Knight Life

Knight Life

Peter David

Chaptre the First

The apartment was dark, illuminated only by the dim flickering of the twelve-inch, black-and-white Sony that sat atop a scratched coffee table. From the glow of the picture tube one would have seen an apartment allowed to go to waste through lack of attention.

The wallpaper was yellowed and peeling-there were squares and circles imprinted where various paintings or pictures had once hung. The floor was bare, the boards warped and uneven. Off to one side was a small kitchen that had a gas stove last cleaned sometime around the Hoover administration, and a refrigerator stocked with two cracked eggs, half a stale loaf of Wonder Bread, and a flat bottle of club soda. And three six-packs of beer.

The occupant of the apartment was also illuminated in the light.

On the screen an old sitcom was playing. She had seen it before. She had seen all of them before. It did not matter to Morgan. Nothing much mattered anymore.

She smiled slightly at the antics of the castaways on the screen. Somehow Gilligan was always able to make Morgan smile slightly. A buffoon, a simple jester.

Simple. She remembered when her life was simple.

She took a sip of the beer, finishing the contents of the can and tossing it off into the darkness. She thought there might be a trash can there to receive it. She didn't much care.

Morgan Le Fey hauled her corpulent body protestingly to its feet. She was clad in a faded housecoat that had once been purple, and her swollen feet were crammed into large fuzzy slippers. Her hair was still the raven color it had always been, or at least had been for as long as she could recall. She hadn't checked the roots for a few decades now. But the fine lines of her face, her sleek jaw and high cheekbones, were now sliding off into her collarbone. She had given up counting her chins, as another one seemed to spring into existence every decade, like clockwork.

As she waddled into the kitchen, her housecoat tugged at the protesting buttons, threatening to pull them all off their thin moorings.

She squinted at the dazzling (by contrast) brilliance of the refrigerator bulb, reached in and snapped another can of beer out of a half-consumed six-pack. She made her way back across the kitchen, the slippers slapping against the bottom of her feet.

As she sank back into the easy chair, resting her hands in the customary places on the arms, she watched the final credits run on this latest rerun of the adventures of the castaways. Even more than Gilligan, she empathized with the concept of castaways as a whole. She was a castaway too. Drifting, floating, on an island of isolation. That her island existed in the midst of a bustling metropolis was irrelevant.

She flipped the top off her beer can and started to drink. The cold beverage slid down her throat, basking her in a familiar warmth and haze. She patted the can lovingly. Her one friend. Her familiar.

She held up the can in a salute. "To mighty Morgan," she croaked, her voice cracking from disuse. "Here's to eternal life, and to the thrice-damned gods who showed me how to have it."

She choked then, and for the first time in a long time she really thought about what she had become. With a heartrending sob she drew her arm back and hurled the half-empty can square into the TV which sat two yards away. The screen exploded in a shower of glass and sparks, flying out like a swarm of liberated sprites. There was a sizzling sound, and acrid smoke rose from the back of the set.

Her face sank into her hands, and Morgan Le Fey wept loudly. Her sides heaved in and out, her breath rasped in her chest. The rolls of fat that made up her body shook with the rage and frustration she released.

She cried and cursed all the fates that had brought her to this point in her life, and it was then that she resolved to put a stop to it. Existence for the sake of existence alone is no existence at all, she decided. "I am a mushroom," she said out loud. "A fungus. I have lived for far too long, and it's time I rested."

She stood again, but this time with far greater assurance, for her movements now had a purpose to them other than simple self-perpetuation. She lumbered into the kitchen, fumbled through a drawer crammed with plastic spoons from Carvel's ice cream stores and equally harmless knives from Kentucky Fried Chicken. Finally she extracted a steak knife. She blanched at the rust, then realized that rust was hardly a concern.

She sat back down in front of the TV, the knife now cradled serenely in the crook of her arm.

The TV screen had miraculously mended itself. There was a crisscross of hairline fractures across it, but these too would fade in time. Not that this was any concern to Morgan either.

"One last time, old enemy," she said. Her thin, arched eyebrows reached just to the top of her head, even though her eyes were little more than slits beneath painted green lids. She fumbled in the drawer next to her for the remote control, and she started to flick the switch.

Time had lost all meaning to her, and she could not recall how long it had been since she had looked in on Him. Five days? Five months? Years? She was not certain.

Once these long-distance viewings had exacted a great toll from her, physically and spiritually. She had had to use specially prepared mirrors, or magic crystals. With the advent of the diodes and catheters, however, had come a revolution in the art of magic. A one-time ensorcellment of the wires and tubes, and she could look in on Him whenever she wished.

That was why she had never opted for solid-state components -she didn't trust her ability to control something as arcane as microcircuitry.

She clicked her remote to Channel 1, and the smiling face of the news anchor disappeared.

In its place was the exterior of a cave. Erosion and overgrowth had altered the exterior somewhat over time, but not enough to throw her. She knew it. And she would take the knowledge to her grave, providing that someone ever found her bloated body and tossed it into the ground for her.

She held the knife to her wrist. She should really do this in a bathtub, she remembered reading now. But she hated the water. Besides, she wanted to be here, in front of the entombed resting place of her greatest magical opponent.

She stared at the cave entrance on her TV screen. "You'd really enjoy this moment, wouldn't you, you cursed old coot? Morgan Le Fey, driven to this, by you. You knew this would happen someday. This is your doing, you reaching out from beyond the grave." She pressed the blade against the skin of her right wrist. "Damn you, Merlin," she said softly. "You've finally won."

Then she stopped.

She leaned forward, the knife, still against the inside of her wrist, forgotten now. She squinted, rubbed her eyes, and focused again.

Against the mouth of the cave rested a huge stone, covered with moss and vegetation. This stone was far more than just a dead weight. It was held in place through the magic of a woman's wiles, and there is no stronger bond than that. And though the woman, Nineve, was long gone, the magic should hold for all eternity.

The operative word here being should.

For Morgan now saw that the rock had moved. It had rolled ever so slightly to one side, creating an opening. An opening far too small for a man to squeeze through. But still ... it hadn't been there before.

Responding to Morgan's merest thought, the TV screen zoomed in tight on the hole. Yes, definitely new. She had never seen it before, and she could see where the overgrown leaves had been ripped away when the stone was moved___

Moved! But who had moved it?

It was more than she dared hope. The camera panned down, away from the hole which was several feet above the ground.

There were footprints. She could not determine how old. Once she would have known immediately, for once she had looked in on this spot every day. But with passing years had come passing interest, and the occasional look-see had seemed to be sufficient. Seemed to be, but clearly was not.

Yes, footprints. Barefoot. And something else, she realized. They were small. A child's.

Heading one way, away from the cave.

"A child," she breathed. "Of course. Of course!"

The knife clattered to the floor as Morgan Le Fey, half sister of King Arthur Pendragon, incestuous lover of her brother, mother of the bastard Modred, tilted her head back and laughed. At first it was hardly a laugh, but more like a high-pitched cackling imitation, similar to a parrot. With each passing moment, however, it grew. Fuller. Richer. Although the abused body of Morgan still showed its deficiencies, years were already dropping from the voice.

If anyone had once dared tell her that she would be happy over the escape of her deadliest enemy, she would have erased that unfortunate person from the face of the earth. The suggestion was postively ludicrous. But so had her life become as well.

For Morgan Le Fey had come to realize that she thrived on conflict and hatred. It was as mother's milk to her. And without that her spirit had shriveled away to a small, ugly thing lost somewhere in an unkempt form.

Now her spirit soared. She spread wide her arms and a wind arose around her, blowing wide the swinging windows of her apartment. It was the first time in several years fresh air had been allowed in, and it swept through as if entering a vacuum. Fresh air filling her nostrils, Morgan became aware of the filth in which she had resided for some time. Her nose wrinkled and she shook her head.

She went to the window and stepped up onto the sill, reveling in the force of the wind she had summoned. Above her, clouds congealed, tore apart, and reknit, blackness swarming over them. Below Morgan, pedestrians ran to and fro, pulling their coats tight around them against the unexpected turn of bad weather. A few glanced up at Morgan in the window but went on about their business, jamming their hands down atop their heads to prevent their hats or wigs from blowing away.

Morgan drank it in, thriving on the chaos of the storm. She screamed over the thunder,

"Merlin! Merlin, demon's son! The mighty had fallen, mage! You had fallen. I had fallen. All was gone, and you were in your hell and I was in mine." She inhaled deeply, feeling the refreshing, chilled sting of cold air in her lungs. She reveled in the tactile sensation of her housecoat blowing all around her, the wind enveloping her flimsy garment.

"You're back now!" she crowed. "But so am I! I have waited these long centuries for you, Merlin. Guarding against the day that you might return, and yet now I glory in it. For I am alive today, Merlin! Do you hear me, old man? Morgan Le Fey lives! And while I live, I hatel Sweet hate I have nutured all these long decades and centuries. And it's all for you, Merlin! All for you and your damned Arthur!

"Wherever you are, Merlin, quake in fear. I am coming for you. I thank you for saving my life, Merlin! And I shall return the favor a thousandfold. /, Morgan LeFey!"

"Harry, what's going on?"

Harry peered through the curtains at the window of the apartment across the way. "It's that nut, the black-haired broad again. God, what a slob. I don't know how people let themselves go like that."

His wife eyed his beer belly but wisely refrained from comment.

"She's shouting about some damned thing or other," he muttered as he came to sit next to her on the couch. "Usually she's just regular drunk. I don't know what she's on tonight, but it must be a wowser."

"Bet she's from New York," mumbled his wife.

"What?" he asked.

She repeated it, adding, "It wouldn't surprise me in the least."

"No?"

"No. Because New Yorkers are all crazy. They know it. The government knows it. The whole country knows it. In New York everyone acts like that," and she chucked a thumb across the street in Morgan's direction. "You never know what's going to happen."

"Yeah," said Harry. "That's why I like it."

"Well, I hate it," his wife said firmly, as if she'd just turned down the option to buy Manhattan.

"All the crazy people there-they all deserve each other. Why, I hear tell it's not safe to walk the streets at night there. You never know what weird thing you'll run into next."

Chaptre the Second

Each day in life begins with the same expectations. At least each day did for Sidney Krellman, the manager of Arthur's Court.

Arthur's Court was a fashionable men's clothing store situated near Central Park. And for Sidney each day was nice and simple. He woke up in the morning. Got dressed (nattily, of course). Went into work. Acted politely to most clientele, enthusiastically to a select handful, and brushed off whatever else might exist. At the end of the day he and an assistant-it was Quigley, this particular day-would check over the day's receipts, shutter and close up the store, and leave precisely at 7:45 sharp.

Sidney Krellman expected nothing different on this particular day. It did not occur to him that this brisk November day was exactly one year before the next mayoral elections in New York City. Sidney didn't care for politics. Or elections, or mayors. Or much else except his daily routine. And he disliked intensely anything that caused a deviation from that routine.

This being the case, Sidney was going to really dislike what was about to happen. It disrupted his store-closing routine, threw the end of his day into a turmoil, and generally wrinkled the fabric of his well-ordered life.

It might have been different had he had some warning. If he had known, for instance, that this evening the legends were to be fulfilled, and that Arthur, King, son of Uther Pendragon, was about to return, he would certainly have kept on extra help. Or perhaps left early. Or even gone on vacation.

As it was, he did none of these things.

At 7:30 precisely, Sidney was issuing^instructions to Quigley on opening the store tomorrow morning. Sidney anticipated being late, having a dental appointment scheduled. Sidney was a short, almost billiard ball of a man (but sartorially correct), and Quigley-his young, gawky assistant manager-was his physical opposite. Sidney was waving one finger in the air, as was his habit, when there was a rap at the glass front door.

The rap derailed Sidney's train of thought, and he turned with an annoyed glance to the door.

He froze in mid sentence, finger still pointed skyward, as if offering directions to a wayward duck. Quigley continued to stare at his superior, waiting for him to continue. When no continuation was forthcoming, it dawned on Quigley to follow his boss's gaze toward the front door.

The knight occupied the full space of the door. He was dressed in full armor from head to toe, the plates smooth and curving over his chest, arms, and legs. The armor was excellently made, for hardly a gap had been permitted, and even those were protected, either by small stretches of chain mail or by small upturns in the plates. A full helmet covered his head, a visor with a short blunt point in front of his face. A scabbard hung at his side-it was ornately decorated with dark stones and intercurling lines of design.

The knight stood there for a moment, as if contemplating the two men within the store. He raised his gauntleted hand and knocked again, this time a bit harder.

It was the wrong move. The metal-gloved hand went right through the glass. The glass hung there for a moment in midair, and then with a resounding crash gave up all molecular adhesion and shattered into thousands of pieces.

Sidney Krellman's jaw moved up and down and side to side slightly, but that was it. Quigley was not even able to handle quite that much.

The knight stood there for a moment, looking down at the destruction. Then the gauntleted hands reached up and lifted the visor of the helmet. A gentle, bearded face smiled regretfully at Sidney Krellman.

"I'm terribly sorry," he said. "I seem to have damaged your establishment."

Sidney Krellman found it odd that despite the fact that this man was fully armored, the thing he found to be far more impressive was his voice. It was low and carefully modulated. It seemed to have an age and wisdom to it that contradicted the relative youthfulness of the face. It was a compelling voice, that of a great orator, or perhaps commander of men. The lines of the face that peered out from the helmet were clean and straight. The forehead sloped slightly, and eyebrows that were a bit thick projected over eyes, which were almost black. His lips were thin and what Sidney could see of his beard was very dark, but with a few strands of conspicuous gray.

Sidney Krellman shook off the daze that had come over him and gave a small bow. "Quite all right," he replied in a voice pitched two octaves above his usual tone. He quickly corrected his pitch and continued, "It could happen to anyone."

The front of the armor rose slightly. The knight had laughed. "Anyone who was clad in such foolish armor. Do you mind if I come inside?"

"Not at all. Not at all." Sidney backed up slowly, his eyes glancing at the scabbard that hung at the knight's side. It had not yet registered on him that there was no sword in it.

The knight stepped through the bashed-in door, walking across the spotless green carpet of the men's clothing store. Glass crunched under each armored foot.

"I suppose you're wondering," said the knight, "why I'm wearing this ridiculous armor."

Sidney tried to come up with an answer that seemed safe, since he was still convinced that at any moment this armored maniac might pull out a sword and send his toupeed head sailing across the store. Sensing his boss's hesitation, Quigley brightly stepped in with the first thing that came to mind. "Armor?" he said cheerfully. "What armor?"

Sidney Krellman moaned softly and waited for the whir of sharp metal winging toward his neck.

Arthur Rex laughed softly. "Italian, I'd say from the look of it," he replied, inspecting one armored hand. "Wouldn't you say?"

"Oh absolutely," said Quigley. "You can always tell Italian armor. It has, uh ... very narrow, pointy shoes."

"Really?" said Arthur, apparently with genuine interest.

*I'd place this armor at about, oh, fourteenth century." He tapped the chestplate and smiled at the sound. "I daresay none of your suits would wear for quite so long. Nevertheless I still find it clumsy. In my day we wore leathers. That's when men fought men, not metal shells fought metal shells. Tell me, young man, what's your name, please?"

"Quigley," said Quigley, and chucking a thumb at his supervisor he said, "And this is-"

"The manager," said Sidney quickly.

"Ah. Well, Quigley"-Arthur leaned against the counter, draping one arm against the cash register-"you seem to be an expert. Tell me, what think you of chain mail?"

"I tried that once," said Quigley. "Sent five dollars to five friends. I should have gotten $10,037 back, but I never saw a dime."

Arthur cocked an eyebrow, said nothing for a moment, then said, "As I was saying, this whole armor thing is something of a practical joke, played by someone who I thought a bit too old for this sort of thing. I really wasn't anticipating wandering about New York City dressed for the Crusades. I had more imagined, well, something along those lines." He inclined his head toward a three-piece suit that stood handsomely displayed on a mannequin. "Might I try that on?"

"Um ... I don't think," said Sidney cautiously, "that it will, um, quite fit over your, um, current vestments."

"I quite agree. If you would be so kind as to help me off with these..."

Sidney Krellman glanced at Quigley and inclined his head. Quigley shrugged, walked over to the knight, and began to pull at the thick leather straps that held the armor on.

"Do you have experience in this sort of thing?" asked Arthur as he pulled his helmet off.

"Well, I took shop once," offered Quigley.

"Metal shop?"

"No. But I made a baseball bat with a lathe."

"You'll do."

Passersby were glancing in the windows of the store as they went about their business.

Some looked at the destroyed door while others focused their interest on the man in armor who stood in the middle of the store, arms raised as high overhead as he could make them go, while the young assistant manager worked busily on removing the heavy plating.

Quigley's glasses kept sliding to the end of his nose and his longish hair kept falling into his eyes, but piece by piece he got the job done. He staggered and grunted under the weight of each component of the armor, and muttered at one point, "How do you wear all this stuff?"

"With as much dignity as I can muster," replied Arthur patiently. "I can readily assure you of that."

By this point Sidney Krellman had long since dispensed with the notion of contacting the police. The last thing he wanted to do was draw the attention of the store owners to this bizarre turn of events. The shattered door he would be able to chalk up to vandals. Quigley he would be able to swear to secrecy. Then Sidney looked up and saw the pedestrians looking in through the window, and with a frown he walked over to the windows and pulled closed the folding shutters that ran along the inside of the windows. This was enough to discourage most of the idly curious.

Sidney turned and was astounded to see the knight now clad in a simple tunic and a long-sleeved and legged white undergarment, the assorted pieces of armor scattered about the store. In the armor he'd seemed immense, even threatening. Here he was under five-and-a-half feet tall.

For a moment Sidney entertained the thought of throwing the unarmed and largely unclothed man out of the store. As if Arthur sensed what was on Sidney's mind, he turned his gaze on the clothing-store manager, who promptly wilted under the pure power of Arthur's presence.

He dropped his gaze to the floor, the brief fire of rebellion easily extinguished, and said, "So why don't we try that suit you had your eye on?"

Some minutes later one would never have suspected that Arthur had not always worn three-piece suits. The dark blue pinstripe fit him as if it had been tailored for him, except for being slightly tight in his broad shoulders. His hair, which was a shade lighter than his beard, hung in the back to just below the jacket collar. He had picked a cream-colored shirt and a dark red tie to complete the outfit. Although the store did not carry shoes, the mannequin had been sporting black loafers, and fortunately these, too, fit Arthur just fine.

He admired himself in the mirror, turning first right and then left, and decided finally, "They are cut quite nicely. Not at all what I'm accustomed to wearing, but-"

*'Clothes make the man," burbled Quigley, "although in this case I'd say it's more the man making the clothes, Mister ... geez, what's your name anyway?"

"I am King Arthur," said Arthur pleasantly, but then he frowned. "Oh, but perhaps I shouldn't have told you that."

"King Arthur? You mean like in Camelot and Monty Python and all that stuff?"

"Yes, friend Quigley, although I request that you do not allow my indiscretion to slip past this room."

"Hey, count on me, your highness," said Quigley.

Arthur glanced at Krellman, who nodded his assent so quickly it appeared that his head might topple from his shoulders. Krellman then tried to speak, but once again nothing particularly verbal escaped his lips. Arthur viewed the abortive efforts for a time and then said, with just a trace of impatience, "Come now, sir. If you have something to say, say it.

Screw your courage to the sticking point."

"Nothing," said Sidney quickly. "I had nothing to say. Except that it is late Mister . .. Mister King Arthur. King Arthur. Your Kingness," he said, searching for the right term to assuage this madman. "If we could just close up the store and go home."

"Oh, but I haven't settled with you yet."

