Land of the Giants - The Mean City - by James Bradwell

CHAPTER ONE

On Earth you would have looked at the green and veined fruit and said it was a gooseberry. Small, green to purple, sometimes sour, elongated bulbous piece of fruit with, for want of a better word, little hairs protruding from its skin of human-like fineness. But here, away from Earth, in the Land of the Giants, it could be something else, although it looked like a gooseberry. A giant gooseberry, with its skin brown and purple in patches indicating ripeness. "OOCH," said Betty Hamilton, the beautiful hostess of Flight 703, the sub-orbital spaceliner, now stranded after a freak penetration through the Fourth Dimension. She stepped back after touching one of the gooseberry's hairs, and inspected her pricked finger. She was almost lost in the tall grass beside the huge gooseberry bush, and only one of its fruit - dragged down on a particularly heavily loaded branch - was within her reach. Steve Burton, the liner's pilot, stepped forward laughing. He had a penknife ready. "I warned you, honey. Look, let me cut you a chunk of gooseberry. But are you sure it's ripe enough?" "It looks it, Steve." "Looks it by Earth standards, you mean." "By any standards, I hope," Betty Hamilton answered. Steve Burton stepped ahead of her, the knife raised ready, but not looking up at the fruit that dangled temptingly above his head. Instead, cautiously, he looked about him, for the vegetation was thick about the bush and now that one was a midget and very small, one was vulnerable to attack from almost every type of living, walking, flying or crawling thing. Betty Hamilton touched his arm, a gesture of impatience. "Hurry up, Steve. I can't wait. Cut me a nice big juicy chunk." Steve Burton grinned. "Okay. You can taste it first." "Coward," she said with good humour. Steve Burton stepped forward, the knife lifted. He said, "Open your scarf. Let me see, we'll need seven pieces. A chunk of gooseberry a day keeps the doctor away even in the land of the giants." "It should be an apple," Betty Hamilton said. "I know. But they're too high - and they look green and sour." Steve Burton stood on his toes and jabbed the penknife at the ripest point of the gooseberry. "Doctor Burton now makes his incision," he said. For a moment, the flesh of the gooseberry, seemingly leathery, refused to yield. The fruit swayed a little. Then the sharp point of the knife made penetration and juice spurted forth like a gusher. It lightly sprayed them like spring rain, and Betty Hamilton wiped a particle of moisture from her cheek, gingerly placed it on her tongue, and tasted it thoughtfully. Then she smiled with delight. "I was right, Steve. It is gooseberry. And it's deliciously ripe and sweet." "No gooseberry here. There is only the two of us." He grimaced at his own bad crack. Betty Hamilton ignored his joke. She had her hands cupped and lifted, collecting more of the syrupy juice which now dripped off the bottom of the gooseberry. Steve Burton had the knife inserted in the fruit now and was hacking in a circle. Betty Hamilton watched the juice patter into her hands, and lifted her gaze back to the fruit. Then, as she did so, she stiffened. For a moment she was riveted to the spot with fear, and was completely speechless. Then words escaped from her contracted throat, she gave a soft, whimpering cry, and shouted: "Look out, Steve!" He looked swiftly at her and saw the direction of her gaze. She was looking at something just above the gooseberry. Betty's limbs were freed. Swiftly she stepped behind the pilot and grasped at his arm. He slowly lowered his arm, bringing the clasp-knife away from the gooseberry, and he whispered: "Stand still, Betty. And don't move. Don't breathe even. I don't think it's seen us yet." The humans did not move or speak now, for something was moving. The juice still spilled from the wounded gooseberry, oozed down the side of it and splashed with a slight pattering sound on the grass beneath it. And it was this sound and possibly the smell of the freed juice which had alerted the insect - the not 50 minute insect - which now moved in a wobbling, catch-itself-up motion towards the action. It was loathsome, at least by Human standards. It had a light green face with a sort of roughcast skin, roughcast in the sense that it was pitted and bulgy and bisected by a cobweb of lines. Its eyes were a heavy, much darker green and cloudy, which gave the impression that the insect had just been aroused from sleep. Above its flat-topped head, waving gently as it moved, were two thin wires. Burton watched them, knowing that these were the insect's RADAR scanners. Since it only showed its head at the moment, the pilot could only guess at its probable length, and the nearest Earth insect he could approximate it to would be the caterpillar, that larva of the Earth butterfly. On it came in its slow, wobbling motion, almost a shuffle, with its ugly, squat head rising and descending rhythmically. "It hasn't seen us," Steve Burton whispered from the side of his mouth, his lips hardly moving. "You see, it's half asleep." "But it's heading towards us!" Betty's grasp tightened on Steve Burton's arm. "It smells the fruit. It's looking for a drink." "Be ready with the knife." "I'm ready. Don't talk. Don't move. But when I give the word, turn and run. Run like hell." Steve Burton held the knife in his right hand, with his arm tight against his side. He could see more of the caterpillar-like insect now, the first of a series of rising and descending humps as the horrible thing motivated along the branch. Between each hump the insect's long body seemed to be gathered as if fenced in hoops. Above its head the two wires waved this way and that but they seemed to have missed the Earth-dwellers, for the caterpillar's eyes still reflected drowsiness and lethargic boredom. When it reached the bottom of the branch and was level with the puncture m the hanging gooseberry, it seemed to come away from the branch as if on invisible rails - and the front part stiffened into a sort of twanging hardness. Steve Burton noticed that it was coming away from the branch upside down and that a portion of its rear had folded itself around the branch for purchase. He calculated that fully extended the insect was three Earth feet. Three Earth feet long and its squat, ugly head, with the large disc- like eyes was inching towards them, obviously aiming at the exposed meat of the gooseberry which was only a foot above Steve's head. The pilot felt the perspiration on his face and the clamminess of his palm which grasped the handle of the clasp-knife. He wondered if they should turn and run now while the insect still had a foot to go. But already, he realised, he had left it too late. He should have barked out the order when Betty had first sighted the monstrous thing. Then it had been far away, and also freshly brought from sleep. And Steve noticed something else too. The caterpillar's mouth was open, and he saw the tongue appearing, a long, pinkish tongue, which unfolded itself like narrow stairway carpet, and when it was extended some four-inches he saw the little dart-like fangs, which formed a fringe at the end of the tongue, flicking in all directions, as if probing for a victim. Behind him, Betty Hamilton tightened her grip on him. The slowly moving head, jerking forward two paces, then seemingly back one, finally reached the fruit. And now Steve Burton was aware of something else - something which seemed to make his blood freeze in his veins. Because the Insect was extending itself upside down, the better conceivably to rifle the fruit, its eyes were closer to the Humans - in fact would be the nearest part of it to them. Now the insect's mouth was fully open - the tongue fully exposed. Steve Burton saw little triangular shaped teeth, bluey-yellow in colour, framing the mouth. The insect had aimed itself accurately. It was now in position and the tongue lifted and caught the drops of juice which still splashed down from Burton's cut in the gooseberry. The tongue stiffened and was spread like a carpet. The eyes looked into the incision - not downward at the Earth-dwellers. After a pause in which time a puddle of juice had moistened the tongue, it suddenly flicked back into the mouth, and the caterpillar-like creature made a horrible sucking sound. It reminded Steve Burton of a hungry diner noisily lapping up his soup. Satisfied that the gooseberry was sweet and succulent, the tongue reappeared and the head moved towards the hole in the fruit's fabric. That is, began to move - then stopped. With a shudder, which he could not disguise from Betty Hamilton, Steve Burton realised the reason why. The insect's eyes were no longer on the fruit. They were looking directly ahead - directly at the Earth-dwellers! Steve Burton knew it was only a matter of seconds before the creature moved closer to investigate. He knew too that it was only a matter of time before one of them - Betty or he - moved. He tightened his grip on the slippery handle of the clasp-knife, ready to strike when the insect struck.

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CHAPTER TWO

They had taken the direction in the jungle exploration because, after nightfall, they had seen the occasional glow of light in the sky to the north. But that had been surely more than an hour before. The lights appeared more frequently now and more intensely, moving apparently either right to left or left to right. Later, still pushing on, walking close together, Dan Erickson, the spaceliner's co-pilot, and Mark Wilson, one of the stranded passengers, noticed that the jungle had lost much of its density. The grass was thinner, trampled. There were wide, seemingly man-made, avenues between the trees. The ground was harder but, contrastingly, more dangerous, for they found dried cart wheel tracks which made them stumble. Then they found bottles and discarded cans. Dan Erickson made a mental note of a large cordial bottle which was slightly tilted upwards because it was resting on stones. If they had to spend the night here - which they might have to do - then a bottle would prove a safe and useful shelter. There had been no lights crossing the horizon line for some time now but both knew they were still heading the right way. And then, abruptly, they were there, coming out of short grass, which still came up beyond their knees, and finding a great expanse of concrete before them, stretching far to their right and their left. "Airfield?" Dan Erickson began to say, then stopped. No, it was no airfield - not here in the Land of the Giants, though by Earth measurements it would be considered such. "A road," Mark Wilson said. "Mmm," agreed Dan Erickson - "but going where?" "We have two choices." "A road, a wide four carriageway one, suggests there must be a city somewhere." They stood together just before the storm channel which divided the concrete plateau from the scrubland, looking both ways into the blackness. "A city," Mark Wilson mused, "possibly two cities. One to the left, one to the right." "Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Mark?" "I reckon," said the business tycoon. "If we are to find the way to get the ship out of here and back to our own dimension, we need a modern lab. We won't find it here in the woods. But in a big city, well.." Dan Erickson grunted in agreement. "You know that. I know that. So, too, does the captain. But we would have to sell it to the others." "I know. And the devil you know is better than the one you don't know." "Let's face it, Dan. We are small out here. But in a big city we'll be even smaller. There will be all sorts of dangers." "But along with them, Mark, hope." "I'm in agreement. But try selling that bill of goods to Fitzhugh." "Back me. I know the captain will go for it. That means the girls will possibly follow ....." "If they do, we needn't worry about Fitzhugh's vote." "Right, Danny," Mark Wilson said. "Hold on. I think there's something coming." They both swung and the sky over to the right reflected light. "We'd better duck down in the rain ditch, Mark." "Sure thing." They moved together to the edge. Dan Erickson brought out the torch which they had agreed should only be used in emergency because of the shortage of battery. "Look, Mark. A ledge. Just below the lip." "I see it. You go first - I'll lower you." "Okay. Easy does it." Dan Erickson perched down on the edge of the concrete and poked his legs over the lip. He turned, swinging onto his stomach, and Mark Wilson held him by his elbows. He cast a look to the right. The light was much brighter now above the trees and he judged that the vehicle could not be more than a Land of Giants mile off. Dan Erickson let go of the torch, gripped the concrete lip and gently lowered himself onto the ledge. "First throw me up the rope end," Mark Wilson said. "So we can get out quickly, if we have to." "Good idea." Erickson unwound the rope that encircled his waist and shoulders. "Coming." Wilson grasped it, switched on the torch, and swung the beam, looking for something to fasten the end to. A yard off he found a branch, lopped off and discarded, from a nearby tree. He checked that it was not rotten before fastening the rope end around it. When he returned to the lip, he felt his way back along the taut rope, the torch now safely in his pocket. It took but a minute for him to join Erickson on the ledge beneath the lip. They waited and shortly they saw headlamps bathe the road in blinding light and heard the overpowering sound of a hard pushed engine. "Quick, cover your eyes," Wilson reminded Erickson. Both Earthmen covered their eyes with their hands, for the headlamps the giants used had almost the intensity, it seemed, of an Earth searchlight. "We'll open our eyes just as the automobile passes," Erickson said. Even though they covered their eyes with their hands and then closed them they saw vivid colours, and they could feel the heat from the oncoming headlamps. The roar of the engine was so deafening that it took them long seconds to realise that the automobile was, in fact, slackening speed. It had almost stopped before they realised it. Mark Wilson was aware of it first He called urgently, "Look out, Dan. It's stopping. They must have seen us." Erickson opened his eyes and peered through his fingers before snapping them closed again. He felt pain roar through his head and he seemed to see a million stars. Then the concrete beneath their feet and behind the Earth-men seemed to shudder and rock, and a moment later they were coughing as a cloud of concrete dust engulfed them. Erickson knew what had happened. The automobile had turned off the carriageway, gone over the storm channel, and was now coming to a stop off the road. A moment later beautiful silence as the engine was cut. But the headlamps remained on and although they pointed away from the road it pained the Earthmen to watch for any length of time. But had they been seen? Was that the reason why the car had stopped? Both of them had the thought at the same time, peering down over the ledge to the rain channel bottom to check that it was dry. If they had been seen, this would be their only route of escape - down there among the debris, the concrete chips, wood kindling and discarded picnic wrappings and bottles. Erickson checked the rope. There was enough to reach almost to the floor. They might have to drop two or three feet - but they would be Earth measurements. By standing on tiptoe and by shielding their eyes they could see the giant's car without too much difficulty. It was a green and cream two seater. As they watched it, the side door came open, and a man stepped down. He was tall - even for a giant. Mark Wilson thought he would roughly correspond with an Earthman of about six-foot two inches. He was powerfully built with thick, black wavy hair and he was smiling sardonically about something. If the Earthmen had been the reason for his stopping, he certainly did not give that impression. He neither looked at nor moved towards the storm culvert. The off-side door, which neither of the watching Earthmen could see, slammed, and a moment later a beautiful blonde girl in evening clothes appeared around the side of the car and joined the dark- haired man at the boot. She seemed to be angry about something, which contrasted sharply with the man's smile - or was it really a sneer? - of pleasure. "Rod," she said waspishly, "I think you're contemptible." "I know you do, my dear." His smile broadened. "Edwin Fowler paid you the money. He carried out his side of the bargain. You have the money, now let him have the painting back. It's only worth something to him." "I know, my dear. That's why he's not having it back." "But you have the money - why?" "Because I don't like him. That's why. Interfering old fool. Why doesn't he stick to the thing he knows - science. Instead, because he is feted and famous, he thinks he is also wise enough to play politics." "So you intend to destroy the painting?" "Not destroy, my dear. Just mislay. You never know, I might be able to use it at some future time - to bargain with it for something I need." "But if you bury it out here ... well ...it will be ruined in no time. Long Range Weather predicts heavy rainfall on the way." "Only a temporary measure, Helen. Best to get it away from the city. You see, he does suspect me, and he does have powerful friends." The Earthmen could see that the girl was still angry. "I've been married to you, Rod, for five years and I still can't understand you." "I know, my dear. Which makes being married to me interesting, wouldn't you think?" She swung away from him, frustration crimsoning her features. She took a cigarette from a packet, and then she lit it with a golden cigarette lighter. She turned, watched her husband open the boot of the car, then moved further away from him. The Earthmen saw him lift out a package. It reminded them of a map which had been carefully folded and wrapped in oilskin waterproofing. He tucked it beneath his arm, and then he lifted out a short spade. Before turning away from the car, he called after his wife. "Helen, my dear. I shouldn't wander off too far. Remember the radio warnings. There are a lot of small men - and women - from some other planet hiding here somewhere." "Good. Why don't you find them? You'll get the reward. What's even better, you'll be a hero. Certainly it will help you in the next elections." He chuckled, made no reply, and walked away from the car. He stopped just beyond the derelict bough to which Mark Wilson had fastened the rope, and began to dig. It took him three minutes to bury the painting beneath shallow earth. The Earthmen heard him patting the soil back into place. And then, without warning, Erickson was snapped up, banged against the concrete wall, and came to a swinging halt just above the rim. Crazed fingers clutched quickly at the lip at the top and he wormed himself forward, despite the bright light, and folded his body across the rim. Mark Wilson reacted quickly. He realised what had happened. To disguise the burial point of the painting, the man had moved the bough a few inches to cover the freshly-turned soil. In doing so, he had dragged Erickson up. Swiftly he reached up and steadied his swinging colleague by grasping him by the knees. Erickson watched the giant return to the car and toss the spade into the boot. He banged down the lid, and returned to the side door. "Coming or staying, Helen? " he said pleasantly. The girl walked stiff-leggedly back to the automobile. She said with heavy sarcasm: "Darling, you'll never remember where you buried it." "But I will, darling," he answered sweetly. "I checked the distance from the house. That's why I chose this point to stop. It's exactly three miles." "Smart boy," she leered. "Roderick Keller for City Mayor." "It must come, sweetie. It must come. Now, will you get into the car and please shut up?" "Yes, Mister Mayor." She turned, tossed the half-smoked cigarette towards the road, and then climbed into the automobile. A moment later it backed across the storm channel, turned left along the road, and disappeared with a roar which left the Earthmen deafened for several seconds. A few minutes later they saw it coming back on the other side of the road, having made a turn somewhere further on, hurtling back to the city at something like a hundred giant m.p.h. - to the city which Roderick Keller had said was exactly three miles from this point. Mark Wilson dragged himself up onto the lip beside Dan Erickson. Almost immediately he saw the discarded cigarette. Its smoking head, as large as a brazier fire, threw light over several square yards of ground. Dan Erickson said, "Well, what do you think? That was interesting "Very." Mark Wilson was already moving. "My natural scientific instinct grips me, Dan." On his feet, he was moving towards the cigarette. "So I am curious." The co-pilot of the spaceliner followed him. They carefully avoided the heat from the burning head, coming in at the butt from halfway along it. Together they slapped their hands on the yielding paper of its side. Mark Wilson reached the tipped end first. Before Dan Erickson was aware of what he intended and could warn him, the tycoon had taken a short drinking straw from his pocket, had jammed it against the cork, and was gently sucking on it. Before Erickson could reach him, Mark Wilson gave a screech, was seemingly thrown back as if hit by an electric bolt, and finished up a yard away, on his back, his face crimson, coughing and spluttering. Dan Erickson rushed across to him. He dropped on his knees and began to pound at his friend's back. It took Mark Wilson long minutes before he was sufficiently recovered to regain his feet. Then he felt dizzy and Erickson had to hold him and walk him around in a circle. When they left ten minutes later to return to the ship with the news, Mark Wilson still complained of a headache and a dizzy feeling. So it was left to Dan Erickson to shift the freshly-turned soil, recover the painting the giant named Roderick Keller had buried - and lead the way home.

