Peter Pettigrew's Prisoner

The man threw a handful of dust into Pettigrew's face.

"So much," concluded Sergeant McCurdle, "for delayed action bombs. Now, as to incendiaries, Mr. Pettigrew—"

("Halt, you cowardly cur!" rasped Peter Pettigrew to the sinister figure creeping from a dark covert of his imagination. "Advance and give the countersign. What? You don't know it? I thought not! Then take that, you dirty Nazi spy, you! And that, and that, and THAT!")

"Mister Pettigrew!"

The daydream of Peter Pettigrew, student Air Warden, popped like a penny balloon. He started from his bench, pale eyes blinking bewilderedly. The enemy agent had disappeared. This was no blacked-out and vital defense zone, no strategically important military objective, but the warm, bright, all-too-familiar lecture room of the city Armory. All about him, giggling at his confusion, sat his fellow students, more than four score strong. Glaring at him wrathfully was the regular Army non-com assigned to training this volunteer brigade.

"Well, Mr. Pettigrew," repeated Sergeant McCurdle in acid tones, "if you've quite finished your little nap—?"

"Y-yes, sir!" gulped Peter Pettigrew apologetically. "I—I'm sorry, sir. I must have dozed off."

"In the Army," growled McCurdle ominously, "soldiers who doze off wake up in the clink! I'd like to see you—But never mind that now. Before you were so rudely awakened, Mr. Pettigrew, we were discussing bomb defense. Now, suppose you tell us the proper way of handling an incendiary bomb. Let's assume you are guarding a wooden warehouse filled with highly inflammable military stores.

"An incendiary shell scores a direct hit; concussion knocks you out momentarily. When you come to, you learn that the bomb has exploded and is scattering gouts of flame around the building. What do you do?"

"I—er—I run to the water-hose," said Peter, "and turn the nozzle to fine spray—"

"The water system is broken," said Sergeant McCurdle helpfully. "Saboteurs have slashed the hose to ribbons."

"Then I—I get buckets and sand, and—"

"Fifth columnists," challenged McCurdle, "have mixed gunpowder into the sand."

"Oh!" said Peter Pettigrew bleakly. "They have? In that case, I—I call the fire department, send out a general alarm, and attempt to fight a delaying action until help gets there. With chemicals, perhaps, or—"

"The fire extinguishers," howled McCurdle gleefully, "have been diluted with soda pop! The alarm siren was stolen by Quislings! The telephone wires are cut! The force of the explosion broke the windows, and wind is fanning the blaze!

"The floor is scorching beneath your feet, the walls are ablaze, tongues of flame are licking at precious boxes of matériel! Think, Mr. Pettigrew! Think hard! Many lives and much valuable property depend on your prompt action. What do you do? What is the first thing your hand must seek?"

The room was warm, but a cold perspiration moistened Peter Pettigrew's brow. His eyes roved, his collar strangled him. His tongue was a wad of cotton.

"Why—er—" he muttered feverishly.

"Wrong!" Sergeant McCurdle seized the word, worried it as a terrier worries a rubber bone. "Never wire! Wire is the last thing you should touch, Pettigrew. Under conditions such as those described, wire would be melting-hot. It would burn the flesh off your bones!

"No—" He stared at the smaller man disdainfully—"No, Mr. Pettigrew, I fear you would be of no use in an emergency of this nature. As a matter of fact, I don't think you belong in this group. Some men, Pettigrew, simply don't fit. You seem to be one of them. Why don't you drop out? Turn in your uniform and enter some other branch of civilian service? Canteen work, for instance, or knitting sweaters—?"

Someone behind Peter Pettigrew tittered, and someone else muttered, "That's right! If a man can't do a man's work he ought to—" Peter's lower lip trembled, and the stalwart figure of Sergeant McCurdle danced before his eyes. He shook his head doggedly.

"But—but I like this work, Sergeant. I want to be an Air Raid Warden."

McCurdle's shrug was eloquent.

"Well, it's Uncle Sam's headache. If you persist in wasting the government's time and money, I can't prevent it." To the others he said, "That's all for tonight, folks. We're having a practice blackout at midnight, remember. City-wide. Every Warden must be at his post by then. You all know where your locations are? All right—hop to 'em! Eh? What? Oh, you again, Pettigrew? Well, what do you want now?"

"Excuse me, sir," said Peter meekly, "but—what was my mistake? What was the first thing I should have done?"

