Bimbos of the Death Sun

by Sharyn McCrumb

  “One last award to be given tonight, folks. Our other guest author has very graciously agreed to judge the short-story contest, and I’d like to get him up here to announce the winner. He’s here as Jay Omega, author of Bimbos of the Death Sun. Let’s have a big hand for Dr. James Owens Mega of Tech’s own engineering department!”

  Jay Omega stopped in mid-stride, looking stricken. The audience was cheering louder than ever, and Marion was motioning for him to go ahead. Oh, well, he thought, maybe I could make a living repairing sports cars in a specialty garage. He wished Appin Dungannon would throw a folding chair at Miles Perry. How did he know, anyway? Of course, Marion must have explained it all to the con organizers when she arranged for him to come as a guest; apparently his preference for anonymity had not been made clear enough.

  He joined Miles Perry onstage. “Thanks very much for the introduction,” he said, trying to smile.

  “As Miles told you, I judged the short-story contest, and there was certainly a wide range of entries.”

  Marion nodded. Bad Herbert, bad Tolkien, bad Stephen King.

  “Choosing a winner was really a tough decision.” I wouldn’t paper-train a dog on most of them, Marion had declared. “I know you’re all very serious about your writing, and that you put a lot of work into writing and rewriting your fiction.” He grinned. “I know I do.

  “Anyway, before I announce the winner, I want to wish all of you luck with your writing endeavors and to tell you to keep trying.”

  Because they need all the writing practice they can get, Marion finished silently.

  Jay Omega consulted his list. “This year’s short story contest winner, for ‘Memory Awake’ is Diana Gentry.”

  Gasps and buzzes of conversation swept the audience. Finally, a cherubic fourteen-year-old boy in tights and tunic approached the stage.

  Jay Omega took all the time allowed by the youth’s approach trying to think of a diplomatic way to ask. No inspiration was forthcoming, and when the kid joined him onstage, Jay Omega blurted out: “You’re Diana Gentry?”

  He blushed. “No. She’s my mom, and she’s not here tonight. She teaches English at the junior high. You said the contest was open to anybody.”

  Jay Omega handed the boy a gift certificate from Blue Ridge Books. “Accepting on behalf of his mother…”

  Marion shrugged. “An English teacher. It figures.”

  SEVEN

  Did you know that there’s going to be a wedding at this con?” Miles Perry asked Diefenbaker.

  “Mark and Linda? Somebody mentioned it to me. Their player characters are getting married in a D&D episode run by Jerry Larson tonight. Why? Do you want to go?”

  Miles shook his head. “Not them. Somebody’s having a Star Trek wedding tomorrow night after the banquet.”

  “Oh. Well … surely they cleared it with you, Miles. You’re director of the con.”

  “No. They say Chip Livingstone gave them the go-ahead.”

  Diefenbaker looked over his shoulder with a frown. “That is very strange.”

  “You’re telling me,” said Miles, “I guess I should have asked to see the letter.”

  “Yes,” agreed Dief, “I hope they don’t expect him to show up at the nuptials.”

  “I trust not, though it seems everywhere I turn these days, I trip over the name of Chip Livingstone!”

  Dief permitted himself a snicker. “He’s becoming quite the BNF, isn’t he?”

  “He certainly is! I heard a couple of neofans boasting that they were going to have breakfast with him!”

  The laughter was louder at that.

  “I should like to be there for that,” said Dief, “And how about the Star Trek wedding—did you manage to work out the details?”

  Miles nodded. “Yes, I have no objections. In fact it ought to be good publicity for the con. Maybe we’ll make the front page of the city section this year.”

  “I’m glad you’re pleased. I just hope there aren’t any more surprises in the works. Appin Dungannon is quite enough spontaneity for one con.”

  Jay Omega had spent another half-hour at his autograph table, thus earning at his present royalty rate another thirty-six cents in book sales, while Marion toured the hucksters’ room. Presently she returned, pinning a calligraphy button to the pocket of her jump suit. It said:

  “IF THEY CAN SEND

  A MAN TO THE MOON,

  WHY CAN’T THEY

  SEND ALL OF THEM?”

  “Don’t take it personally,” she told Jay. “I just thought it was cute. It will sustain me through the cheeseburger fiction I have to read from the more chauvinistic male writers.”

  “I don’t have the energy to be insulted,” said Jay Omega. “Bewilderment is taking all my concentration. I keep hearing snatches of conversation as people walk by, and trying to make sense of them. ‘Life on a breathable gas ring …’”

  Marion nodded. “They were discussing a book by Larry Niven.”

  “Oh. I thought they were talking about a contaminated stove. How about this one? A ‘real Monty Haul campaign’?”

  “Dungeons & Dragons. Monty Hall hosted a giveaway show called ‘Let’s Make a Deal.’ Gamers use the term to mean an adventure in which players get lots of treasure and easy victories.”

  “Good evening,” said a young man in a broad-brimmed floppy hat, edging past them.

  Jay stared at the young man’s costume—a long, many-pocketed overcoat, and at the twenty-foot scarf dangling at both ends. “Who was that?”

