The grime of the trip washed off, I phoned for my Continental Breakfast, a guaranteed part of my room services, along with such other delights as having my bed Turned Down...we got to speculating, towards the end of the convention, about those hotel employees whose task is simply to go from room to roam in the evening and Turn Down the beds. Did they also turn on the lamp over the bed, or was this a separate taslt delagated to a second employee? But, I digress.

I'd been wondering what my Continental Breakfast would be like. I'd been told it would probably consist of some sweet buns or the like. I was writing a letter to Robin (from which letter and subsiquent letters I have drawn the details for this report) when there was a discrete knock at the door and a maid came in bearing a tray. The contents of the tray in full were: two pots, one of which held coffee, the other hot, boiled, milk; sugar; a coffee cup; butter; and two rolls. The rolls were unadorned dinner rolls. I wolfed the lot down, drinking all the coffee and about half the milk. And I did not bother ordering another Continental Breakfast during my stay at the hotel, Indeed, I rarely rose early enough for one during the remainder of my stay.

I was just finishing the letter when Harry Harrison came up. He asked if I had anything planned for the day and I told him I didn't. He suggested I join him for a drive out to Ted Carnell's place, "We'll show you a bit of London," he added. I was delighted.

Harry is an extremely ebullient, outward-going fellow who is often to be found laughing loudly and who drives like a madman. I consider myself a talker, but I found with Harry I could just sit back, look at things and listen, without any awkward pauses developing in the conversation.

Harry and his family have lived in Denmark the past several years, but they were now in the process of moving to England. He has a dark green VW Microbus, fitted out nicely as a camper, with which he and his family have toured all over Europe. "The U.S. is all right for a starter," he told me, "but sooner or later it's time to leave, see the world, get out and do things!" I think if Harry had his way we'd all be expatriots.

We took a scenic route along the Thames, past all the Famous Buildings and over the Tower Bridge. I was more impressed by the fact that at low tide the ships moored on the river's edge are grounded than I was by the Famous Buildings, which, after all, looked pretty much like most Famous Buildings. But then, I mm not a sight-seer, at least on most occasions.

London, as I mentioned, has almost no expressways. It took over an hour to travel the seven or so miles out to Ted Carnell'S place, every bit of the way on local roads, fighting (and that is the word) local traffic. I was fascinated by the variety of cars, many of the marques all but unknown in the U,S. I saw no American cars at all in England, and the only largish ones were Rolls Royces and Jaguars. On the other hand, I saw some fantastic trucks, some of which are three-wheeled, others of which have four wheels at the front which turn.

Ted Carnell lives in one of the London suburbs on a quiet sidestreet in a rowhouse. Harry was mumbling to himself that he never could find it, but he did, and with no trouble at all. As we were approaching I said, "Do you suppose Ted knows of any place I could get a copy of NEW WORLDS number one? It's the only no I'm missing."

We°d been sitting around in Ted,S livingroom chatting with him and his wife when I asked the question again, this time of him.

"Oh, I think I might have an extra copy kicking around," he said, to my astonishment, "I have a bound set of my own."

"You know," he continued, "we simply couldn't sell that first issue. That was in early in 1946. But we went ahead with the second issue. I worked up a cover around an old, 1937 Rogers black and white drawing which we had redrawn in color -- a couple of spaceships on a deep blue background."

"That second issue virtually sold out. I should imagine it is rarer than the first; I've never sen it in backissue stores. Well, we had all those extra unsold copies of number one, so we ripped the covers off, and we had new covers printed up, exactly like the covers for the second issue, except that they said 'No. 1' on them. And we put them out to sale again, and they did very well." Obviously the true collector's items are those variant first issues.

There was another story he told us. He showed us a copy of NEW WORLDS #22. "This is an all-but-unique copy," Ted told us. "There are only three in existence, and the other two are on file with Her Majesty's Government. Mine is the only one in private hands."

