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Home , Emil Petaja, Sad Puppies, Time Enough for Love

The SMOKIN’ ROUTE THE SMOKIN’ ROUTE BEING AN ACCOUNT OF THE JOURNEY OF GUY & ROSY LILLIAN TO THE CITY OF SPOKANE, WASHINGTON AND SASQUAN, THE 73RD WORLD CONVENTION AUGUST 18-25, 2015.

Composed by Guy at 1390 Holly Avenue, Merritt Island FL 32952 [email protected] * GHLIII Press Publication #1183

Oh, what a journey it could have been. And oh, what a journey it was.

In our dreams, we would have roaded it to South Dakota, walked the Greasy Grass at Little Big Horn, sought the majesty of Mount Rushmore and the Crazy Horse Monument, whistled the theme to Close Encounters at Devil’s Tower, then driven on through and Idaho to Spokane. But those evaporated with the bad luck and ill will of April, which gutted us financially and emotionally. It seemed, that spring and early summer, that Rosy and I would have only an ambassador to send to Sasquan, the 73rd World Science Fiction Convention – its souvenir book.

This was the sixth major convention for which Rosy and/or I had edited the program/souvenir book, and possibly the most satisfying. I did Let the Good Times Roll for Nolacon II with Peggy Ranson – without benefit of computer layout programs. I love the book but our primitive tools and lack of experience shows. La belle and I worked on Noreascon 4’s with Geri Sullivan, a layout genius of incomparable talent, and while the book is beautiful, we credit that mostly to Geri. Rosy’s book for Chicon 7 is jolly and colorful, but was done at such a breakneck, last-nanosecond pace that its rife typos glare like burning coals. The tome I did for the Raleigh NASFiC has its attractions – great Brad Foster robot art and a devastating photo of Catharine Asaro, for instance – but is mostly a guide to program participants. Then there’s the huge book I edited for the 50th DeepSouthCon – it nearly bankrupted the concom, and I messed up line spacing throughout, but it’s too much a labor of love for my home convention and its Rebel and Phoenix Awards for me to judge rationally.

Sasquan’s book was the first time Rosy and I could truly collaborate on a project, me as editor, assimilator, and general visionary, her as layout engineer and InDesign expert. I got my job done early, throwing together a fanzine-like dummy of the book, so she had plenty of time to turn my slop into a volume of professional quality. Which makes the Sasquan book sound dry and lifeless – and it was anything but.

I am far from the brightest nova in the night sky, but I did have some definite ideas about the job. Sasquan began life under a pall. Spokane was not ’s first choice for the 2015 ; it won over Helsinki due only to the vagaries of the Australian ballot. I got the strong impression that fans of the Finnish bid – though not the bidders themselves – felt cheated, and blamed Spokane. Furthermore, Sasquan’s committee labored within a harsh and hostile local environment in Seattle, locus of the state’s fanac. Its many were having at each other fang and claw – as I found when I tried to recruit locals for the convention newsletter and other publication tasks. (Of course, the Corflu crowd is very strong in the northwest. I’m an outsider to that corner of fanzine fandom – there’s a suspicion there that didn’t help.) Finally, thanks in part to a NASFiC that apparently did not go well, I sensed a cruel disdain for Sasquan’s honcho, Bobbie DuFault, bad juju visited upon her name even after her untimely death.

It wasn’t just fannish mistrust of the concom that afflicted Sasquan. Outside fannish pressures also came to bear. In April the Hugo nominations came out – and the onslaught of the Sad Puppies began. You know the story and are probably sick of it. For my present purposes, let’s just say that the right-wing paranoia that clogged the Hugo ballot served as additional weight on Sasquan’s back.

I saw it as my duty to enliven this sour situation. The Sasquan program book, I decided, should have a lively, goofy tone to counteract the bad vibes groaning about the convention. This was all the easier to manage thanks to the convention’s Artist Guest of Honor and resident genius, Brad Foster. His cover illo – see my cover – had blown us away. His vision of a dopey bigfoot, realized on the front of the first progress report and various fillos therein … well, that settled it. I’d use that silly sasquatch, whom I presumed to name “Hugo,” to bring the souvenir book unity and style – and keep it light. Rosy got the message and came up with the footprint idea to promote the idea of Hugo the Sasquatch, fetched for worldcon by a pair of naïve aliens, wandering through the Worldcon spreading destruction in his wake.

Anyway, we got it done, we got it proofread by as many eyes as I could enlist, made every correction they and we could find, and got it to the printer on time. We’d done our best, cut no corners, and could feel pride in our work.

There matters stood as August came around, and its days began to fall behind us. As we had no chance of attending, I thought, I expected I’d be reading about Sasquan online, straining to follow the ceremonies via Livestream (last year’s show was an all-but-incomprehensible cacophony of overlapping soundtracks), and sweating out the chances of my Hugo favorites – Mike Resnick and in the editor categories, Journey Planet as best fanzine, Steve Stiles for fan artist, and Cixin Liu’s magnificent Three- Body Problem for best novel – on the ballot thanks to the character and good sense of author Marco Kloos, who withdrew his Lines of Departure, whether out of embarrassment over a Puppies endorsement or for other reasons, who knows. Oh well, we thought: not the first Worldcon we’d had to enjoy from afar.

Then came August 11. I’m not at liberty to disclose how the money came free, or its source, but on that marvelous day money did come free, and I wrote in my journal, “Oh dear God we’re going to Sasquan.” In one week.

Rosy and her stepmother Patty took matters in hand, preparing a budget contrasting my immediate plan – gassing up the car, throwing a change of underwear into a grocery bag and booking it – with Rosy’s sensible alternative: flying. It would take six times as long to drive and cost three times as much. They contacted a family friend in the travel business, who obtained seats for us at a decent rate – rather miraculous for such a late date – and that was that, cat. The die was cast.

I won’t bore you with my paranoid delusions about the flights – which would be five in number: three to get there (Orlando-Salt Lake City, SLC to Seattle, Seattle to Spokane), two to get back (we scored a direct flight Spokane to Salt Lake). Suffice it to say that when we finally left, in the pre-dawn hours of August 18, the glorious reds and yellows and whites of Orlando from aloft were not quite lost on me. Such is the nature of Xanax: the pill I popped took enough edge off my terror to let the good stuff shine through. The western mountains, when we reached them, were awesome – the deep shadows, the rugged ridges, the impassable cliffs of the wilderness below were heart-filling and fear-shaming. Having my phobia abashed made the views even more glorious. Coming into Seattle, a hearty religious discussion in progress with a nice Mormon row-mate (who once crashed on Mitt Romney’s floor), Mount Rainier framed itself, white and magnificent, in the portside window. And was that Puget Sound, wide and beautiful, below us?

Awe gave way to annoyance once we reached Seattle. Our flight was some 40 minutes late and we’d missed our connection. While Rosy called her travel agent buddy and tried to deal with Delta Airlines, that monument to airline arrogance, I practiced for old age with two wheelchair rides around the expansive terminal, seeking the appropriate gates. No, I wasn’t suddenly stricken and unable to walk – just stupid from Alprazolam. I don’t know how I avoided justifiable assault from those actually needing such assistance, and righteous arrest. All I do know is that when we finally boarded our tiny jet for the 32-minute bop across Washington State, Toni Weisskopf greeted us from her seat. begin with a first fan sighting, and so Sasquan had begun.

