by Don Wilcox
The first was dressed in a black silky robe (Garritt Glasgow) and his little bird-like face was tense and drawn. His eyes flashed nervously. He seemed to be taking his directions from the other two who followed.
They were talking, now, and the black-robed one was evidently told to bring something out of the ship. When he came out again he was carrying a bulky object.
He laid the object down on the floor of the cage. Then Gret-O-Gret saw that it was another similar creature—dead.
The three living ones bent over it.
The second of the three must be a female, Gret-O-Gret decided, for her form was softly curved. Her face was smooth and pretty and her brown hair hung to her shoulders. She wore bright colors—green and tan. Gret-O-Gret thought her a very dainty, fragile thing. He could catch the thin metallic notes of her voice. Again he sensed the tension among these little people.
The female kept close to the third member of the trio. He was the tallest and broadest of them and unquestionably the leader.
“How proud!” Gret-O-Gret said to himself, admiring the square shoulders, the high head, and the air of authority in the man’s bearing. He was dressed in a trim tan outfit. Above his high forehead the flowing locks of hair gave him a princely appearance.
This one had given another order and the nervous little man whirled about in his black robe. He went back into the ship and carried out another object—another dead companion!
The two corpses were laid out side by side on the cage floor.
The smaller man, obeying another order, brought white sheets of cloth from the ship and spread them over the two bodies. Frequently the glances from the three living ones shot toward Gret-O-Gret, as if to question his reaction to their ritual. He watched without moving. Now the three stood with heads bowed, and the leader’s low voice sounded with many words. Once the nervous little man turned, flung his hands to his face, and started to walk away. But the leader barked at him and he swished back to the circle and stood like a statue.
“A strange funeral service,” Gret-O-Gret thought. “They are putting away two dead companions. I’ll have to help them find a suitable resting place.”
Then Gret-O-Gret’s great heart began to bleed for his tiny friends.
“These deaths were my doing,” he thought. “I must have crushed them when I seized their ship. Too bad.”
He put his eye glasses aside and folded his upper arms over his face.
“How can I ever make up to them for their loss?”
Gret-O-Gret was deep in thought when the visitor’s signal rang and his cousin, Mox-O-Mox, came in.
It was a bad evening after that. Of all his relatives, Gret liked Mox-O-Mox the least. Gret’s first impulse was to hide his newly found treasures. But there wasn’t time.
“I found them,” Gret-O-Gret explained with embarrassment. “No, don’t touch them, Mox. Let them alone. You don’t understand them.”
Already, Gret knew, his own understanding of these little other world creatures was deep beyond Mox’s comprehension. Mox was a man of much greed and no sympathy.
Mox studied them awhile in silence. Then, “Give me one of them.”
“Certainly not.”
“I need one to carry in my shoulder packet. My friends will be amused.” Gret answered with a negative gesture and turned the subject. Before Mox left late that night he mentioned the matter again.
“If you won’t give me one—very well, I’ll buy one.”
“They’re not for sale.”
Mox cursed. “Then I’ll win them from you in a game of Zanops.”
“You know I never gamble.”
Outside the door Mox-O-Mox turned back angrily. “You’re a stingy one, Gret. But I’ll have one of those playthings yet. I’ll get one.”
Many days passed before the three earth people were to see Mox-O-Mox again.
The days were not ordinary days. They were almost week-long days by earth standards, and this complicated the many problems that beset the earth folks in adjusting themselves to their life with a giant.
The giant was trying to be a kind and gracious host. There was no question about that. Some of his kindnesses were so gigantic that they were amusing.
He understood that they needed water, so he set before them an open tank of water that would have been suitable for a hundred horses.
He sprinkled pieces of cake on the cage floor as large as automobiles.
However, he was more practical when he devised commodious living quarters for them only as large as a racing stable—only a little too roomy for comfort, Katherine thought, considering the fact that one of their trio was a cold-blooded murderer. The house sat high on one of the giant’s shelves—a perfect safeguard against escape. Its glass roof was removable, so that the giant had no trouble reaching in and gathering them up in his fingers whenever he wanted them.
