I thought about being dead.
I could remember every silly detail of that silly last performance. I was dead at the end of it. But how could I think about being dead if I had died?
I thought about that, too, after I stopped having hysterics. There was plenty of time to think.
Call me Allen Carpentier. It's the name I wrote under, and someone will remember it. I was one of the best- known science- fiction writers in the world, and I had a lot of fans. My stories weren't the kind that win awards, but they entertained and I had written a lot of them. The fans all knew me. Someone ought to remember me.
It was the fans who killed me. At least, they let me do it. It's an old game. At science- fiction conventions the fans try to get their favorite author washed- out stinking drunk. Then they can go home and tell stories about how Allen Carpentier really tied one on and they were right there to see it. They add to the stories until legends are built around what writers do at conventions. It's all in fun. They really like me, and I like them.
I think I do. But the fans vote the Hugo Awards, and you have to be popular to win. I'd been nominated five times for awards and never won one, and I was out to make friends that year. Instead of hiding in a back booth with other writers I was at a fan party, drinking with a roomful of short ugly kids with pimples, tall serious Harvard types, girls with long stringy hair, half- pretty girls half- dressed to show it, and damn few people with good manners.
Remember the drinking party in War and Peace? Where one of the characters bets he can sit on a window ledge and drink a whole bottle of rum without touching the sides? I made the same bet.
The convention hotel was a big one, and the room was eight stories up. I climbed out and sat with my feet dangling against the smooth stone building. The smog had blown away, and Los Angeles was beautiful. Even with the energy shortage there were lights everywhere, moving rivers of lights on the freeways, blue glows from swimming pools near the hotel, a grid of light stretching out as far as I could see. Somewhere out there fireworks arched up and drifted down, but I don't know what they were celebrating.
They handed me the rum. "You're a real sport, Allen," said a middle- aged adolescent. He had acne and halitosis, but he published one of the biggest science- fiction newsletters around. He wouldn't have known a literary reference if it bit him on the nose. "Hey, that's a long way down.
" "Right. Beautiful night, isn't it? Arcturus up there, see it? Star with the largest proper motion. Moved a couple of degrees in the last three thousand years. Almost races along."
Carpentier's trivial last words: a meaningless lecture to people who not only knew it already, but had read it in my own work. I took the rum and tilted my head back to drink. It was like drinking flaming battery acid. There was no plea - sure in it. I'd regret this tomorrow. But the fans began to shout behind me, and that made me feel good until I saw why. Asimov had come in. Asimov wrote science articles and histories and straight novels and commentaries on the Bible and Byron and Shakespeare, and he turned out more material in a year than anyone else writes in a lifetime. I used to steal data and ideas from his columns. The fans were shouting for him, while I risked my neck to give them the biggest performance of all the drunken conventions of Allen Carpentier.
With nobody watching.
The bottle was half empty when my gag reflex cut in and spilled used rum into my nose and sinuses. I jackknifed forward to cough it out of my lungs and pitched right over. I don't think anyone saw me fall. It was an accident, a stupid accident caused by stupid drunkenness, and it was all the fans' fault anyway. They had no business letting me do it! And it was an accident, I know it was. I wasn't feeling that sorry for myself.
The city was still alive with lights. A big Roman candle burst with brilliant pinpoints of yellows and greens against the starry skies. The view was pleasant as I floated down the side of the hotel.
It seemed to take a long time to get to the bottom.
Excerpted from Inferno by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle.
Copyright © 1976 by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle.
Published in September 2008 by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.