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CHAPTER THREE

With perspiration glistening on his face, with the clasp-knife slippery in his sticky hand, spaceship pilot Steve Burton knew it was only a matter of seconds before the caterpillar-like creature moved closer - and closer was only inches - to investigate Betty Hamilton and himself. His head still, his eyes lifted, he looked into the disc-shaped, black-green eyes of the monster - and the monster looked directly back at him. It was as if they were playing that schoolboy game of trying to stare each other out. Steve Burton wondered where he should strike with the knife. The head was nearest, but how did he know what was beneath that rough, crinkly papier-mâché-like skin. If there was solid bone there, his flimsy knife would make no penetration - and there would only be time to strike once. By then the caterpillar would have unrolled his ugly, pinkish tongue and stabbed at Burton with those fang-like darts which fringed it. That left the throat, which was further to reach, and the eyes. But there were two eyes, and there could only be time for one furious stab. What would the monster do when Burton thrust the clasp-knife into one of his hideous disc-like eyes? Then a voice came, punching through the rotting vegetation, a voice which was harsh, and lifted in querulous complaint. Burton easily identified the voice as Alexander Fitzhugh's. Fitzhugh was calling snappishly: "Steve? Steve? Betty Hamilton. Where in hell are you?" Burton did not attempt to call back or look round. Betty Hamilton, standing slightly behind him, still clasping his arm, seemed statue- like. Burton could feel the warmth and perspiration from her hand which still gripped his arm. They heard Fitzhugh impatiently smashing through the undergrowth, his voice lower now, complaining to somebody who had accompanied him on the search. But what worried Steve Burton was not so much that he was still there, and still calling, but the fact that he was coming in the right direction - hurrying noisily towards the spot where they were trapped. But neither approach nor call had any effect upon the caterpillar. It was as if he had heard neither, sound being beyond his ken. It still remained motionless, suspended ramrod straight in mid-air, its large, disc-shaped eyes, unblinking, looking into Steve Burton's. And Burton knew he could not hold out much longer. He knew that if he did not move, then Betty Hamilton certainly would. In any case, the increase in the sound of movement told him that Fitzhugh was heading in the right direction, probably following in the path of trampled- down vegetation the couple had made while foraging. Now Fitzhugh's voice came again, still querulous. "Steve! Betty! Where in darnation are you? Look, we've got plenty of food now back at the ship!" And then the unexpected happened. Just as Steve Burton was summoning all his strength to strike at the nearest of the monster's eyes, the thing lost interest. The mouth sagged, became a yawn. The tongue licked slowly and sleepily around the mouth. The disc-shaped eyes seemed to change colour, became foggily darker, less intelligent, disinterested. Then the body shrivelled slightly, and Steve Burton realised that the caterpillar was beginning its one, two, three and back one dance shuffle. Fitzhugh was still calling, and the Earthman, with whoever was accompanying him, was nearer. But still the caterpillar did not hear him. Back went the caterpillar, seemingly shrivelling up into nothing, back to the thick central branch of the huge gooseberry bush. Steve Burton still watched it, and he noticed a certain slowing of its actions. It was as if the giant caterpillar was returning to its rear section, which was wrapped around the bough, in a dazed, slow- motion state. Then, even more languidly it reared up and began to wrap itself, like coiled rope, about the bough until only its head - the eyes now closed, the mouth sagging in slumber - remained lifted. Slowly then, even majestically, it gently rested its ugly head across the coiled sections of its snake-like body. "Oooch! "Betty Hamilton released suppressed air from her lungs. Steve Burton relaxed. All his muscles seemed to ache. He still kept an eye on the caterpillar. He said, "Betty, go and collect Fitzhugh and whoever's with him. And tell him to shut up shouting. He'll wake up every insect in the region." "Right, Steve." She moved off quickly and quietly. Burton remembered what he had come for. He lifted the knife again, and began to cut into the ripe fruit. Soon his hands were sticky with syrupy juice and he began to stack chunky pieces of gooseberry-like fruit on Betty Hamilton's discarded scarf. Moments later Betty reappeared with Barry, the boy, and a nervous and cautious Alexander Fitzhugh. Betty Hamilton had obviously told him what had happened, for he looked frightened. "Where is it?" he said in a strange whisper. Steve Burton indicated the bough and the vividly-coloured body of the caterpillar which entwined it. Fitzhugh stepped back a pace, keeping Barry with him by placing a protective arm on the boy's shoulder. "What is it?" Fitzhugh demanded, his lips crinkled with distaste. "Your guess is as good as mine," Steve Burton said, hacking at another piece of succulent fruit. "On Earth we would call it a caterpillar. But not knowing much about the species, I couldn't tell you which family branch it belongs to." "And what's that you're cutting?" Fitzhugh asked. He attempted to look at both the coiled and disinterested insect and the fruit simultaneously. "It looks and it tastes something like a gooseberry." Fitzhugh brightened. "Oh, I like gooseberries." Then cautiously. "If they are ripe. Is it ripe?" Betty Hamilton said jokingly: "It is, Mr. Fitzhugh. It's as sweet as you are." The fat man turned quickly, looked at her doubtfully, and snapped: "This is no time for joking, no time for levity." He swung imperiously to face Steve Burton. "Look, Steve, we have got to be serious about this. You went missing and, at the same time, so did Dan Erickson. This meant that both pilots were absent from the ship at the same time. "Now, and this is important, what happens if both pilots get lost - or whatever? What will happen to the rest of us, eh? Why, why, we'll all be stranded here - lost forever," Steve Burton only grinned. "Look," Betty Hamilton snapped; "I seem to remember that you were the first one to complain earlier that you were hungry and that we were without food - and why didn't the crew do something about it like getting up and go search for some." Alexander Fitzhugh stuttered momentarily, then recovered. "I didn't tell everybody to go off - especially both the pilot and the co- pilot. And look how long they've been gone. It's nearly dark. I've been worrying myself sick about what could have happened. You've all been gone for hours." Betty Hamilton said, "We didn't find these gooseberries until we were coming back. We had no luck elsewhere." Fitzhugh smirked with triumph. "Well, I did." Even Steve Burton turned from his labours to learn what Fitzhugh had found. "We found carrots," Barry chipped in brightly. "Giant carrots growing in a field - not wild." "Cultivated carrots," Fitzhugh interrupted, annoyed that the boy had spoken. "So they must be all right - that is edible, If the giants can eat them so can we." "But what size are they? " the pilot asked "Too large to carry," said Barry. Fitzhugh said pompously, "I made a selection, chose the one I considered the finest, and we hacked off a large segment of it..." "And Valerie is cooking it in a stew back at the ship," Barry interjected. "Along with a can of bullybeef," added Fitzhugh, grimacing. "Well, my children," Steve Burton said brightly, "here is the dessert." Fitzhugh added bleakly, "All we need is cream." He sighed. "How I wish we could whizz back to Earth: With one blink, like this." He fluttered his eyelids, then glanced about him, then looked miserable because it was not a dream he was dreaming and because, as it was actuality, his wish had not come true. Barry moved forward and scooped up the ends of the scarf. "Let me carry it, sir," he said. Fitzhugh indicated the huge cavity in the side of the gooseberry. "You've certainly made a mess of that. Won't it attract all the insects?" "I suppose it will, but I can't do anything about that. In any case, the ship is a good distance away." "Not giant-wise it is," Fitzhugh frowned. Steve Burton wiped his sticky knife on the grass as best he could, then snapped it closed and pocketed it. "Let's get back," he said. The first question Fitzhugh asked Valerie Scott when they reached the ship was: "Have the other two got back yet?" "No," she replied. She was busy laying out the pieces of gooseberry in dessert plates. "See!" Fitzhugh snapped, turning on Steve Burton. "You are the captain, and I want you to be firm with Dan Erickson. He's gone off who knows where! Been gone for hours. I think we must decide that one of the pilots always remains with the ship." "They'll be back," Burton replied amiably. "Stop worrying. Now I must wash this mess off my hands before dinner." He went to the cloakroom, stripped off his shirt and washed his hands and face. Then he went to the control room and collected a fresh shirt he had hung there to dry. When he returned to the passenger section of the ship, the carrot soup had already been ladled out, and Fitzhugh, without waiting his return, was already eating. Steve Burton only grinned. "What's it like, Fitzy?" "Good!" Fitzhugh hardly paused. "Good - under the circumstances. But I've tasted better." They sat around in a circle and ate silently. They were delighted to find that the vegetable tasted what it seemed to be: carrot. Fitzhugh was way ahead of them, and was first to start on the gooseberry. "How I wish there was a pie-crust around this," he sighed, "before spooning off the first piece." "You want jam on it," Betty Hamilton said. "Gooseberry jam?" Fitzhugh smiled, in good humour. "Yes. But that will do for breakfast. On toast. With stacks of nicely- crisp toast." Because he had been the first to taste the gooseberry in any quantity, and the first to finish it Fitzhugh was the first to drop off to sleep. The boy Barry, a quick eater, and not far behind Alexander Fitzhugh, was the next. They were closely followed by Betty Hamilton, who had tasted the juice after the pilot had punctured the fruit. It was Steve Burton who suspected that the gooseberry fruit might be toxical. But even he was too late, for he was halfway through the dessert when, like flies, his companions began to fall swiftly, inexplicably, into a heavy sleep. Fitzhugh first, back to the wall, the plate still on his knees, mouth slack, snoring loudly. Then Barry, with just time to turn on his side, curl up. And then the two girls followed, dropping off almost together, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, on the settee. Even though Betty Hamilton had taken no more than one mouthful of the gooseberry fruit, he remembered that she had drunk the juice earlier. And Steve Burton remembered something else. The fearsome caterpillar had sleepily lost interest in Betty and he after lapping up some of the gooseberry juice. Then it was the gooseberry! It obviously contained some potent sleep- bringing force. He sent the plate of gooseberry spinning from his lap as he felt a tranquil, comforting numbness seep through his body. He yawned a delicious yawn. A huge, multi-coloured blanket seemed to unfold across his brain. Slowly, then more rapidly. He made only a cursory attempt to keep awake, straightening on his seat, attempting to pump power into his limbs to rise. The last thing he saw before slipping into a warm, blissful sleep, was Barry's dog lapping at the gooseberry on the plate he had hurriedly discarded. He attempted to call the animal, to warn it, but the only sound that came from his lips began as a word and finished as a yawn. Then all was blackness.

