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By Ray Cummings

Ray Cummings used to be a twentieth century American writer who was once influential within the technological know-how fiction style. His paintings seemed in a number of pulp fiction courses throughout the 1900s.

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Finally stark terror. He heaved, but the rocks of the opening held solid. Then there was a crack, a gruesome rattling, splintering-his shoulder bones breaking. His whole gigantic body gave a last convulsive lunge, and he emitted a deafening shrill scream of agony. I was aware of the tunnel-mouth breaking upward. Falling rocks-an avalanche, a cataclysm around us. Then light overhead. The giant's crushed body lay motionless. A pile of boulders, rocks and loose metallic earth was strewn upon his head and torso, illumined by the outer light through a jagged rent where the cliff-face had fallen down.

It was a golden cage strapped there. And I seemed to see that there was something in it. A tiny figure? Babs! "I think he has her there," Glora murmured. "You see the little box with bars? " She spoke swiftly, vehemently. " She gripped us. "You think it really best to go? I do what you say. " exclaimed Alan. " We were ready with our pellets. But a sudden activity in the road made us pause. The crowd of little people were hostile to Polter. A sullen hostility. They milled about him as he stood there, gazing down at them sardonically.

Then why should we quarrel now? I am gifing up the Earth world. I wanted of it only the little Babs.... You look at me so strange! " "There is nothing to say," retorted Dr. Kent wearily. "Then you listen. I haf much gold above in Quebec. You know that. So very simple to take it out of our atom, grow large with it to what we call up there the size of a hundred feet. I haf a place, a room, secluded from prying eyes under a dome roof. I become very tall, holding a piece of gold. It is large when I am a hundred feet tall.

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