I know that place. My Dad was a member.
Ghetto? That’s the Los Angeles Country Club!
Well, almost. When financial or social pressure forces a member to resign from the L.A. Country Club, he does it quietly. He doesn’t brag about it. Maybe he can keep up his contacts; he may even return as somebody’s guest.
But I’ve barely mentioned the grounds!
Acres of rolling greens, scattered trees, a few sand pits…sorry, that’s the wrong club. The Science Fiction Country Club is mostly the interiors of hotels. But…it’s magical. Like Ningauble’s Cave, its doorways open into every city in the world.
At my first World Science Fiction Convention, in Oakland in 1964, my car was stolen the moment I left it. I didn’t realize it until Sunday evening. By then the police already had it. That convention was a weird experience. Fred Pohl had already bought three of my stories, and he was there to introduce me around. I was a neofan and a pro too.
I love science fiction conventions.
Too many of us never get outside to explore the city: “Every science fiction convention takes place in Cleveland.” Never mind. There’s more variety inside the hotel than you’d ever find out there. Fauns and aliens and fantasy women wander the halls. In the art show you can find better artwork than ever reaches the mundane galleries. Minds that have touched yours through their books, you may meet here. The secrets of the universe are exposed, the problems of human and other sapient species are raised and solved, there are classes for artists and writers and fantasy gamers, all onstage at the panel discussions.
Moreover, conventions generate stories, from wonderful to funny to horrifying.
NUCON, 1981 was held in Sydney, Australia.
Fans were there to pick us up at the airport, but they were waiting at the wrong gate. Nobody appeared to be searching for the Guests of Honor. I guarded the luggage while Marilyn went scouting. I looked up—and a Pierson’s puppeteer was coming at me!
Who else would a Pierson’s puppeteer be seeking? But the beast was stuffed, being rolled on a triangular wheeled platform by almost a dozen Sydney fans.
We found a borrowed house waiting for us, complete with cats. How thoughtful! We need cats. The owners (Texas oil people) were wandering while one of the fans house-sat for them. We used it as a base of operations while we wandered ourselves: to Lightning Ridge (for black opals) and Siding Spring (telescopes) and zoos (alien life forms).
The Nucon, throughout, seemed aimed at the Guest of Honor. We’d been promised that we’d be taken to dinner every night, and it was true. The masquerade featured costumes from the Known Space series. As judge I gave it to the protagonist from “Wait It Out.” He was clearly frozen solid, and would go motionless on command. The puppeteer lived at the reception desk until Sunday and “This is your life, Beowulf Shaeffer!” He talked through a curtain. The vengeance-minded Julian Forward presently produced a mini-black-hole, which swallowed up everybody.
OZARKON—1970 was to be in St. Louis, Missouri. We started a week early to visit Marilyn’s parents, who live near Chicago.
In St. Louis we took a taxi to the appropriate motel. They had never heard of an Ozarkon.
This is the trip where I learned to take all of the relevant papers with me. We hadn’t done that. We wound up calling Boston and getting Tony Lewis to read us a telephone number from Locus!
I called it. I got a woman’s voice. I explained that we were looking for the Ozarkon. Are we at the right—? Do you know anything—? And finally, “Well, is there an Ozarkon or not?”
She burst into tears.
Ultimately we got an explanation. When two successive teams of convention organizers dropped out entirely, a lady had volunteered/been pressured to run the Ozarkon. A nice woman, but she didn’t know conventions. Too few attendees had signed up; the motel naturally canceled; she’d kept trying, and only given up a week ago. When someone tried to phone us, we had already left.
Our contacts took us to dinner, and I got them to organize a party. We damned well showed ourselves having fun. The lady took us to the St. Louis Arch before driving us to the airport. If St. Louis fandom was going to fall apart, it wouldn’t be because Larry Niven went into a shrieking fury.
Notice that I’ve named no names.
NYCON—1967 had all the makings of a disaster. The Hilton was about to automate its elevators, and the operators were on slowdown strike. Sympathy slowdowns were going on in other regions.
