Part 3

A week later, in a rugged defile where a checkpoint marked the boundary between Mordred's territory and Arthur's, Lieutenant Erich Von Stroheim, an adviser from the East German Army, was instructing the sentries in the fine art of planting controlled substances on incoming vehicles when Tomokato came riding serenely toward them, reading a paperback edition of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.

"Halt!" Von Stroheim cried, raising his hand, the mailed British sentries shouldering up on either side of him. Tomokato stopped a few yards from the gate.

"What's that you're reading?" Von Stroheim asked.

"Watered-down Buddhism," Tomokato replied. "Picked it up at a truckstop--trash. Would you like it?"

Von Stroheim sneered, fingering the dueling- scar on his cheek. "Are you insulting me?"

"Certainly not."

"State your name and business."

"My name's Miaowara Tomokato," the cat answered. "I review books for a Japanese magazine called Starlog."

"And what is the purpose of your visit to Lord Mordred's realm?"

"I've been sent to attend an ABA convention in York."

"Aren't you taking a very roundabout route?"

"I was told this was the most scenic way to go."

"You're very heavily armored for a book reviewer," Von Stroheim observed.

"I have many enemies. I write very negative reviews."

"Really?" Von Stroheim asked. "You know what I think?"

Tomokato eyed him steadily. "No, what?"

"I think you're a spy from King Arthur."

Tomokato shook his head. "Don't you know that he doesn't employ Japanese?"

"I've seen lots of Japanese," Von Stroheim grated. "You're some kind of animal." He blew a whistle, and suddenly, flinging their hogs aside, a score of Saxons in leather scales and boar-crested helms came bursting up out of holes behind the guard-posts. Brandishing swords and spears, they raced toward the East German, who pointed to the cat.

"Take him!" Von Stroheim cried, and the sentries raised the gate to let the Saxons through.

As the foremost barbarian drew near the cat, Tomokato plucked a spiked throwing-star, or shuriken, from the specially constructed shuriken bin attached to his saddle and pegged the missile hard into the man's throat, turning a fearsome battle cry into a gurgly UKKKKKK in midwhoop. A second Saxon caught one in the eye, a third in the brain, clear through the front of his boar-helm. Moving almost too fast for the eye to see, and certainly too fast for even the semblance of fair play, Tomokato felled half the onrushing mob before he ran out of stars--by which point the remaining Saxons were so petrified that he had time to casually drop Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, snatch up his bow, string it, and nock an arrow.

"I knew you weren't a book reviewer!" Von Stroheim cried, grabbing a spear from a Saxon, cocking it back to hurl at the cat.

"But I am Japanese," Tomokato replied, loosing the arrow, clearing out the East German's sinuses with a shot smack into his nose.

"Ach Du Lieber!" cried the Saxons as Tomokato nocked another arrow, and with the sentries, they ran off down the defile, their hogs running desperately to keep up, oinking forlornly.

Tomokato rode unhurriedly through the checkpoint.

In the days that followed, Tomokato pushed steadily northwestward into Mordred's land. For the people living under the rebel prince's harsh rule, things seemed to have deteriorated even in the few weeks since the cat had traveled through this territory. The rule of Right over Might, Arthur's proudest achievement, had totally decayed, with kings and lords who had once sworn fealty to Arthur now oppressing the population in Mordred's name, looting the towns to pay the upkeep on ever-growing armies of ruffians and bandit knights; companies of Saxons roved everywhere, holding riotous Oktoberfests whenever they felt like it, going on drunken rampages, plundering monasteries and killing churchmen, setting up heathen altars to Woden and Thunor and the detestable Barry Manilow. The economy was in a shambles, beggars and gas lines everywhere, and the press had been muzzled; more than once Tomokato saw rotting corpses hanging from trees, placards tied to their necks proclaiming them London Times reporters or correspondents from CNN.

Mordred's security forces attacked Tomokato repeatedly, but each time he escaped unscathed, leaving behind a broad wake of death and devastation, some of which (like when he cut this one guy and his horse in two) was really juicy, but I don't have time to go into it here; suffice it to say, he stirred up quite a hornet's nest and was being tailed by a huge detachment of Apache trackers as he neared the border of Magorant.

