Bimbos of the Death Sun

by Sharyn McCrumb

  Jay Omega nodded. “Like an IBM computer with BASIC built into its ROM. No programming for it necessary.”

  “Whatever that means,” frowned Marion. “I suppose so. You enjoy all the things that other people consider necessary evils—yard work, meetings, teaching undergrads. I used to think you were a saint, but after knowing you a year, I’ve decided that saints aren’t saints, either. They are just people who happen to enjoy doing things the world approves of. And sometimes I think to myself that if we’d gone to high school together you wouldn’t have asked me out, and it annoys me—still!”

  “I’d have been afraid to. You can be rather fiercely feminist sometimes.”

  “At the moment, I don’t feel that way at all. Are you sleepy?”

  “Not anymore,” said Jay. “In fact, I think I’ll go down to the video room. I heard they were going to show War Games at midnight. It has a lot of computer technology in it. Want to come?”

  Marion shook her head. I’ll just stay here and take a cold shower, she thought grimly.

  NINE

  Miles Perry could open one eye just wide enough to see a six and a four on his digital alarm clock. That meant he had been allowed at most three hours of sleep. He groped for the shrieking telephone, and managed to find it without making further demands on his eyes.

  “Huh—what?” he croaked into the earpiece.

  The responding voice advanced him three levels toward wakefulness.

  “Yes, Mr. Dungannon! Good morning!—You want what?—Oh. Room service. I’m sure the hotel has it. Would you like me to give you that number? I could look it up.”

  He sat up now, wondering where the phone book would be hidden. “What’s that, sir?—Well, no, I don’t suppose the hotel room service would go to Burger King to get you an egg and cheese croissant.—Oh. I see. Yes, sir. It’ll take me half an hour to get dressed.—Fifteen minutes, yessir. Fifteen minutes to get dressed.—And I should tap on your door to let you know it’s there.—Certainly, sir. I’m on my way.”

  To a madhouse, thought Miles Perry, hanging up the phone. Why had he agreed to supervise this con? It was going to be the longest weekend of his life. He just knew it. Of course, he knew exactly why he had agreed to run the con. It would make him very important among the area fen, gain him prestige with the national organizations, and it made him feel delightfully important, something he never felt while managing the grocery produce section at Food Lion. It was an ego trip—but it took its psychic toll.

  Marion had almost been awakened by the sound of the shower, but she discovered that if she put her head under both pillows, she could ignore it enough to go on sleeping, incorporating a Tahitian waterfall into her last dream.

  Jay Omega pulled back the bed covers. “Wake up, sunshine!” he said, tickling her foot. “Time to commute to fairyland.”

  Marion groaned. “May an orc eat you for breakfast.”

  Jay Omega pushed a copy of the Rubicon program under the pillow. “Lots of things to do today. No time to sleep.”

  “My god,” she moaned, stretching and making a grab for the bedspread. “Not only do you have a Ph.D. in engineering and the ability to fix cars, you’re also a morning person. Or a morning android. The possibility that you are human gets remoter all the time.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere. Get up or it’s the wet washcloth on your neck.”

  She looked at him curiously. “Are you that anxious to get to the con?”

  “No. It doesn’t start for another two hours. That will give us time to eat breakfast and to visit an auto parts store I know that opens at eight. I need a master cylinder for my clutch. Then, if you insist, we can go to the con.”

  Marion threw a pillow. “Shut up, Android, or I’ll unplug your surge protector.”

  Jay Omega grinned. “I think you already have.”

  “Really?” She sat up, smoothing her hair. “I think we have time for that.”

  “Too late. I’ve already showered.” He started to rummage in his suitcase. “Hurry up, will you? I’m starving!”

  Marion yawned and ambled to the bathroom. Maybe he really is an android, she thought.

  In the video lounge those pulling an all-nighter were watching the credits to The Day the World Ended roll up the screen.

  “Man, I knew the rain was going to kill the mutants,” said Bill Fox, flipping off the television. Because of his status as a mechanical engineering major at Tech, Fox, a member of the Rubicon steering committee, was in charge of the video room.

  The six people sprawled on chairs and couches throughout the room went on sleeping. Two other video junkies yawned and stretched. “I thought that was a lot scarier last time I saw it,” one remarked.

  “How old were you then?”

  “About eight.”

  Joseph Bonnenberger, still in his lair in the corner, looked up to see why the sound had stopped. “Television,” he said.

  “Breakfast time,” said Bill. “Knock off ’til nine. Gotta go get something to eat.” He watched Bonnenberger dump his change on the end table. “Candy machines are in the hall next to the lobby, man.”

  “Anybody got a program handy?” asked a sleepy Star Fleet officer, uncurling out of a lounge chair.

  “Yeah,” said Bill. “Usual stuff starts at nine. Videos, wargames, art show, hucksters. Then at ten, there’s a live-action D&D game that begins in the lobby. Real weapons strictly forbidden. And the art pro will have a seminar also at ten.”

  “Is Dungannon talking today?”

