pencil, streamed out, engulfed the little man, bored into the table top. The box of matches exploded with a gush of red that was a dull flash against the blue blaze of the gun.
But the figure of the man stood within the flame ! Stood there and waved an arm at Scorio. The piping voice came out of the heart of the gun’s breath.
“Maybe I’d better get a bit smaller. Make me harder to hit. More sport that way.”
Scorio’s finger lifted from the trigger. The flame snapped off. Laboriously climbing out of the still smoking furrow left in the oaken table top was Greg Manning, not more than an inch tall now.
The gangster laid the gun on the table, stepped closer, warily. With the palm of a mighty hand he swatted viciously at the little figure.
“I got you now!”
But the figure seemed to ooze upright between his fingers, calmly stepped off his hand onto the table. And now it began to grow. Watching it, Scorio saw it grow to six inches and there it stopped.
“What are you?” he breathed.
“I told you,” said the little image. “I’m Gregory Manning. The man you set out to kill. I’ve watched every move you’ve made and known everything you planned.”
“But that isn’t possible,” protested Scorio. “You’re out on the West Coast. This is some trick. I’m just seeing things.”
“You aren’t seeing anything imaginary. I’m really here, in this room with you. I could lift my finger and kill you if I wished . . . and maybe I should.”
Scorio stepped back a pace.
“But I’m not going to,” said Manning. “I have something better saved for you. Something more appropriate.”
“You can’t touch me!”
“Look,” said Manning sternly. He pointed his finger at a chair. It suddenly grew cloudy, became a wisp of trailing smoke, was gone.
The gangster backed away, eyes glued to the spot where the chair had vanished.
“Look here,” piped the little voice. Scorio jerked his head around and looked.
The chair was in Manning’s hand. A tiny chair, but the very one that had disappeared from the room a moment before.
“Watch out!” warned Manning, and heaved the chair. The tiny chair seemed to float in the air. Then with a rush it gathered speed, grew larger. In a split second it was a full-sized chair and it was hurtling straight at the gangster’s head.
With a strangled cry Scorio threw up his arms. The chair crashed into him, bowled him over.
“Now do you believe me?” demanded Manning.
Scrambling to his feet, Scorio gibbered madly, for the six-inch figure was growing. He became as large as the average man, and then much larger. His head cleared the high ceiling by scant inches. His mighty hands reached out for the gangster.
Scorio scuttled away on hands and knees, yelping with terror.
Powerful hands seemed to seize and lift him. The room was blotted out. The Earth was gone. He was in a place where there was nothing. No light, no heat, no gravitation. For one searing, blasting second he seemed to be floating in strangely suspended animation. Then with a jolt he became aware of new surroundings.
He blinked his eyes and looked around. He was in a great laboratory that hummed faintly with the suggestion of terrific power, that smelled of ozone and seemed filled with gigantic apparatus.
Two men stood in front of him.
He staggered back.
“Manning!” he gasped.
Manning grinned savagely at him. “Sit down, Scorio. You won’t have long to wait. Your boys will be along any minute now.”
* * * *
Chizzy crouched over the controls, his eyes on the navigation chart. Only the thin screech of parted air disturbed the silence of the ship. The high scream and the slow, precise snack-snack of cards as Reg and Max played a game of double solitaire with a cold, emotionless precision.
The plane was near the stratosphere, well off the traveled air lanes. It was running without lights, but the cabin bulbs were on, carefully shielded.
Pete sat in the co-pilot’s chair beside Chizzy. His
But the figure of the man stood within the flame ! Stood there and waved an arm at Scorio. The piping voice came out of the heart of the gun’s breath.
“Maybe I’d better get a bit smaller. Make me harder to hit. More sport that way.”
Scorio’s finger lifted from the trigger. The flame snapped off. Laboriously climbing out of the still smoking furrow left in the oaken table top was Greg Manning, not more than an inch tall now.
The gangster laid the gun on the table, stepped closer, warily. With the palm of a mighty hand he swatted viciously at the little figure.
“I got you now!”
But the figure seemed to ooze upright between his fingers, calmly stepped off his hand onto the table. And now it began to grow. Watching it, Scorio saw it grow to six inches and there it stopped.
“What are you?” he breathed.
“I told you,” said the little image. “I’m Gregory Manning. The man you set out to kill. I’ve watched every move you’ve made and known everything you planned.”
“But that isn’t possible,” protested Scorio. “You’re out on the West Coast. This is some trick. I’m just seeing things.”
“You aren’t seeing anything imaginary. I’m really here, in this room with you. I could lift my finger and kill you if I wished . . . and maybe I should.”
Scorio stepped back a pace.
“But I’m not going to,” said Manning. “I have something better saved for you. Something more appropriate.”
“You can’t touch me!”
“Look,” said Manning sternly. He pointed his finger at a chair. It suddenly grew cloudy, became a wisp of trailing smoke, was gone.
The gangster backed away, eyes glued to the spot where the chair had vanished.
“Look here,” piped the little voice. Scorio jerked his head around and looked.
The chair was in Manning’s hand. A tiny chair, but the very one that had disappeared from the room a moment before.
“Watch out!” warned Manning, and heaved the chair. The tiny chair seemed to float in the air. Then with a rush it gathered speed, grew larger. In a split second it was a full-sized chair and it was hurtling straight at the gangster’s head.
With a strangled cry Scorio threw up his arms. The chair crashed into him, bowled him over.
“Now do you believe me?” demanded Manning.
Scrambling to his feet, Scorio gibbered madly, for the six-inch figure was growing. He became as large as the average man, and then much larger. His head cleared the high ceiling by scant inches. His mighty hands reached out for the gangster.
Scorio scuttled away on hands and knees, yelping with terror.
Powerful hands seemed to seize and lift him. The room was blotted out. The Earth was gone. He was in a place where there was nothing. No light, no heat, no gravitation. For one searing, blasting second he seemed to be floating in strangely suspended animation. Then with a jolt he became aware of new surroundings.
He blinked his eyes and looked around. He was in a great laboratory that hummed faintly with the suggestion of terrific power, that smelled of ozone and seemed filled with gigantic apparatus.
Two men stood in front of him.
He staggered back.
“Manning!” he gasped.
Manning grinned savagely at him. “Sit down, Scorio. You won’t have long to wait. Your boys will be along any minute now.”
* * * *
Chizzy crouched over the controls, his eyes on the navigation chart. Only the thin screech of parted air disturbed the silence of the ship. The high scream and the slow, precise snack-snack of cards as Reg and Max played a game of double solitaire with a cold, emotionless precision.
The plane was near the stratosphere, well off the traveled air lanes. It was running without lights, but the cabin bulbs were on, carefully shielded.
Pete sat in the co-pilot’s chair beside Chizzy. His
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