"Done?" thundered Sergeant McCurdle. "Why, any fool knows you should have—er—er—" His brows furrowed, then cleared miraculously. "Don't try to make me do your thinking for you, Pettigrew! That's your assignment, not mine. Think it out. And see that you've arrived at the correct answer by our next meeting. All right—class dismissed!"

"No hose," said Peter Pettigrew to himself, "no sand or siren or telephone. Fire spreading rapidly. Warehouse is filled with inflammable supplies—Oh, it's no use! McCurdle was right. I guess I'm just a—a misfit!"

The last word came out "mzzglmmp," punctuated, as it was, by something suspiciously akin to a sigh ... or a sob.

There is an estimated total of two hundred and sixty thousand volunteer Air Raid Wardens now training for civilian defense duty in the United States. Of this number, about two hundred and fifty-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine had greater aptitude for their jobs than did Peter Pettigrew.

Two strikes had been called on this unhappy child of misfortune, and the Celestial Umpire's arm was already rising on the third, when Peter wailed entrance into this mad world. To begin with, as a specimen of manhood Peter Pettigrew was a washout. Padded shoulders helped conceal his spindling frame and built-up heels added a futile inch to his diminutive stature, but no aids, mechanical or sartorial, could ever remove the anemic pallor from his complexion, lend distinction to an unruly fuzz of taffy-colored hair, or cleanse his eyes of the pathetic wistfulness which mirrored his personality. Peter's physical counterpart was the photo labelled Before in the "BE STRONG LIKE ME!" ads.

Moreover, Peter was shy. Terribly, horribly, inconceivably shy of everything and anything that walked, swam, or flew on, under, or above the surface of the earth. He gulped when he talked, and never raised his voice to a degree louder than a timid bleat. Strangers frightened him ... acquaintances embarrassed him ... and he had no friends. He turned every hue of the rainbow when so much as noticed by members of the fair sex, and ate always in cafeterias in order to avoid the dread task of ordering from a waitress.

His position in life was just what you might expect; he was the smallest imaginable cog in an organization so huge that to all save his immediate clerical companions he was but another name on the payroll.

He earned enough to live and eat and visit a theatre once a week and support a second cousin in Oregon whom he had never seen in his life, but whose demanding letters threw him into a perfect frenzy of obligation. He dressed soberly, let subway guards shove him around without protest, and permitted himself nothing more highly intoxicant than an occasional Dr. Zipper.

Thus Peter Pettigrew. Or thus, to be more accurate, the Peter Pettigrew who slipped his brief and unobtrusive way before the public eye.

But—there was another Peter Pettigrew! An unknown and unsuspected Peter Pettigrew in whose veins raced the fire of heroes, behind whose mild and tawny eyes burned slumbering volcanoes. This was the man—the laughing, taunting, daring champion of derring-do—whom Peter dreamed himself to be. A questing knight with thews of steel and agile mind and tongue of rapier wit. This was the man whom Peter was when, in dead of night, his meagre body tossing restlessly on bunchy kapok, his untrammeled soul rode the magic highways of Dream-world in search of dark adventure. This man was Peter when, blackness engulfing a lean, tense figure straining forward in his movie seat, Peter's hungry heart followed a shaft of silver brilliance to identify itself with whatever solitary soul was worst beset by the encroaching forces of evil.

This was the strange, new Peter Pettigrew who now, a sliver of darkness in the shadow of a doorway, now smiled and hurled defiance at the hordes of foes arraigned against him.

"So!" hissed Peter mockingly. "So! You think you'd like to blow up the Armory, would you? Well, we'll see about that, you dirty, sneaky old Japs, you! Brrrp-brrrp-brrrp—" His small frame trembled with excitement as he swept the gray street with imaginary Tommy-gun fire—"there's no use crying for mercy now!" laughed Peter triumphantly. "You should have thought of that before you attacked us! Oh, it's knives now? No, you don't! Remember Pearl Harbor! Brrrrrrp—"

"Cut out that damned racket! Stop it!" The roaring voice sheared a path through Peter's concentration, dealing a sudden end to his tiny, private drama. "What the hell do you think you're doing, anyhow? Who—Oh! I might have known!"

Only gloom masked the sick mantle of Peter's crimson embarrassment. His heart within him shriveled to the size of a raisin, and leaden butterflies fluttered in his stomach.

"H-hello, Sergeant McCurdle," he ventured weakly.

The Army man, more fiercely militant than ever, with his Colt .44 an ugly lump at his thigh, his gas mask over his shoulder, glared at the little volunteer malevolently.

