Convention

Raquel Welch in her fur bikini towered arm-in-arm with the cosmic character-actor Rulan Oa’Lumb, while elsewhere the latter’s frequent costar Lotham Pemris was juxtaposed alongside Jaws. Beneath such cardboard giants as these, heads belonging mostly to Mini-Flashes navigated lesser islands bearing movie memorabilia from two different galaxies, or ventured through cavemouths in the conference centre’s bulkhead walls whence glowed screenings of the known and the never-before-seen. Joe, on a stage for musical entertainment which was otherwise deserted, took up the microphone.

“Welcome,” said he, “to the First Annual Nottingham Film and Television Festival.”

To our hero it looked like things were getting off to a reasonable start. It had been a team effort pulling this thing together at the short notice he himself had imposed, and he was truly grateful to all who had contributed to making it happen. Croldon Thragg for example had amply stocked Joe’s side of the universe’s merchandise tables through exhaustive exploitation of the intergalactic uplink to Earth’s resources, printing off hundreds of posters and postcards while burning digital downloads aplenty to local pyramid-shaped recording devices. Back home Joe wouldn’t have wanted any Four Heroes-endorsed event to rely quite so heavily on outright piracy, but he had the comfort of knowing the Nottingham he lived in now was a fair distance removed from international copyright law. Moreover, he suspected the alien traders from this sector could boast of no more certain provenance for their own wares – suspected, or to put it another way, hoped. From that hope the entire occasion sprawling before Joe had sprung.

It was a pity guest-stars from Joe’s own neck of the woods had for obvious reasons been out of the question, but Flashtease and many of the other Mini-Flashes had outdone themselves inviting what sounded to the uninitiated Joe at least an impressive roster of their quadrant’s famous names who hadn’t allowed Alliance sympathies to get in the way of a booking. These space-celebs were dotted at desks about the hall now, meeting fans and autographing photos. Joe could see Sludge-Man too, having a whale of a time giving out tips and original artwork to the admiring comic-book talents of tomorrow. Meanwhile the other young man of around the same age, despite his physical beauty which was as striking as the huge moth-wings that grew from his back, was not one of the matinee idols but rather a friend of Thragg’s who’d come along to help him with the equipment.

“Keep this up, Thomthar lad, and I’ll talk to Joe about offering you a permanent position,” that one commended his hovering apprentice, while using his Wonder-Tool to put the finishing touches on the primary projector.

“Don’t you have to devoutly believe in his cause to come and work here?” asked Thomthar.

“It’d be a funny old cause that didn’t want people to make themselves useful,” was Croldon Thragg’s reply.

The real driving force behind the whole convention however had been Dean. At first Joe and Neetra both tried to chip in to his selection policy for Earth-originated material, but the man was such a walking pop culture encyclopedia that it soon emerged they were better off leaving him to it. He was out among the throng right now, doubtless steering curious visitors by the dozen to some or other carefully-chosen screen-room, a human dynamo in Bermuda shorts and tablecloth cloak. Joe gripped the microphone and continued:

“Sharing. A concept from which our respective galaxies can surely only benefit. So, just as I am honoured to share with you these facets of human culture which to the best of my knowledge have never been publicized quite so far from their studios of origin, it is my earnest hope that any desire you in turn may feel to share...” and Joe heard his own voice drop unbidden to a low intent note, “to share some…recollection, perhaps, some memory of an especial instance when you derived deep meaning from the audiovisual arts, no matter how slight or imperfect your impressions might seem, and indeed even if…then, please, do feel free.”

Joe stumbled as if on autopilot through their home worlds being brought a little closer and all that remained for him to do was thank and he wished them all a stimulating and instructive day, then stood back to draw a deep breath. It was begun. And surely somewhere amidst the bustle outspread before him, unearthed from strata of age and obscurity by the excavations he had wrought, was the solitary relic in whose name all this had been done.

The empty stage behind however struck a sad counterpoint to Joe’s promising start. He decided he had just enough time for one last check of the arrivals, before his interview in ten.

Flashtease moved through crowds made up mainly of his own short-skirted ilk. An open day was actually a very good idea given the present climate, and although the Alliance wouldn’t stay quiet forever about Joe’s steady poaching of Mini-Flashes, Flashtease guessed that after one misguided incursion into Nottingham territory his former superiors were grateful the next move had been so peaceable. The only problem was Flashtease knew his friend Joe, well enough to tell that his motives in hosting today’s event had little if anything to do with the bigger picture.

A pretty golden-haired girl Mini-Flash was passing, and she looked familiar. A second later Flashtease had it.

“Mini-Flash Stanch?” he said to her.

The girl grinned back. “Hey, Flashtease! Only it’s Flashstanch these days,” she added, and gave him a twirl so he could admire her green and red costume.

“Wow, time really flies!” Flashtease exclaimed. “Though I remember how fearsome you were on the Flashball court even when you were still in beige!”