Yet as he entered that grim land, a drear waste of crags and tarns and dank valleys, he realized he was no longer being followed; whether the Apaches were afraid to set foot there or merely thought he would never return or both, he had no way to tell. But as he soon discovered, Magorant more than lived up to its grim reputation.

First there were the black knights, in all shapes and sizes, contesting every bridge or pass. Then there were the water-maidens, beings fair in appearance who tried to lure him beneath the surfaces of their dark pools with promises of illicit pleasure or riches or Reese's Pieces, or the damnedest collection of videotapes in all Christendom. More terrible were the Junkies Sauvage of the Screaming Caves and the Disco Dwarves Sans Pitie of the Ragged Wood. Worst of all were the Three Lords of the IRS, against whom Tomokato's swordsmanship and knowledge of the tax codes only barely prevailed. But finally he saw before him, halfway up the slope of a jagged mountain honeycombed with red-glowing cave-mouths, the walls and towers of Spad Castle.

The fortress did not seem to fit in at all with its surroundings, with its pink stone and decorative casements; more than anything else, it reminded him of a postcard of the Magic Kingdom that Shimura had sent him from Disney World. Warily he rode up the winding, treacherous path toward the open gate. As far as he could tell, there was no one on the battlements. Coming up to the gatehouse, he rode slowly in under the portcullis, his horse's hooves clopping hollowly in the gate-tunnel. Entering the spacious courtyard, he saw it was deserted. The cobbles seemed to be wet, as if with a recent rain; then he caught a whiff of polish, and realized that they had recently been waxed. Brightly- colored heraldic banners hung from the surrounding walls, along with flags of the United Nations. Off to the right were a replica of Michelangelo's "David" and a statue of Cale Yarborough, defiantly facing each other; on the left was a fountain with a big-chested imitation of the "Little Mermaid" of Copenhagen sitting in the middle. Only a lone vulture, perched on her head, seemed to strike a sinister note.

"Tomokato!" came a woman's musical voice. "Welcome, good sir knight!"

On the far side of the yard, beneath a lofty pointed archway, stood a tall blond lady clad all in white samite, holding aloft a bright torch and attended by several maids. Tomokato made toward them, expecting the trap to be sprung at any moment.

"I am Morgan Le Fairchilde," the Lady called. "You have had a hard journey. I pray you will tarry here awhile and accept our hospitality."

"I seek the Spad," Tomokato said, dismounting. "Where is it?"

"All in good time, sir knight," the Lady replied with a lovely smile. Indeed, of all the human females he had ever seen, she was by far the most beautiful.

"I won't be stayed from my course," Tomokato said.

"I doubt it not," she replied, and directed one of her maids to take his horse. "We have no use for the Spad; you may have it, and good riddance."

"Really?" Tomokato asked. "I thought you wanted to protect your son from it."

"You mean Mordred?" she asked. "I could not care less about the little toad. He never writes."

"If you try to trick me, you'll regret it," Tomokato warned. "Even my respect for your brother won't save you."

"Ahh, Arthur," she said. "Is he well? He doesn't write either. Of course, the posts are irregular here."

"I can imagine. Take me to the Spad."

"First let us feast you, at least. We have been so long without guests." Tomokato thought he detected a lascivious note in the words, but her expression gave no hint of it. "Follow me, Sir Tomokato."

"Wait!" he growled, but she and her maids were already through the archway. He could have seized and threatened her, but he wanted to find out just what her game was. Perhaps she might even lead him to the plane, if only to raise his hopes and then crush them. She plainly enjoyed playing with her victims.

He started into the corridor, but before going too far, stopped and looked back toward the gatehouse. The portcullis was down, and the vulture was roller-skating ominously in the courtyard, followed by a train of rats carrying small coffins. Turning, the cat headed forward once more.

