Arkwright (5 page)

Nat frowned but said nothing. He was beginning to regret his decision to step up for Harry. Wasting a dollar was bad enough; it now appeared that he'd made enemies with the convention chairman, as well. He hoped that incident wouldn't hurt his goals of becoming a writer, but it appeared that he might have picked the wrong side.

“Sounds like you know a lot,” Maggie said. From her accent, Nat pegged her as another New Yorker, but it wasn't hard to tell that her neighborhood wasn't in any of the boroughs. From the nice outfit she wore and the casual way she pulled lunch money from her purse, it wasn't hard to guess that she lived somewhere on the Upper East Side. “You know these people?”

“Some of 'em. I've been coming to meetings of the Philadelphia Science Fiction Society for about a year now; that's where this whole thing was hatched.” Harry put aside the sandwich and reached for the carton of milk. “What about you? Why are you here?”

“I like science fiction, that's all.” There was a hint of defensiveness in her tone.

Nat opened his sandwich, inspected the wilted lettuce leaf on top, and decided that it hadn't turned bad enough to make him sick. “I guess what he means is, y'know, I didn't see many girls in there. I didn't think any of them read this stuff until I met you.”

Maggie gave him a sharp look but then cooled down a little when she saw the smile on his face. “I suppose not many do,” she admitted. “But I'll read anything that looks interesting, and there are some good stories in those magazines, particularly
Astounding,
ever since it got a new editor.”

“John Campbell.” Nat nodded in agreement. “Yes, he's changed the magazine quite a bit since he's come aboard. I'd like to—”

He stopped himself before he could finish what he was about to say:
I'd like to send him one of my stories.
He was reluctant to identify himself as a would-be writer, particularly not with three people whom he'd just met.

But Maggie was eyeing him curiously, as if she'd caught what he'd almost let slip. Picking up her fork, she played with the garden salad she'd bought. “I think I wouldn't mind working for a magazine like that,” she said. “Perhaps as an assistant editor.”

“Is that what you do?” George was ignoring the sandwich he'd bought and instead had lit his pipe. He sat back in his chair, carefully blowing his smoke away from their faces.

“That's what I'd like to do one day,” Maggie said. “I'm entering Columbia in the fall as an English major. I'm hoping it will lead to a job at one of the publishers here in the city.”

“Really?” Nat said. “I'm starting school next semester too. Boston College, engineering.” He didn't add that he was only able to attend because he'd managed to get a scholarship while in his senior year at Brooklyn High. Maggie's family obviously had enough money to send her to school; his didn't.

“That's interesting.” George smiled around the stem of his pipe. “I'm in my third trimester at MIT as a physics major. That'll practically make us neighbors.”

“Not going to college.” Harry looked down at his tray as if he'd just admitted something embarrassing. Then he brightened and smiled at Maggie. “But hey, once you get a job at
Astounding,
maybe you'll buy a story I'll send you!”

Maggie looked interested. “You want to be a writer?”

“I already am a writer,” Harry insisted. “I just haven't sold anything yet.”

“I'm writing too,” Nat blurted out before he could stop himself. Maggie raised an eyebrow, and Harry cast him an incredulous look as if to say,
Yeah, sure you are
. “No, really. I've been trying to get something in at
Amazing,
but haven't had any luck yet.”

“Shouldn't be too hard,” Harry said dryly. “Palmer will publish anything.”

Nat felt his face burn.
Amazing
had been declining lately, its new editor evidently preferring cheap melodramatics to scientific accuracy. But he caught the wry grin on Harry's face and realized that the jab hadn't been intended to be mean. Harry might be a potential rival but might also be a friend.

“So I guess we're Futurians now,” Maggie said. “Or at least fellow travelers, so far as the convention organizers are concerned.” She looked dejected at the fact that they'd been thrown out of the hall.

“No, we're not.” Harry shook his head. “Look, I know what I said back there about joining 'em, but they've got their own little group already, and they're not going to let us in just because I started handing out their pamphlets.” He gave Nat and Maggie an apologetic look. “Didn't mean to get you guys tossed out. Thanks for sticking up for me.”

