"Correcting for local time," he said, "the Nexus Point is one hour and one minute after midnight at what is called. The Vale of Cashmere?" Mooney scratched his ear. "The Vale of Cashmere? Where the devil is that--somewhere in Pakistan?" "Brooklyn," said Harse with an imp's grimace. "You are the guide and you do not know where you are guiding me to?" Mooney said hastily: "All right, Harse, all right. I'll find it. But tell me one thing, will you? Just suppose--suppose, I said--that for some reason or other, we don't make it to the what-you-call, Nexus Point. Then what happens?" Harse for once neither laughed nor scowled. The pale eyes opened wide and glanced around the room, at the machine-made candlewick spreads on the beds, at the dusty red curtains that made a "suite" out of a long room, at the dog-eared Bible that lay on the night table. "Suh," he stammered, "suh--suh--seventeen years until there is another Nexus Point!" IV Mooney dreamed miraculous dreams and not entirely because of the empty bottle that had been full that afternoon. There never was a time, never will be a time, like the future Mooney dreamed of--Mooney-owned, houri-inhabited, a fair domain for a live-wire Emperor of the Eons.... He woke up with a splitting head. Even a man from the future had to sleep, so Mooney had thought, and it had been in his mind that, even this first night, it might pay to stay awake a little longer than Harse, just in case it might then seem like a good idea to--well, to bash him over the head and grab the bag. But the whiskey had played him dirty and he had passed out--drunk, blind drunk, or at least he hoped so. He hoped that he hadn't seen what he thought he had seen _sober_. He woke up and wondered what was wrong. Little tinkling ice spiders were moving around him. He could hear their tiny crystal sounds and feel their chill legs, so lightly, on him. It was still a dream--wasn't it? Or was he awake? The thing was, he couldn't tell. If he was awake, it was the middle of the night, because there was no light whatever; and besides, he didn't seem to be able to move. Thought Mooney with anger and desperation: I'm dead. And: What a time to die! But second thoughts changed his mind; there was no heaven and no hell, in all the theologies he had investigated, that included being walked over by tiny spiders of ice. He _felt_ them. There was no doubt about it. It was Harse, of course--had to be. Whatever he was up to, Mooney couldn't say, but as he lay there sweating cold sweat and feeling the crawling little feet, he knew that it was something Harse had made happen. Little by little, he began to be able to see--not much, but enough to see that there really was something crawling. Whatever the things were, they had a faint, tenuous glow, like the face of a watch just before dawn. He couldn't make out shapes, but he could tell the size--not much bigger than a man's hand--and he could tell the number, and there were dozens of them.