Sidney's voice was a mouselike squeak. "Par-par-pardon?"

"Why, yes. I assume this suit costs money, and your door that I accidentally destroyed also would amount to a sum."

"Take it! Gratis, Compliments of Arthur's Court, to the man who gave us our name. Quigley, get a box for Mr. King Arthur to carry his armor out-"

Arthur waved a hand in peremptory dismissal. "I wouldn't hear of it."

He began to pat the pockets of the suit, as if looking for a wallet. This, thought Sidney Krellman, was rapidly degenerating into the ridiculous. How could this man, who claimed to be a long-dead, legendary king, now be checking the pockets of a brand new suit to find a wallet. This was a question, Sidney realized, that asked and answered itself. If you thought you were King Arthur, then just about anything after that was possible.

Arthur's probing hand stopped at a vest pocket and a slow smile spread across his pleasant features. From the inside pocket he produced a small wallet, and from that he extracted a familiar platinum card.

"Do you take American Express?'' he asked.

Sidney snatched it away, scowling, and studied it. His eyebrows knit and he stared, squinting at the card. Quigley looked over his shoulder. The date of issue was the current month. They stared at the name, and Quigley looked up.

"It says Arthur Penn. Your name is Arthur Penn?"

"It is?" He took the card back and examined it, turning it over as if a hidden message might be on the back. Finally he sighed and handed it back. "I suppose you're right."

Sidney quickly processed the card for the cost of the suit, not even bothering to add in the cost of the door (still preferring to stick to his story about vandals). He handed it back to Arthur, who was watching with amusement Quigley's attempts to stuff the pieces of armor into a variety of different boxes and bags.

"Don't bother, please," he said, laying a hand on Quigley's shoulder. "I assure you that if I never see the wretched stuff again, it will not trouble me at all."

A stiff wind was blowing through the destroyed door, and Arthur felt the chill even through the buttoned suit jacket. "You know, I think I might have need of an overcoat."

Sidney dashed around to a rack of coats, picked a long tan one out, ran back and gave it to Arthur. "This is perfect. It'll be just what you need."

"But-"

"Please," and his voice began to tremble, "please. Please go. I can't take this much longer."

"All right," said Arthur, a trifle befuddled. "But let me at least pay for-"

"It's my gift to you!"

Arthur stepped back, eyes wide. "If you put it that way, all right. I shall remember you for this kindness...."

"No! Don't remember me. Forget you ever saw me!" His fists were clenching and unclenching.

Quigley took Arthur by the elbow. "I think you'd better go, your honor. He gets like this when things go a little . . . wrong."

"Well," said Arthur, buttoning his coat. "That's the true mark of a man. To be able to take minor variances in routine in stride. He could stand a bit of work on that score." "Yes, sir."

"You be certain to tell him that." "I will, sir."

"When he stops crying, that is." "Yes, sir."

Chaptre the Third

Arthur shook his head in wonderment, tilting back leisurely on his heels so that his gaze could follow to the tops of buildings that caressed the skies. It was a cloudless night, with more than a considerable nip in the air. Arthur hardly noticed, so captivated was he by the sheer immensity of the city around him. And the thing he found more staggering than anything else was that the evening's pedestrians seemed to be utterly oblivious to the wonderment all about them. No one looked up to admire the architecture or whistle at a building height which in Arthur's time would have been considered a fantasy. Such a building should surely topple over! Nothing could possibly support it.

"How things change," he murmured. "Now these buildings are the reality, and it is I who have become the fantasy."

He jammed his hands deep into his coat pockets, feeling the comforting shape of the empty scabbard through the cloth. Only the tip was visible, peeping out every so often from the long coat, and Arthur was certain that no one could possibly spot-There was a gentle tap on his shoulder, and he turned to look up-gods above, why was everyone so bloody tall?- into the face of a middle-aged cop. He was sizing up Arthur with a gaze perfected over years of staying alive when, in his uniform, he was a walking target. He said, "Excuse me. Might I ask you what you're wearing under that coat?"

Arthur recognized authority when he saw it. He smiled politely. "Certainly. It's a scabbard."

"Ah." The cop smiled thinly. "Are you aware of the laws, buddy, against carrying a concealed weapon?"

Arthur's voice abruptly turned chilly as the evening air. "I am aware of a great many things, sir, the main of which is that I do not appreciate your tone of voice, nor shall I tolerate being addressed in that manner."

The officer, Owens by name, was not accustomed to any abuse either. In the station house he was known as Iron-Spine Owens. Iron-Spine had backed down from no one and nothing in his life.

His face set, he locked gazes with Arthur. For a moment, but only for a moment. Then he dropped his gaze, feeling like an impudent child. "Sorry, sir. But-"

"I know that, my good man," said Arthur with no letup. "For your further information and, if you insist, for your peace of mind, the scabbard is empty. There is no sword in it, and therefore no need to concern oneself with concealed weapons. And I might add that if mankind had not worked so hard to perfect weaponry that any fool could hide in a pocket and launch a cowardly assault from yards away, with no more skill or finesse than a diseased crow, then we wouldn't have a need for quite so many laws about concealed weapons."

Arthur shook his head. "Most insane bloody process I've ever seen. Create the weapons, then legislate against them. It doesn't stop in New York, you know. It pervades society.

Create nuclear weapons, then try to stop them from being used. The moment they used the first one they should have stopped when they saw what they had on their hands. I certainly would have."

"Well, sir," said Owens contritely, "it's a shame you weren't around then."

"Oh, I was. But hardly in a position to do anything." He sighed. "Hopefully I shall remedy that now."

"Pardon my asking sir, but . . . are you a politician or something?"

Arthur reflected a moment and then said, "I'd have to say I fall under the category of 'or something.' Why, do I come across to you as such?"

"Well, sort of. Except you sure have the rest of them outclassed. You got a way with a phrase. Let me tell you, if you ever run for public office, you'll have my vote."

"Really? On what basis?"

"Basis?" Iron-Spine Owens laughed out loud, coarsely. "Only thing people ever vote on is gut instinct. Only ones who ever vote on stuff like issues are the intellectuals, and half the time they're too intellectual to vote in the first place."

"Yes, well... good evening to you then."

Owens touched the brim of his cap with his finger. "Evening to you, too, sir. Oh, sir . . . you weren't thinking of heading into the park, were you?"

Arthur looked across Fifty-ninth Street to the edge of Central Park. There were a few stray couples walking arm-in-arm along the sidewalk running around the park, but no one was actually entering it.

"That had, in fact, been my intention, yes. Why? Is there some reason I should not?"

Owens rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well... most of the time it's safe enough. Nevertheless I'd advise against it. Unless you have a way of occupying that scabbard of yours with a sword double quick."

"I'll see what I can do. Thank you for the advice."

"Good evening to you, sir."

Iron-Spine Owens spun on his heel and went on his way, whistling an aimless tune, his hands resting relaxedly behind him. It was not until he was eight blocks away that he suddenly realized he had just totally violated the Iron-Spine character he had created for himself and maintained all these years. With just a few choice words this lone, bearded man had taken Owens firmly in hand, and in moments had him rolling over and playing dead. And Owens hadn't minded!

Owens whistled softly in awe. "I don't know just what that man has going for him," he said, waiting for the light to change at the corner of Fifty-first Street and Fifth Avenue, "but whatever it is, I wish I could bottle it and sell it. I'd sure as hell make me a fortune." A woman with a dachshund on a leash looked curiously at the police officer mumbling to himself, and walked quickly away, shaking her head.

Arthur walked briskly through the park, the soles of his shoes slapping with satisfying regularity against the blacktop. A cyclist sped by him in the opposite direction and didn't even afford him a glance.

Arthur felt his pores opening, his senses expanding to drink in the greenery around him. This was something to which he had an easier time relating. This wood-and-leaf forest was something that came far more naturally to him than the brick, steel, and concrete forest that loomed all around, hemming in the park at all sides. This brought back pleasant memories of home....

Home? What was home to him now? He had no friends, no loved ones. No family. Only descendants, and even they were completely screwed up. Held in high esteem by the modern British, Arthur had in his day actually fought against the ancestors of the modern-day Englishman. But a lot could be forgiven and forgotten in over a dozen centuries, he decided.

Camelot long gone, lost in the mist of time and memories.

Gwenyfar . . . how are they spelling it now? he wondered. Guinevere, yes. His queen, long gone.

He had survived. All were gone, but he had survived. Or were they? None of the others had been locked away in an enchanted cave all this time, of course ... had they? But no, that was impossible. Only Arthur and Merlin had survived, and Merlin would certainly have told Arthur if any of his latter-day companions were still with them. Wouldn't he?

So lost in thought was Arthur as he made his way through the park that he failed to notice the two men lurking in the bushes.

Men might be too charitable a word. With their wild manes of black hair and their equally scraggly beards, they were of an indeterminate age. They, and others like them, were the primary reason that people rarely walked along in Central Park at night.

Once upon a time there had been three of them. Much of what was real and what was not floated in and out for the trio, and there had only been a handful of things that they agreed upon that absolutely, truly existed. Artificial stimulants headed the list, followed by money.

Then came superheroes- after all, in the whole world there had to be at least one, somewhere. And right after superheroes came Marx Brothers films. Everything else, from the name of the president to fast food, was nebulous in what passed for their minds. In honor of the one group of actors who absolutely truly existed, the three took the names of Chico, Groucho, and Harpo. Fortunately they did not have a fourth in the group, so nobody had to be Gummo. Unfortunately, somewhere in the intervening years Harpo disappeared into the ozone. They were never sure just where he went. They were just sort of wandering around one day and realized that he was gone. They adjusted to it, but kept their own respective names, partially out of homage to their vanished partner but mostly because, after a great deal of thought-searching, they could not manage to remember what their original names had been.

The taller one, Chico, stood slowly, disentangling his beard from the snarl of the branches.

"There he goes," he murmured. "You see him?"

Groucho nodded and chewed on the remains of a two-day-old stale pretzel. He stood as well, coming just to Chico's shoulder. He wiped his large nose expansively with his shirtsleeve but said nothing. Talking had never been his strong suit. Also, he wasn't so sharp on conscious thought either.

They were dressed quite similarly, in dark sweatshirts and tattered jeans with holes in the knees. Chico was also wearing battered basketball Keds and a thin windbreaker. In his social strata this alone was enough to qualify him for the best-dressed list.

Chico said, "Look at him. Like he's got the whole world for his oyster. He must have enough on him to keep us goin' for a few days, at least. Geez, he must be from out of town. C'mon."

He and his partner, or what there was of him, stepped out of the bushes. Chico looked down and scowled. "Who told you not to wear shoes, you idiot. Geez, aren't your feet cold?"

Groucho looked at him blankly. "Feet?"

The two ill-equipped, ill-advised, and generally just plain ill muggers found themselves quickly at a disadvantage. Their intended victim was walking quite quickly, and they felt compelled to remain in the background. The general intention was not to he spotted by the victim until it was too late.

The reason this didn't work was twofold.

To begin with, it was almost impossible to sneak up on King Arthur. The warrior's sixth sense he possessed warned him that several bad-intentioned but inept gentlemen were pursuing him, but he made no effort to ward them off. They seemed harmless enough.

Then there was their own paranoia. They insisted on taking refuge behind trees and shrubbery every time they thought, even for a moment, that they might be detected. These brilliant attempts at camouflage consisted of noisily rustling bushes or tripping over projecting roots. Such endeavors were usually accompanied by colorful profanity and frantic shushing. Arthur smiled but did nothing to discourage them. In a perverse sort of way he was very curious as to how they would react to the events which would shortly transpire.

At one point Groucho and Chico were almost within striking distance, but almost out of nowhere a police car materialized. It prompted them to dive headlong into the bushes to avoid detection. When the police car drove on past, they emerged cut and bleeding, and Groucho wiped at his nose and asked if they could go home now.

"That's it," growled Chico. "We're endin' this right now."

They scuttled ahead but found, much to their chagrin, that they had lost their quarry at the fork in the road. Trusting to his luck, which had not served in good stead for over a decade, Chico pulled his partner to the right and walked as quickly as he could.

Farther on down the road, Arthur watched from the shadows, and when he saw them coming, stepped back out onto the path. If they had guessed wrong, he'd been prepared to clear his throat loudly to guide them on their way. He began to walk, paused momentarily and cast a glance over his left shoulder. There was the expected crash and curses as the two leaped into the bushes once again. Arthur laughed to himself. He hadn't had this much fun in centuries.

The road angled down, and within a few more moments Arthur stood at the edge of Central Park Lake. His nostrils flared. He could smell the magic in the air, like a faint aroma after a barbecue. It was a pleasant scent, a familiar one. After all, he had lived with it for more years than any man could rightly expect to live.

He looked out across the lake and waited. It would be here, he knew. It had to be. All he had to do was wait....

The stillness of the night air hung over him. Faintly he heard an ambulance siren, or perhaps a police car. Closer, he felt the small animal life all around him. The creatures of the woods had tensed as well. They, too, sensed it.

Arthur let his breath out slowly and mist filled the air in front of him. It was chilly, rapidly approaching thirty-two degrees-the point at which water freezes.

Which did nothing to explain why the middle of Central Park Lake was beginning to boil.

Arthur stared in rapt attention as the water in the center of the lake bubbled, swirled, and undulated, as if a volcano were about to leap forth, spewing lava into the park. Then, somehow, the water folded in on itself, creating a small whirlpool.

Now there were no nearby sounds of forest animals scavenging for the last scraps of food, or faraway sounds of ambulance sirens. All of New York City had shut down, leaving only the noises of the churning water.

It was then that it emerged from the center of the lake. Arthur's eyes widened, and for one moment he was no longer Arthur Rex. He was Arthur the wondering boy, dazzled and stunned by the wonders that were his to witness.

At first only its tip was visible, but then it rose, straight, proud, all that was noble and great and wondrous. The tip of the blade pointed toward the moon, as if it would cleave it in two.

The blade itself gleamed like a beacon in the night. There was no light source for the sword to be reflecting from, for the moon had darted behind a cloud in fear. The sword was glowing from the intensity of its strength and power and knowledge that it was justice incarnate, and that after a slumber of uncounted years its time had again come.

After the blade broke the surface, the hilt was visible, and holding the sword was a single strong, yet feminine hand, wearing several rings that bore jewels sparkling with the blue-green color of the ocean.

It was a moment frozen out of time . . . another time ... as the man at the lake's edge watched the entire scene, unmoving but not unmoved.

Slowly the hand began to glide toward him, bringing its proud burden straight and true. As it neared Arthur, the water receded as more and more of the graceful arm was revealed.

Within moments the Lady of the Lake stood mere feet away from Arthur, the water reaching the hem of her garment.

She looked like hell.

Weeds and crud had ruined her beautiful white dress. Her hair, also filled with crud, hung limply. In her jeweled crown a dead fish had somehow managed to lodge itself to stare glassy-eyed at the world. She pulled another dead fish, plus an orange rind, out of the cleavage of her dress while the man on shore glanced away in mild embarrassment.

She glared at him for a moment and then, in an attempt to restore some measure of dignity, took a majestic step forward, slipped, and fell flat into the mud.

Arthur reached down to help her but she waved him off, pulling herself to her feet. Using the sword to balance herself by thrusting it into the silt, she lifted one foot and pulled an empty cigarette pack off the bottom of her shoe* While one hand made vague attempts to wipe off the sludge, with the other she gave the still-gleaming sword to the man on shore.

"Thank you, lady," he said, and bowed to her.

She pulled a crushed beer can from the hem of her dress and said two words in a musical voice that would have shamed the sirens of myth.

"Never again."

And with that the Lady of the Lake turned and trudged slowly back as the roiling waters reached out to receive her.

Carefully Arthur examined his sword. They were two old friends, reunited at last. It gleamed in his hand, happy to see him.

He stepped over to a large, dead tree and swung at a low branch. The branch was as thick as the arms of two men, but the glowing sword passed through it without so much as slowing down. As if startled that it could so easily be severed, the branch hung there for a moment before thudding to the ground.

He heard the rustling behind him and he spun. Automatically he grabbed the hilt with both hands, holding the sword Excalibur in such a manner as to be both offensive and defensive.

His eyes glittered in the dimness. "Who?" he called out. "Who is there?"

But he knew the answer even before they stumbled forward. In the wonderment of it all he had completely forgotten about his two would-be assailants. He was fortunate, he realized, that they were as incompetent as they were. Had they been even mildly formidable, he would have left himself foolishly vulnerable.

As it was, they stumbled out with eyes like saucers. Chico came right to Arthur's feet and then, to the returned king's surprise, the scruffy skulker dropped to one knee. Groucho looked down at him curiously. Without returning the glance Chico reached to his partner's pants leg and pulled him down also. Groucho's knees crunched slightly as he hit the ground.

Arthur lowered Excalibur, holding the pommel with one hand and letting the blade rest in his palm. "May I help you?"

"We swear," said Chico fervently.

This came as no surprise to Arthur, but he waited with polite curiosity to see if that was the end of the pronouncement. It wasn't.

"We swear our undying allegiance to the man with the Day-Glo sword and the submersible girlfriend."

King Arthur gave a little nod of his head. "Thank you. That's very kind."

There was a long pause, and then Arthur said, "Is that it?"

Chico looked up at him as if Arthur were a drooling idiot. "We're waiting for you to knight us."

Arthur suppressed a cough. "When hell freezes over," he said.

Chico gave this some thought. Finally he nodded. "All right," he said agreeably. "We'll wait.

Won't we?" He nudged Groucho in the ribs.

Groucho stared at him forlornly. "My feet are cold," he sniffled.

They left the park together, their feet crunching on the gravel of the path beneath their feet.

Chaptre the Fourth

The young woman stepped out of the shower, now refreshed and prepared to face the new day that was shining so nauseat-ingly through the bathroom window. It was the bathroom's only source of illumination, the fluorescents having burnt out some time ago. There had been no money to buy new ones.

She ran the towel over her slim body, rubbing it briskly across her back. Here in the womblike security of the bathroom, the day didn't seem quite so bad. She had just done the shower breast examination that she always dreaded, and was pleased to have found no lump in evidence. So she had her health, knock wood. And even better, she had a job interview this morning.

She wrapped the light blue terry-cloth towel around her body, and another towel around her strawberry-blond hair. She kept it short and manageable enough that drying it took only a few minutes. She was not one for wasting a lot of time on external frivolities.

She wrinkled her nose at herself in the mirror. She hated her face because it was perfect.

The nose was just right. The eyes were just the right space apart, the eyebrows just the right thickness. Her cheekbones were not too high or defined. Her skin displayed no mars or blemishes. She was, on the whole, very attractive, as far as most people were concerned.

But she did not agree. She longed for some distinguishing feature to 24

25

give her face the character she felt it lacked. All the truly elegant women, she believed, had some feature you could hang a description on. A majestic profile caused by highly arched eyebrows, or a nose that was a tad too long-that was what she wanted.

She had even gone to a plastic surgeon once. He had laughed at her. Laughed! He told her that his patients would kill for looks like hers. He'd advised against unnecessary surgery, and told her to go home for a week or so and think it over. She had never gotten the nerve to go back.

She padded quietly into the living room which doubled as an office. She found him-her boyfriend-as she knew she would. He was slumped over his typewriter, his head resting comfortably on the keyboard of the battered Smith-Corona manual. She ran her fingers through his greasy black hair and whispered, "Hon? Honey, go to bed. You really should go to bed."

He grunted as he stood, balancing himself against the table. His eyes did not open as she took him firmly by the shoulder and steered him toward the bed. He passed an open window and snarled, and she noticed with distress that he was developing a most unhealthy pallor.