  “One o’clock in the auditorium. Anything else you need?”

  “Just a toothbrush.”

  “Use your finger.” Bill Fox scooped up the videos and started out the door, nearly colliding with Brenda Lindenfeld in the hall.

  She was still wearing her velvet gown, but her expression had softened considerably from the fierce scowl of the night before. She was escorted by a scrawny young man in a green turtleneck who walked beside her when hallway space permitted it.

  Bill Fox turned back to the video lounge. “Hey! Who was that guy with Brenda Lindenfeld?”

  Bonnenberger looked up from his book. Since he and Bill were alone in the lounge, he decided to venture a quip. “Her lunch,” he said.

  You always got more of Bonnenberger when there was no one else around.

  Walter Diefenbaker hoped the registration clerk would be back from breakfast soon. He should have asked someone to bring him something from McDonalds. Now he had a choice between peanut butter crackers from the vending machine or missing the live D&D game. Dief was not a fantasy person, but he did allow himself an occasional frivolity, and the role-playing sounded like a lark. Today his tweed jacket sported a button reading:

  IS THERE REALLY A CANADA,

  OR ARE ALL THOSE GUYS JUST KIDDING?

  He should check with Miles, though, to see if he could be spared for the duration of the game. If one of the staff volunteers failed to show up. Miles would need someone to pitch in. Where was Miles, anyway? He hadn’t been around all morning.

  “Hello!” said Marion, leaning over the registration desk. She had changed her Avengers costume for a preppy-looking navy blazer and canvas skirt. “Jay has gone upstairs to get his books. When would you like him to set up?”

  Dief shrugged. “Whenever. How long can he stand to autograph? We did want to talk to him, though. The local physicist who was going to lecture on quasars at eleven has canceled out, and we were hoping that Dr. Omega might be willing to conduct a writing seminar.”

  “I don’t know. Surely Appin Dungannon …”

  “Surely not Appin Dungannon.”

  “I’m not sure Jay would have much to say to a writing seminar,” said Marion. “He’s not very chatty about his work, and he doesn’t subscribe to Writer’s Digest or anything like that. You can ask him, of course.”

  “I’ll see if Miles has managed to come up with anything else. There’s always the Star Trek Bloopers reel, I suppose.”

  “I’ll watch the tab
le for him if you can get him to do it. I suppose he could autograph a few books before he leaves. And sometime today we’d better let him spend some time in the computer room. The high-tech toys are his greatest joy.”

  Miles Perry came out of the elevator looking more harassed than ever. His rust-colored hair hung over one eyebrow in a stubborn ringlet, and he was wearing his tie at half-mast. “Here you are!” he called to Diefenbaker. “I’m thinking of enrolling in the federal witness program, provided they can grant me a new identity today. I want never to be seen again.”

  “And let Chip Livingstone run the con?” smiled Dief.

  “Very funny,” said the director with a sour smile. “I’m serious, Walter. This is fraying my nerves.”

  Dief nodded sympathetically. “More chaos?”

  Miles started with the pre-dawn phone call, and summarized the rest of his hectic morning. “Just now Brian Kramer locked himself out of the wargames room, and he couldn’t remember where he’d put the key.”

  “Did you find it?”

  “Finally. After a frantic search. It was in the bag with his Diplomacy pieces. Did you hear that Dr. Zachary canceled?”

  “Quasars at eleven? Yes. I was just asking Marion if she thought Dr. Omega would do something instead.”

  Miles Perry shook his head. “Don’t bother. You know Jack Carlton from the hucksters’ room? Comic book dealer? He’s agreed to try to explain the alternate Earth systems in the Superman series and how they were resolved.”

  Dief whistled. “In an hour?”

  “Well, it’s a start. Now, what are you doing on registration?”

  “Calm down. Dixie went to breakfast.”

  “Okay. What else should I worry about?”

  “Me,” said Dief. “I haven’t eaten.”

  Miles Perry pulled half a Mars bar from his jacket pocket. “With my compliments and best wishes,” he said.

  At ten o’clock the hotel lobby resembled an evacuation center for Sherwood Forest. A colorful crowd in homespun cloaks and rope-belted tunics milled about, discussing their player characters and speculating about the live role-playing game that was about to begin.

  “I don’t see why we can’t use our weapons in this thing. Realism is what it’s all about.”

  “Do you think Appin Dungannon will show up?”

  Diefenbaker listened to the conversations swirling about him, but he was trying to concentrate on formulating his character. He had been assigned the part of an elf-thief, chaotic-good, with the usual agility and night vision. The other elves in the party, three giggly young women in burlap dresses, had decided to name themselves Rowan, Saffron, and Rosemary.

  “And who are you going to be?” they asked him.

  “Herb,” said Diefenbaker.

  In the center of the throng the Dungeon Master, in a monk’s robe and sandals, waved his scenario and shouted for quiet. “Listen up, people!” roared Jack Larson with a most unmedieval New Jersey accent. “We’re going to start now, so shut up while I read you about the quest.”