  “Quite correct,” grinned Marion. “It was, indeed. Now, would you like to look in on the filksinging? It’s nearly eleven.”

  He yawned. “Gee, is it eleven, already? Shouldn’t we plan to turn in, since we have a lot to do tomorrow?”

  Marion’s face fell. “Oh, are you really tired? I was sort of looking forward to the filksinging.”

  “But you keep saying how ridiculous all this is.”

  She sighed. “Old habits die hard, I guess. I can remember sitting around singing defamatory Star Trek parodies until the wee hours of the morning.—Years ago, that is,” she added hastily.

  “And you keep saying how glad you are that you outgrew it,” Jay reminded her.

  “It might be fun,” said Marion wistfully. “We don’t have to stay long.”

  Jay Omega reflected guiltily on the times he’d made Marion spend an hour in the auto parts store, and of keeping her waiting twenty minutes for lunch while he did “just one more thing” on the computer.

  “Okay,” he said, “I suppose we could just stop by.”

  Stashing his books in the canvas suitcase, he followed Marion into the elevator. Its other occupant, a stocky teenager, was wearing army fatigues and a button reading:

  “BAN THE BOMB!

  SAVE THE WORLD

  FOR CONVENTIONAL WARFARE”

  Jay Omega decided that this was one of the wargamers Diefenbaker had been talking about.

  “Where is the singing? Back in the auditorium?”

  “No. It isn’t a concert—just a sing-along. They’ll probably have it in Monk Malone’s room.”

  Jay remembered the Rasputin character who was “very good” at being a fan. “Yes, I’ve seen him,” he said. “A sing-along, huh? Will we know the songs, do you think?”

  “In a way,” smiled Marion. “I guarantee you’ll know the tunes. And the words will be passed around on mimeographed sheets.” Seeing Jay’s disconcerted expression, she added, “We won’t stay long.”

  They emerged on the fourth floor, and threaded their way past a corridor D&D game. A stern-looking DM, surrounded by piles of reference books, was flipping through something called a Monster Manual. Five players sat in a circle, whispering among themselves. Two of them were in medieval costume, and a third wore a button that read:

  “I’M NOT STUPID

  I’M NOT EXPENDABLE

  AND I’M NOT GOING!”

  Jay Omega decided that the young man’s player character must be a low-ra
nking member of the expedition.

  “I still say we ought to try the holy water!” hissed the player in the brown cloak.

  “Can’t my character see through that wall?” another demanded.

  Farther along the passage Marion pointed to a door with a Do Not Disturb sign looped on the doorknob, and a larger one in calligraphy taped to the door: Do NOT Disturb! Trespassers Will Be Violated. “Appin Dungannon’s room.”

  “I don’t see how he can write at a convention,” said Jay Omega.

  “They pay him well,” said Marion. “You, on the other hand, make more from teaching summer school than you will ever make from Bimbos of the Death Sun, so you lack motivation.”

  Jay Omega wisely decided against replying. The discrepancy between the salaries of engineers and those of English professors was a sore point, and one that Marion could not discuss in modulated tones for more than two minutes. He noticed a piece of paper under Appin Dungannon’s door, and thought that it must be nice to have such ardent admirers that they slipped mash notes under your door.

  “Fan mail,” sniffed Marion. “Not that he deserves any. That was quite a performance tonight.”

  “I think it was all part of the show,” said Jay Omega. “I got to thinking how outrageous someone would have to be to attract any attention in this crowd, and I think Dungannon has hit upon one of the few ways to stand out.”

  Marion scowled. “He’s an odious man. And the worst part of it was that most of the time I agreed with him!”

  Jay had stopped walking, and seemed to be listening to something in the distance. A moment later, Marion heard it, too: the sound of ‘Sixties folk music came wafting down the hall to meet them. They walked toward the sound and found the door to room 467 ajar. A few feet of floor space remained in one corner of the room, but the area around the double bed was thick with costumed adolescents. Monk Malone, in a Nehru jacket and Levis, sat curled up on the bed, clutching an old Gibson guitar. Around him, mimeographed pages rustled, and the impromptu choir sang to the tune of “The Sloop John B”:

  So put up the Enterprise’ shields

  Recharge the phaser banks,

  Beam up the captain on board,

  And let us go home …

  Jay Omega seemed to remember a Kingston Trio version of that song, having to do with a sailboat in the Caribbean. This version seemed to be about Star Trek. He eased down into the empty floor space next to Marion, wondering if the room had fallen into a twenty-year time warp.

  It couldn’t be the beer. Donnie McRory was certain of that. If you sent American beer out to be analyzed, the lab would probably phone up and say, “Your horse has diabetes.” Anyway, he hadn’t had more than a pint or so. He lay on the bed, still dressed, listening to his headache and wondering if reading would make him drowsy. It seemed a bit early to call it a night, but he hadn’t felt like staying around in the bar after he’d finished his set. Too many mellow and friendly Americans wanted to talk to him, but that always seemed to involve a discussion of American versus British tax plans or an offer of things he didn’t want, usually illegal things. He’d decided to give it a miss.

