something.”
Jay Omega smiled. “Not everyone has a tenure-track mind, Marion.”
“I still think it’s a waste.” She looked up at the stage where the first contestant had made her entrance. “And that is particularly a waste.”
The costume was impressive: yards and yards of green velvet, carefully embroidered with gold thread and artificial pearls. A leather cummerbund with criss-crossed laces cinched the waist, and the white satin bodice stopped quite abruptly to expose two aggressively prominent breasts. The effect of this medieval artistry would have been pure enchantment, had the ensemble been tensizes smaller, and had it not been battened on to a fierce-looking redhead who might have outweighed the average calf.
“This … ah … this is Brenda Lindenfeld of Annandale, portraying the Welsh goddess Arianrhod.” Miles Perry’s voice made little puffing sounds in the microphone as he leaned over his note cards.
The audience waited in polite silence—or perhaps weary indifference. No catcalls rang out from the darkness, and even Appin Dungannon remained solemnly bent over his legal pad, although the time he had spent evaluating the costume could be measured in milliseconds.
“I’m glad nobody laughed,” murmured Jay Omega.
“Oh, no, they wouldn’t,” Marion assured him. “These guys know what it’s like to be outcasts; they are very tolerant indeed. Except intellectually. Besides, look around you.”
Jay Omega glanced toward the rows behind them, wondering what he was supposed to notice.
“Yes? Looks like one of my engineering classes to me.”
“It would,” grinned Marion. “Mostly males. Women are at a premium in this hobby, and therefore even the plain ones are prized. That poor creature up there could pick up six guys by Sunday if she chose. I expect she’ll settle for one.”
Jay Omega peered at Brenda Lindenfeld, who was rotating slowly to show off her hooded cloak. “Any six guys?”
“No, silly. Any six losers. You know, the terminally shy guys who have no idea how to talk to a woman; the runty little nerds that no one elsewants; and the fat intellectuals who want to be loved for their minds. She can take her pick of those.”
“That’s nice. I guess.”
Marion shook her head. “I find it very frustrating. It seems to me that they all cluster together like sheep with their backs to the wind, when they would be a good deal better off coming to terms with the world.”
“They seem happy enough,” said Jay Omega, wishing somebody would laugh or applaud to prove his point.
“Sure, they’ve moved their egos into fictional bodies on the paperback rack so that they can ignore the rejection in real life. I teach science fiction, Jay! I know these people.”
The second contestant, an Imperial Stormtrooper in a homemade uniform of cardboard and white styrofoam clumped onto the stage. He pointed his laser-gun at the audience, leered menacingly through the white face mask, and bowed to Appin Dungannon. The judge’s salute turned into a stifled yawn, and the Stormtrooper marched back into the wings.
Miles Perry leaned into the microphone. “And that was contestant number two. Chip Livingstone, as Sanyo the Stormtrooper.” He clapped a couple of times halfheartedly, but the audience response was weak.
Marion turned back to Jay Omega. “I knew a guy once—Brian Something-or-Other—who had read every single book we covered in the science fiction course. He had also read every other book by the same authors. And do you know what grade he got in the course? An F. He didn’t come to class half thetime. He even missed the mid-term. He was off role-playing and dragon-slaying.”
Jay Omega frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. It’s an elective course, and he knew the material. Why would he blow an easy A?”
“Beats me. I never could figure it out. A’s don’t mean much to a
Jay Omega smiled. “Not everyone has a tenure-track mind, Marion.”
“I still think it’s a waste.” She looked up at the stage where the first contestant had made her entrance. “And that is particularly a waste.”
The costume was impressive: yards and yards of green velvet, carefully embroidered with gold thread and artificial pearls. A leather cummerbund with criss-crossed laces cinched the waist, and the white satin bodice stopped quite abruptly to expose two aggressively prominent breasts. The effect of this medieval artistry would have been pure enchantment, had the ensemble been tensizes smaller, and had it not been battened on to a fierce-looking redhead who might have outweighed the average calf.
“This … ah … this is Brenda Lindenfeld of Annandale, portraying the Welsh goddess Arianrhod.” Miles Perry’s voice made little puffing sounds in the microphone as he leaned over his note cards.
The audience waited in polite silence—or perhaps weary indifference. No catcalls rang out from the darkness, and even Appin Dungannon remained solemnly bent over his legal pad, although the time he had spent evaluating the costume could be measured in milliseconds.
“I’m glad nobody laughed,” murmured Jay Omega.
“Oh, no, they wouldn’t,” Marion assured him. “These guys know what it’s like to be outcasts; they are very tolerant indeed. Except intellectually. Besides, look around you.”
Jay Omega glanced toward the rows behind them, wondering what he was supposed to notice.
“Yes? Looks like one of my engineering classes to me.”
“It would,” grinned Marion. “Mostly males. Women are at a premium in this hobby, and therefore even the plain ones are prized. That poor creature up there could pick up six guys by Sunday if she chose. I expect she’ll settle for one.”
Jay Omega peered at Brenda Lindenfeld, who was rotating slowly to show off her hooded cloak. “Any six guys?”
“No, silly. Any six losers. You know, the terminally shy guys who have no idea how to talk to a woman; the runty little nerds that no one elsewants; and the fat intellectuals who want to be loved for their minds. She can take her pick of those.”
“That’s nice. I guess.”
Marion shook her head. “I find it very frustrating. It seems to me that they all cluster together like sheep with their backs to the wind, when they would be a good deal better off coming to terms with the world.”
“They seem happy enough,” said Jay Omega, wishing somebody would laugh or applaud to prove his point.
“Sure, they’ve moved their egos into fictional bodies on the paperback rack so that they can ignore the rejection in real life. I teach science fiction, Jay! I know these people.”
The second contestant, an Imperial Stormtrooper in a homemade uniform of cardboard and white styrofoam clumped onto the stage. He pointed his laser-gun at the audience, leered menacingly through the white face mask, and bowed to Appin Dungannon. The judge’s salute turned into a stifled yawn, and the Stormtrooper marched back into the wings.
Miles Perry leaned into the microphone. “And that was contestant number two. Chip Livingstone, as Sanyo the Stormtrooper.” He clapped a couple of times halfheartedly, but the audience response was weak.
Marion turned back to Jay Omega. “I knew a guy once—Brian Something-or-Other—who had read every single book we covered in the science fiction course. He had also read every other book by the same authors. And do you know what grade he got in the course? An F. He didn’t come to class half thetime. He even missed the mid-term. He was off role-playing and dragon-slaying.”
Jay Omega frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. It’s an elective course, and he knew the material. Why would he blow an easy A?”
“Beats me. I never could figure it out. A’s don’t mean much to a
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