Zombies of the Gene Pool

by Sharyn McCrumb

  Digging in mud wasn't easy. The sides of the hole kept collapsing in on it, and water seeped up from the bottom as they dug. The three diggers were soon transformed into identical mud-caked gingerbread men. When fifteen minutes of digging had elapsed, taking the hole to a depth of three feet, several people who obviously knew the Lanthanides' proclivities remarked that none of them were energetic enough to have buried anything so deep. Geoffrey Duke reminded these doubters that mountain streams had carried silt into the lake bed for more than three decades, depositing layer after layer of extra soil on top of the original cache.

  The editors, who had grouped together at the back of the crowd, for fear of being invited to dig, eyed the excavation efforts nervously. "Suppose it isn't there?" asked Lily Warren.

  Enzio O'Malley shrugged. "You ask them to write their stories from memory and you get better stuff, because now they've been pros for thirty years."

  "What about the dead ones?"

  "Even better. You get Mistral or Surn to give you a general description of the plot, and then you farm out the story to somebody famous who can really write. I'd like to see Robert Mc-Cammon write the Curds Phillips story. Maybe Michael Moorcock for Deddingfield's stuff. Now that anthology would be worth publishing!"

  Lily Warren gave him a sour smile. "So, Enzio, you will actually be disappointed if they find anything?"

  "I wouldn't say that. But if I acquire the rights to it, I'll make sure the contract says I get to request some rewriting."

  The Del Rey editor heaved a sigh of exasperation. "If Enzio had been given the Ten Commandments on Mount Sinai, he would have had them down to six before he left the summit."

  A clink of shovel on metal drew gasps from those nearest the hole, and the crowd surged forward. "We got it!" shouted Geoffrey Duke, wiping his forehead with a mud-stained forearm. "I see a lid down there!"

  "Easy, fellas!" said Mistral, elbowing his way to the side of the pit. "Don't break the glass now. That water would completely ruin the contents."

  Marion went up and hugged Erik Giles. "They found it!" she cried. "I'm so happy for you!"

  "I hope it's worth it," said Giles sadly.

  One of the diggers jumped into the rapidly collapsing hole and, knee-deep in muddy water, fastened a rope around the neck of the jar. While he pushed and rocked the jar to free it, the others pulled on the rope, and moments later it gave, sending the digger sprawling into the side of the mud hole as the brown encrusted jar slid to the surface amid cheers from the onlookers. With a triumphant flourish Geoff Duke wrapped the unopened jar in a clean plastic sheet, while the other mud-caked diggers helped their comrade out of the hole and headed for the river to rinse off as best they could.

  At Mistral's insistence, the Lanthanides grouped around him, smiling sheepishly into various camera lens, as their leader held the jar aloft like a recently bagged trophy.

  "Here it is!" yelled Mistral. "The Dead Sea Scrolls of Science Fiction!"

  "Are you going to open it, Mistral?" asked one of the reporters.

  "Not in the middle of this pigsty," he retorted. "It's too valuable

  for that. Let's go on back to the lodge, and we'll clean this thing up and let you get a look at it."

  "When can we look at it?" yelled one of the editors.

  "Photocopies will be made of the material, and you will have until tomorrow morning to read the contents, and to deliver your sealed bid to Sarah Ashley."

  Another reporter waved her hand above the crowd. "Mr. Mistral!" she called out. "One more question! Isn't that the highway up there beyond those trees?"

  Mistral looked up, just as a car whizzed past a few hundred yards above their heads. Just past the grove of oak trees up beyond the boundary of the lake, the road curved around the mountain, running parallel to the lake for a stretch before it snaked away again. Mistral grinned ruefully and held up his hands.

  "Could you tell us then why we had to take boats to get here?"

  Ruben Mistral grinned at her. "I wasn't sure how to recognize Dugger's farm from the road. It isn't always that close to the lake, you know. Besides, honey, the boat trip makes better copy," he told her. "But anybody who wants to hitchhike back has my permission." With that he handed the jar back to Geoffrey Duke for safekeeping, then turned and ambled back down the hill toward the river. After a moment's pause, the entire troop of muddy followers plowed along after him.