"Hon, have you considered trying to get outside a bit more?" she said carefully. She was treading on tricky ground -the last time she'd broached such a subject, he had construed it as a criticism of him, and worse, an implication that he should get a job. "How can I get a job?" he'd screamed at the time. "I have my work!" He had then gone into a silent tantrum that lasted three days. It had been three very peaceful days for her.

This time he barely uttered a reply before collapsing onto the couch. It wasn't the bed, but she decided to leave him there. It wasn't worth the aggravation somehow, and besides, she had to get to the interview.

She had to get the job. She just had to. If for no other reason than that, within two days, the employment agencies would no longer be able to get in touch with her. The phone company would be disconnecting them then.

She let the towel drop to the ground as she looked at the small assortment of clothes that hung in her closet. She heard a stirring in the living room, and for one moment fantasized that he was waking up. That he would come into the room, see 26

her standing there as she was, naked, her hair wet, her body slim and supple. That he would take her in his arms and make wild, intense love to her.

He snorted and turned over on the couch.

She hoped against hope there would be further noise, but there wasn't. So she allowed herself the luxury of sitting down on the threadbare bedspread and sobbing for five minutes.

Then she dressed quickly and quietly, went back into the bathroom, washed the tears from her face as best she could, and let herself out of the apartment. The soft click of the door roused the man sleeping on the couch only briefly.

She looked up at the small office building on Twenty-eighth and Broadway. The words Camelot Building were stenciled in fading gilt letters on the glass above the entrance. An ironic name, she mused, for Camelot was a place of pageantry and legend. This slightly rundown building was hardly that.

The guard at the front desk was sixty if he was a day. A cigarette hung from between cracked lips as he said, "Can I help you, miss?"

She had been looking at the directory on the wall, and turned to him now. "Yes. Pm trying to find the offices of a Mr. Arthur Penn."

He looked blank for a moment, and she felt her hopes sink. She wasn't even going to get out of the starting gate on this one. Then his face cleared and he said, "Right. New fella.

Thirteenth floor.''

"I thought buildings didn't have thirteenth floors."

The guard shrugged. "Fellow who built this place wasn't a superstitious sort."

"Oh, really?" The guard looked old enough to have been there when the building was first constructed.

"Yeah. And he was a lucky fella too. He was fortunate enough to see his work completed."

He coughed. "Day after, he got hit by a truck. You can go on up."

"Gee, thanks."

"Main elevator's out. Better use the freight 'round back."

The freight elevator was a rickety affair that moved up the shaft with a maximum of screeching and clanking. She felt out of place, neatly pressed and dressed, wearing high-heel shoes and trapped in a huge elevator with metal walls and floor. A dying fluorescent bulb lit the elevator, and she felt as if she

27

were being carted up to her execution.

When the doors opened on the thirteenth floor, she stepped out gratefully and the elevator bounced up and down like a yo-yo. As it closed behind her with a thud like a guillotine blade descending, she walked out into the main corridor, and what she saw astounded her.

The offices of Arthur Penn were beautifully put together, but far from modernistic. All the furniture was antiques, solid, dependable pieces everywhere she looked. The walls were paneled in knotty pine. The carpeting was a deep plush in royal blue.

Her breath taken by the extreme contrast between this office and the rest of the building, she started to wander about until a firm voice called her up short, saying, "Can I help you?'*

She looked around and saw a fierce-looking receptionist seated at a desk, and she wondered how she had missed the receptionist the first time. "Oh, yes, I'm sorry. I have an appointment. An appointment with Mr. Penn."

The receptionist glanced down at a calendar on the edge of her uncluttered desk and asked, "You're Gwen?"

Gwen nodded.

The receptionist seemed slightly mollified by the fact that this person was supposed to be here, but still looked regretful that she was not going to have an opportunity to give someone the heave-ho. She said, "Very well. Take a seat, please. Mr. Penn will be with you shortly."

"Thank you."

Gwen sat in an ornately carved chair and looked down at a coffee table next to her, on which several recent news magazines rested. She started to reach for one but then said, "Would you like me to fill out a form or something?"

"No. That won't be necessary."

"Oh. But how will the woman in personnel know anything about me?"

Looking up from the book she was trying to read, the receptionist snorted in annoyance.

"We don't have a personnel department. Mr. Penn himself will see you and decide either yes or no. All right?"

"Yes. AH right," said Gwen, feeling completely cowed.

"Any more questions?"

"No, ma'am."

The receptionist went back to her book. What appeared to 28

be an unspeakably long time passed, and finally Gwen ventured in a small voice, "Nice weather we're having, isn't it?"

She'd barely gotten the words out when thunder rumbled from outside and rain smacked in huge droplets against the single office window. Gwen glanced heavenward.

"He will see you now," said the receptionist abruptly.

"Who will?" said Gwen, but quickly recovered. She stood and said, "Well, thank you. Thank you very much." She smoothed her denim skirt. "You've been very kind."

"No, I haven't," was the tart response. "I've treated you like garbage."

"I beg your-"

"You let people walk over you, dear, you'll never get anywhere." She stabbed a finger at Gwen. "I bet your personal relationships have the success rate of buggy-whip manufacturers, right?"

Gwen drew herself up to her full height. "Now I don't think that's any of your-"

"You don't think? Hmph. I bet." The portly woman chucked a thumb at a closed office door.

"Go in. He's expecting you. He's been expecting you for ages. And for pity's sake, don't let yourself be used as a doormat. You've got too pretty a face to let it be filled with shoeprints."

And with that she stared down at her book again. Silently Gwen walked past her, completely confused. She went right up to the door, then swung about on her heel to face the receptionist.

There was no one there.

Gwen's eyebrows knit in confusion. She walked back to the desk, looked around. Nothing.

Under the desk was nothing. But the receptionist hadn't gone out the door-it had creaked horrendously when Gwen had entered; she would have heard an exit. Out of curiosity she rested a hand on the cushion of the seat behind the desk. It was cool, as if no one had sat there all day.

Gwen assessed the situation.

"Ooookaydokay," she said finally, went quickly to the office door that the receptionist had indicated, and swung it open.

She was a little surprised to see a bearded man deep in discussion with an eight-year-old boy. They were speaking in low, intense tones, and it was quite clear to Gwen that there

29

was none of the typical adult condescension in the man as he argued with the boy. Not the slightest. Apparently this Arthur Penn, if that was who this in fact happened to be, treated everyone as an equal.

Arthur didn't notice her, and it took the boy's abrupt indication by way of a fierce gesture in her direction before Gwen was even sure that she would ever be noticed at all.

She was seating herself on a large chesterfield couch as Arthur was saying petulantly,

"Honestly, Merlin, sometimes you treat me as if I'm a child."

"Arthur, we have a guest."

"I am perfectly capable of making decisions and watching out for .. .pardon?"

"A guest." The boy was skinny, his hands too large for his arms, his feet too large for his legs. His silken brown hair was longish in the back, and his ears virtually stuck out at right angles to his head. He was nattily attired in dark blue slacks, shirt, striped tie, and a blazer with a little sword emblem on the pocket. Bizarrely, the man's clothing was identical, but the boy looked better in it.

Arthur turned, and the moment he saw Gwen, he smiled. Merlin, on the other hand, frowned deeply.

Gwen found herself staring deeply into Arthur's eyes. She had never seen such dark eyes, she thought. Dark as a bottomless pit, which she would willingly plunge into....

She tore her gaze from him and swung over to the boy he'd called Merlin.

And stifled a gasp.

It was like looking at two different people in the same body. The lines of the boy's face were youthful enough, but his eyes were like an old man's, smoldering with wisdom of ages and resentment when he looked at her. He frightened her terribly, and she stared down at her shoes.

Arthur appeared oblivious to her thoughts. "How unforgivably rude of me," he said. "You're the young woman who was sent over by the employment office."

"That's right," she said quietly.

Arthur regarded her for a time and then said, "Is there something particularly intriguing about your feet, my dear?"

She looked up, her cheeks coloring. "I'm sorry. I just-"

"What is your name, child?"

The question had been asked by the eight-year-old boy, and 30

the phrasing was, at the very least, extraordinary. She gaped openly at him. "My what?"

"Nom de guerre. Moniker. Name."

"Oh, name!"

Merlin let out a sigh as she stammered out, "Gwendoiyne."

"What a lovely name," said Arthur, and Gwen looked up to see that Arthur was staring at her.

He saw her noticing, but did not look away. His stare was wonderfully open, and unembarrassed. "Forgive me for staring so, but you remind me a great deal of someone I once knew-"

"Arthur," said the boy warningly, "what were we just discussing?"

"Merlin, please. My apologies, Gwendoiyne. I am Arthur Pendr- Arthur Penn. My associate"-he chuckled slightly on the word-"is Merlin."

"Last name?" asked Gwen.

"Last one / intend to use," snapped Merlin.

"As you know," continued Arthur, "I am in the market to hire a personal secretary. This may not seem necessary now, but I assure you in the months to come this office will become quite busy. I would like to know all about your background, everything you've done in the past several years. We have several people to see, so I'll tell you right now that it may be a week or two before we can let you and your agency know for certain. Stop glowering, Merlin. You'll get crows' feet. Remember the last time that happened, you couldn't walk properly for days."

Gwen laughed, but Arthur stared at her with an upraised eyebrow and said, "Was something funny?"

"No. Not at all. I understand. Find out about me, more people to see, a week or two for response. Got it."

"Fine then. Let's begin." Arthur pulled around a comfortable chair and seated himself across from Gwen. He leaned back, steepled his long fingers, and said, "So let's start, miss ... I'm sorry, Gwen, I didn't catch your last name."

"DeVere," she said. "Gwen DeVere."

"You start on Monday," said Arthur.

Merlin, seated on the desktop, moaned.

When Gwen DeVere returned home, the apartment seemed

3 J

a little less gloomy, and as she marched in the door she called out, "Lance, Igotit!"

She stood in the doorway, dripping little puddles at her feet.

There was no response. She sighed, the wind slightly taken out of her sails. She should have known. It was raining heavily, and Lance only went out when it was a downpour such as this. He got inspiration from foul weather, he said. He had once filled a cup with rainwater, held it in front of her and informed her that an entire allegory of mankind could be found in that glass of precipitation. When she'd said she only saw rainwater, he'd emptied the contents on her head.

She thought about what the phantom receptionist had said, and went into the bathroom, her feet squishing in her shoes.

A few minutes later, wrapped in a towel, she went to the window and looked out at the street.

It was covered with garbage, and derelicts were huddling in doorways for shelter. There was a constant tension in the neighborhood, a tension that she supposed was natural in the city.

But it wasn't natural to her, and she wasn't going to live with it if she could help it. Perhaps, once she'd been working steadily for a while, they could afford to move out to a nicer area.

Maybe someplace out in Brooklyn, or maybe even the Island.

If only Lance would get a job.

But his writing always came first.

She glanced over at his work area, for it could hardly be called a desk. The crumpled paper was gaining altitude. She reached over, pulled one wad from the stack, and uncrumpled it. It had one sentence typed across the middle-"All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy"-and she cursed the day she'd taken him to see The Shining.

If only Lance would get a job.

If only she could leave him.

But he was all she had.

She flopped down onto the bed, reached over and snapped on the small, black-and-white TV. She recognized the old movie as soon as it came on-Danny Kaye in The Court Jester.

Knights and knighthood. Those were the days. Chivalry. Women were demigods back then, she thought, and men their protectors. Now it's everyone for themselves.

She reached over to the bureau, opened her purse and dug 32

through it. Eight dollars and change. What the hell. She reached over to phone for a pizza, figuring it would arrive two hours later, cold and soggy. But it wasn't really dinnertime for two hours yet, anyway, and she could heat it up.

And maybe the pizza guy would come riding up on a silver charger, balancing the pie on a gleaming shield___

Late into the night the offices in the Camelot Building's thirteenth floor blazed with light.

"You're out of your mind. You know that, don't you? Ten centuries to contemplate, and you're no smarter now, Wart, than you were then."

Arthur had removed his coat and tie and was sitting in shirtsleeves, watching Merlin stalk the room like a cat tracking down a mouse. From his reclining position on the couch he called,

"Now Merlin, I think you're exaggerating a bit."

The lad turned on him. "You think?" he said in a voice ringing with authority despite its boyishness. "Who told you to think!?"

Arthur's voice was sharp as he said, "I caution you, Merlin. You will not address me in that manner. I am still your-"

Merlin turned, placing his hands defiantly on his narrow hips. "My what? Finish the sentence.

My king? Well huzzah, Your Majesty," and he genuflected mockingly. "You rule a kingdom of one ... unless you planned to return and lay claim as king of all the Britons. I can just see it!"

He rubbed his hands together, relishing a good laugh, as Arthur shifted uncomfortably on the couch. "I wonder how they would react, those ineffectual, impotent figureheads who do nothing for the populace except provide them with tidbits to gossip about in taverns at teatime. There you'll be, presenting yourself as the once and future king. What the bloody hell do you think will happen? Do you think the queen is liable to step down and say, 'Good of you to show, old sod. We've spent centuries keeping your place warm. Have the throne.'

Perhaps they'll revoke Magna Carta for you. That would be a sweet thing. Disband the House of Commons, House of Lords, put you in charge of the entire affair? Eh?" He slammed a small fist on a table, jiggling an ashtray. "What are the imperial thoughts, Arthur?

Tell me, oh king of nothing!"

They glared at each other for a long moment. Then, finally, Arthur's eyes softened slightly and he said, "All right. They

33

can keep the House of Commons. How does that strike you?"

Merlin laughed lightly. "Ah, Arthur, you madman. I should let you go in and try it. Either they'd lock you up, or maybe, by God, maybe they would make you king."

Arthur stood, smiling, and started to pace the office. His hands were folded behind his back.

"Oh, Merlin," he sighed, "what are we doing here? Perhaps the time is not right for us."

"What would you then? A return to the cave?"

"It has crossed my mind."

"Well uncross it. Not the right time for you? Don't be absurd. Look around you. Go into a bookstore, what do you see? Dozens of books on you. Fact, fiction, and everything in between. There have been countless movies about you." Now he was ticking off items on his fingers. "There are TV programs. Broadway shows. Buildings and businesses named after you and Camelot. People dress as knights and stage mock jousts and battles. There's a video game with a knight slaying a dragon."

"So knighthood has become a valuable entertainment tool. So what?"

"Life reflects in its art, Art. And also remember-the fondest times this country remembers, in its recent political history, is a presidency which has come to be known as Camelot."

"Camelot," echoed Arthur.

Merlin nodded. "I know it sounds a bit bizarre. But don't you see, Arthur," and the king stopped his pacing, "the time is ripe for your return. More than ripe-the seeds are bursting forth from their fruits. They need you, Arthur, to show them the way."

Arthur half smiled. "You're sounding messianic this evening, Merlin."

"Hardly. Merely stating the facts."

"But, dammit all, what am I supposed to do? You say they want me. But they don't want a king-----"

"They want a leader, and you're certainly that."

"But who would I lead? Shall I start a cult following?"

Merlin shook his head mournfully. "Arthur, Arthur, you have to learn to think on a larger scale, the way you used to. Realize, then, that if you are to do any good, you must rule again. And you must rule, or lead, in a country that has clout."

"And I must go about it in a civilized manner," said Arthur sternly. "That means no military junta in a banana republic." He abruptly snapped his fingers. "But now, Merlin, let us say I could master the electoral system of this country and become their... not prime minister-president! That's it."

Merlin gave an approving nod. "Very good, Wart."

Arthur sat on the edge of the Chesterfield couch, leaning forward excitedly. "I haven't been idle all this time, you know. The animals in the cave with me, they brought me information from the outside world. I kept abreast of matters, for I knew that when I returned I would do no one any good as a clanking anachronism. And yet, for all my careful preparations, I was never altogether certain what I was preparing for.

"But I know now." He bounced excitedly to his feet and went to a window, looking out over the city. "Merlin, by all the gods that's it 11 shall become President of the Soviet Union of America."

Chaptre the Fifth

The V had burnt out in the Vacancy sign that hung outside the beat-up roadside motel situated just off of the interstate. The signs posted nearby had promised waterbeds and triple-X-rated films in the room. Just the sort of thing the average passing traveler would be looking for.

Morgan was passing, and a traveler, but she was certainly far from average.

When she'd checked in, the desk clerk had gaped at her openly. Part of her was tempted to put him in her place, but another part was flattered by the attention, and it was this aspect of her that saved the clerk's life. The balding, potbellied man was able to go home that evening alive, his brain functioning normally, carrying secret fantasies acted out with the stunning woman who had checked in at the scummy little motel he managed.

He had no idea that weeks earlier Morgan Le Fey would hardly have turned any heads.

Indeed, she might have turned a few stomachs. But the excess weight she'd been carting with her all this time had slid away like melting butter. All the extra chins had vanished into memory, leaving her with the one jutting chin that stuck out so proudly. The raven-black hair was black through and through-no gray at the roots-and her feet, once swollen and cracked, were now slim and strong.

She was nude now, admiring herself in the full-length mirror that hung on the wall of her room. She admired the contours of her muscular body and was filled with disgust at the lethargic lump she had once been.

But that loathsome creature was long gone. And Morgan Le Fey was back in business.

The naked sorceress rolled back the threadbare rug, bracing it with her foot against the wall.

Then she padded back to the bare area and removed a piece of chalk from the pocket of her long black coat. She knelt down, then, and brushing strands of hair from her face, carefully traced a circle with a five-pointed star enclosed within. She then reached into her beat-up duffel bag and extracted five black candles, fondling the length of them almost sexually. She placed one at each point where the star touched the circle and then lit them.

She stepped back, admired her handiwork, and smiled.

She rolled the television set near to the circle and sat down facing it. Her bare rump was chilled by the floor but she ignored it, busying herself with lighting each of the five candles.

When they were finally lit, she reached over and snapped on the television.

The screen of the color set flickered to life. A couple madly rutted on the screen, panting like twin locomotives. Morgan frowned in a distant, irritated manner, and waved a hand as if brushing a flea away. The picture vanished from the screen, replaced by blankness.

Morgan concentrated, reaching out with her mind and tracing the waves of magic that filled the air around her. She'd been doing this regularly. She had gone from town to town, city to city, trying to discover a mystical trace of Merlin. It had proven to be frustrating. Merlin had covered his tracks too well. If she'd begun the trace from the moment when he'd escaped from his centuries-long confinement, she could have picked up on it in no time. But this was no longer possible. Just as a fox can cover his trail and scent given time, so had Merlin been able to erase any trace of his person.

If Merlin had been practicing magic lately, however, he would most certainly have been tapping into the magic bands of energy that encompassed the earth. An adept was able to detect them, pale ribbonlike trails that filled the air. Had Merlin been using his sorcerous powers, Morgan should have been able to track him down along those mystical bands as if she were tracing a telephone call.

But she had found nothing. Which either meant that he had been using no magic lately, or more disturbing, that he'd discovered a means by which to cover any trace of magic use.

And if it were the latter case, Morgan would certainly have her work cut out for her.

She found a faint whiff of magic along one stream and immediately ran it back to its source.

The TV screen flickered, and then the image of a young girl appeared. She was a teenager, naked as was Morgan, seated in what appeared to be the middle of her high school's athletic field. She was chanting quietly to herself and burning a photograph of a handsome young man. The candle was white.

Morgan pursed her lips. Amateurs dabbling in love spells. This was the sort of tripe she'd been unearthing in her searches these past weeks. Where the devil was Merlin? Where-The screen suddenly went black, and Morgan jumped slightly, startled. At the same time she knew instinctively what had caused it. And so she waited.

And eventually it came.

The screen became a picture of an office with antique furniture. And there, seated in a large easy chair, was a boy looking for all the world like a pint-sized Alistair Cooke. His feet dangled several inches above the ground; his hands were interlaced behind his head. He had a smile on his lips which was not mirrored in his eyes.

