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.