Steve and I grabbed a quick bite and headed for the Globe and the London Circle meeting, perhaps the last we would ever attend. We were early, but a few had preceded us. Mike Moorcock, youthful editor of the English TARZAN COMICS magazine, was sitting there munching a hot dog and gulping beer. Les Cloud [Les Flood, maybe?], oldtime fan, was present. Young Tony Klein and Sheldon (Soy Ugh!) Deretchin could be seen swapping jokes. And when Walter H. Gillings walked in, I knew him immediately from a photo I had seen of him taken in 1937. Believe it or not, he's still the same dignified, mustached individual. We had a jolly time imbibing beer and talking over old times. But, like all London Circle meetings, this one had to end. And I was beginning to notice that my slight cold was, apparently, developing into something else.

The next morning was the morning we all knew would come, whether we wanted it to or not. It was like real plane-catching time and all the British-types were at the terminal to see us off. I was feeling kind of low and bought me a little hip-flask of joy juice to nibble on during the long flight back.

Everybody bade everybody sad adieu, Even quiet Robert Abernathy (the big famous pro-type Abernathy) was chatting away, Bob is one of those fellows who doesn't have much to say - but he can certainly turn out a good story.

BRIAN ALDISS:

The fanzines will be full of reports on the London Con; the Americans made it for us: we hope we made it for them. But have any of you intrepid KLMers stopped to think what it felt like over here directly you had gone?

As soon as the lunch at the airport was finished, you were sucked into immigration. For you, it was farewell to the shillings and tanners, those endless red busses, those savage, bearded faces, those filthy cigarettes we find so smokeable, those cups of muddy coffee which give us our wonderful English complexions.

Dave & Ruth Kyle, Brian Aldiss

The British contingent now made its downhearted, shame-faced, lame-brained way to a point of vantage from which you Americans might be observed to cross from the Customs sheds to the KLM plane. We consisted, for the record, of Ted Carnell, with wife and daughter and movie camera complete with continuous belt of film, Ken Bulmer, Daphne Buckmaster, Bert Campbell (Late Editor of "Authentic"), Vince and Joy Clarke, Sandy, and Brian Lewis, the artist - oh, and me, though I would rather have been lying disguised as a record of "Dirty Old Town" in the luggage rack of your plane.

You now came out of the sheds, where you had been inspected, disinfected and stamped "U.S.A. Fondle Carefully", and climbed into the bus which would take you over the tarmac to the plane. You were only some two hundred yards away, so we had quite a clear view of you. At once, a doubledecker bus, two Comets flown over specially from Dar-es-Salaam, a fire engine and the Airport Controller's bicycle were parked in front of us. So you made your way to the plane unobserved. We nearly caught a glimpse of you ascending the gangway, but six men ran up and hastily built a radio station with control tower in front of us.

However, when your plane taxied to the take-off runway, we had a fine view of it. Those faces at that window - Sam Moskowitz and Bob Madle surely? Or perhaps it was Art Kyle - or hadn't he got on at all? And whose was that tiny figure running madly at the speed of light after the plane? Yes, that was me, friends, but I never made it: these KLM jobs are too fast. Finally, after a comprehensive tour round London Airport, you were airborne, your plane lifting irrevocably into the grey haze with which we shroud our country from alien eyes.

That was our worst moment. We watched and watched till the spots before our eyes formed star-spangled banners in the air, and then we turned away. Ken Bulmer reassumed the false beard he had been waving. Mastering our emotions, English-fashion, we deposited our chewing gum and went to have a cup of English-fashion tea. Avidly drinking, I saw the leaves in my cup form up into the shape of a phallic symbol; of course, I know these things are really only space ships, so I took heart and felt slightly better.

Well, we had to get back to routine. I had to return to Oxford (the others were just simple local boys, Londoners all). The cold draughts of everyday life were blowing again. We caught a bus into town; it took an hour to get from Bushey, where the airport is, into central London. We talked of you all the time - in fact, we were so engrossed we accidentally let Bert Campbell buy all the tickets. The most fruitful and practical suggestion emerging from this discussion was a proposal to move the Azores over into mid-Atlantic far the establishment thereon of a permanent, time - and money-proof Convention site, with the finest features of both our great democracies (i.e. Coca Cola and espresso coffee) available at all hours.

Finally we reached Hammersmith Broadway, and the conductor helped us off the bus. We picked ourselves up from the grimy pavements and made for the Underground (tube, subway) station, There this great and happy Fifteenth Convention finally broke up. "South Gate in '58", we shouted, more in sorrow than anger. The names of the stations were a blur as I headed alone for Paddington ....... Goldhawk Road, White City, Ladbroke Grove, Royal Oak.... Around me was this shabby, battered weedy, dusty, grand old city which had been so glad to welcome you all here. Ah, me, nothing will look the same again - not even the corpse-faced prostitutes under the sodium-vapour lights of the Bayswater Road. So I reached Paddington mainline station, feeling both sentimental and semi-mental.

I had ten minutes to spare before my train left. The carriages were crowded with Oxford faces, most seats were taken. It was 4:45 on a warm afternoon. I'd been walking about all day -- to say nothing of the preceding sleepless night. The loveliest thing in the world, I thought, next to being headed for New York in a charter plane, would be to cool my aching feet. Going along to the toilet, which packs all mod. con. into a room no bigger than Val's suitcase, I took off shoes and socks and thrust my feet under the spout where it says 'Not Drinking Water'. It felt wonderful.

The dryer was an elaborate mechanical business, into whose sides you thrust a penny and get out eighteen inches of roller towel. It hung shining overhead. My feet don't extend that far. Slipping out of my jacket, I climbed nimbly up onto the jakes and the wash basin. Steadying myself precariously with one hand on the window, I inserted a penny in the gadget and jerked out a coil of towel. Then, flexing my muscles, I stuck out a foot to dry it. At that moment, the train started with a jolt...

So I say farewell, as I hang downward, caught up in the folds of a British Railway towel. It is my sincerest hope that travel has similarly reoriented all of you, turning your preconceived notions upside down. Adieu for now, and thanks for the memories. We'll meet again someday, once I've really found my feet again.

....(c) Brian Aldiss, 1957 (used with permission)

Brian's report first appeared in SPHERE #7 (Sept/Oct 1957, ed. Joe Christoff) and was originally titled 'Oh To Be In England After The London Con'.

"Speaking as a medic, I strongly back up what Earl says - both then and now, it was/is very common for medics to stick with their maiden name, partly for patients and colleagues, but even more so for anyone involved with scientific research whose name is published in academic journals."