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CHAPTER FOUR

Even though they made good time by dragging the painting behind them by attaching ropes to the waterproof canvas which contained it, Mark Wilson and Dan Erickson did not reach the 703 spaceliner until dawn was breaking. They left the painting outside, and Mark Wilson was the first to enter, pushing the entry button by the door. Dan Erickson entered behind him and wondered what was amusing him, for the tycoon was chuckling. "Look at them all," he said. "All asleep - on the carpet and the chairs. Why, some of them seem to have dropped off as they were eating." "How peaceful." Erickson grinned. "Tranquillised sleep. Mmm. That's for me." He yawned. "Me too. You want to eat? I suppose they've left us some." "No. I'm too bushed." As he had talked, Wilson had moved closer to his friends. Only Alexander Fitzhugh was sleeping noisily, breathing wheezily. "Like a stuffed pig, isn't he, Dan?" Erickson chuckled. "Has a guilty conscience, no doubt." "That's funny," Mark Wilson said. "What's that?" "Well, we've made enough noise yet nobody, not even the dog, has awoken!" "Of course. And look, they seemed to have dropped off altogether - and before most of them had finished eating. Why, Betty Hamilton's hardly touched her dessert. What is it?" "Looks like a slice of honey melon." "Shall we taste a piece?" Mark Wilson said: "I'm not tasting a thing. There's something funny about this." He had reached the dog, bent down, and he began to nudge it and call it by name. But the dog did not stir. Dan Erickson tried to wake Alexander Fitzhugh. When he had no luck there, he moved on to Steve Burton, but all the pilot did was turn onto his side, sigh heavily, and sleep on. Having had no luck with the dog, Mark Wilson tried the girls. No reaction at all from Valerie Scott, but a gentle shaking of Betty Hamilton's shoulder proved more profitable. She opened her eyes momentarily, looked up at him, and said sleepily, "Go away, Mark. Let me sleep, please." Then she was off again. Dan Erickson tried Barry without success. He shrugged. "We hurry back with our news, Mark, and nobody wants to know. How do you like that?" "I don't. But what can we do about it?" "We can wait." Erickson grinned. "And while we're waiting, we can sleep too." "A good idea. But not so deeply, eh. Choose your corner, I'll choose mine. "See you later, Mark." "Sure. And if you wake up first, don't eat anything." "Right," said Erickson. He went across to the pilot's seat, sank back into its deepness, swung the seat and propped his legs up on the controls. Mark Wilson found a cushion which he dropped in a corner. Soon the gentle breathing of the new arrivals joined in the sleepy chorus of the others. It was late afternoon before they awoke - and Erickson was awake first, shocked into consciousness by his feet slipping off the controls. The noise he made awoke Mark Wilson, who blinked across at him from his pillow on the floor. Memory came to them together and both got up and looked at their companions. But nothing had changed. The rest of the stranded inmates of suborbital spaceliner 703, originally scheduled for a run between Los Angeles and London, were still blissfully asleep. Wilson checked his wristlet watch. It was two-thirty three in the afternoon. They had reached the ship just before five in the morning. Since their companions had dropped off over a meal, it was safe to assume they had been sleeping since late evening on the day before. "Okay, Dan," he said wearily, "let's try and wake them." Again they went among the sleepers. The only reaction they got from Alexander Fitzhugh was a groan, a turn, and a series of loud snores. It was not until they reached the air hostess, Betty Hamilton, that they hit pay dirt. A slight touch at her shoulder, and the attractive blue-eyed blonde was blinking up at them, at first puzzled, then softly smiling as she recognised them. "Hello," she said. She stifled a yawn. "What a restful sleep I've had. You are back then? What did you find?" "Back!" said Dan Erickson, "Betty, we've been back hours. All day. You know what time it is? It's nearly three o'clock - three o'clock in the afternoon." The girl stiffened, then sat up. She looked about her and then memory flooded back. Momentarily she looked baffled. She said: "How odd. We were sitting here, eating. Look, everybody is where they were when we sat to eat dinner. And ... and that was yesterday evening!" "It must have been something you ate," Mark Wilson said. "Now, what did you all eat?" Betty Hamilton described the events. How she and Steve Burton had discovered the giant gooseberry the incident with the horrible caterpillar who had suddenly lost interest in them and fallen asleep after eating gooseberry juice of Alexander Fitzhugh's discovery of a giant carrot, from which Valerie Scott had made a soup. They discussed the matter between themselves. The fact that the gooseberry contained some powerful sleeping potion was established by the dog. Betty Hamilton was sure that Chipper had not eaten any carrot, but the evidence that he had eaten gooseberry was before their eyes. His head was resting on the edge of a plate which contained the fruit. It seemed to be a plate of gooseberry which Steve Burton had angrily discarded on discovering he had been drugged, for he seemed to be the only one without a dish of it. While Betty Hamilton made coffee, Wilson and Erickson told her how they had found a road which was only three giant miles from a large city. They told her of the conversation they had heard between the giant couple, and also about the stolen painting they had retrieved. Mark Wilson said, "Dan and I discussed this on the way back. We agreed that despite all the dangers that might exist with people of our size going to a city, that we'd better send an expedition there right away." "In any case," Dan Erickson interrupted quickly, "it can't be much more dangerous than the jungle here. There will be hazards, of course, but a different set of them." "As long as we are always aware of this," Mark Wilson continued; "it need not be any more risky than the jungle." "And," continued Mark Wilson, "a large, modern city will give us a better opportunity to find the fuel we need to get back to the Earth dimension." Betty Hamilton poured them coffee. She said, "You'll get no objections from me. Nor, I imagine, from the captain. But it goes without saying, Mr. Fitzhugh will be against it." Wilson said irritably, "We can outvote him. Look, has anybody got any idea how long they will be asleep? I think - and I'm sure Dan agrees with me - that we should get moving on this thing right away." Betty Hamilton looked concerned. "You mean to this city?" "Exactly," said Mark Wilson. Dan Erickson, agreeing, said: "Betty, we heard this woman say that the weather bureau had predicted heavy rain on the way." Mark Wilson swung impatiently. "And we can't take a chance in being caught in that enroute, can we?" "At least here we would be safe," Betty Hamilton said. 'There are plenty of trees which can be climbed." "In the city, once we are there, there are tall buildings," Mark Wilson said. "We have a theory, or at least an idea, Betty," Dan Erickson continued with the story. "If we return the stolen painting to this scientist named Fowler..." "He will be so grateful," interrupted Mark Wilson, "that he will help us with the means to get back to Earth." "I like it," Betty Hamilton said simply. "It's certainly worth a try. But Mr. Fitzhugh will be against it. He's already complaining because the two pilots were absent from the ship at the same time. He believes that one of the pilots must be here at all times. If anything happened to both of you, he says, we will be stranded here forever." Mark Wilson said thoughtfully, "As much as I hate to agree with him, of course he's right." Dan Erickson looked disappointed. He said, "You know who everybody will decide to remain behind - me. Look, I was instrumental in discovering that this city existed. I think I ought to go, don't you, Mark?" Mark Wilson hesitated. Finally he said, "Well, I don't know. Steve is the skipper." Dan Erickson said with agitation, "And he's fast asleep. How long will that last? And when they do wake up, how long before we get started? Everything will have to be discussed and voted on." "There you have a point," said Mark Wilson. "I tasted only a little of the juice when Steve first punctured the gooseberry," Betty Hamilton said. "And I had no more than one bite at the fruit on my plate. And, let me see, I was out cold from seven yesterday until three nearly this afternoon." Erickson said, "Judging by the empty plates, most people seem to have gone through the lot. They could be out for another day." "All right, all right," Mark Wilson said impatiently, "that settles it. I'll write Steve an account of what has happened, and then we'll push off, you and I, Dan." "Now you're talking, Mark." Erickson grinned and slapped the tycoon's shoulder. "And leave me here all alone with all these snoring people!" Betty Hamilton protested. The men looked at the girl, then looked at each other. "Surely you should let me come," Betty Hamilton persisted. "It will be safer with three of us." "I don't know," Erickson said; "we are doing enough to make Steve mad already. But if you are allowed to risk your life too... well, I don't know." Mark Wilson, who was not directly answerable to the captain, said: "Why not? Let her come. She's right - there should be at least three of us. And if Steve kicks up when we get back, I'll tell him it was my idea - all of it." They had coffee. Then, while Mark Wilson typed a note to Steve Burton, Dan Erickson raided the equipment room for tools and more rope for the coming venture. They brought the trolly, made from an old sardine can, from the rear of the spaceship for the stolen painting. But before they loaded it, they opened the waterproof covering to inspect the picture. It was a lengthy and exhausting job. Erickson and Wilson got at either end then, dragging the edge, ran across the exposed ground near the spaceliner, laying out the waterproof like some huge big top tent, They had difficulty in unfolding the painting because the canvas was of thicker substance, and all three of them were sweating before it was extended. But when they had it open, they saw it was a portrait of an extremely beautiful young woman. They rested before they repacked it and loaded it on the trolly, and set out on the long journey back to the highway.

