It's a Small World

  Fantastically enough, the brightest cluster radiated from a rainbow-hued Christmas tree set fully visible against broad French windows on the ground floor.

  Clyde paused before the outer gate long enough to read the numerals. 5954.

  This was it!

  He marched up to the steps, faced the outer door. Then, and only then, did he pause.

  What would he do? Clyde knew how to gain admittance. He had Gwen's scrawled order slip with Simon Mallot's name on it. And he'd hastily wrapped a small package. He was there to "deliver" it.

  But after that

  Clyde didn't know. Would he accuse Mallot of murder? Kidnapping? Forcing Gwen to do a strip-tease?

  It didn't make sense. Only his hideous hunch made him persist. It might all be a hysterical fantasy, a delusion. But he had to find out. He had to get inside this house and see Mallot. Maybe there'd be a clue --or, on the other hand, a perfectly sensible and obvious explanation. Maybe he end up in jail for creating a scene and making ridiculous accusations.

  He had to take the chance.

  His fingers numb with cold, reached out and groped for a bell buzzer.

  The great oaken door was smooth.

  Stabbing pain lanced his finger-tips. Pain? Cold. Icy coldness, as he felt a round object under his palm.

  A door-knocker.

  Clyde raised it, let it fall. A hollow clang resounded.

  The wind drowned all sound of approaching footsteps from within. But suddenly the door swung open, a fan of light poured forth.

  Clyde looked up automatically, anticipating the seven-foot bulk of the giant.

  But it was a small man who answered his summons. A small man dressed in discreet evening clothes. A butler.

  "Yes sir?"

  "I'm from Propper's toyshop," Clyde explained. "I've this package for Mr. Mallot." He extended his slip and revealed the brown parcel in his pocket.

  "Very good." The butler took it and prepared to turn away.

  "It--it isn't paid for," Clyde mumbled. "I was told to wait."

  The butler frowned. "This is rather unusual," he said. "Mr. Mallot left no instructions." He coughed. "I'll call him."

  The door began to close.

  Clyde stepped forward hastily. His foot wedged in the doorway with all the dexterity expected of a Fuller Brush man.

  "Could I wait inside?" he asked. "It's rather brisk out here."

  The butler hesitated, shrugged.

  "Very well," he said. "You may wait in the hall if you like."

  Clyde entered the spacious hallway.

  Burdened by suspicion, Clyde was prepared for almost anything. He expected a long, dimly-lighted corridor; gloomy, paneled walls, ancient tapestries.

  Instead, he stood in a completely modern hallway, brilliantly illuminated to highlight cream-colored walls. Silver mirrors added a cheerful touch.

  The butler faded from view. Clyde stood there, fidgeting and gazing down at the French blue of the carpeting. There was a sliding door open at one side. A still greater brilliance coruscated from the room beyond. Clyde stepped to the doorway.

  He stared into a spacious side parlor. The room was immense, with high walls running up to an adroitly domed ceiling. One side only was graced with long French windows. Against the windows reared the dazzling ornamentation of a tremendous Christmas tree.

  The tree cast glowing benediction over the room. Sparkling lights were strung through the pine boughs. Great globular and pendant ornaments flashed and shone on the branches. Icicles and tinsels festooned each twig.

  There was something soothing and reassuring in the sight of this holiday emblem. Clyde's unformulated fears fell away. Surely there was some mistake. There was nothing but Christmas in this house.

  As if to confirm this judgment, the rest of the room offered mute testimony in corroboration. Clyde saw that the floor was covered with gift packages and parcels in gay wrappings. Toys were scattered about in abundance. Blocks, tin soldiers, roller skates--he recognized the familiar offerings of the Yuletide. Around the entire room ran a border of steel in the form of tracks for a toy railroad train.

  This must be Roger's playroom. The typical playroom of a rich man's son. Now it was cheery and homelike, in keeping with the Christmas spirit.

  Clyde sighed. There must be some mistake! Could it be that the giant had given the wrong name and address? Could he have been clever enough to know that Gwen might leave it as a clue?

