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 animati