Bimbos of the Death Sun

by Sharyn McCrumb

  Lieutenant Ayhan sighed. “I love this case.”

  The windows in the Patrick Henry Nook were shrouded in mourning, and the chandelier overhead was on “dim.” It seemed appropriate. At least two of the four people convened to cope with the death of Appin Dungannon were torn between grief and panic. After all, the con must go on, but what ought to be the proper atmosphere? Miles Perry spread out his grubby Rubicon program on the coffee table in front of Marion, Jay, and Walter Diefenbaker. “The police say it’s okay to continue the con—”

  Jay Omega stood up. “The lieutenant seems very bright. I have no doubt he will solve the crime before the weekend is up. Now, if you have no further need of me, I’ve been meaning to stop by the computer room…”

  Miles Perry looked stricken. “You’re leaving? —Oh, please don’t! The rest of the committee is all over the place trying to keep things under control, and I don’t want to make all the decisions by myself.”

  “It would be very kind of you to stay,” said Diefenbaker. “If we wouldn’t be imposing on you too much.”

  Jay looked at Marion and shrugged. “I don’t mind, if you really think we’d be of any use to you. I don’t know anything about cons, though.”

  “He chaired the Engineering Health and Safety Conference last year, though,” Marion offered.

  “Splendid!” cried Dief. “I know you’ll be ever so sensible and organized.”

  Jay Omega sighed and sat down. “I’ll see what I can do. You say the police have given you permission to continue the conference?”

  “What about the hotel people?” asked Marion.

  “Yes. I spoke to them first,” said Miles. “They’re all for business as usual. The less disruption there is involved, the better they can weather the publicity. They don’t want the word ‘murder’ spread around too much, by the way.”

  Diefenbaker nodded. “So we carry on, with certain modifications?”

  “Right. I think the banquet ought to be in Appin Dungannon’s honor. We could get somebody to do a tribute to him.” He looked hopefully at Jay Omega.

  “‘I come to bury Caesar, not praise him,’” murmured Marion.

  Jay Omega divided his sour look between her and Miles Perry. “Look,” he said, “I’m very sorry that Dungannon is dead, but I didn’t know the man, and didn’t particularly like what I saw. And besides that, I never read any of his books.”

  “You know who would be the logical person to eulogize him?” said Diefenbaker helpfully. “Harlan Ellison!”

  Miles Perry looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “We can’t afford Harlan Ellison.”

  “Oh,” said Dief, deflated. Then, he said, “What about Clifford Morgan? The greatest Dungannon fan of all? Who’s read everything three times? Who lives it, for god’s sake!”

  Marion blinked. “Tratyn Runewind?”

  Dief nodded. “He lives and breathes Dungannon. If he’s not too devastated by the series ending to do it, he’d be perfect!”

  “But Appin Dungannon hated Clifford Morgan!” said Jay Omega. “He threw folding chairs at him!”

  Marion nodded. “It doesn’t seem like a very respectful tribute. I’d be afraid he’d haunt us!”

  Miles Perry had thought it over. “Well…” he said at last. “I think Dr. Omega would be a more distinguished speaker, but if he won’t do it, we’ll just have to do the best we can.” He sighed. “If you can get Morgan to do it, Walter, I have no objection.”

  “I think Morgan will be sincere,” said Dief. “I’ll impress upon him that it’s a solemn occasion. Imitation is supposed to be the sincerest form of flattery, so Cliff should be the most genuine mourner there. —Well, that’s settled. What else needs to be changed?”

  “Dungannon’s last appearance. On Sunday morning he had agreed to act as Dungeon Master for an exhibition game featuring Tratyn Runewind.”

  “He was going to let somebody play Tratyn Runewind?” gasped Marion.

  “No. Runewind will be a non-player character controlled by the DM. The participants just get to accompany him on an adventure.” Miles looked again at Jay Omega.

  “I’m already signed up to play,” said Diefenbaker.

  Miles Perry sighed. “I have to see that the art auction gets set up. I’ll have to be in and out.”

  Marion turned to Jay Omega. “It isn’t very difficult,” she said coaxingly. “I can show you all the basic things. Look at it as a chance to play God.”

  Jay Omega glowered at the three pleading faces before him. “Oh, all right. But don’t blame me if I make a mess of it.”

  Louis Warren appeared at the door, looking as if he were in pursuit of the Holy Grail. He was followed by Lieutenant Ayhan, who looked considerably pained.

  “Does anyone know anything about computers?” Louis asked feverishly.

  With a straight face, Jay Omega raised his hand.

  “He’s designed a few,” said Marion.

  “Oh. I need someone to help me with a discus.”

  “A disk!” said Miles, Dief, and Jay Omega in unison.

  “Whatever. I’ve explained to the lieutenant that my company absolutely has to have that manuscript now …”

  His voice was suddenly shrill.

  “… or we will sue Dungannon’s estate for return of the advance.” Noticing Ayhan’s raised eyebrows, Louis added defensively, “We do have a deadline to meet.”