  It was probably so. Clyde had been sent off on a wild-goose chase. He must retrace his steps to the shop, start all over again. For surely there was no evil here.

  He'd only be making a fool of himself if he stayed. When a stranger came down to pay him, he'd be in a mess. He could sneak out right now. No one would notice. Perhaps

  Then Clyde heard the voice.

  It was like the voice of Conscience --faint and far away. High and shrill, from inside his brain.

  "Clyde!" the voice wailed. "Clyde. I'm here. Save me!"

  Nerves. He was tired. Hallucinations must be shaken off, ignored.

  "Clyde!"

  No! The voice was not illusion. He did hear it; a tiny wailing from far away. Heard and recognized the thin cry.

  "Clyde! Look at me here--here I am.”

  He whirled around, startled. His eyes searched the room. Of course there was no one visible.

  Could it be coming through the floor, the ceiling, the walls? No. It wasn't muffled. The sound, however faint, was clear and unblurred.

  "Over here! Hurry!"

  The voice came from near the windows. Clyde moved closer to the tree. The brilliant light threw every inch of the room there into high relief. He saw nothing.

  Clyde stared dully at the tree, and the voice waited higher and higher.

  "Here I am, darting. Here," the voice implored. "Here I am--on the tree!"

  Suddenly the world exploded. Through the mist came a crimson flash of comprehension. Clyde stared at the Christmas tree and saw.

  Hanging from an upper branch of the Christmas tree, midway between an ornament and a candy cane, was a cellophane envelope. It dangled by a length of blue ribbon and swung to and fro.

  Within that envelope, neatly wrapped in cellophane, was the writhing figure of Gwen.

  Gwen --shrunken to two inches in height!

  CHAPTER III

  The Tall Man Again

  "Clyde, I knew you'd come! Thank heaven you found me in time!"

  Clyde struggled to control his voice and features as he stared at the incredibly tiny figure on the tree. "What happened?" he muttered hoarsely. "It was the tall man," answered the girl. Her voice came faintly through the cellophane. Clyde bent closer and scowled.

  "I knew it!" he sighed. "He sent you into the back to wrap a package. That was a trick. He must have planned it that way. Because he beckoned for me to come over.”

  "He and the boy were standing next to the alcove in the far corner. He had a toy in his hands and he asked me how much it cost.

  "All the while he kept staring at me with those eyes of his. Those eyes! I told you how I remembered them from the time he'd come in before. Deep, burning eyes.

  "But as I stood there, I realized he had never really looked at me until now. He gazed at me . . . and through me . . . and then into me.

  "I could feel it! His eyes reached inside of me and plucked out my consciousness. I knew it. Knew he was hypnotizing. But all the while another part of me knew that he was going right on talking, smiling, behaving normally in case anyone happened to look into the alcove. Only his eyes held me, and gloated and stared.

  "I couldn't look away. I swear it --I'd have given my soul to look away, but I could not. And once he looked at me, I no longer had a soul to give. He was drawing it into his eyes. Into those deep, dark glowing pools, as he stood there with his red lips smiling in his huge white face ... I felt the world swim around me . .

  "His long, slim hands reached into his pocket and pulled out something. I couldn't see what it was.

/>   "I managed to choke out something. I had to speak, pretend I didn't know what we both knew--that his eyes held me so.

  "I asked him for his name and address and if he wanted this toy delivered.

  "He answered, and my hand wrote it down on the pad. You see, I knew already that I must warn you. Of what, I couldn't guess. But those eyes had me and I knew they wouldn't let me go.

  "So I scrawled it off, but he only grinned, and I know the child was grinning too. And then his eyes seemed to get larger, like two burning moons. They rocketed up towards my face and I know my order book dropped out of my hands and then he ran his long fingers across my arm.

  "I felt something pinch me. There was a tingling sensation near my elbow and then--I fell into those two burning moons. They rushed up and became one solid lake of orange fire, and I --I drowned.”

  "When I came to, I was here--on the tree."

  Clyde stared at that tiny, incredible body. It couldn't be true, and yet it was. The girl was Gwen. Cellophane- wrapped, yet nude save for the blue ribbon fastened about her hips. She looked exactly the way Clyde had always teased her about--like a doll. A human, living doll!

