Worldcon Day 4

San Antonio was quite busy last night. Well, it was Saturday night. There were queues of so many trendy young things that the bemused bands of wandering, be-badged, be-t-shirted Conophiles were definitely in a minority. Our little group, ID badges carefully hidden away, found a couple of dodgy-looking subterranean dives to drink cheaply in. We cheerfully compared notes of our separated adventures of the day, both academic and physical (Sarah had found a Water Park); moving on from futurism to politics as the drinks flowed. By then we thought it probably best (and safer) to call it a night.

1000: Space Law. Up early for a quick breakfast on the Riverwalk and thence to our first presentation. Pretty dry stuff, you'd think. Not a bit! Purely because the guy knows his stuff and; is a professor at Harvard, is investing personally in space companies and patents, has practised space law for 25 years, and, most importantly, has all the self-deprecating humour and charisma so missing from yesterday's panel on space commercialism. Honestly, Linda & I could have stayed for two or three hours listening to this guy. In terms of content, they seem to be making space law up as they go along, much of it based on sea law stemming from Christopher Columbus' day. Otherwise, most of the existing law revolves around obsolescent NASA-based legislation, badly written international treatise that were forced in during the cold war and anti-proliferation agreements that have nothing really to do with the commercial exploitation of the moon, near Earth objects or asteroids. Unfortunately, he was just getting into his stride when the timer ran out.

1100: The Future Two Hundred Years Out. Another fun ramble from a bunch of writers trying to predict what life would be like if the current rate of technological increase was maintained. As usual, KSR stole the show in his usual erudite style while the others ruminated on the eternal "the more things change the more they stay the same" routine. Just about everyone agreed that, for this period of prognostication, no one will ever get it right; but it's fun trying.

1300: Consider Iain M Banks. Iain Banks, for those who don't know is a brilliant British (OK, Scottish, but let's not hold that against him) SF writer of space opera who died quite suddenly of cancer just before this con. I've read all his stuff and deem it great fun. Some of his compatriots formed a panel to commemorate his memory and it worked very well. A good send off!

Being Sunday and nearing the end of our stay we decide on a slightly more alcoholic night ("What!" I hear you say, "You mean you haven't been going for it already?"). On the way to another bar we found yet another bar (and so never made the first bar) called the Leapin' Lizard Pub. It was there, much to Sarah's continuing dismay, that we discussed and analysed the day's events. I have one recollection of earnestly explaining the significance of the Schroedinger's Cat quantum thought experiment to all and sundry in the bar oblivious to the fact that Sarah was rudely miming intense boredom and Linda was elbowing me in the ribs to the effect that I should "shut the f*** up". After making our way through an impressive number of local draught beers Linda sensibly suggested we eat something. Back to a crowded Riverwalk (day before Labor Day, remember?): the walkways looking as if they were a scene from the Walking Dead. Too many zombies shuffling to too few empty riverside seats. We finally installed ourselves on a bench at Dick's Last Resort next to a young couple who were trying to have a holiday drink. Gary started to babble at them about relationship issues until Sarah, realising that the bemused look on the guy's face was actually one of fear, shunted the offending Farrant to the other end of the table while trying to put on a more acceptable face of English inebriation. They looked less apprehensive but we noticed that, after 10 or 20 minutes, they had disappeared to be replaced by someone else we could be friends with. As it turns out, a quite pissed muscular military engineer tried chatting Linda up while I was in the loo. She was quite all a-dither! Gary engaged him in an earnest discussion on American football so everything was fine.

It was approaching midnight when we thought it would be a good idea to settle the bill. Linda, who heretofore had been on her best behaviour drinking coke, had ordered a green cocktail in a glass so big it could only be described as a posh bucket (that included an upturned bottle of beer as part of the cocktail "mix"). We knew that it wasn't going to be good news: it wasn't --- $170 including tip. Good job it isn't real money! Had an awful feeling we were not going to be well tomorrow.