Harse came down the steps, paused a yard from Mooney, scowled a withering scowl—and passed on.
He reached the bottom of the steps and joined the others waiting about the egg. They all went inside.
The glowing silvery colors winked and went out. The egg flamed purple, faded, turned transparent and disappeared.
Mooney stared and, yelling a demand for payment, ran stumbling down the steps to where it had been. There was a round thawed spot, a trampled patch—nothing else.
They were gone....
Almost gone. Because there was a sudden bright wash of flame from overhead—cold silvery flame. He looked up, dazzled. Over him, the egg was visible as thin smoke, hovering. A smoky, half-transparent hand reached out of a port. A thin, reedy voice cried: "I promised you. Pay?"
And the silvery dispatch-case sort of thing, the survival kit, dropped soundlessly to the snow beside Mooney.
When he looked up again, the egg was gone for good.
He was clear back to the hotel before he got a grip on himself—and then he was drunk with delight. Honest Harse! Splendidly trustable Harse! Why, all this time, Mooney had been so worried, had worked so hard—and the whole survival kit was his, after all!