“Oh, sure,” he said, “it’s completely believable that he not only survived, but that the sound of his last words as he froze got trapped in the air pocket so people heard them when they chiseled him out.”

  Tiffany reached over and ran her fingers through Henry’s hair. “My little logical dingbat,” she said. She turned and walked toward the bed; her panties sparkled with the words “Brooklyn” and “Manhattan” high on either cheek and a scene of each, done in multicolored glitter, pictured underneath.

  “Uh, Tiff . . .”

  She sat down on the edge of the bed and then lay back, still looking over at Henry. “Can’t you enjoy anything that doesn’t meet your standards of logic?”

  Henry looked at her and decided he could.

  Henry and Tiffany sat at the dining table, spooning cold Chinese food directly out of the cartons into their mouths while they scanned the newspaper. “What about ‘Sweet Sioux’? I haven’t seen that one yet,” said Tiffany.

  “The one about the love affair between Custer and Sitting Bull’s wife? Naah. I’d rather see a comedy, something I don’t have to pretend is real, even by Hollywood standards.”

  Tiffany folded her section of the paper and set it down on the table; she drew the collar of Henry’s faded gray terrycloth robe more closely together. “What’s with you anyway?” she said.

  “What do you mean, what’s with me?”

  “You’re getting awfully hung up on this concept of everything having to be what you call rational.”

  “What is this, some kind of after-sex fight?”

  “What do you mean, after-sex fight? You’ve been this way for weeks. Reading all those rags of the so-called alternative press and getting zoned in on way-out conspiracy theories like how Hitler must have really died in his bunker in Berlin.”

  “Yeah, well . . . yeah . . . Henry pressed his fists to his forehead. “Doesn’t that make more sense than his surfacing as a ninety-year-old dee-jay for a pirate rock station in Buenos Aires?” Of course, it makes no less sense than for Marilyn, Elvis, and God knows who to be living in my apartment building.

  Seizing the thought, Henry continued. “For instance, do you have any idea how many people in this apartment building are living here incognito? It’s ridiculous. Sometimes I think I’m the only normal person living in the whole building!”

  “Now, honey,” said Tiffany in her most soothing voice, “there’s nothing abnormal about your neighbors—at least they’re no weirder than neighbors in any apartment building.”

  “Tiffany, doesn’t the sheer implausibility, the impossibility, of all these public figures dropping out of sight to live incognito bother you? I mean Marilyn and Elvis and quiet, broody Mr. Zimmerman and neurotic, fussy Mr. Konigsberg and Lord knows who else—why, I wouldn’t be surprised if old, babbling Mr. Kopperman on the fourth floor is really the Lindbergh baby!”

  Henry paused, whether for dramatic effect or to catch his breath, he wasn’t sure, only to discover Tiffany looking at him sympathetically. “There, there. It’s your Virgo rising that does it.”

  Henry opened his mouth to speak, closed it, opened it again, closed it, got up, and opened the refrigerator door. “Aw, the hell with it. You want some leftover cheesecake?”

  Tiffany’s face softened and she shook her head and stood up. “I’ve got to go,” she said, walking over to stroke his hair. She dressed quickly as Henry watched her, brooding and lusting at the same time. “Don’t worry about it,” she said as she gathered up her purse and keys. “I’ll call you later on and we can figure out something to do tonight.”

  She leaned over to kiss him again and he kissed her back.

  “Bye, Tiff,” he said, and the door closed.

  A light, breathy giggling floated down through the ceiling from upstairs. Henry turned on the radio to cover up the noise. After a few minutes, the blend of music and commercials was interrupted by a news bulletin about a human body being born from the womb of a sheep in Albania. Henry turned the radio off.

  We are inclined to accept the most fantastic of explanations, whether born of astrology or conspiracy or extraterrestrial design, more readily than we accept a parking ticket. We prefer reasons that sound good over sound reasoning that is good. Henry frowned at the word processor. It was all very tight reasoning, he thought, but how to reconcile that with his own reality that included Marilyn and Elvis?

