He arrived!
I'm sorry that I can't remember which day he arrived, for I was down in the bar and the Philadelphia convention had not yet started, so there was no official program to guide me. Once the giant clambake really got rolling I had no difficulty in determining the days. The barflies had worked out an ingenious system for keeping up with the Convention without once setting foot in the hall. Seventh Fandom runners would bring in almost hourly reports and our Intelligence Operatives would decode and evaluate the dispatches; by consulting the program and making due allowances for bumbling chairmen, longwinded speakers and parliamentary snarls, the Operatives were able not only to discover which day it was but often to ascertain the approximate time of day.
For example: a breathless runner would dash through the door with his face flushed in victory, to loudly shout: "Wow! A Bergy BEM for only twenty bucks! Real George!" As the bouncer ejected the lad we would huddle over the program booklet and evaluate the news. An auction was scheduled for Saturday, September 5th, from eight until nine in the evening. Someone would recall that about four hours ago a great mob of fans had descended on the bar to avoid a speech by Willy Ley. So we would decide that it was now Saturday evening, after eight o'clock. The system never failed us, and we were spared the necessity of running from hall to bar to avoid the speeches. We just stayed there.
But he arrived some time prior to the official opening.
Pat Mahaffey (the equally beautiful sister of Bea) and I were sitting in the bar sipping Streptococci Chasers when it happened. Without warning she suddenly hissed in my ear, "Ssssssttt!" Wiping my sodden eardrum with the end of somebody's necktie, I turned to her.
"Good stuff, isn't it?" And hoisted my glass.
But she was staring across the room, her lovely brown eyes large and round with awe. Her dainty jaw hung a trifle agape. "Jeeze," she said in a whisper that carried the length of the room, "pipe the beaver!"
I followed her glance and perceived Mr Campbell, with beard. There was a choking sound behind me as someone else discovered him.
Pat asked, "Is he a faaaaan?"
"No," I said stoutly, springing to the defense of a much maligned fandom. "Can't be. Probably one of those Air Force chaps." (It should be explained here that two other conventions were sharing the hotel with us, a reunion of wartime paratroopers and a Negro civic organisation.) "Watch him now," I advised the girl. "As soon as he downs that drink he will leap to his feet and shout 'Geronimo!'"
Down in the forest something stirred
But the unpredictable Mr Campbell made a liar of me. He did rise to his feet and the group at his table slowly did likewise, uncomprehending. Mr Campbell stiffly extended his hand, arm and drink to assume a rigid stance. "To the Queen!" he shouted. At once the noise in the bar dropped to a respectful silence as everyone turned to watch the foreigner. The group at his table, now aware of what was expected of them, stretched forth their glasses and replied, "To the Queen!" Mr. Campbell muttered in his beard, "Victoria, of course," and threw the fiery liquid down his throat.
Pat tugged at my sleeve. "Who is Victoria?"
"I'm not sure," I told her. "Some important personage in Australia, I believe. At least, they have a state or province or something by that name there." But I added reflectively, "Of course, I may be thinking of Borneo." Pat was impressed.
A person hasn't really lived until he has witnessed Bert Campbell toasting Victoria, the beard wagging waggishly. And that was my introduction to the great man. I was destined to see him perhaps half a dozen times in the course of the weekend and each meeting was one fraught with significance. Once he sold me a dirty fanzine. Well do I recall his sparkling sales technique, his promise of infinite riches as he conducted the transaction. It was in the privacy of his room and there were no more than eight or ten others present at the time.
"Tucker!" he ejaculated, staring at me. "So you're Tucker. My Boy, I have something for you." And from under the bed he pulled a stack of fanzines, slipping off the top one and coyly hiding the title with his hand. "Give me a dollar."
I was astounded. "Whatinthe hellfor?"
He winked mischieveously, waggled the famous beaver, and moved his hand slightly. I looked down and saw the word SEX glaring from the cover. Whipping out a dollar I pressed it into his hand and quickly stuffed the hot fanzine under my shirt. Later I tore off the cover and openly carried the journal about the hotel premises.
