by Bill Fawcett
YOU EXPECT a lot of things at DragonCon: great panels, a phenomenal dealers’ room, enjoyable parties, gorgeous girls in skimpy costumes, elevators that never work. But the one thing you never really expect to see is a dragon. Admit it.
The first twenty people who saw it in line at Registration thought it was a costume. A very big costume. The twenty-first was Eric Flint, whose keen science fiction writer’s mind knew instantly that it was a real dragon. Eric spent the next ten minutes trying to convert it to socialism.
Finally the dragon was first in line.
“Name?” said the bored female fan behind the desk, not looking up.
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“Bellwether.”
“Well, maybe,” she replied. “I think it may rain, though.”
“No,” said the dragon. “My name is Bellwether.”
“Are you pre-registered?”
“Certainly.”
She looked through the list that was laid out before her. “I don’t find you listed here.”
“I sent in my entry fee months ago,” said Bellwether.
“Entry fee?” she repeated. “Don’t you mean your dues?”
“Certainly not. I am entered in the Light Green Fire-Breathing Adolescent Class, limit twelve tons.”
The girl finally looked up from her paperwork. “You’re the best dragon I’ve seen all year,” she said admiringly. “Anne McCaffrey would be proud.” She handed Bellwether a badge. “Here. Even if you’re not registered, I couldn’t keep a costume like this out of the masquerade.”
“I am not wearing a costume!” snapped Bellwether, twin streams of smoke rushing out of its nostrils.
“Too bad,” she said. “You’d have won the masquerade hands down. If you had any hands, that is.”
Bellwether stared at her for a moment. “Are you suggesting that this isn’t the 386th Annual Pan-Galactic Dragon Show?”
“Yeah, I think you could say that.”
“But I’ve been training for months!” whined Bellwether. “I even lost three thousand pounds getting in shape! I haven’t eaten a knight in three weeks! I’ve even declared peace on any judges named St. George!”
“I’m not up to coping with this,” said the fan. “You want to talk to a science fiction writer. They deal with this foolishness all the time.”
“Where would I find one?” asked Bellwether plaintively.
“Oh, they’re all over. There’s one walking by right now—the one in the kilt.”
“Will he be able to help?”
She shook her head. “That’s John Ringo. He eats dragons for breakfast. You don’t want to mess with him.” She paused thoughtfully. “I’d direct you to Mike Resnick, but he’s always surrounded by so many gorgeous groupies that you’ll never be able force your way through them.” Suddenly she pointed. “There’s Eric Flint. He’s an international bestseller as well as an editor.”
“I spoke to him before. He wants me to run for President.”
“As a third party candidate?”
“An eighth party. He says the first seven are corrupt capitalist swine.”
“Maybe you should just walk around and see if you can find any writers or editors to help you. Or possibly Don Maitz will put you on the cover of a book.”
“It sounds painful,” said Bellwether.
“He just uses paint,” she said reassuringly.
“With lead in it?” asked Bellwether nervously.
“Look, I’d love to sit here all day and talk to you, but the line behind you is getting restless, and you never know what restless fans will do, except that it’s bound to be diverting, loud, and possibly illegal. Run along, and good luck to you.”
Bellwether thanked her, and started looking around. “When I find the travel agent who sent me here,” it muttered, “he’s toast. Burnt toast.”
A pudgy fan (though no more than four hundred pounds—like Bellwether he’d been dieting) approached the dragon.
“Let me guess,” said the fan. “You’re from Pern.”
“Actually, I’m from Beta Leporis IV,” answered Bellwether.
“What do you call your costume?”
“I’m not wearing a costume!”
“That’s the real you?”
“Yes.”
“If that’s not a costume, why aren’t you wearing any pants?”
Bellwether hated questions like that, especially when the only answer was an embarrassed “I forgot,” so it wandered off, down an escalator, through a long tunnel, and into another hotel.
“Dealers’ room is on the second floor,” said a guard.
“Why do I want a dealers’ room?” asked Bellwether.
“They’re sticking you out front to draw a crowd, aren’t they?” The guard studied Bellwether for a moment. “Doesn’t it get hot under there?”
“Under where?”
“Never mind. I know you method actors—you always stay in character.”
“I don’t suppose you know where the ring is,” asked Bellwether.
“Probably in the jewelry shop.”
“I mean the show ring.”
“Beats the hell out of me,” admitted the guard. “They tell us that a bunch of crazies are gonna overrun the place, and then they never give us specifics. I’d complain to the union, if we had one.”
Bellwether left him Eric Flint’s card, and then went off to find the dealers’ room. As he slowed down to approach the staircase to the second floor—when you have twelve legs you have to be very careful on staircases—he was aware that a small feminine hand was rubbing his shoulder. He swung his long neck around until he was face-to-face with a woman who seemed to belong to the hand.
“Yes?” he said, remembering his manners.
“I didn’t ask you anything,” said Josepha Sherman.
“I thought you were trying to get my attention.”
“No,” she said. “I just love petting horses.”
“Have you had your glasses checked lately?” he asked.
