Bimbos of the Death Sun (6 page)

“Did you notice the bit about the cleaning woman?”

“Good point. Machines should be doing all the maintenance work by then. I don’t think he’s thought out his civilization very carefully.”

“I don’t think he’s ever met any women,” grumbled Marion. “Too bad your book got titled
Bimbos
of the Death Sun
. It’s the perfect name for half these stories.”

“I think it’s too bad about the title, too,” said Jay Omega softly. “Do you think my book is chauvinistic?”

Marion sighed. “Of course not. We’ve been through that before. The title isn’t your fault.”

“It’s strange to be the author of something called
Bimbos of the Death Sun
, with pictures of female barbarians on the cover.” He shuddered. “If the campus chapter of Women in Engineering ever finds out …”

Marion touched his arm. “It’s a good book. For hard science fiction, that is. It’s scientifically sound; it isn’t pretentious; and I made damn sure it isn’t demeaning to women. That’s saying a lot for this genre. People who read it will know it isn’t trash, no matter what stupid title they give it or what the cover art looks like. Science fiction is notorious for that kind of thing, anyway.”

He nodded. “What are Appin Dungannon’s books like? Have you read them?”

“They’re thrust upon me. Sophomore computer science majors with bad skin and zero interpersonal skills are always wanting to do theme papers on Tratyn Runewind. They’re not fiction, they’re wet dreams. But don’t tell him I said so at dinner tonight.”

“Oh, lord! Dinner! Should I change?”

Marion smiled. “Not unless you brought shining armor.”

Appin Dungannon narrowed his piggy eyes as he contemplated the menu. The stuffed trout was expensive enough, but nauseatingly wholesome,
and he was on the lecture circuit too much to ever order chicken voluntarily. What did that leave? Prime rib … the local specialty: peanut soup and Virginia ham … He didn’t want them, either.

His nearest table partner, that Diefenbaker person, leaned over the menu and said, “Don’t worry about time. The costume competition doesn’t start until nine.”

Appin Dungannon grunted. “The costume competition doesn’t start until I’m
there
. However, I am ready to order. I think I’ll have the trout. White goes with fish, you know. It’ll go with my vodka.” He held up his glass in a mock toast to them and giggled.

Diefenbaker and Miles Perry exchanged worried glances. The Eminent Pro had shown no signs of mellowing out as the evening wore on. His eyes glittered more as he talked, and he kept smiling in a none-too-reassuring way, but he still reminded them of a pinless hand grenade, and they couldn’t be sure how many seconds were left.

Across the table Jay Omega and Marion were smiling nervously, and acting as if they were at the birthday party of a hyperactive child. Conversation was forced.

Dungannon had dismissed his fellow author by saying, “Haven’t read your paperback. Doubt if I’d like it.”

Once the orders had been given to the hovering waiter, he turned his attention to Marion. “Aren’t you a little old for a femmefan?”

Marion’s eyes narrowed. “I teach science fiction at the university.”

Dungannon looked pleased. “Who’s required reading?”

“Clarke, Brunner, LeGuin—”

“Heinlein?”

“The early works. And in the fantasy course, we teach C.S. Lewis, Tolkien—”

“Tolkien! Ah, so you do mythology? What about British myths?”

“Yes, of course. There’s an excellent book based on Celtic lore. The students love it.”

Appin Dungannon smirked. “Which Runewind is it?
The Singing Runes? The Flag of Dunvegan?”

Marion raised her eyebrows. “No. As a matter of fact, it’s
The Mists of Avalon
, by Marion Zimmer Bradley.”

Dungannon took a hefty swallow of vodka, and everyone else at the table began talking hurriedly about the next Star
Trek
movie/Carl Sagan’s novel/and the rumor that the PC would soon be obsolete. Marion went back to her salad with the air of one who has performed an unpleasant task only to discover that she enjoyed it.