  Chapter 12

  He wanted to pound on their doors, call them out

  in their housecoats and frowsy pajamas,

  and tell them in clear words

  that time buries itself like a river under a lake

  that river feeds, that though the past is irretrievable,

  nothing left down there is gone.

  – DON JOHNSON Watauga Drawdown

  Jay Omega and Marion Farley were not invited to the remainder of the afternoon's events. When the three boats had safely moored again at the Mountaineer Lodge boat ramp, Ruben Mistral gave everyone an hour's break to get cleaned up from their muddy trip upriver. At that time, he informed the Lanthanides, they were to assemble in the downstairs conference room to witness the official opening of the time capsule, to be followed by interview sessions with the journalists. The editors who did not want to observe the publicity marathon in action were urged to attend a private screening of Ruben Mistral's latest movie, Laser Nova, after which photocopies of the time-capsule contents would be issued to them, and they would be returned to their hotel in Johnson City to prepare for Sunday's auction.

  "You ought to try to talk to Ruben Mistral sometime this weekend," Marion told Jay. "Did you bring along a copy of Bimbos of the Death Sun? Maybe he could help you sell the movie rights."

  Jay shook his head. "Just what I need-to be famous for writing Bimbos of the Death Sun. It was bad enough when it was a paperback original that no one could ever find." "But think of the money, Jay!"

  "Think of the dean of engineering, Marion. Try to get tenure with something called Bimbos of the Death Sun on your vita!" He smiled at her expression of disappointment.

  She sighed. "Tell me about trying to get tenure! My department hires two tenure-track people for every one position. I wish I could have become a professor in the good old days, like Erik Giles did. Back then you got tenure more or less automatically, just for hanging around for a few years without screwing up. I don't know if he's ever published anything. Whereas I have to spend every waking moment grubbing up some obscure footnote-"

  "I see," said Jay. "So you think that if I could make a career out of science fiction I could escape all that hassle."

  "You could. Ask Isaac Asimov about academia some time." Jay smiled. "Ask practically everybody else about low advances and an uncertain income. Anyway, thanks for trying so hard to make me famous, Marion. But it takes more than talent to be Ruben Mistral, and I don't think I've got it. Anyhow, we have more important things to do. Can you find the hotel manager and see what he knows about Malone's death?"

  "I suppose so. But is this really any business of ours? Shouldn't we at least consult Erik before we do anything?"

  "I talked to Pat Malone late last night after the party. I kind of liked him." He grinned. "Maybe I'm becoming a Pat Malone fan. Anyway, this is between me and him. Will you help?"

  "I said I would." Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What are you going to do?"

  "I'll be up in the room mobilizing the troops." Marion hesitated. "Look… you're not going to get arrested for breaking into the files of the U.S. government, or AT &T or anything. Are you?"

  "Me? A hacker? Not a chance. Besides, I doubt if government records would be much help. What we need is a lot of people from a lot of different places to make phone calls for us and ask the pertinent questions."

  "And what makes you think that a bunch of fans from all over the country would be willing to help you out in this investigation?"

  Jay grinned. "Are you kidding, Marion? These are people who will argue for days over the meaning of
a phrase in a Star Trek episode, and I'm going to give them a chance to solve a mystery concerning fandom's greatest nemesis-Pat Malone! If what you've told me about fandom is correct, I think they'll jump at it."

  "They probably will," sighed Marion. "It is, after all, gossip that can be rationalized as a public service inquiry. Go to it! You'll put the KGB to shame."

  The ceremony for the opening of the time capsule was set for four o'clock. The small conference room seemed to be lit by lightning, so frequent were the flashes from the photojournalists' cameras. The Lanthanides posed separately, together, and in a series of group shots clustered around the now-unmuddied time capsule. The huge glass jar had been cleaned with a succession of wet Mountaineer Lodge towels before the meeting began, and it now occupied the place of honor on a table in the front, covered in a shining white dropcloth.

  "I suppose he couldn't find any red samite," muttered Lily Warren, who was unfavorably reminded of the Grail legends.

