Bimbos of the Death Sun by Sharyn McCrumb Page B

were watching the credits to
The Day the World Ended
roll up the screen.
     
    “Man, I knew the rain was going to kill the mutants,” said Bill Fox, flipping off the television. Because of his status as a mechanical engineering major at Tech, Fox, a member of the Rubicon steering committee, was in charge of the video room.
     
    The six people sprawled on chairs and couches throughout the room went on sleeping. Two other video junkies yawned and stretched. “I thought that was a lot scarier last time I saw it,” one remarked.
     
    “How old were you then?”
     
    “About eight.”
     
    Joseph Bonnenberger, still in his lair in the corner, looked up to see why the sound had stopped. “Television,” he said.
     
    “Breakfast time,” said Bill. “Knock off ’til nine. Gotta go get something to eat.” He watched Bonnenberger dump his change on the end table. “Candy machines are in the hall next to the lobby, man.”
     
    “Anybody got a program handy?” asked a sleepy Star Fleet officer, uncurling out of a lounge chair.
     
    “Yeah,” said Bill. “Usual stuff starts at nine. Videos, wargames, art show, hucksters. Then at ten, there’s a live-action
D&D
game that begins in the lobby. Real weapons strictly forbidden. And the art pro will have a seminar also at ten.”
     
    “Is Dungannon talking today?”
     
    “One o’clock in the auditorium. Anything else you need?”
     
    “Just a toothbrush.”
     
    “Use your finger.” Bill Fox scooped up the videos and started out the door, nearly colliding with Brenda Lindenfeld in the hall.
     
    She was still wearing her velvet gown, but her expression had softened considerably from the fierce scowl of the night before. She was escorted by a scrawny young man in a green turtleneck who walked beside her when hallway space permitted it.
     
    Bill Fox turned back to the video lounge. “Hey! Who was that guy with Brenda Lindenfeld?”
     
    Bonnenberger looked up from his book. Since he and Bill were alone in the lounge, he decided to venture a quip. “Her lunch,” he said.
     
    You always got more of Bonnenberger when there was no one else around.
     
    Walter Diefenbaker hoped the registration clerk would be back from breakfast soon. He should have asked someone to bring him something from McDonalds. Now he had a choice between peanut butter crackers from the vending machine or missing the live
D&D
game. Dief was not a fantasy person, but he did allow himself an occasional frivolity, and the role-playing sounded like a lark. Today his tweed jacket sported a button reading:
     
    IS THERE REALLY A CANADA,
OR ARE ALL THOSE GUYS JUST KIDDING?
     
    He should check with Miles, though, to see if he could be spared for the duration of the game. If one of the staff volunteers failed to show up. Miles would need someone to pitch in. Where was Miles, anyway? He hadn’t been around all morning.
     
    “Hello!” said Marion, leaning over the registration desk. She had changed her
Avengers
costume for a preppy-looking navy blazer and canvas skirt. “Jay has gone upstairs to get his books. When would you like him to set up?”
     
    Dief shrugged. “Whenever. How long can he stand to autograph? We did want to talk to him, though. The local physicist who was going to lecture on quasars at eleven has canceled out, and we were hoping that Dr. Omega might be willing to conduct a writing seminar.”
     
    “I don’t know. Surely Appin Dungannon …”
     
    “Surely
not
Appin Dungannon.”
     
    “I’m not sure Jay would have much to say to a writing seminar,” said Marion. “He’s not very chatty about his work, and he doesn’t subscribe to
Writer’s Digest
or anything like that. You can ask him, of course.”
     
    “I’ll see if Miles has managed to come up with anything else. There’s always the
Star Trek Bloopers
reel, I suppose.”
     
    “I’ll watch the table for him if you can get him to do it. I suppose he could autograph a few books before he leaves. And sometime