Scholars of the history of NEW WORLDS will recall that after it found its footing as a Nova publication its first twenty issues were printed in a slightly-taller-than-digest format. The 21st issue was in a shorter, more standard digest size, and dated June, 1953. It introduced the logo which was, with the following exception, to remain with the magazine throughout its Nova days. But the 22nd issue, when it appeared, was undated, used a simple, typeset logo, and was slightly taller again. It was followed, a month later, by the 23rd issue, restoring the logo, and dated May, 1954. The haitus of almost a year can be explained by the fact- that the original 22nd issue was printed somewhat earlier -- in December of 1953 - but long after the contract called for it. The printing was slipshod, and typoes and reworded sections abounded. The advertising was totally out of date. Only three specimen copies were produced, Nova sued the printer, and two of the three copies were filed with the legal papers. The material for that abortive issue appeared piecemeal, later, while the cover ended up on SCIENCE FANTASY #13.

Ted added that he had a second set of the early NEW WORLDS and SCIENCE FANTASY, bound in buckram, for sale if anyone was interested. "I have my own set; I don't need two."

He inscribed the contents page of NEW WORLDs #1 for me: "To Ted White, in editorial, appreciation," I felt like a humble neo.

On our trip back, Harry and I argued mildly about the Direction SF Is Travelling In. Harry is in the Aldiss-Ballard camp -- as his editorship of SF HORIZONS with Aldiss makes clear -- and very much for the New Thing in British sf, I am not, We more or less agreed to disagree. Harry said he would state his position in his talk Friday, and I said I'd rebut it in mine, Sunday.

When we got back, I found the hotel starting to swarm with fans, Ron Ellik and Al Lewis were there, and already engaged in setting up the art show, I met Lois Lavender, who was quite as nice and attractive as her advance billings bad credited her with being. I was hanging about the artshow room trying to be of some vague use when a French author and fan showed up, and asked Harry Harrison, Poul Anderson and me if we'd care to be interviewed for French radio, He carried a pocket tape recorder. We moved into the all-but-deserted auditorium, but the Mt. Royal was in the final stages of renovation, and workmen occasionally begin hammering and pounding away within easy earshot of the taper, so I don't know how much of what we said was usable. We chatted about one thing and another, and it was quite low key. Presumably much editing was done before any of it went on the air -- is any of it did.

After that I returned to the artshow room. I was motivated by several feelings. One of then was a vague guilt for being of so little practical help on the show in years past, despite my sponsorship of no award. The amount of time and labor people like Ron and Al put into the show has rather shamed me. Another was simply that I had nothing also to do, nowhere in particular to go, and I was feeling gregarious, and here was where, for the moment, the fans were.

Indeed, in rather short order I was meeting some of my first English fans, including Ken Cheslin, Jimmy Groves, Ted Forsythe, Eddie Jones, and I forget who-all else.

Fortunately I found a way to make myself useful. Ron and Al had bought a quantity of lumber and burlap, and planned to make those into burlap- covered frames suitable far hanging the pictures on. "Ahah!" I said. "You're actually just stretching giant canvases." And I have stretched canvases many times. So, with my vast skill as a carpenter, I knocked together the frames and with Al I stretched the burlap onto two of them.

By this time I was becoming aware of several things: 1) I'd been at it for several hours, and it was past the dinner hour; 2) I'd not eaten all day; 3) the smallpox vaccination I'd been given the day before I left was starting to 'take'; and 4) I was suddenly weak, hungry, and almost shaking. Feeling guilty all over again for chickening out while four more frames awaited construction and burlapping, I asked Al if he figured he know how to do it now, and on his assurance that he did, I went out into the lobby.

In the lobby I bumped into Bob Silverberg. "Have you made any dinner plans yet?" I asked. "Well, as a matter of fact, yes, We're going to an Indian place with the Pohls," Bob replied. "But you're welcome to join us."

In the bar we found Barbara Silverberg, Fred and Carol Pohl, and a young couple of their acquaintance. I wish I could remember those peopl's names; they were very nice people, and I found that he and I had a common interest in rapid-transit. We split up into two taxis, and headed off for Piccadilly Circus and verra-Swami's. As we left the hotel, Harry Harrison's VW pulled out behind us, but he was oblivious to our waves.

