“Interesting outfits,” he remarked to Diefenbaker.
“Much of a muchness,” said Dief, shrugging. “All the girls who weigh less than one-twenty wear as little as possible, and the rest of them put on cloaks and medieval dresses to conceal their bulk. You get used to it. I’d invite you to judge the costume contest, but we’re using that honor as a sop to Dungannon.”
“I don’t know anything about costume design, anyway,” murmured Omega.
“Neither does Dungannon. He lets his gonads do
the judging, which means that the Galadriel with the best cleavage will win. Oh, dear, I think you’re about to be put on the spot as guest author.”
Jay reached into his pocket for his felt-tip autographing pen, but before he could fish it out, he realized that the pudgy young man who had just walked up was holding a sheaf of computer printouts, not a copy of
Bimbos of the Death Sun
. He managed a weak smile, hoping that this was not a Tech sophomore who had tracked him to the Con with a Drop-Add form.
“Really glad to meet you, Jay Omega,” wheezed the fan. “I’ve read your book.”
Walter Diefenbaker glanced at the name tag, winced, and began to edge away.
“I’m a fellow writer, and I thought we could talk a little shop.”
“What have you written?” asked Jay Omega. As soon as he said it, he realized that he might be talking to Stephen King, in which case he had just committed the worst blunder in con history, but instinct told him that this could not be so. Stephen King’s presence would be heralded nonstop if he should so much as stroll through the lobby, and besides, Jay Omega was sure that if he ever did meet Stephen King, he would not be greeted as a fellow writer and invited to talk shop.
Bernard Buchanan began to rifle through his papers. “I publish a fanzine called
Apa-Lling
, and beginning in this ish, I have a parody of Tratyn Runewind, called “Scratchy Woodwind,” and instead of a magic sword, he has an enchanted oboe. Get it? Woodwind?” He thrust a Coke-stained page into Jay Omega’s hand. “Now in this one, he offers to give the Demon Emperor a blow
job. Get it? Like the Pied Piper!”
Jay Omega flipped through the pages of
Apa-Lling
, because it seemed preferable to actually talking to the crazed being in front of him.
The fanzine, a grainy photocopy of a computer-generated document, featured on its title page a still from
The Day the Earth Stood Still
. In front of the Washington Monument, Michael Rennie as Klaatu stood with his robot, Gort, but the photo had been altered so that Gort had the face of Ronald Reagan. The caption, serving as the fanzine title, was: “Now That’s APA-LLING!”
Omega turned to a page at random. The words “Person to Person” were hand-lettered at the top in magic marker, and the rest of the page consisted of two columns of short messages, addressed to a name or a set of initials. Still trying to make sense of the page, he read a few:
“John and Pat: Hope you’re no longer croggled by all the mundanes in ’Frisco. Remember, the Force is with you.”
“Chip Livingstone: Thanks for your letter; great as always, but writing letters is such a hassle. Why can’t you call? If bread is a problem, call me at work, and I’ll call you back on the WATS-line. It would be easier to settle things without having to rely on the Post Offal.”
“M.P.: Don’t forget that in the British election of 1859, Italy was one of the few issues that solidly united the British Left. The Workers liked Garibaldi as a popular leader with an army; the Liberals liked bigger trading partners and the principles of nationality; and the Whig Lords approved of the climate. I know Browning wrote: ‘Oh, to be in England now that April’s here!’ but he was in Italy
at the time—and a good thing, too, since most Aprils in Britain are solid fog and rain. No wonder they conquered India!”
“Never mind that,” said Bernard, peering over Jay’s shoulder. “Read my parody. Chip Livingstone says it’s brilliant.”
Jay Omega blinked. “Who’s Chip Livingstone?”
Bernard Buchanan looked shocked.
“You’ve never heard of Chip Livingstone?
Why he’s a super-fan! He’s a major contributor to a dozen fanzines, and he’s ranked third in the wargamers’ poll, and I’ve heard that he is a
personal friend
of Robert Silverberg!”
