Bimbos of the Death Sun (8 page)

“Tratyn Runewind” continued to smile as he dodged folding chairs, comforted perhaps by the knowledge that he had now become a legend in the annals of Fandom. Years from now, oddly dressed misfits would hunch over their Cherry Cokes, and between rolls of the eight-sided dice, they would tell the novices how Clifford Morgan had suffered abuse and risked untold real-life hit points from projectile folding chairs, in defense of the integrity of his player character, Tratyn Runewind.

Fortunately, Appin Dungannon eventually ran out of chairs, and in the lull from bombardment, Miles Perry crept back on to the stage and half-dragged Clifford Morgan behind the curtain.

“But I wanted to ask him about his new book!” Morgan protested as he vanished from sight.

Appin Dungannon took his place behind the table as if nothing had happened. “Proceed,” he said, pointing his pencil at the stage.

The Klingon admiral who appeared from behind the curtain was showing considerably more emotion than his race is purported to have. He stood white-faced and rigid before the footlights, as if anticipating a firing squad. When Appin Dungannon flashed him a benign smile and waved him off, the Klingon bolted for the wings, a performance that was, as Mr. Spock would say, “Highly illogical.”

The remaining contestants strutted and fretted their minute upon the stage, barely noticed by anyone, except when Miles Perry, whose note cards were out of order, referred to a Batman impersonator as “a character who manages to be strong and yet beautifully feminine at the same time.” The next contestant, Wonder Woman, hurried onstage, but the giggles and references to Robin and the batpole continued for several minutes.

Finally Miles Perry announced that the contestants had all been seen, and that after a few moments of deliberation, the judge would make his rulings known. Appin Dungannon pulled his cowboy hat over his eyes, and propped his boots up on the table.

“Do you really think he’ll pick the blonde?” hissed Marion.

“I don’t think he’ll pick Tratyn Runewind,” said Jay Omega.

Diefenbaker smiled nervously. “It isn’t important. All the winner gets is an autographed copy of
a Dungannon first edition and a gift certificate from Pizza Hut.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” grumbled Marion.

Jay Omega consulted his program. “It says they’re showing movies in here after this. Want to stay for them?”

“That depends,” said Marion. “What’s playing?”

“I’m not familiar with them. There’s one called
Robot Monster.”

“That’s a man in a gorilla costume and a diving helmet pretending to be an alien. And he keeps contacting the mother ship on a Jacob’s Ladder from a high school science lab,” said Diefenbaker.

“Fifties. Low budget,” added Marion.

“Okay. How about
The Thing?
It says James Arness is in it. I liked him in
Gunsmoke.”

“Well, you won’t recognize him here. He’s plays a giant asparagus who crash-lands in the arctic.”

“Hmm.
Plan Nine From Outer Space …”

“OH, NO!” cried Marion and Dief together.

“Cardboard tombstones!”

“Hubcap flying saucers!”

“Bela Lugosi died while they were making the picture, and they kept the footage he was in, but they finished the movie with a replacement who looked nothing like him.”

Jay Omega looked hopeful. Visions of the computer room danced in his head. “Well,” he said, “I guess we don’t have to see that.”

Marion grinned. “Of course we do! It’s so bad you won’t believe it.”

All entrants of the costume competition except the offending Runewind had lined up across the stage awaiting the judge’s decision. Batman and
Wonder Woman held hands, while Conan and the Klingon scowled at the audience. Yoda chatted with the Dragonrider.

Appin Dungannon pushed back his Stetson and took his feet off the table, nodding to Miles Perry that he was ready. Perry rushed over to receive the results, but Dungannon waved him away, and ambled toward the stage himself. The audience cheered loudly.

After adjusting the microphone some four inches downward, Dungannon smirked at the audience and motioned for silence. “Can it, you sleaze-puppies!” he said cheerfully. “Nothing you think could possibly make any difference to me. In fact, it would be news to me that you
did
think. Are there any Libertarian assholes out there?”

A few wargamers raised their hands.

“That’s right. Raise your grubby little hands. You should all be belled, like lepers. Where was I? Oh, yeah. To keep from having to say this two hundred more times during this Con while you grovel for my autograph: yes, I am working on the new Tratyn Runewind. In fact, I expect to be finished with it tomorrow, and since I am over deadline as usual, my editor will be coming here to pick it up.”

Several members of the audience began to look alert.

Appin Dungannon sneered. “Stop salivating, vermin! You have all the creativity of a Spellcheck disk! I have told my editor not only to avoid you at all costs, but also to disinfect his overcoat after he leaves, in case some of you brush past him in the halls.”

“I don’t believe this!” whispered Marion. “He’s alienating his fans.”