  He glared belligerently at the few remaining talkers, and suddenly caught sight of a familiar white-haired personage in the crowd. “Clifford Morgan! Is that you? Don’t you ever learn?”

  Morgan had joined the party of adventurers attired as usual in his Tratyn Runewind costume. He twirled the edge of his cloak in a bow to the Dungeon Master. “The golden Rune warrior honors you with his presence. May his skill in battle and his Druid wisdom serve you well.”

  “Oh, let him go,” said one of the clerics. “Dungannon won’t be around anyway. He’s writing, remember?”

  Monk Malone in his usual Dominican friar’s outfit joined the group, acknowledging a flutter of applause with a modest wave. “I must be a wizard, of course,” he told the Dungeon Master.

  Jack Larson sighed. “I’ve already got a wizard.”

  “My apprentice,” said Monk Malone smoothly. “Certainly I shall be the principal wizard in the party.”

  “Uh huh.” Jack Larson glanced at his game plan, trying to decide how long it would be necessary to wait before letting the wererats eat the people who gave him a hard time. Jack Larson’s calligraphy button said:

  GOD IS DEAD,

  AND I WANT HIS JOB.

  When the twenty-two participants had seated themselves around the overstuffed chair, the Dungeon Master explained their mission. The human fighters were all apprentice knights in the fourteenth-century court of the king of France.

  “But what about me?” asked Mona Walton. “I’m human/fighter but—a woman squire?”

  Jack Larson thought fast. “Yes. Because … because a famous wizard has predicted that a woman warrior will someday save France, and when you asked to be trained, they were afraid to turn you away in case you turned out to be the one.”

  Mona nodded. “Joan of Arc. Am I?”

  “No,” said a Scadian. “Wrong century.”

  “Right. Now one of you human warriors …” He consulted his notes. “Gawaine …”

  “You pronounce it Gavin,” said the Scadian.

  “Whatever. He’s from Scotland. Who’s Gawai—Gavin?”

  One of the better-looking fourteen-year-olds raised his hand. “I am.”

  “Okay. You’re nominal leader of the group. You’re the son of a clan chief, and he sent you to France to learn warfare, but you don’t want to be a knight. You want to study magic. Okay?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Now, one day you’re in your room studying your Latin when a message arrives for you from your father in Scotland.” Larson paused for effect. “Someone has been stealing black horses throughout the Borders. Only black horses.”

  The adventurers whispered among themselves.

  “So you decide that something magic and dangerous is happening. You don’t know what. But you decide to go back to Scotland with some of your friends and try to find out.”

  “We’re going to Scotland?” Tratyn Runewind applauded. Sensing their cue, the human fighters got to their feet.

  “One more thing,” said the Dungeon Master. “At the bottom of the letter is another note.”

  “What does it say?” asked Gawaine anxiously.

  Jack Larson grinned at the group. “Come back when you find it.”

  Bill Fox, setting up “The Trouble with Tribbles” on the VCR, caught a glimpse of Walter Diefenbaker wandering down the corridor wearing the myopic lost look of Mole in Wind in the Willows. “Hey, Dief!” he called. “How’s it going?”

  Dief sighed. “I am a very stupid Scottish elf named Herb, and I am supposed to warn the adventurers to look out for ‘Beans in the Road.’ Whatever that means. Most of the others are searching for—not the message; they found that—a ring of Saracens, I think. Although having infidels in Scotland, even near the time of the Crusades, strikes me as being a bit far-fetched. Still, I suppose it means something sensible. The Scadians will probably know.”

  Bill Fox grinned. “The fantasy people are probably in their rooms thumbing through their folklore texts.”

  “Herb!-Yoo hoo!-Herb!”

  Dief, finally realizing that he was being addressed by the name of his player character, turned to find his fellow elf Saffron waving at him from the elevator.

  “Excuse me,” he said to Bill Fox. “Delusion calls.”

  Saffron held the elevator until he arrived. “You’ll never guess what I found out!” Her elfin eyes shone with excitement.

  “Probably not,” Dief admitted.

  “The Ring of Saracens! I know what it is.”

  Dief remembered Bill’s remark about the folklore texts. “Which book was it in?”

  “None that I know of. I was right here in the elevator trying to figure out the clue … You know, muttering to myself, over and over, Saracen … Saracen … And this short, oldish guy got on at the third floor, and on the way down, he overheard me. He said, ‘Why are you blethering about a pub in Glasgow?’”

  “That’s what it is? A pub in Glasgow?”


  “No. Did I mention he talked funny? It turns out he’s from Scotland himself.”

  Dief nodded. “That would be Mr. McRory.”

  “I guess so. Anyway, I asked him if that pub would have been around in the fourteenth century, but he said no, so I asked him what else the word Saracen could mean in Scotland. And he told me!”

  “Well?”

  “It’s a ring of big stones. You know, like Stone-henge. That’s what they call them in Scotland. Saracen Stones. Isn’t it great that I got it?”