He still thinks it’s clever. I rest my case.
Darius Just
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Then it occurred to me that since Asimov was there, Giles Devore ought to be there also. At least he ought to have been finished autographing over an hour ago.
I looked about again, and Martin Walters, remembering my question of the evening before, I suppose (the only other alternative is telepathy), put his head on one side, focused his glance on me through his pince-nez, and said, «Looking for Devore again?»
«I thought he might be around,» I said.
«I don’t think so. He’s probably off somewhere sulking. That man is not a professional. He proved it again this morning.»
«What did he do, Martin?»
«He made some kind of fuss during the autographing session. I don’t know what it was. I was in the room talking to the Hercules Books people and all I know was that the autographing was stopped cold. Nellie—Do you know Nellie Griswold of Hercules?»
I thought a moment. «Maybe by sight. The name doesn’t ring a bell.»
«If you know her by sight, you’re well off. Tall and very—»
His hands waved appropriate curves in the air, which was easier to do now that he had reduced his drink to its icy skeleton. Then he looked about to see if anyone had seen him make those terribly obscene gestures. «Don’t get me wrong,» he said. «She’s a nice girl.»
«I believe you. I know lots of shapely girls who manage to be nice, too. But what did she do?»
«Oh, you mean about that nut, Devore. She had to run and bring him something. It was awful. It just put a damper on the show. The damn fool had better not sign at all than put on a display like that. He didn’t seem to have been drinking, but something was wrong with him.»
I made a routine deprecating noise. I must admit I wasn’t terribly surprised, or even interested. Devore was clearly developing temperament and had already become unbearable. So much the worse for those who had to deal with him, among whom would never again be me (I silently swore).
Martin put down his empty glass on a convenient table and said, «I understand you chewed him out last night, Darius. I was glad to hear it. Do you suppose that had something to do with his being upset today?»
If he wanted some retailable gossip, he wasn’t going to have it. «Not a thing,» I said quickly. «We’re on perfectly good terms.»
It is unbelievable to me, as I look back on it now, that I could listen to Martin’s reference to a fearfully upset Giles, talk to him briefly concerning the night before, and still not have anything register. By then, of course, it was some forty-five to fifty minutes too late.
4 HAROLD SAYERS 12:40 P.M.
It was somewhat past twelve-thirty when we were all shooed into the next room to the tables reserved for us near the head table. I found myself near a pleasant-looking gray-haired man who was one of the minor officials of the ABA. He introduced himself as Harold Sayers and told me that he owned a bookstore in Bangor, Maine. Next to him was his wife, Rosalind.
I grinned, named myself, shook hands all round the table, and turned my attention to the lunch.
The inevitable fruit cup and mixed salad were already on the table, together with the one roll and one pat of butter.
After a while, the roast chicken was brought in, together with carrots and little roast potatoes. As is my wont on such occasions, I skipped the carrots and asked for a double on the little roast potatoes.
I said, «No carrots, two potatoes,» and when I got exactly two potatoes, I said before the waiter could escape, «I mean a double helping of potatoes.»
He served me the double helping and looked disapproving, which disturbed me not at all.
It’s fashionable to talk about the rubber-chicken circuit but, frankly, what can you do if you must please a thousand people with one dish for all? Serve something unusual and two thirds of those present won’t eat it. Chicken and roast beef will be eaten by everyone (barring the small but growing number of vegetarians), so that’s it.
Fortunately, I like chicken and roast beef, and I also like potatoes cooked in any style ever invented, so I can’t go wrong at banquets.
I looked about vaguely once or twice for Shirley, but there was really no chance of seeing her unless she had been at some immediately neighboring table, which she wasn’t. It didn’t matter. I’d see her immediately after lunch at the booth where she would be autographing—I was quite confident of that, which shows how little we know.
I was feeling quite good. I was looking forward to seeing Shirley again, I expected to enjoy listening to Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., and I was laughing it up with Mr. Sayers of the ABA, who had a fund of stories at his disposal and with whom I did some joke swapping.
He asked me why Poles don’t became pharmacists and I said, «Why?» and he said, «They can’t get those little bottles into the typewriters.» Then I asked him why Poles specialized in sausages and the Arabs in oil, and he said, «Why?» and I said, «The Poles had first choice.» Mrs. Sayers looked puzzled both times.
Personally, Polish jokes make me very fond of Poles. The fact that you never hear of anyone telling a Polish joke and getting beat up by some justly incensed Poles shows them to be a sweet-natured, decent, and secure people.
One joke he told was of the long and involved type and it went like this:
«Mrs. Alexander Chumley-Smythe of London called her husband in the City and said, ‘My dear, there is a fearful brute of a gorilla in the beech tree in the garden, mopping and mowing and making a spectacle of himself. I scarcely know what to do.’
«‘Be calm, old dear,’ said Chumley-Smythe, ‘and I will be right home.’
«So he was, and, having observed the gorilla, he walked into the house and said, ‘Not to worry, my dear, we shall simply get in touch with some sound gorilla-trapping organization.’
«Turning to the London yellow pages, he looked under the heading of ‘Gorilla Trapping’ and dialed the firm of Fortescue and Brown. There was an immediate answer: ‘Fortescue here.’
«Chumley-Smythe told his story and Fortescue said, ‘Ah, yes, I will be right there. Hold tight and do not let the brute escape.’
«He was there within half an hour, bringing with him a ladder, an enormous dog, a rifle, and a large pair of manacles. He said, ‘My partner, Brown, is on vacation and I wonder if you can help me.’
«‘Certainly,’ said Chumley-Smythe. ‘What do you wish me to do?’
«‘I shall climb into the tree, using the ladder. I shall then vigorously shake the branch on which the gorilla is sitting. This will shake him off and as soon as he hits the ground this ferocious gorilla hound will instantly seize the beast by his testicles. With the brute pinned in this fashion, you have only to place these large manacles upon his wrists and when I come down from the tree, we will be all set.’
«That seems simple enough,’ said Chumley-Smythe, ‘but for what purpose have you brought this rifle?’
«Fortescue slapped his forehead in disgust and said, ‘Dear, dear, I’ll be forgetting my head next. Why, the rifle is the most important part. While I am shaking the branch, you stand there with the rifle and if, by some mischance, it should be I that fall out of the tree, then without waiting a moment, shoot the dog.’»
The table broke up over that one, and I laughed, too. In fact, I laughed loud and long, and I have repeated the joke out of sheer appreciation of that fact, for it was the last time I felt carefree at that convention.
5 SARAH VOSKOVEK 1:05 P.M.
I was just finishing my chicken, gnawing the last of the bones, when I saw a woman making her way among the tables in our general direction. The room was fairly dim, except for the lights over the head table (perhaps on the general theory that banquet food looks better in a dim light), and she was just a blur to me. However, there was her height and the fact that her hair was piled high on her head, so I knew it was what’s-her-name—I couldn’t even recall the first name now—who had been so snotty the night before.