Nerds Of A Feather Don't Always Flock Together

A science fiction nerd guards the sci-fi section of the library against unwanted fantasy fiction nerds.

Passing by the Self Help section, Brian paused. He looked both ways. The aisle was empty. Brian quickly crossed over to the periodicals and onward towards the Gardening section before he realized that someone was shadowing him on the other side of the book stacks. Brian quickened his pace. He wished he had an invisibility ring or a shield of dragon scales to protect him from the inevitable confrontation with the science fiction nerd he knew was following him.

If the Sci-Fi area was equipped the way its denizens envisioned, it would be guarded with frap-ray laser tripwires, auto-targeting plasma turrets, and elite cybernetic protectobots. All of the reading material would be stored in nano-neural implants easily downloadable from the neural interface unit. Brian snorted at the thought.

It would make so much more sense, Brian argued to himself, if whatever he wanted to read magically appeared on the crisp pages of an ancient tome of lore through the appropriate spell or sprinkling of magic dust, or instantly transferred and memorized using a glowing knowledge crystal. An all-knowing oracle would be ideal.

The person shadowing Brian on the other side of the bookshelf quickened his pace to match Brian's. Brian could feel his feet starting to sweat. He really didn't want to get into a fight with some goofy Babylon-5 watching, science-loving techno-nerd.

Those science fiction fans were one weird crowd. Everything needed an explanation. Space ships had to have a logical means of propulsion, and there always needed to be schematic drawings. Strange new worlds had to be described in great detail, right down to the composition of the atmosphere. And the physics of time travel always had to be explained. Nothing was ever accepted as is. There was certainly no room for staff-carrying magicians with long flowing robes.

Brian, on the other hand, read fantasy fiction--sensible magical stories about dungeons & dragons, swords & sorcery, elves, goblins, and trolls. With fantasy the impossible was plausible, and worlds could be saved with the wave of a crystal-wearing hand. Science never interfered.

Brian didn't need rational explanations for unexplained phenomena; he read for pleasure and a simple "it's magic" was just fine by him. Anyways, it was all about the "quest". But for some reason, the sci-fi reader had some obsessive need to rationalize. He needed to know how hyperspace works, and why a pulse rifle is able to both stun and kill.

The end of the aisle was a few steps away. Brian pondered his options. He could make a run for it, or try to deke out his shadower by turning and running the other way. Or, Brian smiled, he could pull out his wand and say "Expelsior!"--but that wasn't likely to work in this section.

If Brian was lucky he was being tracked by one of those more compassionate 'fantasy' science fiction readers. Brian had heard rumours that the science fiction crowd had split into several different factions: the 'hard' science, the 'soft' science, and the more moderate 'fantasy' science fiction crowd. (Not to mention the 'speculative fiction' crowd, who, rumour had it, occupied a whole world of their own near the Psychology section.)

Brian decided to make a break for it. He bolted out of the aisle, silently like a wood Elve darting out of the forest, and ran right into old Mr. Findley, the assistant librarian.

"I've had enough of you goofballs!" shouted Mr. Findley as he grabbed both Brian and the kid who had been trailing him--a Trekker Brian noted with disdain, wearing--of course--a red uniform from the original series. "I'm sick of listening to your whining and sniveling about Larry Niven vs. Terry Brooks," continued Mr. Findley. "And now you're running in my library! You take this outside!" and he heaved their sorry asses out into the street where they both moped for the rest of the afternoon.