"What in blazes is the meaning of all this noise and confusion, Pettigrew? Don't you know—?"

"I was—I was just pretending, sir," writhed Peter.

"Pretending what? Pretending to be a steam calliope or something? Anyhow, Pettigrew—" A sudden thought struck the non-com; he scowled at his wristwatch. "It's two minutes before twelve! Why are you still snooping around the Armory? Why aren't you at your post?"

"I—" began Peter. "I—"

"Never mind," interrupted McCurdle. "Never mind the alibis, Pettigrew. Disobedience of orders in an emergency—that's enough for me! You can turn in your uniform now! And goodbye, Mr. Pettigrew!"

"B-but—" faltered Peter.

"And," appended Sergeant McCurdle, "good riddance!"

"B-but this is my post, Sergeant!" wailed Peter. "I was assigned to guard this sector during the trial blackout!"

"Y-you what?" This time it was McCurdle whose voice cracked on a dismal note.

"I was assigned to guard this sector, sir—"

"Don't repeat, Pettigrew!" The baffled topkick gave vent to a groan. "I heard you the first time. You! On duty at this post! Of all the muddle-headed assignments—Damn it, man, this Armory is one of the most vital military objectives in the whole city!"

"It—it is?" piped Peter with sudden eagerness.

"Perhaps the most important! Pettigrew, do you know the entire basement of this building is filled with gunpowder and dynamite? Enough to blow the surrounding neighborhood to Kingdom Come! And within three city blocks of here stand the City Hall, the Federal Building, two factories engaged in war armaments production, and a Marine barracks!"

"Th-there are?" gulped Peter with less eagerness.

"And of all men," despaired McCurdle, "you had to be assigned to this post. And in less than a minute the warning will be sounded. Well—" He shrugged—"It's too late now. It's your pigeon. You've drawn your equipment?"

"Equip—Oh, yes, sir! Right here!" Peter patted a gas mask container at his side and, rather more gingerly, the automatic at his hip. "I'm all-ready, sir."

"Very well, Pettigrew. From now on—" The topkick had to raise his voice to a bellow to make himself heard over the banshee blast that had suddenly wakened and howled from a hundred simultaneous sources—"it's up to you! Carry on!"

And as the gray gloom of the city night was suddenly engulfed in ebon black, as feverish eyes of electric and neon blinked out one by one over a city grimly readying itself for any eventuality, Sergeant McCurdle moved into the darkness—and was gone!

At first his disappearance was a relief to the small would-be Air Warden. Then, as the ear-shattering sirens died into muted silence, as McCurdle's footsteps pattered off into murkiness, a vast, enswaddling stillness descended upon Peter Pettigrew—and with it came stark realization of his perfect aloneness. In Stygian gloom he murmured, "Oh, my goodness! I'm all alone!" and raised a trembling hand before his eyes. It was a vague, white blob in the darkness. Tingling fingers of panic clutched at Peter's nerves, and his ganglea hummed like harpstrings. "Oh, my soul!" he jittered. "It's so dark!"

Civic authorities had deliberately chosen a moonless night for this experiment. Mother Nature had collaborated by veiling the sky with a thick overcast, making the night starless as well. The street upon which Peter stood was as black as a whale's belly. Except for—

"Oh, mercy me!" bleated Peter, "this will never do!"

And his panic subsiding in the face of this unallowable thing, he scurried down the street to a dwelling beneath the lowered blinds of which escaped one lone, betraying slant of light. Hastily he ascended its steps, more hastily rapped on the door.

"Lights out!" he cried. "Air alert! Lights—"

The door flew open suddenly, hurling a blazing flood of forbidden illumination into Peter's eyes. A figure loomed in the doorway; the figure of a man whose shoulders seemed to stop the entrance, who towered threateningly above Peter.

"Hey?" roared this outraged Titan. "What's this all about? Whatcha tryin' to—?"

"—out!" ended Peter feebly. "L-lights out, if you don't mind, please, mister. It's an—an alert—"

There came a sudden, menacing snap! and Peter closed his eyes, wondering dimly which arm or leg was broken and why it didn't hurt. Then stunningly:

"Sure, Warden!" came a husky whisper. "I fergot. I was list'nin' to the Tchi-cargo Symphony an' fergot all about the blackout. I'm sorry."

And Peter opened his eyes to discover that the house was in jet blackness, and the big man was softly shutting the door!