“You’re the most horselike thing in the building,” she said. “Well, except for Bill Fawcett, who bears an uncanny facial resemblance to Rex the Wonder Horse, but he only has two legs.”
“I am not a horse.”
“This is DragonCon,” said Josepha. “You can’t always choose. It’s not your fault that you’re not Secretariat.”
“Big deal,” Bellwether shot back. “You’re not Margaret Meade, either.”
“And you’re not Big Brown!” snapped Josepha.
“And you’re not Catherine Zeta-Jones!” snarled Bellwether.
“And you’re not Man O’ War!” yelled Josepha.
“Did someone mention war?” asked David Weber, emerging from the dealers’ room.
“Only in passing,” said Bellwether.
David turned to Josepha. “Is this dragon bothering you?”
“I haven’t decided,” she replied.
“Well, I’m not one to brag,” bragged David, “but I know sixty-three sure-fire attacks and ninety-four unstoppable counters that are guaranteed to bring any dragon to its knees.” He stared at Bellwether. “Which is a lot of knees, when you consider it.”
Josepha thanked him, explained that it wasn’t Bellwether’s fault that it wasn’t Seattle Slew, and went off to find Mike Resnick and worshipfully ask for his autograph.
“So,” said David, “if you’re not here to conquer us, what are you here for?”
“I guess you’d call it a kind of beauty contest.”
“You’re a judge, right?”
“You have two more guesses,” said Bellwether in annoyed tones.
“Why don’t you forget all this anyway?” suggested David. “Shouldn’t you be out chasing lady dragons?”
“I’
m only 168 years old,” said Bellwether mournfully. “They won’t give the time of day to a kid like me. Besides,” it added, “I haven’t decided whether to be a male or a female.”
“You mean it’s not arbitrary?” asked David, surprised.
“Look at that bearded giant over there,” said Bellwether, pointing to Harry Turtledove. “Was having hair all over his face arbitrary?”
“No, but being 7 feet 3 inches was,” noted David. “So was being a man instead of a woman.”
“What’s wrong with being a woman?” demanded a voice from behind them, and they both turned to find themselves confronting Toni Weisskopf. It took a moment to identify her, as she wasn’t wearing the formal ermine robe and jewel-studded platinum crown that went with being the Publisher of Baen Books, though of course she wore the 34-carat diamond ring signifying her role as Editor-in-Chief, if only so supplicants bearing manuscripts would know what to kiss once they finished with her feet.
“Nothing’s wrong with being a woman,” said Bellwether nervously. “Some of my best friends are girls.”
“All of my best friends are women,” added David devoutly.
Toni stared at Bellwether. “Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for the masquerade?”
“I’m here for the show.”
“The show?” repeated Toni. “That’s in the next hotel down the row. I think they’re playing The Vampire Strikes Back right now.”
“The Dragon show,” Bellwether clarified.
“You must mean the Pern exhibit,” said Toni. “It’s down on the lower level somewhere.”
“I’m not interested in dirty books,” said the dragon.
“Pern,” repeated Toni.
“Damned Southerners,” muttered Bellwether. It was turning to descend the stairs when it noticed a huge line in the dealers’ room, and decided anyone that popular with science fiction fans, who were clearly far above average in intelligence and sophistication, would be able to answer all its questions (well, those not concerning certain fantasies it had about lady dragons), or at least be able to point the direction to the dragon ring.
An hour and a half later Bellwether made it to the head of the line and found itself facing Kevin Anderson.
“Where’s your book?” asked Kevin.
“I don’t have one.
“Well, what do you want me to autograph? I’ll sign anything except ladies’ unmentionables; that’s Resnick’s department.”
“I just want to ask you some questions,” said Bellwether.
“Sure,” said Kevin. “Anything you want to know about Dune, I’m your man.”
“It isn’t about Dune.”
“Okay, the Seven Suns, then?”
“No.”
“L. Ron Hubbard?”
“It has nothing to do with books.”
“Oh, my movie producer status,” said Kevin knowingly. “I can tell you for the record that Paris Hilton and I are just good friends, and I don’t know how those photos of Pam Anderson and me got on the web.”
“Where’s the ring?” demanded Bellwether.
“I told you,” said Kevin. “We’re just good friends.”
“The show ring!”
“Show ring, show ring,” repeated Kevin, lowering his head and frowning. Suddenly he looked up. “You mean that cheap imitation diamond I bought for Lindsay Lohan? Well, what do you expect? I’m a producer now. I can’t give real rings to every gorgeous starlet who throws herself at me, so some of them are going to get show rings.”
“Stop understanding me so fast,” said Bellwether. “I am here to compete in the Annual Pan-Galactic Dragon Show.”
“Good luck,” said Kevin. “If they film it, maybe we’ll run it in the trailer to Wiggleworms of Dune.”
Bellwether realized it wasn’t going to get the answer it sought, and left the dealers’ room, heading to the staircase.
“Still giving you a hard time, are they?” asked a familiar voice.
The dragon turned and found itself facing Eric Flint.