Jay Omega, who had never managed to feel like an author anyway, felt no sense of kinship with his fellow writer. He could think of nothing to talk about, and the idea of provoking Dungannon’s ill-concealed wrath made him even less likely to talk than usual.

Miles Perry, who would liked to have discussed convention business with Diefenbaker, felt compelled as host to keep up a flow of bright chatter. He had launched into a long and pointless account of Far Brandonian weaponry, to which no one listened, but the drone of his voice was soothing, and relieved everyone else of the obligation to talk.

Diefenbaker turned to Marion. “Is Dr. Omega one of those terribly sane and steady engineers, or does he have writer’s quirks?”

Marion thought about it. “You mean like Balzac having to wear a monk’s habit and write by candlelight? Jay isn’t temperamental at all, but I don’t know about engineers being sane and steady. The first time I went to his house, I found a radio in the refrigerator.”

“There was a perfectly good reason for that,” said Jay Omega. “Sometimes there’s an intermittent problem in the radio, something that goes away when the unit heats up, and those problems are very difficult to detect. If you put the radio in the refrigerator, the problem will usually become permanent, and then you can fix it.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Diefenbaker conceded.

“Yes, but he also has lemons in there that are old enough to vote.”

Jay Omega smiled. “I eat out a lot.”

Appin Dungannon, apparently deciding that the attention had strayed from him long enough, announced to the table in general: “I think the roots of human behavior lie in the distant past, not on some silly planet out in deep space. In the heroic sagas like Beowulf, Elric of Melnibone, and of course, Tratyn Runewind, there are metaphoric implications …”

And all the women are cheeseburgers, thought Marion, spearing a piece of asparagus with her fork.

Dungannon’s harangue continued for several more minutes, while everyone concentrated on cleaning their plates, occasionally nodding fervently to maintain the illusion of interest. Finally Dungannon wound down, noticing that his dinner was almost untouched. Taking a last swig of his vodka martini, he leered across the table at his fellow author. “Well, that’s enough about me!” He
declared. “Now let’s talk about you. Which one of my books did you like best?”

The Scottish folksinger propped one buskined foot on the bed and studied his reflection in the mirror. His dark suede trousers and laced linen shirt made quite a swashbuckling costume, quite in keeping with his repertoire of traditional Celtic tunes. People were always asking him why he didn’t wear a kilt. “Because I’m not Harry Bloody Lauder!” was his invariable reply. Nobody seemed to realize that the whole kilt business was thought up in the early nineteenth century, and that it was the Englishmen who’d been given Scottish peerages who wore them. Perhaps he ought to say a word or two about it in his patter between songs.

He was scribbling a reminder on the song list taped to the guitar neck when he heard the tapping on the door. Donnie McRory glanced at his watch. An hour before show time. No reporters had asked for an interview. He hadn’t ordered room service. Having run out of guesses, he flung open the door.

“Not the bloody Martians again!”

A blue-shirted Trekkie with pointed ears stood clutching the hand of a behemoth in a white tulle gown. Both were smiling up at him with an anxious cheerfulness. About twenty-three, he decided. Too old to be parading around in dress-up.

“Ooh, I love your costume!” said the girl. “Who are you supposed to be? Tratyn Runewind?”

Donnie McRory’s jaw tightened. “I am not a part of your perishing convention! Now, was there something you wanted?”

They nodded solemnly. “It will take a little
explaining,” said the boy. “May we come in?”

Donnie McRory waved them toward the bed. He didn’t suppose they had brought back his Yorkies. “Well?”

“We’re getting married this weekend.”

“Oh. That’s magic, innit? Well, all the best. Here’s luck, and all that. Decided which planet you’ll live on yet?”

The bride frowned. “We were hoping you’d do us a big favor. It’s very important to us.”

Donnie McRory smiled expectantly, but he was thinking: Does he need help to carry you over the threshold, dear? I should think six blokes ought to do it, same as pallbearers.

