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ago, during my last year of high school, just before I came to New York. We were…well, we were close. I wound up writing some of those gothics too, as well as porn books and other stuff, in the mid-1960s and ’70s. But I didn’t write Dred —my best friend did. We had a kind of contest going, over which of us would get published first—and she won!” A streak of tears furrowed down both sides of her face.
    â€œBut she never came to the Big Apple, like me. I urged her to join me, I really did; I told her that she could find acceptance there, that she had talent to spare, but she was afraid to leave her family. Instead, she married a local banker and had a couple of kids, and…I don’t really know what. She got divorced and moved away from that small town, finally, and I lost track of her decades ago. I don’t know what became of her. I didn’t have any family left myself, so I never went back—didn’t want to go back.”
    â€œBut who was she?”
    â€œJust a sweet girl whose head was filled with dreams—like mine. We loved literature, we loved the great authors, we wanted to become just like them. Elizabeth Barrett Browning, the Beats, everything old and new excited us. We were young then: we thought all things were possible. They weren’t! She didn’t have the gumption to take it to the next step. I did, although I never amounted to much as a writer. I was just a hack. Turned out my talent—and hers—didn’t measure up, really. So, maybe she was wiser than me, I don’t know.”
    â€œWas Lissa right in saying that she’s here at the con?”
    â€œHow would I know?” Margie said. “I haven’t seen or talked to her since 1964. I don’t know if I’d even recognize her now. We were both twenty back then, so she’d be about sixty-six or –seven if she were still alive. And what difference does it make anyway? I lost track of my copy years ago, during one of my frequent moves. I probably traded the book for something else to read, or gave it to a friend.”
    â€œWell, it obviously made a difference to someone—enough of a difference to kill for,” I said.
    â€œIf she had a position in society, she might have been concerned about having it compromised.”
    â€œIn this day and age?” I said. “Who cares anymore whether you’re straight or gay?”
    â€œA lot of people care, particularly in business and professional circles, particularly in small towns,” my partner said. “That’s why I went to see Lissa. I thought I could buy the book back for the business, and just write it off my account. I thought I could take care of the problem once and for all. If my friend wanted her pen name kept secret, I could at least do that much for her. But….”
    I sighed. “What was her name?” I finally asked.
    â€œThat’s my business, OK?”
    â€œDid you tell the cops all this?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œDid you tell them her name?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThen why not me?”
    She looked up at me then, and after a long pause, said: “I don’t think I really want you to know.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
    â€œI DON’T KNOW WHY”
    Saturday, March 26
    â€œThe Sundogger came roaring out of the nebula, zap guns blazing at both ends.
    â€œâ€˜Bzzzt, bzzzt,’ they went, as they chewed through the hull of the Kymkurdashianan battleship.
    â€œâ€˜Burka, burka,’ the alien vessel responded, sending a stream of supercharged x-beams back the other direction.
    â€œâ€˜They’re outgunned! Why don’t they surrender?’ Sergeant Mazeltoff yelled over the steam jetting into the control room. He wiped the sweat from his overheated brow.
    â€œâ€˜I don’t know why,’ I shouted back at him, adjusting the valve to inject more super-coal into the engine. Trying to predict what a Kymkurdashian might