Bimbos of the Death Sun (2 page)

“I know you!” cried a ferrety-looking youth in a green turtleneck. “You wrote
Bimbos of the Death Sun!”

Dr. Omega hung his head. “Yes,” he sighed.

There it was: his pride, his fictionalized exercise in pure reason concerning the effects of sunspot activity in relation to polymer acrylic on capacitive interaction among high-frequency microcomponents in thick film circuits. He had known that when Alien Books bought it, there would have to be some commercialization, but he hadn’t bargained on being heralded as the author of something called
Bimbos of the Death Sun
. And the cover art! A female bodybuilder in a fur bikini sprawled in front of a computer terminal, clutching the leg of a white-coated man holding a clipboard.

Dr. Omega lived in fear that some undergraduate student in engineering would figure out who he was and bruit the news around campus. As it was, he checked all the book stores in town once a week to make sure that no copies had been slipped onto the local author rack. His pen name, which he’d been so pleased with at the time, now seemed entirely too obvious.

“So you’re Jay Omega?” smiled Diefenbaker, shaking his hand again.

“Er—yes. Short for James Owens Mega.”

“It has a good sound to it. Does it signify anything? I seem to remember something about
omega.”

“Oh, yes? Have you studied engineering?”

Diefenbaker waved his hand. “I pick things up here and there.”

“It was a good guess. Jay Omega is an electrical
engineering term for frequency times the square root of negative one. It’s the
imaginary
part of an inductance, you see, and since I was doing a work of fiction …”

“Oh, very clever!” beamed Diefenbaker. “I should love to read it. Did we order copies for the Con?”

Jay Omega reddened. “Well, actually … my publisher’s publicity department doesn’t pay much attention to me, and I couldn’t persuade them to send any, but I got the local book store to order some copies for me from the warehouse.” He glanced down at the large, bulging canvas suitcase propped up against the registration table.

“I see,” said Diefenbaker faintly. He smiled again. “Well, I shall tell everyone to come and get an autographed copy from you. In fact, I’ll buy the first one myself after we get you signed in.”

“Thanks very much. Do you think you could tell me what I’m supposed to be doing?”

“This is your first con, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It wasn’t my idea, really, but a friend of mine … she teaches science fiction in the English department …” And I’ll get her for this if it’s the last thing I ever do, he finished silently. He could picture Marion perched on the arm of his sofa, saying, “Your job is only half done when you finish the book. Nobody will read you if they’ve never heard of you. So, publicize!” She found out about Rubicon from one of the sophomores in her science fiction class, and before he knew it, “Jay Omega” was a featured guest—paying his own way, of course.

“Why don’t I show you around a bit, and then we can see where they’re going to put you for the autographing.”

Jay Omega looked again at his tweed-clad companion.
“Why aren’t you in costume?”

Diefenbaker looked surprised. “But I’m a wargamer!” Seeing that this reply had not proved enlightening, he explained, “The world of fandom is divided into several subgroups, mainly into hard science fiction—people who would read your book, for example—and fantasy folk, who are into Tolkien,
Dungeons & Dragons
, and—”

“Appin Dungannon?”

“Exactly. They’re the ones in cloaks and broadswords. The rest of us settle for small tokens of resistance.” He pointed to a button on his lapel that read, “Reality is a crutch for those who can’t handle science fiction.” “Do you play wargames, by any chance?”

“Ah … on the computer?”

“No. Board games. Strategy between players.
Diplomacy. Kingmaker. War in the Pacific
. No, I see you don’t. How about SF? Who do you read?”

Omega thought hard. “I read something I rather liked once. About an alien spaceman who was stranded on the moon and was trying to get to what would have been prehistoric earth. Can’t remember who wrote it. What was it called?”

After a few seconds of polite silence, Diefenbaker sighed.
“Inherit the Stars
. James P. Hogan. He’s an engineer, too.”

“Oh. I don’t have much time for reading fiction, really. When I’m not doing my research, I’m usually in my garage taking a car apart.” Usually Marion’s car. He could never convince her that the Christian Science approach was not a viable one to auto mechanics: the car would not heal itself if left alone, you had to fix it.

