And Thor was coming down the east wing, pushing a wheelchair. Another crippled stranger. What was going on?
Hey, Thor!" Chuck moved to intercept them.
Thor froze in mid-stride. "Hi, Chuck."
"Where have you been?"
A blank look. "Here and there."
"Haven't seen you."
A shrug. "You know how it is. The Tre-house is a big place."
"Yeah. It reminds me of a scaled down Noreascon III. Remember that one? Seven thousand fen rattling around a convention center bigger than the Ringworld." He extended his hand to the man in the wheelchair. "Hi. I'm Chuck Umber. I publish Hocus."
"Gabe," said the other. "Gabe dell'Angelo."
Gabe's arm was coming up in a help less jerky wobble. Chuck dropped his own hand. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't know--" He coughed to hide his embarrassment. "Er… dell'Angelo, you say. You don't look Italian." In fact, this Gabe looked kind of Swedish, despite the dark hair. Gaunt and thin, with prominent facial bones. Like Max von Sydow without the beard. "Where are you from?"
"I came here from North Dakota."
That explained the Swede look, Chuck thought. A lot of Scandinavians had settled the upper Midwest. "I saw another guy in a wheelchair a few minutes ado. Younger. Looked enough like you to be your brother."
Gabe looked uncomfortable. He seemed to be breathin amp;, funny. "That was Rafe. We were in a flying accident."
"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."
Gabe shrugged philosophically. "With a little therapy, they tell me we should be up and walking in no time."
Chuck nodded. "That's good. So, you're a friend of Thor's, are you? I haven't seen you around before. At cons, I mean. Fandom is a small world these days."
"It seems like a big world to me. I just dropped in recently."
A neofan, then. Chuck grinned and gestured broadly. "And how do you like things so far?"
"Everything is very heavy."
Chuck laughed. "Sercon," he explained. " 'Serious and constructive activities.' Not 'heavy.' You'll have to learn the language if you're going to stay with us. Don't worry. You'll find plenty to entertain you. Not every fan activity is sercon." Chuck looked the question at Thor. Is this guy all right? There had been a time when fandom had few secrets, but no more. Can we trust him?
"Gabe and his brother haven't been able to get to cons," Thor said. "Too close to high tech. But they've lived in the future."
Chuck smiled. Thor was an undergrounder. Thor knew a lot of people who couldn't let fan sympathies show. And dell' Angelo wouldn't be their real names, either. "You've known them a long time, then?"
It was Thor's turn to grin. "Long enough."
"Great." He put his hand on Gabe's shoulder. "Really good to meet you. Have you met 3MJ yet?"
Gabe looked puzzled. "Not yet. Thor told me that this is his house."
"We call it the Tre-house. Wait'll you see his collection. Movie posters. Props. Costumes. Books. Original manuscripts. You know what 3MJ's greatest attribute is? He's got no taste at all."
The man in the wheelchair blinked his eyes rapidly and said, like a good straight man, "That's good?"
"Yes." Chuck waved an arm down the hallway. "See, he saves anything and everything. He doesn't pick and choose what suits one particular clique or literary style. His whole life is dedicated to SF."
Thor nodded agreement. "Maybe we'll have time to look at some of the collection." His grin faded. "Hope you don't have to, though."
"Uh?" Gabe grunted.
"Vaults. Hidden places," Thor said. "High tech priest holes."
These guys must be as hot as Thor! Wish I"--Chuck suppressed his curiosity. It was hard to remember that there were some things he really didn't need to know. He knew he'd never tell, but--
If the Feds could declare you homeless, they could help you. Help included all kinds of things: psychotherapy, drugs, electrical brain stimulus. Chuck had seen Henry Stiren after the Department of Welfare caught him hitchhiking with a half-done manuscript in his day pack. He'd been a hell of a promising writer before they helped him. Now he read what he'd once written and asked people if they liked it, and when they said they did, he cried.
Chuck shuddered. "Well, I hope you don't have to see it, but if you do get a chance to visit the collection, you'll see cyberpunk next to space opera; hard core next to New Wave. Science fiction, fantasy and horror. This is as close to its `national archives' as the Imagi-Nation comes. Thor, have you seen Bruce Hyde around anywhere?"
Thor stroked his beard. "Not lately. But I'm sure he's around someplace."
"Then I better be going. Someone thought he saw him upstairs in the library. Glad to have met you, Gabe." He patted the invalid on the shoulder. "Not many neofans drop in on us these days." And he hurried off.
Alex watched Chuck climb the stairs. "Can't we trust him?" he asked Thor. The roly-poly man looked like a baby-faced Mephistopheles, complete with goatee; but he had seemed pleasant enough.
"Sure, we can trust him," said Thor. "But it's one more risk. He runs Hocus Pocus, the biggest fanzine around. The authorities tolerate it because it's focused on fantasy, but Chuck manages to slip in some good old, technophile SF propaganda now and then."
"So, he's on our side, is he?"
Thor twisted a strand of his beard around his finger. "As much as anybody here. But you guys are Big News, and the Library Advisory Boards all read Hocus. Thor's face turned ugly. "I don't know how they get copies. Somebody sold out. But the fewer who know, the better. That minimizes the risk. Not Just to us but to Chuck Umber." He chuckled. "One day he'll realize that you answered his every question literally and kick himself."
"What did he mean by the `Imagi-Nation'?"
Thor released the brake on the wheelchair. "The danelaw is where the mundanes rule. Downers, you called them. The Imagi-Nation is us."
"I see." A small group, persecuted by its government, forced to hide its treasures and meet in secret. Arguably crazy, every one of them he'd seen, except for Sherrine. And they had risked everything, all their treasures, to rescue him from the Ice. It would hardly be polite to let them know that they were Downers, too.
Alex said, "I'm starting to realize what Mary meant."
"Eh?"
"Mission control told us we had strange friends on Earth."
"None stranger," Thor agreed.
"Now I see what you're up against. It's like David facing Goliath."
Thor grunted, disparagingly. "Big deal. Remember who won that fight?"
"But why--" He wanted to ask, why would someone like Sherrine do it? These others he could understand. Thor, running away, looking for some way to hit back. The others, some losers, none of them ding anything important--but Sherrine with her looks and brains could do anything. He couldn't say any of that. "Why do you do it?"
Thor shrugged his massive shoulders. What else can we do? We believe in the future. We don't turn our backs on it, like the 'danes, and pretend that everything will always be the way it is today. Have you ever read science fiction?"
Alex shook his head. "A little."
"Well, you can see it in our stories. Mainstream literature is about Being. For character studies, it's probably the best genre around; but nothing happens, nothing changes. Imaginative literature is about Doing. About making the future, not just bemoaning it. We'll all be living in the future by and by. Some of us like to scout ahead."