“No sweat,” Nat said. “I don't like bullies, that's all.”

“Besides, we're not missing anything,” Maggie said, and she smiled when the other three regarded her with disbelief. “I mean, we've met each other, haven't we? That's worth my dollar.”

“Yeah, maybe you're right.” Harry nodded in agreement. “Who needs the Futurians? Maybe we should start our own little club.”

George closed his eyes, turned his face toward the ceiling. “The Legion of … Space.”

“Naw.” Harry shook his head. “Uh-uh. Jack Williamson wrote a story with that name some years ago.”

“I know.” George grinned. “I really liked it. And that's what I'm interested in—space.”

“So am I.” Nat smiled at him. “Y'know, this might sound crazy, but I really believe there's a chance someone might go to the Moon. Maybe even by the end of the century.”

A nod and a knowing wink from George. “Sooner than that, I think.”

“I like that name,” Maggie said. “The Legion of Space, I mean.”

“Okay, but Harry's right. It's got to be something else.” Nat thought about it for a moment. “The Legion of Time.”

“Jack Williamson again.” Harry used a fork to spear an olive from Maggie's salad and fling it across the table at Nat. “C'mon, there's got to be—”

“The Legion of Tomorrow,” Maggie suggested as she moved her salad away from him.

No one said anything for a second. The four of them looked at one another, tasting the name on their tongues. “I like it,” Nat said. “I like it a lot.”

“All right, then … that's who we are.” Maggie held out her hand, palm down. “The Legion of Tomorrow.”

Nat didn't hesitate. He reached out his hand, placed it on top of Maggie's. George grinned and extended his own hand to rest it on top of Nat's. Harry gave the other three a look, bemused that anyone would take him seriously, but then he joined the circle with his own hand.

“Forward the Legion,” he said. Then he leaned back in his chair and yelled to the group of Futurians sitting nearby. “Get that? The Legion of Tomorrow is coming for you!”

Don Wollheim stared at him. “Who?”

 

6

Later that day, Sam Moskowitz offered a compromise with the Futurians: he'd let them into the hall, provided that they promised to behave themselves and not cause any problems. All but five—Don Wollheim, Fred Pohl, Cyril Kornbluth, Bob Lowndes, and Jack Gillespie—accepted the olive branch and went in, but Sam's attempt to make peace didn't make much difference. The following day, the Futurians announced a counterconvention in Brooklyn for July 4, and that's where most of the writers went for the final day of the World's Science Fiction Convention.

I didn't know about this. Monday, July 3, was another day at the shoe store for me. So while my new friends Harry, George, and Maggie took advantage of Sam's amnesty pact to return to Caravan Hall for presentations about science and its role in the glorious future to come, I was measuring some restless tyke's feet for a new pair of Buster Browns. My father noticed that I was unhappy, so he made me a deal: if I'd stop sighing and gazing forlornly out the window, he'd close the shop for Independence Day and let me attend the rest of the convention.

The final day of what would later be called Nycon 1 wasn't at Caravan Hall, though, or even in Manhattan. Instead, the official event of the last day was a “Science Fiction Softball Game” at Flushing Meadows Park in Queens …

John W. Campbell, Jr. loosened his necktie, rolled up his sleeves, and spit in his palms. In no hurry at all, he bent down to pick up the baseball bat from where it had been dropped by the last player. He ambled to home plate, where he crouched low over the sandbag, hefted the bat high above his shoulder, and glared at the young man standing atop the pitcher's mound.

“Awright, kid,” Campbell growled. “Show me your stuff.”

The fierce look and icy voice with which he challenged the pitcher were the same he used on countless writers who'd cowered on the other side of his desk. But he wasn't in
Astounding
's office in the Street & Smith Building, and the young fan from Philadelphia who stood on the mound had no desire to sell him a story. He sized up the burly older man pinch-hitting for the Queensboro team and then gazed past him at his catcher. The other Philly player lowered a hand between his knees and pointed a finger at the ground. The pitcher nodded slightly, understanding the catcher's signal. He juggled the softball in his mitt, making Campbell wait a second while he stole a sly glance over his shoulder to make sure that the last Queens player at bat was still on second—there had been enough base stealing in the game already. Then he whipped back around and, with no warning at all, snapped the ball straight toward the catcher's glove.

