"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.