Zombies of the Gene Pool

surface of a bowling ball. Standing near George was a plump, pleasant-looking woman with braided hair and a medieval gown of green and gold. She was talking to a florid fellow in a wrinkled beige jacket and an open shirt. Giles caught a glimpse of the gold medallion around the man's neck and correctly deduced that this must be the host of the party, 'Bunzie' Mistral. The young man hovering at Bunzie's elbow was either a relative of someone in the group or, more probably, one of the Mistral minions, on hand to see that things went smoothly.

Turning his attention to the far end of the room, Giles found Brendan Surn-by now a household face-standing beside the lake mural with a secretarial young woman in a navy blazer and skirt. Surely not a wife, thought Erik Giles. She doesn't look expensive enough to be the great man's consort. Perhaps she was another one of the staff. The two of them were talking quietly with a lean, distinguished-looking man who was quite well preserved for sixty, but more conservatively dressed than Surn or Mistral. Definitely not a movie person. Erik Giles tried to remember who else was coming. It took him another few minutes to remember Dugger's quiet boyhood friend Jim… O'Connor? Conrad. Ah, he had it now. Conyers. Jim Conyers. And the plump woman in white linen at his side must be the fiancee of long ago -Barbara. He had met her a couple of times, years ago, but he could remember nothing about her. There probably wasn't much to remember.

Giles took a deep breath. This wasn't going to be so difficult, he told himself. He had a pretty good idea who everyone was already, and if any gaffes were made, there was no one important around to observe it. Things were going to go well, he thought, if only he could manage to be kind about his old acquaintances' follies, and if he weren't too overbearing about his own scholarly importance. He straightened his name tag, squared his shoulders, and strode purposefully into the room.

Ever the genial host, Bunzie hurried to greet him, enfolding him in a bear hug, which Giles supposed to be the Hollywood equivalent of a cordial nod. He noticed that as Bunzie pulled out of the embrace, he sneaked a look at the name tag. 'Stormy! Stormy! Stormy!' he intoned. 'Great to see you again, kid!' Turning to the assembled guests, Bunzie announced, 'Look, folks! It's Dr. Erik Giles-complete with name tag! And how about you, Stormy? Recognize the old gang?'

'I think so, yes,' said Giles, edging away from his host. 'How have you been, er-Reuben?' He pronounced it with the accent on the first syllable, the way Bunzie had said it in the old days, before he became the fashionable 'Ruben,' accent on the second syllable, Mistral.

'It's still Bunzie,' grinned Mistral. 'Especially to family. And we're family, aren't we? Boy, when I think of those wonderful times we had back on the farm.'

'It would have been nice to have central heating,' said Giles.

'Well, Dugger could afford it now, couldn't he? After we sell this anthology for a bundle…'

'Poor Dugger. I wish he were alive to see this. He could have bought another farm somewhere. And wouldn't Curtis Phillips love to see his name coupled with Lovecraft's in scholarly articles?' Erik Giles looked around the room. 'This is a reminder of what we've lost, isn't it? Curtis, Deddingfield, Dale Dugger? Intimations of our own mortality.'

'You forgot Pat Malone,' said Bunzie.

Giles shrugged. 'I don't miss Pat. He was a cynical pain in the ass.'

Bunzie's smile was all-forgiving. 'Poor old Pat. Such an idealist! He was trying to be sophisticated, that's all. But he was a great mind, and in his own way, he thought the world of us.'

'Well, perhaps.' Erik Giles didn't want to beatify a departed nuisance, but it would have been rude to disagree. He shook Bunzie's hand. 'Good to see you again.'

He made his way toward Brendan Surn, the farthest point in the room from the effusive Bunzie and the limpet Woodard.

As he approached them, Brendan Surn turned his attention from the Conyers couple, his face lighting up in a warm smile. 'Hello, Peter!' he called out. 'They told me you weren't coming.'

The little mudhen secretary looked stricken. 'Mr. Surn!' she gasped. 'This is Erik Giles. You remember. Mr. Mistral was telling us that he's a college professor now.'

