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
