Free Bimbos of the Death Sun by Sharyn McCrumb Page B

like to be there for that,” said Dief, “And how about the Star Trek wedding—did you manage to work out the details?”
     
    Miles nodded. “Yes, I have no objections. In fact it ought to be good publicity for the con. Maybe we’ll make the front page of the city section this year.”
     
    “I’m glad you’re pleased. I just hope there aren’t any more surprises in the works. Appin Dungannon is quite enough spontaneity for one con.”
     
    Jay Omega had spent another half-hour at his autograph table, thus earning at his present royalty rate another thirty-six cents in book sales, while Marion toured the hucksters’ room. Presently she returned, pinning a calligraphy button to the pocket of her jump suit. It said:
     
    “IF THEY CAN SEND
A MAN TO THE MOON,
WHY CAN’T THEY
SEND ALL OF THEM?”
     
    “Don’t take it personally,” she told Jay. “I just thought it was cute. It will sustain me through thecheeseburger fiction I have to read from the more chauvinistic male writers.”
     
    “I don’t have the energy to be insulted,” said Jay Omega. “Bewilderment is taking all my concentration. I keep hearing snatches of conversation as people walk by, and trying to make sense of them. ‘Life on a breathable gas ring …’”
     
    Marion nodded. “They were discussing a book by Larry Niven.”
     
    “Oh. I thought they were talking about a contaminated stove. How about this one? A ‘real Monty Haul campaign’?”
     
    “Dungeons & Dragons
. Monty Hall hosted a giveaway show called ‘Let’s Make a Deal.’ Gamers use the term to mean an adventure in which players get lots of treasure and easy victories.”
     
    “Good evening,” said a young man in a broad-brimmed floppy hat, edging past them.
     
    Jay stared at the young man’s costume—a long, many-pocketed overcoat, and at the twenty-foot scarf dangling at both ends. “Who was that?”
     
    “Quite correct,” grinned Marion. “It was, indeed. Now, would you like to look in on the filksinging? It’s nearly eleven.”
     
    He yawned. “Gee, is it eleven, already? Shouldn’t we plan to turn in, since we have a lot to do tomorrow?”
     
    Marion’s face fell. “Oh, are you really tired? I was sort of looking forward to the filksinging.”
     
    “But you keep saying how ridiculous all this is.”
     
    She sighed. “Old habits die hard, I guess. I can remember sitting around singing defamatory
Star Trek
parodies until the wee hours of the morning.—Years ago, that is,” she added hastily.
     
    “And you keep saying how glad you are that yououtgrew it,” Jay reminded her.
     
    “It might be fun,” said Marion wistfully. “We don’t have to stay long.”
     
    Jay Omega reflected guiltily on the times he’d made Marion spend an hour in the auto parts store, and of keeping her waiting twenty minutes for lunch while he did “just one more thing” on the computer.
     
    “Okay,” he said, “I suppose we could just stop by.”
     
    Stashing his books in the canvas suitcase, he followed Marion into the elevator. Its other occupant, a stocky teenager, was wearing army fatigues and a button reading:
     
    “BAN THE BOMB!
SAVE THE WORLD
FOR CONVENTIONAL WARFARE”
     
    Jay Omega decided that this was one of the wargamers Diefenbaker had been talking about.
     
    “Where is the singing? Back in the auditorium?”
     
    “No. It isn’t a concert—just a sing-along. They’ll probably have it in Monk Malone’s room.”
     
    Jay remembered the Rasputin character who was “very good” at being a fan. “Yes, I’ve seen him,” he said. “A sing-along, huh? Will we know the songs, do you think?”
     
    “In a way,” smiled Marion. “I guarantee you’ll know the tunes. And the words will be passed around on mimeographed sheets.” Seeing Jay’s disconcerted expression, she added, “We won’t stay long.”
     
    They emerged on the fourth floor, and threaded their way past a corridor
D&D
game. A stern-looking DM, surrounded by piles