Diefenbaker had an inspiration. “I bet you’ll like the technical displays. We have a room of computer set-ups,
air ionizers, and various other high-tech toys.”

Omega grinned. “Lead the way.”

“All right. Oh, by the way, Miles Perry, one of the con organizers, and I are supposed to have dinner with your fellow author. Would you like to join us?”

“With Appin Dungannon? Sure, I guess so.” Even people who couldn’t read had heard of Appin Dungannon. His characters had been borrowed for a Saturday morning cartoon series called “Dungannon’s Dragons,” and cardboard displays in every drugstore and supermarket hawked the Runewind books. “I hope he won’t expect me to have read his stuff, though.”

Diefenbaker smiled. “Don’t volunteer the information. He never talks about his work, anyhow.”

The front doors of the hotel swung open, and a gaunt young man with matted black hair and burning eyes marched into the lobby. He was dressed in a floor-length navy-blue overcoat, with a guitar slung over one shoulder. Rasputin, thought Omega. A mixed crowd of turtlenecks and satin cloaks converged on the new arrival, chanting, “Monk Malone! Monk Malone!”

Omega admired the modest but genial attitude the young man took toward his admirers. He made a graceful celebrity, signing his name with a flourish on a couple of Rubicon programs. “What does he write?” he asked Diefenbaker. “Or is he an actor?”

Diefenbaker stopped in mid-wave. “Monk Malone? He’s a BNF. I thought everybody had heard—oh, no, I guess you wouldn’t. BNF stands for Big Name Fan. He goes to all the conventions, knows all the filksongs, contributes to a dozen fanzines. He’s a household word.”

Omega was still puzzled. “But what does he do?”

“You mean in mundane terms? When he isn’t at
cons? I think he’s still a custodian at the hospital. He works every weekend that there isn’t a con, so they’re pretty good about letting him off to come to them.”

Omega shook his head. A hospital custodian was posing for pictures with various costumed princesses. It still didn’t make sense. “But what’s he so famous for?”

“He’s a fan,” said Diefenbaker gently. “And he’s very good at it.”

The elevator doors opened just then, and Miles Perry shot out like the White Rabbit in Wonderland. He halted for breath in front of Diefenbaker and Omega, and pointed in the direction of the upper floors of the hotel. “Do you know what he wants?” he demanded.

“Dungannon?” asked Diefenbaker.

Perry nodded vigorously. “Who else?”

“Well … what does he want?”

“I don’t know!” wailed Perry. “Something called ‘Smarties’ and ‘Yorkies.’ Drugs, I expect.”

“No, Miles. It’s British candy. Smarties are like M&Ms, and a Yorkie is a chocolate bar.” Being a Canadian gave Diefenbaker an occasional cultural advantage over his more insular American colleagues.

Miles Perry slapped his forehead. “Great! Where am I supposed to get British candy on five minutes’ notice?”

“Just tell Dungannon it can’t be done,” said Omega reasonably.

They both looked at him as if he were tap-dancing on a mine field. Miles turned back to Diefenbaker. “But, seriously, Dief, what am I going to do?”

Diefenbaker shrugged. “Mass appeal, I guess.” Cupping his hands to his mouth, he bellowed out across the lobby, “We need some British candy, folks! Anybody
got any? All help will be appreciated.”

A wave of shrugs passed through the clumps of people, but after a few moments of silence, a blonde girl in a green tunic and blue body-paint approached them. “British,” she said shyly to Diefenbaker. “Like … does that include Scotland?”

Diefenbaker hastily changed a snicker into an encouraging smile. “Yes, Kathy. Indeed it does. Why?”

She twisted her yellow sash and shifted from one foot to the other in an effort of concentration. “Well … like I met this guy today, you know, in the elevator, and he said he was from Scotland, but he wasn’t dressed up or anything. He was just in regular old jeans. I’d say he was a mundane. But he might like candy!”