Brendan Surn looked blank for a moment, but then he put out his hand and smiled again. 'Erik Giles. Of course. In that white suit of yours, my next guess might have been Mark Twain.'

They all laughed merrily to cover the awkward moment. Then the secretary offered her hand to Giles. 'I'm Lorien Williams, Dr. Giles. I'm Mr. Surn's assistant.'

'Lorien?' echoed Giles.

She blushed. 'I was born in the sixties, when my parents were heavily into Tolkien. And before you ask, no, I don't have a brother named Gandalf. Anyway, it's an honor to meet you. And you know Mr. and Mrs. Conyers, of course. We were just talking about the movie version of Starwind Rising,'

'Er-yes,' said Giles, trying to remember a movie he had seen once ten years ago. 'Too bad they had to leave out so many of the subplots, but I suppose a nine-hundred-page book presents many problems for screenwriters.'

'So you live over in Virginia now?' said Barbara Conyers, who was the family conversationalist.

'Yes. I teach at the university. I don't get over this way very often.'

'Jim and I still live in Elizabethton. Jim is semiretired now from his law practice, and we have a little nursery of trees and bedding plants. I've always loved working with flowers. And our daughter Carol lives over in Johnson City. Her husband is at the university, and they have two little ones, Andrew, who is four, and Amy Allison, two-and-a- half.'

Giles turned to Lorien Williams. 'Is this your first trip to east Tennessee?'

She nodded. 'First trip east of Idaho. There are a lot of trees here. In California I get homesick for trees sometimes.'

'You should see the country when the lake is full,' said Barbara. 'Especially in June when the mountain laurel is in bloom. It's about the prettiest place on earth then.'

'I find it interesting to see the valley exposed again after all these years.' Giles nodded toward the mural of Breedlove Lake.

'I know,' said Barbara earnestly. 'It's strange, isn't it? Like digging up an old grave. I swear Jim's been having nightmares about the whole thing. He wakes up sometimes of a night in a cold sweat. He talks about water running down the walls.'

Conyers frowned. 'Probably indigestion,' he grunted.

Barbara chattered on. 'Still, I guess it's a good thing they did decide to drain the lake, because otherwise, you all would never have been able to recover your stories, would you?'

Lorien Williams nodded excitedly. 'Isn't it wonderful about the time capsule? After all these years, new stories from Peter Deddingfield and Curtis Phillips! I've read everything they ever wrote.'

Jim Conyers looked solemn. 'I don't care much for myself. Barb and I are happy as we are, but maybe after all these years Dugger will finally get something published. Wish he could have been around to enjoy it.'

Barbara sighed. 'He would have been so proud of all his friends. They've all become so famous.' Giles' frown reminded her that this was too sweeping an accolade. 'And even the ones who aren't celebrities are doing real well,' she amended. A glance in George Woodard's direction suggested that she knew better, but was going to leave it at that anyhow.

A new voice chimed in. 'I wonder what Pat Malone would have thought of all this hoopla.'

Giles turned to see the woman in medieval dress smiling up at him. There were lines around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth, but she had an appealing air of youthfulness about her.

'Angela Arbroath, Stormy,' she said, offering him a much be-ringed hand. 'I published Archangel. Remember?'

'Yes, of course,' said Giles hastily, giving her an awkward peck on the cheek. 'Archangel. Quite a nice little magazine, as I recall.'

Angela blushed. 'Well, it wasn't a patch on Alluvial, of course, but Pat Malone was a much better editor than I was. And of course, he could offer articles by Surn and Deddingfield. You wouldn't believe how much Alluvial sells for today.'

Giles gave her a mirthless smile. 'One dollar per issue, I believe.'

'Oh. Of course. George still publishes something called that, doesn't he?' She paused for a moment, trying to think of something kind to say about that. Finally she blurted out, 'Well, you certainly are looking well, Erik!'

'And you haven't changed a bit,' he assured her. 'And of course you were here the weekend we decided to put