Chapter 12

Scorio snarled at the four men: “I want you to get the thing done right. I don’t want bungling. Understand?”

The bulky, flat-faced man with the scar across his cheek shuffled uneasily. “We went over it a dozen times. We know just what to do.”

He grinned at Scorio, but the grin was lopsided, more like a sneering grimace. At one time the man had failed to side-step a heat ray and it had left a neat red line drawn across the right cheek, nipped the end of the ear.

“All right, Pete,” said Scorio, glaring at the man, “your job is the heavy work, so just keep your mind on it. You’ve got the two heaters and the kit.”

Pete grinned lopsidedly again. “Yeah, my own kit. I can open anything hollow with this rig.”

“You got a real job tonight,” snarled Scorio. “Two doors and a safe. Sure you can do it?”

“Just leave it to me,” Pete growled.

“Chizzy, you’re to pilot,” Scorio snapped. “Know the coordinates?”

“Sure,” said Chizzy, “know them by heart. Do it with my eyes shut.”

“Keep your eyes open. We can’t have anything go wrong. This is too important. You swoop in at top speed and land on the roof. Stand by the controls and keep a hand on the big heater just in case of trouble. Pete, Max and Reg will go to the lockdoor. Reg will stay there with the buzzer and three drums of ammunition.”

He whirled on Reg. “You got that ammunition?”

Reg nodded emphatically. “Four drums of it,” he said. “One solid round in the gun. Another drum of solid and two explosive.”

“There’s a thousand rounds in each drum,” snapped Scorio, “but they last only a minute, so do your firing in bursts.”

“I ain’t handled buzzers all these years without knowing something about them.”

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

“Sure, chief,” said Pete. He dusted his hands together.

“Now get going. Beat it.”

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

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

“Who won’t?” asked a tiny voice from almost in front of him.

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

“I did,” said the piping voice.

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

“Who are you?” the gangster shouted.

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

“Damn you!” shrieked Scorio. His hand flipped open a drawer and pulled out a flame pistol. The muzzle of the pistol came up and blasted. Screwed down to its smallest diameter, the gun’s aim was deadly. A straight lance of flame, no bigger than a pencil, streamed out, engulfed the little man, bored into the table top. The box of matches exploded with a gush of red that was a dull flash against the blue blaze of the gun.

But the figure of the man stood within the flame! Stood there and waved an arm at Scorio. The piping voice came out of the heart of the gun’s breath.

“Maybe I’d better get a bit smaller. Make me harder to hit. More sport that way.”

Scorio’s finger lifted from the trigger. The flame snapped off. Laboriously climbing out of the still smoking furrow left in the oaken table top was Greg Manning, not more than an inch tall now.

The gangster laid the gun on the table, stepped closer, warily. With the palm of a mighty hand he swatted viciously at the little figure.

“I got you now!”

But the figure seemed to ooze upright between his fingers, calmly stepped off his hand onto the table. And now it began to grow. Watching it, Scorio saw it grow to six inches and there it stopped.

“What are you?” he breathed.

“I told you,” said the little image. “I’m Gregory Manning. The man you set out to kill. I’ve watched every move you’ve made and known everything you planned.”