By Kate Conger
By Brian Rinker
By Rachel Swan
By Anna Pulley
By Erin Sherbert
By Chris Roberts
By Erin Sherbert
By Rachel Swan
A fountain-copse of nearly 20 geysers spouts over the surface of a small plaza that has served as a family meeting place for more than two centuries. Young lovers recline in the spiny shadows of palm trees while furrowed grandmothers tend to lunch and keep a watchful eye; children in cartoon-colored bathing suits dash between the gurgling columns of water, squealing and tossing their dark, chlorine-scented hair; and a sleek, light-rail tram glides down the center of the avenue. A shrunken old man, clearly adapted to the full-bodied heat and undiluted brilliance of the mornings, removes the Panama from his head and peels a large, white, textile square off of his balding pate. It's like another world, I think, but it's not another world. It's just San Jose.
"What planet are you from?" yells a drifter whose Army-green fatigues have become shiny with wear. "What planetare you from?"
Thinking the man's midmorning Olde English might have heightened, rather than dampened, his perceptive powers, I turn to answer, but his unfocused stare is directed at another figure. Demo, as I later come to call him, is a skinny fellow with a billowing black cloak, a soft brown tunic covered in geometric shapes, a big black hat with its broad rim cut into points (a bit like a snake's tongue) on either side of his head, and two soft, pale, yellowish gauntlets that extend past his wrists and taper into two immensely long fingers on either hand.
"Tschai, if you must know," says Demo with a gentlemanly nod of his head. "I'm from Tschai or, at least, I'm dressed to be. Good morning to you."
"I think I should be following you," I suggest to the faux Pnume, a creature created, I learn, by Jack Vancein 1971 to inhabit an alien "planet of adventure."
"Indeed," says Demo with a flourish of his unseasonable outer garment. "To the convention."
The second floor of the McEnery Convention Centeris already bustling with Jawas and Faeries and Federation pilots and Marvin the Martians and furry beasts and partially built robots and men with laser guns and women with swords and white-haired seniors with goofy little propeller hats who are just a sampling of the 6,000 science-fiction and fantasy fans who have come from all over the world to attend the 60th annual World Science Fiction Convention, or Worldconas it is better known in fandom parlance. I come to learn there are no fewer than 600 panels, six dances, two ceremonies, 20 concerts, 85 readings, 45 kaffeeklatsches, and 125 hotel-room parties being presented here over the course of five sleepless days. There is no real way to prepare.
I grab the morning edition of The dot.Con Daily, the official newsletter of "ConJosé," and my easy-to-read, 142-page, spiral-bound schedule. At Demo's recommendation, I make my way toward Exhibition Hall 2, where the SFWA Musketeers are offering a sword-fighting display amongst a vending-sea of books, costumes, videos, software, candlesticks, jewelry, toys, and Volkoth battle-axes -- a good place to start, I am told, but it is not to be. I am waylaid by a 7-foot-6-inch demon named Lustoffire.
"How 'bout a little stand-up comedy by a third-rate demon from the Fourth Plateau of Hell?" purrs Lustoffire, splaying the tremendous black wings that sprout from his back. "I also sell afterlife insurance. Whaddya say?"
Lustoffire lowers his silvery head to better hear my reply, and I notice the fine black hairs growing around his horns and the lack of sclera in his inky black eyes.
"How long have you been coming to science-fiction conventions?" I ask.
"Oh, about 25 years, I suppose," says the demon, standing up again.
"What do you come looking for?"
"Sex, fun, and profit," chuckles the demon.
"And what do you do when you're not here?"
"Ohh, I philosophize," says the demon. "I'm not just a pretty face, you know; I've got a brain." Lustoffire flips open his cranium and bends down so I might have a closer look at his scientifically accurate, handcrafted encephalon.
"Might you share an example?"
Lustoffire shifts his 5-inch bone hooves and lowers his voice to a conspiratorial tone: "There are four basic truths: Kindness is good; compassion is more important than justice; humor is fantastic in bed; and Carrot Top should never, ever be allowed to make a movie."
Lustoffire, the hitherto most convincing demon I have ever seen up close, offers me a sharpened-tooth smile and clops off.
So I join 150 other people to listen to the lecture-hall offering "Near Term Astronautics,"which features sci-fi fans who have real-science credibility: Henry Spencer, a systems programmer and software architect for Canada's MOST astronomy satellite; Les Johnson, NASA's In-Space Propulsion Project manager; Loretta McKibben, an Oklahoma storm chaser and NASA/Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL) solar system ambassador; Edwin L. Strickland, an image analyst who works with dinosaurs and space shuttles; and Steve Collins, a JPL spacecraft engineer. This educated discussion of space travel and the Mars landing proves easier for me to follow than "New Astronomy, Astrophysics, and Astrobiology Discoveries,"which delves into string theory, dark matter, quantum mechanics, inflationary universe models, and neutrinos. Out of the 200 people attending the latter lecture, it seems, I am the only person unequipped with a knowing nod. Eventually, I resign myself to the reality; "Beer in Zero G and Other Challenges of Space Manufacturing," where I learn you can't belch in space, is more my speed.