it?”
“Tomorrow night! You mean, you will?”
I’ll dine out on this one, thought Donnie McRory. But it did beat reading the stupid American magazines or watching the telly. Tonight’s concert wasthe usual one-nighter and he was booked into this bleeding hotel for the entire weekend. “I don’t have to do anything else, but just be there?” he asked menacingly.
“Well… do you play the bagpipes?”
“Do you own a kilt?”
The social hour preceding the costume contest seemed to Jay Omega to be a cross between a worship service and a Senate investigation. As a relatively small fish in the literary pond, he had ample opportunity to observe Appin Dungannon in intellectual combat.
Dungannon, his ego weatherproofed with vodka, held court in front of a table of Dungannon paraphernalia: hardbacks, paperbacks, Runewind posters, action figures, and game spinoffs. The transactions involving these items were managed by a clerk, whose existence was beneath Dungannon’s notice.
The encounters did not often go as Jay Omega had expected. As a new author, he had pictured public appearances in which faithful readers, their faces shining with admiration, would approach the author shyly and murmur what a wonderful book he’d written. The actual author/reader dialogues fell far short of his fantasies.
“You Dungannon?” asked a tall red-haired youth in armor.
“Correct,” said Appin Dungannon, without bothering to look up from his autographing.
“Well, I just finished your last book and I don’t think you ought to have killed Beithir in the last battle. I mean, sure, he threw the Sword of Ossian into Black Annis’ Well, but he did save Tratyn Runewind from the Gabriel Hounds, and—”
Appin Dungannon skewered the fan with an arctic stare. “What’s the matter with you, pinhead? Don’t you have a life? If you enjoy meddling, join the Peace Corps!”
Another fan turned up with a stack of Dungannon novels. “Would you sign all these, please? Just a signature is okay.”
“There are a few people behind you. Doesn’t it bother you to be so selfish?”
The fan shrugged. “Not particularly. I figure this is my big chance to get your autograph.”
“You have three copies of the same book in here.”
“Right. Someday you’ll be dead, and I’ll be rich.”
The crowd moved back a little in order to dodge flying hardbacks, but the outburst was not forthcoming. With a grim smile, Dungannon signed each book in the stack. When he had finished, the speculator snatched his copies and hurried away.
Two signatures later, just as a scrawny youth in G.I. camouflage was criticizing Dungannon’s last book, a howl went up from the other side of the lobby.
“YOU LITTLE CREEP!” roared the guy with the stack of books. “You ruined my books!”
Dungannon leered at him. “You said signature only!” He yelled back.
“Look at this!” wailed the fan, holding out a book for the bystanders to see. “He signed ‘J.R.R. Tolkien’ on every goddamned one of them!”
“Who’s next?” purred Dungannon.
No one wanted to discuss plot mechanics with Jay Omega. No one seemed to have heard of the book. Several fen ambled up to the table and examined the cover, which always made theauthor profoundly uneasy. “Er—it isn’t really like that,” he murmured to a young woman in a harem costume with a worried frown.
She tossed him a coy look. “Dirty old man!”
Even worse were the people who approved of the book, based only on its cover. One pizza-faced youth gazed longingly at the amazon in the cover art, and whispered hoarsely, “I think I’m going to like this one. Is it really raunchy?”
Marion snickered.
“No,” said Jay Omega earnestly. “It’s really very scientific.”
“No explicit sex?”
“Not even close,” Marion assured him. “Jay’s idea of a stag movie is
Bambi.”
The
“Tomorrow night! You mean, you will?”
I’ll dine out on this one, thought Donnie McRory. But it did beat reading the stupid American magazines or watching the telly. Tonight’s concert wasthe usual one-nighter and he was booked into this bleeding hotel for the entire weekend. “I don’t have to do anything else, but just be there?” he asked menacingly.
“Well… do you play the bagpipes?”
“Do you own a kilt?”
The social hour preceding the costume contest seemed to Jay Omega to be a cross between a worship service and a Senate investigation. As a relatively small fish in the literary pond, he had ample opportunity to observe Appin Dungannon in intellectual combat.
Dungannon, his ego weatherproofed with vodka, held court in front of a table of Dungannon paraphernalia: hardbacks, paperbacks, Runewind posters, action figures, and game spinoffs. The transactions involving these items were managed by a clerk, whose existence was beneath Dungannon’s notice.
The encounters did not often go as Jay Omega had expected. As a new author, he had pictured public appearances in which faithful readers, their faces shining with admiration, would approach the author shyly and murmur what a wonderful book he’d written. The actual author/reader dialogues fell far short of his fantasies.
“You Dungannon?” asked a tall red-haired youth in armor.
“Correct,” said Appin Dungannon, without bothering to look up from his autographing.
“Well, I just finished your last book and I don’t think you ought to have killed Beithir in the last battle. I mean, sure, he threw the Sword of Ossian into Black Annis’ Well, but he did save Tratyn Runewind from the Gabriel Hounds, and—”
Appin Dungannon skewered the fan with an arctic stare. “What’s the matter with you, pinhead? Don’t you have a life? If you enjoy meddling, join the Peace Corps!”
Another fan turned up with a stack of Dungannon novels. “Would you sign all these, please? Just a signature is okay.”
“There are a few people behind you. Doesn’t it bother you to be so selfish?”
The fan shrugged. “Not particularly. I figure this is my big chance to get your autograph.”
“You have three copies of the same book in here.”
“Right. Someday you’ll be dead, and I’ll be rich.”
The crowd moved back a little in order to dodge flying hardbacks, but the outburst was not forthcoming. With a grim smile, Dungannon signed each book in the stack. When he had finished, the speculator snatched his copies and hurried away.
Two signatures later, just as a scrawny youth in G.I. camouflage was criticizing Dungannon’s last book, a howl went up from the other side of the lobby.
“YOU LITTLE CREEP!” roared the guy with the stack of books. “You ruined my books!”
Dungannon leered at him. “You said signature only!” He yelled back.
“Look at this!” wailed the fan, holding out a book for the bystanders to see. “He signed ‘J.R.R. Tolkien’ on every goddamned one of them!”
“Who’s next?” purred Dungannon.
No one wanted to discuss plot mechanics with Jay Omega. No one seemed to have heard of the book. Several fen ambled up to the table and examined the cover, which always made theauthor profoundly uneasy. “Er—it isn’t really like that,” he murmured to a young woman in a harem costume with a worried frown.
She tossed him a coy look. “Dirty old man!”
Even worse were the people who approved of the book, based only on its cover. One pizza-faced youth gazed longingly at the amazon in the cover art, and whispered hoarsely, “I think I’m going to like this one. Is it really raunchy?”
Marion snickered.
“No,” said Jay Omega earnestly. “It’s really very scientific.”
“No explicit sex?”
“Not even close,” Marion assured him. “Jay’s idea of a stag movie is
Bambi.”
The
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