He was looking straight at her as he said, "Hello, Morgan. You're looking well-preserved these days."

She inclined her head in acknowledgment. * Thank you, Merlin. You're too kind."

"I know." He studied her for a moment. "You're not surprised to see me?"

In truth she was very disconcerted. It had not occurred to her that Merlin's power would be so great that he would detect her attempts to find him; that he would turn the tables back on her, apparently without effort. He did not seem to have undertaken any conjurations. He had simply taken command of her equipment, commandeered her. Could his power really have grown so? Was everything so effortless for him now? If it were true, he would be far more than formidable. He would be unbeatable.

All of this passed through her mind in a moment, and in the next moment she said, "No. I'm not at all surprised. Your overwhelming ego would only allow you to perform some such stunt as this."

"Ah, how well you know me."

"I knew Merlin the man, not Merlin the tot," she said airily. "I had thought the legends exaggerated. I see now they were not. You do indeed age backward."

He nodded. "Just so. And, intriguingly enough, I become more powerful as well. It's quite a combination, Morgan: the energy and drive of youth combined with the wisdom and skill of an older man. An unbeatable combination, wouldn't you say, Morgan?"

She leaned back, uncaring of her nudity. Her long hair hung discreetly over her breasts. "You would certainly say so, Merlin. Unless you let yourself be overwhelmed by your staggering sense of self-complacency. I will admit I'm impressed. Magic wards were placed all around the cave in which you were imprisoned long centuries ago. How did you get through them?

Even at the height of your power-"

"Remember what I taught you, Morgan. Wards are nothing more than mystic prison bars.

These were small enough to contain any man. However, sliding between the ward bars in a child's body was quite simple, really."

"So you simply allowed time to take its course."

"Quite true." Merlin slid forward, alighting on his feet, and came "closer" to the screen. "And I'm sure you realize that I subsequently arranged for Arthur's release."

"Time off for good behavior, no doubt."

This time Merlin did not even try to smile. "Now listen carefully, Morgan. I did not have to contact you this way. I can assure you that mystically you would never have found us.

However, before too long Arthur is going to be in the newspapers. Rather than give you the satisfaction of locating us, I decided to expend the smallest aspect of my power to issue you a warning."

She raised an eyebrow. "Warning, is it?"

"It is. Arthur will be running for mayor of New York City. As I said, you would undoubtedly read of this in the newspapers, for Arthur is destined to be quite a controversial candidate. I would not wish you to think for even a moment that we were living in fear of your discovering us. So I give you our city of operations ahead of time, secure in the knowledge that there is not a damned thing you can do to deter us."

She frowned. "Arthur? Mayor? I would think that president would be more appropriate.''

Merlin shook his head and his image flickered on the screen. "You and Arthur, half brother and half sister, thinking alike. That was Arthur's first inclination. But he has too much he has yet to learn, including," he said ruefully, "the name of this country. But that is neither here nor there. A complete unknown cannot come sweeping into the greatest office in the land from nowhere. He has to establish a political track record. New York is a highly visible city. And they could really use him. So," he concluded, "mayor of New York it is. It's inevitable, so don't even think about averting it. You do not have anyone to aid you any more, Morgan. Modred is long-gone bones. You command no legions of hell-human, mystic, or otherwise. It is just you, rusty in the use of your powers, versus me at the height of mine. You might say I've been working out."

"Are you trying to scare me, Merlin?"

"Trying? No. I believe I've succeeded. Stay out of my way, Morgan, or prepare to suffer dearly."

Morgan opened her mouth to reply, when sparks began to fly from the television. She dove for cover and ducked as, with a low hum followed by heavy crackling and smoke, the TV screen blew outward, spraying glass all over the inside of the hotel room. It flew with enough velocity to embed itself in the wall, in the carpet, and if Morgan had presented a target, in Morgan herself. She, however, had moved quickly enough to knock over and hide behind a coffee table, and so was spared the inconvenience of having her skin ripped to shreds.

She waited until she was certain that the violence was over. Slowly she raised her head, picking a few shards of glass out of her hair. She looked around. Gray smoke was rising from the now silent television. There was faint crackling in the air, and her nose wrinkled at the acrid odor. She stood fully and then slowly, daintily, picked her way across the floor. She stood in front of the television and, somewhat unnecessarily, turned it off. Then she padded across to the telephone, picked it up, and waited impatiently for an outside line.

When it came she dialed a long-distance number quickly, efficiently. Her face was grim, but her spirits were soaring. She felt the blood pulsing in her veins for the first time in centuries.

There was almost a sexual thrill, she thought, matching wits and powers with Merlin. She had been little better than dead all these decades. How had she survived all this time? she wondered, as a phone rang at the other end. How could she possibly have-.

The phone was picked up and a slightly whiny male voice said, "Yeah?"

Her eyes sparkled as she said, "He's contacted me. They're in New York."

"They're in New York?!" The voice was incredulous. "But I'm in New York! How could I not have known?"

"Because you're a great bloody twit. I'm on my way up there now." She paused, frowning.

"We have only one thing going for us. Merlin is not as all-knowing as he believes himself to be. He thinks you do not exist, Modred. He thinks I am on my own. It may prove to be his fatal mistake."

"Fatal?" There was an audible gulp. "You mean like dead?"

She sighed, and hung up without another word. Then she leaned back on the bed, brushed away pieces of glass, and closed her eyes.

"Great bloody twit," she muttered. "This is going to be tougher than I thought."

Chaptre the Sixth

"You're late."

Gwen stopped in the doorway, openly surprised. Lance was seated at the kitchen table, his chair tilted back against the wall. He looked impatient, even huffy. And she realized with a shock that it had been ages since she'd really taken a look at him, so rarely had he been around these days.

He pushed his thick glasses back up on the bridge of his nose. The unhealthy pallor he'd acquired had not improved. In addition his lips were dry and cracked. The blue check shirt he'd worn for four days straight was taking on a life of its own. His jeans were threadbare at the knees, and his socks were standing over in the corner, retaining the shape of his feet from memory.

"Lance," she managed to get out. She glanced at her watch. "Am I really that late? It's only a little after six."

He tapped a bony forefinger on the tabletop. "I expect dinner by six p.m. sharp."

She looked askance at him as she removed her coat and hung it on a hook near the door.

"Since when, Lance?"

"Since when what?"

"Since when do you expect your dinner at six p.m. sharp. You're usually not home then. And even if you are, you might be asleep, like as not."

"Are you criticizing me?" He'd spoken in a tone that was guaranteed to make her back down, to force her into a sniveling apology. But as she crossed the room and sat down across from him, he realized with a distant sort of surprise that such an apology was not to be forthcoming.

"I am not criticizing you," she said slowly, thoughtfully. "If you have a regular schedule you'd like to maintain, I'll be more than happy to aid in maintaining it. But don't try to change things on me and then get mad because I can't read your mind."

His eyes narrowed wolfishly. "I don't think," he decided, "that I like your attitude." He had tilted the chair forward, and now tilted it back, interlacing his fingers in a gesture he imagined made him look very authoritative. "I think you should give up your job."

Her eyes widened. "Stop working for Art? Are you nuts?" Her voice went up an octave.

"He's the best thing that's ever happened to me! The past two weeks I've been working for him have been- "

He wasn't listening anymore. "Wait a minute. Best thing? What about me? I thought / was ostensibly the best thing that's ever happened to you."

She huffed in irritation. "Well, of course you are, but I'm talking about two different things."

"Best thing means best thing. It doesn't mean anything else." He stood up, swaying slightly, and it was only then that Gwen realized he had a few drinks in him. The alcohol was easily discernible in the air now. "I should know. I'm a writer."

"So you say," she replied, and immediately wished she could have bitten her tongue off. She stood quickly and started to head for the bedroom when Lance's hand clamped on her shoulder. She turned and faced him, and his eyes were smoldering.

"What do you mean by that?" He spoke in a voice that was low and ugly. "What do you mean?**

"Nothing, Lance. I-"

"What do you mean?"

She whimpered and pulled back ineffectually. With an angry snarl he shoved her away and drew himself up to his full height. "You seem to forget our college days, Gwen. You looked up to me then, remember?"

"I still look up to you, Lance." Gwen backed up slowly, until she bumped into a wall and could go no farther. She waited, panic stricken, for Lance to advance on her, but he did not.

Instead he said, "Remember those days, huh? I was somebody then. All the English teachers knew me. They said they wished I'd never leave."

They said they thought you'd never leave, Gwen wanted to scream at him. You flunked bonehead English, twice. Creative writing teachers said you were incomprehensible. She thought all of this, but didn't say it. Instead she said, "I remember, Lance. I remember. Lance, I can't quit my job. We need the money. And Arthur's going to be the next mayor. You'll see...."

Lance guffawed and waved his hands about as he spoke. He bumped the single bulb that hung overhead in the kitchen, and it tossed up wildly distorted shadows on the wall. "Mayor, is he? Has he been out canvassing for votes? Has he even got the signatures of people who say they want him to run for mayor? Gwen, the man is a loser. You always hook yourself up with losers. You have a streak of self-abuse that..."

His voice trailed off as he realized she was looking at him in an assessing manner, and he realized also exactly who he had described so accurately. With a snarl he stormed over to the front door of the apartment, yanked it open, and barreled out into the hallway, down the stairs to the next landing, and eventually out the door of the building.

In the past Gwen would have chased him down the stairs, risking a battering of life and limb just to throw her arms about his legs and get him to come back. But this time she watched him go. He stopped at street level and looked up at the window. She glanced down at him briefly, then turned away.

With a roar he pushed his way into the crowd and vanished from Gwen's sight... had she been looking, of course.

Instead she was looking elsewhere-at the shape and course of her own life.

AH she knew was one thing-that over the past several years she'd been living in limbo. A lady in waiting. Waiting for Lance to complete his book and sell it (he'd made it sound so easy!). Waiting for her life to take some direction.

A lady in waiting.

She pulled herself up with a smile. That's what she liked about Arthur Penn, she decided. He didn't make her feel like a lady in waiting. He made her feel like a queen.

Chaptre the Seventh

The couple was walking briskly down Fifth Avenue near the park, the woman's heels clacking merrily on the cobblestones, when the mugger leaped from behind a tree.

Instinctively the man pushed the woman behind him. His desperate gaze revealed, naturally, that there was not a policeman in sight, so he pulled together the shards of his shattered nerve and held up his fists.

The mugger stared at them for a moment, puzzled, and then slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand in self-re-proachment. "Right!" said Chico. "Money! You think I want money!"

The man, who was somewhat portly and in his late fifties, peered over the tops of his fists.

"You ... you don't?"

"Nah! I mean, in the vast, general socioeconomic strata of the world, yeah, sure I want money. I mean, it makes the world go around." He paused. "Or maybe that's gravity or something."

"Yes. Well. We have to be going."

"Fine. Well, you have a nice day."

"You bet. Same to you."

"Real soon."

The couple was slowly backing down the street. Chico stood there, waving the filthy fingers of a filthy hand, his beat-up army poncho blowing in the breeze. They turned quickly then, but had only taken several steps when a voice screamed out from behind them, "Hey!"

"This is it, Harold," muttered the woman. "We're going to die now."

Chico came barreling around them and faced them for a moment, his shaggy head shifting its gaze from one of them to the other. Then he thrust a clipboard forward. "I'm getting signatures for an election."

Harold looked at him incredulously. "What ..." He cleared his throat, "What are you running for?"

"Who, me? Oh, geez, no. It's for mayor. I'm helping one hell of a guy become mayor of the city."

"Which... which city?"

Chico paused a moment and frowned. "Holy geez, I never asked. You think it's this one?"

"With my luck," muttered the woman.

"Look, we don't want any trouble," Harold began again. He noted the fact that people were walking right past without offering any aid to two older people, obviously in distress. Indeed, they seemed to pick up their pace. "If you want me to sign this--"

"Harold!"

"Hey, man, you're great." Chico thrust the clipboard forward once again, and this time Harold took it, holding it gingerly between his fingers.

"Urn," Harold said, and patted down his pockets. "I, uh, I don't seem to have a pen."

"Not to worry," said Chico, who patted all the pockets in his limply hanging poncho and then in his tattered pants. With a frown he checked the hair behind his ears and then his beard. It was from that unchecked growth of facial hair that he finally extracted a Bic pen and extended it to the couple.

"I'm going to be sick," said Alice between clenched teeth. "I swear, God as my witness, I'm going to be sick."

"Shut up, Alice," muttered Harold as he took the pen and signed the petition. "Maybe you would have preferred it if he had assaulted your virtue."

Chico and Alice exchanged glances. Neither seemed particularly enthused with the idea.

"Harold!" she said after a moment. "You're putting our address!"

"Yes. So?"

"So . . ." Her eyes narrowed as she inclined her head toward Chico. "What if he tries to, you know, come to the house."

"Oh, I'd never do that," said Chico. Then he gave the matter some thought. "Unless you invited me."

Harold tried to smile pleasantly. What he achieved was the look of a man passing a kidney stone, but he continued valiantly, "What a . . . what a marvelous idea. We have to do that, real soon."

"When?"

"What?"

"When do you want me to come over?" He looked eagerly from one of them to the other.

"I'm . . . I'm not sure. It's going to be pretty hectic for us, too hectic to make social plans."

"Oh." Chico looked crestfallen, but he brightened up. "Well, 1*11 give you a call, okay?" He smiled ingratiatingly.

"Okay. You bet."

They walked at double-time down the street. Chico watched them go, and when they were almost out of earshot he screamed, "Are we talking dinner or just coffee and cake here?"

He shrugged when he got no response, and looked down proudly at his first signature. Only a few thousand more and he could knock off for the day.

Then he reached into his beard and moaned. "Crud! The sons of bitches took my pen." He shook his head in disillusionment. "You just can't trust anyone these days. There's freaks everywhere."

Professor Carol Kalish, noted geologist, was emerging from the depths of the New York University subway stop on the BMT when a shadowy figure materialized in front of her.

In one hand was a switchblade. In the other was a clipboard.

"Hello," growled Groucho. "I'd like your support for Arthur Penn, who would like to run as an independent for mayor of New York City. Sign this or I'll cut your fucking heart out"

Groucho collected 117 signatures. Before lunch. Without breaking a sweat.

* * *

Up in Duffy Square, in the heart of the Broadway theater district, Arthur Penn stood on a street corner near a Howard Johnson's and felt extremely forelorn.

A likely looking pair of elderly women approached him, and he started to say, in a very chatty and personable manner, "Hello, my name is Arthur Penn and I would like your support in my candidacy for mayor...." which was more or less the phrasing that Merlin had told him to use. But the couple picked up their pace and stared straight ahead. His voice trailed off as Arthur realized with a shock that they were ignoring him. But then he thought maybe they simply had not heard him. The elderly were notorious for being hard of hearing. Yes, that may very well be it.

So the next time a youngish, businessman looking sort approached him, he began his approach again of "Hello, my name is . . ." But again he got no further than stating his raison d'etre before this chap, too, was out of earshot.

No. It was not possible. People of any age could never be so unspeakably rude as to ignore someone who was point-blank addressing them. Could they?

Arthur checked his appearance in the reflection in the display window of the Howard Johnson's. No, his suit was well cut and smart, his grooming immaculate.

It started to sink in on him that everything that Merlin had said to him very early this morning, before he'd gone out canvassing, had been absolutely correct.

He had remembered being thunderstruck by the concept that Merlin had introduced to him, there in their office at the Camelot Building.

"Is it possible," he had asked with naivety astounding in a man nearly a millennium old, "that there might be some people who won't vote for me?"

Merlin stared at Arthur, looking so modern in the dress pants and shirt and yet so innocent of the world around him. What in the name of all the gods had he thrust the king into? he wondered. Maybe he should let him go back to the cave. But the boy wizard put the thought from his mind and concentrated on the issue at hand. "Yes." He laughed tersely. "There is an outside chance."

"But who would not vote for me?"

"People who would want to examine your record of past achievements, for one."

"But my achievements are legend- Oh, I see." He slumped against his desk, his hands in his pockets. "I see the problem."

"Yes. Understand, Arthur, in this form my power is a force to be reckoned with. I can conjure up credit cards. I can create things like Social Security numbers, drivers licenses-although for pity's sake take a few lessons first-and I can put records of your birth in Bethlehem ..."

"How very messianic."

"... Pennsylvania," Merlin continued. "I can conjure up a history of military service for you. I can, essentially, create an identity for you, Arthur Penn, but I cannot alter by sheer force of will the entire public consciousness. I can't make people like you. That will be your task."

And now Arthur, with the words ringing in his ears, was starting to wonder whether it was a task he was up to.

For the first time he turned and saw, really saw, the hustle and bustle of the area around him.

It was a nippy day, but the sun was shining brightly. It was twelve-thirty, the height of the lunch hour. Furthermore it was a Wednesday, which meant many people were out looking to pick up matinee tickets to shows.

Arthur was not prepared for it, for the pulse of the humanity around him. Every blessed one of the passing people was in a hurry, as if (although the comparison didn't occur to him) they had an inner spring mechanism unwinding at an incredible rate.

It had not dawned on him at first that it had any direct bearing on him. Well, of course it did, he now realized. He couldn't expect people to stop in their tracks for him. He had to attempt to adapt himself to their speed. He had to be flexible, after all. The wise man-the civilized man-knew when to be firm and when to adapt.

So he began to speak, faster and faster, and soon the words were tumbling one over the other, like cars piling high on a crashing locomotive.

Hellomynameisarthurpennandiwould-Jikeyour ..." The only evidence that he was having any sort of effect at all was that now the people were walking faster to avoid hearing him.

Abruptly he stopped talking. His lips thinned and his brow clouded. He looked across the street and noticed that in a traffic island there was a mob of people, all milling around in loosely formed lines. Reaching out, Arthur stopped the first passerby, a delivery boy carrying somebody's called-in lunch.

"What is the purpose of that gathering?'' asked Arthur.

"Look, asshole, I'm runnin' late and I can't- uuuhhnnnff!"

Arthur had grabbed a handful of the boy's windbreaker, and despite the fact that he and the teenager were the same height, effortlessly lifted him into the air.

The boy's eyes bugged out, not from lack of breath so much as from pure astonishment.

"I will be ignored no Iongerl" thundered Arthur. But then he saw the lack of color in the boy's face, and immediately his anger lessened as he chided himself. "Is this what it has come to then, Pendragon? Threatening hapless errand boys?" With that he lowered the boy gently to the ground. "Art well, lad?"

"My ..." He gulped once, afraid to say the wrong thing and set his captor off again. "My name's not Art. But I'm okay, yeah."

"I have been at this for much of the day, and the paltry few signatures that I have accrued-blast their eyes!" He smashed a fist against a nearby wall. "That / should have to endure this just so that I can offer them my aid. The leadership I should be given by right I have to scrabble for . . . but that's no concern of yours, lad. However, I still await an answer to my original query-the purpose of yon gathering."

"That's the TKTS line," said the boy, pronouncing each letter individually. "People stand there on line and can buy tickets for half price to-"

And now Arthur exploded. "That they have time for? By Vortigern, they make time to await tickets for entertainment purposes and yet cannot spare as much as half a minute on topics that could alter the face of this city ... of this nation! Gods!"

Without heed to the traffic around him, Arthur stormed across the street. Cars screeching to a halt mere inches from him did not even catch his notice. Horns blasting didn't faze him.

He reached the TKTS mob and elbowed his way through, earning shouts and curses from his would-be constituency.

Arthur found himself at the base of a statue that was labeled Father Patrick Duffy. With quick, sure movements he scaled it, and moments later was shoulder to shoulder with the fight-mg priest from World War I.