The turf below us looked mountainous and wooded – I imagined Hugo the sasquatch galumphing his way through its forests. Except when there were no forests. Just swathes of bare earth. We flew through a nasty yellow haze. It was impossible not to realize that eastern Washington was On Fire.

Our landing was hard, our braking quick: our bellies strained against the seat belts. After 12 hours of stressful, if occasionally beautiful, travel, we were at our destination – Spokane, Washington, 2,368+ miles diagonally across America from where we’d woken up. And as a perfect punctuation to such a day, Delta lost my luggage.

I spent a night of near-rage (although Delta did gift me with a complimentary tee shirt, correctly sized, and a wicked little razor) anticipating a convention spent in the same sweaty gear as I’d flown in. But then, we received a call. T’was a courier. She had my suitcase in her trunk, she said, and had been tasked with delivering same by Delta, but as a new arrival from the Midwest, had no idea where our hotel was located. Fortunately, the svelte blonde cutie found it, and me, before I afflicted Sasquan with my nervous flight stench. A change of togs and we were ready to face fandom.

Oh – some fans were sitting around the hotel lobby when we emerged from our room. One girl, already registered, had all the convention freebies out of their green Sasquan bag and spread out before her. Among them was our book. That first sight of a project is always the most daunting, but in this case, it was also satisfying. Book looked good. We boarded the convention shuttle bus – very comfy; good work, Bobbi – and were off, past the castle-like Holiday Inn Express, to see the wizard.

Is there any fannish excitement to match the first moments of a Worldcon? Walking the long Convention Center hallway from the street to the central hall, we said hi to Mike Glyer, the second familiar face after Toni’s, and then Joe and Gay Haldeman, who greeted Rosy warmly and pressed an invitation to their anniversary party into her hands. Bob Silverberg was with them; I made a point of calling him ”Bob,” which he’s always demanded that I do, and then blew it all by also calling him “sir.” I can’t help it; he’s Robert Silverberg and I’m some schnook. Then we were at registration, or rather I was; as a Department Head, I figured I had the right to cut in line, and left Rosy to maintain the familiar shuffle. I made the mistake of approaching Paula Leibowitz with my plea for special understanding, and was driven back, covered in ridicule. (Eventually we were shuttled to a staff line and got our goodies.)

Familiar faces came forth in a rush: Grant Kruger, the South African fan (because the only South African fan, he believes), appeared, with longer locks than before. I pleased Andy Porter by showing him his credit in the souvenir book, and in return he showed me the semi-pornographic cover to Marty Cantor’s Holier than Thou XX, with which he planned to embarrass Brad Foster. Norman Cates (see previous page), campaigning for New Zealand in 2020, coughed and choked in line, but still waved hi, as did James Bacon, hyping his Dublin bid for 2019. His moustaches were needle-sharp. Mike Resnick grabbed me by the back of my neck, but I couldn’t mind; Carol was with him and reported feeling fine, a relief to their innumerable friends. Steve and Sue Francis came up (they’d show again at the Hugo ceremony), as did Roger and Pat Sims; Roger just hit 85 and says little these days, but his cheery smile conveyed a lot.

I was brought up short when I glimpsed who I thought for an instant to be Julie Schwartz in silhouette – and felt the ache of Time when I realized that, of course, it was another man. Many were the happy greetings as we re-entered the personal realm of fandom, but the regrets were many, too.

In search of our beautiful and ever-more-accomplished pal Lezli Robyn, whom Rosy had agreed to meet in the Dealer’s Room, we adjourned thither, to find convention Guest of Honor David Gerrold manning his own booth just inside the entry. I’ve been impressed with Gerrold of late; his reactions against the Sad Puppies was strong and humorous, fair and resilient, and tough enough so that one of their neurotic number had called the Spokane police and warned them that he was dangerous and criminal. Sasquan was ready to expel the fool before Gerrold talked them out of it. The maturity and strength in the man was good to see.

It was also good to hear his praise for our souvenir book, which he told us was the best he’d ever seen at any con, anywhere, anywhen. Sure, he was just being a good GoH, but even so, when I heard that, I had to walk off and be by myself for a minute.

Rosy found the lovely Lezli – stunning in her rich red hair – and two other Mike Resnick “writing daughters,” Tina Glover and Monica Lestetter, cute, brilliant ladies of around 13 years of age. (I have those numbers reversed, but they looked 13.) I was unnecessary in such company, so I wandered. I saw noble Chris Barkley and his friend Julie in the reg line (DUFF!), went by the daily newsletter office to introduce myself to editor Cherise Kelley (who wasn’t there, although able Tom Galloway and Kage Thornbrough were), and met WSFS champion Linda Deneroff, who also complimented the book and received my gratitude for saving our necks at the last minute. You see, we were about to publish last year’s constitution before Linda spotted the mistake. She liked how we’d printed the proposed amendments in blue. Everyone expressed surprise that we had made it. Us too.

Back in the dealer’s room, I was contemplating The Dark Forest, second volume in the trilogy of which The Three-Body Problem is the first. I had in mind a copy with a frayed cover, because … well, I felt sorry for it! Aren’t you one of us nuts who feel pity for inanimate objects. I was distracted from my mull by Bobbi Armbruster, who stood next to me for two minutes before realizing who I was. I grew used to that in my youth. She was pleased that I liked the shuttle service, her bailiwick within the convention workforce, but tried to convince me that she has six grandchildren, five girls and a dude. Impossible! The woman is only 25! Never mind that we met at Suncon, 1977. Ah, LASFAPA in the late seventies …

It was time to open the show, so we trooped – my feet already aching; Skechers Gowalks shoes are super-comfy, but those floors were hard – across to East Hell (or so it seemed) for Opening Ceremonies. Con chairman Sally Woehrle stumbled gamely through a verbal history of local fandom and introduced the guests, who came forth to occupy easy chairs on the stage. Gerrold, Vonda McIntyre, Brad Foster, filker Tom Smith, Fan GoH Leslie Turek – I felt I’d come to know all of them through prepping tributes for the souvenir book. The star of the show was present only through a videotape, however – astronaut Kjell Lindgren, on the International Space Station, who welcomed us to Sasquan floating in mid-air. He threw a at the camera in David’s honor and followed it up with a weightless backflip. Stand-ups of Kjell were spread throughout the convention – and carried at the fore of many processions.

They brought out Matthew Dockery, the Hugo base designer – couldn’t make out his work, though we saw it later, and that’s it on my bacover – and Nina Horvath, the Austrian TAFF winner. Her English was charming, her dimples delightful – but she doesn’t get by on looks. Nina is a paleontologist – dinosaurs again! – who has published some 35 SF stories (in German, of course) and won awards as both a writer and an anthologist. She had fandom at her feet throughout the con.