He turned and stumbled down the steps. But where he had been nervous before, he was now aflame with a strange and new sensation. A wild, heady sensation—the intoxication of power! For the first time in his mousy life, Peter Pettigrew had issued an order. And that order had been obeyed!

Self-confidence, a feeling so rare in his past as to have been non-existent, swept through him like a hot torrent. His head lifted proudly; he trod on fluffy clouds. He drew a long, tremulous breath.

"Warden!" he murmured happily. "Warden Pettigrew!"

Then, as if something within him had been long waiting this moment, there came to pass the rebirth of Peter Pettigrew. The old Peter died, and occupant of his body was the cool, cagey, daring and resourceful Peter with thews of steel and heart of flame.

And the renascent Peter, viewing this situation, was not satisfied.

"Too dark!" decided the new Peter. "Too dangerously dark. They might try something. I ought to have cat's eyes. Now, let me see—Aah! I have it!"

And suddenly bethinking himself of the spectacles he wore to protect his eyes against harmful rays when he took an ultra-violet "sun bath" every week, he drew the shaded lenses from his pocket and slipped them over his eyes.

It did not matter that the glasses—speaking from a purely physical standpoint—could not conceivably strengthen Peter's vision. He thought they did, and that is what really counts. Great is the influence of mind over matter.

With increased assurance, he stalked down the silent street to assume his post of duty before the Armory's portal. And it was then he saw the sinister stranger.

The stranger was hurrying up the street toward Peter. This was not, in itself, cause for alarm. Thousands of good, solid, liberty-loving Americans had doubtless been caught off guard by the wail of the sirens. But this man, who seemed to cling to the darkest shadows of an everywhere-dark road, made no sound as he walked! He glided forward noiselessly. Moreover, his diminutive but chunky frame bent beneath the burden of a heavy gunnysack that might have contained—

What? wondered Peter Pettigrew. Anything! Anything at all, he decided. Bombs, hand grenades, ground glass! His jaw tightened; he stepped forward.

"Just a moment, there!" he piped peremptorily. "Who are you? What are you do—?"

But the sinister stranger either did not hear him or chose to disregard his challenge. He had paused, now, before the very door of the Armory, taken from somewhere and scanned what appeared to be a notebook. He nodded his head pleasedly and turned to the building. The rap of his knuckles was soft in the silence; the door swung open and he vanished.

Peter sprang into action. This was all wrong! This was his post; if it were learned that he had permitted anyone to effect entrance into the Armory unquestioned he would lose his precious Wardenship. Perhaps even—Peter quaked—since this incident had occurred in line of duty, he would be tried by a military court, found guilty, and shot at sunrise!

On legs that felt suddenly hollow, he raced forward, hurled himself at the Armory door and pounded frantically. A uniformed private of the regular Army opened it for him. The soldier looked faintly surprised.

"What—Oh, hello, there! You're the warden on duty here, aren't you? What's up? Blackout over?"

"It's an all night practice," snapped Peter, "as you ought to know. But never mind that now. That stranger—who was he? Where did he go?"

"Huh?" The soldier stared at him curiously. "Is it a gag, buddy? What stranger?"

"The one," rasped Peter, "you just admitted. He refused to answer my challenge—"

"Are you crazy?" The soldier sniggered drowsily and leaned his rifle against the wall. "Nobody came through this doorway, bud, except you."

Quick suspicion fanned to a fiercer blaze in Peter's bosom. Then his hunch had been right! The sinister stranger was an enemy agent, and this soldier in Uncle Sam's khaki was a dupe, a hireling, a Fifth Columnist! With a swift movement he grasped the guard's rifle, levelled it at its owner.

"So!" hissed Peter Pettigrew, patriot. "You thought you could get away with it, eh? Well, the jig's up! Over my dead body you'll pull one of your dastardly Nazi tricks! Not a move, now! Move a muscle and I—I'll shoot—"

And his finger tensed on the trigger. But the other man's face did not draw into the lines of hatred and violence Peter half expected. Instead, the soldier grinned amiably at him.

"Okay, buddy," he chuckled. "Enjoy yourself. Quite a card, ain't you? Well—" He yawned prodigiously—"'at's okay by me. I'm gettin' ... kinda ... sleepy. Think I'll snatch ... forty winks. Wake me up ... when the alert's over ... over...."

He slumped onto a bench, and fell fast asleep!

For a moment fantastically long, Peter stared at him incredulously. Then recollection of a more immediate problem than this flooded back on him. There was a mystery here, but elsewhere in the building was a skulking spy whose plot Peter must nip in the bud.

