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
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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.