Conventions have always suffered from a dearth of elevators. Can you imagine one in which the operators spend twenty minutes on the top floor; in which they deliberately pass floors; in which anyone who enters an elevator is treated as an enemy? I noticed little of this. I was competing for my first Hugo, and I met Marilyn Joyce Wisowaty.
We must have been in the main restaurant when the waiters were having fun with the customers. Did we notice Lester del Rey throwing the wrong salad at a waiter in a desperate attempt to get his attention? No, we heard that later. I don’t think Marilyn and I noticed anything except each other.
You make your own convention.
The Banquet would have been a disaster. I was up for a Hugo for the first time in my life! There was no place to get a drink on that entire floor. I was out of cigarettes. Bob Tucker gave an uncharacteristically depressing speech. Sam Moskowitz spoke. I’d have gone right up the wall without Marilyn to hold my hand and Adrienne (at that time) Hicks to loan me cigarettes.
Best short story, 1966: “Neutron Star.” I loved that convention.
NASFIC, 1976: The Tale of Harlan’s Hugo.
The Worldcon that year was in Australia. It took place a little earlier than the Nasfic in Los Angeles. Bruce Pelz had already phoned to tell me that I had won the short-story award for “The Hole Man.” He was bringing it home for me.
The charter flight would land about the same time as the Banquet.
Harlan Ellison was Guest of Honor. He wasn’t at the Banquet itself—gourmet instincts?—but his awards were arrayed around the podium: Hugos, Nebulas, and miscellaneous awards including an Edgar for best detective fiction. I remember that one because I want one.
After dinner, tradition allowed the rest of the attendees to form up along the walls. Harlan took the podium. He explained that he was getting out of the science fiction ghetto. He was getting all the “SF” labels taken off his books. He was going to the mainstream for its greater critical acclaim, higher advances, and other benefits. Barry Malzberg and Bob Silverberg and others had done it successfully…
We were halfway through the panel that followed the Banquet, when Bruce Pelz entered to present me with—a silver rocket ship on a wooden base. When the “Stardrive” panel broke up, I headed for an elevator with my Hugo cradled in my arms.
Four of five young strangers got in behind me. Neofans?
One said, “Hey, I like it! What is it?”
Neofans. Keep it simple. “Why, this is a science-fiction achievement award, my child. They’re given out every year for—”
“A Hugo! I’ve heard of Hugos. Is that one of Harlan’s?”
Hell, what do you say to that? I said, “That’s right. Harlan is getting out of the SF ghetto, as you must have heard. He’s making a clean break by giving away his Hugos. He had two left when I left his room. I wish I could give you his room number—”
I waited four months to hear rumors of the neofannish invasion of Harlan Ellison’s room. Nothing. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I told Harlan the tale, and asked him. They never made it…and I was designated a fiend in human form! But what would you have said?
LACON, 1972: The Great Duel.
First you must know of a short story. “Cloak of Anarchy” required a character who was capable of knocking out all the monitoring devices in King’s Free Park, turning a fake anarchy into a real anarchy, and would do it. What I needed was a combination of Russell Seitz (who lives on the East Coast, and who tends to carry advanced technological toys in his pockets) and Don Simpson (a West Co
ast fan who uses technology to create his own art forms). I combined them into “Ron Cole.”
I must have done it right. All the East Coast fans recognized Russell. All the West Coast fans recognized Don.
Comes the Los Angeles World Science Fiction Convention. We were at a room party. I recognized Russell Seitz, “Hi, Russell!”
“You used me in a story.”
“Yeah!”
“You, er, didn’t ask permission.”
I’m spoiled, maybe. I expect such a thing to be taken as flattery. I disengaged myself. A few minutes later I ran across Gordon Dickson.
“Hi, Gordy!”
“Russell Seitz has asked me to speak for him in an affair of honor.”
Oooops! Through the humming in my ears I said, “I expect I should choose a second to speak for me.”
Gordy agreed.
I looked around and there was Ben Bova. Ben had published “Cloak of Anarchy” in Analog. Choosing Ben meant that I would have to do less explaining.