  “Must be a pretty valuable manuscript,” mused Ayhan.

  “The manuscript is worth very little without the contract,” said Louis wearily, as if explaining the concept of electricity to a child, “The ex-wife, the distant relatives, the mysterious fellow in a jeep in the desert who may have picked him up hitchhiking… Lieutenant, they have nothing, nothing to gain. Dungannon left all of his money and rights to the Scottish Archaeological Society. Everybody knows that.”

  “Now,” said Ayhan, “we’re getting somewhere.” He patiently logged another suspect on his notepad. “And who are they—or it?” he asked, not really expecting a comprehensible reply.

  “Scottish history-diggers,” said Louis indifferently, “Big on excavation work. Dungannon was very keen on Celtic history. No doubt they’ll be pleased to receive this windfall a few years ahead of schedule—”

  “Hmmm,” said Ayhan, in his best speculative manner.

  “—Besides,” continued Louis, “Dungannon always said he liked dead people better than live ones.”

  “He should be ecstatic now, then,” Lieutenant Ayhan remarked.

  “So they’re going to let you take the manuscript?” asked Marion.

  “No way,” said Ayhan.

  “No,” the editor admitted. “Everything in that room is evidence in the case. In case of fingerprints, or whatever.”

  “Policy,” said Ayhan calmly.

  “But I’ve persuaded him to let me make a copy of the disk on which the book is written.”

  “Correction,” said Ayhan. “Under my supervision, you can get a reputable person to make a copy of the disk, provided that you obtain the second disk from a source other than the room containing the deceased.”

  “So all you want is for somebody to make a backup copy of a floppy disk?” said Jay Omega.

  The editor nodded. “Can you do that?”

  “I could do that,” said Marion.

  Lieutenant Ayhan smiled at her. “It’s a handsome offer, ma’am, but we’ll let the professor do it, since he has the Ph.D. and all.”

  Jay Omega smiled wickedly at Dr. Marion Farley. “Yes. Marion, better leave it to me, since I have the Ph.D.”

  “Later,” said Marion between clenched teeth.

  “What do you need to do this?” asked Ayhan.

  Jay Omega turned to Diefenbaker. “Go to the high-tech room, and ask Joel Schumann to bring me a couple of blank discs and the Diskcopy program.” He turned to Lieutenant Ayhan. “Dungannon’s machine is PC-compatible, isn’t it?”

  The detective shrugged. “For all I know, it could run on kryptonite.”<
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  Dungannon’s body had been removed, but several uniformed officers were still in the room examining the deceased’s personal effects and taking photographs.

  Jay Omega could see no sign of a struggle, and no traces of blood in the bland, modern cubicle. Dungannon’s suitcase lay open on the chair, and his computer and printer occupied most of the desk space. Omega was relieved to see that it was a Sanyo portable, about ninety per cent IBM compatible. He was afraid that Dungannon might have used some sort of mini-machine that took micro-diskettes; they’d have needed a scavenger hunt to round some of those up. He was glad the regular floppies from the high-tech room would work.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said Lieutenant Ayhan to his troops. “Have we solved the case yet?”

  One of the officers shook his head. “Give us a few more minutes,” he grinned.

  “I came back to do my good deed for the day,” the lieutenant announced. “These fellows want to make a copy of the disk that Mr. Dungannon’s book is on. And I said that under my careful supervision, they may do so. Have you dusted it for prints yet?”

  Jay Omega winced at this suggestion.

  The uniformed cop favored Ayhan with a pitying smile. “Lucky for them we didn’t, Lieutenant. Rafferty tried it on a larceny case a couple of months ago, and it wrecked the disk.”

  “It wouldn’t do the computer any good, either,” Jay Omega observed. “Those little grains of powder would scratch both the disk and the reader head.”

  Ayhan eased himself down on the edge of the bed. “Do any of you whiz kids have any bright ideas?”

  “Sure,” said his grinning subordinate. “We’re going to do just what they want to do. Make a copy, and then dust the original.”

  “It’ll be an exact copy?” asked Ayhan.

  “Yes,” said Jay Omega. “It’ll copy all forty tracks on both sides.”

  “The fingerprints, too?” asked Ayhan.

  Jay Omega took a deep breath, and prepared to launch into a disk lecture.

  “He’s putting you on,” said the uniformed cop. “Here’s the disk. Have you got a blank one?”

  Jay Omega looked up just as Joel Schumann arrived at the open door. “I brought the disks. Dr. Mega!” he called out.

  “Here they are now,” said Omega.

  The photographer waved Joel through.

  Joel and the uniformed cop grinned at the solemnity with which Jay Omega sat down to carry out this simple computer task. He inserted the DOS disk in drive A, and reached for Dungannon’s master disk, but Ayhan, holding one corner with a handkerchief, signaled that he would do it himself. Finally the computer was ready to copy: master disk in A; blank disk in B.

  “You brought an extra disk?” asked Ayhan.

  Joel handed him one.

  “Good. Consider this our fee for the favor. Another copy, please.”