“Anyway he gave us privacy from Glasgow,” Paul observed, for the house contained certain separate compartments that could be locked from the inside.
Quite naturally, Garritt Glasgow was the Kellers’ worst problem. They mourned the loss of their friends, Lane and Siddell. From the porch of their shelf-hung house they could look out through the vast barn-like room to a gigantic potted plant outside the window, in whose earth their ill-fated friends had been buried.
They likewise mourned the loss of the other ship. It was demoralizing to Paul Keller’s high spirits that his expedition should have met such complete ruin.
“But there is still a chance that we might get back to the earth,” Katherine would say. “These giants have space ships.”
“I can’t imagine a ship big enough to hold our genial host.”
“I tell you I saw one. It was as big as a mountain, but mountains don’t fly. And it wasn’t a cloud.”
Later, Paul Keller saw such sights for himself.
He saw cities and bridges and highways and water towers and trains of open cars—all built to the colossal scale of Mogo men.
He and Katherine huddled in one corner of a flimsy sack, slung over the giant’s shoulder, and peered out through the loosely woven fabric to see the strange world of giants. Glasgow was there, too, edging as close to them as he dared.
“What enormous towers,” Glasgow said. “They appear to be made of glass.”
“Yes,” said Paul. Katherine said nothing. “Did you notice the fantastic pattern of lights and shadows in the streets?” Glasgow asked. “With three suns—and buildings of glass . . .”
“It’s a giant’s wonderland,” Paul said.
Katherine said nothing. That was how it went among the three of them. Glasgow was outdoing himself to be the friendly, jovial companion, as if to erase their memory of his crimes. Paul was civil to him, seemingly trusting him, as if confident that Glasgow wouldn’t dare make a false move.
But Katherine was icy, and seemed to be carrying invisible pistols in both hands. She seldom spoke, except when the great rumbling voice of one of the giants sounded. She was beginning to learn the Mogo language. Mogo words were exciting. Especially the words of their own host, whose name they had learned to be Gret-O-Gret.
“He is trying to talk to us,” Paul would say.
“He’s trying to talk to you,” Katherine corrected. “You’re the one he likes.”
It was strange, Paul thought, that the giant should make any distinction among his three midgets, yet it did seem to Paul that some of the more obvious favors had come his way. His wife taunted him because he was so slow to catch Gret-O-Gret’s meanings. “M-A-Z-Z . . . K-O-L-L-M . . . RE-E-E . . . M-A-Z-Z!”
It was a low, breathy roar, and from the wide spread of Gret-O-Gret’s mouth, Paul knew he was trying to say something friendly.
“Get it?” said Katherine. “He says we’re going visiting.”
Paul wondered. Maybe Katherine wasn’t bluffing. Maybe she was beginning to understand. He glanced at Glasgow. That scoundrel assumed a wise expression, as if he, too, were catching the drift. It stung Paul. Fo
r all Katherine’s hatred of Glasgow, there was danger that little things like this would knit a bond between them. Paul was slow. He couldn’t help being slow. Again he drew a determined breath. He must try harder to catch Gret-O-Gret’s meanings.
It was at once thrilling and dizzy, being carried along swiftly, four thousand feet above the ground, clinging to the loose weave of the cloth bag. These excursions were a part of Gret’s treat to his little guests. He was showing them his world.
“Don’t look down,” Glasgow said. “It’s dizzier than a parachute.” Nobody answered him.
Gret-O-Gret took long strides, his four legs working in easy rhythm. Whirling clouds of dust hovered over each foot track. Paul glanced back over the trail and tried to imagine what it must feel like, stepping over the countryside in quarter-mile strides.
A thunderous shout rolled up through the hills. Paul looked back to see that another Mogo man was over-taking them.
The new giant’s roar was unfriendly. Paul recognized the visitors who had come into Gret’s home and shouted across the glass table on that first dreadful night.