“It’s very frustrating,” admitted Bellwether.
“It certainly is,” agreed Eric. “Us dragons have got to organize.”
Bellwether cast him what it imagined was a withering glare, but which in fact merely looked myopic, and proceeded down the stairs to the lower level. When he turned left, a number of fans barred his way.
“You want to go to the right,” explained one of them.
“How do you know?” asked Bellwether.
“You’re entered in the competition, aren’t you?”
“So I am on the right world!” exclaimed Bellwether happily. “Where do I go?”
“See that big double door?” said the fan. “Go right through it. And good luck.”
“Thanks,” said the dragon.
“And watch out for Conan and Barbarella,” added the fan. “They’re your main competition.”
“How old is Conan?”
“I dunno. Maybe twenty-two.”
“Twenty-two?” laughed Bellwether. “Why, he’s still wet from the yolk!”
“You’re yolking, right?” said the fan, guffawing at his own pun.
“How about this Barbarella?” persisted Bellwether.
“How about her?”
“How are her scales?”
“I suppose she can hit E above high C with the best of ’em,” said the fan.
“I’m not making myself pellucid,” said the dragon.
“Don’t,” said the fan.
“Don’t be pellucid?”
“Right. There was a great Mahars of Pellucidar group last year, and they came in third.”
“Well, thank you for all the advice,” said Bellwether, hoping it had time to sort it out before it was due in the ring.
“Happy to help,” said the fan. “And give my best to Annie Mac.”
“Annie Mac?”
“Anne McCaffrey. She’s one of the judges. I figured you knew. Otherwise, why come as a dragon?”
“I couldn’t come as anything else,” said Bellwether.
“Just passionate about those Pern books, eh? Damn! If I’d known there’d be something like you here, I’d have brought my Dragonrider costume and we’d go as a team. How could we lose at a DragonCon?”
“Hey, fella,” said another fan, “you’re blocking the way. Are you going to the competition or not?”
“I’m on my way,” said Bellwether, heading off toward the double doors. It reached them, passed through them, and found itself surrounded by perhaps a hundred fans. Most wore elaborate costumes, and a handful of pretty girls almost wore them.
“Oh, hell!” said one of the girls. “It’s not enough that there’s a great Conan and a gorgeous Barbarella. Now we have to beat a ten-ton dragon!”
“11.237 tons,” Bellwether corrected her.
“Well, it’s just not fair!” said another girl.
“Yeah,” said a third. “How do we compete against that?”
“Right,” said Eric Flint, who had wandered into the room. “We naked girls have to unionize.”
Bellwether looked around the room for the other dragons, but couldn’t find any. It disliked the thought of inter-species competition; after all, it was still five feet and six tons short of its full adult size, and that could be a real handicap up against a purebred Gorgon, especially the short-coated Southern variety. And judges tended to favor lamias, partly because they were so rare, and partly because they had the breasts of a human female and most of the judges were males. (It didn’t matter that they weren’t human males; a fondness for ladies’ breasts is a universal constant. If you think not, just pick up a copy of Mike Resnick’s The Outpost.)
“Get ready,” said a fan, whose badge boasted eight ribbons of varying colors, which seemed to give him some authority as well as a s
elf-righteous swagger. “You’re next.”
“But where are the other dragons?” asked Bellwether.
“If you didn’t bring ’em along, tough,” said the fan. “You’re on, with or without your group. You got a name for what you’re wearing?”
“Skin?” asked Bellwether, feeling very disoriented.
“Whatever,” said the fan with a shrug. He scribbled something down and handed it to David Drake, who was standing behind a microphone, one of the few places he was safe from impassioned groupies.
“Costume number 73,” announced David, “is” —he stared at the card, frowning—“Skin.”
“Get out there!” said the officious fan, giving Bellwether a shove. The previous costume, a tall pudgy man dressed as Iron Man, hadn’t quite left the stage yet. As he passed the row of judges, he paused to threaten Anne McCaffrey with exaggerated gestures. Bellwether, certain that Anne was under attack, rushed to her rescue. He bounded—well, thudded—across the stage, and with the swipe of a mighty forepaw (or perhaps it was a mighty twelvepaw; who knows?) he promptly separated Iron Man’s head from his body.
“That’s terrible!” cried Anne.
“It’s not that terrible,” said a few fans seated behind her. “After all, he was an editor.”
“I hope the dragon’s not going to eat him right in front of us,” said another judge.
“He’s not going to eat him at all,” said David Drake with absolute certainty.
“Why not?” asked another fan.
“He was an editor,” explained David. “Did you ever try to clean one of those things?”
The entire audience agreed that this was a telling point, and relaxed.
Bellwether struck a show pose, everyone thought it was bowing, and it was given a standing ovation. As it was leaving the stage, the Conan everyone had been discussing came on, brandishing his fearsome longsword. He swung it a little too close to Anne, and Bellwether simply exhaled a sheet of flame and melted it.
“Damn!” said Conan. “Do you know what that cost me in the dealers’ room?”
“You shouldn’t threaten the judges with it,” said Bellwether.