Wolf 359 convention, part 3

Originally published July 26, 1996, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1184

Finishing up stuff from my sojourn to London…

* * *

I speak to the girls at home. They’re going to be bringing the newly found stray cat, Pandora, to the vet within the next day or so. She certainly has no problem with appetite: She’s inhaling any food that’s given her. Hopefully the vet will give her a clean bill of health.

* * *

I’m going to be spending the entire day Tuesday embarking on publicity stuff that Simon and Schuster U.K. has arranged, to try and beat the drums for the Star Trek novels and the upcoming Jimmy Doohan autobiography. Kristian Ayre, meantime, the Space Cases cast member who came along for the ride, is planning to spend the entire day sightseeing. He’s completely pumped with energy, still flying on the adrenaline surge from the Wolf 359 convention over the weekend.

I do a series of interviews at the offices of Simon and Schuster U.K., and also a couple of signing appearances: One at Dillons Books (I think it was called) and one at Forbidden Planet.

The Dillons Books one goes smoothly enough. The fans seem interested and pleasant. There’s only one bizarre aspect of the signing. A guy shows up, olive skinned–from India, by the look of him–and he proceeds to stand there and tell me how lousy my books are. In several cases it quickly becomes clear that he’s based his appraisal of an entire book on having skimmed the first couple of pages.

If there were no one else around it wouldn’t be quite so bothersome. But other people are waiting in line, and he just stands there telling me what a lousy writer I am. Finally I tell him to step aside so others can come forward. And as they’re getting books signed, he proceeds to harass them in a pleasant, faintly distracted tone of voice, demanding to know what they could possibly see of value in the work.

If he wants to bug me, fine. But he’s upsetting other customers and, unfortunately, the store clerks seem oblivious. Finally, after he’s annoyed half a dozen people and is in the process of driving one poor woman nearly to distraction, I round on him and say, “Do you know why I do these signings?”

“No.”

“To meet and chat with fans of my work. You’re not a fan of my work. Why don’t you leave these people alone?”

And he gets this weird smile on his face. I’ve never seen anything like it. There is contentment, satisfaction, and something else… something really creepy that I can’t put my finger on. It’s as if the smile doesn’t touch his eyes, as if some part of him is disconnected.

Without another word, as if he’s accomplished what he wanted to do–as if he’s proven something to himself, found some answer he was seeking, had an effect that he desired–he turns and walks out of the store.

The next people in line comment on how spooky he was, and thanks me for getting rid of him. The rest of the signing goes peacefully enough, but every so often I glance in the direction of the front door. For all I know he’ll come back in, armed this time. And when I leave the store I keep a wary eye out for him on the street, but there’s no sign of him.

I know it takes all kinds, but geez.

* * *

The appearance at Forbidden Planet thankfully goes without incident. It’s a respectable turn out.

Then again, if I get any kind of turn out I’m usually happy. I remember a comic store I did an appearance at some years ago. It was raining that day and no one showed up. I said, “Sorry I didn’t pull the crowds in.” And the store owner said, “Well, no one came because it’s such lousy weather out, no one wants to go out in the rain to get autographs.”

Uh huh.

Some months later I did a second appearance at the same store. The sun was shining, the sky was cloudless, birds were chirping… and no one showed up. I said, “Sorry I didn’t pull the crowds in.” And the store owner said, “Well, no one came because it’s such a gorgeous day out; they don’t want to spend it standing in line to get autographs.”

Uh huh.

After I finish the signing at Forbidden Planet I start cruising the store looking for Neat Stuff. Nick Landau (the store’s owner) sure maintains a very impressive place. I’m particularly taken by the amount of Wallace and Gromit stuff, most of which will not–unfortunately–fit in my suitcase. (And there’s no plush Gromits in existence; someone is asleep at the switch in the U.K. And if you have to ask who Wallace and Gromit are, my explaining it here will simply not do it justice.)

When I get back to the hotel around six, I ring up Kristian’s room and ask him what he did during the day.

“Well,” he admits a bit sheepishly, “actually I didn’t wake up until 4 PM.”

“You slept the whole day?” I ask incredulously.

So there went a whole day of sightseeing potential out the window for him. Some of it was made up for, though, for that evening we have dinner with the Landaus, and they’re kind enough to give us a quick sightseeing tour. We drive past Big Ben, past the Cathedral, Westminster Abbey, the Tower Bridge, the Tower of London. I find myself looking for Basil of Baker Street hanging from Big Ben, for the Bird Woman from Mary Poppins feeding the pigeons on the steps of St. Pauls.

Then I realize how silly that is. It’s not like Disney owns the United Kingdom.

Yet.

* * *

Wednesday is a relatively free day, my day to walk around, souvenir shop, catch a view of a couple of things of interest. I take in Madame Tussaud’s world-famous wax museum. I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect, but I have to say that the pictures I’ve seen in the past don’t begin to do the displays justice. The Arnold Schwarzenegger statue is not particularly effective, I think, which is interesting considering that it’s the only one they charge you to have your picture taken with. But the other displays which decorate a sort of indoor “garden” are absolutely astonishing. At one point I get out of the way of someone who’s trying to see one of the statues, only to realize that the person whose view I’m trying to accommodate is in fact another one of the waxworks. Celebrities ranging from sports figures to Dudley Moore to “Patsy Stone” from Absolutely Fabulous stand throughout (although I think it’s absurd to have Patsy without the show’s focal character, Edina. It’s like having Laurel but not Hardy.)

I also swing by Baker Street. The actual 221-B Baker Street, literary home of Sherlock Holmes, is part of a large bank building. At the time of the original Holmes stories, there was no 221-B. Baker Street didn’t go up that high.

There is, however, a touristy 221-B Baker Street about a block or so down. Actually “touristy” doesn’t quite do it justice. It’s a meticulously crafted representation of Holmes’ Baker Street digs, where you can walk around, pick up his violin, sit in a chair and imagine conversations with Holmes or Watson sitting opposite you (depending on whether you fancy yourself a great detective or a perpetual, wide-eyed sidekick.) The place is incredibly cluttered with paraphernalia. There’s everything one could imagine there, up to and including a hypodermic for Holmes’ drug habit. A truly obsessive Holmesian could probably spend the entire day there just figuring out which items were mentioned where.

* * *

Pandora is pregnant.

This is the news I get from home, my family having taken the latest stray-cat acquisition to the vet. Apparently she’s several weeks along. This explains the cat’s incredible neediness for affection. It also explains why she keeps licking everyone in the family; in full nurturing-mother mode, she’s treating everyone in the family as if they’re kittens, “cleaning” them in the same way that she would her offspring.

It also explains why she is so clearly housetrained, so obviously accustomed to being around people, so affectionate, and yet abruptly without a home. Obviously her pregnancy was discovered or intuited by her previous owners. Perhaps she was in heat and they were endeavoring to keep her in, but she got out of the house and then returned with a smile on her face and a tom in tow.

She’s a small cat, barely a year old. A birth presents risks. We could have her spayed, the pregnancy aborted, but spaying a several-week-old cat presents risks as well. Taking her someplace far away and dumping her (as her previous owners apparently did) is not an acceptable option. Sure, she’s been a resident of the house less than 72 hours, but the decision was made to take her in. Doesn’t matter if it was made a few days, months, or years ago. One has to stick with it.

Finally we decide, via long distance conference, to let nature take its course. It’s something that none of the kids has ever experienced, and will probably be exciting for them. Then all we’ll have to do is find homes for them at the end of September.

Anyone in Long Island, New York, need a kitten?

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.)