During the bus ride most of us shied as a stream of traffic kept coming toward us on what seemingly was the wrong side of the road, and again it is one thing (in America) to be acquainted with the occasional small European sport scar on the street but another to be three-dimensionally surrounded by swarms of such minimobiles. "And to think that here we are regarded as aliens!" Lee Sirat shook her head. At which Mary Dziechowski fannishly observed, "Where aren't we aliens?"

The King's Court Hotel, which was to be our rendezvous point for the next week, proved to be some what of a catastrophe: it was in the process of being renovated, and pandemonium reigned! Rugs were torn out from under one's feet or tacked after one as one ascended stairs; the superstitious got gray hairs from ducking under ladders; and the odor of Chanel T (for turpentine) was everywhere in the air.

The banquet hall was unfortunate: about a mile long and an inch wide. By its narrow, elongated construction, a number of speakers were forced to show their backs to one third of an audience. For the first time that I can recall, banqueteers were assigned seats (by whom I know not) rather than being free to pick their own company, and I'm afraid the locations were not universally popular. Many of the Americans who had made the greatest effort and traveled the farthest distance were relegated to least desirable positions. And as for myself---! Now I love Dorothea Faulkner, in fact I think I am partly responsible for having introduced "Dotty the Demon Grandma" to fandom; but I'll be damned if I appreciate traveling 6000 miles to have lunch with someone I could in effect have lunch with any day of the week. The horrible part about making such public complaints is that I have the unhappy feeling I may be hurting the feelings of some well-intentioned individual who reasoned that the two Californians might like to sit side by side, but Rory Faulkner can not only sit next to me any old time at home but, if she wants to, on my lap. I can well imagine on the occasion of the banquet that Rory would infinitely have preferred the company of Wait Willis to Forry, or any of a dozen other "foreign" fans; while for myself, I would have far greater appreciated being seated next to virtually any non-American present. Future meal managers, please note!

En passant, I was almost the inadvertent cause of an International Incident with the Queen of England. Deliberately chosen to give the "natives" a little touch of California flair, I had elected to wear a "bolo" tie with my best shirt and suit. This was a personal production by Bjo FantaCrafts of Southern California, and featured a cluster of polished desert rocks at the usual cravat knot-point. This unusual tie was a hit elsewhere an the Continent and in New York, but at the penultimate moment before going in for lunch I was hustled aside and instructed in no uncertain terms to "get rid of that ridiculous doodad" as toasting Her Majesty was a solemn occasion and such a sartorial innovation would be considered egregious. Seems something called Teddy Boys -- Britain's teddible equivalent of our teenage delinquents--currently effected similar ties, I'll never really know why my innocent little bauble should have upset the Queen so, considering all the bobbly bubbles she's seen when Marilyn Monroe, Diana Dors, Jayne Mansfield and other mammary queens have bowed low to her; but I fetched a proper tie and the show went on.

It was my pleasure and privilege to toast Absent Friends, among whom I counted . (on all our behalves) those departed Greats, Wells and Stapledon, as well as familiar Worldcon faces we were missing: Tucker, Bloch, Asimov, Boucher, et al.

Arthur C. Clarke, Guest of Honor of the 14th Con, introduced the 15th's, John W.Campbell, Jr. Clarke characterized Campbell as a man poles apart from Edgar Rice Burroughs, and differing from Hugo Gernsback as a scientist does from a technologist. (Later Campbell was awarded a "Hugo" for top-excellence of his science fiction magazine.)

Campbell, in his luncheon speech, compared his office to a clearing house of ideas, himself to a catalyst. Earlier, to the press, be had explained that "there are no journals of speculation, of speculative thinking, of disciplined imagination, and the science fiction magazines come closest to that."

Bob Madle turned back the dock to describe the very first stf convention of any sort, a "convention" consisting of Donald A. Wollheim and 15 other youngsters. Historically and statistically minded Sam Moskowitz followed a little later in the program; pointing out to the interest of all that no less than 8 persons who attended the First World Science Fiction Convention nearly 20 years ago, were assembled at this moment in London: John Campbell, F. J. Ackerman, Bob Madle, Sam (himself) Moskowitz, David Kyle, Harry Harrison, Oswald Train and John Victor Peterson.

ACROSS 2 DECADES, my memory of the first Worldcan is of about 135 persons attending altogether. Two hundred and sixty-eight signed, in at the 15th, with an additional 288 having paid in memberships. Authors in attendance included John Wyndham, whose novels "Day of the Triffids" and "Out of the Deeps" have been optioned for scientifilming, and whose latest s.f. book, "The Midwich Cuckoos", MGM is preparing to produce; Robert Abernathy, whose stories have been appearing since 1941; Wm F. Temple, of "4-Sided Triangle" fame; hydra-headed, multi-pseudonymed Robert Silverberg MPA-56 (Most Promising Author of 1956),; Brian W. (name to watch) Aldiss; E. C. (arrived in Ace) Tubb; Eric Frank ("Call Him Dead"?--no, call him very much alive!) Russell; H. J. Campbell, Ken Bulmer, John Brunner, James White,, John ("No Blade of Grass" bought for $105,000 by MGM!) Christopher, and other international favorites.

Perhaps by 1975, when the world is rounded in 80 minutes by rockets and we fans are (wishful thinking) richer, we'll see a world-wide attendance of 500 to 1000 at a Can-Con in Paris or a Denmarcon (the Copenvention?)

A hi-lite of the Londoncon, by my lights, was The Ceremony of St Fantony. This was pomp and pageantry of a high order, done up in fine British fettle, and it was only because of the cramped quarters available for the performance that it has to be termed anything less than DeMillean, let us say a "shrinking fan's" Cecil B. DeMille production. A small-scale triumph of a large-scale enterprise, the Ceremony extrapolated knighthood and heraldry into the Space Age, and the rich and lavish costumes were a sight to behold and the solemnly proclaimed enscrollments a sound to be heard. All hail the Cheltenham Science Fiction Circle and Knight Grand Master Eric Jones and Knight Armourer Robert Richardson. Conventioneers involved in the ritual and invested with the Order included Walter Willis, Bob Madle, Ken Slater, Frank Dietz, Ellis Mills, Bobbie Wild, Terry Jeeves, Rory Faulkner, Eric Bentcliffe, Boyd Raeburn and Bob Silverberg.