Page 4 - An Evening with Maxwell's Daemons

Call to order

here, they should bring it up under new business at first
opportunity. If it is the sense of a majority of the group that such a
theft has occurred, then we impose no limits on the sanctions that
may be taken against the purported thief beyond blackballing; that
may include pillorying in social media, letters to publishers and
boycotting. Small comfort, perhaps, and it inevitably would have
the negative effect of highlighting our relative powerlessness in a
realm in which the successful have much more power than
outsiders looking in. Needless to say, such righteous retaliation
could result in us ourselves becoming pariahs in the publishing
industry, a truly counterproductive outcome.”
“Those are the ground rules, Izzy Azimuth. Do you agree to
abide by them? Your sponsor Cyril Kornfleck believes you will, and
that your progress toward becoming a serious writer of fantasy and
science fiction justifies bringing you into Maxwell’s Daemons.”
“Yes,” said Azimuth firmly. “I cannot work in a vacuum any
longer, veering between feelings of grandeur and abject self-pity.
Cyril is an old friend, and our trust is mutual.”
“Fine,” said Feghootsky. “Then I shall introduce you to the
other members. Here we use our real names. The era of
pseudonyms for authors of popular fiction has largely passed:
creators of formerly low-brow entertainment are now considered
worthy of acknowledgement, regardless of their positions in society.
Here is our complement this evening, in order of presentation:
please nod as your name is called. Leith Mauker. Hydrargyrum
Diggers. Cyril Kornfleck, whom you know. Rutger Schlager.
Perversity Tinderstack. You—Izzy Azimuth. Our secretary, Brad
Razeberry. And me, Fred Feghootsky.”
“Izzy Azimuth, you are now subject to the rules and conventions
of Maxwell’s Daemons, one of its members in good standing. I
know this has been long-winded, but it must be recorded for
whatever protection it provides. All of us have had to sit through it
before. Finally, let me observe that this is not simply an affinity
group, a writers’ workshop or group therapy. It is all of these, plus a
no-host dinner at Maxwell’s Delicatessen, the traditional abode of
these roughly bimonthly meetings of the Daemons. Our waiter,

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