"Octocon," Sherrine said, "used to be in Santa Cruz."

Two men were running to meet them… then a dozen. More. The first were guiding the truck. Bob was muttering to himself as he followed them toward one of the long, windowed buildings… with a face missing at the narrow end. They guided Curly into the opening, into a shell two stories high.

"Crazy. Do you suppose they never finished it?"

"Smuggling. The customers weren't stopping anymore and import duties kept going up. I'm guessing, of course," Sherrine said. "Pull up to the end. They re lowering some kind of false front behind us."

It was not a big con. Four long buildings enclosed brown lawn and a pool. They had taken over just one of the buildings; they stayed clear of the Registration building, including the hotel restaurant, newsstand, etc. Rooms along the side that faced a wall had become the dealer rooms, Con Suite, Art Show, and a couple reserved for programming.

Four people talking on a panel stopped when the procession hove into view; then the panel followed their audience over the low railings.

"Welcome to Microcon!" And the fans surged around them, hugging and shaking hands. Alex had time for one glimpse of Gordon's bulging eyes before they were borne away.

"Only Hotel Liaison eats at the hotel restaurant," a fan said. "We don't want to be too visible, but we do need to keep track. So far so good: nobody's been asking about tall supermen."

The rooms were all bedrooms, all the same size; but doors could be opened between. Three upstairs rooms were the Con Suite, and that was where everyone was eating.

There was a punch bowl filled with a pinkish liquid of uncertain genealogy. Several bottles of homemade wine lined the windowsills. Tables pushed against the walls had bowls of popcorn and corn chips and various dips, and a vat of soup sat on the floor. There was great variety to the food, and a flavor of panic and improvisation.

"I'm sorry there isn't more," Buck Coulson apologized. "Times are tight. Be sure to keep your glass handy so you don't accidentally use someone else's."

Numbers were hard to gauge because the convention was so broken up, but Alex hadn't counted more than thirty people.

He was half-reclined in a chair and footstool, delighting in his ability to sprawl. Sprawling was wonderful after scores of hours of being wedged into a bouncing truck cabin. He eavesdropped with half his attention, and watched the women.

Sherrine was asking Tom Degler, "You worked up a convention just for us?"

"We don't need a good excuse. A bad one is fine." Degler's face was surrounded by a sunburst of bright, red hair; full beard, hair tied up in back with a rubber band. His legs, which Alex could see between the knee socks and shorts that he wore, were also hairy. Perfectly adapted to an ice age, Alex thought.

"Fast work," Sherrine said.

"Well, but you're still carrying the Navstar transponder, right? And you had to have a place to rest. It's a long drive across Oklahoma and the panhandle. Ever since they caught S. B. O'Rafferty, there's been no safe house on that leg of the Fanway."

Maybe a third of those present were women. All pudgy or burly, of course, in Alex's estimation; but not bad looking. Not bad looking, at all. Either that or it had been a long time--

"They caught O'Rafferty? Oh, Tom. The old guy was a past master at staying hidden."

Degler shrugged. "They reeducated him; but no one can tell the difference. He always did see everything skewed sideways and upside down from Tuesday. But of course he's being watched, so we stay clear of him, now." He shook his head sadly. "Anyway, The Ghost let us know when you'd be arriving; so last night I made a few phone calls. Kind of a welcoming party." He looked around the Con Suite, a bedroom with the beds removed, a few chairs, fans sitting on the carpet. "This is all that's left of Suncon and Bubonicon and the others. Slim pickings, eh?"

"Worldcon wasn't much bigger," Sherrine told him.

"Speaking of Worldcon," said Barbara Dinsby, "did you hear? Tony Horowitz got himself arrested to distract the cops during your getaway." Dinsby was a thin woman with long, dark red hair. She wore no makeup and tended to lean toward you when she spoke. Alex considered her the second prettiest woman present. According to Degler she already had several stories on the samizdat network, one of them critically praised.

Bob raised his eyebrows. "Horowitz?"

"Sure. When the chips are down, we all play on the same side."

"Did he make bail?" asked Sherrine.

"Tremont took care of everything. And Tony's book sales have tripled. Everyone on the Network has been downloading his manuscripts; and half the pros are lining up for his shared world project."

Sherrine craned her neck. "So, Tom. Who'd you snag for Guests of Honor?"

Degler beamed. "Well, you, actually."

"What?"

"Sure. Are there any fans more worthy than you and Pins, here?"

Alex ginned at Sherrine's sudden discomfiture. "Don't fight it," he said. And, in a more serious voice, he added, "You deserve it."

"But… "

Degler put his hand on Alex's thin shoulder. "Gabe and Rafe, of course, are the Pro GoH's."

Alex looked at him. "Now, wait a--"

"What do we have to do?" asked Gordon.

"Not much," Degler told him. Just mingle with the guests; talk to them. You get a "free con membership…"

"Spasebo."

"And you have to make a GoH speech later tonight."

Alex opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out.

"Tom," said Bob, "they aren't actually SF pros."

Dergler grinned. "They live science fiction. That's close enough."

"But I can't come up with a speech, just like that," Alex said. "Not that quickly." After the rescues of Peace and Freedom, when it was clear that the boosters had restabilized the orbits, and Lonny invited him to address the assembled Floaters from his hospital bed, he had been unable to say anything coherent. Lonny, damn his black heart, had probably known that.

"Don't worry," Degler said. "Just make it up as you go along. You're a spaceman! You could get up there in the pulpit and preach from the Albuquerque phone directory and still get a standing ovation."

Indeed, he could. As the fans milled around his chair, Alex discovered that anything he said was soaked up by his eager listeners. The little-orbit-to-orbit "broomsticks" that they rode between the stations? Fascinating. (And five minutes later he heard two fans blocking out a story about witches in space.) The details of hydroponic farming? Endlessly interesting. Especially the painstaking attention to detail that Ginjer Hu demanded.

Filkers were gearing up out by the pool; the laughter was louder than the singing.

Sherrine settled onto the narrow arm of his chair. "Comfy?"

"Very. Next best thing to floating."

"So let's float?"

He peered up at her elvish I've got-a-secret smile. He said, If you have antigravity, we've chased our tails a long way for your amusement."

She laughed like bubble-wrap popping. "Alex, it's possible to float in water. The Dinsby just took Gordon out to the spa--"

"Yeah, water."

"I forget how much water there is. We walked across a frozen river, I've seen the damn Mississippi, I don't know why it keeps hitting me like this--"

"But if Gordon and Barbara Dinsby are out there, every horny male and curious fan is going to be stripping down, too, so if you want to float--"

"Lead me."

It was turning chilly. There was a stack of towels on a webbed recliner. The pool had long been empty, but the spa was bubbling and steaming. It was eight feet across, circular, with people-sized indentations in the rim. Gordon and the red-haired woman were already in, and nestled comfortably close. In the dark around them, fans were stripping down.