Free Fall of Knight by Peter David Page A

trying to do everything they could to stave off the ravages of time. Plastic surgery with its nips here and tucks there, drawing tight the skin upon their faces and bodies as if they were trying to fix a drumheads. And all for what? So they could look younger for a little while longer?
    Well, he was there to say that looking young for a while longer could be a tremendously overrated business.
    “Cheer up, kid,” said one of the club’s regular magicians as he wandered past. “You always look so serious. You know what they say: Youth is wasted on the young.”
    “Tell me about it.” Merlin sighed.

C HAPTRE
THE F IFTH
    R ON CORDOBA HAD no idea at all how the press caught wind of Arthur and Gwen’s return. Technically, that wasn’t actually true. He had some idea, all right. Someone with a mouth the size of the Grand Canyon had blabbed about it…probably someone at Pearl Harbor who had leaked the news to someone else who had in turn fed it to someone else further along the food chain. All he knew was that he had a full-blown security breach and media event on his hands, when all he’d really wanted to do was try and get some solid footing in the situation.
    He reasoned that it was too late to start crying about it now. The word was out, and the press secretary was fielding so many questions, so fast and furiously, that Ron felt the need to walk into the pressroom—much to the shock of all concerned, since it was something he rarely if ever did—and announce that this line of inquiry was not only at an end but so were the regular press conferences. He then pulled the press secretary out and ordered all the lights in the pressroom shut off, just to show that he meant it.
    This naturally earned him an earful from the press secretary, who pointed out, not unreasonably, that the best way to handle the story was for the White House to control it. But Ron shook his head, and retorted, “Wake up and smell the leak. We’re no longer controlling. It’s out there, like a burning factory fire. In my opinion, all we can do right now is try not to spill more fuel on it. And I can assure you, that’s all the press conferences are going to be.”
    “But Ron—”
    “No buts! The lid is on until further notice. If I see a single off-the-record quote showing up in the Washington Post that could be remotely traced to you, you’ll be gone so fast no one will remember you were ever here.”
    He wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but the secretary simply nodded, and echoed, “The lid is on.”
    Every once in a while, Ron loved having power.
    Still, power was only relative. Right now he was seated in the room that was the epitome of power in the country: the Oval Office. Stockwell was behind his desk, shuffling through papers and reading reports, shaking his head in a way that indicated he wasn’t exactly thrilled with what he was reading. Ron was seated alertly in one of the more comfortable chairs, and asked tentatively, “What’s that you’re going over, sir?”
    “Reports detailing the success rates of small businesses over the last five years,” said Stockwell, without looking up.
    “How’s that going?”
    “Eighty-five percent crash and burn every single year.”
    “Well, one has to admire the consistency.”
    Stockwell afforded him a brief glance. “Indeed.”
    One of the president’s aides opened the door partway, and announced, “Sir. He’s here.”
    There was no need to explain who the “he” was. Stockwell was immediately on his feet, as was Ron. The aide, with no further preamble, opened the doors wide. Arthur Penn, with Gwendolyne at his side, entered. Coming in directly behind them was Percival. He was dressed in black and was wearing the exact kind of long, flopping brown duster that Secret Service agents tended to despise since they could conceal anything from a pistol to a rocket launcher. Indeed, the agents stationed just outside the Oval Office were eyeing Percival with open suspicion. If