Bimbos of the Death Sun by Sharyn McCrumb

of reference books, was flipping through something called a
Monster Manual
. Five players sat in a circle, whispering among themselves. Two of them were in medieval costume, and a third wore a button that read:
     
    “I’M NOT STUPID
I’M NOT EXPENDABLE
AND I’M NOT GOING!”
     
    Jay Omega decided that the young man’s player character must be a low-ranking member of the expedition.
     
    “I still say we ought to try the holy water!” hissed the player in the brown cloak.
     
    “Can’t my character see through that wall?” another demanded.
     
    Farther along the passage Marion pointed to a door with a Do Not Disturb sign looped on the doorknob, and a larger one in calligraphy taped to the door: Do NOT Disturb! Trespassers Will Be Violated. “Appin Dungannon’s room.”
     
    “I don’t see how he can write at a convention,” said Jay Omega.
     
    “They pay him well,” said Marion. “You, on the other hand, make more from teaching summer school than you will ever make from
Bimbos of the Death Sun
, so you lack motivation.”
     
    Jay Omega wisely decided against replying. The discrepancy between the salaries of engineers and those of English professors was a sore point, and one that Marion could not discuss in modulated tones for more than two minutes. He noticed a piece of paper under Appin Dungannon’s door, and thought that it must be nice to have such ardent admirers that they slipped mash notes under your door.
     
    “Fan mail,” sniffed Marion. “Not that he deserves any. That was quite a performance tonight.”
     
    “I think it was all part of the show,” said Jay Omega. “I got to thinking how outrageous someone would have to be to attract any attention inthis crowd, and I think Dungannon has hit upon one of the few ways to stand out.”
     
    Marion scowled. “He’s an odious man. And the worst part of it was that most of the time I agreed with him!”
     
    Jay had stopped walking, and seemed to be listening to something in the distance. A moment later, Marion heard it, too: the sound of ‘Sixties folk music came wafting down the hall to meet them. They walked toward the sound and found the door to room 467 ajar. A few feet of floor space remained in one corner of the room, but the area around the double bed was thick with costumed adolescents. Monk Malone, in a Nehru jacket and Levis, sat curled up on the bed, clutching an old Gibson guitar. Around him, mimeographed pages rustled, and the impromptu choir sang to the tune of “The Sloop John B”:
     
    So put up the
Enterprise’
shields
Recharge the phaser banks,
Beam up the captain on board,
And let us go home
…
     
    Jay Omega seemed to remember a Kingston Trio version of that song, having to do with a sailboat in the Caribbean. This version seemed to be about
Star Trek
. He eased down into the empty floor space next to Marion, wondering if the room had fallen into a twenty-year time warp.
     
    It couldn’t be the beer. Donnie McRory was certain of that. If you sent American beer out to be analyzed, the lab would probably phone up and say, “Your horse has diabetes.” Anyway, he hadn’t had more than a pint or so. He lay on the bed, still dressed, listening to his headache and wonderingif reading would make him drowsy. It seemed a bit early to call it a night, but he hadn’t felt like staying around in the bar after he’d finished his set. Too many mellow and friendly Americans wanted to talk to him, but that always seemed to involve a discussion of American versus British tax plans or an offer of things he didn’t want, usually illegal things. He’d decided to give it a miss.
     
    Very tiring, being a tourist. Very lonely. Phoning Margaret was out of the question, too, because it was five in the morning in Glasgow.
     
    As he lay on the bed in the darkness, faint familiar strains materialized in his head.
     
    “And it’s no, nay, never!
No, nay, never no more …”
     
    In spite of his headache Donnie McRory chimed