Zombies of the Gene Pool

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 password. 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?'

'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