mething about
them."

"There's only two men there," said Scorio, "and they'll probably be
asleep. Come down with your motor dead. The lab roof is thick and the
plane landing on those thick tires won't wake them. But be on your guard
all the time. Pete and Max will go through the lockdoor into the
laboratory and open the safe. Dump all the papers and money and whatever
else you find into the bags and then get out fast. Hop into the plane
and take off. When you're clear of the building, turn the heaters on it.
I want it melted down and the men and stuff inside with it. Don't leave
even a button unmelted. Get it?"

* * * * *

"Sure, chief," said Pete. He dusted his hands together.

"Now get going. Beat it."

The four men turned and filed out of the room, through the door leading
to the tumbledown warehouse where was hidden the streamlined metal ship.
Swiftly they entered it and the ship nosed gently upward, blasting out
through a broken, frameless skylight, climbing up and up, over the
gleaming spires of New York.

Back in the room hung with steel-cloth curtains, alone, Scorio lit a
cigarette and chuckled. "They won't have a chance," he said.

"Who won't?" asked a tiny voice from almost in front of him.

"Why, Manning and Page ..." said Scorio, and then stopped. The fire of
the match burned down and scorched his fingers. He dropped it. "Who
asked that?" he roared.

"I did," said the piping voice.

Scorio looked down. A three-inch man sat on a matchbox on the desk!

"Who are you?" the gangster shouted.

"I'm Manning," said the little man. "The one you're going to kill. Don't
you remember?"

"Damn you!" shrieked Scorio. His hand flipped open a drawer and pulled
out a flame pistol. The muzzle of the pistol came up and blasted.
Screwed down to its smallest diameter, the gun's aim was deadly. A
straight lance of flame, no bigger than a 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