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CHAPTER FIVE

The giant named Roderick Keller had said that the city was exactly three miles from the spot where he had buried the Fowler painting of the beautiful girl. Three miles, giant-sized. "That," said Mark Wilson, "makes it about thirty miles for us." "Thirty miles!" Betty Hamilton was astonished and a little frightened by this mention of distance, "Do it in two days," Dan Erickson said cheerfully. "Unless we are smart - smart and lucky," Mark Wilson finished. They were near the highway, and already it was dark again but, because it was early evening, they saw a great deal of light on the horizon line, which denoted that many automobiles were going to and fro. They were pulling the improvised cart by ropes, and Dan Erickson observed: "Look, we'll need to be lucky and smart just to get to the city dragging this thing. Can't we hide it somewhere?" "I've already thought of it, Dan," Wilson said. "We'll hide it in the trees just before we get to the road. Okay?" "That's a weight off my mind as well as off my back." "When we make contact with the scientist Fowler, we can always get him to bring us back to collect it." "Assuming we find him, assuming he likes us, assuming he wants the portrait back," Erickson said. "You sound like Fitzhugh," Wilson said without anger. "Now that I take as an insult," Erickson answered. They both laughed. They walked on, with Betty Hamilton, torch in hand, leading the way to ensure there was no holes or obstacles. Ten minutes later she reported that the trees and vegetation were thinning out, and now the lights of highway traffic was ahead of them instead of above them. A few more yards and Mark Wilson called a halt. "I think we'll leave the portrait and the trolly here, Dan." "Right. It looks dense over there, To the left. Betty, throw a light that way." Betty Hamilton shone the torch and stepped towards a grove of bushes, "Don't get too close," Dan Erickson warned. "There'll be all sorts of living, crawling things in there - and they'll be larger than us." The girl stopped, but kept the beam of the torch pointed at the brush. Erickson and Wilson tugged the cart towards it, When they had almost reached it, they reversed it, pushing it towards the bush from the rear instead of pulling it in front. When it was almost there, they gave it a hard push, then stepped back. The cart rolled on until it hit the trunk of the bush and then came to a stop. "I hope it's daylight when we have to retrieve it," Erickson said. "So do I," Wilson replied. 'Right, on our way." They headed for the road which loomed large before them, with Betty Hamilton walking in the middle. When they reached the concrete storm channel, they turned right and walked by the rim in Indian file. It was nerve-wracking, especially for Betty Hamilton, when a car went by. The vehicle approached at what seemed to be a fantastic and unimaginable speed. Then, great metal giant that it was, it hurtled by, leaving the girl stunned and deafened. It reminded her of the London and Los Angeles airfields, of when she was walking on the tarmac and intercontinental rocket ships were landing and taking off nearby. But after twenty minutes or so, in which a score of vehicles had passed, she found that it no longer worried her much. Like Mark Wilson and Dan Erickson, she was soon carrying out the suggested drill when a car was near them. This consisted of dropping down, closing her eyes after turning her head in the opposite direction to the lights, and placing her fingers in her ears. They had been trudging along for perhaps an hour when Mark Wilson, who was in the lead, saw stationary multi-coloured lights up ahead. When they got near he could make out a pink-lettered electric sign which said DRINKS AND SNACKS. They walked on for another hour before they reached the cafe - with the sign looming before them all the time, to remind them of how hungry and thirsty they were. Mark Wilson and Dan Erickson joked about it. "I could eat a giant hamburger," Wilson said, "followed by a giant, not regular, cup of coffee." "That's what you're going to get," Erickson said; "everything there and it's not a sale gimmick - will be giant-sized, from the English muffins, through the scampi, to the end-of meal coffee." Mark Wilson said, reflectively, "You know, you are right. And you've given me an idea. Why, we're so small that nobody will notice us. I'm going to guarantee you kids something. That is that before we leave that cafe, we've eaten our fill." "Pull that one off, Mark," Erickson said, "and I'll buy you a slap-up dinner in the best Soho restaurant once we get to London." They continued on their way, and when they were near the cafe, a huge building with a car park the size of an Earth airfield, Wilson led the way off the road so that they could approach the establishment from the rear, where the lighting would not be so powerful and where, he guessed, the kitchens would be situated. They reached a white-painted fence which was strung with wire mesh to keep forest animals away, but the holes were large enough for them to squeeze through. From beyond the fence they heard clattering and the noise of giants. Wilson could visualise it. It was like any busy road side cafe across America. The kitchen sounds of dishes being washed and meals hurriedly cooked. The laughter and loud talking from the ding room by customers who had drunk too much. These were the smells too to make them aware of their hunger. Wilson went through first, then stretched the wire as far as his strength would allow him so that Betty Hamilton could make uninterrupted entry. He helped her down, and finally Erickson came through. Across the yard they could see heaped dustbins lined up on either side of a doorway. The door was open and the interior was only protected from the exterior by a bead curtain of the type Wilson had seen used in the Middle and Far East. "Follow me," he said. To give them a feeling of security he opened his clasp-knife. "And nobody must go wandering off on their own. We stick together. If we get separated, we'll meet back at the storm tunnel just beyond the fence." They crossed the yard without incident. In a giant's measure it would not be more than a dozen feet. But to the Earthmen it seemed the size of a football pitch. Wilson reached the bead curtain. He parted it slightly. The others were close behind him. The three of them peered into a huge kitchen which looked like some enormous cavity cut in the side of a mountain. A monstrous sized man in white-stained uniform was working speedily at a series of grills and ovens. They were in time to see him slap ham and eggs on a large platter and poke it through a hole - the size of a hangar door - into another room. Somebody spoke to him and his perspiring face crimsoned with anger. "Okay," he said, "so there's a party. But I've only got one pair of hands." Mark Wilson lost interest in the cook and his problems. He looked about the kitchen. And close at hand he saw several strings of frankfurter sausages dangling over the edge of a table. They looked as if they had been pre-cooked for speed, a normal practise in short order cafes. He nudged the others and pointed. The bottom sausage was about four Earth inches from the floor. "Come on," he whispered. They hurried through the bead curtains, turned sharply left and scurried beneath a chair so that the cook would not see them if he happened to look at the ground. Mark Wilson made his approach to the sausage string beneath the table. "Dan," he said, before emerging beneath the frankfurters; "off with your shirt." "Eh?" Erickson looked astonished. "Come on! We haven't got all day." Erickson shrugged. He stripped off his shirt. "Now," Wilson said, "you and Betty hold it at either end - hold it as if you aim to catch something, a little loose and sunk in the middle." They carried out his instructions. "Right, now follow me." He led them out from beneath the table and under the dangling sausages. Betty Hamilton came to a stop beside him, holding the other end of Erickson's shirt. Looking up as if she was peering up a steep, snow- covered mountain, she saw the giant - only stamping distance away, moving about hectically. She was so busy watching him, her eyes reflecting her fear, that she did not see what Mark Wilson was doing. Standing on tiptoe, Wilson began to cut a section out of the frankfurter's bottom. He went deftly around it until he had made a sizeable tear. Then he grasped the loose skin and tugged at it, while he finished the cutting. A completed roundel section of the skin came off, leaving the red-brown meat inside exposed. He signalled Erickson and Betty Hamilton. They moved beneath the sausage, and when they had the shirt beneath the meat, Wilson began to prize it loose by digging at it with the point of his clasp-knife. At first it would not move. Then it began to drop away in small pieces. Finally the sections became large lumps until it was all Erickson and Betty could do to hold up the heavily-laden shirt. "Lookout!" Wilson suddenly called. For a moment Betty Hamilton thought that she was being warned about the giant. That they had been spotted. She swung swiftly, throwing a sacred look at the giant. But the cook, unaware of them, was still excitedly and angrily slapping food on platters. And it was because she looked around that Betty Hamilton was caught. Caught not by a giant, but trapped - or almost trapped - and stifled under a fall of sausage meat. For the entire middle of the opened sausage spilled down on them - and only in a quick flash did Wilson avoid disaster by warning Erickson, who swung away. Simultaneously, Wilson grabbed at Betty Hamilton. He caught her at the waist. He placed his arms about her, lifted her, and swung for the shelter of the table. Once beneath the table, they looked back and saw a pyramid of sausage meat where they had been standing. They smiled at each other. They made a bundle of their forage, and were about to leave when Wilson spotted the cardboard box with pieces of bread crust. It was a discard bin used by the cook for the unused crusts of bread he took from loaves before making party sandwiches. Before Erickson could decide what Mark Wilson was up to and stop him, the tycoon sped off, hurrying across the football field of a kitchen swiftly and silently. He seemed to be heading straight to the box, when he suddenly veered off, as if something had caught his attention on the left. He stopped by a bin, bent, retrieved something, and then he was running at the box again, and now Erickson could see what he had picked up - it was a cocktail swivel stick. Mark Wilson did not -slacken speed. If anything he increased it. And when he was only a foot or so from the box, his companions saw him vault. He brought the swivel stick up straight, hammered the end at the ground and a fraction later he was sailing through the air. It was skilfully timed and executed. For a moment Mark Wilson was poised on the edge of the box, and then he dropped down inside and the swivel stick fell to the floor outside. It seemed to make a terrific clatter to his friends, but if the cook heard it he did not look down. Betty Hamilton turned to Erickson, looking stunned. "How - how will he be able to get out? He is trapped!" Erickson squeezed her arm in a comforting manner. He did not reveal his own doubts. They waited. A minute moved by - and then another. Above them, only three giant feet away, the cook hustled and bustled and perspired, Erickson saw it first - and the glint of steel against the dull brownness of the cardboard box. He whispered: "Look, Betty, it's okay. Mark's cutting his way out." And now Betty Hamilton saw it too. Down at the left hand side of the box at floor level, Mark Wilson was cutting a neat little door in the cardboard. When he had finished the square, he kicked the piece out and stepped through. He was grinning as he hurried towards them, carrying a hunk of French bread beneath each arm. When he reached them, he grinned triumphantly, and said, "Right, kids, what else do we need?" Betty Hamilton said anxiously: "That's enough. Let's not take any more chances." Dan Erickson agreed with her. Mark Wilson shrugged. "Okay. Back through the bead curtain.', The entire operation had only taken five minutes. Mark Wilson led the way back through the curtain. Out in the yard, he paused, as if listening for something. Then he said, "Yes, I thought I wasn't mistaken. There is a leaky tap somewhere. Sorry it's only water." He listened, identified the direction of the sound, and they followed him towards it. Against the wall they found the tap. It obviously had a faulty washer, for with measured precision a globule of water glistened beneath the faucet, took rounded shape, then dropped, giving a mighty splash. The brick surround of the drain beneath it glistened wetly. "We'll find a dry corner," Wilson said, "and eat. Afterwards, by standing on the edge of the brickwork, we can drink and wash by catching the water in our hands." Betty Hamilton hacked the bread into slices and placed the sausage meat. They sat in a semi-circle on a cardboard box munching at the sandwiches. There was plenty over - and they left it behind. "Plenty more cafes," Wilson observed, with a wolfish grin. Erickson did not look too happy when he retrieved his crinkled, slightly stained and smelling shirt. They stood on the slippery brickwork of the drain, caught at the water as it splashed down, washed themselves, then quenched their thirsts. When they had finished Mark Wilson slapped his hands dry. Then he said, "The next objective is a lift into the city." Betty Hamilton said, "What are we going to do? Stand at the kerb and show our legs?" Mark Wilson laughed too. But he added, seriously, "You know. There are a few advantages in being so small although I know neither of you will agree with me. The biggest advantage is that nobody can see us "Almost can't see us," Erickson corrected. "Okay. Almost. But it means that we don't have to ask for a lift. Follow me, I'll show you what I mean." They followed him. Instead of going back through the fence, Mark went around the side of the building to the car park in front of the cafe.