And they had a sasquatch! Recall that our souvenir book was bound by the tale of Hugo Bigfoot, lured to the con by aliens, who wandered hither and yon during the event spreading chaos in his wake. Well, here he was in the hairy flesh, only they called him Terence – no doubt his middle name – leading us out into the park adjacent to the convention center for that delightful new tradition of Worldcon – First Night.

Across the bridge in the pretty park SCAers dueled, strange games were played, and an amateur musical was performed (out of earshot). The weather was marvelous and if that was a hint of smoke in the air, it was – for the nonce – only a hint. Vouchers were handed out for free Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, for which there were two long lines; Rosy and I each had banana cones enriched with huge chunks of chocolate, and not a calorie within miles. But we didn’t linger; my feet were in serious revolt, and I wanted to see the Fanzine Lounge.

I was anxious – in two meanings of the word – to visit the Lounge. I define myself as a fan primarily in three ways: as a reader, as a Southerner, whose home event is the DeepSouthCon, and as a fanziner, whose life hobby is the production of amateur magazines like, well, this one. Though all of these roles have certainly been rewarding, I have not been universally popular in the latter two – but as my great antagonist Don Markstein once observed, that’s the way the corflu clots. The Lounge was the project of what I call the Corflu crowd, mainstays of the venerable “fanzine fans’” convention, and let us admit in all discretion that although I much admire their work and like many of the people, the feeling has not always been mutual. Our perspective of the hobby is widely divergent, and our relationship has been – what is the term? Ah! “Iffy.”

Nevertheless, I found the Lounge very comfortable, crowded with soft leatherette couches, and well-stocked with fanzines, old and new. Everywhere, as intimated by the poster above, inflatable dinosaurs roared silent abuse upon the conventioneers. In this benighted era of blogs and fancasts, the paper fanzine is considered as antique and rare a creature as ever caroused through the Jurassic. In defiance of this fact, the Lounge was a jolly place. Great kudos to organizer Randy Byers and his krewe. Particular praise goes to Jerry Kaufman and honor beyond honor to his lady, Suzle Tompkins, who in her position as Sasquan’s Hotel Liaison saved our necks when the Red Lion at the Park futzed up our reservations.

Cathy Palmer-Lister, of Montreal’s Warp, grabbed me in a hug – and a demand for a Fan-Eds’ Feast. I was abashed; first I’d thought of it. Ulrika O’Brien reported that her relaxacon of the previous weekend had been a success, and Banana Wings co-editor Mark Plummer presented me, as he often does, with the latest issue of his and Claire Brialey’s exceptional zine. I was embarrassed that, obsessed with the souvenir book, I’d done nothing special of my own for the con. But all was all right, for a grand surprise called to me from one of the easy chairs: Liz Copeland.

Grand indeed this surprise. Beset by work. Liz’ husband Jeff had informed the world that he and his would be unable to get to Sasquan, though they live only a few hours’ drive away. But during Ulrika’s relaxacon Liz had been invited to ride in with other Seattleites (that’s a word, isn’t it?) and crash in one of their rooms – and so here she was. Liz and I go back a long time – forty years as of the middle of July. Rivercon I, Louisville, DeepSouthCon 1975, was her first convention, and she got hit by a whole riverboat-full of whammies. The appearance of Muhammed Ali was but the first. There’s been a lot to those 40 years, including a triumphant marriage to Jeff, two splendid kids – and about twenty-five operations, from the latest of which she was still recovering. She’s prevailing, though, and I’m so proud of Liz I could spit. (In fact, I will. Oh, sorry, Pepper; didn’t see you there.)

After we wandered the adjacent Exhibits, eying the many Hugos on display (Rich Howell assembled his gorgeous design, the only time a Hugo had itself been nominated for a Hugo), and a 3-D printer creating a yellow plastic octopus – I just report the facts – other old pals picked us up, Rich and Nicki Lynch, celebrating their own fortieth – only theirs denotes a wedding anniversary this year. We were off to dinner, soon joined by David and Diana Thayer, across the street from the CC. Our first choice, O’Donoghue’s, had an inviting old-pub atmosphere, but was raucous with racket, as the management and patrons loudly celebrated a Spokane-born baseball player. We trekked around the corner to an establishment called Steelhead’s, adorned with portraits of fishing lures and gifted with a menu celebrating Spokane’s signature salmon. David – a.k.a. “Teddy Harvia,” and a Hugo winner under that name – recalled with me hanging onto straps and college girls aboard a cable car during another dinner expedition with the Lynchi, years ago. We call such trips “Rich Lynch Death Marches,” because Rich often leads his followers on epic treks across miles of city streets. Today’s jaunt was a short walk – but the name seemed more appropriate now than ever. The reason was the sky.

In my notes I described the sky that day as “spooky” and “baleful.” Smoke filled the firmament, smoke from the fires surrounding the city, fires that would kill three firefighters that day and would attack the eyes and throats of many a convention-goer. The sun didn’t shine, but rather yearned through it, feebly, like a fried egg surfacing through dirty grease. We’d seen the smoke flying in the day before, and when the wind was wrong Sasquan would be bedeviled by it. It was creepy to walk through downtown beneath such a sky.

But we had to, for parties, or “Meet’n’Greets,” were set to begin at the convention party hotel, the “old” Davenport, several blocks away. After dining, the Lynchi set out to find their rental car, and we hit the streets, relying on the convention map to get us there. Walking with us part way was a black-clad goth teenager, whose response to my query for directions could only be described as crazy as a roadside raccoon. I watched with horror as she danced down an alley. I am my brother’s keeper – but Rosy was probably right: leave her be; this is her place.

There were several Meet’n’Greets in progress at the Davenport, a beautiful old hotel renovated and dressed up by a generous multi-millionaire – they had his statue, seated on a bench, by the lobby doors. Upstairs in the Fanzine Lounge we met and heaped praise on the decorator, a modest fellow with an altogether immodest scientist friend. He had never encountered SF fans before, and every word he said was rather desperately designed to impress. He would have driven us out immediately had it not been for the presence of the great British fanziner, Sandra Bond, whose QuasiQuote stood tall amongst the much-missed forest of terrific Brit perzines, and the dynamic duo of Mike Ward and Karen Schaeffer (see above).

Mike was the person I’d known longest at the convention; we met at Berkeley’s Little Men in the late sixties. He told me that Quinn Yarbro had a stroke – bad! – but was recovering well – good! I encountered Karen through LASFAPA, the scandalous lotus-eaters’ apa. She was never a member, but once, someone published a photo of her in this jewelry that hung down over her forehead, a diadem I think it’s called, and let’s just say that the picture made an impression. She’s one of the most beautiful women I’ve known in fandom, and how she’s restrained over the years from having me beaten or arrested, I’ll never know.

Also showing up, Ruth Judkowitz and Kyla, also met through LASFAPA, adored in person at Iguanacon, life-fulfilling treasures ever since. Ah. Life was again complete. We didn’t get to exchange more than a peace sign (viz ) all week, but seeing them was grand.

One more note of interest to Wednesday night. It may have been at Boston’s Christmas-themed (?) party that Rich Lynch developed back spasms, but wherever it was, they socked the bwah with some serious pain. I enlisted the help of Aussie stalwart Alan Stewart, who is Rich’s height, to get him onto his feet and on his way. We too were on our way, since I was making even less sense when I talked than I usually do.