Gret stopped. The landscape seemed to be still whirling, as the cloth sack swung idly. Katherine clung to Paul’s arms. “We’re in a bad spot.”
“What are they saying?”
“I can’t tell,” Katherine said, “but I know it’s trouble.”
“No, Mox,” Gret-O-Gret said coolly. “I wouldn’t let you or anyone else have these little creatures for pets. They’re not pets. They’re people. They’re not as large as us, but for all we know they may be as intelligent. They may even be as powerful.”
Mox-O-Mox gave a mighty laugh. Then his great brown face reddened with anger and he pressed his four fists against his shaggy sides. It had been a mistake ever to show him, Gret knew. Mox was so envious and his feelings were so sharp. Now he was going into a burst of bad temper.
“Are you trying to tell me that those little insects are as smart as I am?”
“I didn’t say that. But I do say they’re smart enough to deserve our respect. I need to know them better—and I intend to.”
Mox cooled a little. He began to ply Gret with questions, and Gret felt obliged to say more. He glanced down at his little guests, wondering whether they could understand any of his talk. They were looking up at him, apparently listening with interest, perhaps looking to him for protection.
“I’ve discovered,” said Gret-O-Gret, “that they came from another system of planets. The charts from their flying boat are quite revealing under the microscope. I’ve studied them for many hours. At last I know the direction they came from. I know the distance. I know the very planet.”
Gret folded his upper arms. Anyone but Mox would have appreciated his understanding and sympathy for the little creatures. He had made a good case for them. Any reasonable Mogo would have been open-eyed with respect for them. But Gret saw at once that he had spoken too freely. His words brought a dangerous smile from Mox.
“Lend your pets to me.”
Gret stiffened, too outraged to answer.
“If you won’t lend them,” Mox said, “I’ll take them by force.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Are you sure?”
Mox crouched forward and swung an upper arm at the cloth sack, at the same time uncoiling his “fingers of fingers.” Gret drew back. But the claw-like fingers caught the side of the sack and tore it.
Gret caught a glimpse of the creatures falling. Mox was swinging a fist at his jaw, and the little people were falling into the cloud of dust.
Gret swung a lower arm through a swift arc, fingers-of-fingers outstretched, trying to catch them. But Mox’s blow had already staggered him.
He lost balance and began to fall backward. His tiny guests would drop four thousand feet through the roiling dust clouds and be stamped underfoot.
CHAPTER IV
The fighting giants never knew that they served as a battleground for a far more deadly fight. The little creatures, who had been lost in the fall, were fighting as they went down.
Paul Keller’s wits were a quick jump ahead, for once. He and Katherine and Garritt Glasgow were falling like three drops of water out of the same spigot. Down through the cloud of dust there appeared wide streaks of orange. That was Gret-O-Gret’s sash.
He was Paul’s one hope as he fell.
The giant’s body swung forward a trifle. One of his great arms swooped down as if to catch his falling guests, but the dust had engulfed them. The great arm missed.
However, the vast folds of orange cloth were there, all at once, breaking their fall. That was Gret-O-Gret’s midsection. They were still more than two thousand feet above the ground.
Katherine slid against the soft orange surfaces and suddenly caught on.
Paul saw, and his hopes leaped. His arms burned as he slid over the warp and woof, and then his hands caught and clung. His body slipped into a fold of the sash that gave him footing. He chased along the orange path—a ledge that often broke under his weight. Katherine was only a few feet away, clinging for dear life. She was almost above him. He looked up to see her slip her arm through the weave for a sure grip.
Then Glasgow came tumbling down over the surface toward Katherine. He snatched at her arms, missed, caught her by the feet. Paul saw the light of terror in his eyes as he glanced downward.
Katherine’s body jerked convulsively. She tried to kick free. A fold of the sash sagged, and all three of them slipped downward, clinging for dear life.
“Let her go,” Paul yelled. His voice was lost in the uproar.
“Help me! In the name of God—” Glasgow’s false wail was awful to hear, but Paul saw the murderous look in his eye. Hanging to Katherine’s feet with one arm, he seemed to be reaching to Paul. His hand was folded back and there was something in it. As Paul edged closer he saw the knife.