A few people glanced at him and then turned away. The rest ignored him completely.

His jaw dropped to somewhere around his ankles. This was it. He'd had it. He reached across, with one arm still wrapped around the statue, to his left hip.

He felt it there-the pommel, and then the hilt of Excalibur. He had point-blank refused to go out onto the street without the comfortable weight of the enchanted sword by his side. So Merlin had added a further enchantment by rendering t\re blade invisible as long as it remained in the scabbard.

Arthur pulled on the sword and it slid from the scabbard with noiseless ease. Excalibur sparkled in the sun and Arthur thrilled to the weight, to the joy of it.

"My arm is whole again," he whispered reverently. Then he swung the sword back, brought it around, and smacked the flat of the blade against the statue.

The clang was on par with a Chinese gong.

It finally got their attention.

"All right," he shouted. With practiced smoothness he had already returned Excalibur to its sheath, returning it to invisibility as well. "I have had enough. Enough of this street-corner posturing! Enough of these games. By the gods you will listen. Turn away from the mindless frivolities with which you occupy yourselves and turn your attentions to where it will do some good. I am running for mayor of this city!" He saw their reactions and added, "Yes, that's what this is all about. I see it in your faces. This is why I want a moment of your precious time."

"You don't have to get insulting," shouted someone in the crowd.

Arthur laughed. "I? When every common grunge thinks nothing of treating me as if I were a nonentity, to be snubbed and ignored at their discretion? I merely call a halt to the insults that have been dealt me this day." He held up a clipboard, and the sheets of paper affixed to it rustled noisily in the breeze. "Do you see these?" Without pausing for a response he continued, "These are petitions. In this free society not just anyone can declare himself a candidate for office. I have to obtain ten thousand signatures, which actually means that I have to have twice that number, since it is generally assumed that half of you will be bloody liars. So I'm going to want every one of you to affix your signature to this most noble document. Is that clear?"

The question came from the crowd. Arthur did not see who asked it. The only thing that he noticed was that the voice was slightly nasal, almost tremulous. But the question was cutting in its simplicity. "Why should we vote for you?"

Arthur looked around. "What?"

There was a ripple of laughter from the crowd at his bewilderment.

"You haven't even told us your name!"

"I am Arthur. Arthur Penn." He could have kicked himself for the brainless oversight.

"Why should we vote for you, Arthur Penn?"

Arthur would have felt more at ease if he could have found who in the world was addressing the questions to him. But it was an anonymous face, one he simply could not locate (although the voice was greatly disturbing to him). "Because..." he began, wishing frantically that Merlin had tutored him better. But then Merlin had not been aware that Arthur was going to take his first shot at addressing crowds at a completely impromptu political rally.

At that moment Merlin was not too far away. At Bryant Park, behind the Forty-second Street Library, the wizard was watching an old drunk, watching as he rocked slowly back and forth against the cold, his coat pulled tightly around him.

Merlin shook his head. "Pitiful. Simply pitiful." Hands buried deep in his New York Mets sweat jacket, Merlin walked over to the derelict and dropped down onto the cold stone step beside him. He wrinkled his nose at the stench.

At first the drunk didn't even notice him, but was content to rub the bottle with his cracked and blistered hands. Eventually, however, he became aware of a presence next to him, and he turned bleary eyes on Merlin. It took him several moments to focus, and when he did, he snorted.

He was a black man of indeterminate age. His wool cap obscured much of his head, although a few tufts of curly white hair stuck out. Much of his face was likewise hidden behind the turned-up collar of his coat. His eyes were bloodshot.

"Youakid." Three words into one.

After a moment of meeting his gaze, Merlin turned and \ooked straight ahead. "Looks can be deceiving/' he observed.

"You got money on you?"

"No."

"Parents care where y'are?"

"No."

"You a kid, all right. Ain't no doubt."

Merlin winced. "Why must you talk like that? You're perfectly capable of proper grammar if you so desire."

This time the drunk looked at him more carefully. "You're a smartass kid, besides," he finally concluded.

"Probably." His rump becoming chilled by the cold stone, Merlin shifted his position and sat on his gloved hands. "My name is Merlin."

His words were accompanied by little puffs of mist. The weather was turning even colder.

"Merlin? Like the football player?"

"More like the wizard, actually."

The drunk proferred his almost empty bottle, wrapped in a brown paper bag. "You want some lifeblood, little wizard? Not much left, I'm sorry to say___"

"It's full," said Merlin quietly.

The drunk laughed, a wheezy, phlegm-filled laugh that became a hacking cough within moments. When the fit subsided he told Merlin, "If there's something I always know, little wizard, it's how much I got in this here-"

He hesitated, because suddenly the bottle felt heavy. He slid the bag down and saw the top of the liquid sloshing about less than an inch from the mouth of the bottle. He shook his head. "Oookay."

Merlin finally stood and stepped down two steps so that he was on eye level with the drunk.

His thick brown hair blew in the wind. "Enjoy it, Percy." The drunk's eyes narrowed, but Merlin didn't pause. "It's the last you're going to be having for a time-ever, with any luck.

We're going to sober you up and put you back in harness."

Percy shook his head and waggled a finger. "I ain't no horse."

"No. You're not. If you were a horse, we'd simply shoot you and put you out of your misery."

"You ever learn not to talk to y'elders that way?"

For the first time Merlin threw his head back and laughed. He himself did not like his laugh-it was far too squeaky and childish to suit him. But in this instance he could not help himself.

"Percy," he said. "How old do you think I am?"

He shrugged. "Dunno. Eight, nine, I guess. Sure not old enough to be- "

"Eight or nine. Guess again. Guess a couple of hundred times that and you'll be on the right track. Percy, I'm going to tell you this because if you decide to stay in the gutter, no one will care what you say, and if you come now with me, you won't want to tell anybody. I am Merlin, Percy."

"Yeah. So?"

"The original Merlin. King Arthur's Merlin."

Again Percy laughed, this time managing to stop before a coughing fit racked his lungs.

"Don't gimme that. Merlin's an old man with a beard and a pointy hat. I seen pictures. You sure ain't no old man."

"I was once." He wiped at his nose with the sleeve of his sweat jacket. "You will not find this simple to comprehend, Percy, but I live backward in time. In another fifteen centuries -by my reckoning, not yours-I shall be an old man. The price of immortality. It's difficult to maintain the form of an old man for an excessively long time, which is what would have been required had I aged as other men-had I been spawned as other men, Mary Stewart notwithstanding.

But to age backward, to be forever becoming younger-I can maintain this body for decades, centuries to come. When I said fifteen centuries by my reckoning, I meant backward to the fifth century. Forward into the twenty-fifth century I shall be much as you see me now ... if not a tad younger.

He held out a hand. "Come with me, Percy. Let's go somewhere and talk. We can use you."

Slowly Percy shook his head. "You are without a doubt the smoothest talkin' little so-and-so I ever met. You really expect me to believe all that?"

"Not at first," Merlin admitted. "But you will, you will."

"No-"

"Percy, look around you. Look at this place. The leaves are disappeared from the trees.

Winter is hard upon us. All that's left for you to do is huddle and shiver on cold, uncaring stone stairs. And when the winds blow hard, the best you can hope for is to find shelter in that pile of garbage over there; human refuse blending in with the rest of the trash." He leaned forward, his small fists clenched and his voice pleading. "Woufcf you refuse belief in me, Percy, to cling to this pitiful reality?"

His face almost vanished into his coat, Percy was silent for such a long time that Merlin almost thought he'd fallen asleep. In that case Merlin would have left him to rot. But finally Percy said, in a low and resigned voice, "It's my life, little wizard. Why not let me live it?"

"Because it's not a life. And it's not living."

Percy was silent.

Merlin told him, "I need someone with your skills, Percy. You were among the best. I know what you were, Percy. Before the Grail."

Percy looked up at him.

"Come," said Merlin. "We'll talk."

"Okay."

They left the park together.

"Are you Democrat or GOP?" came the whining voice again.

Arthur felt terribly exposed and vulnerable, up high on the statue in Duffy Square. "I'm an independent," he called. "I subscribe to no party line save for the dictates of my conscience."

There were shouts of "Whoa!" and the like from the crowd, and Arthur was unsure of the spirit in which they were made. He waved tentatively.

"How do you stand on the issues?"

Arthur visored his eyes. "Would you mind stepping forward, please, so I can see who I am addressing?"

The crowd parted slightly, and Arthur finally spotted him.

Their gazes locked. They analyzed each other, scrutinized carefully. Arthur wasn't quite sure what to make of him. He was about Arthur's height, but slimmer. His black hair was receding and came to a widow's peak on his forehead, giving him a satanic look. To further the image he wore a Vandyke beard that came to a neat point. His eyes were foxlike. And he immediately said, "How do you feel about capital punishment?"

Arthur recalled that this was a topic of some controversy. In the newspaper headlines that very day there had been news of the legislature once again waffling on how best to approach the touchy subject. On the one hand there was that part of the electorate who felt that they did not want people capable of taking a life without compunction walking the streets. The alarming number of murders by those who had been tried and convicted earlier and were now free was setting a great many people on edge.

But another sizable group felt that the state had no right to take a life, and that it made those who condoned capital punishment no better than the criminals they were condemning. Just put them away in jail for life. But jails were overcrowded and life was really only twenty-five years....

Arthur realized they were waiting for an answer, and only one seemed practical, and civilized, to him.

* There was a time," he said, "not so long ago at that, when merely insulting the aggrieved party was enough to warrant death on the field of honor. Certainly that is a bit extreme nowadays." He was pleased at the laughter this prompted. "I do favor allowing the death penalty in instances of murder." This got applause from some, frowns from others. That was expected. This, however, they would not be expecting. "However, I do not feel that it should be up to the state to decree whether a man live or die."

The crowd looked puzzled, and someone-a girl with an NYU sweatshirt-called, "Well, then, who?"

"The injured party," he said.

There was silence of disbelief.

"You mean the victim?" asked the girl.

Arthur laughed loudly, and several others, uncertain, joined in. "Hardly," he said. "The problem with the criminal justice system is that it ignores the wants and desires of the people, leaving the matter to lawyers and their tricks of the trade, and the judges."

There were a number of nods of approval, and murmurs that did not sound the least bit hostile. The bearded man who had posed the question watched carefully with his ferretlike eyes as Arthur warmed to his topic. "Now I'm not advocating a return to trial by combat, because then the aggrieved party doesn't win-rather, the party with the biggest sword. The justice system is the sword arm of the injured. But when it comes to actually deciding upon death, it should be the survivors of the victim who actually make the determination, not a judge whose life had not been permanently affected."

A sharp wind came up and he clutched more tightly onto the statue for fear of being blown off. Then the wind switched about, carrying his words out to all the crowd-a crowd that had grown considerably beyond merely those people waiting for tickets.

And his voice rang out, strong and clear. "If a woman has her husband taken from her, it should be up to her to decide whether the man who did the deed should live to see another sun or not, for it is the woman, not the judge and not the state, who must come home to an empty bed!"

The crowd went wild, for they had never heard a reply to this often-asked question quite like this one. They were thrilled by its novelty.

Someone shouted, "Aren't you just passing the buck?"

Arthur didn't even try to locate the individual but addressed the crowd, even those who may not have heard the question. "Is advocating a true trial for the people passing the buck? On the contrary, it's the perfect solution. No one will be able to feel that a proper sentence has not been meted out, for it will be the sentence of the people whose lives had been hurt the most by the criminal's actions." Raising a fist proudly, he unashamedly mixed up quotes as he declared, "Trial by jury of the people, by the people and for the people!"

Traffic didn't move for an hour.

Chaptre the Eighth

It was sometime later when the ferret-eyed, bearded man from the crowd entered the Eighth Avenue Health Club and made his way down to the racquetball courts.

He slid through empty seats mounted on tiers, moving down as close as he was allowed to the actual court. A large piece of Plexiglas separated him from the two men aggressively battling it out for final points on the court. One man was tall, lean, a sharp and accurate player. The other man was much shorter, heavyset, with a beer belly he liked to smack affectionately and refer to as his "old hanger-on." His legs were spindly and looked as if every sudden shift in direction might cause them to break like twigs. His thin blond hair was tied off in a sweat-soaked bandanna, and his LaCoste shirt was plastered to his chest. The first man was, by contrast, calm and self-possessed. His opponent was on the ropes, and he had barely broken a sweat.

The bearded spectator rolled his eyes as the heavyset man lunged at the ball and missed it by the width of several states. He thought to himself, as the two players shook hands, See if you can pick the likely candidate for mayor, and groaned silently.

The beer-bellied man turned and spotted him, "Moe!" he called cheerfully, waving a beefy hand. "Come to see your next mayor in action?"

Moe managed a grimace and a nod. "You bet, Bernie. You bet."

The exceptionally jovial (exceptionally, considering he'd just been slaughtered at racquetball) Bernard B. Bittberg dragged his opponent by the shoulder. "Moe, you gotta meet one of the top eleven players I ever met. This is Ronnie Cordoba. Ronnie, this is Moe Dredd, one of the top three P.R. hacks I ever met. Ronnie, Moe. Moe, Ronnie."

Moe reluctantly extended his hand and felt several fingers crack in Ronnie's grip. He grimaced again, and gingerly unwrapped the remnants of his hand. "Bernie, we have to talk."

"So we'll talk. We're talking."

"I think he means just the two of you," said Ron. "I'll be shuffling off to the locker room."

Bet he tosses a salute, thought Moe.

Ronnie smiled a perfect smile and tossed a salute before turning his broad back and trotting away, arms held perfectly for jogging.

"So what's to talk?" said Bernie. "Newspapers already start giving their endorsements for me?" He grinned broadly, displaying teeth dirty from cigar smoke. "I got it sewn up, even before the primaries. They know that. I know that. We all know that."

Moe said, "Bernie, sit down."

Bernie looked at him oddly and stroked the faint stubble on his cheeks. "Whaddaya mean, sit down?"

Moe sat and patted one of the solid wood fold-out chairs next to him. Bernard B. Bittberg sat down. He drummed his fingers on his knee impatiently.

"Bernie," said Moe slowly, "I agree with you that you have the Democratic nomination sewn up. With the incumbent mayor leaving politics to go into show business, it leaves a clear path for you. You've got your years of being City Council head. You've got your high-profile participations in well-covered charity stunts and your seat in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade, and all of that. You've got great TV presence, an aggressive stand that lots of New Yorkers find easy to handle-"

"Moe," said Bernie cannily, "you didn't want to talk to me to tell me all these wonderful things about me."

"This is true," said Moe, lowering his gaze. "What I'm saying is that you may have your work cut out for you after the primaries."

"After?" He eyed Moe suspiciously. "You trying to tell me you think the Republicans really have a prayer?"

"No."

His eyes widened and he whispered, "The Commies?"

"No. Not the Commies."

He sat back and spread his hands questioningly. "Well then, who... ?"

"There's an independent candidate-"

Bernard laughed hoarsely and shook his head. "You're kidding me, right? An independent candidate? Some schmuck who puts up his own soapbox and starts pontificating to the public? Bullshit! I do not for one minute-"

"Bernie," and Moe's tone as always was unpleasant, "you pay me quite handsomely for giving my advice, and I am telling you now," he waved a thin finger threateningly, "that if you do not listen to what I'm telling you, you will have thrown your money on me away."

Bernie leaned back in the chair. He stroked his chin some more and then said, "All right, Moe. So who is this wunder-kind you're so concerned about?"

Moe cleared his throat, covering a sigh of relief. He had finally gotten Bernie to listen to him.

That was three quarters of the battle right there. "His name is Arthur Penn," he said.

Bernie rolled the name around in his mouth and finally shook his head. "Never heard of him."

"Neither have I. Neither has anybody else. But you're going to. The man's totally unhinged."

"What?"

"He says strange things that, in a bizarre, roundabout way make some sort of sense. When he doesn't know an answer to a question, he says weird things like... like..."

"Like what?" asked Bernie. "Like, 'We have that topic under careful consideration and plan to address it in the near future.' "

"No. He just says he doesn't know."

"What?"

"That's right."

The blood drained from Bernie's face. "The man's a lunatic!"

"That's not all. I happened to be in a crowd over by TKTS today. He climbed up on a statue and started speech making. The crowd clustered to him like nothing I've ever seen. Bernie, it was frightening. They weren't just standing there. After less than a minute it was clear to me that they were actually listening. Hanging on his every word. Anyone who came within earshot of his voice was mesmerized instantly. I immediately started tossing a few random questions at him, kind of hoping to see how badly he would botch it. So instead he started giving these looney-tune answers, and the crowd ate it up."

"Loony-tune answers? What answers? What sort of questions?"

Moe told him, and Bernie's eyes widened so that they threatened to explode from his head.

"What is he, nutsl You didn't tell me he was totally unhinged."

"Actually, I'd-"

But Bernie wasn't listening now. He was pacing angrily back and forth, up and down the narrow stairway that led up the aisle between seats. "Allowing the people to pass sentence.

That's nuts! Sentences are passed in accordance with the laws of this state. Certain crimes demand certain sentences. The angered or bereaved victim can't begin to grasp the subtleties, the complexities of passing a-"

"Bernie," said Moe impatiently. "I know that. You know that. For all I know, even Arthur Penn knows that. But the people don't."

"But the people don't run the courts!"

"True enough. But they run the polling booths. And if they find this Penn's sideways view of the world attractive, they might say so come election day. New York is a city of nonconformed. Our television ratings never match. Our buildings don't vaguely resemble each other in style. New Yorkers are rude in situations where others are polite, and polite in situations where Mister Rogers would bite your head off. They might just buy and slice this crock of baloney."

Bernie had barely listened. He was too busy shaking his head, saying, "The laws dictate the punishment that should fit the crime. Can't he see that? It's impossible."

"I'm telling you right now that if that little matter were brought to his attention, his immediate reaction would be, 'Well, let's change the law.' "

Bernie scratched his head. "So how do you figure we deal with this nutcase?"

"Frankly, I'm not dead sure yet. I think we can only take a wait-and-see attitude for now."

Moe interlaced his fingers and crossed his legs almost daintily. "I mean, we shouldn't start attacking his positions yet. All that will do is give him publicity. Hell, maybe that's what he's hoping for."

"Too bad," muttered Bernie. "I'd like to take this guy apart in public."

"You may yet get your chance, if he sticks around. Which, I have a sick feeling, he's going to do."

Bernie was struck by a thought. "Hey, Moe, about that thing with people deciding the sentence ... I mean, what if they got together and decided to bring back tar and feathering?"

"With the crime rate what it is?" Moe snorted. "You could start heating enough tar to fill every pothole in New York and it wouldn't be enough to satisfy the demand." His nose wrinkled slightly. "Go hit the showers, Bernie. With the sweat you worked up, you're starting to smell like New Jersey."

Chaptre the Ninth

Arthur grabbed up the telephone before the first ring had ended. "Hello, yes? Merlin!"

Merlin's voice was overwhelmed by traffic noises in the background. "Calm down, Arthur.

You're not getting a call from the messiah, after all."

"Merlin, where the devil have you been?" The excitement in his voice was unkingly, but he didn't care a bit. "I haven't seen you in over a week. I have so much to tell you! Where are you? What are you doing? What are you up to?"

"Arthur, please! I don't understand. What's been happening? I mean, you've just been out getting signatures, haven't you? What could be so exciting about that? It's-"

"Oh, no, Merlin! It's gone beyond that. Way beyond that."

Merlin sounded extremely wary. "What are you talking about?" he said slowly.

Arthur sat back in his throne. Surrounded by the walls of his castle, he felt power surging through his body and spirit. "I," he said proudly, "have been politicking."