The corridor was clean and brightly lit, decorated with magnificent tapestries depicting what Tomokato guessed was the story of Joseph of Arimathea flying the Spad to Britain. At the end the cat found himself in a vast banquet-hall, a table in the middle covered with cloth of gold and set for two. Morgan Le Fairchilde beckoned him over to it.

"Make yourself at home, good knight," she said. "My maids are at your beck and call."

"Here, My Lord," one said. "Let me make you more comfortable." She made as if to take Tomokato's swordbelt off; gently but firmly, he pushed her soft hand aside.

"As you wish, My Lord," she said bowing, and withdrew.

Morgan Le Fairchilde showed him a mocking smile. "You'll have to take it off if you want to sit at the table," she said, settling into a tall carven chair.

He eyed her narrowly, remaining motionless.

"You're so mistrustful," the Lady said. "We mean you no harm. We wish only to give you pleasure."

"Like the water-maidens?" he asked.

Morgan laughed. "You'll be served no Reese's Pieces here." At a nod from her, two serving-maids laid an electrum platter of Godiva chocolates on the table before him. "And if you want video..." She flipped open a panel on the arm of her chair, revealing a brace of electronic controls, and pressed a button; a huge video screen slid up from the floor, twenty feet on a side, showing a geriatric Harrison Ford snuggling up to an equally ancient Carrie Fisher against a background of stars and careening spaceships.

"A bootleg of The Jedi's Big Score," Morgan announced. "The seventh Star Wars flick. Very hard to come by. Lucas hasn't even made the movie yet."

Tomokato said nothing.

"Do you like cocaine?" Morgan asked, producing a huge bag of it out of nowhere and scooting it across the table toward the cat.

"I understand it's bad for the sinuses," he replied.

"Actually, I've got some industry spokesmen in the other room that vigorously deny that." Morgan pressed another button, summoning them into the hall--a crowd of very sharply dressed, obviously Colombian types.

"Drugs are for weaklings," Tomokato said sternly.

Morgan banished the spokesmen back to their chamber. "Well then, Sir Tomokato," she said, "perhaps you're more interested in fleshly de- lights." The neckline of her gown suddenly plunged, and her lips developed a fatal crimson gloss; leaning forward to show off her decolletage, she whispered huskily, "Stay with me. Abandon your quest. Love me forever."

"Even if I could abandon my quest," Tomokato said, "you and I could never be happy."

"How do you know?"

"We're too different. You're not--Japanese."

"Don't let that worry you. I'm kinky."

"And I've given up the pleasures of the flesh."

Morgan bit her lip, exasperated by his moral fortitude. "Well, what about those chocolates then?"

"Enough of this," Tomokato announced. "You said you'd take me to the Spad."

"You rancid little prig!" Morgan spat, clearly losing her temper. "I only hinted I would." She pointed a long-nailed finger at him. "He's all yours, girls!"

There came a hail of footbeats, and Tomokato turned to see a horde of Morgan's maids closing on three sides, transforming into leprous hags even as they came, whirling nunchakus and razor-edged scythes.

"You don't have any monopoly on Zen here, Tomokato!" Morgan cried. "Had ‘em all trained in Okinawa when I heard you were coming!"

Tomokato dashed to the right along the table, sword out, slashing, boning whole bodies with single strokes; geysering scarlet, bags spun to the floor. Ripping through the tightening semicircle, Tomokato pivoted after a few yards, turning on the hags charging in from behind. Steel whining through the blood-misted air, he sheared rib cages like a demonic Dr. DeBakey, sent severed heads bouncing across the floor like beach balls of the damned; nunchakus and scythes dropped from nerveless fingers. A few murderous seconds more and the last of Morgan's hench-women were dispatched to the Haggy Hunting Ground.

Only then did he notice the metamorphosis the hall had undergone--the pink stone walls had darkened to a slime-coated black, water dripped from the vaulted ceiling, and the tapestries hung in rotted tatters; the cloth of gold on the table had become a jam-and-peanut-butter- clotted plastic tablecloth decorated with still- recognizable pictures of Michael Jackson, the cocaine had become tubes of airplane glue, and the Godiva chocolates had degenerated into-- you guessed it--Reese's Pieces. Even the movie on the video screen had changed; Harrison Ford and Carrie Fisher had been replaced by Tor Johnson and Vampira. Tomokato shuddered, con- fronted by Plan Nine itself...