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CHAPTER SIX

Again the reminder of an Earth transcontinental airport, with a great spread of concrete tarmac, huge, over-brilliant lights which hurt their eyes. And waiting here and there, looking like gigantic inter- planetary space ships, the ordinary road vehicles of the giant race. Max Wilson stopped them by the edge of the wall. Then they crossed a flower bed and came to a stop behind a rose bush, the trunk of which was as thick as an Earth's oak tree of several hundred years of age. There were some dozen vehicles waiting in the car park. The three companions conferred beneath the rose bush. "This is my idea," said Mark Wilson. "All the people eating here possibly come from the city. We'd have to be very unlucky to get in an auto going the wrong way. What I suggest is that we wait until somebody comes out, then we belt across and get on the mudguard of their car. What do you think?" "I'm not sure," Dan Erickson said doubtfully. "They'll move much faster than we do. By the time we get there, they would have driven off." "They are having a heavy time in there," Mark Wilson indicated the building from which loud voices and laughter came, "so they won't be moving very fast." Betty Hamilton interjected, "He says hopefully." "At least," Mark Wilson replied; "we'll give it a try. If we have no luck, we can start walking the twenty-five odd miles." Reflection on that brought silence. The door opened and a man came out. They saw his huge feet first, and then he stepped off the porch, and turned off to the right. But he was walking too fast for the Earthmen to hope of catching him up. He disappeared behind some trees and five Earth minutes later they heard an engine start off and powerful headlamps made the semi-darkness look like day. It did not appear promising until after several more people had left, and then a couple came out. They were not moving too fast and, hopefully the Earth people quickly noticed, they swung towards the vehicle which was nearest to the rose bush. The couple were speaking - arguing it seemed. The man had obviously drunk too much and was in no hurry to leave the cafe. At one stage he turned, as if he intended to go back. Mark Wilson said: "I'm almost sure that must be their transport - look at the direction in which they are walking. Let's take a chance, right?" The others agreed, so all three of them started off at a run. They moved so swiftly, and the man was so hesitant, that they reached the car a split second before the couple. As they reached it, however, the man was facing on to them, slightly bent forward as if trying to reach the car for support. He saw them, at least he thought he saw something. He stopped dead in his tracks, straightened up stiffly, and pointed at the righthand rear wheel with an accusing finger. "Look, Emma," he said; "the little people." But the woman flounced past him angrily. "Stuff and nonsense!" she snapped. "I told you to stop drinking an hour ago. I'll drive!" The giant made no attempt to argue. He shrugged and laboriously extracted a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. By the time the automobile started, the three Earth people had fastened themselves to the rear bumper by ropes. They huddled close together, with Betty Hamilton in the middle, and their shirts and blouses drawn up to cover ears and faces. Mark Wilson had predicted it would be windy - windy and cold. They discovered that once again the tycoon proved himself right when the car turned from the cafe onto the highway and the speed soared to the giant-sized seventies. But at least they were on their way. Mark Wilson calculated that it was nearly half an hour before the surroundings ceased to be woodland and fields, and became streets and houses and, finally, large skyscraper buildings. There was a noticeable drop in both the speed and the icy blast of wind, and the three Earth people, from their seat on the rear bumper, looked up at houses and office blocks which towered above them like mountains. The large, canyon-like streets were deserted. Here and there they spotted a great sheet of light from a window which indicated a coffee shop was still open. Mark Wilson decided that they should drop off in the city centre rather than wait until the automobile finally stopped, in case the couple lived in the suburbs beyond. When the car halted at traffic lights near a park which was surrounded by brightly-lit theatres and hotels, the tycoon gave the word, the three Earth people slipped the knots, and managed to drop off just before the lights changed. They scurried towards the nearest pavement and grouped together in the shallower gutter. Here they met the first problem - one which was to stay with them. Getting from the kerb to the pavement. The men were head and shoulders above the kerb, but Betty Hamilton, being smaller, just came level with the rim. But they soon worked out a routine. Erickson would give Wilson a heave up, Wilson would then pull the co-pilot up. Then both, kneeling, would lift Betty Hamilton. They used this method now. Then, a natural instinctive move, they scurried for the protection of a doorway, even though nobody was coming along. Erickson put into words the issue which was uppermost in their minds. "What do we do now?" "A good question," Mark Wilson said cheerfully, peering down both ways of the street. Betty Hamilton said with amusement: "Night time and nobody about. Even so I prefer it to walking along this sidewalk in the day - hundreds of hurrying giants. Ugh!" "There's some action down on the left," said Mark; "let's go, kids." Before anybody could protest he was off; all they could do was follow him. The activity was the sale of fresh editions of the city's newspapers, and there were a cluster of men around the newsboy. When they got closer, they noticed that his pitch was outside a huge marble entrance way. "Must be the railway station," Mark Wilson observed. "Great. Just what we're looking for." He did not - for a time - clear up the mystery of why he wanted the railway. Wilson walked close to the wall, where it was dark. They walked Indian style, pressed against the wall, with Betty Hamilton looking fearfully up at the giants who were either waiting to buy or were reading newspapers. Erickson did not put his fear into words - his hope that nobody would drop a coin at that moment, bend to retrieve it, and see them. And even as he thought this, the thought seemed to be father to the action. For there was a loud gong-like sound about the news-vendor's stand, which was now just behind them as they huddled close to the wall. "Look out! " Wilson called. The huge copper disc had landed on its edge and was rolling towards them. "Back to the newspaper box! "Wilson shouted. Erickson pushed Betty Hamilton ahead of him, then he ran too. Wilson brought up the rear, looking back at the oncoming coin, which had begun to turn. For an awful moment, he wondered if it was following him. For it seemed to be. It was as tall as him, very thick, and he knew that if it fell on him, he would be seriously injured and trapped. Moreover, the dropping of the coin had immediate effect upon the men. They stepped apart or stepped forward or leaned back so that the owner could retrieve his coin. And all eyes seemed to leave newsprint and scrutinise the ground. Wilson was first behind the box, collapsing against the wall, with his lungs seemingly bursting. Then Erickson, close on Betty Hamilton's heels gave the air hostess a hard shove, which sent her sprawling against Mark Wilson - but it got them all behind the cover of the box just in time. The coin hit the wall. They could see it from where they crouched. It hit the wall hard, turned, then fell flat with a heavy clank like huge steel doors closing. A moment later a giant bent. They saw his massive fingers first, and then his enormous nose. All he had to do was look slightly to the left, and he would have seen the Earth people crouching by a loose stave in the news-vendor's box. But his only interest was the recovery of his copper coin. He gripped it and lifted it from sight, fingers like a smoothly working builder's crane. "We'll give it a minute," Mark Wilson said; "then we go." "Why do you want the railway station?" Dan Erickson asked. Mark Wilson said: "In railway stations, usually, there's everything you want. Corners to hide. Food to eat. Water to drink. And there are telephone booths." Erickson looked at Betty Hamilton. She seemed to be just as mystified. Neither of them had the time to ask Mark Wilson what he intended to do with a giant-sized telephone booth.

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CHAPTER SEVEN

Mark Wilson led them through the tall, marble portals into the huge station a minute later. Its dimensions staggered them. Way above them, glimmering like stars in the universe, were the roof lights. The trains were far off, like a mountain range across a wide expanse of flat desert. The tycoon reflected that a kind of danger was always with them - whether they were in the jungle or in a city. The dangers would be about the same percentages but they would be completely different. In the forest there would be the animals and the minute, to the giants, insects, with the smaller varieties of this huge world being the more perilous to the Earth people. There was also the fact that the giant people knew they were there and were trying to trap them. In the city the perils were mainly mechanical or human accidental. Accidental in the sense that a giant could inadvertently, and without malice, drop something upon them or even step upon them in passing. Obviously, therefore, when on the move, they would have to keep close to the walls or move along pipes and gutters where the giants were unlikely to tread. Through the huge archway and into the station, Mark Wilson led Erickson and Betty Hamilton, and as soon as they were inside, he headed for the security of the wall. Once there, he carried on along the wall, passing vending machines, shops, snack bars and saloons, the doors of which were firmly locked for the night At one stage they had to fight their way through a stack of discarded cardboard milk and fruit juice cartons - and it was just beyond this pile of refuse, where they had all emerged together, that they came - almost - face to face with the giant Erickson saw him first and warned the others. The giant was seated on the ground. His legs were sprawled wide, which would mean a long detour for the Earth people to get round him, and his back was jammed against the partition of a kiosk that jutted into the station. His head was lowered forward, his clothes were dishevelled, and his necktie was loosened, with his crumpled shirt open at the neck. At that moment, when the three of them were standing together in the open, with the white stack of cartons behind them, the man opened his eyes, looked up and saw them. Bloodshot eyes widened, unshaved mouth sagged open, tongue licked nervously through cracked, dried lips. An enormous arm lifted from his side, a hand waved floppily, and the man tried to speak, but words failed him. Meanwhile Mark Wilson, now slightly ahead of the others, wondered what to do. They could run for it in two directions, back through the heap of cartons or out into the wide expanse of station. But before he could reach a decision, the giant spoke. His hand waving in a gesture of accusation, he drooled, "You ... you ... I don't believe it .. some kind of trick ... go away." Then his head fell forward again, and he seemed to be asleep. Mark Wilson did not hesitate. He decided to carry on in the direction they were going, even if it meant passing close by the giant, well within his reach. "Hurry," he said. "Run for it." The three of them swung out from the wall, out past the long left leg and the massive, unpolished shoe, and past the jutting kiosk, leaving the man asleep behind them. As they rounded the kiosk, they came face on to another danger. This time a giant was moving slowly towards them, and stretched out before him and making a horrible scrutching sound as it scraped across the ground, was a fantastically large broom. Swuff-swuff-swuff it sounded as he rhythmically pushed it. Mark Wilson swiftly calculated. There was no time to veer out into the station and escape the elongated brush. It would reach them before they could get beyond the broom's trajectory. There was little hope either in going close to the wall, for the sweeper had the edge of the broom against it. There was no alternative. Back past the kiosk, past the sleeping giant, and a quick dive into the milk cartons. He led them back at a sprint, with behind them, becoming louder, the swuff-swuff-swuff of the broom. They entered a carton which was lying flat on its side, with the top fully open. By crouching inside, they had an uninterrupted view of the sleeping giant and the kiosk. They had just reached the carton and squatted inside, when the broom appeared. Erickson said, "What happens if he intends to sweep these up?" "Not his job," said Wilson. "He hasn't got a cart with him. He couldn't keep pushing this stack along the wall." The broom came on, making its loud smutching sound. The sweeper ignored the sleeper - that wasn't his department either - and only lightly touched the cartons near the end of the pile. There was a clatter above the three Earth people as several cartons rattled down - for the broom had disturbed the pile. One dropped over the mouth of the carton in which they sat, but rolled on again. The sound disturbed the sleeper, who opened his eyes momentarily, and then dropped off again. Then the broom, with its wielder, had passed the stack, and Mark Wilson led his friends out of the carton, back past the sleeper, and around the kiosk. A huge stretch of station platform lay before them, freshly-swept and deserted, and they made good time covering ground. When they had gone a few hundred yards, Mark Wilson spotted what he was looking for, a line of telephone booths. "This way," he said. They followed him, leaving the protection of the wall, and crossing the wide expanse of platform, feeling alone, isolated and vulnerable in its vastness. There was nowhere to escape to here; nowhere to hide. The telephone booths, silent sentinels, were lined up in military- like precision in the centre of the station's vast foyer. When they were almost there, way out in the middle, they could see beyond the booths a side entrance to the station. A large neon-lit sign flashed the word TAXI over the entrance and beyond it they could see a car, with a driver behind the wheel. The man seemed to be dozing. His vividly pink-painted cab was the only one there. On a stand beside the entrance was a telephone. The cabbie obviously hoped for one more fare before he called it a day. "Good," Mark Wilson said; "we see a phone booth, we see a taxi. I'm getting all sorts of crazy ideas." Betty Hamilton exchanged a worried and astonished stare with Dan Erickson, and then the pair had to hurry to catch up with Mark Wilson.

