"Oh, well," he said, beginning to revive, "at least we're in Brooklyn now. Maybe it's just as well." "As well. What?" "I mean this is where you wanted to be. Now we just have to wait four days, until the twenty-sixth. We'll have to raise some more money, of course," he added experimentally. Harse turned and looked at him with the pale eyes. "One thousand dollars you have. Is not enough?" "Oh, no, Harse," Mooney assured him. "Why, that won't be nearly enough. The room rent in this hotel alone is likely to use that up. Besides all the extras, of course." "Ah." Harse, looking bored, sat down in the chair near Mooney, opened his kit, took out the thing that looked like a film viewer and put it to his eyes. "We'll have to sell some more of those things. After all—" Mooney winked and dug at the pale-eyed man's ribs with his elbow—"we'll be needing some, well, entertainment." Harse took the viewer away from his eyes. He glanced thoughtfully at the elbow and then at Mooney. "So," he said. Mooney coughed and changed the subject. "One thing, though," he begged. "Don't get me in any more trouble like you did in that hotel lobby—or with that guy in the truck. Please? I mean, after all, you're making it hard for me to carry out my job." Harse was thoughtfully silent. "Promise?" Mooney urged. Harse said, after some more consideration: "It is not altogether me. That is to say, it is a matter of defense. My picture should not be. Photographed? So the survival kit insures that it is not. You understand?" Mooney leaned back. "You mean—" The bellboy with the drinks interrupted him; he took the bottle, signed the chit, tipped the boy and mixed himself a reasonably stiff but not quite stupefying highball, thinking hard. "Did you say 'survival kit'?" he asked at last. Harse was deep in the viewer again, but he looked away from it irritably. "Naturally, survival kit. So that I can. Survive?" He went back to the viewer. Mooney took a long, thoughtful slug of the drink. Survival kit. Why, that made sense. When the Air
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