Leonard always said that he hated conventions, and Alice believed that he hated his usual part, which was sitting at a folding table with a cheap tablecloth and signing autograph after autograph after autograph. Every third person who approached would ask a complicated question about Time Brothers television lore, to which Leonard would respond, “I didn’t write the TV show, and I think that’s a very good question.” He had written some episodes, though, which they knew, and so then he might reluctantly answer their original question, even though it pained him. Every tenth person would ask a question about the novel, and Leonard would answer those more cheerfully. Often people would take photos. He was paid to attend, and deep down, he enjoyed it, too, and would have gone anyway, just to see his friends who had flown in from out of town.
The hotel bar was the epicenter, especially after the official programming had finished for the day.
“I feel like I’m actually in the Mos Eisley Cantina,” Tommy said. “Only I never thought it would be really over-air-conditioned.”
“How nerdy are you, actually?” Sam asked, with a note of appreciation in her voice.
“Here,” Alice said. Two handsome men—brutally handsome for the science fiction crowd, which meant that in the regular world, they were slightly above average—held court, both in leather jackets. One, who was white haired with a trim white beard, saw Alice and slapped a hand dramatically over his stout chest. The people assembled before him turned to look.
“Alice, darling,” the man said. He was Gordon Hampshire, the Australian author of many, many books about elves and fairies who had a lot of sex. He was sixty and round of tummy, but still, if one looked through a certain science fiction convention filter, bore a passing resemblance to an older, hirsute Tom Cruise. Alice knew from her father that Gordon had slept with every woman he knew, actual scores of women—his friends, his fans, his friends’ wives, other writers, countless hotel employees and cocktail waitresses. He was incapable of speaking to women without flirting.
“Hi, Gordon,” Alice said, letting him pull her in for a hug.
“This is Alice Stern, daughter of Leonard Stern, the author of the incomparable and life-altering Time Brothers!” Gordon announced. The assembled crowd oohed, as cued.
The younger man in the leather jacket, who had been Gordon’s performative conversation partner, nodded. “I love your dad. I’m Guillermo Montaldan, I wrote—”
“The Foxhole!” Tommy said from behind her. “I love that book, man! The part where the Fox—he’s not really a fox, he’s, like, a space thief—breaks into the soul vault and all the souls escape and he’s surrounded, I love that! So fucking sick, man!”
Guillermo placed a hand on his heart and bowed slightly. “Muchas gracias.”
“Gordon, have you seen my dad? Is he in his room?” Alice checked around the bar. She saw a few other writers she recognized, and Princess Leia, and a man with a glued-on push-broom mustache talking to Barry Ford, who scowled at the imposter from beneath his own real one.
“Yes, I believe he is,” Gordon said. “You want me to take you up? Lot of escalators and elevator banks in this place, it’s a maze.”
The surrounding crowd looked apoplectic. “No,” Alice said. Tommy was deep in conversation with Guillermo, and Sam waved her on. “Go ahead, Al, we’ll be down here if you need us.”
33
Gordon was right—the hotel was a mess, designed by a sadist. In order to get to the top floors, you had to switch elevators and follow signs, and Alice got lost a few times, only to have Captain Kirk and Sailor Moon show her where to go. She walked down a long carpeted hallway until she found the right door, and knocked.
Simon Rush answered the door. He was sweaty, and his white button-down shirt had spots of something on it—mustard? Mountain Dew?—and the top few buttons were undone, letting out a small patch of gray chest hair.
“Alice!” Simon said. He turned back to face the room. “Everyone, Alice is here!” There was a small cheer, and Alice stuck her head in. Howard Epstein was inside, Leonard’s favorite （and only） academic friend, who taught courses on science fiction; there was Chip Easton, a screenwriter; and John Wolfe, a Black actor who almost always played aliens. Howard stood beside the bed, his hands tucked behind his back; John sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard like someone reading before they turned out the lights, and Chip sat on the lone chair in the room.