He looked at Morgan. She had not stirred from her seat. Still as beautiful as ever, even though her face was livid with rage, she cried:

"You're pretty good at slaughtering old women. But let's see how you do against a real badass!" And with that, she leaped .to her feet, spreading wide her arms. Thunder smote Tomokato's ears, he watched awestruck as her face lengthened, sprouting scales, and her teeth became great curving fangs. Golden hair dropped away from her head, which swiftly developed serrate ridges and shining yellow horns. Bursting out of her white samite gown, a green-plated reptilian body doubled, tripled, quadrupled in size; her arms became leathery bat wings, her legs massive pillars of muscle. Eyes glowing a fiery orange-red, switching her spiny tail back and forth, the dragon that had been Morgan Le Fairchilde kicked the table aside with a taloned foot and advanced on the cat, maw yawning wide, a glaring hell-blaze shooting up from her throat, silhouetting her fangs for an instant before flooding downward at Tomokato.

The cat dodged aside; the floor where he had stood transformed instantly into a pool of molten rock. Retreating, he almost tripped over one of the dead hags and bounded backward over the corpse. Just missing him, the next blast struck the body, the sheer force of it rolling the corpse several yards over the floor, the cat backpedaling furiously to avoid it.

A third torrent of fire licked down at the cat, but this time he ducked beneath it, hurdled the blazing hag, and ran straight toward the dragon, slashing the monster across the leg. Hissing in agony, black blood gouting from the wound, the dragon went down on one knee, her underbelly now in reach of Tomokato's blade. A ferocious blow tore a rent in her stomach; Tomokato barely saved himself from the fire that came jetting forth, and before he could attempt another stroke, her wings began to beat, lifting her huge body up from the floor, yards out of range of h-is sword.

Dashing forward, he raced beneath her toward two rusty pikes crossed on the wall ahead beside a portcullised archway. Sheathing his sword, he reached one of the weapons, wrenched. it from the wall, and spun.

Wings thudding, stirring hurricane-like winds, the dragon hurtled toward him, liquid flame rivering out of her gashed belly. But no more fire belched from her jaws; Tomokato guessed the stomach-wound was the reason. Depressurized her, he thought.

Before her saurian head could lash in at him, he hurled the pike with a mighty effort into the gale from her pinions, straight at a joint where wing met shoulder. The blade drove deep, and she dropped to the floor, staggering on her wounded leg.

Tomokato grabbed the other pike, but the monster's head darted at him even as he turned, and the fanged jaws snapped down on the weapon's head, biting it off. Racing for the nearby archway, he sped in under the portcullis, heard the thump-and-drag of the monster limping after him. Spotting the wall-mounted wheel that controlled the portcullis, he whipped his sword back out and sliced through the hoist-rope; as the spiked gate squealed down, he looked back, saw the dragon retreating, trying to jerk her head out from under--too late. Catching her neck beneath a foot-wide spike, the portcullis pinned it to the floor, the point penetrating with a black spurt. Her head jerked upward at a terrible angle, vertebrae severed.

Tomokato watched the great corpse warily, wondering if there might, impossibly, be any life left in it, or whether Morgan might change into yet another form and attack. As if to confirm his fears, a bluish mist rose from the dragon's mouth and swiftly coalesced into a phantasm of her original beauteous self. But it made no threatening moves; indeed, all it did was shrug resignedly and say, "So that's how you do against a real badass," and slide down through the floor toward the infernal regions.

Out of the corner of his eye, the cat saw a sign on the left-hand wall. Suicidal? it asked. This Way to the Spad. A red arrow pointed up the corridor. What dangers awaited him that way? He smiled slightly, knowing the question was irrelevant. He had no choice but to follow the arrow.

