The proud red glow was gone and for a terrible moment Henry thought the gateway to the west had been wiped out in the night. Then he reached for his field glasses, sighted along his secret tunnel off 95th Street, out over the river, over the folded layers of laminated shale (known to the dumber guys as the Palisades) and closed his eyes.

“Good just barely afternoon, Kee-mo Sah-bee,” purred the voice in his shirt pocket, and on signal Morty smiled secretly, brushed his hand inside and without losing a heat of the packing and stacking, fondled the warm little head and whispered back “Good just barely afternoon, Kee-mo.”