After dreaming of a brawl, possibly between trufans and the Sad Puppies, I returned to the convention in the middle of the night – 7:45AM. As a department head, I was required to attend daily 8AM concom meetings – and except for the ungodly hour, it was no problem. The hotel fed us a terrific buffet – bangers, bacon, French toast, roast pheasant, chateaubriand – and I also learned to raid the con suite and staff lounge too. (Dave Schlosser, in blue rubber gloves, was among those stacking bagels onto the breakfast bar.) I also got to watch the Sasquan committee at work, and came to respect them a great deal. What wasn’t to respect? Everything was going well. Randy Smith’s Exhibits were a hit, Jill Eastlake’s Events had come off okay so far, Bobbi’s shuttles were shuttling with alacrity, Cherise Kelley was producing a fine twice-daily newsletter, the Sasq Watch, for my department, and the Tech – thank you Larry Schroeder – was perking along nicely. Of course, the big challenges were coming up – the Masquerade and the Hugo ceremony – but it was only Thursday; time to fret about those potential nightmares later.

The convention itself had awoken while we met, and waiting for Rosy, again I contemplated the Dark Forest copy with the torn cover in the Dealers’ Room. Who would love it except for me? Later, I decided, I would buy it.

I am amazed at how little programming I took in at Sasquan. (Rosy, by contrast, went everywhere advice for new writers and self-publishers was being dealt out.) Not counting the major productions, I hit one count it one panel, and it was a panel of one – John Hertz’ “Classics of Science Fiction” presentation on R.A. Lafferty’s 1968 masterpiece, Past Master. In the room, Laurraine Tutihasi (another reminder of LASFAPA days), Lofgeornost’s Fred Lerner and several others. It was grand to be reminded of elegant Past Master and its inelegant author. John called it “a magnificently integrated book,” Lerner thought it “a meditation on original sin,” and everyone mulled over a central question, oft-overlooked in appreciation of Lafferty’s insane Irish hilarity and late-‘60s passion: what is the purpose of the anti-Utopian Cathead? Those were the days, that was the book, and that was the guy. Read a review of that and his two other ’68 publications, The Reefs of Earth and the divine Space Chantey, bought them all, and in a glaze of 18-year- old ecstasy, pronounced, “I have found My Boy.” Ray, you magnificent lunatic, you never let me down.

Lynch came up and gave me, for the last time, he said, a bag of Coca-Cola bottle caps. I don’t drink much Coke anymore, but hey, you can free Sprite for those things, too … Thanks, Rich.

Rosy and I dropped by the Staff Lounge – 14th floor, Doubletree, impossible elevators right beyond the Sasq Watch office – for some lunch, but didn’t linger long. We had to hustle across the CC campus to hit one of the con’s early highlights. Outside of auditorium 100B, Tom Hanlon handed out kazoos emblazoned with “HUGOS MATTER.” I could only imagine what we were supposed to do with them in two days’ time. I didn’t cut too badly in line.

We took our seats and, shortly, without introduction, George R.R. Martin shambled forth, eyes down, envelope in hand. He parked himself at the easy chair and microphone at stage center, sighed, pulled the mike close and asked how many of us knew Game of Thrones only from the TV series – in other words, who had not read the books. Ashamedly I joined a few others raising our hands. He explained that the chapter he was about to read, from The Winds of Winter, featured a character and a subplot not included in the television series, Aranne Martell and the Golden Company. He began to read.

Of course, the chapter was fast-moving, fun and well-spun: “Dragons of words and whispers …” I really ought to read Game of Thrones. During the Q&A session that followed, GRRM had some trouble hearing the queries, but allowed that Fevre Dream was his favorite non-GoT novel, he’d avoided the South Park parody (others watched it for him), and said with great seriousness, “No work of fiction would be harmed by the insertion of additional turtles.” Yes, turtles.

Was it Thursday that one of my excursions by the Fanzine Lounge coincided with the scoring of a trivia contest? Let’s just say that it was. A tall fellow stood in the center of the space, reading the answers to such a contest – answers that were more fantastic than science fictional. “Robert A. Heinlein won Hugos,” he proclaimed, “for , , Time Enough for Love and To Sail Beyond the Sunset.”

“That’s wrong!” I interjected. “Heinlein won Hugos for Double Star, Starship Troopers, Stranger in a Strange Land and The Moon is a Harsh Mistress. Later he got a Retro-Hugo for .” “Get your info straight, man!” somebody chimed.

Later, Andy Hooper said the fella was thinking about the Nebulas. “Heinlein never won a Nebula!” I said – incorrectly, since RAH was the SFWA’s first Grand Master, in 1975. Whatever, I fear I spoke rudely and out of turn. Better to let a goof go uncorrected than embarrass a guy like that. Maybe he was thinking about the books for which Heinlein lost Hugos – Have Spacesuit, Will Travel; ; The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (remember, it was nominated twice); Time Enough for Love; Friday; and Job: A Comedy of Justice. More interesting trivia, anyway.

Again we met the Lynchi for dinner, joined by Naomi Fisher, Pat Malloy, their daughter Gracie and a young lad friend of hers. Again we tried O’Donaghue’s, and were almost put off again by impossible crowding – and the harried manager’s apology: we’d be waiting for an hour for our food. Still, we stayed, in a back room opened especially for us, and the food – which arrived much more quickly than we’d been warned – was worthwhile. My fish was bigger than my foot, and much tastier.

Speaking of my foot … That night’s excursion to the Davenport featured the superb New Zealand in 2020 party, at which Norman Cates – whose name we cheer raucously whenever we spot it in movie credits – had a Hobbit doorway backdrop set up for picture-taking. Like a good hairy-toed hobbit, I shed my shoes and socks for my portrait, on which you may gaze via my cover. Others in the room fled outside into the smoke for a breath of fresh(er) air.

The nighttime Fanzine Lounge was particularly comfortable that Thursday night. Inflatable creatures of the Cretaceous hung from the ceiling, and we enjoyed a thoughtful talk with Carrie Root. Like many, she dislikes the expanse and the crowd and the hustle of Worldcon, preferring the intimacy and the old-friends- gathering style of Corflu. We know what she meant: DeepSouthCon is like that for us, a “home con,” a place where everybody knows your name.

Thursday done.

At the DH meeting on Friday morning we were told that Sasquan’s membership had passed 11,000, with well over 5,000 in actual attendance – and that there were no extraordinary problems. Except the smoke, of course.

It was a filthy sky, even worse than before. You could feel and taste the sting of the smoke inside the CC, and surgical masks were as common as canes and “mobies” throughout those attending. Someone said that the city, newly named “Smoke-ane,” was surrounded by wildfires, suburbs were being evacuated, and the AQI was in the red – dangerous. Thank God there’d be no First Night on this day.