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CHAPTER EIGHT

Mark Wilson paced along past each of the booths, pausing only to look in each one, before he found the one he wanted. It was the fourth booth, and he was looking for one in which the telephone book had been left open on the side rest instead of resting in the upright slot. He stopped at this booth, turned and grinned at the others, and indicated the open hook on the shelf above him - way above him. So far above him it appeared to be completely beyond this reach. "All right, Dan," he said, "your department. Get us all up there." Erickson looked upwards, scratched his head. "That's a problem. It must be thirty feet." Mark Wilson gauged the distance. He nodded briskly. "Yes, you must be right." Erickson looked to the left side of the booth, away from the shelf with the book. He saw the wires running up the wall on that side. That had to be the way, for the opposite wall was bare. But it would mean going beyond thirty feet - forty almost - to the actual telephone receiver. They would have to cross that, then jump down ten feet or so to land on the book. Erickson began to unwind the rope from his shoulders and waist. He said, "It's not too difficult, Mark, but it will take time." Mark Wilson smiled. Time and the loss of it did not seem to worry him. Betty Hamilton said, "Mark, I'm puzzled. Why do you want the telephone book?" "Sorry. I should have explained before. The scientist Edwin Fowler - we must have his home address." Erickson smiled and continued to uncoil the rope. He allowed it to recoil on the floor of the booth, but made sure that it did not become entangled. Betty Hamilton smiled sheepishly. "Ask a stupid question..." Mark Wilson said, "What do you think, Dan?" Erickson said, "Alpine climb. We link together on the rope. I go first." "Good. I note the wire is pegged every three yards with metal prongs." "Yes. They look firm and they are wide enough to give us holding purchase. The routine is that I go first. When I get to the next one, I hook on and grip the rope until you join me. Then I go on again while you hold on firmly in case I fall." "Good man," said Mark Wilson. He was smiling. "You are enjoying all this, Mark," said the girl. "Aren't you?" Betty Hamilton did not reflect for long before she admitted: "Yes, I suppose I am." When he had laid out the rope, Dan Erickson fastened the first section around his shoulders and ran it round his waist and fastened it. Then he measured out three and a half yards of it, then, without speaking to her, fastened the next section around Betty Hamilton's slender waist and finished off by criss-crossing it across her shoulders. Mark, taking his cue from this, had already uncoiled the rope, paid through three yards, fixed it about his body. The rest was left loose, to dangle behind them on the climb. Dan Erickson started off. He tested the wiring first, which was a cross thread of several strands. He opened his claspknife and pushed the point through the wiring, and was pleased to discover he could divide it easily enough. He lifted his foot to the division he had made, inserted it and tried his weight. His foot slipped a few inches, but the wiring finally held. Then he was off, reaching ahead of himself with the knife, worrying a foothold in the wire, then going on. When he reached the first metal grip, he discovered that he could sit astride it, with one leg down the inside. After getting a firm grip on the rope, he tugged it, signalling Betty Hamilton to begin her climb. As she made her ascent, he coiled in the free rope. She joined him on the metal ratchet, and then it was Mark Wilson's turn. The tycoon managed it easily, walking up the wall in fact as Dan Erickson dragged on the rope, taking the weight. When Wilson joined him, hooking his leg across in the same manner, Dan Erickson started off again, climbing to the next point. It took just over a half hour before Dan Erickson reached the top, and inspected the wire, which now turned off, horizontally, to link with the telephone. He tested it with his foot, then tried it with his weight. It was springy but taut enough to take him without a dangerous sway. He waited until Mark and Betty had anchored themselves firmly on the top ratchet, and then he started off on what was virtually a tightrope walk. But since the wire was close to the wall, he could use this as a support as he crossed. He did not dare look down - the floor was far away and frightening. It took him three minutes to get across, and he did so without incident. He approached the telephone receiver where the wire finished, at the mouthpiece. There was a firm rubber support linking the wire to the receiver, and he sat on this while he inspected the machine. The best point to head for was the dialling disc, he decided. For there was nothing else to fasten the ropes to. The rest of the receiver and its base was polished plastic - and there- fore treacherously slippery and obviously dangerous. But, to reach the dialling disc, even at the fingerhole One, he would need more rope than he had. There was nothing to do but wait until Betty Hamilton and Mark Wilson were across. It was risky. For he could not plant himself sufficiently firm enough to take Betty Hamilton's weight if she slipped on the tightrope walk. It would be even more disastrous if Mark, who would be bringing up the rear, slipped after Betty Hamilton had joined him on the rubber. Erickson sat on the rubber with his legs dangling on either side. Then he beckoned Betty Hamilton to join him. She nodded, looking white and tense, spoke briefly to Mark, and stepped onto the stretched wire. Mark Wilson, still grinning happily, meanwhile anchored himself firmly so he could take the drag if Betty slipped. The girl made it quickly and easily, having regained her nerve. Erickson smiled encouragement and reached out a helping hand when she was near enough to receive it. She sat behind him, her legs straddling the rubber and her hands getting what grasp they could on it, as Mark came across. The tycoon got into slight difficulties in the middle when, because of the earlier two crossings, the wire seemed to sag suddenly. One moment it was horizontally level, then the centre fell a few inches - fell enough to make it sway. But Mark Wilson, as if expecting it, turned and placed both hands flatly against the wall, riding the swaying wire until it steadied itself. Then, with more care and at a slower pace, he came on, hand over hand against the wall. He was perspiring heavily but still grinning when he accepted Erickson's outstretched hand. Now Erickson explained the next problem; getting to the dialling disc, with its helpful finger-slots, across the marble smooth and rounded surface of the mouthpiece part of the receiver. Mark Wilson listened attentively. Finally, he said, "This is an instance where speed is called for - not the slow approach. If you attempt to creep or crawl along the receiver handle, you're committing suicide for sure." "No, there's only one way. Take a rush at it." He pointed upwards. You have to run up past the mouthpiece, along the handgrip and then, when you're about halfway across, just jump. "You jump straight down onto that flat piece, and then you can just about crawl forward and reach the disc. If memory's right, you should fetch-up at the top fingerhole. DEF or 3." He paused. "Okay, you get it? Do you want to try it? Or shall I do it?" Dan Erickson's dark features crimsoned in temper. He controlled himself. "I'm the climbing expert, Mark. I'll do it. What you say makes sense. But I'll have to discard the rope. If I slide off, I'll certainly drag you both off with me. There's not enough grip here for you to take my weight." "Nonsense," Mark Wilson countered. He was looking about him, his mind working quickly. "Not nonsense, Mark," Erickson said flatly. "Look, Dan. I've got an idea. I'll go back to that wall clip there, fasten the end of the rope - the surplus that's hanging down - to the wall clip. Then, if you miss the dial disc, you will also be okay." Erickson did not like the idea. He would be dropping too far. The rope would end before he hit the ground, but he would be left swinging about some twenty feet below. And the way he knew he would swing, he would possibly be smashed against the wall of the phone booth. But a possibility was better than a certainty when the latter meant death on the floor of the booth. There was only one problem, and that was that Erickson would be endangering his life again, and probably theirs, by going back across wire. But when Wilson mentioned this, Erickson laughed, for he had an idea. "I won't, Mark. You see, I'll do something I should have done before. I'll use the extra rope we have instead of letting it be idle." He then demonstrated how he would cross the wire. He dragged up the slack, bent, looped it under the wire, then fastened it to the rope at his belt. Thus, if he now slipped, he would be held by the loop, which would bring him to a swaying halt at the bottom. Off he went again, across the wire, moving more quickly now because he had a safety support. When he got to the metal wall grip, he unfastened the loop, made the rope end firm about the metal. He then called to Wilson to hold it tightly. Both Wilson and Betty Hamilton dragged upon it, and while they did so, Erickson walked back across, using the wire for his footing, the taut rope for his hand hold. As soon as he was back on the rubber, Erickson set off. He took off his shoes and socks, laced his shoes together and placed them about his neck, and began his climb with bare feet. The plastic mouthpiece was smooth and cold beneath his tread. He stood on the slight indentation, just above his companions, swaying for a moment, and then, gaining confidence, sprinted forward up the slight slope to the handgrip. He was in the dead centre, with the polished surface sloping away suddenly and smoothly on either side of him. He dare not look down. He dare not hesitate. He dare not think. When he was at the centre, he knew what he must do. He must turn. And when he did this, he could not afford to hesitate or break his stride in anyway. He had to be like a motor vehicle, suddenly, and easily, turning an expected corner. He saw the centre coming towards him as his eyes flickered down. Now ... now ... now. He must jump now, quickly, before it was too late. Turning as the idea flashed across his mind, he jumped - jumped with a minimal of swing, not a maximum. Looking down he saw the flat back surface of the receiver rest. A moment later his feet slapped down, and he tried to bend at the knees and found he could not. He could not bend or fall even because the plastic surface was slippery and he knew, in a blinding flash of fear, that he was skidding - like a beginner on ice - and completely out of control, unable to stop himself. For a moment he teetered on the edge. He had lifted his arms, waving them, in a frantic attempt to brake himself. Then he was off - off the edge and over, and the top of the flat roundel fingerhold dial of the telephone was flashing up towards him. Down he went. He flashed past DEF, and seeing the base of the disc below, he fought hard to bring his legs together. He did this with partial success - enough, in fact, to save himself. He came to a jarring, painful stop, winded and groaning with pain. The shock sent pain seering up through his feet and ankles. His elbows were badly grazed as he thumped the wall behind him. He smashed his face against the underneath of the dial plate in front of him, and his nose began to bleed. But if jarred and shocked, at least he was safe. He waited only long enough to recover his breath and collect his thoughts. Then he bent to his left, clawing for the neck of the first finger-slot One. It was just within his reach, and he tugged himself up and into the round hole. Then he freed the rope and tied it to the neck between One and ABC Two. Now he could stand up with safety, if he held the rope, and when he stood, the others - looking anxiously towards the dial disc - could see him, and he them. He waved, and they happily answered him. Erickson went back to the rope, untied it, and dragged the rope through the hole until it was tight between the wall ratchet and the hole. Then he wound it several times through the hole, and let the remainder dangle down through the dial disc. He could only guess, but he knew that the end now hung well below the OQ Nought at the bottom of the disc. It would be easy for them to slide down it to the end, drop to the bench below the telephone receiver, go to the end, then drop from that onto the platform containing the telephone directory. And so it was. Mark Wilson came first, hand over hand, along the rope, and joined Erickson sitting on the edge of the first dial hole. When he was across, Betty Hamilton followed. It was easy going hand over hand down the rope, dropping ten feet to the platform beneath, and minutes later the three Earth people were standing on the edge of it, looking down at the massive telephone book just below them - which was open at 'E' and which presented them with new problems.

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CHAPTER NINE

They walked up the left and thinner side of the book, ambling across the slightly slippery pages up the incline to the spine. When it became steep, Erickson charged up it, crossed the end of the page and jumped the margin, landing on the right hand page. He crouched there, and helped the others across. Because they were walking up a page of letters - addresses and telephone numbers - it felt as if they were on a Persian carpet with elaborate filigree design. "We seem to be at 'E'," Mark Wilson said. "That's a bit of luck, for we only have to turn the pages down to 'F'." Erickson said, "What do you think is the best way to do that?" "Now you have me," the tycoon answered; smiled suddenly, "but only for a moment." Betty Hamilton came up with a suggestion. "One of us should kneel at the edge of the book, at the top where the letters are. The other two should get off the book and stand just below, so that when he finds the right page, we can turn the rest of the pages over." The two men liked the idea. It was decided that Betty Hamilton should kneel at the edge of the page, and they should stand below her and help. Erickson and Wilson walked back down the book and along the shelf behind it. When they got to the other side, Betty Hamilton was already in place, lifting the edges of the pages as she sought the 'F' section. The two men stood close to the book. Meanwhile, Betty Hamilton, on her knees just below the page corner, flicked the pages up as she made her way to the 'F' section. The leaves were heavy and cumbersome, reminding Betty Hamilton of sheets of aluminium. When she had flipped five pages, she found she could not go on because of their weight. Then, with the two men lifting together, she would drop over the edge and crawl into the new place. This would be a signal for Mark Wilson to hurry along the book to the other corner, trailing his arm in the new place. With Erickson at one end, Mark at the other, they would then carry the pages across the book and let them drop on the discard side. Then the routine would begin again. They did this several times. Finally Betty Hamilton reached 'F' - 'Fa' in fact. Then it was a matter of working through the book to 'Fow'. Finally she announced with delight that she had it, and the two men peeled back the pages before hurrying back onto the book to her. They stood together further down the page, and looked up at the one Betty Hamilton indicated. It said: Fowler. Edwin (Doctor and state politician) 1841 Park Drive, Tower Heights. Telephone 01836. Also Meanham Hospital 687-9177 and Legislature House 353-80000. Mark Wilson made a note of the address and telephone number. Erickson said, "Now we have the address, how do we get there?" "We go by cab - I hope." "You must be kidding," Erickson retorted. "Get us back onto the platform beneath the receiver, Dan. I have an idea. It just might work." It was ten minutes before Erickson, perspiring freely, was back on the base beneath the receiver. Once there, and firmly in position, he was able to drag the others up, one by one. Betty Hamilton arrived first, and helped him drag Mark Wilson up. Now they stood in a circle beneath the receiver. "We are going to lift that receiver," Mark Wilson said, "and when the operator comes on, we are all going to speak together, saying the same words, and I'll tell you in a moment what we are going to say. Betty, I want you to try and speak masculine, as gruffly like a man as possible. Do you think you can manage it?" She grinned, and deepened her voice in her reply, "I can try, Mark." "Good. We will move as close to the mouthpiece side as we possibly can." They did this, and now Mark Wilson told them what they should say, and stressed that they should all speak in unison. He laid out several speeches, and designated to each a number, which he would call if it was needed. When they understood, he said, "Right. Altogether now. Heave!" The three Earth people stood together, placed their hands on the receiver above their heads, and lifted. The receiver came off the hook, swung a little. For a moment it seemed they might drop it. But they changed their positions swiftly and were able to hold it steady. It was heavy, but not unduly so. There was the loud humming sound which was like, Erickson thought, a swarm of intercontinental combat aircraft taking off at San Diego. A moment later a woman's voice sounded. It was loud like a voice coming through the loudspeaker at an airport. "Number please," she said. "Right," Mark Wilson said; "speech one." He lifted his hand, brought it down, and all three of them chanted together: "This is Dr. Edwin Fowler, of Park Drive ." "Could you please speak up," the operator said, "I can hardly hear you." The Earth people started again. This time they shouted. "This is Dr. Edwin Fowler, of Park Drive, operator. I have been trying to get through to the cab rank at the station. I wonder if you could try for me? I want a taxi sent to my house." The operator recognised the name. Fowler was obviously a celebrity and a highly respected member of the community. "Of course, doctor. Could you hold on?" Mark Wilson said to the others, "Number four." Together again, they chanted: "Well, I can't. I have something important to do. Could you contact the rank for me and ask them to send a car?" The operator was excited because she was talking to a prominent citizen. "Of course, doctor." Now Mark told his friends to chant Number two. Together they said, "Thank you." The operator's voice boomed back, "That's all right, Dr. Fowler." Now Mark Wilson signalled eight - the important number - which, if unsuccessful, would destroy all the good work they had done. He brought down his arm, and they all called out loudly: "And could you delay your call to the cabbie for half an hour. I am not quite ready for him, and he will be annoyed if he has to wait around." The operator boomed back, "Could you repeat that, doctor. I'm sorry, but I didn't quite get it. Something wrong with the line. Your voice seems to echo, become a little disjointed." The three repeated it, with Mark leading off, and the others hurrying to catch up. They were like children in a classroom learning a nursery rhyme. "Thank you, doctor," the operator said. "Incidentally, I think I'll report your line faulty." Mark Wilson now indicated two again, and all three chanted: "Thank you." Then he signalled Number twelve, and they all chorused: "Good night." The operator said good night and that she would remember to call the taxi rank in half an hour. Gently, their arms aching, their faces smiling through the perspiration, the three Earth people gently lowered the receiver back onto its prong. There was only half an hour to get back down to the floor, across the station, and to the first cab. But the line already ran between the finger holes in the dial plate beneath them and the metal wall ratchet which held the wire ladder down which they would descend. But, understandably, Dan Erickson did not want to lose the rope. He sent Betty Hamilton and Mark Wilson along the rope before returning to the wall himself. He did this by unfastening the rope, wrapping the slack about his waist and shoulders, and going back over the slippery surface of the receiver. It took some ten minutes and he collected several more bruises. Back on the rubber, he went back along the firm mouthpiece wire and joined the others on the metal clip. They then descended as they had come up, each linked to the other two by three yards of rope. They reached the ground, untied themselves, then jumped out of the booth. Mark Wilson led them back the way they came, down along the line of booths, then, beyond the last, they stopped. There were no obstacles between them and the side entrance where the taxi rank was, but Mark Wilson was horrified to see that there were no cars waiting. The station, too, was deserted. He realised what would happen. The operator would try to get a taxi in a few minutes, find no answer, and phone Fowler at home to tell him. Fowler would, of course, deny booking a cab. There was nothing else to do but follow the plan through, and hope. The three Earth people hurried across the platform to the side entrance. They were almost there when the telephone on the stand began to ring. The operator had not waited the half hour, but was allowing a good five minutes. They hurried on to the entrance, with the telephone bell ringing shrilly. Nobody came from outside to answer it, and when they got to the entrance, and peered through into the street, they saw no vehicles inside. The street was long, narrow, and dark. Mark indicated a doorway just beyond the entrance, and they went in there. To the Earth people the telephone seemed to go on ringing eternally, but by giant time it could not have been much longer than a minute. It had hardly finished, when they heard the roar of a car engine, and looking down to the right, Mark Wilson saw headlamps turn into the street. The light was so bright that he could not see anything of the vehicle behind it, but the vague outlines suggested that it was car- shaped. It came up the slight incline, and the driver applied squealing brakes at the entrance, and now Wilson could see the bright pink colour which denoted a taxi. So far so good, but how good? Wilson discussed it with Erickson. A taxi was back on the rank, but a minute or so too late to take the call to go to Park Drive. So how had the operator reacted? Would she be content to wait a few more minutes - since she had called prematurely - or would she report back to Dr. Fowler now? Mark Wilson was optimistic. He felt that she would try to get a taxi once more, on the half hour, before phoning Dr. Fowler of her lack of success. And this was what she did - a minute or so before the half hour was up. The taxi had stopped, but the driver made no attempt to get out. He switched on his car radio, pulled his peak cap down over his eyes, and made himself comfortable. The three Earth people waited. For them it was a long wait. And then the telephone went again. The taxi-driver turned, looked at it, seemed to scowl. He moved, but not hurriedly. He straightened his hat on his head, lowered the radio, then opened the door, and slid out. He did not close the door behind him, and this pleased Mark Wilson. It meant that they wouldn't have to ride on the bumper and be beaten by the wind. He did not give the signal until the giant had taken the receiver off, and then he led the way across the pavement to the automobile. Halfway across the pavement, they heard the taxi-drive speaking. "Sure, cab rank here." They were at the door when they heard the taxi-driver repeat the address into the telephone. "Sure, I know him, and the place. Dr. Fowler. Park Drive. No, I don't want the number. Like I said, I know it, ma'am. Thanks. Good night." Erickson was last into the car. Mark Wilson went first shoved from behind by the co-pilot. Then he lifted Betty Hamilton up, while Mark Wilson took her by the arms. Erickson was being pulled up himself, and Betty Hamilton was already diving under the seat, when the giant replaced the receiver. If he had looked downward as he walked back, he would have seen Erickson go over the lip of his car, with another small person dragging him onto the rubber-mat. But the giant did not look down. He muttered something. He straightened his cap, and then he walked across and climbed behind the steering wheel. The three Earth people, crouching under the seat, were nearly thrown over by the weight of the giant as he slid onto the seat above them. A moment later they were frantically putting their fingers in their ears, for the roar of the engine - so close to them - seemed about to wreck their eardrums. But they were happy. They were off. They were going to see a scientist named Dr. Edwin Fowler, who they could help by returning a treasured painting and who, possibly, could help them to return to their own dimension.