He wheeled and hastened into the drill-room. No one there but a drowsy radioman, nodding over his transmitter. A dozen doors opened off the drill-room. Peter, scurrying from one to another, noted with subconscious approbation that each room with windows to the outer street was darkened. Only the inner chambers of the Armory were lighted.

But of the sack-bearing stranger there was no trace. Room after room was deserted, save for here a detail of slumbering reserves, there an Intelligence officer cat-napping at his desk. This latter raised his head when Peter roused him, repeated muzzily, "Whuza? Lil man with a bag? Uh-uh. Di'n see'm—" and went back to sleep.

Peter wasted no more time upstairs. The basement was "out of bounds" for all civilians and, indeed, for all soldiers save those specifically assigned to guard it, but this was no time to adhere to normal regulations. Peter raced toward the store-rooms, and was just in time to see, as he found the top of the staircase, a tableau on the landing below that forever justified his fears.

The little man was there! He was tiptoeing silently toward the unsuspecting back of a guard assigned to watch the stores. As he crept he fumbled at the mouth of his gunnysack and—remarkable verity Peter could scarcely believe—he was humming a soft tune!

Peter knew what he should do. He should shout aloud to warn the soldier. But when he opened his mouth it felt as if he had swallowed a throatful of warm glue; his lips were a pair of adhesive plasters muting a larynx frozen with terror. The best he could manage was a tiny, whimpering bleat.

It was not enough. The soldier, as though warned by some belated, intuitive sense, whirled just as the interloper gained his side. But his eyes never recognized peril, for at that instant the little man's hand flew from the bag, hurling something squarely into the guard's face.

And—the soldier dropped his rifle, yawned noisily, rubbed his eyes with clenched fists, staggered to a seat, and fell fast asleep at his post!

In that moment, Peter Pettigrew understood all. Now he knew why the guard at the outer gate had not stopped—had not even remembered!—the stranger. He knew, too, why every defender of this building save himself was lost in Dreamland. The stranger's bag was filled with a new and dreadful weapon. A powder with the power of drugging victims into heavy slumber!

Anaesthesia! But if that were so, it was useless to pursue the little man who now, having glanced once again into his notebook—a leaflet of instructions, no doubt—was moving stealthily down the corridor. One whiff of the substance and he, like the others, would—"But, no!" squealed Peter Pettigrew. For a thought had struck him with swift, encouraging force. Over his right shoulder was slung that which made him invulnerable to the spy's treacherous weapon. His gas mask!

To think, with this reborn Peter, was to act. In an instant he had whipped the mask from its sack and snuggled it about his face. Sucking filtered air through its kobold-like mouthpiece lent the final touch of isolation from worldliness—a process begun with the donning of the tinted spectacles. But protected, now, from fumes and glooms alike, hand resting on the comforting grip of his automatic, Peter crept down the staircase.

The door through which the stranger had vanished was labelled POWDER ROOM: DANGER! in bold scarlet. As Peter drew nearer this door he was astonished to hear a faint muttering. Peering cautiously around the door-jamb he discovered this was the stranger murmuring petulantly to himself as he scowled at his little book.

"It says," frowned the stocky man, "three more. But where in the name of Hypnos are they? There's no one else in here. Another infernal mix-up in the O.D.D., that's what! I wish they'd get things straightened out—"

Then Peter moved. Whipping his automatic out of its holster, he burst into the ammunition-packed room, shouting a wild and—he hoped—stern command.

"Hands up!" he cried. "Surrender in the name of the—I mean, stick 'em up! I've got you!"

The little man whirled, startled. But surprisingly, his lips cracked in a grin, and his voice was pleased.

"Oh, there you are!" he said. "I was worrying about you. The others coming along soon? Well—nighty-night!"

And with a movement so swift, so deft, that no human eye could follow it, his hand dipped into the sack, grasped a handful of the slumber-producing dust—and flung it squarely into Peter's face!

For a moment, sheer shock immobilized Peter. He had expected cringing capitulation; he had met defiance, instead. It is a different matter to dream of slaughtering hundreds of charging enemies than to pull the trigger on one, small antagonist armed with only a gunnysack. So Peter did nothing.

But the saboteur did an amazing thing. He pencilled a checkmark in his little notebook. Then, quietly crooning a tune that sounded astonishingly like a lullaby, he shouldered his bag and started from the room. Peter roused. His piping voice rang clarion-clear in the echoing chamber.

