Harse glanced angrily at the kids on sleds and even more angrily at Mooney. Still, he wasn't refusing to come and that was something. It had been possible that Harse would sit tight in the hotel room and it had taken all of the persuasive powers Mooney prided himself on to get him out. But Mooney was able to paint a horrible picture of getting to the wrong place, missing the Nexus Point, seventeen long years of waiting for the next one. They crossed the Sheep Meadow, crossed the walk, crossed an old covered bridge; and they were at the head of a flight of shallow steps. "The Vale of Cashmere!" cried Mooney, as though he were announcing a miracle. Harse said nothing. Mooney licked his lips, glancing at the kit Harse carried under an arm, glancing around. No one was in sight. Mooney coughed. "Uh. You're sure this is the place you mean?" "If it is the Vale of Cashmere." Harse looked once more down the steps, then turned. "No, wait!" said Mooney frantically. "I mean--well, _where_ in the Vale of Cashmere is the Nexus Point? This is a big place!" Harse's pale eyes stared at him for a moment. "No. Not big." "Oh, _fairly_ big. After all--" Harse said positively: "Come." Mooney swore under his breath and vowed never to trust anyone again, especially a bartender's brother; but just then it happened. Out of the snowy bushes stepped a man in a red bandanna, holding a gun. "This is a stickup! Gimme that bag!" Mooney exulted. There was no chance for Harse now. The man was leaping toward him; there would be no time for him to open the bag, take out the weapon.... But he didn't have to. There was a thin, singing, whining sound from the bag. It leaped out of Harse's hand, leaped free as though it had invisible wings, and flew at the man in the red bandanna. The man stumbled and jumped aside, the eyes incredulous over the mask. The silvery flat metal kit spun round him, whining. It circled him once, spiraled up. Behind it, like a smoke trail from a destroyer, a pale blue mist streamed backward. It surrounded the man and hid him. The bag flew back into Harse's hand. The violet mist thinned and disappeared. And the man was gone, as utterly and as finally as any chambermaid or driver of a truck. There was a moment of silence. Mooney stared without belief at the snow sifting down from the bushes that the man had hid in. Harse looked opaquely at Mooney. "It seems," he said, "that in these slums are many. Dangers?" * * * * * Mooney was very quiet on the way back to the hotel. Harse, for once, was not gazing into his viewer. He sat erect and silent beside Mooney, glancing at him from time to time. Mooney did not relish the attention. The situation had deteriorated. It deteriorated even more when they entered the lobby of the hotel. The desk clerk called to Mooney. Mooney hesitated, then said to Harse: "You go ahead. I'll be up in a minute. And listen--don't forget about my knock."