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.
He couldn’t turn his head, but on the walls, on his chest, on his face, even on the ceiling, he could see faint moving patches of fox-fire light.
He took a deep breath. “Harse!” he started to call; wake him up, make him stop this! But he couldn’t. He got no further than the first huff of the aspirate when the scurrying cold feet were on his lips. Something cold and damp lay across them and it stuck. Like spider silk, but stronger—he couldn’t speak, couldn’t move his lips, though he almost tore the flesh.
Oh, he could make a noise, all right. He started to do so, to snort and hum through his nose. But Mooney was not slow of thought and he had a sudden clear picture of that same cold ribbon crossing his nostrils, and what would be the use of all of time’s treasures then, when it was no longer possible to breathe at all?
It was quite apparent that he was not to make a noise.
He had patience—the kind of patience that grows with a diet of thrice-used tea bags and soggy crackers. He waited.
It wasn’t the middle of the night after all, he perceived, though it was still utterly dark except for the moving blobs. He could hear sounds in the hotel corridor outside—faintly, though: the sound of a vacuum cleaner, and it might have been a city block away; the tiniest whisper of someone laughing.
He remembered one of his drunken fantasies of the night before—little robot mice, or so they seemed, spinning a curtain across the window; and he shuddered, because that had been no fantasy. The window was curtained. And it was mid-morning, at the earliest, because the chambermaids were cleaning the halls.
Why couldn’t he move? He flexed the muscles of his arms and legs, but nothing happened. He could feel the muscles straining, he could feel his toes and fingers twitch, but he was restrained by what seemed a web of Gulliver’s cords. …
There was a tap at the door. A pause, the scratching of a key, and the room was flooded with light from the hall.
Out of the straining corner of his eye, Mooney saw a woman in a gray cotton uniform, carrying fresh sheets, standing in the doorway, and her mouth was hanging slack. No wonder, for in the light from the hall, Mooney could see the room festooned with silver, with darting silvery shapes moving about. Mooney himself wore a cocoon of silver, and on the bed next to him, where Harse slept, there was a fantastic silver hood, like the basketwork of a baby’s bassinet, surrounding his head.
It was a fairyland scene and it lasted only a second. For Harse cried out and leaped to his feet. Quick as an adder, he scooped up something from the table beside his bed and gestured with it at the door. It was, Mooney half perceived, the silvery, jointed thing he had used in the truck; and he