"Oh, no you don't! Stand still, you! Drop that bag and lift your hands or I'll—I'll—"

And he got what he wanted. The visitor did drop the bag. But his clutch was not nerveless from fright so much as from surprise! A look of blank incredulity widened his eyes, and his jaw dropped slack as he gasped:

"You—you're still awake!"

"You bet your boots I'm awake!" declared Peter boldly. "You didn't think you'd get me with that stuff, you—"

"And you—" gulped the little man—"you see me!"

"See you? Of course I see you! If you take another step, you dirty old Nazi, you—"

"Nazi!" exclaimed the stranger indignantly. "I'm no Nazi!"

"Oh, no? What's your name?"

"My name," said the chubby one, "is Ole Luk Oie. In some circles I am known as Noctus or Suom, but—"

"Never mind the aliases," said Peter. "Ole Luk Oie, eh? A Norwegian. One of Quisling's men?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," blazed his prisoner. "I don't know anything about quisling. I've never quissled in my life. But I do know one thing: when I see the Assignment Clerk at the O.D.D. again, I'm going to raise blue fumes about this! I was never so mortified! Imagine me held at a pistol's point by a mortal who defies my Sands—"

"That'll do!" rapped Peter sternly. "I'll talk; you answer. What's this O.D.D. you mentioned?"

"Why, the Office of Dream Distribution," snapped the stranger, "of course! The outfit I work for. Now, see here, mortal—point that thing the other way before it goes off by accident and creates a scandal. It can't kill me, of course, but hanged if I want to go through eternity with lead bullets in my gizzard. Woden knows my digestion is awful enough now, what with staying up all night and those brazen Walküre keeping me awake all day with their noisy war-chants—"

But he need not have elaborated on his request. For Peter, his hand wobbling like an aspen leaf in a tornado, had already thrust the .44 back into its holster, and was staring at his captive with horror-stricken eyes. Peter passed a dry tongue over drier lips. And:

"W-who are you?" he croaked.

"I've already told you once," said the little fellow testily. "I'm Ole Luk Oie. The Bringer of Sleep. The Sandman!"

"The Sand—Ooooh!" moaned Peter Pettigrew. Beneath his feet the world quaked and quivered. Its motion developed an identical counterpart in Peter's interior. He braced himself to hurl a last rebellious salvo at this enemy of reason. "But—but the Sandman is only a—a myth!"

"Myth your eye!" retorted Ole Luk Oie savagely. "Do I look like a myth?" He did not. He looked most solid, most substantial, sturdy arms akimbo on his firmly planted thighs, eyes flashing indignation. "And that reminds me, how can you see me? I'm invisible, you know."

"N-not to me," quavered Peter Pettigrew.

"That," frowned Ole Luk Oie, "is obvious. But—Ah! Those dark things you're wearing over your eyes? What do you call them?"

"They—they're special glasses," said Peter meekly, "to cut down ultra-violet radiation."

"So that's it?" Ole Luk Oie nodded sagely. "Now it begins to make sense. We're in the infra-red, you know. All of us immortals. And you humans have been leading us a merry chase ever since your scientists discovered how to photograph our wave-length. Snapping our pictures at seances—"

"Spirit photography!" exclaimed Peter. "Then—then it's not a fake? You do sometimes communicate—?"

"Now, don't get ideas, mortal! Yes, we do; but just for a gag. We never really tell anything. We don't want you jerks muscling in on our world and messing it up like yours.

"So the glasses let you see me. And the dream-sands didn't work because you're wearing that mask. Well—take it off!"

"Off?" repeated Peter. "Certainly not!"

The little man frowned impatiently.

"Now, don't be difficult, human! You've got to take it off, you know."

"Why?" demanded Peter stubbornly.

"Because it says here in this book," pointed out Ole Luk Oie, "that three more mortals are to be put to sleep here in this room. You're one of them, of course. So—"

He reached for his fallen bag. But a sudden thought flashed through Peter's brain with the brilliance of a comet. He sprang forward challengingly, swept the gunnysack from the little demigod's hands.

"Oh, no you don't!" he cried. "That's mine!"

Ole Luk Oie glared at him irately.

"Yours in a centaur's eye!" he snorted. "It's mine! A brand-new, imported job. I got it just last millennium from the Arachne Weaving Corporation in Olympus. Hand it over!"

"It was yours," yammered Peter. "But it's mine now! I'm turning the contents over to the government. Do you know what this is? The greatest offensive military weapon any man ever discovered! Anaesthetic sands! Our lab men will analyze this powder, learn how to make it. With this, our forces can bring the war to a swift and humane end!"