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CHAPTER TEN

They had been travelling some considerable time, which could only have been a few minutes in giant time, when the taxi slowed to a stop but the engine remained running. Mark Wilson's only problem was how they would leave the cab if the driver did not get out when they arrived at the Fowler residence, and was content to stay behind the wheel and honk his hooter. But they had not arrived yet. The driver had stopped because he had seen somebody he knew, presumably a driver of another taxi. He had let down the window, and began to speak. "Hey, Victor. How are things?" In their hiding position beneath the seat the three Earth people could not hear the reply, probably because the cab's radio was still on, playing light music. Then their driver spoke. "Yes, I heard the forecast. The betting is rain within a day. Still, who can complain? We've had a long dry spell." Later he said, "I'll make this my last trip, I think. Up to the Fowler residence. Yes, I know he is. I'll watch him." He laughed. "He won't get a chance to short-change me. You know, these darned politicians. Bye now." The car moved again. There were two more false alarms, when the taxi was stopped by traffic lights it seemed, and then it was turning onto a gravelly pathway, bumping across it at low speed before it finally came to a halt. The driver jacked open the door immediately. Above them the springs creaked as he shifted his weight. Then the door was open and they saw his legs step down onto a pebble path. They crawled to the door, watched him walk away, then holding hands, with Betty Hamilton in the middle, they leapt down onto the pathway. Wilson saw bushes fringing the drive with bright rubiginous flowers. "This way," he whispered. When they reached the encloaking safety of the bushes, they took stock of their surroundings. The house was modernistic square and a bright white against the star- bright night sky. Lights blared from every window, of which there seemed to be twelve at the front of the house. They saw the retreating back of the driver, and they saw him walk up two steps and touch something on a wide black-painted door. Then he stepped back down, placed his hands in his pocket, and they heard him gently whistling. "Come," Mark Wilson said; "let's get a little nearer. But don't come out from the flowerbeds - otherwise he might see us." The three of them moved together, hopping from the protection of one bush - which was nothing other than a giant shrub flower - to the next. The door opened before they reached their objective. But, even so, they were close enough to see and hear clearly. A neatly-dressed dapper man stepped out through the door. He wore a wine-coloured smoking jacket over a white shirt and black bow-tie. He was smoking a cigar, and had a pleasantly-round smiling face, which looked well fed. His hair was grey but closely-cropped; it stood up white and soft and silky flaxen. "Good evening," he said pleasantly, "can I help you?" The driver, obviously recognising him, said, "Good evening, Dr. Fowler. The cab you phoned for." There was a momentary pause, then, still smiling, Fowler said: "The cab I phoned for? There must be some mistake. I didn't phone - for a taxi or for anything else." "You didn't phone for a cab?" The driver seemed to stiffen. "But you did phone for one." The doctor, still smiling, spread his hands. "I assure you I did not. What would I want with a cab, my friend?" He indicated to the right. "If I wanted to go anywhere, and I don't, I have two cars. I also have a chauffeur. Also, my friend, my wife drives and I drive. I am sorry to disappoint you, but why should I need you?" The driver looked crestfallen. Then he became angry. "Look," he snapped; "you booked a cab. Either you did, or somebody in your house did. Why don't you go and check?" "My friend, I do not have to check. I already know. Nobody booked a cab from this house. You have made a mistake. What did they say when they made the call?" "Well," the driver said doubtfully, "I'm not sure. The call was passed on." "There you are, my friend. You have been given the wrong address." "But the address was not mentioned. The operator just said 'Dr. Fowler and your home on Park Drive'. She intended to give me the number but I told her I already knew the house." "My name is not unknown," Fowler said pleasantly enough. "Perhaps the operator got it wrong. Perhaps somebody asked for a cab nearby and told her it was next door or opposite Dr. Fowler's house. You see, you see how easy it is?" "Mmm," the driver said doubtfully. "I'd swear she said you asked for it." "Come in and phone," Fowler said. He indicated the open doorway. "Thanks, doctor. I'd like to do that." "By all means. It might save you an empty journey back." Dr. Fowler stepped aside to allow the driver to walk ahead of him. Mark Wilson said, "Right. Here's our chance to get into the house." He led the way, hurrying from the flowerbed onto the gravelly path, and they had caught up with him when he reached the steps. Erickson crouched down, and Mark stood on his back and reached the first step. He helped Betty Hamilton up next, and they both helped Erickson onto the step. They went through the same routine again, and then they peered together into the large, brightly-lit hallway of the Fowler residence. The floor was polished marble. The furniture, which lined the wall on either side, were rich-brown antiques. Above them on the ceiling were many-candled candelabra. A door stood open on the right and they heard a telephone bell ring once and a little later the harsh voice of the taxi driver. He seemed to be short on temper. At the end of the hallway there was a foyer with a roundel staircase going to the floors above, and Wilson saw matching leather armchairs. He indicated them: "We'll hide there. Hurry." They entered the hallway. Mark Wilson slipped almost immediately, landing on his back. "Watch it," he said, getting up and ruefully rubbing his hip, "the ground's like ice." They walked to the foyer against the left side wall. When they reached the doorway of the room which was being used to make the telephone call, they could see neither Dr. Fowler nor the driver. But as they passed it, they heard the man say, "Look, one of your operators, a girl, made the call. Could you check that she got it right. I'm out at the Fowler residence now and he says he doesn't know a thing about it." They reached the heavy brown leather armchairs and got behind them. They could no longer hear clearly what was being said - except on occasion when the taxi driver seemed to lose his temper. It seemed a long time before they saw the doctor and the driver leave the room and return to the doorway. Now Dr. Fowler seemed to have lost his temper too. For they heard him say, "Look, my friend, I have helped you all I can. I did not place the call. I am certainly not going to pay for a cab-ride to somewhere I don't want to go. "You really must control yourself. You must be philosophical about it. In life, mistakes will happen. I allowed you to use my phone. The girl thought it was me, and since it wasn't, it must be a practical joke." "It's all very suspicious to me," the driver said angrily. "And to me," Dr. Fowler said. "Look, why should I play such a foolish trick? There is a city election coming up. Why should I wish to make an enemy of you and all the other cab-drivers by playing such childish pranks? Please tell me that." "I see what you mean," the driver said grudgingly. He decided to take it philosophically. "Well, thanks for your help, doctor. No ill feelings, eh?" "Certainly not on my part, my friend. I wish you well. You never know, you might get a very handsome fare on the way back to city centre." "And pigs might fly." "Mmm," Dr. Fowler was frowning. "It occurred to me suddenly, which one of my political opponents might have done this to cause me trouble?" "You have any ideas, doctor?" the cab-driver turned suddenly. "No," Dr. Fowler said quickiy, "and without proof it would be dangerous to suggest anybody." The driver finally said: "That being the case, I'll know who to vote for at the elections. If I vote for you, doctor, I can't then vote for whoever it was who pulled this stunt?" "Why, thank you, my friend," Dr. Fowler said. He took the opportunity to shake the potential supporter's hand before they said good night and he closed the door. The three Earth people saw him pause thoughtfully in the hallway, drawing on his cigar. Then he looked up, and they heard footsteps too, on the landing high above them. "What was that all about, Eddy?" a woman asked. "Cab-driver got a call from the phone operator to come here for a fare. We just phoned the operator and she said somebody booked the cab who claimed to be me. That's all." "I see." "It looks like a practical joke - not a mistake. Possibly Rod Keller trying to get me in bad with the city's cab-drivers. There's a lot of them." "He needs watching." "Yes, my dear." Dr. Fowler grinned. "But this one went sour on him. It won't take the cabbie long, when he talks it over with the other drivers, to guess who is likely to pull such a stunt against me. I don't think any of the cab-drivers, or their friends and families, will be voting for Keller." "He still might win - unless you pull something off." "I know, my dear." Dr. Fowler showed irritation now. "I'm working at it." "Well, Eddy, I'm for bed." "I'll join you later. Still a few things I have to do." "All right. But don't over do it. It's going to be a long day tomorrow, remember." "Mmm. Good night, dear." "Good night." The Earth people saw Dr. Fowler turn into a room on the right, and they saw him leave the door ajar. There were footsteps receding above them, a door closed, and there was silence. Mark Wilson looked at the others. Perspiration shone on his face and he was smiling nervously. "I think the time has arrived - don't you? - to come out and say hello to Dr. Fowler?" Dan Erickson went to speak, to agree, but found he had lost his voice momentarily. And all Betty Hamilton could summon was a weak smile. Finding that they were all in agreement, Mark Wilson led the way from underneath the chair - towards the open door.