"You've been what!"

"Making speeches. That sort of-"

"For pity's sake, Wart, who told you to do that?"

Arthur frowned. "I don't think I like the tone of your voice, Merlin."

"Tone of my-Arthur, what in the name of the gods have you been saying to the people? How did this start?''

"It began the first day I was out," said Arthur cheerily, as if relating the details of a thrilling game of cricket. "People were ignoring me, sol.. ."

He described the proceedings.

"Are you out of your mind?"

Feeling somewhat crestfallen, Arthur said, "No, I don't think so. But-"

"We were to rehearse everything you were going to be saying. Have you forgotten all of that?"

"No," said Arthur. "No, I haven't." And his voice took on an edge hard as steel as he said,

"But I think you're forgetting who is going to be the next mayor of this state."

"City, you great barbarian oaf! Not state! You-"

Arthur slammed the phone down.

He got up and walked out of the throne room as the phone started to ring again. It rang a dozen times, and he finally came back in. The hem of his purple velvet dressing gown swished around on the floor, stirring up dust, and he made a mental note to get the place swept. He let it ring another few times before he picked it up, but before he could get a word out Merlin said, sounding very small, "I'm sorry, Arthur."

Arthur hesitated, his eyes wide. His grip on the phone relaxed marginally. "Merlin," he said softly, "I think this is the first time you've ever apologized to me. About anything."

"I don't intend to make it a habit. And the only thing I'm apologizing for is the barbarian remark. Everything else stands. You're supposed to follow the script I've laid out."

"I'm not an actor, Merlin. I'm ... a politician."

"Same difference. Listen, I'll be seeing you in a day or so. And I've got a new member for our group. He's going to be our accountant."

"Goodman?"

"One of the best. Utterly dedicated."

"Where have you been for the past week or so?"

"Sobering him up and cleaning him off."

Arthur laughed. "What a sense of humor you have, Merlin. What did you do, pick him up off the street?"

"More or less."

Arthur nodded slowly. "Urn, Merlin-I'm going to assume you know what you're doing. What's the fellow's name anyway?**

"Vale. Percy Vale."

Arthur's mouth opened and closed for a moment. Then he said carefully, "Merlin, I have to ask you. Percy Vale..."

"Yes?"

"GwenDeVere..."

"Your point, Arthur?"

"Have you, well, noticed a pattern?"

"Pattern?" There was a lengthy pause, and Arthur wondered if Merlin was still on,the line before he heard the wizard say, "What pattern?"

"Those names sound like-"

"Bosh. What's in a name, Arthur? See you soon." The line was abruptly cut off.

Percy Vale bore little superficial resemblance to the man Merlin had found on the library a week ago. He was now dressed in a straight-arrow, three-piece, black pinstripe suit. There was no trace of liquor on his breath, although it had left a haunted look in his eyes. He was neatly groomed, his fingernails trimmed. His eyes were bloodshot, but Visine would take that away in time. A cup of black coffee sat in front of him.

"You promised me, Merlin."

Merlin sat across from him, the remains of his breakfast all around him. Percy had had toast.

Merlin had put away steak and eggs and was on his third cup of coffee. The waitress kept giving him looks every time she walked by. He ignored them; he was used to it.

"Yes, I know I promised you, Percy."

"You said that if I sobered up, you'd tell me who I am. You told me you'd explain why I got this emptiness in my gut and I always gotta fill it with booze."

Merlin sipped his coffee. "You were once a knight," he said so quietly that Percy had to strain his ears to hear him. "A knight of the Round Table."

Percy stared at him and then leaned back. "Bull-sheeet. No black man ever sat at no Round Table. You mean with King Arthur and them? No way."

"Oh, you were not black at the time," Merlin said with a dismissive wave. "You have to learn to look beyond the present. Yours is an eternal spirit, Percy. You have always existed. You always will. Sometimes you will be white, sometimes yellow, sometimes male and sometimes female. You are a symbol."

"What, you mean one of those big round things you clang?"

Merlin winced. "Symbol. Not cymbal. Symbol as in representing something. You are an incarnation, Percy. An incarnation of a human ideal."

"Man, that is the biggest crock of-"

"In this case that ideal is dedication to a goal. You are not aware of it, Percy, but in a time past you sought the Holy Grail."

"The what?"

Merlin pursed his lips. "In the time of Camelot there came a period of discontent. The knights became bored with the ideal of chivalry and civilization. Arthur had achieved a goal, namely the use of the power of knighthood for something other than hacking enemies into small bits of meat. Men were treating men like human beings, and women like chattel that needed protection, which was a damned sight better than the way both genders were being treated earlier."

Percy cocked his head to one side as Merlin took another sip of coffee. "But, as human beings are wont to do, the knights wound up needing a new goal to stave off the oppression of boredom. So I gave them one. They were to search for, find, and recover the Holy Grail.

The cup from which Jesus Christ drank at the Last Supper."

"Why?"

Merlin shrugged. "I don't know. It was the first thing that popped into my mind. It was either that or the Holy Plate. It hardly mattered what I came up with, as long as it was something to keep what I laughingly refer to as the knights' 'minds' occupied."

"Are you saying there wasn't ever a Holy Grail?"

"No," said Merlin. "There might have been. And there might be flying saucers and the Loch Ness monster and honest used-car dealers and whatever other fantasies the human mind is capable of conjuring. What I'm saying is that I made up the Holy Grail. Certainly. I would have said anything to delay the splintering of the Round Table. Yet for all I know I actually hit upon something that existed. I couldn't say. Whatever I made up, however, you were the most dedicated in attempting to find h. For that is what you are-dedication personified."

"Yeah, yeah, so you said."

"So I said," agreed Merlin cheerfully. "And you have lived many lives, for you have always existed and always will. And no matter who you were or where you were, you have always been dedicated."

"Oh, yeah?" said Percy. "Then why," and he leaned forward intently, "why, if I'm so damned dedicated, am I a stinking drunk?"

"Because in this lifetime you were dedicated to your own self-destruction. And you were very good at it. If it hadn't been for me, you might have achieved it." Merlin frowned then. "And since you are the embodiment of the human spirit, I got you just in time. It would not have boded well at all for humanity if you'd allowed your liver to turn into a colander."

"Oh, yeah?" said Percy. "You don't know what made me the way I am."

"In fact I do. I have quite a few ways of searching out what I wish to know. It wasn't difficult.

Good accountant, you were. One of the best. Worked for a big firm and discovered irregularities-funds disappearing for which you could not account."

Percy turned away but Merlin continued, his voice oddly flat and even. "You discovered a higher up, a man you respected tremendously, had been jerking the company around. He fed you a sob story that wrenched your heart. Ever sympathetic to the human condition, you agreed to cover for him. And you did, until the auditors found it. But the higher up managed to pin the whole thing on you. Fired. Disgraced. No one would hire you. Your world in the toilet, you had no goal to achieve. So you sought escape in a bottle-"

Percy slammed his hand down on the table, rattling the ketchup and the salt and pepper shakers. Everyone in the coffee shop jumped except for Merlin. "All right! That's history, Merlin."

Merlin nodded once. "Fine. As long as we're both agreed on that."

"Agreed."

"Fine. For I have a new goal for you. The election of Arthur, your former king, to a position that will be his stepping-stone to creating a new order of peace and greatness for mankind. And you will serve as something very important, Percival." He stabbed a finger at him. "You're going to set an example for Arthur. So he won't get distracted."

"Distracted? By what?"

"There are," Merlin said with a sigh, "other aspects of the human condition which are eternally recreated. One such is evil, although if its personification exists reincarnated in this time, I have yet to find it. That worries me. But another aspect has already manifested itself.

And poses a threat."

"What would that be?"

With barely a trace of bitterness, Merlin said, "The eternal ability of the human race to make a muddle of the best laid plans. A shapely monkey wrench has entered the works, and Arthur has cheerfully put it into the toolbox." He shook his head in wonderment. "Sometimes I think there's just no understanding that man, no matter how many centuries I know him."

Chaptre the Tenth

Arthur was in tremendous spirits when he came into the office the next morning. "Good morning, Gladys!" he said cheerfully to the receptionist.

She looked up at him with less than a kindly expression. "I can't stand it."

"Gladys, my sweet, nothing is going to dampen my mood. Not even you." He leaned over her desk and whispered con-spiratorially, "But exactly what is it that you can't stand, hmmm?"

"First you have those two drug-addicted freaks out beating the drums for you-"

"Are you referring to Groucho and Chico, two of my most dedicated helpmates?" he asked archly.

"Right, the freaks. And then you hire that shrinking violet to be your personal secretary-"

'I heard that!" shouted an enraged Gwen, storming out of the alcove where her desk was situated. Her breast was heaving furiously in righteous indignation as she spat out, "Look, Gladys, you've been on my case since Day One. And if you're going to talk about me behind my back, the least you could do is do it when I'm not right around the corner." She turned on Arthur and pointed an angry finger at the receptionist. "Why is she such a shrew anyway?"

Arthur tilted his head and regarded her with a questioning stare. "I will answer your question, Gwen, if you will answer mine."

"What? What are you-"

"Gladys acts like a shrew because Gladys is a shrew," Arthur said reasonably. "We needed an immediate office worker, so Merlin transformed her. But the problem is that you can change a creature's basic appearance, but you can never change the basic nature of that creature. Once a shrew, always a shrew. Right, Gladys?"

Gladys glared at him and growled deep in her throat. Arthur smiled and turned back to Gwen. "Now my question-why are you wearing sunglasses?"

"What?" Gwen touched the shades that perched on her nose, obscuring her eyes. "Oh, right.

I felt like it. It's sunny out."

"Now why," said Arthur slowly, "do I have trouble believing that?"

Gwen laughed unpleasantly. "What, I'm supposed to believe you, with that cock and bull story about changing rodents into people? Get real, Arthur."

She started to turn, but Arthur abruptly whirled her around by the shoulder and yanked off the glasses.

"Good lord," he said softly.

Gwen's eye was blackened and swollen. And it was clear that it was just beginning to swell-it would be much worse before it got much better.

"Who did this to you?"

"No one. I walked into a door."

She tried to pull away, but he gripped her firmly by both shoulders. His face was only inches away from hers, and his voice was low and intense. "Who," he repeated with forced calm,

"did this to you?"

"I punched myself in the eye."

"You hit yourself?"

"Yes."

"In the eye?"

"That's right."

"Why in God's name would you do that?"

"I was aiming at my nose and I missed."

The door opened and Merlin marched in, Percy Vale in tow. "Arthur, we're back!"

Gwen took advantage of Arthur's momentary distraction to pull away from him and dash over to her alcove. Arthur started to follow her but she came flying back, her purse in her hand. She snatched the sunglasses from Arthur's hand and tried to jam them quickly onto her face. She succeeded only in poking herself in her right eye, and she moaned in pain.

"Gwen, for pity's sake-"

"Leave me alone!" she sobbed. "Don't you understand? I thought you'd be out again today for signatures! I didn't want you to see me like this! Oh, God . . ." and she ran out of the office, wobbling on her high heels.

Sensing what the king was about to do, Merlin said sharply, "Arthur! Don't you go after her."

"But Merlin-"

"Wart! Don't do it!" And then he softened his voice. "Give her time. She's going to have to deal with it herself."

Arthur was still clearly uncertain, and Merlin cursed inwardly. Never had he known a man of a more decisive, unwinding nature than Arthur-except where it came to women. And this woman, in particular. Remembering how he had resolved to solve this problem, Merlin said quickly, "Arthur, I'd like you to meet Percy Vale. Percy's the new accountant we were discussing."

"Oh. Right." He shook Percy's hand firmly. Percy smiled hesitantly until he realized that Arthur was staring intently at his eyes. "Is, uh, is something wrong, Mr. Penn?" he asked.

"What? Oh, no, nothing's wrong except . . . well, I could just swear I know you from somewhere." He looked at Merlin uncertainly. "Percy Vale, Merlin? Are you sure that-"

"It's coincidence, Arthur. Trust me." He spread his hands innocently. "Have I ever lied to you?"

"Probably," said Arthur reasonably. "I've just never caught you at it, that's all. Welcome to our little group, Percy."

"It's a pleasure to be here, sir. I'm sorry if I came at a bad time."

"Well, one can never know when the inappropriate times are going to occur."

The phone rang and Gladys promptly picked it up. "Arthur Penn's office," she said brightly.

She paused, nodded, then put the phone on hold. "There's a Mr. Dredd wanting to talk to you," she said.

Arthur frowned and turned to Merlin. "Dredd?"

"Yes," said Gladys. "Moe Dredd."

"Modred!" He pointed an accusatory finger at Merlin. "There is a pattern! There is reincarnation! And she is Guinevere, isn't she?"

"Now Arthur-"

With one quick movement he was standing before Merlin, and with another he was holding the startled wizard in the air by the scruff of the neck. "It's her, isn't it!"

"Yes! Yes, damn you!" Merlin screeched in a voice filled with fury and fear. "It's her! But you don't need her, Arthur! She's going to bugger the whole works, just like she did last time!

She's the eternal screwup!"

"I don't care if she's the eternal bloody flame. We belong together!"

"You belong in an asylum!" Merlin's legs pumped furiously. "Put me down!"

Arthur drew back his arm and flung the boy wizard the length of the office. Merlin slammed into the large sofa and rebounded onto the floor. He lay there, moaning.

Without another word Arthur turned and stormed out of the office.

Percy moved toward Merlin, but the prone magician waved him off.

"Uh, Merlin ... I know I just got here and everything, but if it's okay, I'd like to offer a piece of advice."

Slowly Merlin turned his head to Percy. "And what . . . might that be?"

"If Arthur convinces Gwen to come back with him, I wouldn't get in his way. If I'm not out of line here."

"Point... taken, Percy."

Gladys bounded to her feet. Her wig bobbed on her head. "You can't mean that! I can't stand her! Everything about her is 'just so.' Her hair is just so, her dress is just so, her makeup is-"

Merlin staggered to his feet. "I get the picture, Gladys."

"No you don't! If she comes back, I'm leaving." Her voice rose in indignation. "I don't have to put up with this! I have rights! I-"

With pure fury in his eyes Merlin said, "Gladys, you don't have to quit." He clenched his right fist and then extended his thumb, index finger, and little finger, and pointed at Gladys. He spoke quickly, in a tongue that humanity had not heard in 73

fifteen centuries. Eldritch energy sparkled from his hand, bathing Gladys in its light, catching her in mid sentence. Within less than the blink of an eye, Gladys was gone.

Percy could not believe what he'd seen. And in the next second he couldn't believe what he heard-with an angry squeal a small, gray furry creature with a long nose darted from behind the desk, scampered across the floor and ran under the couch.

"You're fired," Merlin said to the rodent cowering under the couch. "I'm going down to the pet store right now and arranging for your replacement. You're going to love her."

Merlin smoothed out his brown hair and straightened his T-shirt. "Percy," he said, "mind things until I get back."

"O-okay, Merlin."

"I don't want any more bizarreness today."

At that moment Chico and Groucho burst in, stumbling over each other in their excitement.

"We got it," crowed Chico. "We have got freakin' if!"

"What?" asked Merlin impatiently.

"Signatures, kiddo!" They waved sheaves of paper in their filthy hands. "We got enough! All you need and lots more. Arthur, the guy with the Day-Glo sword, is now officially a candidate for mayor of New York!"

They stood there, arms spread wide, as if accepting thunderous applause. There was dead silence.

"Well," grumbled Groucho, "don't thank us all at once, y'know."

She had managed to stop crying, but her face was still tear-streaked as Gwen fumbled for her apartment keys in her purse. She breathed silent invocations, thinking, Please, please, please don't let him be at home.

She fished out her keys, unlocked the door, and stepped inside the dimly lit apartment. She glanced around at the empty living room and sighed relief. She didn't know where he was and she didn't care. At least he wasn't at home.

Lance stepped out of the bedroom, his hands on his hips. "So. You came back, did you?"

Gwen moaned and moved away from the door. She pulled the sunglasses off and tossed them carelessly on the floor as she staggered over to a chair and sagged into it. Lance walked over to her, laughing loudly, and took her chin in his hand, turning her head this way and that.

"Quite a shiner you got."

"I know. It's the birthday present you forgot to give me last month, right?"

"Now, now," he said, and swaggered away. "There's no need to get bitter. After all, you brought it on yourself."

"Me!" She lurched to her feet, feeling the familiar sting oi tears at her eyes and fighting them off. "You're the one who came home drunk last night. Boozing and . . . and sleeping with whores. God knows what germs you picked up."

"Whores!" His voice went up an octave. "How can you say that? How can you say I was getting laid by strange women?"

"You reeked of cheap perfume."

He snorted. "I can't help it if women cling all over me."

"Lance, your pants were on backward! Why did you come home to me with your pants on backward?"

"It was a joke, for chrissakes."

"No, Lance." She shook her head furiously. "This whole relationship is a joke. And I'm the punch line. Especially when you came home the way you did last night, and you wanted to make love to me all reeking and disgusting. And when I refused you did this to me." She pointed at her eye. "You did this. Not me. You!"

"Yeah?" He got louder, angrier, and he advanced on her, his fist clenching and unclenching.

"And I can do it again. And again. I'm tired of your superiority attitude. I thought you understood me. But you're just ignorant, like all the rest. Ignorant! But I'm gonna teach you!"

He swung his fist back. Gwen shrieked, throwing up her hands to defend herself.

A hand closed around Lance's wrist from behind.

Lance moaned in surprise as he felt a bone bend under the sudden stress. Then he was spun around, and Arthur, shorter than Lance, glared up at him. "You've made your last mistake," said Arthur in a deadly calm voice.

Arthur pulled him forward quickly and rammed his knee up into the pit of Lance's stomach.

Lance gasped as the side of Arthur's hand slammed into his temple. Stars exploded before his eyes as he dropped to the ground, arms wrapped around his gut.

Arthur's lip curled in a snarl. "You piece of dirt. You don't deserve to live."

Gwen's eyes widened in shock as Arthur, still nattily attired in a royal-blue, three-piece suit, reached to his left hip under lais coat. For a moment she thought he was about to draw a gun. Instead there was the smooth sound of metal on metal as Excalibur was drawn from its sheath. In the dimness of the apartment the sword glowed with a life all its own.

Lance scuttled back, crablike, toward the wall, never taking his terrified eyes from the darkly furious face of the warrior king. Arthur knocked a lamp out of the way with a sweep of the sword, advancing on Lance until the frightened man could back up no farther. He pulled his knees up to his chin like a frightened fetus and tried to stammer something, but failed.

Arthur poised with Excalibur over his head and brought the sword whizzing down.

Gwen screamed.

The sword came to a halt with the cutting edge barely touching the top of Lance's head.

Arthur grinned wolfishly. "What's the matter, fellow? Can't you take a joke?"

He took two steps back and sheathed the sword. But there was no amusement in his voice as he said, "Consider yourself fortunate that you did not have a weapon. For although I would not slay an unarmed man, I would cheerfully have gutted you from sternum to crotch, given the slightest opportunity. If you ever come near this woman again, nothing will stop me from taking your life. Is that understood?"

Lance's mouth moved in the formation of the words "Yes, sir," but nothing came out.

"I'll take that as an acknowledgment of our understanding."

He turned and walked over to Gwen with a relaxed, easy step. "I-" she stammered.

"It's all right, Gwen."

"I thought you were going to kill Lance just then."

"Lance?" He turned slowly, with narrowed eyes. "Lance. Lance what? It wouldn't be Lance Lake, would it?"

"W-what?" said Lance from his place on the floor.

"Lake. Or something to that effect?"

"No. It's Lance Benson."