"You," declared Ole Luk Oie flatly, "are crazy! The Sands aren't the only offensive thing around here. In just a few minutes, I'm going to lose my patience, human. Hand back that bag, or by Baldar—"

What dire threat he would have uttered, Peter Pettigrew was destined never to learn. For at that moment came an interruption. From the doorway behind them came a sound that caused both man and demigod to spin. The sharp, incisive cry of a voice raised in command.

"Achtung! Turn quietly, swine, and lift your hands! Ach, zu! Now, Franz ... Otto ... to your work!"

Peter's eyes bulged wide, and his lips loosed a tiny moan. For standing in the doorway, armed to the teeth, stood three men from whose eyes gleamed the fanaticism of the creed for which they labored. These were no supernatural and benevolent creatures, but flesh-and-blood men; their purpose here was evident. The destruction of this Armory and its stores!

The underling Nazi agents needed no second bidding. With the grim, mechanical purposefulness of their race, they leaped to their task. One sprang to the nearest hogshead of gunpowder, smashed loose a stave and began scattering the barrel's contents about the chamber. The other ripped open a carton of dynamite sticks, hastily unreeled and adjusted the wires of a detonator.

While his underlings labored, the leader enjoyed the luxury of gloating over his accomplishment.

"So," he gibed, "there you stand, foolishly agape as sheep! You wonder at our being here, nichts wahr? Ach, you verdammt Amerikanische! You are all fools! Not only do you advertise in the public papers your idiotic practice blackout, but you leave your Armory unguarded!

"In the Fatherland such madness would not be tolerated! Our Fuehrer weeds out the weak and incompetent. That is why we will soon rule the world!" He personalized his scorn, directed it squarely at Peter Pettigrew. "Little man, you have a revolver at your side. Why don't you draw it? Is it because you fear death? What? You don't answer? You are silent? But why is that? You were voluble enough a moment ago when we entered the room. Standing here alone in an empty chamber, chattering to yourself like an insane ape—"

"A-lone!" The word wrenched itself unbidden from Peter's lips. Like a blinding flash of light, the truth hit him. Of course! The saboteurs wore no ultra-violet glasses. They saw no Ole Luk Oie standing and watching this typically "human" drama with detached disinterest. Peter gulped. "Oh! Oh, yes. A-lone. I was just—"

"Come closer, little man!" taunted the Nazi captain. "I would pinch your scrawny arm to test if you are a man or a mouse. Stop! What are you leaning over for?"

"My—my shoelace—" faltered Peter. "It—it came untied—" But his heart gave a tremendous leap. For now he knew that the Sandman's bag, too, was invisible to the enemy. And that bag of dream-dust was now secure within his hands.

"Never mind your shoelace!" commanded his antagonist. "Walk toward me slowly with your arms raised—There! Das ist gut! I see you wear a uniform. Tell me, little man, what is the strength of this garrison? When I make my report—"

Peter was grateful for the semi-gloom of the chamber. Were it not shadowy, the German must have noticed that though his arms were above his head his elbows bent with strain, and his knuckles were tensed whitely with the effort of gripping a heavy sack above his head. He shuffled forward another step. Another. Another....

"That is near enough!" said his captor. "Franz, you are nearly finished? You too, Otto? Gut! Light the fuses. In a moment we shall go. Well, little man, speak! Will you answer and be allowed to flee with us, or will you hold your silence and die here?"

"W-what is it you wanted to know?" bleated Peter Pettigrew, desperately stalling for time. He was almost within arm's reach of his foeman now. Another step....

"The strength of this garrison. Yes, I know you call it a 'civilian defense post', but that is dirty, democratic propaganda. Tell me the truth! How strong are your forces?"

And then—Peter acted!

"This strong!" he cried in a voice of shocking thunder. And with the full force of his meagre frame, supplemented by the unleashed vigor of his righteous wrath, he brought the sack down heavily on the Nazi's head!

The German cried out once, thickly—then collapsed. The bag split. A cloud of milky-gray powder spumed into the air, flew, spread, eddied into every nook and cranny. Franz and Otto had barely time to turn before it clogged their nostrils, felling them in their tracks like stricken steers. A stifling sensation gripped Peter Pettigrew by the throat.

Glancing down, he discovered with horror that in his eagerness to strike and strike hard he had torn his gas mask loose. Slumber-dust was now filtering through the crevice, stealing into his lungs, too!