So the Worldcon, by and large, stayed indoors and did its best to ignore the nightmare in the atmosphere. I hung around the autograph line with Orlando’s Juan Sanmiguel and Chris Barkley, walking with them to get my personal copy of the souvenir book autographed by Vonda McIntyre and Leslie Turek. I befuddled Vonda, no doubt, explaining why Rosy had given her largest portrait an antique border – the better to mask the picture’s criminally low resolution. Leslie was very complimentary, really tickled that she had so many pages devoted to her. “Thank you for such a beautiful book!” she wrote in her inscription. “I will treasure it!” I’ll treasure that!

Naomi Fisher handed me her cellphone so I could chat with one of the people we most missed at Sasquan – Greg Benford. Our roping cattle on a dude ranch or something, Greg promised to see us at MidAmeriCon II and encouraged me to continue – start, actually – some serious writing projects I’d discussed with him. I will: the conversation of writers is always a goad in that direction. What color was Quantrill’s hair again? And what’s he got to do with Andromeda?

I followed my nose into Guinan’s café, adjacent to the Fanzine Lounge, for the Fan Fund auction, run with great success by Andy Hooper and Jerry Kaufman. Nina Horvath provided European chocolates and Norman Cates brought forth his usual load of WETA gear – tees, hats, jackets – that, as ever, brought good money into DUFF. We made a wise move electing him as delegate. Fans scored all kinds of arcane goodies – this  lady, for instance, was delighted with her imminently practical pterodactyl lamp – and a hardback first edition of Bug Jack Barron went for a cool C-note. (The buyer was aghast at my story of its Nebula snub. Robert Bloch neglected to name it when listing the nominees, much to Norman Spinrad’s dismay; he apologized after Spinrad lost the award to The Left Hand of Darkness.) Only thing in the auction to which I objected was someone outbidding Brad Foster for a robot hand puppet. Brad collects robot stuff and, as he was Artist GoH, I irrationally thought it rude to bid against him.

The exchange of all that serious coin made up my mind for me, and I sped into the Dealers’ Room to buy the copy of The Dark Forest I’d eyed – the one with the torn cover. Alas! Interest in its prequel, The Three-Body Problem, was growing as Hugo day approached, and it had been snapped up. I was told to return the next day, when more copies would be on hand – but dammit, I wanted that one. I actually gave some thought to putting an ad in the newsletter, offering an exchange: a perfect copy for the damaged one. Some thought, but not a lot. (I bought the book – a new copy – the next day.)

The air above remained foul that evening as we went out for dinner with Lezli and other “Resnick daughters,” so yucky that we made for the closest possible site – a Chili’s. The ladies were killer cute, marvelously smart and varied in their backgrounds, one a newbie lawyer, another a helper-dog trainer who also works with disturbed kids. One fella showed pictures of Robert Rogalski’s immaculate miniatures. It was a splendid meal, and flattering as all Hell: the ladies picked my arrogant wits for lawyer and fandom stories from my regrettable past. I always feel like a blowhard after I let loose with classic GHLIII-ia, but they said I was cool – even though Leslie van Houten, and Alfred Bester were names out of pre-history for them.

Afterwards, in lieu of the Davenport, the assemblage retired to the modernistic lobby bar of the Grand, one of the hotels favored by Sasquan’s pro contingent. It was something of a mini-convention, bustling, noisy, super-modern. While Rosy and Lezli yapped about life and work, I found a nice easy chair and contemplated Morpheus. Thus Friday passed into the realm of the Past.

Saturday, August 22 was the day at Sasquan, and a bright day, the wind right, the air clear. At the morning’s DH conclave I found that Helsinki had fulfilled its mission and won the 2017 Worldcon, defeating DC handily (by 500 votes!) on the first ballot. Poor Montreal and Nippon, despite last-minute spending and happy bids, had received only token support. I wasn’t worried about the Japanese bidders – they’d told me earlier than if they lost this time, they’d try anew. Trying anew is what won 2017 for the Finns, methought. Their bid this time was not remarkable, but they had sentiment on their side: admiration for their spirited efforts for 2015 and a sense that they had already earned their shot. That makes more sense than one theory I heard – crediting the Sad Puppies for Helsinki’s victory. (Damn it, the con should honor Quinn Yarbro – American SFdom’s greatest Finn, since we lost Emil Petaja!) 2017 Helsinki. 2019 Dublin. 2020 New Zealand. Fandom will be crossing a lot of water in the next few years. I also heard good words on last night’s 40-costume Masquerade and Kevin Roche’s mc’ing of same.

After the meeting I prepared an important news story with Robbie Bourget, Seth Breidbart and Jill Eastlake – how and when fans should pick up their Hugo tickets. No, not tickets! We weren’t to call them tickets. That sounded like we were charging. Coupons, that was it! These coupons would give them assigned seating at the awards ceremony, an idea that had worked pretty well at the Masquerade. I picked up our own passes to the pre- and post-Hugo receptions, and enjoyed a candid talk with Bourget about Nolacon II. She’d worked herself into the hospital – quite literally – struggling with the 1988 catastrophe … but she didn’t see the con as a disaster. She praised my chairman for his willingness to seek and pay for help when told it was needed, and like everyone else, declared the city itself a rousing success.

Thence down the hall to the Sasq Watch office, where I was charmed by Marah Searle-Kovacevic, who had come to “Smok-ane” by bus. I fled the office when Cherise told me that, of course, she already knew the Hugo winners and was preparing the results-zine now. I didn’t want to know! I felt there’d be little point in attending the ceremony that night without the suspense, and besides, if Three-Body Problem had lost, I’d’ve been bummed out and even worse company than usual. So after clearing the idea with Glenn Glazer, my immediate superior in the concom, I found the charming intercom announcer in the Dealers’ Room and had her pass along the news. Outside on the CC patio, a beautiful girl in a white dress twirled about, her skirts floating.

I’m a bit confused about the sequence of Friday events. I believe this was when I headed solo to the Red Lion, where I prepped my corpus for the night’s festivities. Rosy and I played text-tag after I returned – she was in a program room someplace listening to Lezli give a reading, but I could not find it. Apparently things didn’t go well for Ms. Robyn, either – she had only her first draft to read from, and spent most of her time trying to copy-edit the story as she spoke. La belle and I had options available to us afterwards – a tribute to Peggy Rae Sapienza or the Haldemans’ anniversary party. Blest with a hand- delivered invitation, we chose the latter.

Celebrating Joe and Gay’s fifty years together was a high. The room was tiny, glutted with names – David Gerrold, Silverberg, Resnick, , David Hartwell, the Simses, Howard Rosenblatt and Eve Ackerman – and rich with goodies, cake and chips, elbows and “excuse me’s” everywhere, the guests of honor ensconced on a corner couch – and it was terrific. I not only like those people, I’m proud of them. Not only one of science fiction’s great love stories, but one of our generation’s.

It was Rosy’s turn to hie to the hotel and prepare for the Hugos – I spent my time distributing as many copies of the newsletter with ceremony seating instructions as I could. Though I’d donned a sports coat and decent, non-jeans slacks, Rosy noted that I was wearing tennis shoes and gave me grief for it; heck, Resnick didn’t change his clothes at all, and Gerrold wore tennies, too. Anyway, to the CC’s big ballroom we adjourned, our own staff seating tickets in hand, for the Big Event.

