As Ouglat climbed the hill, the night became an insane bedlam. The challenging roars beat like surf against the black cliffs. Ouglat's lips were flecked with foam, his red eyes were mere slits, his mouth worked convulsively. They were only a few feet apart when Ouglat charged. * * * * * Mal Shaff was ready for him. There was no longer any difference in their size and they met like the two forward walls of contending football teams. Mal Shaff felt the soft throat of the other under his fingers and his grip tightened. Maddened, Ouglat shot terrific blow after terrific blow into Mal Shaff's body. Try as he might, however, he could not shake the other's grip. It was silent now. The night seemed brooding, watching the struggle on the hilltop. Larger and larger grew Mal Shaff, until he overtopped Ouglat like a giant. Then he loosened his grip and, as Ouglat tried to scuttle away, reached down to grasp him by the nape of his neck. High above his head he lifted his enemy and dashed him to the ground. With a leap he was on the prostrate figure, trampling it apart, smashing it into the ground. With wild cries he stamped the earth, treading out the last of Ouglat, the Black Horror. When no trace of the thing that had been Ouglat remained, he moved away and viewed the trampled ground. Then, for the first time he noticed that the crest of the hill was crowded with other monstrous figures. He glared at them, half in surprise, half in anger. He had not noticed their silent approach. "It is Mal Shaff!" cried one. "Yes, I am Mal Shaff. What do you want?" "But, Mal Shaff, Ouglat destroyed you once long ago!" "And I, just now," replied Mal Shaff, "have destroyed Ouglat." The figures were silent, shifting uneasily. Then one stepped forward. "Mal Shaff," it said, "we thought you were dead. Apparently it was not so. We welcome you to our land again. Ouglat, who once tried to kill you and apparently failed, you have killed, which is right and proper. Come and live with us again in peace. We welcome you." Mal Shaff bowed. Gone was all thought of the third dimension. Through Mal Shaff's mind raced strange, haunting memories of a red desert scattered with scarlet boulders, of silver cliffs of gleaming metallic stone, of huge seas battering against towering headlands. There were other things, too. Great palaces of shining jewels, and weird nights of inhuman joy where hellish flames lit deep, black caverns. He bowed again. "I thank you, Bathazar," he said. Without a backward look he shambled down the hill with the others. * * * * * "Yes?" said the editor. "What's that you say? Doctor White is dead! A suicide! Yeah, I understand. Worry, hey! Here, Roberts, take this story." He handed over the phone.