  How had it happened? And why?

  No time to consider that now. For Gwen's diminutive face puckered in utter panic.

  "What can we do?" she whispered.

  Clyde straightened up. The scowl seemed a permanent part of his features now.

  "The first thing to do is get you out of here," he declared. "Quickly, before Simon Mallot comes back."

  He stretched out his left hand cautiously and unfastened the cord of blue ribbon from the tree-branch. He lifted down the cellophane pouch containing the tiny living girl.

  Gently, he eased it into his coat pocket.

  "Plenty of air for you," he murmured. "Just be still and don't worry. I'll get you out of here and then--we'll see."

  Clyde turned on tiptoe and headed for the open door. He moved swiftly, silently.

  Something swifter and more silent slithered through the doorway and ran across his path.

  A black cat melted into the room. Clyde glanced down at it, startled: glanced into the cat's great, green, glowing eyes.

  Then Clyde looked up--and stared into the great, glowing eyes of Simon Mallot!

  The giant towered in the doorway. He stood there quietly and smiled.

  Clyde returned no answering smile as he surveyed the gigantic figure of the tall man. Simon Mallot was wearing a long white lounging robe, blending uncannily with his pale skin. But his lips shone redly and his eyes glared blackly as he stooped and clasped his elongated fingers about the body of the cat.

  He lifted the black cat to a perch on his shoulders, but all the while he riveted his glance on Clyde. The cat added its baleful stare. Both cat and man wore a smirk of feline malice.

  "Were you leaving?" asked the giant. The deep voice droned mockingly.

  "Yes--I must get back to the shop." Clyde essayed a smile.

  "Not so hastily, I hope," said Simon Mallot. "Won't you stay and share our holiday hospitality?"

  "Sorry, but I haven't time," Clyde muttered. "I must do my own celebrating later."

  "Very well--if you insist."

  To his surprise, Clyde saw the giant step aside from the doorway. A huge arm swooped outward in a gesture of polite dismissal.

  Clyde walked from the room.

  He'd made it!

  "One moment."

  His voice was even, but there was a sardonic undertone.

  Clyde turned.

  "Before you leave," said Mallot, smoothly, "you might return my property to me."

  "Property?"

  "Exactly." Mallot smiled.

  "What might that be?"

  "Just a little thing--a mere toy--an ornament from my Christmas tree."

  Clyde couldn't control his voice, any more than he could control the gooseflesh on his neck.

  "I don't know what you're talking about," he gasped.

  "Ah. Then perhaps--this--will stimulate your memory."

  "This" proved to be a gun. Mallot pulled it from the pocket of his white robe. It was a big Luger, but it looked like a child's cap-pistol in the great hand of the giant. Still, it was large enough for Clyde. And it did impress him--particularly when Mallot pointed the muzzle at his heart. Mallot's grin was as cold as the steel of the gun-barrel.

  "You know I'll kill you instantly if you don't obey," said Mallot. Clyde knew.

  There was nothing else to do. Hand trembling, he griped in his overcoat pocket and drew out the cellophane package--the little package that (grotesque thought!) contained all that he loved in the world.

  Gwen's fear-filled face stared up at him in a perfect miniature of horror.

  Then the great hand extended and swept the cellophane from Clyde's palm. Fingers thick as dynamite sticks squeezed the tiny body of the girl. She squirmed helplessly in the giant's grasp. Mallot grinned, baring tusk-like teeth in a smile that held only gloating mirth.

  "My little boy would be so disappointed if he found his new toy missing. He had his heart set on Miss Thomas for a plaything."

  "Plaything?" Clyde choked out the word.

  "Yes." Casually, the Luger moved forward, forcing Clyde back into the great room. Mallot closed the door and then turned to the Christmas tree. Three enormous strides took him over to the window. Carefully, genially, he hung Gwen's cellophane pouch back on the branches. Then he turned to the young man once more.

  "Roger is a most unusual child, as you will discover. He has quite eccentric tastes--and it is my pleasure to encourage them."