Gordy explained that a venerable dueling law set a limit on the bore size of weapons. “We’ll have to settle for magnums.”
Champagne corks?
Ara Pashinian is a world traveler who shows occasionally at world conventions. He kindly offered us his roomy suite “to test-fire the propellants.”
Gordy and Russell disappeared to get weaponry Russell had brought along. In Ara’s suite Ben and I discussed strategy. “Don’t argue about the weaponry,” Ben said. “Remember, Russell Seitz is the world’s sixth nuclear power!”
Oooops! It was true. As one of the Board of Trustees of a Boston museum, Russell had built a Titan II missile from parts he acquired from junkyards for under a thousand dollars.
“Not to worry,” Ben said. “I know some Air Force people. I can promise instant massive retaliation the instant you’re dead.”
Marilyn is an admirer of Georgette Heyer’s tales of the English Regency period. She knew what to do. She threw her arms around me crying, “Give up this madness! You’ll be killed!”
But time was passing, and where were Russell and Gordy?
Here they came, bursting through the door in full 7th century Samurai armor! (Remember the Boston museum?) Ben cried, “No, no, no! No armor during the duel!”
“During the duel, no armor,” Gordy said. “During the negotiations we take no chances.”
Which raised a question. The badges at that convention were metal disks three inches across. Did they constitute armor? We decided they did not; they would be worn.
Our seconds test-fired the champagne bottles. It was decided that Russell and I would take two paces, turn and fire. And we drank the propellants.
By High Dawn (designated as 1 P.M.) I had bought replacement champagne. I went up to the swimming pool to fight for my honor. I didn’t realize that I’d replaced cork corks with more dangerous plastic corks. I wore a bathing suit, thinking I might want a swim too.
I’d forgotten my big metal badge. Marilyn noticed and loaned me hers. I pinned it where it might do me some good. My genitalia were now labelled as the property of Marilyn Niven.
Russell appeared. He noticed the harder plastic corks, but said nothing. “Given the known propensities of my opponent—” he said, and pinned his badge between his shoulder blades.
We squared off, took two paces, faced each other—
I twisted the wire open. Worked it off. Peeled away the foil. Went to work on the cork with my thumbs. Easy does it, don’t want to break the cork…Looked up, and Russell was ready.
He fired past my shoulder.
I went back to work. Ease the cork loose. Russell was standing at attention, expressionless. The cork was easing out…faster than I thought. I fired through his hair.
And we drank the propellants.
MIDAMERICON—Kansas City, 1976: The Tale of Walter the Lobster.
This was a wild convention.
It’s the one at which Russell Seitz found two very expensive bottles of cognac in a line of cheaper bottles by the same manufacturer, and a clerk who didn’t know the difference. He was pouring brandy for friends throughout the convention.
It’s the only time Russell ever bought a wine for its name. He brought a case of Inferno, a wine from Italy. INFERNO was also the name of the collaboration novel (a sequel to Dante’s Inferno) for which Jerry Pournelle and I hoped to win a Hugo. When other sources ran out one night at a room party, Jerry drank half a bottle of the stuff. The next afternoon he looked like he had risen from the grave. And shouldn’t have.
I was up for three Hugos: a novelet in competition with Jerry, a novella, and the collaboration novel INFERNO. I feared that I would take Jerry’s Hugo award from him, and nothing else. It didn’t occur to me that I would then drop and break it.
Russell had plans for that convention. He intended to walk into the Muehlbach Hotel in Kansas City with a giant lobster on a leash. He would arrange for the hotel to cook the thing and serve it to a dozen people that night.
To this end he lodged an order for the biggest lobster caught in a three-day period, with three Boston seafood companies. We’d gamble on a roughly 24-pound lobster. Russell would bring the wines too.
Things began to go awry.
In July, Russell called me to say he was swamped in other work. He had worked out a preferred menu. Would I invite the guests, and deal with the Muehlbach in his stead? Oh, hell, why not?
My phone call got me the catering department and a Miss English. I described what we wanted. Miss English saw no problems at all, except that she wasn’t prepared to give me a price yet.