“We used to say the same sort of thing about you,” Flashstanch told him. “I mean, a boy who could play to our standards? You were much discussed among the girls of my year.”

“Scary to think how much better you must be now,” said Flashtease, “but even so, we should totally have a game sometime!”

“I’d be amenable to our working up a sweat together,” remarked the girl.

“So, um, are you joining us?” asked Flashtease, suddenly feeling this was something he himself would be quite amenable to. Flashstanch laughed.

“About Nottingham and your interpretation of The Four Heroes’ cause I’m prepared to keep an open mind,” said she, “but actually I’m here as a superstar guest.”

Flashtease hadn’t ever heard of her holding such credentials. The other giggled at his quizzical look.

“Knew I should have put my feathers on,” she declared. “I was in The Flash Club Galactic Wildlife Revue.”

For Flashtease the whole world seemed to swoon. A second ago he had been at his ease, chatting with a sweet kid he remembered from before the war. Now all at once he could barely command language enough to address that same girl. Flashstanch was by words of her own transfigured, and substance had become shining symbol. As for her feathers…!

“You were one of the dancing gantratives?” Flashtease managed to breathe.

“The middle one,” came back her reply.

She moved nearer, and what followed was spoken in a soft voice.

“Flashshadow invited me, but I came because I was hoping I’d bump into you. You know neophytes and senior boys. And that was even before you were the first to go to Earth, then turned into top Mini-Flash in the faction that’s going to save the galaxy or whatever it is it’s going to do. What can I say? I just like being the envy of the other girls.”

“But I’ve got nothing for you to sign,” was the best Flashtease could do after this.

“I’m sure I can think of somewhere to leave my mark,” Flashstanch assured him, and hand-in-hand they hurried out of the exhibition centre.

Besides its gigantic indoor exhibition centre, Spaceport Gala boasted a comprehensive take-off and landing concourse suitable for every species of starship. It was one of the new Nottingham’s unique traits, born of necessity from the etherium actualizor, for situated as that city was on an orbital island circling Planet Nereynis it saw considerably more of this kind of traffic than the first had done. Joe supposed he must have been thinking of Birmingham International, if only because it was less likely Neetra or Scientooth would have been.

He was however disappointed on his brief diversion to the arrivals lounge, which was none the peachier for the Bominabus shuttle or any other craft from the populated galaxy. Joe did find Pumpus, a very large lilac-hued floating head with little arms, there for the same reason he was. Our hero guessed Pumpus’s day wasn’t ruined in its entirety though, to judge by the pair of shopping-bags stuffed with film souvenirs which dangled in mid-air from his hands.

“The live performance was never of any consequence, my friend,” Joe told him, because to say absolutely everything, Petunia only knew six fairly tame songs. “Her individual invitation was dispatched out of a desperate desire to know above all she is safe and well. I also supposed that face-to-face, where the written word would surely never serve, I might have impressed upon her she is welcome here. Indeed, that our happiness cannot be complete without her.”

“Jummons gar-clackerty yh’ribdis pleve,” replied the solemn one.

“There is no sentient being in the universe, Pumpus, whose counsel on Petunia I value more than yours,” declared Joe. “You knew her before you knew me. It was she, not I, who opened your eyes to the cause. Word has reached me she continues the same noble work, out in the cosmos to this very hour…but Pumpus, to strive so for the sake of our beliefs was never meant as a refuge from life in Nottingham. I would there were Four Heroes powers enough to take away her pain. Yet I know that pain, Pumpus. I have endured it. And I have administered it,” Joe added bitterly, remembering why he had chosen their present venue’s name. “That is why I fear Petunia must learn of it too, if ever she is to accept the love Neetra and I have discovered.”

“Jugharaundah Plunder Dacks,” Pumpus pointed out.

“He is with her,” agreed Joe. “And perhaps some of the good I look for may come of that.”

“Dean bluth-bluth-bluth, m’en hastalphia fuperah naggs!” was Pumpus’s next remark, and it was clear he sought to lighten the tone. In fact Joe had never heard those innocent accents draw so close to the downright mischievous. Our hero couldn’t help smiling.

“What of that, Pumpus?” he inquired, though his attempt at forcing a serious demeanour was no match for his companion’s infectious chuckles. “Dean sent many invitations.”

That notwithstanding, the recipient of the particular one to which Pumpus referred was no mystery for Joe, and our hero crossed his fingers there and then that the fabled Louise-Claudia wouldn’t bring the total of female no-shows up to two. After all the trouble Dean had taken over today, a little renewed romance in his life seemed a well-deserved reward. For the moment however Joe’s own special invitee obviously wasn’t coming, so with some regret he set off for his impending appointment back at the convention, accompanied by Pumpus who wanted to see if he could find another poster of Glynis Johns.

NEXT: FIRST INTERVIEW (BOLOTRAN EYES)