“I’ll find him if I have to mind-meld the desk clerk!” cried Miles, hurrying away.

Diefenbaker thanked the blue lady with grave politeness and sent her on her way. “You see what I mean about Appin Dungannon?” he said to Jay Omega. “He probably doesn’t even want the candy. I expect he’s looking forward to the tantrum he’s going to pitch when he doesn’t get it.”

Jay Omega smiled. “I was just thinking how nice it would be to be famous enough to be difficult.”

The Scottish folksinger picked up another magazine. Suppose you didn’t want to fix gourmet meals in minutes, lose ten pounds in two weeks, or redecorate your kitchen? What did you bloody read in the States? Magazines that were sold in brown paper wrappers, he supposed, but those were a bit of a bore as well. He thought of turning the television back on, but there’d be nothing at that hour except the soaps. When he had first arrived in the U.S. for
his folksinging tour of the East Coast, he’d planned on being quite a dedicated tourist, dutifully spending his days on bus tours and consulting guide books. After a while, though, all the cities became as indistinguishable as the hotel rooms, and he stopped going out at all. He had thought of doing some sightseeing in Washington, D.C., since he was so close. But he was thirty miles away from D.C., with no car, dependent on a ride to the gig, stuck in another of those bloody hotels; the view out of his window looked like every other place he’d been: gas stations, fast food joints, and an endless stream of four-lane traffic. He still sent postcards off to Margaret in Glasgow, of places he hadn’t bothered to go and see, but he spent his afternoons reading magazines or watching telly, until it was time to get ready for his evening performance. Bloody boring it was, too. Didn’t the Yanks ever get tired of “Auld Lang Syne?”

He decided to have a quick look over the arrangement of his opening song, but a knock on the door saved him the trouble.

“Yes?” he called out. “Who is it?” You never knew about crime in the States, even in good hotels—which this one wasn’t, not with Martians in the lobby.

“Mr. McRory!” More tapping.

“I’m Donnie McRory!” he yelled back. “I asked who
you
were!” He decided to open the door. It wasn’t likely to be autograph hunters in this godforsaken—“Well?” he demanded of the burly young man on the threshold.

Miles Perry nearly lost his nerve, but the thought of Appin Dungannon’s tiny face, purple with rage, spurred him on. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but I’m one of the organizers of the science fiction convention,
and we had a sort of emergency come up. I … I was wondering if by any chance you had some British candy with you?”

Donnie McRory narrowed his eyes. “Would it be a scavenger hunt?”

“Oh, no! Our guest author at the convention has asked … demanded, really … that we get him some Yorkies and Smarties, and we were wondering if … if …” Miles realized how inane all of it must sound to someone not faced with Appin Dungannon’s malevolent presence. “He’s a very
famous
person.”

Donnie McRory sighed. A very famous person.
He
played to sell-out crowds at the Glasgow City Hall, packed them in at every Edinburgh Festival for the last five years, had a couple of specials on the BBC … but this writer bloke was a “very famous person,” and
he
was somebody to borrow candy from. The United States could be very bad for one’s ego. He looked again at Miles Perry’s anxious face. “Well,” he said, shaking his head, “I can let you have a couple of Yorkies. Didn’t bring anything else with me. Why don’t you get him some M&Ms? They’re pretty similar.”

Miles accepted the chocolate bars as if he had just pulled them from a stone in suburban Camelot. “Oh, thank you! You’ve saved my life! Listen, if you’d like to come to the Con …”

Donnie McRory waved him away. “Thanks all the same, but I’ll give it a miss.” Ah, well, he thought, closing the door, it will make a fine story to tell back home. “What did you do in America, Donnie?”—“I loaned chocolate bars to the Martians.”—Ah, well. He picked up a magazine: “Learn to Say No Without Guilt.” Perhaps he ought to have a look at that.

J
ay Omega tried to stand still as Diefenbaker patted an adhesive name tag onto the pocket of his blazer. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a mousy young girl in a harem costume talking earnestly to an Imperial Stormtrooper.