  Very tiring, being a tourist. Very lonely. Phoning Margaret was out of the question, too, because it was five in the morning in Glasgow.

  As he lay on the bed in the darkness, faint familiar strains materialized in his head.

  “And it’s no, nay, never!

  No, nay, never no more …”

  In spite of his headache Donnie McRory chimed in, “Will I play the wild rover; no, never, no more.” He sat up, wide awake. Hallucinating in an American hotel, was he? Nobody else was in town, he was sure of it. By “nobody else,” he meant the Clancy Brothers, the Chieftains, the Corries, or any of a lesser-known assortment of blokes in white fisherman sweaters billed as Celtic folk groups. But who else would be singing “Wild Rover?” Somebody was singing it. He was awake enough now to be sure of that.

  Donnie McRory grabbed his guitar and his room key and headed out to investigate.

  In Monk Malone’s room on the fourth floor, the filksingers swayed in time to the music, and someone was slapping a tambourine to punctuate the chorus of the song: “And it’s oh, (crash) no, (crash) never…”

  The Cossack on the bed nodded approvingly. “Well done, my children. Now, one more time for Gordy.”

  “I’ve been a wild Dorsai for many a year,

  And I spent all my money on Saurian beer …”

  “I don’t get it,” whispered Jay to Marion.

  “No,” she replied. “And unless you are willing to read about two hundred science fiction novels, you never will.”

  Jay Omega sighed. “Tell me again why we’re here.”

  Marion patted his hand. “It’s a new experience for you! Don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud. Anybody who can sit through the entire graduation ceremony year after year, in his cap and gown, ought to be able to endure an hour of this. Besides, Jay, who knows? Maybe someday they’ll compose a filksong about one of your books.”

  “Yeah, and it’ll probably be Bimbos. I can imagine what they’d pick. ‘Wait ’til the sun shines, Dummy’”

  The last strains of “The Wild Dorsai” had just ended for the second time when Donnie McRory appeared in the doorway. “The Martians,” he muttered, “I might have known.”

  Monk Malone looked up at the newcomer, still in the leather Celtic costume from his act. “Nice costume, man,” said the Monk. “Are you a Scadian?”

  “No. I’m a Scot.”

  “I knew a Scadian Scot once. I think he was The Black Douglas. Anyway, his specialty was medieval Scottish warfare.”

  Marion whispered to Jay, “Scadian. Member of the S.C.A.—Society for Creative Anachronism.”

  Donnie McRory began to back away. “Yes, well, I just recognized the song you were singing, and came down to see what you were on about.” Even American beer might be preferable to spending an evening with someone who thought he was The Black Douglas.

  “That’s a nice guitar, too,” said one of the rug rats. “Do you play?”

  After a moment’s frosty silence, Donnie McRory decided that he couldn’t pass up the challenge. That’s your trouble, Donnie, Margaret would say. You’re an incurable show-off.

  “Off the bed w’ya,” he said, shooing Monk Malone into the corner by the television. After a few experimental strums on the guitar, and the adjusting of a string or two, Donnie played the intro to “The Wild Rover.”

  Obediently the filksingers ground out: “I’ve been a wild Dorsai …”

  The strumming ceased. “What was that rubbish you came out with?” he demanded. “Have you been monkeying with the words?”

  Sheepishly they nodded.

  “Right. Well, here’s another tune. This one’s about your friend Doug,” he said to Monk Malone. He sang the first verse of “The Lammas Tide” amid a respectful silence. “There,” he said, glaring at them when he’d finished. “Does anybody have any Martian words to that?”

  Fifty negative replies.

  “Right, then. Let’s start again, you lot. In the key of G.

  ‘Now it fell about the Lammas tide …

  When the muirmen whin their hay …’”

  Diefenbaker had been run to earth in the wargamers’ conference room by Richard Faber, Bernard Buchanan, and two people he didn’t recognize, but who would turn out to be Far Brandonian correspondents, he was sure.

  “I’m really glad I found you,” said Bernard Buchanan, still clutching his sheaf of computer printouts. “My parody is really coming along. In fact, I was hoping you might show it to Appin Dungannon …”

  “Novibazaar!” said Richard Faber in his most non-negotiable voice.

  “I have a question about the term ‘Brudhorc,’” said one of the strangers.

  Diefenbaker tried to look patient. “I don’t have any of my Brandonian files with me at the moment …” he murmured.

  “Are you free for breakfast?” asked Bernard Buchanan.

 
Dief was prevented from expressing the conviction that starvation would be preferable to dining with Bernard by the agitated appearance of Bill Fox in the doorway. “Dief, man, you gotta come now! Somebody’s yelling their head off in one of the upstairs halls, and it’s going to disturb half the hotel.”

  The hostage was so relieved to be rescued from Far Brandonian politics that he nearly forgot to ask what the difficulty was, but at the last moment it occurred to him that the information might prove useful, and he inquired.