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CHAPTER ELEVEN

It was as if he was waiting for them, had expected them. Dr. Fowler stood with his back to the fire at the other end of the long room, and was looking directly down the floor towards them as the three Earth people crossed the threshold. Had it not been their intention to reveal themselves, they would have been seen anyway. The only thing Fowler did which betrayed surprise on his part was to stop lifting his cigar towards his mouth. Instead, he brought it down to his side, and he took a step towards them, and a soft smile creased his face. "Well, well," he said, "the little people. This is an honour. Good evening." Mark Wilson, who had elected himself spokesman, stepped forward. He said in a loud voice "Good evening, Dr. Fowler. It is an honour to meet you. May I introduce myself? I am Mark Wilson, from a planet named Earth." He turned, indicating the others. "This is Miss Betty Hamilton. She is our hostess on our sub-orbital spaceliner, Number 703. My companion is Mr. Daniel Erickson. He is the liner's co-pilot." Dr. Fowler made no attempt to move closer to them, possibly because he did not wish to frighten them. He nodded his greetings to Betty Hamilton and Dan Erickson, and he continued: "Not only a distinct honour, but something of a surprise. For the first time in my life, let me assure you, I find myself speechless - simply speechless." He took another step towards them, and there was an awkward silence between the giant scientist and the Earth people. Then he said, "But forgive me, I am forgetting myself. Do come in. You must be tired, and hungry, and thirsty, after your travelling. Look, come and sit over here." He indicated a goat's hair rug beside the fireplace and, at the same time, so as not to frighten them, moved away. "I'll sit over here, see." He moved to a settee and sat down. "Thanks," said Mark Wilson. He led the others to the carpet, and they mounted it. The long white hair came up above their knees. Dr. Fowler said, "Make yourselves comfortable - do. Let me think, what can I get you to eat and drink. Have you any ideas, Mr. Wilson?" "Er - no, not really," Mark hesitated. He looked at the others for guidance. Betty Hamilton said, "How about some milk? And biscuits. What about biscuits?" Dr. Fowler grimaced. "Surely something stronger - brandy perhaps.or something in that category?" Mark Wilson, with the painful memories still fresh of what had happened when he had taken a puff of the discarded giant cigarette end, said, "Thank you, Dr. Fowler, but I do think it will be best for us if we stick to milk." "If you insist. Pity. After all, this is something of an occasion, a rather spectacular and historical one, I might add." He got up. "I'll go and see what I can find in the kitchen." When he had left, Dan Erickson said, "Coo," and wiped the perspiration from his brow. He said, "Well, Mark, what do you think?" Wilson shrugged. Betty Hamilton had something to say. She said, "I don't like him. I don't like him, and I don't trust him." "What makes you say that?" Mark Wilson demanded. "All right, Mark," she replied; "I know it was your idea.but, well, he's too smooth. He smiles too easily. He's a politician. He calls this meeting spectacular. I'm sure he's already thinking of all the lovely publicity he will get out of it." "What publicity?" Erickson demanded. "Yes, what makes you think anybody is going to be told?" Mark asked. Erickson reminded her: "He is a scientist, Betty. He will be sympathetic, and enlightened, and on our side." "You are judging him prematurely," Mark interjected. "It's ungrateful of you. We are guests in his house." When Dr. Fowler returned, he was carrying a tray, and he found the three small people sitting in a semi-circle on the long-haired rug. He chuckled as he crossed to them and lowered the tray. "There was plenty of food in the refrigerator, my friends. The problem was in reducing it to minimal size and finding receptacles of appropriate dimensions. Some of our food, too, would be of too heavy a texture for your digestion - meat, potatoes, and such-like." Mark Wilson replied, "So, doctor, we have already discovered." "Oh." He was immediately curious. "You know there have been rumours about your arrival. Several people have gone on television and have claimed to have seen you. You have divided this state more than any other recent issue. Some authorities claim you exist, others, equally vehemently, deny it and have roughly told witnesses to stop trying to get their names in the newspapers or to take more water with it." The Earth people joined in his laughter. "And I haven't been drinking tonight," the doctor smiled; nor am I imagining this - I hope. And I've already had my name in the newspapers - and more than once." He placed the tray a few feet before them. They saw three egg-cups filled with chopped fruit salad. There was a saucer of biscuits of various shapes and assortments. There were three further egg-cups filled with a white substance they assumed to be milk. "Up in a cupboard somewhere - but I'm not quite sure where - there is a dolls house and a tea-set my daughter had when she was a very small child. If you wouldn't be insulted, my friends, I think that it would suit your requirements." "Of course we wouldn't," Mark Wilson protested. "It would seem, to me, to be the real thing." "Good. I won't fetch it yet. I will wait until my wife is sleeping." "You are very kind." Dr. Fowler took his seat back on the settee. He said, "Spoons would have been too large so, as you see, I have reduced some ordinary tooth picks." The three Earth people walked onto the tray and stood by the egg- cups. They seemed enormous, like round half barrels. There was a honed-down toothpick in each and they used these to lift the fruit. "Mmm, delicious," said Erickson, who tried the fruit first. "Texture isn't too coarse?" asked Dr. Fowler. ''No.'' The others, who had begun to eat, agreed with Erickson. Dr. Fowler said, "I take it that you must have heard about me in some way before you landed here?" "No," said Betty Hamilton, too abruptly, "we hadn't." "You hadn't?" the smile momentarily left the doctor's face. "We first heard your name mentioned a few hours ago," Mark said, chewing a piece of fruit which tasted like fresh melon. "A rather unpleasant man named Roderick Keller mentioned you." "He did?" Dr. Fowler was intrigued. "Then you have already met him?" "Seen him, not met him," said Mark. "We overheard him talking about you with somebody named Helen ." "His wife," the doctor said quickly. "But, look, this is unforgivable of me. Eat first, I insist. We will talk afterwards." While the Earth people ate, Dr. Fowler sat on the settee. The smile had left his lips. He seemed to be deeply preoccupied with his own thoughts. After they had eaten the bulk of the fruit, the two men got at each end of a biscuit, and shattered it. They then munched on pieces of this while they sipped some of the milk. When they had finished, they went and sat down, and waited. But while there was so many questions to ask Dr. Fowler about his world, and so many, they assumed, he would wish to ask about theirs, there was a momentary silence. It was as if Dr. Fowler was waiting for somebody to arrive or for something to happen. And something did happen, something the Earth people least expected to occur. Perhaps the excitement of travelling far from the spaceliner had been too much for them, for one by one - and closely following on each other - they fell off to sleep. It was Dan Erickson who awoke first, looked about him, and sat up with astonishment. He was laying on a carpet in a well-furnished lounge - not only well-furnished but of exact proportions almost of his own apartment in Los Angeles, on Earth. To his left there was an armchair, and it looked as if it was made to measure for his size. To his right, Betty Hamilton slept on a settee of normal Earth size, and on the rug beneath a standard Earth-sized fireplace, Mark Wilson seemed to be sleeping too. Erickson sprang up to prove to himself he was not dreaming. Then he hurried to Mark Wilson and shook him awake. The tycoon stretched himself, sat up, and Erickson said, "Look - look about you. It isn't a dream, Mark. We must be back on Earth." Wilson got up, and the two men paced about the room. Wilson shook himself. "Assure me I'm not dreaming, Dan." Erickson assured him by pinching his arm. Erickson laughed loudly. "It's true. Look, everything is Earth size again. We are tall men once more." "Then Dr. Fowler must have worked it?" "Possibly. Or that giant business, perhaps that was the dream - a dream we all shared in." "The others," Wilson clutched at Erickson's arm. "They will still be stranded there?" "Mmm." Wilson next said, "But where are we?" "In somebody's house, I guess, either in California or England." "Window," Mark Wilson pointed; "let's go and see." They crossed to a heavily-curtained window and looked out. The first thing they saw was a high mesh-wired fence which completely surrounded the house like some giant wall. They saw a motor car, a wheelbarrow beneath some trees, and a gardener way over by a pond. "It all looks unreal," Wilson stammered. "Those trees, for example, look as if they are made of plastic. And that gardener - he is supposed to be cutting the grass, yet he isn't moving." Erickson agreed. "And look, that's a funny kind of sky up there. More like a ceiling than sky." Mark Wilson remembered something Dr. Fowler had said before they had all passed out - no doubt drugged by sleeping tablets in the milk. "We must be in a dolls house, Dan," he whispered; "the one Dr. Fowler mentioned as having belonged to his baby daughter."

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CHAPTER TWELVE

As the three absconders were coming awake in the dolls house at the Fowler residence, the occupants of sub-orbital spaceliner 703, slightly more than thirty Earth miles away, were stirring from their drugged sleep. The boy, Barry, was first awake, and found that his dog was still sleeping beside him. He did not know it, but the animal had awoken several times and, feeling hungry and thirsty, had gone round emptying the plates of the gooseberry fruit which still remained. Barry promptly got up, yawning, but determined to remain awake, and went and washed himself with cold water. He then returned to the main cabin, and went amongst the sleepers, calling to them and shaking them awake. Fitzhugh yawned, a sleepy eye opened momentarily, then he said, irritably, "Go away, boy." "You must get up, sir," Barry said. "We are sleeping too long. I'm sure we have all been drugged in some way." That brought Alexander Fitzhugh nervously wide awake, and sitting up. "Drugged? How have we been drugged? What are you talking about, Barry?" "The time. We have slept the clock round, almost twice. Look at my day date." He held out his wrist. "It was the twelfth when we were having dinner. A Wednesday, in the evening. Now, look, it is the fourteenth - and the evening again. And, look, everybody is asleep." Fitzhugh looked sceptical until he consulted his own watch. Then his hand shot to his chin and he found confirmation in the two-day growth of beard stubble. "Good gracious, Barry. Quick, try and wake the others." He got up, staggering off to the cloakroom. Barry next awoke the commander, Steve Burton. The pilot of the spaceliner awoke readily enough. Barry showed him his wristlet watch, told him he had slept - they all had in effect - for two whole days. Steve Burton did not believe him until he checked his face. He got up, too, and hurried off to wash the sleep away and shave. It was Valerie Scott who missed Betty Hamilton after Barry had awoken her. Barry went with her to search the rest of the ship, and they met Fitzhugh and Burton in the corridor. Valerie Scott said, "Betty Hamilton is missing." There was a silence. Alexander Fitzhugh, his face a picture of gloom, said, "If we have been asleep for two whole days, why haven't the others returned?" Barry chipped in, "And what about us? Why have we been asleep two days? Who drugged us?" "That's easily explained," Burton said, "it was the gooseberry fruit which put us to sleep. I realised that just after you had all dropped off. I threw my plate onto the floor and saw your dog start lapping it up. I tried to warn him. but I couldn't move." Fitzhugh said, "It was the gooseberry?" "Yes. Remember the caterpillar. After it had sampled the juice of the gooseberry, it dropped off. Suddenly it lost interest in us, curled about a bough and went off to sleep." Fitzhugh muttered. He added, "Now you tell us." "But what could have happened to Betty?" Valerie Scott demanded. "And the others - why aren't they back?" Burton shrugged: "We'll have some refreshments and try and find out. I know the general direction they headed for." Fitzhugh turned and said fiercely, "I must forbid this. You are the only qualified pilot we have on the stranded ship now. If anything should happen to you we would never be able to get away from here. I must insist that your responsibility is to us - the ones who remain, and the safety of your spaceliner." Burton coloured with anger: "And I must insist that you stop telling me what to do. My responsibility extends to the rest of my passengers and to the missing members of my crew." "You simply cannot be permitted to go charging off in whatever direction your idle curiosity demands," Fitzhugh said primly. "I insist you do not leave the ship." "Listen," Burton replied firmly; "if I remain on this ship, we will never get back. That I can guarantee. We won't get back to Earth without fuel - and I won't find fuel without foraging, perhaps many miles, from this ship." Fitzhugh looked despondent. He had remembered the old problem which kept them stranded, which stopped them making any attempt to get back through the Time Warp to Earth. Valerie Scott, changing the subject, said, "It's unlikely that Betty Hamilton would go far without leaving some sort of note. There must be one around somewhere." "Of course there will be," said Steve Burton. "Barry, go and have a look at the control panel." There was a note. It was from Mark Wilson, not Betty Hamilton, and it was addressed to Steve Burton. Steve Burton opened it. He said, "It's from Mark, so they have been back, after all. While we slept. And, since she was awake, they took Betty Hamilton with them." "Read it aloud," Fitzhugh said impatiently, "what do they say?" Steve Burton read it to them. Mark Wilson began: "Dear Steve: By the time you are sufficiently awake to read this, we - we hope - will be guests of a Dr. Edwin Fowler, who lives in a city some three to four (giant) miles north-east of here. We discovered a road some six (earth) miles from the spaceliner - going directly to the north. "At this road we overheard a conversation between a man named Roderick Keller and a woman named Helen, who could be Keller's wife. He was burying a painting he had stolen from this Dr. Fowler, whom he described both as a scientist and a politician. "It is our mission to attempt to make contact with this Dr. Fowler, tell him the hiding place of his painting - which he undoubtedly values - and, in return, ask him to help us get back to our own dimension. Only time will show if we are successful. We will get back to you, naturally, as soon as we can. There is not much time because we overheard the Kellers talking about heavy rainfall, which has been predicted by their weather bureau. Don't know how reliable their weather men are! But we will take care. "Betty Hamilton is accompanying us. "Don't - I repeat - don't eat any more gooseberry. It contains some sleeping potion. regards from all Mark." Alexander Fitzhugh took the letter from Steve Burton, and read it again. "Well," Steve Burton said; "that solves a couple of mysteries and anxieties." "And replaces them with others," Fitzhugh growled. "He had no right to go off like that, and take Betty Hamilton, and your co-pilot with him. Haven't we enough problems? It can be very dangerous in a city - a city of giants." Burton said, "You are forgetting something. Whatever dangers they are facing, they are facing them for you - and for everybody else. This man, this doctor, can help us get back - if anybody can." "How do we know we can trust him?" Fitzhugh retorted. "We don't. But we won't know until Mark and the others make contact. Then they'll find out." Valerie Scott, who had been growing impatient with Fitzhugh, said, "I hope the captain has answered all your questions?" Fitzhugh turned away. Burton said, studying the note again, "I don't like this mention of heavy rain." "No," said Valerie Scott; "it will be heavy by their standards, not ours." "Which means a deluge." Burton managed to smile despite his concern. "Can you rustle up something to eat, Valerie? A belated breakfast." "I will see what I can find." Barry interrupted them. He came hurrying along the passage-way with fear showing on his face. The group turned to him, and Alexander Fitzhugh grasped him. "What is it, Barry?" "Yes," said Steve Burton, "what's frightened you?" Barry managed to compose himself. He said, "They are all around the entrance hatch. It must have been the gooseberry juice smell which brought them. They're sitting out there, wide-eyed and patient..." "Who are?" Steve Burton demanded. "Four or five, or even more - huge, gigantic caterpillars," Barry said.

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