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happier about it than Arthur, “as it turns out, I’m almost never happy about being right. Doesn’t that stink?”
    “I couldn’t say,” said Arthur. “If I should ever chance to be right about something, I’ll be sure to let you know how it feels.”

C HAPTRE
THE S ECOND
    R ON CORDOBA, CHIEF of staff to the president of the United States, sat behind his desk and braced himself, knowing that he was going to be receiving a visit that he really wasn’t looking forward to.
    Over the past year, his blond hair had started thinning out with exceptional speed that he could only credit to the nature of the job he was doing. He had to believe that he was the first person in history to go bald as the result of metaphor, since he made a point of only figuratively tearing his hair out on any given day rather than literally doing so. His slender body was still in whipcord shape, and for that he was grateful. After all, he reasoned, how else would he be able to bend over backwards to accommodate everyone if he didn’t possess that flexibility?
    He had just endured a frustrating ten-minute meeting with the White House press secretary, venting over not being able to have anything remotely resembling a coherent answer for the questions that the press were throwing at him. There were only so many times in the course of one conversation that Ron felt comfortable with saying “I know” without having anything substantive he could offer.
    Ron Cordoba had been part of Arthur Penn’s life—or Arthur a part of his—for about as far back as he could remember. He’d gone from being a public relations genius who had helped guide Arthur to a win as mayor of New York, to becoming his chief of staff during his presidency, to an insane adventure that had brought him to an island where resided a race of immortals ruled over by Gilgamesh, of all damned people, and finally back to the White House, resuming his position as chief of staff to Arthur’s successor, President Terrance Stockwell.
    He’d led the sort of life he could only have dreamt of, back in the days when he was a bookish young man who read tales of King Arthur and his knights under the covers of his bed at night, squinting with the illumination of a flashlight. Ron had grown up and suddenly discovered himself battling side by side with—
    Ron shook his head, leaning back in his chair and rubbing the bridge of his nose in exhaustion.
    The door to the right of his desk opened. Only one person came through that door. It was the one that connected to the Oval Office, and Ron forced himself to stand and cast a weary but determined eye upon his boss. “Good evening, Mr. President,” he said.
    “Evening, Ron,” said President Stockwell, gesturing for Ron to sit back down. Nevertheless, Ron remained standing and only sat once the president had taken a seat opposite him. Ron had always been struck by the toll that the office of the presidency took upon its occupant. He was watching for some signs of this rapid aging process on Stockwell’s face, but there was very little to see. Stockwell’s face was almost triangular, his dark eyes a bit too closely set together and a bit too recessed. His black hair was cropped closely, nearly to a buzz cut, and a sharp widow’s peak extended down past the edge of his otherwise receding hairline. Basically, he looked exactly the same as he had when he’d first taken on the position over a year ago. The last president that Ron could recall who displayed so little sign of aging was Richard Nixon, who seemed to thrive on power like a leech. Which admittedly made him slightly nervous about Stockwell, but he knew that the trust issues really didn’t have any actions by Stockwell himself as a source. It was just free-floating anxiety, really, and nothing that Stockwell could reasonably be blamed for.
    Stockwell rocked back in the chair for a moment or two, then said briskly, “So, Ronald. We have a bit of a situation here.”
    “Well, I’m