"Bimbos Of The Death Sun - 01 - Bimbos Of The Death Sun" - читать интересную книгу автора (McCrumb Sharyn)

Bimbos of the Death Sun
A Jay Omega Mystery
by Sharyn McCrumb

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

ONE

The visiting Scottish folksinger peered out of the elevator into the hotel lobby. When he pushed the button marked УG,Ф he naturally assumed that he would arrive at the ground floor of the building. Now he wasnТt so sure. Things were different in America, but he hadnТt realized they were this different. Perhaps УGФ stood for Ganymede, or some other intergalactic place. Who were those people?

A pale blonde in blue body paint wearing a green satin tunic stepped on to the elevator, eyeing his jeans and sweatshirt with faint disapproval. УGoing up?Ф she said in her flat American accent. She looked about twenty, he thought. The elevator was moving before he realized that heТd forgotten to get out.

УYou here for the con?Ф she asked, noticing his guitar case.

УNo. IТm a tourist.Ф He liked that better than saying he was on tour; it prevented leading questions that ended in disappointment when the American discovered: 1) that they had never heard of him, and 2) that he didnТt know Rod Stewart. УWhat are you here for?Ф

She grinned. УOh, you mean you donТt know? ItТs RubiconЧa science fiction convention. WeТre practically taking over the hotel. ThereТll be hundreds of us.Ф

УOh, right. Like Trekkies.Ф He nodded. УWe have some of your lot back home.Ф

УWhereТs home?Ф she asked, fiddling with the key ring on her yellow sash.

УScotland.Ф At least she hadnТt tried to guess. He was getting tired of being mistaken for an Australian.

As the elevator doors rumbled open on the fifth floor, the departing blue person glanced again at his jeans. УScotland, huh?Ф she mused. УArenТt you supposed to be wearing some kind of funny outfit?Ф



УIs Diefenbaker here yet?Ф asked Bernard Buchanan breathlessly. He always said things a little breathlessly, on account of the bulk he was carrying around, and he was always clutching a sheaf of computer printouts, which he would try to read to the unwary.

Miles Perry, whose years of con experience had made him chief among the wary, began to edge away from the neo-fan. УI havenТt seen him,Ф he hedged.

УI had a letter from him on Yellow Pigs Day, and he said heТd be here,Ф Bernard persisted. УHeТs supposed to be running one of the wargames, and I wanted him to look at my new parody.Ф

Miles swallowed his exasperation. It was, after all, the first hour of the convention. If he started shouting now, his blood pressure would exceed his I.Q. in no time, and there were still two more days of wide-eyed novices to endure. Diefenbaker would encourage these eager puppies; he brought it on himself. Miles had a good mind to post a notice in the hotel lobby informing everyone of DiefenbakerТs room number. Maybe a few dozen hours of collective neo-fans, all reading him fanzine press at once, would cure him of these paternal instincts. Really, Diefenbaker would write to anybody. Just let someone in Nowhere-in-Particular, New Jersey, write in a comment to DiefenbakerТs fan magazine, and Dief would fire back a friendly five-page letter, making the poor crottled greep feel liked. More comments would follow, requiring more five-page letters. Miles didnТt like to think what DiefТs postage budget would run. And this is what it came to: post-adolescent monomaniacs waiting to waylay him at cons to discuss Lithuanian politics, or silicon-based life forms, or whatever their passion was. If he werenТt careful, heТd get so tied up with these upstarts that he wouldnТt have time to socialize with the authors and the fen-elite. Miles would have to protect Dief from such pitfalls, for his own good.

УI donТt think heТs due in until tomorrow,Ф he informed the anxious young man. УOf course, you might look around the exhibition rooms and see if you can spot him.Ф

УBut I donТt know what he looks like!Ф wailed Buchanan, but Miles Perry was already disappearing into the crowd.

УMiles, I must speak to you!Ф In a green turtle-neck sweater and medallion, Richard Faber looked like a champagne bottle; he could be equally explosive as well.

УWhy, hello, Richard. How nice to see you.Ф Richard and Miles were fellow players in an other-world Diplomacy game called УFar Brandonia,Ф in which players became heads of state of mythical countries, and engaged in war or diplomacy, all meticulously recorded in a mimeographed fan magazine called Brandywind.

At the moment, Miles and Richard were in detente, which called for scrupulous politeness and as little communication as possible. УHave you signed any treaties with C.D. Novibazaar?Ф Richard demanded.

УWhy do you ask?Ф countered Miles pleasantly.

УBecause he has an army sitting on my southern border, thatТs why! I thought he was going to lend it to me, but now IТm not so sure. Is Clanton here? What about Diefenbaker?Ф