Sharyn McCrumb - Zombies of the Gene Pool

Ruben Mistral was scowling. Before anyone else could speak, he stepped between the stranger and the rest of the guests, as if he were protecting them from an assassin. "Just a minute, folks!" he announced in his crowd-control voice. "Before anybody says anything else to this individual, I think we should consider the possibility that this is a publicity-seeking impostor. This is a media event, you know."

The dark man smiled down at him. "Ah, Bunzie, don't tell me you've finally learned to look before you leap! If you had been able to do that in 1954, maybe Jim here would have checked the car radiator before we left for Worldcon, and we wouldn't have been left high and dry in Seymour, Indiana."

Bunzie reddened. "Well, who made us late in the first place, Malone? You said you were going to set the damned alarm clock for six-thirty. And when did we wake up?"

Jim Conyers eased his way to Bunzie's side. "If in fact this is Pat Malone," he reminded his host.

With raised eyebrows and a cold smile, Pat Malone was scanning the group. "Conyers," he nodded. "Always the sensible one. Let me guess. You're an attorney now?"

"More or less retired. But still cautious." Conyers seemed pleased to have been pegged so well.

Pat Malone studied the others. "Brendan, of course. My old sparring partner. And-"

"Erik Giles," said the professor quickly. "Good to see you again, Pat."

The gaze moved on. "And-unless someone brought his father to this little get-together-this must be Georgie Woodard."

Woodard managed a feeble grin. "I still publish Alluvial, Pat."

"No, George. You put out a silly bit of drivel purporting to be Alluvial. That 'zine, I assure you, is deader than I am." Malone reached for the bottle of Scotch and took it with him to the loveseat. "Are you all going to stay in shock much longer? This one-sided chat is getting a bit tiresome."

"We thought you were dead, Pat," said Angela. "We wrote tributes to you. How could you put us through all that grief when all the time you were alive, probably off somewhere laughing at us!"

"You were grieved?" He sounded surprised. "Well, some of you weren't. I wonder if it's too late to sue Jackal Bexler for libel?"

"Yes," said Jim Conyers.

"I thought so." He gave a little mock bow. "But thank you for your professional opinion, counselor. Anyhow, I rather thought that after The Last Fandango came out, I was more feared than esteemed. In fact, I'll bet some people have been looking over their shoulders ever since they heard the news of my untimely death, hoping that it wasn't a hoax."

"But why did you do it?" asked Lorien Williams.

Brendan Surn, who had been listening with uncharacteristic attentiveness, patted her hand. "I expect that Malone considered an obituary the most dramatic form of resignation from fandom. Didn't you, Pat? And with a death announcement, you not only got to rid yourself of old associates, you also got to hear exactly what they thought of you. I've often thought that Peter-"

"Peter Deddingfield is really dead, Brendan," said Erik Giles sharply. "He was killed by a drunk driver nine years ago. Besides, he was never the adolescent hoaxer that Malone has proven to be."

Pat Malone's dark eyes blazed. "Was I such an artful dodger, gentlemen? Or were you simply a bunch of rumor-mongers who couldn't be bothered to check your facts?"

Ruben Mistral felt that things were getting out of hand. Signaling for silence, he resumed his role as spokesman for the group. "Okay, Pat. We'll skip the whys and the wherefores. You're not dead. How did you find out about this reunion?"

"You do yourself an injustice, Bunzie. The publicity that your people have put out has ensured that everyone on the planet had a chance to hear about this event. As one of the Lanthanides, I considered myself invited."

Bunzie nodded impatiently. "No question about that. You had a story in the jar, too. But listen, the rest of us have agreed to certain business details. Percentages, representation by one agent, rights offered for sale. I hope you're not planning to come in as a maverick and queer the deal!"

Pat Malone's eyes widened in feigned innocence. "Now I ask you, Erik, would I queer the deal?"

Erik Giles blushed and turned away.

"I did wonder, though, about the wisdom of digging up old sins."

"What do you mean by that?" Ruben Mistral demanded.

"Oh, you know, Bunzie, little things that were no big deal in the early fifties, but might be now. Now that some of us are Eminent Pros." His tone was mocking. "Such as?"

"Remember that phrase that a certain member of the Lanthanides paid me a six-pack for? On one occasion, I happened to remark that when I was a child, I had always been puzzled by the phrase 'for the time being.' I took it literally. I thought there really was someone called the Time Being, and that people did things for him."

"That's the basis of Peter Deddingfield's Time Traveler Tril ogy!" cried Lorien Williams. "You mean it was your idea?" "Worth a lot more than a six-pack now, don't you think?" asked Pat Malone. "What's it in now, its twenty-seventh printing? And then there's that story that Dale Dugger and Brendan Surn collaborated on. It read a lot better when you won the Hugo for it in '65, Brendan, but the original idea was Dale's, wasn't it? And remember how grossed out we all used to be because George Woodard-"

"That's enough, Pat!" Erik Giles shouted above the others' murmuring. His face was red now, and his eyes bulged from their sockets. "You could be asking for a hell of a libel suit."

Pat Malone smiled. "Public figures? Truth is a defense? Right, Jim boy?"

Conyers, the attorney, shrugged and glanced uneasily at the others. "I wouldn't venture to give you an opinion. But I don't see what you'd gain by embarrassing a bunch of your oldest friends."

"Gain?" Malone surveyed the scowling group and seemed pleased with the effect of his announcement. "Didn't The Last Fandango teach you anything? I'm an idealist, folks. And you fat cats have sold out. You all think you're the Founding Fathers of the Genre. Look at old Thomas Jefferson Surn over there in his NASA jacket. I think it's time somebody reminded you of what a bunch of half-assed adolescents you used to be, and how little difference there really is between who made it and who didn't. A lot of luck, maybe, and-" he looked directly at Bunzie-"more than a little ruthlessness."

"So you came back to screw us, did you, Pat?" asked Erik Giles.

His tormentor surveyed the room again. "Speaking of matters procreational, I see that Earlene Riley and Jazzy Holt aren't here. I'll bet no one has even mentioned their names."

George Woodard attempted to muster his dignity. "My wife was unable to attend."

Malone whistled. "Oh, Georgie, Georgie, you didn't." He turned to Bunzie. "Which one of 'em?"

Bunzie reddened. "Earlene."

"Ah. Succulent nipples." His grin broadened as he watched the others' discomfort. "Well, George, I hope you're man enough for the job. Where is Jazzy Holt? Lounging under a lamppost in Bi-loxi? Hello, sailor. No, I suppose not. After all, she's sixty, too, isn't she? Funny how people in our memories don't age."

Lorien Williams had recognized the name. She leaned over toward Conyers and whispered, "Does he mean Jasmine Holt, the famous S-F critic?"

Pat Malone overheard the question. "She was a critic, all right. She once told me that my dick looked like a tadpole sleeping on two apricots. Another expert opinion," he said, grinning at Jim Conyers. "Where is the randy bitch? Not still collecting virgins at S-F cons, surely?"

"She lives in London now," said Bunzie. "Although she wasn't one of the Lanthanides, I did invite her to attend the reunion, because of her-er-connections with the group, but she declined, telling me to use my own discretion about the disposal of the shares of Curtis Phillips and Peter Deddingfield. She doesn't need the money. Of course, there would have been some legal question about her entitlement anyway."