  Ruben Mistral waited until the flashes dwindled to an erratic few before he took his place as master of ceremonies of the Grand Opening.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," he intoned solemnly. "We are about to engage in time travel. Remember that a Greek philosopher-I forget which one-said that time is a river, and that you cannot stop time, because you can never set your foot in the same place twice. But today we found that river of time, just as it was thirty years ago, before the lake was created, and we embarked on that river in search of-" he smiled at his own conceit "-in search of our lost youth. Those were the days when we were fans, idolizing the tale tellers and the dream merchants, and we put all our hopes for the future-our writing, our precious brain children -into this one fragile vessel and sent it forward to the future to wait for us." He patted the lid of the time capsule.

  "For thirty-five years it has waited. Through war, and flood, and the untimely deaths of some of our beloved comrades, this little vessel of silicon has held our brightest hopes. And today we went back to get it. The time has come to open it. Ladies and gentlemen, it is a solemn moment when one comes to terms with one's youth. May I have a moment of silence, and the assistance of Brendan Surn, in opening this reposit of our youthful ambition?" He was gratified to see that a number of reporters appeared to be taking down his speech in shorthand. In the back of the room, camcorders were rolling.

  After a moment's hesitation, Brendan Surn, assisted by Lorien, made his way to the table where the time capsule sat, gleaming under the camera lights. Mistral removed the cloth, revealing a jumble of papers and other objects crammed into the translucent pickle jar. He motioned for Surn to take hold of the side of the jar, while he gripped the other side. "It may have rusted shut," he explained to the assembled witnesses.

  On cue Geoffrey Duke advanced from the sidelines holding a flat rubber mat, which was in fact a large jar opener. He tapped expertly on the top of the lid and then applied the opener, wrenching it with considerable force. After two more tries, the lid opened, amid cheers from the audience. With a little bow to Mistral, Geoffrey made a hasty exit, leaving his boss to tilt the jar forward to give people another view of the contents.

  "I suppose I'd better take this stuff out," he murmured. "I hope I can remember what all of it is." He reached into the jar and pulled out a propeller beanie. "I believe that was yours, George." In carefully neutral tones he read the attached tag. "By 1984, all the world's intellectuals will be wearing these."

  George Woodard hunkered down under waves of laughter. "We were kidding!" he protested.

  Mistral reached back into the jar. "Oops, better be careful with this. A movie poster of War of the Worlds, liberated from the Bonnie Kate Theatre in Elizabethton. I'll bet that's worth something these days." He looked at the other Lanthanides. "What are we doing with this stuff?"

  Jim Conyers smiled. "In 1954 we said we'd donate it to the science fiction hall of fame."

  More chuckles from the audience.

  Sarah Ashley stood up. "Since the happy day of such a repository has not yet come, perhaps we could use these things as a traveling exhibit, when it's time to publicize the anthology." She smiled as polite applause approved her suggestion.

  "Okay," said Mistral. "Thanks, Sarah. Good idea. Now, what else… picture of a dog."

  "That was to fool the aliens," said Erik Giles.

  "Good plan. Here are the manuscripts. I'm afraid they're not in accordance with your submission guidelines, guys." Groans from the editors in the audience. "Geoffrey, if you'll take these away to be photocopied." He peeked at one page of the stack of papers and grinned. "Angela, do you still circle your i's?"

  "Sometimes, Bunzie. Do you still misspell weird?"

  He sighed. "She knew me when, folks.-What else? There's an envelope in here, addressed to the Lanthanides from John W. Campbell Jr."

  "That's right!" cried Woodard. "Remember, we wrote to him and asked for a letter to the future that we could include in our time capsule. And we never read it. Open it! Let's see what he said!"

  Mistral began to tear the flap on the yellowed envelope. "John W. Campbell Jr., as many of you may know, was the legendary S-F editor from the Golden Age of Science Fiction. He discovered most of the great ones-"

  "Except us."

  Mistral forced a laugh. "Well, I think everybody got their share of rejection slips from Mr. Campbell. Let's see what he has to say to the future." He pulled out the letter and scanned a few lines.

  As the silence grew longer, Jim Conyers called out, "Well, Bunzie? What does he say?"