"Good. Lancelot du Lac deserved better than you. I'm glad you are not he."

He looked down at Gwen, who was sprawled on the couch. With infinite tenderness he leaned over and picked her up, cradling her in his arms. "Why?"

She couldn't look at him, but she wrapped her arms around his neck. "Why what?" she whispered.

"Why did you come back here?"

"I had nowhere else to go."

He basked in the warmth of her body, held close to him. "Now you do."

He walked with her to the door. He looked back at Lance, who still cowered in the corner, then smiled again and said, "Have a nice day," and left with Gwen in his arms.

They went down to the street, and Arthur called "Taxi!" to the first unoccupied cab he saw.

The cab swung over to the curb and the cabbie, a middle-aged Jewish man, looked out the window at them and said, "I think you'll have to put her down to get in."

"I believe you're right," said Arthur.

He let Gwen down to the ground and they popped into the back. As Arthur pulled the door shut behind them, Gwen said, "I couldn't believe it. I just couldn't believe when you whipped out your sword-"

"Heyl" said the cabbie angrily. "It's pretty obvious that you two are on your honeymoon, but let's keep the filthy talk to a minimum, okay?"

"Yes, sir," said Arthur meekly. He glanced over at Gwen and winked, and she smiled. It was her first real smile in weeks.

"So you two lovebirds want to tell me where you're going?"

"Yes," said Arthur. "Central Park."

"Sounds good." The car eased its way into the busy lunch hour traffic.

"Central Park?" said Gwen. "What's there?"

"My home away from home."

"Oh." She paused. "Thank you. About not hurting Lance."

Arthur turned and looked at her. "But he hurt you."

"I suppose in a way he was right. I had only myself to blame. Because I let him get away with it. But never again."

"That's the way I like my queen to talk."

She looked up at him dreamily. "I'm really your queen? You're really-"

"Yes. lam."

"And I'm really-"

"I think so."

"How can we know for certain?"

Arthur smiled. "I'll know."

Chaptre the Eleventh

Bernard B. Bittberg was accustomed to coming out of City Council meetings and being surrounded by the press. He smiled now into the cameras as they crowded around him on the steps of the big marble building he'd just left. Bernard struck a dramatic pose, one hand jauntily on his ample hip, his head cocked to one side, a smile plastered across his face.

Moe floated unobtrusively in the background.

Bernard waited for questions about his plans for his campaign, his opinions on the current hot issues, his plans for the city if elected. And it was a tribute to Bernard B. Bittberg's skill as a politician that when the first question out of a reporter's mouth was, "What do you think of Arthur Penn's chances in the upcoming mayoral race?" he did not turn and slug the questioner.

"He's made quite a splash with his soapbox speeches, Ber-nie," shouted the reporter from Channel 4 news. "And some of the proposals he's made are quite unorthodox. Do you have any comment on-"

Bernard waved off the question and managed to keep his smile glued on his mouth. "Now boys, I have all of Mr. Penn's proposals under consideration, and before I make further comment I'm getting the opinion of my advisors on the matter. That's all, that's all." And he brushed by the reporters with uncharacteristic abruptness.

Moe followed on his heels, not thrilled by the turn of events, and ^hetv Bernie hopped into his waiting limo, Moe was even less thrilled that Bernie waved for him to get in as well. Bernie slid over to accommodate Moe and tossed one last wave to the reporters as the limo pulled away.

Once they were under way his friendly facade melted away like butter on a skillet. "What the hell was that all about?" he demanded.

"I'm not sure what you mean exactly," said Moe slowly.

"Then I'll explain it, exactly." Bernie lit up one of his dread cigars, and opened the window a crack to allow the smoke to trail out behind them. "You were telling me a couple of weeks ago that there was barely any interest in this Arthur Penn guy, that he was going to go away."

"I never said that, Bernie," said Moe reasonably. "I said I hoped he'd go away. There's a big difference."

"Wonderful. So I come out of a City Council meeting, all set to announce that we've reallocated money to fill potholes, and all I get are questions about this Penn guy. Now what, I wonder, put the press on to this guy. Huh?"

"Well, uh," Moe tugged uncomfortably on his collar, "I suppose in a small way it's my fault."

" Your fault. How is it your fault?"

"I called one of my contacts with the DailftJVews. I asked him to check through Penn's background, to find what he could dig up, dirtwise. He owed me a big favor, and he's one of the best muckrakers in the business. Frankly, I'm surprised the National Enquirer hasn't snatched him up yet."

"The point, Moe. Get to the point."

"The point is that he did the investigation. Real deep. Real thorough." Moe turned a dead glance on Bernie. "Know what he found? Nothing."

"Oh, come on," Bernie said incredulously. "Your man just didn't do his job, is all. Everybody's got something in their past that can be used against them as a weapon."

"This guy is squeaky clean, I'm telling you. It's easy enough for my friend to check, because everything's on computers these days. He checked with everyone from the FBI and the IRS to the Department of Motor Vehicles. Not only does Arthur Penn not have any sort of negative record anywhere-not even so much as a parking ticket or late credit card payment-but he has a distinguished service record in the army. Everything about this guy checks out perfectly."

Bernie took a long, thoughtful drag on his cigar. "Maybe too perfect, you think?"

* It has crossed my mind, yes."

"You gonna keep digging on him?"

"I'm not exactly sure where to dig at this point. It's backfired the first time around, because my reporter friend became so fascinated by Penn that he wound up doing a big spread on him. A lot of people have started getting turned on to Penn. If I get more people looking into his background, with my luck 60 Minutes will come in and canonize him."

"So what do we do now?"

Moe interlaced his fingers. "We start analyzing his proposals, and elaborate for the edification of all and sundry exactly why they are stupid and unworkable."

"Sounds good."

"And in the meantime we can pray that our luck holds out."

"Our luck?" Bernie shook his head. "I don't see-"

"Penn could be making a lot more hay of this attention than he is. Instead he's playing it close to the chest. He surfaces for a few hours in random parts of the city, pontificates, then vanishes again. I tried calling him in his office several times to arrange a meeting with him, just to get some reading of how he handles a one-on-one. I heard some shouting in the background the first time I called, and since then the guy's never there." Moe frowned. "A kid has answered the phone a couple times. He recognizes my voice and hangs up on me."

"Not exactly the way to make friends and influence people."

"My feelings exactly. Let's hope that we keep it up. The main thing we have going for us is this Penn's utter lack of experience."

"Yeah." Bernie laughed with a cheerfulness he did not feel. "Can you imagine a guy who makes speeches and then vanishes? Never accessible to the press? What's he trying to do, run a campaign through word of mouth?"

"So it would seem. There's one thing that bothers me though."

"Yeah? What's that?"

Moe paused thoughtfully. "What if it works?"

* * *

Arthur stood outside the door to his offices, wrestling with a crisis of conscience. There was a part of him that wanted to take Gwen and hop on the nearest bus out of town. Or plane. Or boat! That would be excellent. A nice long cruise over the ocean, far away from Merlin and his machinations.

He looked at his reflection in the opaque glass. Who was he? he wondered. What had he become? For as long as he could remember-and he could remember quite a ways back-every action in his life had been made because he'd had to do it. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to. His was the eternal sense of obligation, and it had begun to take a toll on him after all these years.

"Why me?" he said to no one in particular. "Why can't I have a normal life? Why must I always be a tool of some 'greater destiny1 ?"

"Because that's the way it is."

Arthur looked down. Merlin was standing at his side, looking straight ahead. No matter how many times Arthur saw him, he didn't think he would ever get used to seeing his mentor clad like a street urchin.

"You've been dressing down lately, Merlin," he observed.

The young wizard shrugged. "I've always worn what's most comfortable. In this age it's jeans, sneakers, and T-shirt. Where the devil have you been the past week?"

Arthur smiled. "What's wrong, Merlin? I always thought that you believed what was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander."

"What, you mean because I spent a week out of sight trying to help a man put together the pieces of his life, you took that as an excuse to vanish for a week as well, to pursue God knows what?"

Arthur turned and looked down. "Did it ever occur to you that I might be pulling a life together too?"

"Really?" said Merlin with a raised eyebrow. "Whose?"

"Gwen's. And, to a large extent, mine."

Merlin winced. "I don't want to hear it."

"I wouldn't tell you. After all," and he smirked, "you're underage."

He turned away and opened the door, feeling for some reason that he had achieved a minor victory. What that victory was, he wasn't quite sure. But it was something.

He swung open the door and was slammed with a blast of noise that was like a living thing.

Phones were ringing, people shouting to each other, typewriters clacking furiously. And as he stepped into the waiting area, he saw to his shock that the entire interior of the office had been redone. The partitions between the small offices had been torn down, and now all the square footage stretched out like a small football field. Desks were sticking out in every possible direction; there were about a dozen in all. Each one had a phone, and there was a young man or woman on each phone. Arthur's eyes widened as he recognized the girl from the crowd who had been wearing the NYU sweatshirt... his first speaking engagement, of sorts. She was the first to glance up and see him, and she immediately put her phone down, leaped to her feet, and started applauding. Others looked around to see the source of her enthusiasm, and when Arthur was spotted, everyone else in the crammed offices immediately followed suit.

Arthur was dumbfounded, astounded, and flattered by the abrupt and spontaneous show of affection. He nodded in acknowledgment, put up his hands and said, * Thank you! Thank you all. You're too kind, really." He leaned down to Merlin and whispered, "Merlin, who are all these people?"

"Volunteers, mostly," said Merlin pleasantly. "Some paid office workers. Word of you is getting around, Arthur. We're going to have to start putting together a solid itinerary for you.

Perhaps even explore a series of commercials."

"The packaging of the candidate, Merlin?"

Merlin sighed. "Arthur, the sooner you manage to come to terms with the way things are, the happier a man you will be. Understand?"

"I suppose."

Arthur glanced toward the receptionist. To his surprise, a striking young woman was seated there. Her hair was long and black, her eyes almond-shaped and green. "Uh ... hello."

"Hello, Mr. Penn," she purred. "I'm your new receptionist, Selina."

"Hello, Selina. Might I ask where your predecessor went to?"

Merlin whistled an aimless tune, and Selina merely smiled. Arthur looked from one to the other suspiciously. "Merlin," he said suspiciously. "All these people here ... did you-"

"Create them all from animals? Of course not. That would be a bit of a strain even for me. Only Selina is . . . she was once," he said with pride, "the most stunning black cat you've ever seen.''

"Oh, really?" He looked at Selina, who smiled and gave a little wave. "But Merlin, that still doesn't answer the question of what happened to ... to ..."

Selina ran her tongue across her lips and made a little smacking sound.

"Let's just say," deadpanned Merlin, "that Gladys won't be filing for unemployment anytime soon."

Arthur was in his office until eight o'clock that evening, going over plans and itineraries for the next several months. He noticed and appreciated the fact that Merlin was deliberately hanging in the background, letting him run the show without unasked-for advice. And he found his blood really pumping for the first time. The excitement was beginning to build as a plan was formulated. Arthur was fond of strategies, of form and substance. There was no time for the earlier, self-centered fears and frustrations of someone wishing that they were something they could never be.

Nevertheless he was glad when the day was over.

The cab dropped him off in Central Park and he made his way across, lost in thought. This night there were no interruptions from would-be muggers or helpful policemen. In the distance on one of the streets that cut through the park, Arthur heard the nostalgic sound of horse's hooves clip-clopping on the road. By the rattle of metal he could tell that it was a horse-drawn carriage. He drew a mental picture for himself, however, seated proudly on a great mount, his sword flashing, the sunlight glinting off the shield he held and the armor he wore.

It was an image to do him proud.

But it was just that-an image. A part of himself he could never recapture.

The castle loomed before him, and yet so lost in thought was he that he almost walked right into it.

Everyone knew the castle in the middle of Central Park. A complex weather station was situated inside. Whenever early-rising New Yorker's ears were tuned to their radios, the statement that it was such-and-such degrees in Central Park came from the readings taken here, at Belvedere Castle.

Yet a weather station was no longer the only thing occupying the castle.

Arthur walked slowly around the other side, looking for a certain portion of the wall that he knew he would find. And sure enough there it was, as it had been the other nights-a small cylindrical hole in the wall toward one stone corner.

Arthur drew Excalibur, reveling as always in the heady sound of steel being drawn from its sheath. Then he took Excalibur, and holding the hilt in one hand and letting the blade rest gently in the other, he slid the point into the hole.

With a low moan and the protest of creaking, the section of the wall swiveled back on invisible hinges. Before him was a stairway, the top of which was level with the ground in front of him, the bottom of which disappeared down into the blackness that was the castle-or at least an aspect of the castle.

Arthur was never thrilled about the prospect of going somewhere he could not see, but he knew he was going to have to live with it. He entered the doorway, and the moment he set foot on the second step, the door swung noiselessly shut behind him. He was surrounded by blackness, illuminated only by the glow from Excalibur, which accompanied him like a friendly sprite. "My old friend,'' he whispered.

He walked for a time, impressed as always by the total silence of the supernatural darkness.

Then, several steps before the bottom, Excalibur cast its glow upon a heavy oaken door. He walked the remaining steps down to it and pushed. It yielded without protest, and he stepped into his castle.

He passed through the main entrance hall, with its suits of armor standing at attention like legions waiting for his orders. He entered his throne room and looked around in satisfaction.

Everything was exactly as he'd left it, and yet he could sense, somehow hanging in the air beyond his eye but not beyond his heart, the presence of the Woman. He smiled, the mere image of Gwen in his mind's eye enough to bring an adrenaline rush that made him feel centuries younger.

There was an elaborate tapestry hanging behind his throne. In it was a representation of Arthur seated at the Round Table, and seated around it was an assortment of knights clearly engaged in some deeply intense discussion. None of them really looked like the knights Arthur remembered- the portrayal of himself was recognizable only because of the larger chair. But that was all right, since the weavers of the tapestry had doubtless created it centuries after the table, and its members were part of the legends rather than living, breathing men.

"It's very nice. I've been admiring it for some time now."

Arthur turned and a grin split his face. Gwen was standing in one of the side entrances. She was wearing a simple blue frock which served to accentuate the loveliness of her features.

She ran her fingers through her strawberry-blond hair and said, "I saw all the nice dresses you had hanging in that wardrobe in my room. I hope you don't mind that I felt like wearing this outfit. It's not very fancy-----"

Arthur stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders. "Gwen, what happened to the strong-willed resolve? Doing what you feel comfortable with, without having to rely solely on the approval of others?"

"I know, I know," she sighed. "It's a habit. Still, I suppose I feel a little guilty."

"In heaven's name, why?"

"Because I haven't been much of a guest. Most of the time I've just been sleeping and sleeping and sleeping."

He laughed and draped an arm around her shoulder as they walked toward the dining room.

"From what I've learned of your life the past several years, my little Gwen, you probably haven't had a good night's sleep in quite some time. You're just making up for all those lost hours."

"The bed's been unbelievably comfortable. And it's so quiet here, but not, you know, quiet in a spooky way. Quiet in a friendly way. You can just lie back and listen to nothing, and enjoy it."

She turned then, and faced him. Arthur was amused to recall that once upon a time his Guinevere had had to almost crane her neck to look at his eyes. Now they were practically on eye-to-eye level. Arthur mused that if he disappeared into a cavern for another millennium, he would be a midget when he came out.

"Arthur, where are we?" she asked intently.

"Why, we're right outside the dining room." With a sweep of his arm he indicated the table, which was already set. As always there was enough food there to feed a regiment-where it came from, Arthur never knew. It was just there when he needed it. With the bounty available, sustenance for his "castlemate" had been no problem at all.

She shook her head. "No, that's not what I'm saying. I once took a tour of Belvedere Castle, and I know for sure that there was nothing like this. Yet you say that we're in that castle. I find it so hard to believe, and yet-"

"Gwen," he said firmly. "I never lie. Not to you. Not to anyone. To lie is to diminish one's own feeling of self-worth."

"I know, but then ... how?"

"You saw how when I first brought you down here a week ago."

"Oh, yes, I saw. I saw but I didn't understand. I mean," she stepped away and shook her head in puzzlement, "I saw what you did with the sword, and the door swing open and the darkness. But none of it really made all that much sense or registered. I think part of me believed that I was actually dreaming."

"In the middle of the day?"

"Why not?" she said reasonably. "After all, many of my daylight hours have been nightmares anyway. Arthur, I don't understand how any of this works."

Nodding slowly, Arthur crossed slowly to this throne, pulling at his beard as he searched for a way to explain it to Gwen. Which was going to be a slick trick, considering that he didn't fully understand.it himself.

He went up the two steps to the throne and paused there a moment. Then he said, "Gwen, how do you turn on a light?"

"What, you mean like when you enter a room?" He nodded. She looked at him suspiciously.

"Is this a trick question? Like 'How many Jewish American princesses does it take to screw in a lightbulb?' "

"What?" he asked in utter confusion.

"No, I guess not. Uh, okay." She leaned against the stone wall which, unlike every other castle she'd ever been in, was warm to the touch. "To turn on a light, you just flick the wall switch."

"Right. And what happens?"

"The light comes on."

"Yes, but why?"

Now Gwen was confused. "Because you turned on the light switch. Arthur, if this is your idea of an explanation, it really sucks."

"Gwen," he said patiently, "what is it that makes the light - go on when you turn on the switch?"

"Electricity, I guess. It makes the bulb come on."

"How?"

She stamped a shapely foot in irritation. "Who cares? I'm not an electrician, for heaven's sake. You turn the switch and it activates some doohickey and the doohickey feeds electricity into the whatchamacallit and the light comes on. It doesn't matter to me so long as it works."

"Precisely."

"Precisely what?"

Arthur sat in his throne, looking bizarrely incongruous in his three-piece suit. "This little home-away-from-home of mine is something that Merlin arranged for me. Someplace to which I can return at night and feel that I belong, after spending a day feeling like a living anachronism. Which is how I do feel, despite my best efforts to acclimate to this odd little civilization of yours. Merlin was quite pleased when he put this together. He even tried to explain it to me-something about transdimensional bridges and relative dimensions in space and other nonsense. And I said to him about New Cam-elot exactly what you say to me about electric lights-who cares as long as it works?"

"But Arthur, you don't understand!"

"Odd, that's just what Merlin said."

"Electricity and lights-that's all science. This is. . ." She waved her hands around helplessly.

"This is magic!"

"Now, Gwen, magic is just another science. And if scientists acknowledged that magic existed and put their considerable talents to discovering what made it tick, a great deal more could be accomplished in this world. But scientists have decided that magic does not and cannot exist, so naturally they don't go out of their way to try and find the reasons for it."

He shook his head. "Very shortsighted on their part."

Gwen put her hand to her head and sat down. "Arthur, you don't seem to realize that I'm a rational human being. I don't believe in magic. I don't believe in things just appearing because you need them."

"Oh no?"

"No."

"That chair you're sitting in? It wasn't there a moment ago."

She sprang from the chair as if propelled by springs. Her hands fluttered to her mouth and her voice was a combination of surprise and hysterical laughter. "This is crazy!"

"Why?"

"Because I was always taught to be a very rational person!"

"Faugh! Rationality always gets in the way of common sense. Common sense tells you that no other explanation is possible for what you see. But when you try to rationalize the unexplainable, you run into problems.'*

She was delicately tapping the arms of the chair as Arthur said in a softer voice, "Like us."

She looked over to him and saw the way he was looking at her. She felt her cheeks color and looked down. She couldn't remember the last time she'd blushed.

"Arthur." She looked up at him tentatively. "Arthur . . . are you really him? I mean, the original King Arthur?"

"Yes."

"But... but it's so difficult to believe."

"Ah-ah," and he put up a finger. "You're rationalizing again. Didn't I tell you how that gets in the way?"

