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.
And it had a grimly determined expression on its face as it pried its fingertips into the small space between the bottom of the window and the sill. The demon got a firm grip and pulled upward. The window slid up, rattling and shaking, and the demon winced at the noise.
It was embarrassing, breaking and entering like some sort of human. Transportation through time and space was within the demon's powers, but Morgan had been unsure of the exact physical location of the apartment where Gwen was staying. The demon could only transport to where it had already once physically been, and even that could be difficult. So skulking around was the only alternative.
But it had found her now. It could see Gwen lying asleep on the bed in the small spare bedroom. Her blanket was pulled tightly up to her chin; she was curled in a fetal position. Her breathing appeared ragged to the demon- clearly she was not sleeping well. It grinned and clicked its long fingernails together. Soon she would be sleeping forever.
It pulled its torso through the window, then one leg, then the other. It paused there inside the apartment, relishing the expected moment of the kill.
There was a single light cast from the hallway as it approached Gwen. Her lovely face looked drawn and harsh in the stark light. The demon crept toward here, careful to make not the slightest noise. As it passed the nightstand with the telephone, it thought eagerly of the blood that would soon be on its hands. It grinned, and the grin looked all the more hideous on that inhuman face.
The phone rang.
It froze. One eye was riveted on the phone, the other on Gwen. It was unsure whether to disappear or leap to the attack. That damnable phone!
