"So that's it?" Ole Luk Oie nodded sagely. "Now it begins to make sense. We're in the infra-red, you know. All of us immortals. And you humans have been leading us a merry chase ever since your scientists discovered how to photograph our wave-length. Snapping our pictures at seances--" "Spirit photography!" exclaimed Peter. "Then--then it's _not_ a fake? You do sometimes communicate--?" "Now, don't get ideas, mortal! Yes, we do; but just for a gag. We never really tell anything. We don't want you jerks muscling in on _our_ world and messing it up like yours. "So the glasses let you see me. And the dream-sands didn't work because you're wearing that mask. Well--take it off!" "Off?" repeated Peter. "Certainly not!" The little man frowned impatiently. "Now, don't be difficult, human! You've got to take it off, you know." "Why?" demanded Peter stubbornly. "Because it says here in this book," pointed out Ole Luk Oie, "that three more mortals are to be put to sleep here in this room. You're one of them, of course. So--" He reached for his fallen bag. But a sudden thought flashed through Peter's brain with the brilliance of a comet. He sprang forward challengingly, swept the gunnysack from the little demigod's hands. "Oh, no you don't!" he cried. "That's mine!" Ole Luk Oie glared at him irately. "Yours in a centaur's eye!" he snorted. "It's mine! A brand-new, imported job. I got it just last millennium from the Arachne Weaving Corporation in Olympus. Hand it over!" "It _was_ yours," yammered Peter. "But it's mine now! I'm turning the contents over to the government. Do you know what this is? The greatest offensive military weapon any man ever discovered! Anaesthetic sands! Our lab men will analyze this powder, learn how to make it. With this, our forces can bring the war to a swift and humane end!" "You," declared Ole Luk Oie flatly, "are crazy! The Sands aren't the only offensive thing around here. In just a few minutes, I'm going to lose my patience, human. Hand back that bag, or by Baldar--" * * * * * What dire threat he would have uttered, Peter Pettigrew was destined never to learn. For at that moment came an interruption. From the doorway behind them came a sound that caused both man and demigod to spin. The sharp, incisive cry of a voice raised in command. "_Achtung!_ Turn quietly, swine, and lift your hands! _Ach, zu!_ Now, Franz ... Otto ... to your work!" Peter's eyes bulged wide, and his lips loosed a tiny moan. For standing in the doorway, armed to the teeth, stood three men from whose eyes gleamed the fanaticism of the creed for which they labored. These were no supernatural and benevolent creatures, but flesh-and-blood men; their purpose here was evident. The destruction of this Armory and its stores!