, and visiting on us a host of other inconveniences—probably we should all spurn the Tarbet and go to another hotel somewhere, but we’re too tired to deal with that, especially Susan, who, by this point, can barely stay on her feet.) George, who has worked extensively for the movies and TV at home for the past decade or so, is boggled by the fact that he has traveled thousands of miles to a small and very isolated village in rural Scotland only to run into, of all things . . . a TV shoot! I tell George that he should tell everyone that he’s a real Hollywood producer, instead of a mere BBC TV producer, and then all the local people who are swarming worshipfully around the TV producer, especially the wide-eyed local girls, will swarm worshipfully around him, instead. He doesn’t act on this suggestion, though, although it probably would have worked.
At last, we take advantage of a break in the shooting to get upstairs to our rooms. I very nearly kill (or at least herniate) myself hauling Susan’s suitcase up to the third floor (as usual at small British hotels, there’s no one to help with the bags, and the hotel proprietor, an old woman in her seventies, seems sensibly disinclined to lend a hand), and only get my own suitcase up there because David volunteers to help, and we both haul it upstairs by its straps (the handle is broken off, remember?) like Army corpsmen hauling a wounded soldier to safety in an old World War II movie. When I get up there, I find that our room is almost literally the size of the proverbial broom-closet, the smallest room of our trip, with just enough space in it for the bed, from which you can touch the wall on either side without needing to straighten your arm; somehow I manage to jam the suitcases in there too, although this leaves almost no place in the room where you can stand, and you have to crawl over one of the suitcases to get to the toilet.
Strange Days: Fabulous Journeys With Gardner Dozois Page 10