Warren Buff, recovered somewhat from his disappointment with DC17, manned the “door dragon” table, collecting tickets with a partner and dispensing drink chits. Inside the large, cool room, cloven by tables and buffets, we sat at the same table as Nina Horvath and her talky boyfriend and the winner of this year’s First Fandom award and his wife. At the bar Chris Barkley and I chatted with Ken Liu, Hugo-winning writer and translator of The Three-Body Problem; Chris was kind enough to mention my heartfelt support of the book on social media. I just hoped it would win – and continued to be glad I hadn’t looked at the list of victors in the newsletter office.

While I was balancing plates of goodies I wished to convey to our table, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Looking up, I beheld the genial expanse of George R.R. Martin’s face, and his hand – holding a green ribbon. “HUGO LOSER,” it read. Chris Barkley snapped a photo. Story: George has given out such ribbons, and I’ve scored them, for several years. I mentioned my desire for one this time to Lezli Robyn, who undoubtedly passed on the message to GRRM. When Barkley ran the preceding photo on Facebook complaints resounded: Why doesn’t he quit wasting his time at science fiction conventions and finish that series? My response: I haven’t started it y- … Oh. You meant George.

After the nominees were photographed, Gerrold called everyone’s attention to the fore. He held up a wooden carving of an asterisk. David tried to put a positive spin on the thing, calling in six !s bonded together and marking the new voting record set by this year’s Hugo balloting and so on, but it didn’t work. The sculpture was immediately controversial; Toni Weisskopf was incensed by it and left the ceremony. I’ll print an explanation in another venue. All the nominees were asked to pick one up as they left.

We were bundled into the cool expanse of the auditorium, its further rows already filling with fans. We staffers had choice seats, effectively mixed in with the nominees. A Sasquan emblem was projected whitely against one wall, a giant Hugo on the other. I wondered how many of us had Hanlon’s kazoos in their pockets, poised to drown out feared Puppy protests. One canine moron had mentioned the possibility of a bomb threat – by the Social Justice Movement should a Puppy candidate prevail. No central aisle in this theatre – that would be a madhouse! But anticipation trumped anxiety. The Hugos, man. Biggest night in the science fiction year, and here we were.

The ceremony is available online, and I advise anyone seeking to understand science fiction’s unique community to seek it out, for it was an incredible show. All praise to the hosts – beautiful Tananarive Due, paying tribute to Nichelle Nichols in a spiffy Trek uniform, and especially David Gerrold, No one knew better than he the trickiness of his position. Gerrold had to deal with the worst assault on the Hugos in award history, the vitriol of the Puppies and the response that had come in return – a 3500-person flood of supporting memberships and Hugo ballots that everyone knew would include a raft of votes for “No Award.” I once described a court case I handled as “dancing in a mine field in Bozo boots.” Gerrold, in tennis shoes, was in just such a situation.

He and Ms. Due – and Company – handled it beautifully. Silliness and great judgment reigned. David’s dialog with the Dalek, later in the ceremony, was brilliant. “Are you staring at my nuts?” the creature demanded. “I have to urinate!” First, Connie Willis – “the Meryl Streep of science fiction” – gave a wonderfully silly speech about the perils of being an MC. We were all relieved to see Connie up on stage; not only was she jolly, she was there. At first, when the Puppies had dominated the nominations, she had refused to appear. She had changed her mind, and everyone rejoiced. Robert Silverberg, her frequent partner in dais crime, gave an even sillier speech, leading the crowd in a deadpan “Hare Krishna” chant, banging a tambourine and once again, telling the story of Berkeley’s manic Baycon. He has the year of the People’s Park riots wrong – that came about nine months after Baycon, and I should know; I was there – but why critique a great speech? No one does it better than Silverberg.

The asterisk thingamajob was introduced, and for some reason – I’m pretty thick, or have you noticed? – John C. Wright was brought to the podium. Wright, who had been scheduled to serve as DeepSouthCon 2016 Guest of Honor until that convention was suddenly (and temporarily) canceled, had been the writer most favored by the Puppies slate – winning three out of five spots in one of the fiction categories – impressed me rather favorably, as a big, likable lug. But what was he doing on stage? A sop to the Pups?

The awards began, as usual, with special honors – one to the late Jay Lake, the First Fandom honor (presented by Steve and Sue Francis) to Julia May, the Big Heart (quite deservedly) to the great Ben Yalow. Our tablemate from the pre-ceremony reception got his special honor, and gave a long but witty speech. They moved on to Hugos, finally, and brought Nina Horvath to the fore. The delightful TAFF delegate presented all of the Fan Hugos, marvelously accented (“Jorjuss!”) – and they were good Hugos, too.

I recently said that I hadn’t heard of any of the Fan Writer nominees, but on further reflection found that I’d been wrong. During the hideous Gamergate incident that preceded the ascent of the Sad/Rabid Puppies, I’d read of Laura Mixon on Laura Resnick’s blog. She had written an involved and tightly researched piece on a Gamergate writer who called herself, among many other names, Requires Hate – and had done an epic job countering her mean perspective and savage tone. I reread Mixon’s piece after the con, and found it well-done to the nth and informed with a passionate defense of civility. In a way, the award reminded me of Kameron Hawley’s the year before – a single blog entry making a commanding impression – but I liked and approved of this one much more.

Elizabeth Leggett won the Fan Artist honor; her work appears, I take it, in Lightspeed (later named Best Semiprozine – and God, do I hate that category) and seems professional to me, as well as very compelling and Dali-esque. Three Fan Artists in a row that I didn’t know ahead of their Hugos – I am Out of Touch!

Fortunately, I was very familiar with the winner of the Best Fanzine award – and it brought my first out- loud “YES!” of the night. Journey Planet, alone of the candidates in its category, is a traditional fanzine, with articles and themes and fan art. It is a quality item. Fundamentally, the same duo who won for The Drink Tank some years ago is responsible for this one – James Bacon and Chris Garcia (busy with his twins and not present, alas). They were joined on the ballot by special editorial contributors, including Helen Montgomery, and wild was my delight at their win. Here was a victory for us dinosaurs – affirmative, enthusiastic, quality- and fandom-oriented dinosaurs. Here they are below with John Hertz, who had donned dance regalia to accept an award.

“The members of the 73rd World Science Fiction Convention have decided that there will be no Hugo presented in this category.”

That was the language decided upon by the Hugo hosts and approved by the Sasquan committee. I’d heard it quoted in the DH meeting that morning. We all heard it when the envelope was opened in the Best Related Work category, up next. The nominees included two Castalia Press works, candidates from the Puppies slate – and we got our first indication of what that meant to categories so dominated.

The audience was stunned – and muttering was heard. Gerrold bounced into action. He signaled to the tech crew – and the movie screen above the stage descended. “Please hold your appreciation until the end of the list,” David said – as Steven Silver’s Memorial List was played. The inspired stroke forced an immediate mood-switch. Mourning our many lost SFers gave us the chance to get used to the idea that “No Award!” had been heard – for only the sixth time in Hugo history – and would probably be heard again.

