young man wandered away, and several more fen, like browsing cattle, edged up to the book table.
“Do you make a lot of money writing paperbacks?” asked a Dorsai.
“No,” said Jay Omega. “Hour for hour, the Seven-Eleven pays better.”
“Do you have an agent?”
“Uh. Yeah.” Her husband was from the same hometown as his college roommate; but only Marion had been trusted with that secret of how he got his big break in publishing.
“And what’s your agent’s name and phone number?”
Jay Omega was still wondering how Appin Dungannon would have fielded this question when Marion leaned over and said, “Never ask an author that, unless you want to be taken for a complete jerk!”
“Well, I have this great manuscript…”
Marion turned to Jay Omega. “What’s your consulting fee in engineering?”
“For companies? Two hundred and fifty dollars a day, but—”
“Fine.” She smiled up at the would-be author. “He’ll read your stuff for two hundred and fifty dollars. In advance. Next!”
Joel Schumann, on a break from the computer displays, pulled out his wallet. “Is this your book, Dr. Omega! Hey, great! Would you autograph it for me? Boy, I can’t wait to tell the guys in lab that—”
“No! You can’t do that!” gasped Jay Omega. “Look, Joel, what if I give you a book, autographed and everything. Will you not tell anybody I wrote it?”
He blinked. “Well, sure, I guess, Dr. Mega. If that’s what you want.”
“It is, Joel. It really is. Here, take the book. Now, is that ‘Schumann’ with two ‘Ns’?”
“Yes. Say, Dr. Mega, are you coming back to the computer room?”
“Tomorrow for sure,” he promised, avoiding Marion’s disapproving glare.
“You’re hopeless,” sighed Marion, when Joel was gone. “All you want to do is play with your high-tech toys. You ought to hire someone to be Jay Omega for you.”
“Someone like that?” asked Jay Omega, nodding toward his fellow author.
Marion looked at Appin Dungannon, who was posing for a Polaroid photograph with two barbarian maidens in leather battle garb. “Forget I mentioned it, Jay.”
SIX
T he Rubicon Costume Contest, held in the hotel ballroom, was the social event of the evening. Since no audience participation was required, except lust, which was optional, even sociopaths like Bonnenberger chose to attend. Wargamers, Dungeon Masters, NASA freaks, comic book junkies, and other assorted fen, costumed and otherwise, sprawled in metal folding chairs facing the stage and waited for the pageantry to begin.
As official judge of the competition, Appin Dungannon was given a seat of honor in full view of the stage, and a small table with refreshments and a yellow legal pad, on which he might make notes about the various contestants. At the moment, however, he seemed more interested in the lint on his cowboy hat than he was in the proceedings at hand.
Miles Perry, who was master of ceremonies, clutched his note cards in a sweaty fist, and glanced toward the wings. “Are they ready yet?” he mouthed at Diefenbaker.
Dief shook his head vigorously, and made a little sign that meant “Stall them.”
Miles tapped the microphone. “Ah … hum. Can you hear me out there?” An electronic shriek accompanied his voice, sending two technicians scurrying for the sound system. “First of all, I’d like to thank … I’D LIKE TO THANK … Testing.”
“The costumes are really works of art,” whispered Marion to Jay Omega. “It’s rather sad, really.”
“Why? I think it would be nice to have such … talent,” he said almost enviously.
“I was thinking of how they use it, Jay. Imagine working for six months on a costume that you’ll only get to wear once or twice a year, instead of going into dress designing or some other profession related to that skill, where you could actually accomplish
“Do you make a lot of money writing paperbacks?” asked a Dorsai.
“No,” said Jay Omega. “Hour for hour, the Seven-Eleven pays better.”
“Do you have an agent?”
“Uh. Yeah.” Her husband was from the same hometown as his college roommate; but only Marion had been trusted with that secret of how he got his big break in publishing.
“And what’s your agent’s name and phone number?”
Jay Omega was still wondering how Appin Dungannon would have fielded this question when Marion leaned over and said, “Never ask an author that, unless you want to be taken for a complete jerk!”
“Well, I have this great manuscript…”
Marion turned to Jay Omega. “What’s your consulting fee in engineering?”
“For companies? Two hundred and fifty dollars a day, but—”
“Fine.” She smiled up at the would-be author. “He’ll read your stuff for two hundred and fifty dollars. In advance. Next!”
Joel Schumann, on a break from the computer displays, pulled out his wallet. “Is this your book, Dr. Omega! Hey, great! Would you autograph it for me? Boy, I can’t wait to tell the guys in lab that—”
“No! You can’t do that!” gasped Jay Omega. “Look, Joel, what if I give you a book, autographed and everything. Will you not tell anybody I wrote it?”
He blinked. “Well, sure, I guess, Dr. Mega. If that’s what you want.”
“It is, Joel. It really is. Here, take the book. Now, is that ‘Schumann’ with two ‘Ns’?”
“Yes. Say, Dr. Mega, are you coming back to the computer room?”
“Tomorrow for sure,” he promised, avoiding Marion’s disapproving glare.
“You’re hopeless,” sighed Marion, when Joel was gone. “All you want to do is play with your high-tech toys. You ought to hire someone to be Jay Omega for you.”
“Someone like that?” asked Jay Omega, nodding toward his fellow author.
Marion looked at Appin Dungannon, who was posing for a Polaroid photograph with two barbarian maidens in leather battle garb. “Forget I mentioned it, Jay.”
SIX
T he Rubicon Costume Contest, held in the hotel ballroom, was the social event of the evening. Since no audience participation was required, except lust, which was optional, even sociopaths like Bonnenberger chose to attend. Wargamers, Dungeon Masters, NASA freaks, comic book junkies, and other assorted fen, costumed and otherwise, sprawled in metal folding chairs facing the stage and waited for the pageantry to begin.
As official judge of the competition, Appin Dungannon was given a seat of honor in full view of the stage, and a small table with refreshments and a yellow legal pad, on which he might make notes about the various contestants. At the moment, however, he seemed more interested in the lint on his cowboy hat than he was in the proceedings at hand.
Miles Perry, who was master of ceremonies, clutched his note cards in a sweaty fist, and glanced toward the wings. “Are they ready yet?” he mouthed at Diefenbaker.
Dief shook his head vigorously, and made a little sign that meant “Stall them.”
Miles tapped the microphone. “Ah … hum. Can you hear me out there?” An electronic shriek accompanied his voice, sending two technicians scurrying for the sound system. “First of all, I’d like to thank … I’D LIKE TO THANK … Testing.”
“The costumes are really works of art,” whispered Marion to Jay Omega. “It’s rather sad, really.”
“Why? I think it would be nice to have such … talent,” he said almost enviously.
“I was thinking of how they use it, Jay. Imagine working for six months on a costume that you’ll only get to wear once or twice a year, instead of going into dress designing or some other profession related to that skill, where you could actually accomplish
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