He turned agonized eyes to the attentive Ole Luk Oie. He cried, "Sandman! But you—you can't do this to me! The Sands! Mus' ... have 'em ... f'r the gov'ment. F'r...."

That was all. He lurched forward sleepily and fell headlong to the floor. Ole Luk Oie minced toward him gingerly, retrieved the forsaken sack and studied the rent in its side with sorrow.

"The very best material!" he muttered. "Now they'll make me get a new one. Oh, well—it was an interesting show, anyhow!" And before he left, he leaned once, strangely tender, over the prostrate little Pettigrew.

"Well done, small human," he crooned softly. "Sleep well, and sweet dreams. Forever may your dreams henceforth come true!"

And he turned, but he did not walk from the chamber. He simply lifted his head in a curious gesture. One instant he was there—the next he was gone.

Out of the dark and pleasant rollingness of slumber, Peter wakened to hear faraway voices drawing nearer and nearer. Something cold and wet was at his lips; he swallowed and choked on a liquid-like honeyed fire. The voice said:

"You all right now, Pettigrew? Here, take another swig of this brandy—"

"Brandy!" gasped Peter Pettigrew, wide awake. "Oh, my gracious, brandy! T-take it away!"

"Sure," soothed the voice. "Sure, Pettigrew. Anything you say. After tonight, you can have anything you want around here, including the world with a pink ribbon around it if you ask."

After tonight! Recollection flooded back upon Peter. He lifted himself to one elbow. He was lying on a cot in the upper drill-hall of the Armory. About him were the faces of his fellow student Air Wardens, uniformed figures of regular Army officers; the shoulder propping him up, the voice speaking into his ear, the face peering down into his, all belonged to Sergeant McCurdle. An inexplicably altered Sergeant McCurdle, whose eyes were respectful and admiring.

"Wh-what happened?" demanded Peter. "Ole Luk Oie—did he get away? And the Nazi agents—?"

"Old who?" puzzled McCurdle. "We got the Heinies—three of 'em. That's all there were, wasn't it? Man—" He shook his head admiringly—"I take back everything I ever said or thought about you, Pettigrew. You're a regular wildcat! Why, Joe Louis couldn't have knocked them babies colder than you did! Every one of 'em was out like a light. Their leader ain't come to yet. He's as cold as a Labrador herring."

Another voice, deeper and more authoritative, reached Peter's ears. It was the Commanding Officer of the Armory.

"Yes, Pettigrew, it was a magnificent piece of work. You have done your country a great service this night. Had it not been for you, I shudder to think what horror might have been unleashed in this city. You apprehended them in the nick of time. They had already scattered the gunpowder, set their fuses. In another moment—"

"Yes," said Peter. "I know. I mean—Oh, is that so? How about the—er—was there a bag lying on the floor? A bag filled with dust?"

The officers glanced at each other questioningly; one of them muttered sotto voce, "Wool-gathering, poor chap! And no wonder. After what he's been through—" The commandant ignored the query. He said, "So I am sending a recommendation to the President, Pettigrew, that you receive a Congressional Medal. Moreover, if you should ever decide to enter the service of your country as a full-fledged militiaman, I should be proud, sir, proud to have you as a member of my company!"

"And now, gentlemen—" With an effort, the officer concealed a yawn—"the hour is late, and I am sure we are all very tired. Suppose we—yaw-rrrm!—leave Mr. Pettigrew to get some much-needed rest."

And he trudged away, followed by a sleepy-eyed staff of subordinates. Peter thought he knew why. Someone had left the basement door open; mingled with the oil and tobacco smoke of the drill-room was a fine scud of eddying dust whose nature Peter knew all too well.

He, too, was drowsy again. But there was one thing he must say to his only remaining companion. "Sergeant," he said, "in the morning we must sweep the storage-room floor carefully, and send the dust to Washington. They've got to analyze it. Very important—"

"Huh?" answered Sergeant McCurdle languidly. "Dust? Oh, sure, Petty, old boy. If you say so. But I don't quite see—aw-rrrm!—why. Hey, move over, willya? I'm gettin' sorta tired myself...."

Thus, planning for the morrow, slumbered Peter Pettigrew, side by side with a newfound friend. And valiant were his dreams. But one person—or was he a person?—knew that this was the only dream of Peter Pettigrew's which should not reach accomplishment. Ole Luk Oie knew that with the dawn no trace would remain of the Sands.

For they were the Sands of Slumber. Such stuff as dreams are made of....

THE END