I issued some invitations.
Now, notice the timing: we were to leave Thursday. The lobster was to walk in Friday and be eaten that night (one-day membership). On Wednesday Russell called to say that he’d spoken to the Muehlbach, and I’d better do the same.
Miss English had finally given Russell some prices. $7.00/bottle corkage fee on the wines Russell was to bring. $35.00 per guest, in 1976 dollars, and we bring our own lobster.
It was the timing, as much as the ferocious fees, that convinced me to cancel. Rightly or wrongly, I felt that the Muehlbach was ripping me off.
I called Russell and we arranged new rules. Russell would bring the lobster cooked. We’d figure on a midnight snack situation. On that basis, would I bring pliers and a ball-peen hammer?
I phoned the people I’d invited, starting with Jerry Pournelle. I asked him to toss pliers and a ball-peen hammer in his luggage.
Russell appeared on the sidewalk Friday evening. He had an incredible load of luggage, which Marilyn and I stored in our room.
We gathered around midnight.
Some things went wrong, some went right. We couldn’t find Poul and Karen Anderson, or Frank and Beverly Herbert. But—Robert Heinlein, as Guest of Honor, had held a press conference that afternoon. The Heinleins still had clean silverware, plates, glasses, a tub of mayonnaise. Wealth!
Walter was only a twelve-pounder. Russell would have brought two of him if things had gone as planned. He still looked huge, big enough that I found it cost-effective to chew the spinnerets. Without Jerry’s hammer and pliers Walter would have been quite safe. The wines included a glorious Madeira that doesn’t usually get out of Portugal; but there had been a revolution scare…
It could have been worse. One night we ate in the restaurant that was to have cooked Walter. Among other problems, Roberta Pournelle’s dinner didn’t arrive until after Jerry sent back his inedible steak, and then the waiter attempted to serve the same steak to Roberta. Perhaps it’s as well that things didn’t go as planned.
As it was, Walter was delicious, and a good time was had by all, except for the Andersons and the Herberts, to whom I can only apologize.
Frank and Bev Herbert didn’t share Walter, but they grew to know him. He sat in the hall in front of the Herberts’ door for two days. Perhaps the Muehlbach was expressing an opinion. I have now expressed mine.
WESTERCON—Vancouver, 1977
.
Three times in my life have I amused Robert Silverberg. I have his word for it.
The first time was at a convention party, the most crowded you can imagine. Shoulder to shoulder we stood, throughout the room. No place for a claustrophobe! I made for the door, pushing between bodies. An avenue of freedom played out and left me jammed nose to nose with Robert Silverberg. Neither of us could move. I couldn’t think of anything to say.
So I leaned forward and kissed him on the nose.
The third time? The Westercon that year was held at the University in Vancouver. Many attendees used dorm rooms. Others of us stayed at the nearest motel. Craig Miller arranged a shuttle service, buses every hour.
Getting back and forth was a real hassle, and it ate up time, too. One night an exhausted half-dozen of us staggered off the last bus, wobbled into the motel, boarded the elevator. Bob Silverberg looked around at a cluster of sagging faces and asked, “All right, where’s the room party?”
There were groans. I said, “My room, 1034.”
He looked at me. “Really?”
“Sure. Drop your coats in your rooms and come on up.—Push five for me, willya?”
Bob cracks up very nicely. He comes completely apart, loses all dignity. Neither of us can now remember the second time it happened; but it happened.
CLOSER TO HOME
Until I began writing, my mother had never read any science fiction. Afterward she would read my stuff, but nobody else’s. She held out for about ten years.
Then, one morning she was feeling adventurous. She had a book at hand, a Nebula Awards anthology. She’d already read my story. She looked down the Table of Contents for a title that might appeal to her.
My mother has bred the best Keeshonds in the country for going on fifty years. She must have attended around a thousand dog shows.
All she had to do was phone me and ask.
Her eye stopped at “A Boy and His Dog,” by Harlan Ellison.
She read every word. She hasn’t read any science fiction since, unless my name was on it.
CHICON—Chicago, 1982: the German Translator.