by Robert Bloch
It dropped past Clyde's head and fell with a shattering thump. But it did not break. Mallot looked up at his enemy as Clyde clung to the rung of the chair. Then he grinned. Carefully he stooped and untied the thread from around the vial.
Clyde panted as he turned to continue his descent. He had to reach the floor and find the needle before Simon Mallot realized one was there.
He knew Mallot had another scheme, but he didn't dare stop to gaze. A few more movements and he'd reach the floor. He climbed on—
Then it happened.
The white noose coiled out, sailed in an arc around Clyde's shining head, and dropped in a hangman's knot around his neck.
Clyde’s hands rose to tear at the rope --for that was what the thread amounted to.
As he released his hold, he fell. And the rope tightened, the wizard tugged, Clyde felt the red haze rise around him as he gasped for breath.
Floundering helplessly, Clyde saw Simon Mallot run towards him with a grin of evil triumphant. In one brawny hand he held the glittering needle. The wizard had found it, then!
This was the end. Bruised, battered, a strangling victim of the sorcerer's cunning, Clyde stared up at the descending point of the needle.
Simon Mallot's white face loomed. The eyes flamed, the red lips parted. And the silver death slashed towards Clyde's breast.
The growl rose with startling swiftness. The deep, purring moan of menace caused both wizard and victim to turn their heads.
It was the black cat. It had slipped into the room quite stealthily --but stealth turned to lightning speed.
All in an instant Mallot turned, stared at the great black body before him, then shrieked and tried to dodge.
But the razored claw raked out, the sleek head bent forward.
One dreadful, gurgling scream --one indescribable gulping sound --and then the black beast was slinking from the room.
Clyde stared, then looked away. A tiny leg dangled limply from the black cat's jaws . . . like the paw of a white mouse . . .
CHAPTER IX
A Sizeable Problem
The noose was gone from Clyde's neck. Gwen, shaken but smiling, had joined him on the floor. Now, together again, they tugged at the end of the needle. Its point was imbedded in the cork stopper of the vial.
"Once more," Clyde urged. "We'll yank it out."
They did. The cork gave, and the precious fluid flowed across the floor. Swiftly Clyde loosened the needle.
"Wonderful thing," he commented grimly. "A weapon, then a corkscrew, and now a hypodermic needle."
"Clyde." Gwen's eyes clouded.
"Yes, darling?"
"Aren't you afraid to use that stuff? After all, you don't know if it will work --and the needle is so big " Clyde smiled and shrugged.
"What else can I do?" he said. "It's a chance I must take." He dipped the needle point in the pool of fluid on the floor.
"Oh, Clyde!"
She ran to him then, and they clung together--two grotesque tiny little figures, ragged and bruised and infinitesimal.
But there was reality in their embrace --perhaps the last reality in a fantastic world.
"All right, darling," Clyde whispered. He stepped back. One hand held the needle forward, tipped the point in. He placed his arm against the point, forced it down. The point was wet.
A trickle of crimson --a groan Clyde fell. But even as he fell, he felt himself shoot upwards.
This time there was no drowning sensation; only a surprising feeling of expansion. It was as though he flew upwards instead of dropping --as though he soared to meet the room about him.
And then he was standing on his feet once more, standing and leaning against the laboratory table.
But he was alive again--alive, and fully-grown to his natural size!
The rest was easy.
The requirements of modesty were easily fulfilled with the aid of the wizard's discarded garments. And then Clyde was cradling the tiny figure of Gwen between his fingers, pressing the needle gently home
Within a few moments a normal girl lay in his arms.
There was another embrace. An embrace, this time, of joyous reunion in a properly proportioned world.
"Hey --what about me?"
Clyde whirled.
"It's Roger!" he grinned. "We almost forgot about him."
Stepping to the table, Clyde untied the child. The gauze knots were no problem to his fingers now.
"Thanks," said the boy.
"Save it," Clyde advised. "Let's get our things and get out of here. Gwen, slip on Mallot's robe. My own clothes must be downstairs."
"What about the butler?" Gwen asked.
"Mallot sent him out for the day," Roger informed her. "After all, it's Christmas."
"So it is," Clyde grinned. "Though I'd hardly say we've had much of a holiday."
He turned and guided Gwen out of the laboratory. Roger lingered behind the doors for a moment, then joined them on the stairway.
In the hall, Clyde dressed once more. Gwen wrapped the robe around her, a smile on her doll-like cheeks. Suddenly her pert nose wrinkled.
"Don't I smell smoke?" she asked.
Roger nodded. "Yes," he whispered. "I --I started a fire in the laboratory upstairs. Such things should be destroyed."
Clyde looked at the boy, but there was wisdom beyond youth in his eyes.
He nodded. "Yes," he agreed. "Perhaps it's for the best."
He bent his red head down as Gwen whispered in his ear. The girl pointed at Roger and smiled.
"What are you whispering about?" the boy demanded.
Clyde smiled. "Nothing much," he declared. "It's just that we're going to be married, and Gwen suggested that she'd like to adopt you as our boy."
Roger glowed and shuffled his feet. "Good enough," he agreed, as they left the house.
Gwen sighed. "Of course it's going to be an awful job to change some of those weird ideas Mallot has given you. But we'll bring you up properly."
"Bet we will," said Clyde grimly. He grasped Roger's arm grimly. "The first step in your education starts now," he told the boy. He glanced at the smoke pouring from the roof of the house behind them.
"I'll have to teach you not to play with matches," he muttered.
"What are you going to do?" Gwen cried.
Clyde grinned as he slowly bent the boy forward in an ageless gesture. "Nothing at all," he said. "Nothing at all. I'm just going to give the kid a good, old fashioned spanking!"
About the Author
Robert Albert Bloch (April 5, 1917 – September 23, 1994) was a prolific American writer, primarily of crime, horror and science fiction. Bloch wrote hundreds of short stories and over twenty novels, usually crime fiction, science fiction and, perhaps most influentially, horror fiction (Psycho). He was one of the youngest members of the Lovecraft Circle. He was a contributor to pulp magazines such as Weird Tales in his early career, and was also a prolific screenwriter. He was the recipient of the Hugo Award (for his story "That Hell-Bound Train"), the Bram Stoker Award, and the World Fantasy Award. He served a term as president of the Mystery Writers of America. Robert Bloch was also a major contributor to science fiction fanzines and fandom in general. In the 1960s, he wrote three scripts for Star Trek.
He also wrote under the following names: E. K. Jarvis , Nathan Hindin , Tarleton Fiske , Will Folke , Wilson Kane , John Sheldon , Collier Young , Keith Hammond , Robert A. Bloch , Lan Stewart
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