Diefenbaker shook his head. “He’s always like this. People expect it.”

“Can you tell us about the new novel?” yelled a guy in the fifth row.

“No, pinhead. Your attention span isn’t that long. Besides, I want all of you to save the quarters you receive for casual sexual encounters in the men’s room, and buy the book. And after you have finished reading it, with your lips moving no doubt, I want you to write me a nice long letter saying exactly what you think of the plot, the characters, and every little detail—and use it for toilet paper! Because I don’t want to hear from you morons! None of you can even spell ‘literature,’ much less recognize it!”

“Who won the costume contest?” someone called out.

“See what I mean about your attention spans? Shut up, cretin, I’m vilifying you. When I have finished abusing you, I will announce which of these poor afflicted sociopaths gets a free pizza to encourage his delusions.” Dungannon shaded his brow with his hand and leered across the footlights at his captive audience. “A pizza! You people need pizzas like TWA needs terrorists.”

Murmurs rippled through the audience.

Dungannon looked pleased. “I’ve wounded you? That’s a promising sign. You’re too stupid to leave, but at least you know when you’re being insulted.” He beamed at them. “By the way, I see according to tomorrow’s schedule that some of you will be staging your own pathetic
D&D
variant at an ungodly hour, running all over the hotel pretending to be elves and things.” He shook his head. “Isn’t ridicule enough for you? Must you have contempt
as well?”

The costumed fantasy fen booed gently.

“Oh, spare me your whines! I wish I could arrange for cannibalistic orcs to lurk in the halls and eat the lot of you, but—contrary to your delusions—that is not possible. So let me just warn you that any asshole who dares to disturb me during your morning antics, while I’m writing, will have an IBM keyboard for a suppository!”

Dungannon answered the catcalls and cries of “The plane! The plane!” (an oblique comparison of his size to that of Herve Villechaise) with a tip of his cowboy hat. When the hissing died down, he consulted his legal pad. “Now about the costume contest. May I suggest that next year’s prize be a lifetime of therapy and the sedative of your choice? I came up with several possible categories of merit. Most Likely to Be Mistaken for a Dirigible …” He nodded in the direction of the velvet-gowned Brenda Lindenfeld who reddened and scowled. “Most Sexually Ambiguous. Most Ludicrous. Most Pathetic. An outstanding bunch; the competition was fierce. —But not for first place. That choice was quite simple. The winner is Miss Brandy Anderson as Galadriel.”

The blonde in the wedding gown clapped her hands and rushed forward to hug Appin Dungannon amid faint applause.

“I don’t believe it!” hissed Marion. “That old satyr!”

“I’m afraid it was no surprise to the rest of us,” Diefenbaker reminded her. “Remember, it’s only a pizza.”

Marion nodded. “Didn’t you say that the Gregory girl had stuffed dragons in the art show?”

“Yes, you can bid on them during the auction Sunday.”

“Fine. I’ll bid what I think the piece is worth
plus
the price of a large pizza! Somebody has to see that justice is done.”

Jay Omega grinned. “Thank you, Mrs. Peel!”

“We said that we were going to announce the winner of the writing contest tonight,” Dief reminded them. “Are you ready?”

Jay looked at Marion. “I think so.”

“Give us a few minutes to confer,” Marion told Dief.

When he had gone to alert Miles of the delay, she and Jay put their heads together. “Okay, I eliminated all the garbage and the written accounts of
D&D
episodes. Do you remember the three stories you read?”

“I remember what they were about, I think. I didn’t have much time,” said Jay.

Marion handed him a piece of paper. “I wrote down the titles and authors to refresh your memory. ‘The Prodigies’ is about the group of kids with ESP.”

“Oh, right. That was pretty well-written. It looked like a lot of work was put into it.”

Marion sighed. “Fiction shouldn’t look like a lot of work was put into it. It should flow. But the story was okay.”

“Which one was ‘Memory Awake?’ The computer that had killed the ship’s crew?”

“Yes. The title is a line from Emily Dickinson: ‘Remorse is memory awake.’”

“That’s okay, isn’t it?”

“That’s wonderful, Jay. It shows a glimmer of literacy. And the grammar is better than the rest of
them.”

“I thought the technical material in that one was well done. Some of the details I’d quibble with, but it held my attention.”

“That’s because it was hard science fiction. Your genre. But you’re right. It was a good story. The last one is ‘Elfsong.’ It’s fairly standard fantasy, but the author handles description beautifully. The writing is very strong, but the story is so-so.”

Onstage, Miles Perry had finished presenting Miss Anderson her pizza certificate, and after urging a final round of applause for all the contestants, he gripped the microphone and looked inquiringly at Diefenbaker. Dief pointed to Jay Omega and nodded.

“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.”

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