"Oh, the king!" said the Rabbi. "Yes, yes, I saw your fellow. Oh, not on the actual day, because they had the poor judgment to have the debate on shabbos. But it was rerun enough, you can be sure."
"I can be sure," Chico said agreeably.
"I don't know what that crazy Bittberg fellow hoped to accomplish by trying to embarrass that nice man, particularly after he saved those two children. Imagine, trying to convince everyone that your man actually thought he was King Arthur. Imagine!"
"Imagine," echoed Chico.
"Of course, just between you, me, and the hole in the wall," said the rabbi, "it wouldn't matter to me if he really did think he were King Arthur."
Chico blinked. "You know, that's what lots of people have said to me."
"Well, Fm not surprised," said the rabbi. "I mean, we all have our own mishugas, right? New York has certainly had some genuine nuts for mayor. It would only be appropriate if we had a sincere nut for once. You know what I mean?"
"I know what you mean."
"So." The rabbi leaned against the inside of the door frame. "What did you want to know again?"
Chico stared at him, then scratched his head. "I can't remember."
"Oh. Well, I'm sure when you remember you'll come by again."
"You bet."
The rabbi closed his door and went on about his business. Five minutes later there was another knock at his door. He peered through the peephole, frowned, and opened the door.
"Hi," said Chico. "I'm here to make sure you're registered to vote tomorrow...."
The political commentator for PBS was saying, "You can see from Penn's presentation that he is using the King Arthur/ Camelot scenario as a metaphor for all that he intends to achieve. He has locked on to this entire 'view from another era' to help clarify and lend a certain degree of validity to his unorthodox approach to politics and the issues at hand."
"This being so," the commentator was asked, "it comes down to the question of what Bittberg's motives could possibly have been in giving Penn such an opening? Did he really believe that Penn was actually the Arthur of legend?"
"Whatever Bittberg had in mind, I can only surmise that it backfired spectacularly. It's hard to say what sort of response he expected, but it could hardly have been what he got- namely, what observers are already referring to as the Camelot speech."
The commentator was on tape. It was now being viewed, for the hundredth time, by a fuming Bernie Bittberg. He sat in front of the VCR in his office, feeling his innards broil as he watched tape after frustrating tape. The rest of the debate, Bernie thought, including most of his exceptional observations and responses, had been totally overshadowed by Penn's performance in the first five minutes. A performance that he, Bernie, had helped to cue.
There was a knock at his door, and Bernie called unenthusiastically, "Come in."
Moe entered and looked around in distaste. Crumbled memos and newspapers were scattered everywhere, as were half-drunk cups of coffee and several stale doughnuts. When Bernie saw who it was, his mouth assumed the frown that came to it so naturally these days.
"So. It's the turncoat. I haven't seen you since the night of the debacle-oh, pardon me, the debate."
"Now, Bernie-"
"You can save the 'Now, Bernie' bullshit! You're outta here, Mr. Brilliance. You and your genius idea."
"You went a little far," said Moe reasonably. "When it became clear that he wasn't going to crack immediately, you should have backed off."
"Backed off? Now you're giving me backed off! I go in there with guns blazing, and you leave me with no ammo. You said he'd come out and say he was some long-dead king."
"Well, he did," said Moe reasonably.
"Yeah, but he came off smelling like a rose! He wasn't supposed to do that!"
"Obviously he didn't read the script."
Bernie sighed and sagged back in his chair. "So where does this leave us?"
"You're asking me? I thought I was through."
"Oh, come on. How could I do that to one of the top seven P.R. hacks I ever knew?"
"I thought I was one of the top three."
"You're sinking fast."
"Wonderful." Moe circled the table slowly. "Where we stand now is in the hands of the voters. But I've been reading the polls pretty carefully, and everyone who's predicting a landslide for Penn is off base, as far as I'm concerned."
"You think so? You're not just bullshittin' now?"
"No, I'm very serious. A lot of people were suspicious of the Camelot speech. The more perceptive voters sense that Arthur really does have a screw loose. Add to that that there are a hell of a lot of people out there who vote along a party line. Asking a Democrat to vote for an Independent can be like asking them to switch toothpastes."
"Maybe," said Bernie. "Still, I wish that Penn were the Republican candidate. I think people would be even less likely to cross party lines to vote for him. Why don't you think that Penn tried for the Democratic nomination? If it were just him and Goodwin, they could be putting his monogram on the welcome mat to Grade Mansion right now."
"Because Arthur's an independent thinker. There's no way in hell that you'd convince him to go along any party line on earth."
"That might be his fatal flaw. If he allied himself more, he could have had it iced before the polls opened."
Moe shook his head. "Men like Arthur Penn always have to carve their own way in life."
"I've never understood that sort of thinking." Bernie leaned back too far in his chair. It crashed over backward, sending him tumbling to the floor with loud curses and bruised dignity.
"No, Bernie," said Moe, "I don't suppose you would."
It was several minutes before midnight.
Arthur sat in his dressing gown, staring out the window of his modest apartment, staring up at the moon. It was a cloudless night, and only a sliver of the new moon was visible, but there were many stars to make up for it.
Arthur chose a star and wished fervently on it, so fervently that he stood there for a full minute with eyes tightly shut. When he opened them he half hoped that his wish would be granted.
But Merlin had not materialized in his living room.
He paced like a caged panther. It was an incredible feeling of helplessness, not even knowing where to start looking for the kidnapped seer. Was he in New York? New Jersey?
The East Coast, the West Coast? Was he even in the United States? Arthur moaned and rubbed his temples. Merely contemplating the possibilities made his head hurt.
He turned and looked at the telephone. It sat there, inviting, so tempting. To talk to her for just a moment... That would be all he needed to patch together the relationship that had once meant so much to him. But obviously it hadn't meant anything to her, or she would not have made a mockery of it. But still...
He stood over the phone, the man decisive in all matters except those of the heart-a failing many men share.
In Queens a demon entered the apartment that Gwen De-Vere shared with an old college friend, Wendy Goldstein.
Wendy, fortunately enough, did not encounter the demon. She was off visiting her parents for a week. She did not know that a demon was going to come this night to attack her old friend. If she had, she might have stayed around to help out. Either that or she might have gone farther than to visit her parents in Pennsylvania-say, for example, her maiden aunt in Portland, Oregon. Either way, she was not home when the demon, clinging to a wall outside a window seven stories up in an apartment complex in Queens, paid his visit.
It was a different demon than the one that had abortedly stolen Excalibur. This one was about average height, with more humanoid features. It had several distinguishing characteristics however, such as dark green skin and fur, which covered its bottom half and back. It was baldheaded, with pointed ears and small twin horns projecting from its temples.