Turning, he started slowly up the torchlit passage, going around a bend; there was only darkness ahead. Backtracking, he plucked a torch from its socket before proceeding into the gloom.

A veritable labyrinth awaited him, dozens of branching corridors, crawl spaces, up and down escalators, on and off ramps, bicycle lanes and scenic trails. If not for the arrows, he knew he would have become hopelessly lost; and presently the arrows disappeared. He had to go on without them, sniffing the air, alert for the least hint of a Spad-like odor. But try as he might, he could not catch the telltale scent.

"Spad detectors!" he heard a voice crying presently. "Find your way to the Spad!"

Tomokato followed the sound, coming upon an old vendor dressed all in rags, with dozens of small round objects sitting on a folding table in front of him.

"Can I interest you in a Spad detector?" the vendor asked, flashing Tomokato a near-toothless smile.

"How do they work?" Tomokato asked, picking one up.

"Just like a compass. The needle'll point you straight to this." The old man held up a photo of the Spad.

Might as well give it a try, Tomokato thought. "How much?"

"Twenty quid."

Tomokato forked the money over and went off with the detector. As he threaded his way in and out of one winding corridor after another, the needle, which had wavered somewhat at first, began to point more steadily; he guessed he was getting closer and closer to his goal.

Not long now, he told himself.

Finally he came to a huge dusty chamber, lit with a dim, sourceless greenish glow, walls carved with gigantic images of leering gargoyles. In the middle was an area screened off with curtains.

This is the Place, read a large sign affixed to the cloth.

Tomokato advanced warily, certain he would be attacked. But he reached the front screen unmolested.

They're behind it, he thought, waiting for me to slash my way through. He stepped back a bit, eyeing the curtain. It would be easy to pull it over. Grabbing the cloth, he yanked the screen down, dashing to get out of its way as it fell.

But no one was inside; there was only a small folding-table, like the old vendor's. Tomokato went closer to it. There was a photo of the Spad on it. The needle of the Spad detector was pointed straight at the picture.

Off in the distance, he thought he heard what might have been an old vendor laughing his guts out.

Hurling the detector down, he left the chamber. He thought of trying to find the vendor again and getting his money back; but it was a crazy idea. And was that a faint whiff of Spad blowing in from the right?

He set off along the passage, but had not gone far when he felt one of the flagstones give slightly under his foot; there was a soft click, and moments later a far-off rumble echoed down the corridor. He paused, stepping away from the stone that had shifted, and listened.

The rumbling faded. He continued forward.

He went some distance before the rumbling began again, much closer now, mixed with a rasping grate of stone on stone. On either side the walls began creeping inward.

He looked behind, thinking to race back down the corridor, but the hall was blocked; a smooth sheet of steel had slipped noiselessly across the passage. Forward or nothing, he thought and started to sprint.

The walls kept grinding inward, inexorably, remorselessly. On and on he swept through the narrowing corridor, no side-exits and no end in sight--until his torchlight revealed a black aperture beyond which the walls did not appear to extend. He forced more speed into his strides, drawing ever closer, the walls very near to him now, almost touching his shoulders--

There sounded the snap of many hidden mechanisms being activated, and literally hundreds of inch-wide holes opened in the floor before him, sharp steel spikes eight inches long clicking up out of them. Tomokato stopped in his tracks, just on the threshold of the spike-field. He would have to tread slowly from now on. Too slowly to reach the end. .

Then it occurred to him that the spikes would keep the walls from closing any farther. Laughing at the stupidity of the trap's designers, he advanced cautiously among the metal fangs. The walls grated farther and farther in, but just as he had guessed, ground to a halt when they came up against the spikes.

Planting his feet unhurriedly between the skewers, he got halfway in; then the outer rows of spikes slipped back into the floor, and all at once the walls jumped in an inch to right and left, now touching his shoulder-plates. He turned sideways to give himself more room, and a stone panel slid back in front of him, revealing a red neon sign that said: Thought We Were Pretty Dumb, Didn't You?