  Speaking of Elvis, the giggling upstairs had given way to a creaky creak, creak, creak of bedsprings. Henry shook his head. He’d stopped counting the number of times a week that Elvis entertained; if only he had Elvis’ stamina. He looked back at the screen of his computer.

  There are limits, of course, to the powers of sense and reason and intellect. Limits of the unknown and the unknowable limitations which only fools or saints attempt to breach.

  The rhythm upstairs had progressed into a faster, jazzier creak-a-crik, creak-a-crik, creak-a-crik, acquiring in the process a lyric of “oh, baby,” “oh, BAY-bee,” “oh, BAY-uh-BEE!” delivered by a deep, mellow voice, harmonized by a “hunh,” “hunh,” “hunh” in a light, breathy voice.

  Henry’s arms dropped to his side; he looked up at the ceiling. Here I am trying to be earnestly philosophical and I’ve got Elvis having sex ten feet over my head. Elvis, for God’s sake. Elvis!

  Henry shook his head. A man whose death under a variety of lurid circumstances was widely reported, whose home had been turned into a shrine, musical career deified, and who’d been reported “discovered” any number of places except here, where he really was. How to explain it? The coroner or medical examiner, members of his family, and the friends who allegedly discovered the body would all have to be in on the conspiracy. And what possible motive could they share? And what about Elvis’ motive? Why would anyone want to continue living a quiet life after staging his own death? Well, unless he was a former vice president or something, thought Henry.

  The giggle above renewed itself as the bed gave a final solid creak and heavy footsteps padded first toward the bathroom, then the kitchen. “Oh, darling, you are such a hound dog,” said the lighter voice dreamily as it carried through Henry’s ceiling.

  The absurdity of the world weighed upon Henry as he turned off his word processor. The first draft was finished. Tomorrow he would revise and edit, then send it off. Yet the absurd, even though it was absurd, left him with a hollow feeling, a vague discomfort, as if there was some joke that he did not understand, some secret to the world that was obvious to everyone but him. In that case, it wouldn’t be a secret, would it. Now who’s falling for conspiracy theories? Real and not real, logical or not, to believe or not believe. All his thoughts converged and tangled like a massive traffic jam on the freeway.

  There was a click as the lock to his door opened and Tiffany walked in. “Hi, honey,” she said as she closed the door behind her and put down her purse. “Are you doing okay?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  Henry and Tiffany walked hand in hand past the shops and theaters of Westwood. “Now was that so bad?” she asked.

  They had seen Eternal Triangle, the story of the love affair between a Prime Minister, a Pope, and a Hollywood starlet. He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I love you,” he said, “even if you are so grounded in improbability.”

  She took his hand and put it around her waist, snuggling against his shoulder as they walked past the theaters. “And I love you, even if you do live in a fantasy world.”

  Henry sighed and snuggled back as they walked along. So much did he bask in the glow of Tiffany’s affections that he completely failed to notice the flashing lights of the flying saucer that drifted by only a couple of hundred feet overhead.

  Those Rowdy Royals

  by Laura Resnick

  Laura Resnick has lived in England, France, Sicily, Israel, and America. As a romance novelist, she was named Best New Series Writer in 1989, and was the Campbell winner for Best New Science Fiction Writer in 1993. As this book is being assembled, she is either in Mauritania, Burkina Faso, Togo, or Benin, depending.

  Who agrees that it would be a Good Thing to send a copy of this story to the current Royal Family with the attached note reading: “So you think you’ve got problems?”

  THE MEDIEVAL TIMES, ca. 1152

  “An Annulment Is Announced”

  After long and detailed negotiations, the Queen Consort and His Royal Majesty Louis VII of France have resolved to annul their marriage. The Queen Consort is expected to wed Henry, Duke of Normandy, before the end of the year—a less-than-stunning match, according to royal analysts.

  For an incisive study of the effect these events are expected to have on the stability of the florin against the dinar, please turn to the financial section.

  THE NORMAN RAG

  “Queen Claims: Those Children I Bore Weren’t Mine!”

