Bimbos of the Death Sun by Sharyn McCrumb Page A

in,
“Will I play the wild rover; no, never, no more.”
He sat up, wide awake. Hallucinating in an American hotel, was he? Nobody else was in town, he was sure of it. By “nobody else,” he meant the Clancy Brothers, the Chieftains, the Corries, or any of a lesser-known assortment of blokes in white fisherman sweaters billed as Celtic folk groups. But who else would be singing “Wild Rover?” Somebody was singing it. He was awake enough now to be sure of that.
     
    Donnie McRory grabbed his guitar and his room key and headed out to investigate.
     
    In Monk Malone’s room on the fourth floor, the filksingers swayed in time to the music, and someone was slapping a tambourine to punctuate the chorus of the song:
“And it’s oh
, (crash)
no
, (crash)
never…”
     
    The Cossack on the bed nodded approvingly. “Well done, my children. Now, one more time forGordy.”
     
    “I’ve been a wild Dorsai for many a year,
And I spent all my money on Saurian beer …”
     
    “I don’t get it,” whispered Jay to Marion.
     
    “No,” she replied. “And unless you are willing to read about two hundred science fiction novels, you never will.”
     
    Jay Omega sighed. “Tell me again why we’re here.”
     
    Marion patted his hand. “It’s a new experience for you! Don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud. Anybody who can sit through the entire graduation ceremony year after year, in his cap and gown, ought to be able to endure an hour of this. Besides, Jay, who knows? Maybe someday they’ll compose a filksong about one of your books.”
     
    “Yeah, and it’ll probably be
Bimbos. I
can imagine what they’d pick.
‘Wait ’til the sun shines, Dummy’”
     
    The last strains of “The Wild Dorsai” had just ended for the second time when Donnie McRory appeared in the doorway. “The Martians,” he muttered, “I might have known.”
     
    Monk Malone looked up at the newcomer, still in the leather Celtic costume from his act. “Nice costume, man,” said the Monk. “Are you a Scadian?”
     
    “No. I’m a Scot.”
     
    “I knew a Scadian Scot once. I think he was The Black Douglas. Anyway, his specialty was medieval Scottish warfare.”
     
    Marion whispered to Jay, “Scadian. Member of the S.C.A.—Society for Creative Anachronism.”
     
    Donnie McRory began to back away. “Yes, well, I just recognized the song you were singing, and came down to see what you were on about.” Even American beer might be preferable to spending an evening with someone who thought he was TheBlack Douglas.
     
    “That’s a nice guitar, too,” said one of the rug rats. “Do you play?”
     
    After a moment’s frosty silence, Donnie McRory decided that he couldn’t pass up the challenge. That’s your trouble, Donnie, Margaret would say. You’re an incurable show-off.
     
    “Off the bed w’ya,” he said, shooing Monk Malone into the corner by the television. After a few experimental strums on the guitar, and the adjusting of a string or two, Donnie played the intro to “The Wild Rover.”
     
    Obediently the filksingers ground out:
“I’ve been a wild Dorsai …”
     
    The strumming ceased. “What was that rubbish you came out with?” he demanded. “Have you been monkeying with the words?”
     
    Sheepishly they nodded.
     
    “Right. Well, here’s another tune. This one’s about your friend Doug,” he said to Monk Malone. He sang the first verse of “The Lammas Tide” amid a respectful silence. “There,” he said, glaring at them when he’d finished. “Does anybody have any Martian words to that?”
     
    Fifty negative replies.
     
    “Right, then. Let’s start again, you lot. In the key of G.
     
    ‘Now it fell about the Lammas tide
…
     
    When the muirmen whin their hay …’”
     
    Diefenbaker had been run to earth in the wargamers’ conference room by Richard Faber, Bernard Buchanan, and two people he didn’t recognize, but who would turn out to be Far Brandonian correspondents, he was