  Two minutes and a series of clicks later, Jay Omega handed the copies to Ayhan and Louis Warren. He pointed to drive A. “You can take it out now,” he told the young policeman. “Just make sure nobody tries to put it back in a computer after that.”

  Louis Warren held his disk gingerly between thumb and forefinger. “How do I get this on paper to give to an editor?” he asked.

  Joel Schumann shrugged. “The high-tech room’s IBM doesn’t have a printer. You can read it on a screen there, though.”

  “Read it!?” Louis drew back in horror.

  “You know, check to make sure it’s all there—” said Joel soothingly.

  “Oh,” said Louis, still dubious. Joel smiled at the editor’s expression of distaste and suspicion; he’d often seen that reaction in people over thirty being confronted with new technology. “Come on,” he said, leading Louis away. “I’ll set it up for you.”

  Ayhan handed his copy of the disk to the young officer. “Anything else interesting?”

  Jay Omega smiled at the note of triumph in the young guy’s voice.

  “We found this in the wastebasket, sir.”

  The lieutenant unrolled the crumpled piece of paper, and studied the elegant, black calligraphy of the message:

  APPIN DUNGANNON:

  You are a tiny, insufferable prima donna, and a blight on the face of fandom. You are a vain, embittered old hack who ought to give up public appearances and spend the time going to charm school. … or reading Anne McCaffrey. Either would improve you immeasurably. If you cannot bring some measure of joy and inspiration to the world you touch, then you ought to die and let the sparrows have your share of the oxygen.

  After reading it twice, Ayhan glanced at the officer. “Dusted?” An affirmative nod. The lieutenant passed the paper to Jay Omega. “What do you think?”

  Omega ran his finger over the page, squinted at the calligraphy, and finally said, “Macintosh.”

  The younger cop nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

  Ayhan whipped out his blue notebook. “Macintosh? Description? What’s his first name?”

  Jay Omega shrugged. “Apple?”

  “London Font,” said the young cop.

  “I make it eighteen point.”

  Ayhan stopped writing. “Somebody’s babbling,” he announced. “Have you called in a handwriting expert?”

  Jay Omega handed him back the note. “You don’t need a handwriting expert,” he explained gently. “This is a computer-generated document. We think it was done on a Macintosh in calligraphy script.”

  “So how do we find out who wrote it? Do we know who owns one of these things?”

  “Well,” said Jay Omega. “There’s a Macintosh with a printer in the high-tech display room downstairs. My guess is that it was done there. If so, maybe Joel could tell you who used it.”

  “The kid that just left?” Ayhan motioned to the young cop. “Go talk to him, Simmons. Since you speak the language.”

  “I guess you got your first real clue,” said Jay Omega, trying to be soothing.

  “Yeah,” growled Ayhan. “And the suspect is a fifty-pound hunk of plastic named Macintosh. I love this case.”

  TWELVE

  The Rubicon Banquet and Costume Ball began promptly at seven in the main ballroom of the hotel, which had been decorated for the occasion with streamers and SF movie posters. The speakers’ table was set beneath a vintage Thief of Baghdad poster, and sported centerpieces of yellow candles and blue Tribbles, arranged in small clumps around handfuls of grain. The second chair to the left of the podium was conspicuously empty.

  At the long banquet tables perpendicular to the main one, an assortment of medieval dignitaries and extraterrestrials sipped grapefruit punch (listed on the menu as Pangalactic Gargleblaster), and exchanged the latest rumors about the murder of Appin Dungannon. Since Lieutenant Ayhan had spent a long and tedious afternoon interviewing a cross-section of Rubicon participants, many of them had a good idea how the investigation was going, and what matters were likely to interest the police.

  “Did you mention the costume contest?”

  “Of course! If you didn’t, they’d think you were suspicious! But did you tell them how he ruined Douglas’s books with a Tolkien signature?”

  “I hear Douglas told them he was glad someone had iced Dungannon, when they questioned him.”

  “Did they ask you about a note?”

  “Yeah. And a lot of funny computer questions, too.”

  “Did somebody steal Dungannon’s computer?”

  “I heard he threw it at the murderer. Is this punch alcoholic?”

  At the elevated speakers’ table, above rabble and rumors and to the right of Miles Perry and the empty chair, sat Marion, sandwiched between Jay Omega and Walter Diefenbaker. The other side of the podium was reserved for the guest artist, three Rubicon board members, and the chief mourner: Clifford Morgan, a.k.a. Tratyn Runewind. Of the honored guests only a woman board member and Morgan/Runewind had appeared in costume. Dief wore his Canadian formal attire, a brown turtleneck and tweed blazer with maple-leaf lapel pin; the other men wore suits and ties. Mar
ion had decided to be an elegant Mrs. Peel in green watered silk and pearls, but she kept the Sixties hairstyle as a tribute to her heroine.

  “What is that music?” she whispered to Diefenbaker.

  “Schubert. ‘Death and the Maiden.’ We were going to use Star Wars soundtrack albums, but Miles thought that this would be more fitting under the circumstances.”