by Peter David
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 bee
n 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?"