  Clyde couldn't hold it back any longer. Forgetting the Luger, forgetting all caution or diplomacy, he burst out in frantic rage.

  "You monster! I don't know how you did this, or what you intend, but you can't get away with it!"

  Mallot laughed. The windows rattled.

  "A rather melodramatic speech," he observed. "It might sound more convincing if you had this to emphasize your sentiments." He glanced at his Luger significantly. He began to come closer, and Clyde saw the outthrust muzzle of the weapon level at his heart once more.

  "Naturally, now that you have been so--frank --I would be foolish to allow you to depart," said the giant, suavely. "So perhaps I had better--"

  The great eyes flickered. Mallot halted. "No," he purred. "Perhaps I'm just a sentimental fool. The sea- son, you know --holiday spirit and all that sort of thing. But I won't kill you. Besides, it might spoil Roger's Christmas if he knew."

  He stared at Clyde. Again, the gloating smile.

  "You have red hair," he commented. "Roger should find you amusing."

  The giant stalked closer. "Yes," he said. "It would be a surprise, too."

  Clyde watched and waited. He tried to look at the black cat perched on Mallot's shoulder. But out of the corner of his eye, he watched the approaching muzzle of the gun. It was so small, compared to the vast bulk of the giant. But there was a chance. If he could leap forward, grab the gun, turn it on Mallot, now

  Clyde waited. He stared at the cat's glaring eyes. The gun came close. The giant smiled. Clyde stood poised, ready. He tensed to spring.

  More quickly than the eye could follow, Mallot's free hand darted forward.

  Clyde went for the gun, but as he moved he felt the giant's great paw brush his elbow. There was a faint prickling sensation in his arm.

  The sensation rose, magnified with incredible acceleration. For an instant Clyde felt his sweaty palms close about the Luger's muzzle. For a fraction of a second he knew he was struggling forward. Then everything whirled and there was nothing but the eyes of the cat on Mallot's shoulder --eyes looming up larger and larger. Great, green liquid eyes.

  Clyde fell forward, fell into the eyes, drowned deep in an emerald lake.

  CHAPTER IV

  The Enormous Room

  It’s hard to awaken from a nightmare. The darkness has tentacles, and the inky strands are imbedded deep in your brain, trying to pull you back --tryi
ng to pull you down once more into the screaming depths.

  Clyde fought the tentacles, fought the clutching filaments of fear, struggled into consciousness.

  He blinked, opened his eyes fully.

  It was morning.

  He couldn't see clearly, but he recognized daylight around him. He turned his head, shook away the confusion. Now his body tingled with awareness once more. He could feel a constriction under his armpits, a tension.

  Clyde looked down. A great bolt of yellow cloth swathed his body. The ends of the bolt were drawn under his arms, passed up somewhere behind his head. He was hanging suspended by the bolt of cloth. No wonder there was pressure!

  Yes, he was h a n g i n g --but from what?

  Clyde glanced down. And then he knew.

  He was hanging from the Christmas tree --hanging from the tree as Gwen had hung there the night before!

  With a thrill of horrified recognition he stared dawn- down past a million swirling constellations--down past the glacial splinters of a thousand icicles down through a forest of bristling spears--down at the far-away floor of the enormous room.

  Miles away he discerned the gleaming tracks of a railroad line and the huge cluster of yards and terminals. Columns of soldiers marched across the great plateau in the center of the open area, marched towards the rearing towers of a mighty city.

  Of course! The city was made of building blocks. The soldiers were lead and tin. The railroad was a toy train and the tracks against the wall were net miles away, but a mere fifty feet.

  The sky so far above was just the domed ceiling. But if that was so--why did the sun hurt his eyes?

  It blazed with fiendish intensity as he squinted off into the distance.

  Then Clyde realized that the brilliance came from the lights on the Christmas tree from which he hung. The swirling constellations were glittering ornaments. The glacial icicles were merely tinfoil decorations. The forest of bristling spears was made up of pine needles on the branches of the tree.

  He had suffered Gwen's fate. He was a mannikin, two inches high. A doll, hanging by a yellow ribbon, on a Christmas tree. The way Gwen had hung…

  Gwen!