“Jay Omega is an author,” said Diefenbaker gently. “You can’t expect him to know fan politics.”
“What is this stuff?” asked Jay Omega, still staring at the page of non sequiturs.
“APA’s are soap boxes for people who can’t get anyone to publish them,” murmured Diefenbaker. “These are messages to individual subscribers.”
Jay Omega blinked. “Then why don’t they just write personal letters to each other?”
“Would you like to keep that copy?” Bernard persisted. “I was saving it for Walter Diefenbaker, but I can’t find him anywhere.”
“Perhaps he’ll turn up later,” Dief assured him, grasping Jay Omega firmly by the elbow. “We have to dash.”
When they had put several clumps of warriors and slave girls between them and Bernard Buchanan, Jay Omega looked again at the grubby print-out. “I still don’t understand what this is.”
“Think of it as a chain letter for disturbed children,” said Diefenbaker soothingly. “I doubt if
you’ll find Bernard’s parody very entertaining, so you can either lose that copy or be prepared to dodge him for the rest of the weekend. Unless, of course, you fancy telling him the truth about his work.”
Jay Omega slid the papers into an R2-D2 trash can.
“Wise move,” nodded Diefenbaker approvingly. “Let’s hide out in the art gallery until he latches on to someone else.”
“Did he want advice about his writing?” asked Jay, still trying to make sense of it.
“Not advice, really. Praise. And then he’d have wanted the name of your agent, and your editor’s phone number, and a letter of recommendation to both.”
Diefenbaker led the way out of the hotel’s lobby, a marble-floored rotunda dotted with red plush couches and potted palms, and into a corridor which connected a cluster of meeting rooms used for conventions within the hotel. Small white cards attached to the hotel’s printed map, labeled the Pocahontas Room “Hucksters,” the adjoining Powhatan Room “Art Gallery,” and the Thomas Jefferson Room at the end of the hall was marked “High Tech,” indicating the computer display area. Past the vending machines and the rest rooms, a smaller meeting room, the Patrick Henry Nook, had been labeled “Private,” and was reserved for the use of Miles Perry and his fellow convention officials.
“These rooms are for the permanent exhibits,” Dief explained, “The seminars and gaming sessions are scattered throughout the hotel in smaller meeting rooms, and tomorrow night’s banquet will
be upstairs in the auditorium. You’ll find a map on the back of your program in case you need it.”
He led the way into the art room, where six freestanding partitions had been set up, each holding a collection of paintings and sketches, which were framed or mounted, and bore the artist’s name on an index card below.
Jay stared up at a picture of
Star Trek’s
Mr. Spock changing into a werewolf on a chessboard in space. Not Salvador Dali, he decided.
“I like this one,” Diefenbaker remarked, pointing to an oil painting of a unicorn beside a waterfall. “My taste in art is rather Victorian, I fear.”
Jay Omega was staring at an orange spaceship arching above a red and silver planet. “I don’t think the perspective is quite right on that one.”
“Probably not. It’s one of Eric Bradley’s, and he’s only fourteen. But very promising, don’t you think? Part of the proceeds from Rubicon go toward an art scholarship.”
“Umm.” Jay Omega thought they might do well to invest in some psychiatric counseling as well, but he reminded himself that if he had any fans, these were they, and that charity was in order.
“Sometimes we have a professional artist come to the con as a special guest. Of course, we can’t afford Boris Vallejo, but we did try to get Peter Seredy. He did your cover, you know. His style is unmistakable.”
Omega nodded. Certainly is, he thought, but my book advance won’t cover the price of a hit man.
After a long and thoughtful inspection of the metal-band sculptures, the Yoda soap carvings, and the pen-and-ink sketches of dragons, Jay Omega followed his guide into the more commercial
sphere of … he had heard the term “fandom,” but could one say “condom?” He snickered. One had better not.
“Hucksters’ room,” announced Diefenbaker with a wave at the chaos before them. “This is where you feed your habit—or wear it,” he added, as a monk-robed individual brushed past them.