He thought of trying to brace his torch or katana-blade between the walls, but realized there was no longer enough space. As fast as he could, certain it would not be fast enough, he advanced crabwise, deeper into the spike-field. Two more rows of spikes dropped back into their sockets, and the walls jerked in another two inches. He advanced another few yards. Two more braces of steel teeth vanished. The walls closed yet farther.

With a jingling sound, a long pull-chain dropped out of the ceiling, dangling next to him, a note attached to the end. He took the note and read it.

Wall-switch, it said. Go on, try it.

It can't hurt at this point, he thought, and pulled the chain.

A cascade of party-streamers and confetti rained over him.

Another stone panel opened up on the wall in front of him; this time the sign read:

Fury boiled up in him, but he fought it, trying to think. A question flashed into his head: Were the walls and this neon sign on the same circuit?

Yet another two rows of spikes retracted. The walls almost reached his chest and back. The next time he would be pinned, and the time after that, the crushing would begin.

He raised his sword. Its hilt was fully insulated; more than once he had had to carve up enemy electronics in the service of his Lord Nobunaga. With its tip he pried the sign's plug from its socket, then thrust the point deep into the socket itself. A shower of sparks jetted out as the circuit shorted and his blade hummed; the neon letters sputtered into darkness. The rumbling of the walls ceased.

He breathed a deep sigh of relief.

Even so, sure as he was that the walls were completely out of commission, he worked his way out from between them as quickly as possible.

Ahead lay a high, wide corridor. This one, however, was mercifully short, ending after a dozen yards or so at an open doorway with the words Spad Chapel graven above it. Going through, the cat finally found himself in sight of his objective.

The plane stood in a strange chamber that could best be described as a high gothic Quonset hut, with hangar doors at one end. Unlike most of the Spads the cat had seen, this one was covered in gold foil and dotted with gems of all kinds, though it still bore the rondelles of the Roman Air Force.

Between Tomokato and the plane were two last potential obstacles: a ten-foot-tall ogre in a security-guard outfit, a double-bladed axe at its belt, and a middling-sized man very much in need of a shave, wearing a leather coat and a weather-beaten fedora, one hand on a long wet towel slung over his shoulder. There seemed to be something both archetypically pulp-adventurish and vaguely archaeological about him. The two did not seem to be aware of the cat; spaced twenty feet apart, they stood facing each other as if for a shoot-out.

Without warning, the ogre went for its axe, hurling it underhand.

The man whipped the towel from his shoulder and snapped it out at the axe, knocking it from midair.

Howling, the ogre charged forward, flashing a buck-knife out of a sheath on its wrist. The adventurer rushed to meet the creature, lashed his towel into the ogre's midsection, doubling the monster over, then whipped a dent the size of Dom DeLuise in the monster's forehead. The ogre dropped face down, dead.

"Neatly done," said the cat, approaching.

"Thank you," the man said, slinging his towel back over his shoulder. "You after the Spad?"

Paw on hilt, Tomokato halted a short distance from him and nodded.

"This is going to cause problems," the man said.

"It needn't," Tomokato answered. "Just let me have the plane."

"I'm afraid I can't do that. I was hired to--er, procure it for the University of Delaware Air Force ROTC, and I've already taken an advance."

"Pity," Tomokato said.

"Yeah. Pity--"

"Look out!" Tomokato broke in as a second security-ogre, brandishing a mace, came hurtling toward the man out of a security-ogre hidey- hole. Whirling, the adventurer took it out with a single snap of his terrycloth weapon.

"Guess I owe you one, cat," he said.

"I think so," Tomokato said.

"Well," the other began, "maybe we can settle this without bloodshed. What's your name?"

"Miaowara Tomokato."

"I've heard of you. Folks call me Wisconsin Platt."

"I've heard of you, too," Tomokato said respectfully.

"Why do you want the Spad?"

"It's the only way I can exact vengeance on a man who helped slay My Lord."

"Nothing else will do?"

"Not according to the Prophecy."

"Prophecy? It wouldn't have anything to do with killing Prince Mordred, would it?"

"Yes."

