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Brooklyn High had the slightest bit of interest in this sort of thing, and he found himself anxious to fit in.
    â€œHow did you find out about this?” Cyril asked. He was a big, broad-shouldered fellow whose sharp eyes peered at Nat from behind horn-rimmed glasses.
    â€œSaw a bit about it in that magazine.” Nat pointed to the copy of Astounding tucked under Cyril’s arm. It was the new issue, with a cover story, “Black Destroyer,” by someone he’d never heard of, A. E. van Vogt. “Close enough to where I live, so I decided to drop in.”
    â€œOh, so you’re new to this,” Don said. “Lucky for you. They’re banning the Futurians.”
    Nat gave him a baffled look. “What’s a Futurian?”
    The other three were already chuckling over this. “Maybe it’s better you don’t know,” Fred said. “But you may want to move on. If someone sees you with us, they might not let you in.”
    Putting two and two together, Nat determined that these three fellows were Futurians, whoever they might be. He looked across the street at the cops. “Is that why they’re here?”
    â€œUh-huh.” Cyril followed Nat’s gaze; one of the cops stared back, and neither the cop nor Cyril dropped his eyes. “Sam … that’s Sam Moskowitz, the convention chairman … saw us coming and wouldn’t let us in. We tried to rush the door, and he called the cops—”
    â€œ You rushed the door,” Fred said pointedly. “I was still at the dentist.”
    â€œYeah, you got here late and missed everything.” Don was grinning like the proverbial cat. “That, and Cyril punching Forry Ackerman in the stomach—”
    â€œHe had it coming.” Cyril smiled at Nat and then suddenly balled a fist and feigned a lunge at him.
    It wasn’t the first time someone had tried to fake him out this way; Nat didn’t flinch but simply glared at him instead. Disappointed, Cyril relaxed, and Nat turned to Fred again. “What does Sam have against you that makes him want to—”
    â€œNever mind. Long story.” Fred shook his head. “Go on up and have fun. Just don’t let anyone know you’ve met us, if you know what’s good for you.”
    Nat hesitated and then turned and walked across the street. The two cops watched him, and sure enough, before he set foot on the stairs, one of them moved to block his way. But then a kid about Nat’s age who’d been standing behind tapped the policeman on the shoulder and whispered something in his ear. The cop nodded and without a word stepped away, swinging his nightstick to let Nat know that it was okay to proceed. Letting go of his breath, Nat walked upstairs and through the door.
    Caravan Hall was a single large room with a bare wooden floor and walls painted in a pseudo-Egyptian art-deco style, the sort of second-floor loft usually rented out for lodge meetings and private dances. Although the balcony doors were open, the room was stuffy with the trapped heat of a summer day; the only concession was a watercooler off to one side, with a coin dispenser that sold paper cups for a nickel. One look at it, and Nat decided that he’d rather go thirsty; the dollar he’d coughed up at the folding paper near the door represented half of what he’d earned last week in commissions from the part-time job he had at his family’s shoe store, and he’d need the pocket change he had left for a meal and the subway ride back home.
    The room was filled with young men—mainly in their teens and twenties, most of them wearing jackets and ties—but, so far as Nat could tell, only two or three girls. They chatted with one another, leafed through the hectographed fan publications set out on display tables, studied the garish cover paintings from pulp magazines that had been placed on easels. A projection screen had been set up at the