It was my first experience with Indian food in an actual Indian restaurant, so I ordered the mild curry. Not at all to my surprise, I found myself enjoying the food greatly, and the meal went quickly and pleasantly. It was a surprise, though, when Fred picked up the check. "I've owed these folks a meal for some time, Ted, and you lucked into it," he said, smiling.

We split up for taxis again, and the Silverbergs and I headed for the Globe, London fandom's traditional pub.

Fandom was really out in full flower there. Ron Bennett was carefully taking everyone's name down in his notebook, and the list in SKYRACK is probably as complete as any you'll find. I made no attempt to copy down names (or, indeed, to take any notes excepting my letters to Robin), and I did not try, in the press of the crowd, to meet everyone there. I did pump Ron Bennett's hand enthusiastically, and later that evening I told him about how I'd played him, years earlier, into admitting he was Penelope Fandergast.

Back in 1958, Sandy Sanderson launched APE, the Inchmery Fandom fanzine, in which the pseudonymous Miss Penelope Fandergast held sway in a sometimes waspish column. Ron came over on TAFF that year, and he, Sylvia, and Bob Pavlat and I drove back to the east coast together in Bob's car after the Solacon. I recalled, years later, that he was often asking people, "Have you seen APE yet? What do you think of that column? Who do you suppose Fandergast could be?' Ron must've had a lot of fun with that; a devilish twinkle is often in his eye.

In 1960, Tom Condit made some comments about TAFF which were quoted in FANAC, and Ron wrote me under the mistaken impression that I was the author. It was my first inkling that he might be Fandergast, whose identity was now a major fannish puzzle. The tone with which he upbraided me for Condit"s utterances was too like the waspish tone of Miss Fandergast's column, I could not resist a ploy. At the end of my letter in which I answered his, I added, "Now that it's out that you're Penelope Fandargast, what are you going to do next?" He fell for it, hook, line and etcetera, and admitted all to me in his next letter.

I'd felt rather proud of that, and yet lid never had the chance to tell him how I'd hooked him, He laughed about it when I explained it to him in the Globe.

The Globe closed at eleven or thereabouts ("Time, gentlemen!") and I found myself heading for the Underground station with John and Joni Stopa, two of the last people I'd expected to see in London. Joni had dyed her hair a light brown and I complimented her on it; I found it much more becoming than the platinum blonde of yore.

When we got back to the hotel, I found a small group of fans, including Ella and Ethel, sitting in the lobby having tea, and I sat down next to Ethel and found myself with a better opportunity to chat with her than I`d enjoyed at any time during her TAFF trip.

At various times during the con, people came up to me and asked me if I'd seen, or even if I was Terry Carr. Terry was TAFF delegate this year, and he had the impossible task of meeting and charming every fan in the British Isles, The more I thought about it, and such facts as the chats I hadn't had with Ethel during her TAFF trip, the mare grateful I was that I had not stood for TAFF and had made the trip on my own money. For one thing, since I do not believe that people who can make the trip on their own and will anyway, or who have already made the trip on their own in the past should stand for TAFF, I have disqualified myself in my own eyes. Thus I have not only spared myself the grind of obligations every TAFF candidate is faced with, and which necessarily divides him too finely for any convention to be enjoyed, but also the controversy a campaign on my behalf would provoke, and the very possible chance of losing. The more I thought about it, the more relieved I felt.

Friday, August 27th

Well they didn't, in this particular department. But in the process of searching their stock, I found come sheets of numbers and alphabets of the sort which one can apply to a piece of paper by positioning and rubbing. I pulled out a sheet of numbers. "This would be perfect for putting a One, Two or Three on our gold seals, if we can ever find gold seals," I told Ron.

"Al isn't going to like this," Ron muttered. "We were supposed to have First, Second and Third ribbons all made up. He isn't going to like this."
We found a stationery store, a block over, and there we found notary seals, exactly what I wanted. But -- red, No gold. We took a box, and escaped.

Despite Ron's trepidations, Al only smiled and nodded when we placed our small hoard of ribbons, seals, and numbers before him on the art show table. "That's fine," he said. "That looks fine." Ron shook his head; unbelevingly.

........Ted White

To be continued...

Alas, it never was - Rob.