SNOW WAS DRIFTING DOWN. The cab-driver glanced at the black, quiet library, shook his head and pulled away, leaving black, wet tracks in the thin snow.
The pale-eyed man looked about him irritably. “You!” he cried, waking Mooney from a dream of possessing the next ten years of stock-market reports. “You! Where is this Vale of Cashmere?”
“Right this way, Harse, right this way,” said Mooney placatingly.
There was a wide sort of traffic circle—Grand Army Plaza was the name of it—and there were a few cars going around it. But not many, and none of them looked like police cars. Mooney looked up and down the broad, quiet streets.
“Across here,” he ordered, and led the time traveler toward the edge of the park. “We can’t go in the main entrance. There might be cops.”
“Cops?”
“Policemen. Law