As it was, four more times. You could tell when it was coming up, because neither Gerrold nor Ms. Tananarive would read the names of the nominated authors. Both the short story and novella categories, packed with Puppies, went down in flames – as did both Editor categories, each containing a nomination for the detestable Theodore Beale, a.k.a. . As the man says, Whoa!

I didn’t like it. I had friends – Mike Resnick and Toni Weisskopf – on those lists, and as the voting breakdown showed afterwards, they probably would have won Hugos without the No Award avalanche. Mike and Toni weren’t Sad Puppies stooges; they were and are dedicated and accomplished science fiction professionals, as well as first class human beings. In their cases, No Award threw out very deserving babies with Vox Day’s very dirty bathwater.

While on the subject … though I approve heartily of anti-Puppies sentiment, I’d like to know the scoop behind the astonishing gush of supporting memberships and No Award ballots. I cannot believe that 3,500+ SF fans did this on their own. Neither, n.b., do I believe that those voters were simple phonies. Their votes in the other categories, especially Best Novel, were just too authentic to justify such cynicism. But who organized this explosion of anti-Puppies opposition? Who, and where, and how? Inquiring minds want to know.

The sentiment of fandom was obvious, and devastating. Even in the Novelette category, No Award garnered the most first-place votes – but fortunately, another Statement was being made this Hugo evening. The winner there was a translation, Thomas Olde Heuvelt’s “The Day the World Turned Upside Down”. As the acceptor said, fandom was declaring that diversity was the rule in the science fiction world. He – I think it was a he – mentioned that another translated work was up for an award, later, and I crossed fingers that the trend would continue.

First, though, there were other Hugos to get through – principally the Dramatic Presentation honors. In an astonishing upset, a Game of Thrones segment and a Doctor Who episode lost to a show I’d barely heard of. It wasn’t even listed in the Hugo Program Guide (for which my Publications Department had no responsibility). Rosy and I decided that we’d have to start Orphan Black with its first season, and eventually get around to “By Means Which Have Never Yet Been Tried”, the episode which catapulted it to the ranks of Hugo-bestowed TV. (Quick: how many series have seen shows honored?) Though I voted for Interstellar, which I consider brilliant, I wasn’t in the least surprised by the victory for Guardians of the Galaxy. I mean, We are Groot, right? It was a runaway winner. Rather surprised by the Captain America second place finish; I thought that film rather by- the-numbers, i.e., unoriginal.

Finally Gerrold cued the techies again, and the movie screen lit up with the smiling face and weightless form of Dr. Kjell Lindgren. He wore a Sasquan badge – Brad Foster said later that it gassed him unmercifully to see his art in orbit – and held a miniature Hugo. He read the nominees for Best Novel – and vanished, as the screen blacked out. Gerrold called to him in ersatz anguish: “Don’t leave us like this! Who gets the Hugo?”

Here it was. The Worldcon had gone well. Rosy and I had had a really good time. But would I remember tonight fondly or with a tinge of regret? My #1 Hugo candidate had only appeared in hardback, and hadn’t even made the initial list, after all. It hadn’t won the Nebula, and Ancillary Sword had won the Locus poll for SF, as The Goblin Emperor had for . Three-Body Problem was wildly original, inventive, and thrilling. Would it be rewarded at last ronight or spurned like a beggar in the dust?

I was nervous for another reason. I remembered Magicon. The wrong name had found its way into the Best Fanzine envelope, embarrassing poor Lan Lascowski and befuddling poor Rich Lynch. Lindgren had recorded “the winner is” announcements for all five nominees – what if they played the wrong one?

“The Three-Body Problem!”

I whooped. I’m still whooping. Cixin Liu was a solid winner throughout the course of the Australian ballot, beating The Goblin Emperor by impressive, if not overwhelming, totals throughout the many steps needed to establish it as the ultimate victor. Its win was real – and as Ken Liu lofted the Sasquan Hugo, I felt glad that I hadn’t spoiled my ecstatic rush by learning of the winners early. An impressive night all ‘round – the SF community had made a statement, and the statement was for inclusiveness, for broader horizons, for recognition that science fiction is a species-wide art form, and that attempts to close its borders would be met with overwhelming rejection. The great lesson of Sasquan, with its humongous Hugo vote totals and its lively and positive 2017 Worldcon race: the field is healthy, the community is healthy. Yay us! There were two post-Hugo “losers’” parties, and if there was a disappointment in the night for Rose-Marie, it was that we only had invitations to one. Staffers had access to the party being given across the street from the CC at Auntie’s Bookstore, a unique situs and, I adjudged, a pretty successful one. The walk there was “jorjuss,” the foodies were good, the conversation was fine (we talked with Howard Rosenblatt about anything but legal matters and with Joe Siclari and Edie Stern – whose souvenir book for the last L.A.Con is still the best I’ve ever seen), the atmosphere very congenial (I got to congratulate Ken Liu – who should have gotten a trophy of his own for translating Three-Body). But it wasn’t the post-Hugo party. That one was hosted by George R.R., at the Davenport, and if you have access to Lezli Robyn’s photos from Sasquan, you’ll see what a spectacular blowout it was. We heard that it went on till 5AM and that it was mainly attended by pros.

La belle was frustrated. Sure, we were grateful to be at Sasquan and loved the access we enjoyed as staffers and department poohbahs. But she wanted to be In, all the way In, with the In Crowd. Someday …

I hate Sundays at conventions. I hate seeing things wind down and break down and pack up and move away. I greeted Bob Silverberg at 7:30AM in the Doubletree restaurant – he’s a west coaster now, without jet lag to justify the insane hours; why up so early, Bob? – and learned at the last DH meeting that Sasquan was sitting on a record of astonishing success.

11,649 members. 5,232 warm bodies, 1,012 coming in at the door. Very impressive. Thousands of hours on the livestream and U-stream circuits (including Rosy’s stepmother, Patty Green) for the Hugos, the top item last night on Twitter. Jenny, our NASA liaison, sent us each little gift packets of shuttle bookmarks and the like.

The Convention Center, we were told, had been anxious to please all con long, and its ushers and bartenders and other staff were praised as friendly and helpful. I could attest that they knew where rooms were that I couldn’t find on the maps. The 2,000 extra restaurant guides would be donated to the Spokane Visitors’ Bureau – and they were very grateful. Finally, it was reported that the only noise complaints the convention received were from the Davenport’s year-round residents, and as the other hotels refused to allow parties (or “Meet’n’Greets”), there was little that could have been done. We were told to fetch our staff tees to wear at Closing Ceremonies and that was that.

I returned to the convention hall and found myself near Christine Valada’s Portrait Gallery, exchanging eyetime with , Dave Kyle and Ray Lafferty. The nostalgia of the moment ached. I wandered into the breezeway to the Doubletree and zoned out. Alan Stewart, Bobbi Armbruster and a few other familiar faces joined the many others passing by. Some fans still wore facemasks, and indeed, I too sensed a mild smokiness. I dropped off, waking to the conversation of a girl named Stella sitting nearby, who talked of the auto in which she was riding breaking down irretrievably in the wilderness of South Dakota, and buying a used car to make it the rest of the way.