  Having been caught in flagrante delicto with that rogue the Duke of Normandy, Eleanor of Aquitaine (rumored to be thirty years old, despite her claims to the contrary) has filed for an annulment. Can we expect His Holiness the Pope to overlook the veritable herd of children Eleanor has borne to her hapless husband, the King of France? Can the royal couple reasonably claim nonconsummation with so many of their heirs playing Crusaders ’n’ Saracens in the back yard? Is the heir-apparent to the throne of France really the son of the castle chimney sweep? And will the Duke of Normandy, barely nineteen years old, really fess up and marry the Queen Consort?

  THE ANGLO-SAXON STAR

  “Caught In The Act!”

  Eleanor of Aquitaine and Henry of Normandy were caught being more than a little careless while vacationing at an exclusive seaside resort near Calais last week. Recently separated from King Louis, Eleanor was supposedly resting in seclusion while awaiting her annulment papers.

  Instead, one of the Star’s most reliable artists found the soon-to-be-former Queen of France lounging fountainside with none other than the handsome Duke of Normandy himself. As you can plainly see from the exclusive drawings below, this relationship is most clearly a consummated one!

  THE EVENING JESTER

  “Palace Promises Purge!”

  Sources at the French court report that King Louis suffered an uncharacteristic fit of rage upon seeing yesterday morning’s edition of The Anglo-Saxon Star, in which exclusive drawings (whose veracity has not yet been confirmed) depict the Lady Eleanor (surely, no lady) and the young Duke of Normandy performing exactly the same act that Eleanor claims not to have performed with hubby Louis, despite the many children she bore him during their marriage.

  King Louis has publicly threatened to cut off Eleanor’s allowance. Will the Duke of Normandy still buzz around this aging blossom when her pollen dries up? And will the taxpayers still meekly sweat and toil in the fields of France when they realize that they’re the ones financing these shenanigans?

  THE MEDIEVAL TIMES, ca. 1153

  “A New Heir Is Announced”

  Henry, Duke of Normandy, has been acknowledged by Stephen as heir to the throne of England.

  For an analysis of how this will effect the ducat, please turn to the financial section.

  THE COURTLY CHRONICLE

  “We Have A New Heir!”

  Having finally made an honest woman of Eleanor of Aquitaine last year, Henry of Normandy finds himself in the headlines once again. The brash young duke has recently landed on the shores of England and forced Stephen (remember him?) to acknowledge Henry as his heir.

  THE NORMAN RAG

  “Alchemist Predicted It All!”

  In a late-breaking story, one of the Rags top journalists has learned that Alphonse the Magnificent, formerly of “Merlin’s Traveling Circus and Sideshow,” predicted the succession of Henry to the throne of England, as well as his marriage to the former Queen of France.

  What does this wizard see in his crystal ball regarding the royal couple’s future? For an exclusive prediction of the volatile pair’s destiny, clip out the attached coupon and send it with one ha’penny to the Rag’s London offices.

  Offer void where void.

  THE MEDIEVAL TIMES, ca. 1154

  “Duke of Normandy Crowned King of England: Henry II Promises Prosperity”

  The stock exchange will be closed today in honor of the Royal Coronation.

  For an analysis of King Henry’s economic plans, please turn to the financial section.

  THE ANGLO-SAXON STAR

  “Bishop Seduces Goat At Coronation Feast!”

  In pursuing the tradition of first-rate journalism which our readers have learned to expect, a Star reporter disguised himself as the Duke of Bilberry and managed to sneak into the Royal Coronation Feast.

  Our fearless Star journalist left no stone unturned, no nook unsearched, no cranny uninvestigated. For an exclusive story about the bishop caught in a compromising position with a goat, please turn to Page 3.

  THE EVENING JESTER

  “King Attacks Bishop, Goat Gets Away!”

  In a follow-up story to this morning’s Star headlines, a Pope who prefers not to be identified has told the Jester that a frightful row erupted when the King found a certain bishop with his favorite goat at the Royal Coronation festivities.

