Sharyn McCrumb - Zombies of the Gene Pool

"No. I've certainly heard about it, though. Was it ever actually published?"

"In a manner of speaking. It was mimeographed and distributed by the Fantasy Amateur Press Association. And in the book he severely criticized the Fantasy Amateur Press Association."

Marion nodded. "Yes, I knew about that. I've never seen one, though."

"It was nothing fancy. Just pages and pages of typing. No illustrations, no sophisticated typesetting, nothing to make it visually pleasing. Nothing to make it pleasing, period." She looked away. "I cried when I read it. He said so many awful things about all the people that I knew. And the worst of it was, I couldn't really deny any of it. It's just that he saw them so uncharitably." She smiled bitterly. "And about me? Oh, he said that I lacked only beauty to be a femme fatale. He was most unsparing of people's feelings. But, of course, he was hardest on himself."

"In what way?"

"He wanted people to know what an idiot he thought he had been for succumbing to fandom, so he outlined his whole experience in getting involved in science fiction, and he outlined the disillusionment that made him leave."

Marion tried to temper her excitement. "Did he mention the Lanthanides?"

"Yes, of course. He said that Surn was pompous, and George was a fool, and he was critical of everyone, but the most damning thing he did was simply to chronicle their bickering, and their naivete, and their youthful arrogance. He made them-and himself, you understand-look like arrogant clowns. And then he proceeded to do the same thing to the rest of fandom as well."

"Could anyone who read The Last Fandango have known the things he talked about last night?"

Angela looked puzzled, but she considered the question. "I don't think so," she said. "He mentioned a few pranks that weren't included in his memoir. If he had written down every stupid thing they did, his book would have been longer than War and Peace. "

"So he knew a lot of embarrassing secrets?"

"I suppose so. Not that anyone ought to care about who was sleeping with who after so long a time." She smiled reflectively. "But I guess Barbara Conyers just might at that. Anyhow, why did you ask me if he knew anything dangerous? He wasn't murdered."

"Not that we know of," Marion admitted. "But it seemed possible. The hotel manager told me that the police took Pat Ma-lone's prescription medicine along with them. It was Elavil. We wondered if you knew what that was."

Angela Arbroath sat up straight. Her expression became thoughtful. "Pat Malone was using Elavil?"

"Apparently so. Or at least he had it in his possession. The name on the bottle said 'Richard Spivey.' What is it?"

"Amitriptyline. It's used to treat depression." She seemed to have forgotten Marion's presence. "That would explain a lot. He used to get so caught up in wild schemes-like fandom-and then later he would berate himself for having wasted his time on them. Yes, I suppose he might even have been manic depressive. Although, I have to say that he didn't seem to behave much differently last night from the way he was in the old days, so I don't see that the medicine was doing him much good."

"I wonder if they've notified his next of kin. Did he have any? I thought you mentioned once that he was married."

"That was in the fifties," Angela reminded her. "And his wife was about ten years older than he was. Don't ask me to explain that. I do remember that there was a lot of chauvinistic letter writing in fandom in those days, with those runty little shits asking each other what he saw in her. Nobody ever thought to marvel that she'd seen anything in him. Well, as I say, it's a long time ago. She may have died."

"Maybe so. By the way, have you ever heard of Richard Spivey?" asked Marion, trying to appear casual.

Angela shook her head. "If he's a new writer, don't expect me to know him. I haven't kept up."

"I don't know who he is," Marion admitted. "But I sure do wish I knew what killed Pat Malone so conveniently. Not that the police would confide in me."

"Get Jim Conyers to ask them. He's a lawyer around here, and he's probably old friends with the sheriff."

Marion looked at her with renewed respect. "What a perfectly simple, brilliant idea."

Angela nodded. "Well, I hope you find out something," she said. "As cantankerous as Pat was, I never wanted him to be dead."

There was a soft tapping at the door. "I'll get it," said Marion, eying her hostess' kimono. She went to the door and eased it open. "Yes?"

Lorien Williams stood there, twisting her hands and looking anxious. "Excuse me, is Miss-um-you know, Angela. Could I speak to her, please?"

Marion glanced back at Angela, who waved for her to let the visitor in.

"Is anything the matter?" she asked as Lorien edged past her, head down and slouching. Behind her, Marion looked over at Angela and mouthed: Who knows?

"I wondered if you could take a look at Mr. Surn," she said to Angela. "I think somebody said you were a nurse."

Angela paled. "What's the matter with Brendan?"

Marion said, "Shall I call an ambulance?" She was remembering the huddled form of Pat Malone, slumped on the bathroom floor.

"No. It isn't that bad. I mean, it isn't a heart attack or anything. It's just that sometimes he has… well, bad spells. There are times when he doesn't know me, and he gets very angry. I don't blame him, of course. I'd get angry, too, if-" Lorien's voice trailed off uncertainly.

Angela looked from Marion to Lorien and back again. "I'll just go in the bathroom and change," she said.

"I'm going to look for Jim Conyers," said Marion.

Meanwhile, back at the electric Scout meeting, Jay Omega had succeeded in logging on to a nationwide computer chat on Delphi, and he established his own conference, devoted to "a discussion of the Lanthanides." He labeled his file more fandango, reasoning that the word "Fandango" would be a red flag to anyone who remembered Pat Malone, and that everyone else would give it a miss. This was not entirely true; a few people chimed in wanting to discuss the lambada, an association which eluded the sedentary Omega, and a few college-age chemists tried to get up a discussion of the periodic chart, but after a quarter of an hour, someone from Indiana actually did check in, responding with: "IS THIS ABOUT P. B. MALONE? AND, IF SO, WHAT ABOUT HIM? HE'S DEAD."The message purported to be from one J. A. Bristol.

Jay typed back: " YES, BUT NOT FOR AS LONG AS YOU THINK‹ PERHAPS I NEED TO TALK TO SOMEBODY IN MISSISSIPPI ABOUT VERIFYING P.M.'s 1958 DEMISE."

Meanwhile, other people chimed in with their own opinions of Malone's novel, and of The Last Fandango. Jay replied: "CAN WE T ABLE THESE TOPICS? BIOGRAPHICAL DATA URGENTLY NEEDED. IS ANYONE ON FROM CUPERTINO, CA?"

Of course there was. Cupertino, which is in California's Silicon Valley, has more computers than bathtubs. The response to Jay's request was almost immediate. "Kenny," another collegian, said: "NEVER HEARD OF THIS MALONE GUY, BUT I LIVE IN CUPERTINO, SO?"

Jay consulted the notes he had scribbled down, containing everything he could remember about Pat Malone. "PLEASE CHECK PHONE DIRECTORY FOR AN ETHEL OR A MRS. PAT/PB MALONE," he told Kenny.

Two other conference crashers were ignoring Jay's line of questioning to pursue an argument of their own about the symbolism that one of them saw in River of Neptune.

In exasperation, Jay fired at them: "HAVE IT ON GOOD AUTHORITY THAT THE NOVEL PROPHESIES THE COMING OF NINTENDO. YOU HAVE NOW REACHED EQUILIBRIUM. GO AWAY!-HAS ANYONE OUT THERE EVER SEEN PAT MALONE? LATELY?"