Rosy came and fetched me. We returned to the auditorium where we’d opened the convention (and heard GRRM read) and took our places for Closing Ceremonies. We heard the distant lilt of Filthy Pierre’s flute. Finally Sally Woehrle – a lot more relaxed now – assumed the podium and began, introducing again the convention Guests. Leslie Turek, Tom Smith (his mobie raised to the stage via mini-elevator, thanking all in “Smoke-ane”), Vonda McIntyre (who called her GoHship “the highest honor my profession can give”), David Gerrold (“Namaste!” he said, praising the SF community), and Brad Foster (who was awed and grateful that Sasquan had, through Kjell Lindgren’s nametag, taken his artwork into space). Speaking of Kjell, a farewell film was shown, and Sally mentioned that the good doctor had been the one to contact Sasquan and ask to participate – not the other way around. Kjell Lindgren – trufan! Nina thanked the convention, her English less hesitant now. Most movingly, Sally introduced the late Bobbie DuFault’s husband, who thanked the major players in the con – Sally, Glazer, etc. – for bringing his lady’s dream to fruition.

Those major players – the Area Heads – came out to present Sasquan Hero Awards to various convention workers, tokens to be worn about the neck. Jenny from NASA was promised one, Robbie Bourget, Cherise Kelley for her superlative work on the newsletter – and the principal designer of the hyper-successful souvenir book, the most beautiful woman on Earth, Rose-Marie Lillian. I cannot lie: I’d nominated her, and also led the applause as, giggling, she trotted to the front to receive her honor.

Finally, Sally asked the MidAmeriCon II reps to come forward. Their con will run August 17-22, 2016. Rosy and I met at the first “Big MAC”: we really hope to be there. Sally lifted The Gavel and brought it down, WHAP!, jumping in surprise at how loud it sounded when she brought the end to Sasquan, the 73rd World Science Fiction Convention.

Outside, we chatted with Tony and Suford Lewis and Brad and Cindy Foster, and then joined the Lynchi, Naomi Fisher, Pat Molloy and Gracie, David and Diana Thayer, and a cool surprise companion, fan artist supreme Marc Schirmeister for a dinner burn at a renowned Spokane restaurant, Luigi’s … yes, across the street (and a parking lot). As you can surmise, it was a fine feast – Marc was great company, with cool conversation about old movies and ‘toons. But it was touched with melancholy, too. Everyone was prepping to leave. The Lynches planned for an early exit the next day, Seattle the goal – if Rich’s back held out, he said, they’d take in a Mariners game. The convention’s end was breaking up that old gang of mine …

This picture? Schirm – discovering that his knife in fork were magnetized.

The Dead Dog Party at 8 that evening was pretty lame, so we blew it off and after checking out the Grand bar to see if anyone had lost any professional writers there. returned to our hotel. Back at the Red Lion, we were glad to find that the hotel carried AMC on its cable, and ended the day grooving to the premiere of Fear the Walking Dead.

Everyone was leaving – except us. Thanks to the lateness with which we’d secured our plane reservations, we had an extra day in Spokane, and thanks to Melanie Herz, we had someone to spend it with.

Melanie is a Florida fan who knows Joe and Patty Green and is a fine friend to La Belle. We met her for breakfast at the Doubletree – greeting Astrid and Greg Bear, Jerry and Suzle at nearby tables – and talked Ms. Herz’ experience with kaffeeklatsches before adjourning for Spokane’s nearby municipal park. The wind being favorable, it was a glorious day, and as you can see from these photos, we had a spiffy excursion. The giant Radio Flyer wagon was actually a kids’ slide – I took the steps down – and the carousel we rode was over 100 years old. A preter-naturally stunning teenaged blonde, solemn in the way only teenaged girls on the cusp of feminine power can be, gave us tokens to ride the merry-go-round; I claimed to Rosy that my own ageless cute-os-ity was to credit, but she said the girl just didn’t want to waste them. Maybe she recognized someone on the brink of his second – or third – childhood.

The epic attraction of the park was the gondola ride over the Spokane River, and its “falls.” Rich was only one of the many urging us to take the ride, and it was indeed exhilarating. The river tore down the steep slope of the rapids in a fervent white froth as our gondola car swayed on its cable, sometimes mere inches, sometimes many feet from the ground, or water. Beautiful stuff –what Washington State can be when not ablaze. Another cute teen – with an adorable Minnie Mouse voice – let us in and out of our car. This one was a brunette. Millennial lads, start your engines.

Afterwards, we found ourselves outside an IMAX theatre, where we discovered Everest would be playing in a matter of minutes. Rosy and I are absolute saps for mountaineering movies – we faunch madly for the fictionalized Everest to open this September – so in we went. Very nice IMAX – am I correct in recalling that the first such theatre opened at the 1964 New York World’s Fair? Very fine movie, too, about a supremely frightening incident on Chomolungma – the day climbers found themselves lost in the mother of all blizzards and 11 of them froze to death.

But the final message of the movie was poignant and powerful. One of the survivors, and the summiteers, was the son of Tenzeng Norgay, the Sherpa who, with Edmund Hillary, first stood atop Everest in 1953. Norgay Jr. said that, at the summit, he felt that he could speak to his father, who died at 71, and that his father replied, “You did not have to come so far to see me. I always knew you were worthy of the mountain.”

Pardon me, but that blows me away.

We adjourned to Steelhead’s for lunch – I had the grilled cheese with salmon and onion sandwich again – after which the ladies went off to window-shop, and I went back to the hotel. I packed, copied notes into my diary, andtried not to think about the flights the next day – all the diagonal way across America back to Orlando.

Anti-climax. The weather was ideal across the country. I gave myself neckstrain staring out the window at the American turf below, watching it change from arid mountainous glory to patchwork farmland to the green of forests. Once or twice we passed over sprawling silver cities, and lakes, and rivers I thought I knew, and I tried not to think of the thunderstorms predicted to await us when we got over central Florida.

Which … weren’t there. Instead, as we delved toward Orlando, we swooped and curved about fluffy cumulus clouds, whiter than white, encountering nary a bumble of turbulence. (The next day the area was a’flash with lightning storms. Lady Luck, I owe you.) The Florida heat fooshed up from the gaps in the boarding tunnel, a coarse reminder of where we now were. In the fortnight that followed, I whipped out a couple of bureaucratic duties – arranging for staff reimbursements, toting up advertising debts from the program book – and now that I’ve written it up for posterity, Sasquan is done.

But in getting done, the Worldcon Nobody Wanted made some important points. First of all, it proved itself worthy of its victory in 2013. Bobbie DuFault’s dream had labored under a rather mean-spirited cloud of resentment and suspicion from Jump Street; the concom dispelled that cloud with competence, generosity and care. Secondly, it handled a unique and potentially devastating assault on Worldcon tradition with imagination, wit and strength, and in doing so renewed respect for that tradition and established a new understanding of what fandom stands for. I don’t think it’s going too far to say that Sasquan was a historic World Science Fiction Convention – worthy of the mountain.

I’m proud that we were part of it.

A few scenes from Sasquan. The balloon loons were among many masquing maniacs enlivening the convention. The statue is of Columbia astronaut Michael Anderson, a Spokane native. The inscription reads “Keep the Dream Alive.”