  Mistral reddened. "It's on Street & Smith letterhead, and it's from Campbell's secretary, Kay Tarrant. It says: 'Mr. Campbell regrets that he does not have the time to reply to your request…'" He stopped reading amid the shouts of laughter. "Let's see what else is in here."

  "A jar of grape jelly in case Claude-that's an old inside joke from fandom, folks. We might as well skip it. And here's some old magazines-"

  "-Which are very valuable," said George Woodard, unable to contain himself. "If they go on display, I must insist that every care be taken-"

  "Make it so," said Mistral with a smirk. "Now, let's see. We have an August 1928 issue of Amazing, signed by both E. E. 'Doc' Smith and Philip Francis Nowlan."

  "Worth four thousand dollars. Minimum," said Woodard.

  "Some Ray Bradbury fanzines; old comic books, no doubt valuable; copies of Alluvial; letters from various people… Carl Bran-don, Sgt. Joan Carr."

  "Those people didn't exist," Jim Conyers reminded him.

  Mistral raised his eyebrows. "That ought to really make them worth something."

  For the benefit of the press Jim Conyers explained about hoaxes in fandom, and how a fan might assume several personas in letter writing, since early fans seldom met.

  "Thanks for clearing that up, Jim," said Mistral, calling the meeting back to order. "Here we have Curtis Phillips' beloved copy of H. P. Lovecraft's Outsiders, annotated by himself and Love-craft expert Francis Towner Laney."

  Erik Giles spoke up. "Unfortunately, as I recall, Curtis' comments were based on his interviews with the demons themselves, and contain their comments about Lovecraft and Laney."

  "They liked Laney," chuckled Brendan Surn.

  "The volume is priceless," declared Woodard.

  "Well," said Mistral. "That's about all the interesting stuff. Thank you all for coming to this momentous occasion. The Lan-thanides will hang around up here to chat with the press, and the rest of you can go and hang out in the bar until the bus comes. Or come look at the exhibits here."

  "Make sure your hands are clean," Woodard warned.

  Sarah Ashley heaved a sigh of relief. Her blond hair was still immaculately coiffed and her gray suit was perfect, but there were lines of strain around her eyes, and her face was drawn. The interviews were over now, the exhibits had been removed, and only she and Ruben Mistral were left in the conference room with the empty pickle jar, which now looked very ordinary and unimpressive.

  She set down the assort
ment of papers on the desk in front of Ruben Mistral and began to wipe her soiled fingers with a moist tissue. "Well, you old rogue," she said, smiling at her most audacious client. "You've done it!"

  Mistral's eyes widened in mock innocence. "I don't know why you doubt me, Sarah. Isn't it everything I said it was?" He patted the humble pickle jar as if it had just won the Derby.

  "Miraculously, yes," she said dryly. "I suppose the handwriting will have to be analyzed, and perhaps the paper tested to certify age. Depending on how picky the purchaser is about authentication. But I shouldn't think there will be any problems whatsoever in going ahead with the auction tomorrow. You really did produce the lost works of the genre. Thank God. I had visions of looking foolish in front of thirty million people."

  "The time capsule is absolutely genuine, Sarah. The sleight of hand was in the hype," said Mistral with a feral smile. "I took what is perhaps a mediocre collection of juvenilia and parlayed it into the Dead Sea Scrolls of Science Fiction."

  "Yes, I heard that. Nice catch phrase."

  "It should be. I paid an ad agency five grand to come up with it." His manner grew conspiratorial. "Incidentally, while we're being candid, there is one little matter I need to discuss with you, Sarah. We had an unexpected visitor turn up last night, and now he's dead."

  She listened expressionlessly while Mistral explained the reappearance of Pat Malone and his sudden death some twelve hours later. When he had finished his recital, Sarah Ashley's eyes narrowed. "I do dislike coincidences. It was natural causes, of course?"

  Mistral shrugged. "What else? I didn't talk to the police, of course, but nobody has said anything, so I thought it best not to mention the incident to the press."

  "Very prudent. Perhaps tomorrow you might tell the story to the winning bidder, in case he wants to use it in publicizing the anthology. By then the news stories we need will have been filed with their respective publications, don't you think?"