The smile froze into place as they described their
Star Trek
wedding, with Chekov for best man and the minister dressed as Captain Kirk. “And the one thing we need to make the wedding absolutely perfect is—”

“Beam me up, Scotty!”
cried McRory, suddenly remembering. “It’s that phony Scot on the program you’re wanting me to impersonate, isn’t it? The one with the vaudeville Glasgow accent?”

“He’s from Aberdeen,” said the groom.

“Aberdeen Proving Ground, maybe. He’s not a Scot!” McRory insisted.

“Yes, sir, but you are, and it would be so wonderful if you would just come and be him for the ceremony. It’s a short little ceremony, really …” They looked up at him pleadingly, like demented puppies.

He scowled at them. “When is it?”

“Tomorrow night! You mean, you will?”

I’ll dine out on this one, thought Donnie McRory. But it did beat reading the stupid American magazines or watching the telly. Tonight’s concert was
the usual one-nighter and he was booked into this bleeding hotel for the entire weekend. “I don’t have to do anything else, but just be there?” he asked menacingly.

“Well… do you play the bagpipes?”

“Do you own a kilt?”

The social hour preceding the costume contest seemed to Jay Omega to be a cross between a worship service and a Senate investigation. As a relatively small fish in the literary pond, he had ample opportunity to observe Appin Dungannon in intellectual combat.

Dungannon, his ego weatherproofed with vodka, held court in front of a table of Dungannon paraphernalia: hardbacks, paperbacks, Runewind posters, action figures, and game spinoffs. The transactions involving these items were managed by a clerk, whose existence was beneath Dungannon’s notice.

The encounters did not often go as Jay Omega had expected. As a new author, he had pictured public appearances in which faithful readers, their faces shining with admiration, would approach the author shyly and murmur what a wonderful book he’d written. The actual author/reader dialogues fell far short of his fantasies.

“You Dungannon?” asked a tall red-haired youth in armor.

“Correct,” said Appin Dungannon, without bothering to look up from his autographing.

“Well, I just finished your last book and I don’t think you ought to have killed Beithir in the last battle. I mean, sure, he threw the Sword of Ossian into Black Annis’ Well, but he did save Tratyn Runewind from the Gabriel Hounds, and—”

Appin Dungannon skewered the fan with an arctic stare. “What’s the matter with you, pinhead? Don’t you have a life? If you enjoy meddling, join the Peace Corps!”

Another fan turned up with a stack of Dungannon novels. “Would you sign all these, please? Just a signature is okay.”

“There are a few people behind you. Doesn’t it bother you to be so selfish?”

The fan shrugged. “Not particularly. I figure this is my big chance to get your autograph.”

“You have three copies of the same book in here.”

“Right. Someday you’ll be dead, and I’ll be rich.”

The crowd moved back a little in order to dodge flying hardbacks, but the outburst was not forthcoming. With a grim smile, Dungannon signed each book in the stack. When he had finished, the speculator snatched his copies and hurried away.

Two signatures later, just as a scrawny youth in G.I. camouflage was criticizing Dungannon’s last book, a howl went up from the other side of the lobby.

“YOU LITTLE CREEP!” roared the guy with the stack of books. “You ruined my books!”

Dungannon leered at him. “You said signature only!” He yelled back.

“Look at this!” wailed the fan, holding out a book for the bystanders to see. “He signed ‘J.R.R. Tolkien’ on every goddamned one of them!”

“Who’s next?” purred Dungannon.

No one wanted to discuss plot mechanics with Jay Omega. No one seemed to have heard of the book. Several fen ambled up to the table and examined the cover, which always made the
author profoundly uneasy. “Er—it isn’t really like that,” he murmured to a young woman in a harem costume with a worried frown.

She tossed him a coy look. “Dirty old man!”

Even worse were the people who approved of the book, based only on its cover. One pizza-faced youth gazed longingly at the amazon in the cover art, and whispered hoarsely, “I think I’m going to like this one. Is it really raunchy?”