Platt grinned. "Wouldn't mind watching him get strafed into oblivion. Him and his whole damned army, in fact."

"You have a score to settle, too?"

"His troops made my life hell on the way here. Captured me once. Mordred himself was going to do the honors with a hot brand, but I managed to escape. If you'll let me have the Spad when you're through with him, I think a side trip to knock him off wouldn't be such a bad idea. Among other things, we'd be doing this island a big favor."

"I'm glad we can work together," Tomokato said.

"Came through the maze, eh?" Platt asked.

"Yes. Is there another way?"

"Absolutely--guided tours, twice daily. I came in with a bunch of your countrymen, as a matter of fact. While they were popping away with their flashbulbs, I slipped off from the group and hid in the men s room. Came out after closing."

"Very clever."

"Thank you. Let's get those hangar doors open.

Once that was done, Platt got into the Spad's cockpit; Tomokato revved the prop before joining him.

"Twin-seater," Tomokato said, settling down next to the adventurer. "Unusual."

"This was a special model for the Judean Procurator's Motor Vehicle Department," Platt replied. "The Saducees and Pharisees used to take their flying exams in it. Had to be room for the grader."

"Saducees and Pharisees?" Tomokato mused. "No Zealots?"

"Are you kidding? Pontius Pilate giving flying licenses to Zealots? Might as well give ‘em to Germans or Parthians."

"I see your point."

Pulling the Spad through the hangar doors, Platt accelerated along a stone runway that had been built out over a sheer mountain slope. Lifting off just before reaching the end, he steered west, then south over the crags and gloomy valleys of Magorant, toward the Northumbrian border.

Tomokato turned his gaze to the dashboard. Attached to it was a plastic figure of the Blessed Virgin. Noticing some handwriting on its base, he looked closer, reading: "To Joseph of Arimathea, all the best, Mary."

Bet that's worth a fortune, he thought.

His eyes wandered to the glove compartment, and he reached toward it. But all at once Platt cried: "Don't touch that!"

"Why not?"

"You see that lettering on the front?"

"Yes, but I can't read it."

"It's in Aramaic, the language of first-century Palestine. It says, ‘Do Not Open If You've Got Any Smarts--Celestial Light and Magic Corporation.'

"Celestial Light and Magic?" Tomokato asked.

"God's own special effects company. That compartment's full of the deadliest visuals ever devised by the Almighty. The nastiest things you've seen in the movies are just pale reflections. If you open that compartment and you're not wearing the right kind of glasses, you're dead meat. You and everyone for a couple miles around."

"And what are the right kind of glasses?"

"One green lens, one red," Platt replied. "Like these." He produced a pair of paper 3-D spectacles. "Picked 'em up when I went to see Comin' At Ya."

"That was a very bad movie," Tomokato said gravely.

Platt nodded in agreement. "That bit with the baby's butt--Good Lord, right into the camera lens."

Suddenly Tomokato realized that he, too, had a pair of 3-D specs tucked away; he had gotten them going to see Spacehunter--Adventures in the Forbidden Zone his last night at Camelot. Arthur and his court had a burning passion for schlocky movie gimmicks--the in- side of Camelot was littered with old glasses. Spacehunter was Arthur's favorite 3-D flick, even though Merlin was torn between Parasite and Bwana Devil. 3-D, on the other hand, gave the cat a headache; he had only gone to be polite. Only Buddha knew why he had kept the specs.

Night came down after an hour or so. Unable to navigate in the dark, Platt landed the Spad a few miles into Northumbria, on an abandoned Roman airfield.

"You know, I've been thinking," Tomokato said as they prepared their meal, "Arthur's men have 3-D glasses. Perhaps we should simply fly back to Camelot, wait for Mordred's attack, then open the glove compartment."

"But what if Mordred already has the castle surrounded?" Platt asked. "Last I heard, his army was on the move. We don't have a radio, so we can't warn Arthur about the glasses."

"Too bad there's not room enough inside the walls for us to land."

"Fortunes of war," Platt said, taking his first bite of the Prince Yamato Corned Beef Hash Tomokato had supplied.