And he got what he wanted. The visitor _did_ drop the bag. But his clutch was not nerveless from fright so much as from surprise! A look of blank incredulity widened his eyes, and his jaw dropped slack as he gasped: "You--you're still awake!" "You bet your boots I'm awake!" declared Peter boldly. "You didn't think you'd get _me_ with that stuff, you--" "And you--" gulped the little man--"you _see_ me!" "See you? Of course I see you! If you take another step, you dirty old Nazi, you--" "Nazi!" exclaimed the stranger indignantly. "I'm no Nazi!" "Oh, no? What's your name?" "My name," said the chubby one, "is Ole Luk Oie. In some circles I am known as Noctus or Suom, but--" "Never mind the aliases," said Peter. "Ole Luk Oie, eh? A Norwegian. One of Quisling's men?" "I don't know what you're talking about," blazed his prisoner. "I don't know anything about quisling. I've never quissled in my life. But I do know _one_ thing: when I see the Assignment Clerk at the O.D.D. again, I'm going to raise blue fumes about this! I was _never_ so mortified! Imagine _me_ held at a pistol's point by a mortal who defies my Sands--" "That'll do!" rapped Peter sternly. "I'll talk; you answer. What's this O.D.D. you mentioned?" "Why, the Office of Dream Distribution," snapped the stranger, "of course! The outfit I work for. Now, see here, mortal--point that thing the other way before it goes off by accident and creates a scandal. It can't kill me, of course, but hanged if I want to go through eternity with lead bullets in my gizzard. Woden knows my digestion is awful enough now, what with staying up all night and those brazen Walküre keeping me awake all day with their noisy war-chants--" But he need not have elaborated on his request. For Peter, his hand wobbling like an aspen leaf in a tornado, had already thrust the .44 back into its holster, and was staring at his captive with horror-stricken eyes. Peter passed a dry tongue over drier lips. And: "W-who are you?" he croaked. "I've already told you once," said the little fellow testily. "I'm Ole Luk Oie. The Bringer of Sleep. The Sandman!" * * * * * "The Sand--_Ooooh!_" moaned Peter Pettigrew. Beneath his feet the world quaked and quivered. Its motion developed an identical counterpart in Peter's interior. He braced himself to hurl a last rebellious salvo at this enemy of reason. "But--but the Sandman is only a--_a myth_!" "Myth your eye!" retorted Ole Luk Oie savagely. "Do I _look_ like a myth?" He did not. He looked most solid, most substantial, sturdy arms akimbo on his firmly planted thighs, eyes flashing indignation. "And that reminds me, how can you see me? I'm invisible, you know." "N-not to me," quavered Peter Pettigrew. "That," frowned Ole Luk Oie, "is obvious. But--Ah! Those dark things you're wearing over your eyes? What do you call them?" "They--they're special glasses," said Peter meekly, "to cut down ultra-violet radiation."