by Mike Crowson
* * *
Frank looked over the wall at the homes built into the ground, and thought he would leave his rucksack and bag near the wall. He dumped his things unceremoniously and wandered over for a closer look.
"They can't have been more than about four feet tall," he said to the only other visitor, a younger man in his early twenties. "Either that or they walked with a permanent stoop."
"It does rather look as if they were small by modern standards," said the other visitor. "But this part of the world is full of stories about 'little people', so I suppose it's not that unreasonable,"
The face of Alan Wainwright bore a few scars of acne on it, but was hardly the 'pimply pratt' Alicia had referred to when she lost her temper with the Professor. He was up from Stromness, a short bus ride away, and thinking about where to spend the night.
The sea was grey. The setting sun was trying to get through the quickly moving clouds and, although the rain had stopped, it was going to be a chilly night. The hotel looked inviting to Frank.
Each of the houses was built from much the same flat stones you could pick up on the beach, but shaped. Larger, flatter stones were used to form primitive furniture - shelving, a bedding area, a pit for the fire and so on.
"I'd like to get down and measure that doorway." said Frank in a tone which indicated that he might do just that.
"Are you Frank Baxter by any chance?" Alan wondered out loud.
"Yeah. You must be Alan Wainwright," answered Frank, holding out a hand that was more like a paw. "I figured I'd run into you some place along the way."
"I thought I'd see you on the ferry," said Alan shaking it, "but you must have come the other way."
"That's right," answered Frank. "Say, that hotel seems a better place to get acquainted. It's the only place around here with a light on."
"It's the only place around here," Alan said. They turned towards the lights and their suggestion of hospitality as the sun went in behind the clouds again.