"It's a honey, all right," said the General automatically. Actually, he was appalled--a possibly decisive weapon on sale to all and sundry for twelve dollars and eighty-six cents! Of course the intricate inner workings weren't there. But _They_ knew enough about radar and automatic cannon to be able to figure it out from the model. The General took direct action. He went to the clerk and said, "How many have you?" pointing to the subject of his question. "Neat--perfect workmanship," said the clerk, donning his selling clothes. "How many?" the General repeated. "Only the one in the case left," the clerk replied. "I just sold the last one in stock a moment ago. We've only had four delivered so far." "I'll take it," said the General in a fever of impatience. He _had_ to get it out of public view at once--although he had a sick sensation of already being too late. He recalled the Slavic appearance, the accent of the man who had made the last purchase. When the clerk had wrapped it up, and he had paid for it, the General asked to see the manager, who proved to be a pleasantly tweedy individual. He produced his card and said, "I'm afraid this man MacReedy has violated security-regulations. Where else is his stuff marketed?" The manager's expression was not friendly. He said, "Mr. MacReedy's _miniatures_ are marketed nowhere else; he has an exclusive contract with us." He evidently resented the General's gruff approach as much as the General resented not being addressed by title. _Civilians!_ the General thought. _The damned fools don't understand--they haven't the slightest idea...._ Aloud he said, "Where can I find Mr. MacReedy? I'm afraid I'm going to have to talk to him." "Uncle Angus? He lives next door. I'm going home now--I can show you." The General had forgotten the male moppet. He looked down in surprise, then up at the manager, who said, "It's quite true. This is Toby. He helps Mr. MacReedy; he's a collector himself in a small way." The General took Toby back with him to the hotel. He knew he should be burning up the wires to Washington with news of his horrendous discovery, but somehow he wanted to see it through himself--as far as he was able. Besides, there were certain puzzling facets that would scarcely look plausible in the dehydrated prose of an official report to Security. It smacked almost of the supernatural. Eyeing his small guest, who was happily and rather messily devouring a piece of French pastry, accompanied by a bottle of ginger-ale--sent up by room service--the General suppressed a chill that rose from his coccyx to his cervical vertebrae. Like most veteran men of action, the General did not decry the supernatural--such decrying was the property of armchair logicians. In the course of his long career he had seen too many things that defied logic or logical explanation. He said, "Ready to take off, Toby?"