Upon another occasion, during a dangerous and unprecedented moment, a small group of us deserted the bar to visit a neighbouring hotel where a big wheel from New York was holding court and the liquor was free. Mr. Campbell was among the group and so I appointed myself his guardian, knowing he was unfamiliar with American traffic. As we paused beside the curb I held up an admonishing finger. "Mind the lorry!" Mr. Campbell glared at me with a pained expression, which was most disconcerting. I wondered if I had committed some breach of protocol and hastened to repair the damage. "The traffic moves on the right here," I explained, "but this is a one-way street so it moves on both the right and left." He only stared rudely at me; but he was dangerously near the curb. "It's coming from behind you," I said nervously. "Look yonder." He did not look, he continued to inspect me. I must confess I then lost my temper. "Oh to hell with the goddam lorry," I snapped at him. "Just stand in front of that truck and watch what happens!"
Actually, we were spared the bloody sight of Mr Campbell decorating the Philadelphia street with his all. The truck saw Mr Campbell first and turned to stare. He spat in his hand, smacked a fist into the spittle and cried "Beaver!" which is an old American custom. While I was explaining this old American custom to Mr Campbell, the truck driver ran through a red light and hit a passing street car. We wandered into a nearby restaurant for dinner.
The droll fellow kept the diners in stitches.
First we went through the "Victoria" routine once more and damned if half the restaurant clientelle didn't rise with him. I saw by the expressions on their faces that they didn't know Victoria either. The piannist, eager to welcome a foreigner to these shores, broke into the soft strains of "Mother Machree." Mr Campbell turned to glare at him, which he interpreted as encouragement and went on with a few rousing bars of "Galway Bay." Meanwhile our waiter stood humbly by, taking our orders and striving desperately to understand Mr Campbell without seeming to be rude. Sensing his predicament, I offered my services as translator and stated Mr Campbell's wants in English. The waiter was obviously grateful and gave me an extra pat of butter. As it was, the meal ended with several pieces of silverware, some hardrolls, a napkin and a sprig of parsley in Mr Campbell's voluminous pockets. There was no room left for an uneaten piece of steak so Pat Mahaffey obligingly put it in her purse for later.
There were but three more contacts with the beaver.
One doesn't count because he was out cold on the floor of his room. The rest of us trooped back and forth over his prostrate body, helping ourselves to the contents of his suitcase and bureau drawers, but remembering to close the door as we left. We didn't want him to catch cold in the draft of the corridor. We later discounted his angry charge that someone had picked his pockets.
A swecond occasion was his politicking just before the vote was taken to choose next year's convention site. Mr Campbell ran up and down the long row of chairs, handing out favours, bandying wit with Seventh Fandom members, thumping strangers on the back and stepping on toes. Despite all this, he managed to garner sixty votes for London.
My last and most memorable contact with the gentleman was an excursion four of us made to see a burlesque show: Dave Kyle, Larry Shaw, Campbell and myself. How it warmed the cockles of my heart to see the sinple fellow enjoy himself! He would howl with unrestrained laughter as the comedians pulled their sexy jokes, shout and stamp and whistle in high glee as the strippers "took it off", and otherwise carry on as a red-blooded American boy might do. Dave Kyle was likewise touched by his eager reaction and bought for him a little sealed envelope containing girlie pictures. Afterwards, Mr Campbell stopped me a moment on the sidewalk in front of the theatre. "Tell me," he said earnestly, "what the devil was that all about? I couldn't seem to follow the plot."
....It was only the song of a Bert.
Oh yes---there is one more bit to add. Coming home from the theater we passed a window display of a casket manufacturer. There in the window was the most beautiful, the most expensive coffin this side of a Hollywood cemetary.
"Ah yes," Mr Campbell said, gazing at the display. "America."
One hasn't really lived until one has watched Mr Campbell enjoy a burlesque show and an expensive coffin in the same evening.
(data entered by Judy Bemis)
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