It was an underhand pitch, but Babe Ruth couldn't have done better. Campbell was unprepared. He swung the bat wildly but didn't even come close. The bat hadn't completed its arc when there was the leathery smack of the ball slamming into the catcher's glove.

“Strike one!” the umpire yelled.

“Hell!” Campbell snarled.

Laughter from the bleachers, although the few writers who'd shown up for the game were wise enough to cover their mouths with their hands. Campbell was a big cheese in the pulp business, and no one wanted to risk getting on his bad side. The game had been listed in the convention program as being “Science Fiction Professionals vs. Science Fiction Fans,” yet so few writers had actually shown up that the lineup had been changed at the last minute. Now it was between the Cometeers of the Queens Science Fiction League and the Panthers of the Philadelphia Science Fiction Society. Everyone was seated together in the wooden bleachers, players and spectators alike; indeed, the Panthers had to pull some of its players out of the stands when too few members of the Philadelphia club showed up for the game.

“You don't think he's going to strike out, do you?” Maggie asked.

Nat thought it over. Campbell was older than almost everyone else out on the field, but he had the physique of someone who'd spent too much time at a desk. Just before Sam Moskowitz had talked him into coming down from the bleachers to take a turn at bat for the home team, he'd been smoking a cigarette from a long ivory holder. Just the way he held the bat was proof that this was the first time he'd played ball in many years, perhaps even since grade school.

“Probably,” he replied, keeping his voice low. Maggie quietly laughed, and Nat gave himself points for saying something funny. He'd been disappointed to have taken the El all the way out to Queens just to find that most of the authors had gone to Brooklyn instead, but the fact that the Legion of Tomorrow had come out for the ball game made up for it.

Well, no … he had to admit, it wasn't just the Legion he was glad to see again but Maggie Krough in particular. She looked good this afternoon, in tan cotton slacks and a sleeveless light-blue shirt that showed off her figure. The way other fans kept glancing in their direction made him realize that he was fortunate to be sitting beside her, even if he did have share her with the two other guys.

“Strike two!”

Campbell didn't swear this time, but the expression on his face hinted his regret at letting himself get pulled into this.

“I think you may be right,” Maggie said, and Nat was about to add something when she glanced past him. “Oh, thank you, George, that's very kind of you.”

Nat looked around to see George Hallahan return from a nearby pushcart with a couple of ice-cream cones. “My pleasure,” he said as he carefully handed the chocolate one to Maggie, keeping the vanilla for himself. “Sorry, Nat,” he said as he sat down beside them. “Only have two hands.”

“You mean you can't grow another one?” Nat asked.

“Not even at the science fiction softball game.” George shifted his fedora to the back of his head as he licked the top of his cone. “Speaking of which, what have I missed?”

Nat hadn't been keeping track of the game. He gazed over at the scoreboard. It was being tended by the kid from California he'd met the other day—his name was Bradbury, he'd learned this morning, Ray Bradbury—and he'd looked like he was getting ready to change the number of Os in the Visitors box from two to three. “Queens is up seventeen to seven,” he said, “but I don't think they helped themselves very much by pulling Campbell out of the bleachers to bat an inning.”

“Well.” George shrugged. “As I said, it's supposed to be a science fiction game.”

Nat gazed at the convention members with whom he'd traveled to the Meadows. None of the writers he'd seen Sunday morning were here; besides Campbell, the only author he recognized was Ross Rocklynne, who apparently hadn't heard that most of his colleagues were in Brooklyn. He wondered why Campbell had bothered to show up. Good public relations with the fans, he supposed. After all, they were the ones who bought the magazine. All the same, he expected that Campbell would quietly excuse himself once he'd met his obligation as a celebrity player and head down to Brooklyn to meet with his authors.