Alex grabbed the phaser from Coulson's hands and stabbed at the buttons until the screen went black.
Bob spoke without turning from the screen. "The backdrop. It was the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago."
Coulson frowned. "Arteria looks familiar. I've seen him somewhere before. At a con? Art show?" He shook his head. "A long time ago."
Had Sherrine seen this? Alex twisted and looked by the door. Barbara and Sherrine were gone. But they were there earlier.
He left the Video Room and wandered down the corridor. An open room door showed fans carpeting the beds and floor. Other doors were closed and silent. The Con was shutting down for the night.
Downstairs in one of the function rooms, he found Dinsby in a circle of femmefans surrounding Gordon.
"… syllables, accents or feet," Gordon was saying.
"But English stresses are too strong for syllabic poetry, which is why haiku does not work in English. Accentual poetry is the native English structure. As in Beowulf, which has four beats per line with central pause. Is also the limerick like you hear in nursery rhymes and rap. But accent structure can degenerate into mere broken prose,' like free verse, which is basic form used for advertising copy. Was Chaucer who invented the foot, which combines accent and syllable-- "Yes, Alex, what is it?"
Alex put a hand on a table to steady himself. "I'm looking for Sherrine. Have you seen her?"
"She was with me earlier," Dinsby said. "I came out here for the midnight poetry panel. I saw her leave the room party a few minutes ago. I think she went outside." She pointed to the side door on the right.
Outside, the night air was a knife in his lungs and the stars hung like diamonds on velvet. He exhaled a cloudy breath. Not as cold as it had been up north; but still… The moon was low in the west, casting pale, pearly shadows. One of the shadows moved slightly and Alex headed toward it.
She was hunched up with her knees tucked under her chin and her arms wrapped around her legs. Alex hunkered down beside her. She looked at him; looked away and drew her sleeve across her nose.
"You shouldn't cry during an ice age," he told her. "Your eyes will freeze closed."
"Or open. I'd rather have them freeze open. Better to see if anyone's chasing you."
"You saw the news clip, then."
She said nothing, but Alex could sense her nod. "I won't make a very good 'wanted fan,' will I? If they showed Fang or Crazy Eddie on national TV with everyone in the country asked to turn them in… they'd throw a party."
"They think they can't be caught. They have faith in their own wits."
"I'm in real trouble, then. My instincts are no damned good."
"Your instincts are the best."
"I'm drunk, and I'm depressed, and I'm cold."
Alex didn't think he could do much about the first two complaints. He put his arm around her. "Do you want to go back inside? It's warmer there."
He could feel her shake her head. "No. I'm fine now." She snuggled against him. "Who would have thought it could get so chilly in the desert?"
Alex pointed to the sky with his left hand. "No clouds. The ground radiates its heat into open space. I bet you could make ice that way."
"You can."
"Ah."
"Look at the moon," she said. It was three-quarters full and just kissing the horizon, swollen by the lens of air. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"
"Not so beautiful as the Earth, looking back."
"Have you ever been there? To the moon."
"No." And now he could never go. Alex can't go out and play because he might get a nosebleed. I don't even have a suit anymore.
"I'd like to go there. I've always wanted to go there. Ever since I read Space Captives of the Golden Men. I forget who wrote it. A juvenile. These kids are kidnapped by Martians--we could still imagine Martians in those days--and taken to the moon; and I've always wanted to be… to be…"
She turned and buried her face against him and he hugged her tight. "I'll take you there," he promised. Don't make promises you can't keep. "Someday, I'll kidnap you and take you to the moon."
Oh, Alex." She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. It was a soft, lingering kiss, and Alex felt himself respond to the promise. He shifted his arms and hugged her tight and kissed her back. "Alex, make love to me."
"What, here? Now? It's too cold."
She laid her head on his shoulder. "You don't want to?"
"I--yes, dammit. Yes, I do. But--"
"Then forget your damned courtship rites and your damned propriety. You're in Faerie now. All the habitat rules are suspended."
"Except cold!" he laughed.
She grabbed him and ran her hands down his body. The moon had set and the desert night was as black as death. The galactic spiral was a garland draped across the sky. They fumbled under their clothing, exploring each other; never quite exposed to the night cold and growing warm enough with the effort. Alex discovered that if you were careful and if you wanted something badly enough, you could accomplish anything. None of it was planned.
It was better than a plan.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The LASFS
Steve Mews and George Long pedaled through the decaying neighborhood at dusk. Long looked around and whistled "Man, this place would make Harlem look like Bel Air!"
Mews grinned. "Yeah, but it's not so bad. Besides, we're the meanest S-O-B's in the valley."
George Long looked it. He was an enormous black giant. Steve had been trying to get him to work out for years, but Long always said, "Hell, I'm a nurse! Sometimes I wonder what a frail old geriatric patient thinks when he sees, or she sees, Rosey Grier bearing down on her with a bedpan and a mucking great hypodermic. You get me doing that black-belt stuff and they'll arrest me for breathing."
The house was huge, a six-bedroom mansion built in the 1920s during the Hollywood era. It hadn't been painted in years, and now stood almost isolated. There were houses on both sides of it but they'd sunk even further into decay, not quite abandoned, but inhabited by people who just didn't give a damn. Mews led Long up the driveway to the garage in back. There were other bicycles there. The garage was dimly lit by a single electric bulb.
"Big place," Long said. "I knew Los Angeles fans had a clubhouse, but this is something!"
"Heh, heh. You don't know the half of it." Steve swept his hand around. "There was a freeway going through. The Greens got that stopped, but the whole area had already been condemned. Nobody can get permits to build here, or to tear anything down either. It's all pretty stupid, but it's good for LASFS. Glen Bailey knew it first because he's a Green."
Long shied off a bit. "You've got a tame Green?"
"Glennie's not tame. But he's definitely one of ours, and he got us this house. They're paying us a caretaker fee to keep the druggies out!" He grinned. "Of course, they aren't paying the Los Angeles Science Fantasy Society, Inc. They're paying the LA Safety First Society. The checks still read LASFS."
"You're still incorporated?"
"No, they yanked our Inc. 'Not in the public interest.' I keep forgetting."
There were more lights at the big house. Steve led the way to the back door and knocked, then stood in the dim pool of light from the porch lamp. After a moment the door opened. " 'Lo, Steve," a large elderly woman said.
" 'Lo, June. This is George Long."
"I know George," she said. "You're a long way from NESFA."