Bimbos of the Death Sun Read Online Free PDF Page A

monitor. “I came to look after these babies. They’re on loan from the campus computer center. I volunteered because I thought it might be fun to come to this thing. See a couple of old sci-fi movies, watch the goings-on, and swap information with other hackers. What about you, Dr. Mega?”
     
    Jay Omega managed a weak smile. “It’s a long story, Joel.”
     

FOUR
     
    A ppin Dungannon stared at the vacant gray screen of his computer terminal, as if he were waiting for the darkness to roll up on one side and reveal glowing letters of wisdom on the other. He tapped outwhile waiting for other inspiration to occur, but the exercise did not make him feel any closer to creation.
     
    Beginning a stint of typing was always the most difficult part of writing a book. Once he got going, his brain projected a mental movie of the action onto the computer screen, so that he was not so much inventing as recording what he visualized. He could do maybe fifty pages a day on automatic pilot once he got going, but it was the getting going that was the hardest part. The early chapters of the book were like trying to carve the Gettysburg Address on Mount Rushmore with a toothpick; bythe denouement, which was his current fixation, he had pretty much lost interest in what the story was about anyway, so it was even harder, if that is possible, to get it up for the task. He sighed inwardly, wishing, as always, that he hadn’t already spent his publisher’s advance.
     
    Maybe it would help if he threw something.
     
    Appin Dungannon had written twenty-six books about Tratyn Runewind. Or maybe he had written one book about Tratyn Runewind twenty-six times. He could no longer remember why the series had seemed like a good idea to him, or how he had felt about the first half dozen. It was as if he’d woken up one day to find himself manacled like Marley’s Ghost with garishly covered paperbacks, a line of Runewind action figures (for which he received a percentage that was obscenely low), and a loathsome cartoon series, of which his cut was so meager that he’d fired his agent for the insult.
     
    He was rich enough, according to his accountant—certainly his tax bill seemed to bear that out; and he supposed he was famous enough. He got fan letters in Elvish, and execrable unsolicited manuscripts to “please recommend to your publisher.” He used those under his cat’s dish, and by the phone for scratch paper.
     
    Appin Dungannon was not as happy as perhaps a legend ought to be. His books were best sellers in the genre, but beyond that they went unread. He could expect, at best, a paragraph in
Publishers Weekly
, and he was always bypassed for the major SF awards. Dungannon fiddled a bit with the brightness knob on the monitor. He would have traded ten thousand costumed autograph hounds for one gilt-edged monograph on “Dungannon’s Use of CelticMythology in Contemporary Fantasy.”
     
    At the moment, though, he didn’t feel much like a synthesizer of Celtic mythology: he felt like Milton’s God in
Paradise Lost
, and his Satan had him by the throat. Tratyn Runewind. Tratyn Goddamn Runewind, with the flowing white locks and the clean-chiseled features of a sea hawk. Dungannon scowled. It must have been some kind of sick fantasy, he decided. The 5′ 1″ schmuck with the Mickey Rooney face writing Viking bullshit. He was sure that the vermin discussed its psychological implications endlessly behind his back. There wasn’t much he could do about that, except to cordially despise them, but, by god, he could make them keep out of his sight with their infernal Runewind get-ups. The very sight of some faggoty adolescent in tights and tunic made his hands itch for something to throw.
     
    Dungannon glanced at his watch.
     
    Someone was taking him to dinner soon, he thought. He supposed they’d expect him to talk to them. He reached for the bottle of Chivas Regal, and poured himself half a glassful. That ought to fuel a couple of