“Let her go!” Paul shouted. But his command went flat. Glasgow was swinging at him. The blade flashed an arc through the dense air. Paul’s free hand struck out to meet it. He caught Glasgow’s wrist and they struggled. He felt the cold steel slit a path along his forearm.
So the traitor had managed to keep a hidden weapon, waiting for a moment like this! That Was all Paul could think of while he fought.
Katherine was screaming, “Let go, Glasgow, or I’ll fall! I’m slipping! Let go!”
The tug on her wrist must have been unbearable, with Glasgow twisting and writhing. She tried in vain to kick free.
The blood streaked down into Paul’s shirt and he saw a smear of red painted across the orange of the giant’s sash. Now he held Glasgow in a deadlock. But suddenly the great heaving body of the giant lurched to one side. Paul scrambled to hold fast. All his advantages were torn away from him. He started to fall. His foot caught in the weave of the goods. Again he found support and struggled to bring himself upright. He looked up. Glasgow’s treacherous face gleamed in anticipation of triumph. The traitor was still swinging from Katherine’s feet. . . swinging toward Paul with the knife ready.
Katherine writhed, screaming that she was going to drop. She and Glasgow would both fall to their deaths if he didn’t throw away his knife.
Glasgow hurled back an insulting taunt as he tried to swing closer to Paul. “Stop your pretense, woman. You don’t have to save your husband. Don’t worry. I’ll make quick work of him . . .”
“I’m letting go!”
“Don’t!” Paul cried. Like a trapeze artist he suddenly swung his body upward. His legs cut an arc toward Glasgow. The kick landed on the spine. Then Paul ducked, for the knife had slipped out of distended fingers and was falling. Falling toward him, flashing its threat of death.
Only the movement of Gret-O-Gret’s body saved Paul in that moment. He was jerked aside, and the knife plummeted harmlessly down through the cloud of dust.
Garritt Glasgow was clawing frantically for a new hold on the sash. The blow on his back had released his iron grip. For an instant Paul was sure he would fa
ll to his death.
The capricious surfaces to which the three earth people were clinging were at once moving downward. The giant Gret-O-Gret was falling backward, down and down and down . . .
The great mounds of elastic flesh cushioned the fall for the tiny earth men. The huge body shuddered and came to a stop. Gret-O-Gret had been felled, and the voice of Mox-O-Mox boomed his mocking triumph.
The three earth people instantly slipped into the dark, deep folds of the orange sash. Paul caught his wife’s hand and pressed it as they scurried on through the orange dimness. If he lived to be a thousand years old, Paul knew he would never forget Katherine’s loyalty of this hour.
“He went this way,” Katherine was saying. “Come on, you’ve got to kill him. You can’t let him live another minute . . . Why Paul, there’s blood all over your shirt!”
The fight between the giants was unfair from the start. Not because Mox was a man of far greater physical prowess than his cousin. Rather, because Gret-O-Gret was trying to protect his little friends. Were they being trampled underfoot? Mox gave him no chance to rescue them.
Presently Gret-O-Gret was down on the ground, clutching his head in bewilderment. He began to mumble, not knowing what he was saying.
“Would you like to know about my discovery, dear cousin? Of course I will tell you everything.”
Mox-O-Mox knew that Gret was raving. This was his chance.
“Where did they come from, Gret? Are there more to be found? Do you think there may be thousands—enough that I could use them for bait when I go fishing?”
“There must be thousands,” said Gret, his eyes wobbling in his head. “I will tell you everything, dear Mox, if it will make you happy.” And Gret began to explain where the earth could be found.
Mox listened eagerly. He looked both ways to be sure no Mogo man was coming down the trail. Satisfied, he pried into the shoulder packet which Gret always carried. Sure enough, there were the secrets—a carefully written packet of notes.
“But you mustn’t go to this planet,” Gret was saying. Mox saw that he was in danger of awakening.