Sharyn McCrumb - Zombies of the Gene Pool

Jay dialed the number, hoping that one of the four lines was free. A click told him that it was, and almost instantly his screen lit up with the logo of Joel Schumann's bulletin board. Jay logged on and typed in his password: Frodo, which was the name of Marion Farley's cat. He had no idea how she had come up with that name, and it never occurred to him to ask. After a moment's pause the system pronounced him cleared for entry and informed him that he had seventy-two minutes to spend before being disconnected.

"I hope that will be enough," muttered Jay. After a moment's thought, he typed in a message to " ALL ": PLEASE ADVISE, I NEED TO CONTACT S-F FANS FROM ALL OVER THE COUNTRY TO TRACK DOWN A MISSING PERSON. URGENT AND IMPORTANT MATTER. TIME IS LIMITED. i'm IN A MOTEL NEAR JOHNSON CITY, TN, USING LAPTOP. PLEASE ADVISE FASTEST AND MOST EFFECTIVE WAY TO CONTACT FANDOM.-J. OMEGA.

After reading through the lines to make sure he hadn't misspelled anything, Jay transmitted the message and logged off. Now he had to wait for somebody to read his message and leave a reply. Because it was a Saturday he knew that it wouldn't take long for an answer. He decided to call back in half an hour. While he waited, he ambled over to the television and began to flip through the channels, testing his theory that at any given hour of the day, Star Trek is always playing somewhere. It wasn't, but he did find an old episode of the British series Blackadder, a program which Marion ranked somewhere between chocolate and sex. He had settled back on the bed, happily immersed in a parody of court life in the sixteenth century, when Marion burst in.

"You won't believe what the hotel manager said!" she cried.

Jay turned down the volume on the set. "Try me."

"He said the dead man was someone called Richard Spivey."

"He could have changed his name, I suppose. It would have made it harder for fandom to track him down. Did you look in his wallet?"

Marion shivered. "No. I didn't want to search the corpse. That's why I'm an English major. But he did have books autographed by some of the Lanthanides."

"To Spivey or to Pat Malone?"

Marion considered it. "Neither, that I recall. One of them was to Curtis Phillips from Pat Malone. Maybe he got it back when Curtis died. It seems strange, though, doesn't it?"

"Everything about Pat Malone is strange. I don't suppose you were able to find out how he died?"

"Mr. Trivett doesn't think they know yet. But he did say that they took his medicine bottle along to be tested."

"What was in it?"

"Elavil. Prescribed to Spivey. And before you ask, I have no idea what that is. You're the science person, not me."

"Is there anybody here with any medical background? Maybe we could ask them."

Marion ticked each of the Lanthanides' names off on her fingers. "Angela!" she said. "She works in a hospital, doesn't she? I suppose you want me to see if she knows what Elavil is.'"

Jay Omega glanced at his watch. "I think I can call the bulletin board back now to see if they have any advice for me. You might also ask Angela for any information on Pat Malone's supposed death in 1958. What authority did they have for believing him dead? While you're at it, ask her if she's positive that he was Pat Malone."

"They certainly acted as if he was," said Marion with a grim smile. "He created more stir than Ted Bundy at a beauty pageant."

"I wonder if Ruben Mistral contacted Pat Malone's next of kin about the time capsule. See if you can find the answer to that one, too."

Marion sighed. "This has a familiar ring to it. I talk to people while you talk to machines."

"No, Marion," said Jay with wounded innocence. "I'll be talking to people, too. I'm just using machines to do it."

"All right," she sighed. "I'll go and grill the suspects." At the door, Marion hesitated and looked back. "Jay, you don't really think he was murdered, do you?"

He shrugged. "I haven't given it much thought. I'm sure the police will tell us. Right now I just want to know who he was.

When Marion had gone, Jay went to his computer and typed in Alt-D and then M to allow him to manually enter the electronic bulletin board phone number from the Guinness beer mat. He typed in the number, hit return, and waited while the computer dialed the number. After two rings the line was answered, and after he typed in his identification, a welcome screen from the bulletin board asked him if he wanted to check his electronic mail. He hit return and found that there was one message waiting. He pressed R Y, return. After a moment's pause the message appeared:

TO Dr. Mega-FROM Sysop. SUBJECT: Please Advise. All right, all right, I'm here. You didn't have to shout. (Don't use all caps next time.) Remember when I made you subscribe to Delphi? I know that all you use it for is to snag cheap air fares, but it does have other uses. I hope you can remember your pass word. If so, call the Tennessee local tymnet number, 615-928- 1191, and log into Delphi the way you do at home. Go to conference, then type who. This will list current conference conversations. Hopefully you will see a conference name that looks promising for your line of inquiry. You don't need to join it. You can issue the command who is ‹User Name›, and that will give you a profile of the people currently in the conference: where they live, what they like, etc. If you want to talk in their conference, type join ‹Conference name or num-ber› and then you can barge in and start asking them questions. If your topic is really offbeat, you can create your own conference, and let the strange ones find you. (What have you gotten yourself into now, Dr. Mega?) I'll be around for most of the evening in case you get in further trouble, need bail money, whatever. May St. Solenoid be with you. JS .

Jay made notes of the instructions in Joel's message, sent a quick reply of thanks to him, and logged off the bulletin board. Then he turned off the television, yawned and stretched, and sat down at the keyboard of his computer. "It's going to be a damn long night in fandom," he muttered.

Marion found Angela Arbroath in her room recuperating from a marathon session of nostalgia and journalism. "I hope I'm not disturbing you," said Marion, strolling past Angela into the room as if she were sure of her welcome. "This must have been quite an exciting day for you!"

Angela, who was wearing a flowered kimono and leather thongs, looked tired. She had scrubbed off her make-up, so that her lips had a bloodless look to them and her wrinkles stood out in high relief against her pale skin. "I guess the news about Pat sort of overshadowed all the rest of it," she said apologetically.

Marion sat down on the unused one of the twin beds, and settled in for a long chat. "I am sorry about what happened to Pat Malone," she said. "I didn't know him, but I found the body, you know, so you can imagine how it has made me feel. I wondered, though-are you certain that it was Pat Malone?"

The older woman smiled. "He knew things that only one of the Lanthanides could have known. You weren't there, were you, when he turned up at the party last night? Within minutes they were all bickering as if it were more than thirty years ago. He knew just what to say to infuriate them." She sighed. "He always did."

"Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill him?"

"Hon, I can't think of anyone who didn't. At one time or another, Pat Malone antagonized every correspondent he ever had, every close friend, every sweetheart. Did you ever read The Last Fandango?"