"But if I believe what you're saying," and she walked slowly around the perimeter of the room, "then I would also have to accept the part about my being a reincarnation of your Queen Guin ..." Her voice trailed off and her eyes widened in surprise. "You know, Arthur, my name-Gwen DeVere- that sounds a lot like Guinevere, doesn't it?"

"By Jove, you're right!" He sagged back in the throne. "Fancy that."

They smiled at one another, and then Arthur stepped off his throne and walked slowly toward Gwen. She stood there, her arms hanging loosely at her sides. He came very close to her, then paused and ran his hand gently across her face. She closed her eyes and sighed, and a little tremble rushed through her.

"Arthur ... we were married once, weren't we?"

He shook his head. "No. We were married always."

"But I hardly know you."

"You've always known me," he said softly. "We have always been. We shall always be. Not time, not distance, not lifetimes can do more than momentarily interrupt the coexistence we are meant to share."

He felt the softness of her hair, and she said, "Arthur?"

"Yes?"

"Have you really been locked in a cave for fifteen hundred years*

"Thereabouts, yes."

She whistled. "You must be the horniest bastard on the face of the earth.''

The expression on his face did not change, but he said, "Gwen, would you mind waiting here a moment?"

"Uh...sure."

Arthur stepped back and went into another room. She pricked up her ears and heard the sound of pages turning. She realized abruptly that he was consulting a dictionary, and stifled a desperate urge to giggle. There was a momentary pause in the page turning, and then she heard the book close. She fought to keep a straight face but felt the sides of her mouth turning up involuntarily.

Arthur came back into the room and faced her, looking deadly serious. "Gwen," he said with great solemnity.

"Yes, Arthur?"

"You're right."

They both dissolved into laughter.

Dinner was very quiet, but then, they felt no need to talk. There was the easy comfort in each other's presence that it takes most couples years to achieve, if they ever do.

When dinner was finished and the bones of the bird they had eaten were all that remained (and that would naturally be gone in the morning), there was a long pause. Then Gwen said softly, "Good night, Arthur."

He inclined his head. "Good night, Gwen."

She stood and left the table, leaving Arthur at the table, lost in thought.

Arthur lay in bed that night, alone, as he had been all the previous nights. He slid his hand slowly across the empty side of the bed and sighed deep in his chest, deep in his soul.

He heard a footfall at his door and sat bolt upright, his hand already reaching for Excalibur.

The door swung open and Gwen was there. Candlelight from the hallway illuminated her from the back, showing the silhouette of her body through her white shift.

His breath caught as she said in a low voice, "I don't think you'll be needing a weapon, Arthur. I'm unarmed."

She glided across the floor to him and sat down slowly in the empty part of the bed. Arthur touched her arm and felt an inner trembling. "Gwen, you don't have to. Not if you're not ready."

She laughed lightly. "According to you, I've been waiting for you for centuries . . . lived many past lives, but you were always my Mister Right. When has any girl had to wait as long for her perfect man as me?" She stroked his beard and asked, "Arthur? Am I... do I look as pretty to you as when you first knew me? Back in ... in your days?"

His voice choking with emotion, he said, "You are as I have always loved you."

He took her to him.

Merlin snapped off his TV set. "Well," he murmured, "I don't have to see this part. I know where it's going now." He sighed. "Kings. Can't live with them, can't live without them."

Chaptre the Twelfth

It had now been close to two months since Arthur had first clung batlike to the statue of Father Duffy and began espousing his views. In that time interest had mounted as word spread throughout the city. Jimmy Breslin picked up on it, the wire services picked up on it from Breslin, and soon it became quite a cachet to have been present at one of Arthurs speeches. However, campaigns cannot be won solely through word of mouth, and so it was that the press was cordially invited one day to the cramped, busy offices of Arthur Penn at the Camelot Building, to officially meet the Independent candidate for mayor of New York City.

Chairs and a podium were set up. Wine and cheese were served, and the reporters milled around, trying to pump the office workers for information. The office workers merely smiled, having been primed not to say a word until after Arthur had had an opportunity to address the press. Eventually the reporters started interviewing each other. One of them bumped into a small boy, nattily dressed in white ducks and a blue blazer with a little anchor on the pocket.

"Hi, kid," he said heartily. "You look a little young to be in politics."

"And you look a little old to be a fool," retorted Merlin, pushing his way past to the cheese balls.

There was a rapping up at the podium. Percy Vale was standing up front, and in a strong, proud voice, he said, "Gentlemen and ladies of the press, I would appreciate it if you could take your seats. I thank you all for coming, and I assure you that it will be well worth your while."

There was shuffling of the chairs while the TV camera crews stood to the sides of the podium, checking the lighting and their range. Percy paused a moment and then said, "As you know, Mr. Arthur Penn has been creating quite a stir throughout the city over the past months. His style has been referred to in the press as guerrilla politics. The truth of the matter, gentlemen, is that Mr. Penn has been so busy meeting the people, it's kind of slipped his mind that he should really be getting to work on the business of being elected mayor of this great city." There was a small ripple of laughter, and Percy continued, "And make no mistake, my friends, I guarantee that you will be looking at the next mayor of New York when I say that I would like to introduce you to Mr. Arthur Penn."

Percy stepped back from the podium as the once and future king made his way from the back of the room.

The reporters had met many a politician in their collective lives. They had seen all the types-the charismatic ones, the old-boy ones, the intellectual ones, the forthright, the sneaky, the slick, the snake-oil salesmen, and every permutation of human being in between.

And they had all had one thing in common: They all regarded the press as a necessary evil.

Something that had to be lived with, tolerated, used and maneuvered.

But this Arthur . . . what was the name, Penn? This Arthur Penn, as he walked forward shaking their hands, squeezing their shoulders affectionately, as if they were old buddies, smiling a totally disarming smile . . . this guy actually seemed happy to see them.

He made it up to the podium, slapped Percy affectionately on the shoulder, and faced the press. He blinked repeatedly as the flashbulbs went off, looked around at the crowd facing him, and then saw Gwen standing in the back. He smiled to her and she smiled back, almost schoolgirlishly, as he said, "Thank you for coming, gentlemen and ladies of the press. As you will be able to tell from the kits you should all have, I am Arthur Penn. We've paid outrageous sums for the production of my biography and to have a photographer take a black-and-white photo of me that makes me look as attractive to female voters as possible. So I would greatly appreciate any attention you might pay them.''

There were appreciative laughs, and he continued, "I've taken this opportunity to meet with you because I value your function very highly. I am hoping that you will be able to pass my message on to the wide voting public, since I have researched the matter very carefully. For me to speak personally with all of my potential voters would take at least five years, and I'm afraid that I have not been allotted that much time.,, He paused a moment and smiled. "My friends, quite simply, I wish to be the next mayor of New York City. I will now take questions.''

There was a moment of surprise, and then hands were raised. Arthur picked one at random.

"Mr. Penn-"

"Call me Arthur, please."

The reporter blinked. "All right... will we still call you Arthur if you're elected mayor?"

"I should think 'your highness' would suffice."

In the back Gwen stifled a giggle and turned away.

The reporter smiled and said, "Arthur . . . that was a very short opening statement."

"I was always taught to regard brevity as a virtue."

"Mister . . . Arthur, I'd be very interested in your background."

"So would I. Feel free to read through the papers before you to see what sort of records my staff has fabricated." He pointed to another reporter. "Yes?"

Gwen's face bore an expression of complete awe. Arthur was keeping to what he'd once told her-he would not lie. Every question was being answered, and if it was about a potentially touchy aspect, he deadpanned the absolute truth and usually got an amused reaction from his audience. Remarkable. She glanced over and saw that Merlin was standing over in a corner, arms folded, nodding slowly whenever Arthur spoke.

The next reporter stood. "Arthur, I'd like to know how you stand on certain issues."

"Let's find out together," said Arthur.

"Prayer in school, for example."

Arthur shrugged. "You mean before a difficult examination?"

"No," said the reporter, unsure whether Arthur was joking or not-a state most reporters would find themselves in during the months to come. "I mean organized prayer...."

"Oh, of course! Organized prayer in the morning, that sort of thing. Well, I've never been one to stand in the way of how someone wishes to worship. However, I recall reading something in the Declara-no, the Constitution, isn't it? About separation of church and state. It would seem to me that prayer and church are usually equated, aren't they?" The reporter nodded, and Arthur smiled. "Well, that's it then. No prayer in schools..."

"But it's not that simple," said the reporter.

"Then it should be. What else would you like to know about?"

"Your stand on abortion?"

Arthur shuddered. "Terrible mess. None of my bloody business, though, what a woman does with her body."

"Are you in favor, then, of state money and government money going to fund abortions?"

"I imagine it's better than feeding the poor little buggers, isn't it, once they're born into unwanted and miserable situations?"

The reporters looked around at each other. One of them whistled silently.

"Are you concerned, sir, that some pro-lifers may find your attitude, well . . . callous? That you're sentencing unborn children to death?"

Arthur regarded him oddly. "I have seen more death, son, than you could possibly imagine.

Not to become maudlin, but I value life no less than anyone else. But life is difficult enough when you come into it wrapped in the arms of a mother who wants you. Coming into it unwanted is more than any helpless infant should have to bear." His eyes misted over. "I remember a time . . . unwanted children left exposed upon a hillside. Or women bleeding from their bellies, thanks to the tender mercies of charlatans pretending to be doctors. At a time such as that we prayed for the knowledge to prevent such monstrosities and outrages.

Now we have it, and it would be equally as monstrous not to use it. Yes, money to help those unfortunate women. And money also to educate them so as not to let themselves become with child in the first place. And men, too, for God's sake. We don't have thousands of madonnas being impregnated immaculately out there, you know."

"You are aware," said one reporter with a half-smile, "that some of your attitudes may be regarded as controversial."

"Yes. I suppose so. Common sense usually is." He pointed to another reporter. "Yes?"

"Your stand on Westway, sir?"

Arthur looked at him blankly. "What way?"

"Westway."

"I haven't the foggiest. What the deviPs that?"

"I'm surprised, sir," said the reporter insouciantly, "that you're not familiar with some of the more controversial aspects of New York politics."

"Don't be," said Arthur, ignoring his tone. "Why don't you apprise me?"

"Well, sir, the debate in a nutshell is whether to use certain monies for construction of a major traffic artery called West-way or whether to use that same money to improve the subways and mass transit. It was supposed to have all been settled a couple of years ago, but somehow the issue keeps coming up."

"Oh, anything that will improve the subways sounds smashing to me."

"Then you're against Westway?"

Arthur sighed. "Good God, you lot are slow, aren't you? Yes, I suppose I am."

"Are you aware of the other aspects-"

"Of course I'm not," said Arthur with no trace of impatience. "Is your basic summation of the situation accurate?"

The reporter looked around at his colleagues, in a total quandary. The others half shrugged or nodded.

"Um, yes, I believe it is."

"Well, that's it then. First thing you'll have to learn about me," said Arthur reasonably, leaning over the podium. "I never want to get bogged down with facts. Facts get in the way of decisions. Give me a basic summary of the situation and I will generally decide," and he tapped his chest, "based on what I feel here. I would wager that others will bog themselves down with umpteen reports and countless charts and the like, and it will all still boil down to the basic feeling of what's right and what's wrong." He smiled. "After all, it beats trial by combat."

Arthur, Gwen, Merlin, Percy, Chico, and Groucho sat draped around various parts of the office. Merlin sat upright and cross-legged while the others were fairly at ease. Chico was stirring a Bloody Mary with his finger. The others were drinking soda or iced tea.

The reporters had left some time ago to file their stories, and everyone in the room seemed concerned about what would be said ... everyone except Merlin and Arthur.

"I did my best," said Arthur reasonably. "If they don't like what I had to say, what am I supposed to do? Be sorry that I said it?" He shook his head. "No, they're going to have to warm to me or not, based on who I am."

Gwen smiled. "If they knew who you were, they'd vote for you in an instant."

"Would they?" asked Arthur. "Do you think so? My earlier endeavors hardly ended in glowing triumph, now did they?"

"Oh, people remember what they want to remember," said Gwen. She stood and walked over to Arthur's side, sitting on the arm of his chair. "After all is said and done, most people remember Camelot as a time of achievement and pride. I mean, the happiest times this country remembers were with Kennedy's whole Camelot thing."

"Ah!" declared Arthur. "Merlin said that to me once. Didn't you, Merlin? You see-the two of you do see eye to eye every now and again."

Merlin made a face. Then he said, "Arthur, I think it best that you spend the night-the next few nights, in fact-in that apartment you've got rented over in the Village."

"Oh, Merlin, is that really necessary?" said Arthur unhappily. "It's so bloody small. The castle is really so much better."

"Arthur, try to be reasonable. It wouldn't be good form for the press to discover that the Independent mayoral candidate makes his home in a pile of transdimensional rocks in Central Park."

Groucho perked up slightly and said, "Sounds okeedokee tome."

"Proof enough," said Merlin tartly. "Arthur, it's been set up for you, and I suggest that you try to make use of it. If all goes well, the press is going to become intensely interested in such minutiae as how you like to have your English muffins for breakfast. And if you have mysterious comings and goings, it could prompt digging in areas we'd much rather leave undug."

"All right, all right," sighed Arthur. "Gwen, let's go."

"He's going to have a roommate!" yelled Merlin. "That's just ruddy wonderful!"

Arthur's tone was warning. "Merlin..."

But a gentle touch rested on his arm. "No, Arthur, Merlin's right," said Gwen reasonably.

"Your style is going to be somewhat... unorthodox for a number of voters. Perhaps we shouldn't try to drop too much on them right away. I'll find someplace."

"Merlin, could you find her someplace inexpensive? In Manhattan?"

"What?" Merlin laughed in disbelief. "Arthur, I'm a magician, not a god. Do you know what your place is running you?"

"She could bunk in with us," offered Chico.

Gwen looked at them. "Oh. How .. . nice," she said, with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.

"Yeah! You could have Harpo's piece of dirt. Who knows when he's coming back?"

"/ certainly don't." She smiled. "Thanks all for your concern, but I have a friend I can stay with out in Queens until I find a place of my own." She shook her head in wonderment. "You know, I've never had that. When I went into college I went from living with my parents to living in a dorm. And from there I went to living with Lance."

"Lance?" Percy Vale looked up.

Arthur shook his head. "No relation."

"So I'll finally be out on my own. It's scary." She looked thoughtful. "Poor Lance."

"Why poor Lance?" asked Percy. Arthur leaned forward, curious to hear her response.

"Why, because the more I've thought about it, the more I've come to realize that he needed me a hell of a lot more than I needed him. He was just determined that I not know that. I think my being on my own is going to be a lot harder on Lance than it will be on me."

Arthur's mouth twitched. "My heart bleeds for him." He lifted his glass.

Lance leaned against the wall of the building to keep himself 98

from toppling over. He felt the solid brick wall waver under his fingertips for a moment before righting itself, then he breathed a sigh of relief that it had sorted itself out before falling.

It was night, starless. The full moon was blood red-it would have tinted the clouds, had there been any clouds. Up on Eighth Avenue this late at night there were only a few cars heading uptown. Most people drove through that area with their car doors locked tight. Drivers would glance disdainfully at the human refuse that lined the streets. Lance was one of those receiving the disdainful glances.

He sank slowly to the ground and smiled, incredibly happy. Lance had certain images of himself that he felt constrained to live up to. Once that image had been of Suffering Writer.

To that end he'd spent long hours churning out reams of garbage, comprehensible only to himself (oh, Gwen had pretended to like them, but he knew better). He had starved himself, refused to go out in the daylight if he could help it. When he did feel the need for sexual release, he'd found hookers with hearts of gold to whom he could vent his creative spleen, not to mention his pent-up urges. For naturally, as with any good tortured writer, he had a woman who did not understand him and wanted him to get a regular nine-to-five job.

(Whether Lance's reality bore any resemblance to reality, is utterly irrelevant.) When Gwen had walked out on him, it had permitted him to shift over to a new persona-Utterly Dejected Writer at the End of his Rope. He looked at his distorted reflection in a puddle of water and was overjoyed at what he saw. He was strung out. Dead-ended.

Down and out. Ruined by the complete collapse of his one true love's confidence in him, he had now attained that point where he could die alone, unloved and misunderstood in the gutter of New York. Then some students or somesuch, cleaning out his papers, would discover the heretofore undiscovered brilliance of Lance Benson and make it public. He'd be published by some university press somewhere and become a runaway hit. He smirked.

And he'd be dead. They'd want more of his brilliance, and he'd be dead as a doornail. That would sure show them!

The clack-clack of the heels had been sounding along the street for some time, but Lance had taken no notice of them. Now, though, he could not help it. The heels had stopped right in front of him. Stiletto heels supporting thigh-high black leather boots which were laced up the front.

Slowly Lance looked up. The woman before him was dressed entirely in black leather. Her clothes looked as if they'd been spray painted on. The only part of her body that was not covered were the fingers, projecting through five holes cut in each glove. She wore a black beret on her head, which blended perfectly with her black hair. (Once the hair had had streaks of gray in it. Now there was not the slightest trace.) Her lipstick and mascara were black as well. They floated against the alabaster of her skin.

"Hi," she said. Her voice was low and sultry. "Nice night."

"If you like the night," he said indifferently, and looked down.

"Oh, yes. Yes indeed, I love the night." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "What's your name?"

"Lance."

"Lance." She rolled the name around on her tongue, making it sound like a three-syllable name. "Lance, you look very lonely. Would you like to have a good time?"

He laughed hoarsely. "Yeah, sure. But my idea of a good time and your idea of a good time probably don't jibe."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah, really. My idea of a good time is sitting here and watching my life pass before my eyes as I prepare to die."

"Oh, you're right," said the woman. "You're very right." She shook her head. "That's not my idea of a good time at all. Tell you what-why don't I show you my idea of a good time? If that doesn't do it for you, then we'll bring you back here and you can continue your little headlong drive to self-destruction. How does that strike you?"

Lance shrugged. "Whatever makes you happy. I don't much care." He got to his feet, and the woman took his hand. He hobbled at first, since his right leg had fallen asleep. "So where are we going?"

"My place," she said. She wrapped her fingers in between his, and he shuddered. Her hand was cold, and he told her so. She nodded her head slightly in acknowledgment. "Yes, I know. My body temperature is perpetually ninety-one degrees. But don't worry," and she licked her lips slowly, "I can warm up quite nicely."

Abruptly Lance dug into his pocket. "I don't have any money, really," he said.

She waved a hand airily. "Don't worry about it. Think of it as a freebie, Lance. I'm sure you'll be able to do something for me.

His spirit brightened for the first time since Gwen had left him some time ago. "Gee, thanks.

You know, I don't even have your name."

"Morgan," he was told.

He nodded. "Morgan? Isn't that a man's name?"

She smiled. "Only if you're a man. But I happen to be a woman, my dear Lance. More woman, I would suspect, than you would even believe you could possibly handle."

"Oh," said Lance uncertainly, and then smiled with grim determination. "Well, I guess I'll just have to do my best."

"Oh, yes, Lance," said Morgan. "I know you will, I just know it."

Chaptre the Thirteenth

It was well into spring when the first of the commercial spots was aired.

Percy Vale, hunched over his ledgers in the offices of Arthur Penn, the checkbook and bank balances spread out nearby, had the television set on in the background. Campaign workers sat around stuffing envelopes and sealing them, or canvassing telephone books and comparing names to lists provided by the League of Women Voters, to see if they could encourage those not already registered to do so.

The portable color Sony had Kermit the Frog on the screen, and that charming amphibian disappeared to be replaced by the smiling visage of Arthur Penn.