The guest author solemnly contemplated the colorful chaos of weapons displays, movie posters, comic books, and a thousand lurid paperbacks scattered across a dozen metal tables, each surrounded by an assortment of elves and aliens.
“I thought you said there were electronics exhibits,” he said at last.
“Different room. We’ll get there. I thought you might like to see if any of the dealers have your book. It would be kind of you to autograph their copies.”
“I never know what to write,” sighed Jay Omega.
“Oh, just a signature would do,” Dief assured him. “But it would be very kind of you to put their names and the date in as well. Of course, I’ve never written a book, but if I did, I think I might write ‘Thank you for reading me.’ If anyone ever asked me to autograph it, that is.”
Jay Omega thought it over. “‘Thank you for reading me.’ Yes … that would be good.” He remembered Marion’s stern lectures about publicity. He certainly hadn’t received any promotion help from Alien Books. Even the mall in his parents’ town hadn’t been told about him. Marion said that Alien Books ought to be in charge of national defense, because they were so good at keeping secrets.
He edged his way past a Dorsai and said to the first book dealer, “Do you have any books by
Omega?”
“Matheson,” said the dealer promptly, pulling out a hardback.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Richard Matheson wrote it.
The Omega Man
. A TV movie starring Charlton Heston. They changed the ending, though. The original title was
I Am Legend
. This is a first edition.”
“No, that’s not it.”
“Hmmn. Kane Omega,
Cosmic Sex
, Lyle Stuart, 1973.”
“No. That’s not it, either.”
“I see you have my Runewind series,” said a solemn voice behind him. “Shall I autograph these for you?”
Jay Omega turned around with outstretched hand. “Appin Dun …” His voice trailed away.
The young man behind him, a few inches taller than Omega himself, wore a white satin tunic and a wool homespun cloak. His bone-white hair fell to his shoulders, and his green eyes burned with intensity. He stood spread-eagled in white tights and scuffed leather buskins, one hand resting on his broadsword, and smiled benignly at the mortals in his path. With graceful dignity he accepted Omega’s outstretched hand, which was still dangling in the air as he gaped.
“No,” he smiled gently. “I am not He Who Writes the Saga, but He Who Lives It. I am Tratyn Runewind, Lord of the Eildon Hills, Wielder of the Red Gold Sword of Cu Chulainn, son of Aiofe and the Runewolf—”
“Dog meat if Dungannon sees you,” Diefenbaker remarked. “You know how he feels about people impersonating his character, Cliff.”
The Presence lifted his chin and endeavored to look noble. “The Scribe’s envy is an affair for his soul, not mine,” he intoned.
“He threw a water carafe at you at World Con,” the bookseller pointed out.
“He once chased a Runewind down three flights of steps with a battle-axe!” said the Dorsai.
“Of course, he did!” snapped the Rune Warrior. “That was an imposter!”
“If he hears that you’ve been offering to autograph his books, you’ll probably die from the aftershock of his rage.”
“Well, I may change after the costume competition,” the warrior conceded.
Diefenbaker was about to continue the discussion, but at that moment Miles Perry appeared, waving two packs of Reese’s Pieces and three Yorkie bars. “I got them!” he announced breathlessly. “The Scotch guy said this would work.”
Diefenbaker frowned. “I think some of the colors are different.”
“Which ones?”
“I’d have to think about it.”
“Come on, then. You get to sort them out. He wants them in twenty minutes.”
Diefenbaker cast a helpless look at Jay Omega, as he was being dragged away. “I’ll be back! Perhaps someone else could show you the gadget room …”
Left unattended, Jay Omega decided to spare himself the further humiliation of inquiring after his book. Instead he would find the gadget room on his own. A poster-sized map taped to a pillar in the hucksters’ room provided reasonably clear directions. A large red arrow in the lower right-hand
corner was labeled “You Are Here.” In the lower left-hand corner, a facetious physicist had penciled in, “You maybe here. Werner Heisenberg.” Omega smiled. After so much uninterrupted bewilderment, it felt good to get the joke. He took this as a hopeful sign that things would make more sense among the computers.