"You'll get your chance," said the General. Damn it, he wondered, what kind of man was Angus MacReedy--if he was a man. Somehow the silent snow, the waning traffic, the oncoming twilight, combined into a sense of ominous portent. It was as if the car were standing still, while a perilous future rushed toward it. "We turn left at the next traffic light, sir," said Toby. They turned. They skirted a thinly-settled swampy area on a narrow road, against a background of scrubby pines. The sprawling metropolis might have been on some other continent, some other planet. They met only one car--a long black sedan, that slithered past them on the skiddy road-surface, missing them by inches. The house where they pulled to a halt at Toby's direction was not large. It had been put up early in the century, and its motif was that of the high-gabled Swiss chalet. Mercifully the snow gave it a touch of quaintness, almost of rightness, despite the absence of lowering alps. Toby pointed to a similar structure about a hundred yards further down the road. "That's where I live," he said. * * * * * MacReedy answered the door. He was a tall, angular man with a long, angular face--from which small blue eyes peered alertly. He wore a grey glen-plaid reefer that was buttoned wrong, a dark blue-flannel shirt and covert slacks that needed a press. He said, "Hello, Toby--you've brought company, I see." "This is General Wales," said the lad very politely. "General--Uncle Angus." The General had a ridiculous fugitive memory--"Alice, mutton--mutton, Alice." He shook hands with the model-maker. "Honored, General," said MacReedy. He ushered them into a living room, whose desk and tables and mantel were literally covered with miniature American soldiery. He said, "Sorry the place is such a mess"--picking up the morning paper from the carpet beside a worn but comfortable-looking easy-chair--"but I wasn't expecting callers. I just had to boot out some sort of a mad Russian." "_What!_" The general didn't mean to bark but couldn't help it. MacReedy grinned quietly and said, "This fellow said he was assistant military attache, or something. Offered me all kinds of money to do some work for him." "What did he look like?" the General asked. MacReedy, filling a corn-cob pipe that appeared to be near the close of its short life, paused to say, "Like nothing special--not nearly as distinguished as you, General. Blond, chunky fellow with a bit of accent. Not a lot, but enough." The General exchanged glances with Toby. He knew, without asking, that the boy was thinking the same as himself; it was the man who had bought the XT-101 model in the shop earlier that afternoon. MacReedy got his pipe going and said through a small blue cloud of smoke, "How does the exhibit look, Toby? Have they got it right?"