05-27-2008, 08:15 PM
It's Sunday, May 25. I'm at home being antisocial. There's lots going on, I know -- even on the Doom front -- but I'm just burrowing into my own activities.
The phone rings. It's Lady Cranefly. She's at BayCon, the Bay Area Science Fiction Convention. I can barely hear her over a roomful of shouting people. There's definitely a party going on. She's calling to check whether I still want to go to Moffett Field to witness the Mars landing. Not that you can actually see it, but there'll be good coverage. I say yes. Several people in the background are chorusing, "Hi, Cranefly!" only using my real-life pseudonym. I'm starting to worry that she'll hand the phone to someone. I hate that. First of all, it's so hard to hear. Second, when you're alone at home, it's just hard to relate to someone at a noisy party.
Lady Cranefly is giving me a quick rundown of the people who are there. I'm only catching about one out of three words. Then son of a gun if she doesn't put someone on to talk to me. For the life of me, I can't catch who she says it is. At first I think it's Mark Budz, a good writer friend of ours. But the tone and cadence seems all wrong. Whoever it is, he's having trouble hearing me. Before long I'm shouting and he's shouting and we exchange a few sentences, but I'm still not sure who it is. Could it be Howard Hendrix, who is planning to go to Moffett Field with us? Finally, mercifully, Lady Cranefly takes the phone back and signs off.
Lady Cranefly swings by with Howard Hendrix to pick me up, and we all go to Moffett Field. There are various speakers and presentations, most of them quite good. During Q and A, I'm impressed by the questions. These are some smart and inquisitive people. We're still an hour away from the landing, so we wander, going our separate ways among the many space exploration-oriented displays. Howard, who is tall, officious and knowledgable about just about everything, suddenly turns docent, holding forth to a growing number of people. Even docents are listening. I get cornered by a woman who talks about nothing but tadpoles. Lady Cranefly chats with some friends.
Eventually we all gather around screens and watch as a control room's worth of geeks go crazy every step of the entry, descent and eventual landing. There's a huge round of applause, and then we leave.
At home, after we've dropped Howard off at BayCon, I ask Lori just who it was I was talking to on the phone. Was it Mark? Or was it Howard?
"Mark? Howard? No, it was Tim."
"Tim?" I say.
"Tim Powers."
The phone rings. It's Lady Cranefly. She's at BayCon, the Bay Area Science Fiction Convention. I can barely hear her over a roomful of shouting people. There's definitely a party going on. She's calling to check whether I still want to go to Moffett Field to witness the Mars landing. Not that you can actually see it, but there'll be good coverage. I say yes. Several people in the background are chorusing, "Hi, Cranefly!" only using my real-life pseudonym. I'm starting to worry that she'll hand the phone to someone. I hate that. First of all, it's so hard to hear. Second, when you're alone at home, it's just hard to relate to someone at a noisy party.
Lady Cranefly is giving me a quick rundown of the people who are there. I'm only catching about one out of three words. Then son of a gun if she doesn't put someone on to talk to me. For the life of me, I can't catch who she says it is. At first I think it's Mark Budz, a good writer friend of ours. But the tone and cadence seems all wrong. Whoever it is, he's having trouble hearing me. Before long I'm shouting and he's shouting and we exchange a few sentences, but I'm still not sure who it is. Could it be Howard Hendrix, who is planning to go to Moffett Field with us? Finally, mercifully, Lady Cranefly takes the phone back and signs off.
Lady Cranefly swings by with Howard Hendrix to pick me up, and we all go to Moffett Field. There are various speakers and presentations, most of them quite good. During Q and A, I'm impressed by the questions. These are some smart and inquisitive people. We're still an hour away from the landing, so we wander, going our separate ways among the many space exploration-oriented displays. Howard, who is tall, officious and knowledgable about just about everything, suddenly turns docent, holding forth to a growing number of people. Even docents are listening. I get cornered by a woman who talks about nothing but tadpoles. Lady Cranefly chats with some friends.
Eventually we all gather around screens and watch as a control room's worth of geeks go crazy every step of the entry, descent and eventual landing. There's a huge round of applause, and then we leave.
At home, after we've dropped Howard off at BayCon, I ask Lori just who it was I was talking to on the phone. Was it Mark? Or was it Howard?
"Mark? Howard? No, it was Tim."
"Tim?" I say.
"Tim Powers."