  The palace has since instigated a search for the goat, which disappeared while His Grace King Henry II was throttling the bishop. Jester sources suggest that members of the British Union for the Rights of Beasts (B.U.R.B.) may have spirited the animal away during all the confusion.

  THE COURTLY CHRONICLE

  “Coronation Climaxes in Chaos!”

  Despite an auspicious beginning, the Royal Coronation was marred by a brawl between certain Church factions and a raid staged by a left-wing animal rights group.

  The palace has issued a statement denying any knowledge of goat abuse.

  THE MEDIEVAL TIMES ca. 1170

  “Vatican Dollar Drops Drastically”

  Thomas A Becket met his.death in Canterbury Cathedral yesterday. Assailants unknown. The palace denies rumors that King Henry may have used ill-considered means to end, once and for all, his on-going quarrel with the Archbishop.

  All members of the financial community have gamely issued public statements in support of His Majesty, mindful of the dangers of internal political chaos so near the end of the financial quarter.

  “Remember,” said Lord Savile, who asked not to be quoted, “those Scots are a lot closer than you might think.”

  For a detailed analysis of the effect the assassination has had on the economic salubrity of the Papal States, please turn to the financial section.

  THE COURTLY CHRONICLE

  “Murder In the Cathedral”

  King Henry can rest easy at last, since his arch nemesis, the Archbishop of Canterbury, lies cold in his grave. Yes, poor Thomas is dead, killed as he knelt at prayer, slain by infidels who slipped into the country disguised as Italian sausages.

  THE ANGLO-SAXON STAR

  “Courtly Chronicle Crushes Credibility”

  The Courtly, known to be a mere tool of the Plantagenets ever since Henry first started bullying Stephen (remember him?), was caught printing unverified information about the identities of Thomas A Becket’s assassins.

  It is now known—checked and double-checked by the reliable staff of the Star—that Becket was slain by aliens. The same ones who built those pyramids and invented haggis.

  THE EVENING JESTER

  “Henry Has Hemorrhoids!”

  King Henry has continued to deny all rumors linking him to the murder of the Archbishop of Canterbury, claiming a chronic scatological disorder as his alibi.

  Employing the responsible methods our readers have learned to expect, a Jester reporter disguised himself as a chamber pot to verify the King’s story. We are pleased to be the first news service in Britain to report that Henry II, by the grace of God, King of England, does indeed have hemorrhoids and thus cannot be guilty of the Archbishop’s murder!

  For an exclusive account of the three days our star Jester journalist posed as the King’s chamber pot, please turn to Page 3.

  THE NORMAN RAG

  “Public Pressure Mobilizes Monarch!”

  Despite the famous Chamber Pot Defense, the King has been unable to mitigate rumors that he ordered the assassination of Thomas Becket. Consequently, His Grace will do public penance and make a pilgrimage to Canterbury.

  Now! For the first time! You, too, can live this historic event! Stay with us each day as, reporting live, we take you inside the true story! Get wet and muddy with Henry as he rides to Canterbury. Feel the sweat of the King as he approaches Becket’s final resting place. Experience the ice cold stones of Canterbury Cathedral under your knees as the Rag takes you there! Thrill to each lash of the whip as it licks Henry’s skin!

  This is a once-in-a-lifetime offer, folks! The chance won’t come again, so be there!

  THE MEDIEVAL TIMES, ca. 1173

  “Civil War Threatens Britain”

  At the instigation of their mother, Her Grace Queen Eleanor, King Henry’s three eldest sons, Henry, Richard, and Geoffrey, have launched a full-scale rebellion against our sovereign king.

  For an analysis of the effect these events have had on the ha’penny, please turn to the financial section.

  THE NORMAN RAG

  “Those Rowdy Royals Are At It Again!”

  As if it weren’t enough that the Queen moved her own court to Poitiers on account of the King’s many infidelities (including fruit of a particularly forbidden nature if the Star and Jester are to be believed!), now Her Grace has incited those three rowdy princes, Harry, Dickie, and Geoff, to launch a civil war against their father the King! What will future generations think of these royal peccadilloes?