"Too big for a gnome, too small for a mortal," said Brian Shanachie, his humor restored, "No, I'm neither. My father was the son of Finbheara himself, but my mother was a mortal. So I am well suited for this job." "Which is what?" "I'm telling you," said Brian Shanachie, with a scowl. "In the days when people had enough sense to believe in the Little People, diplomatic relations were handled on an individual basis. The individual who aroused the anger of a gnome would himself put out an offering of milk, with perhaps a wee drop of brandy in it, or offer him a new cloak and hood. But with the coming of such fine education that the Little People were forgotten there was a problem. It was then that my little organization was started. More properly it should be known as the Bureau of Mortal-Gnomic Adjustments, but there are too many non-believers who would only plague me with their silly questions, so I called it Troubleshooters, Inc." "But what do you do?" Kevan asked. He had a strange feeling that the more it was explained the less he understood. "Adjust matters between mortals and gnomes, of course," snapped the other. He picked up some papers on his desk. "Now, take the case I'm assigning you to, the emergency--I'm putting it in the files as The Case of the Gnome's Gneiss...." "I beg your pardon?" "Gneiss," said Brian Shanachie with some irritation. "G-N-E-I-S-S. Everybody certainly knows what gneisses are." "I don't." "College education," the little man sneered. "Gneisses are rocks made of thin layers of minerals. Now, a gnome, or a dwarf, if you prefer--he's been called both--named Alviss is one of the finest gneiss-makers in the world. Recently, he had just finished what he considered his masterpiece, a gneiss composed of some fifteen different minerals, and all of fifty feet long, when directly over the spot where it was located an atom bomb test was held. You can imagine the results. The gneiss was cracked beyond repair. Alviss, with certain provocation you must admit, is angry. In fact, he grows angrier every minute and I understand that he is on the verge of declaring open war against all mortals." "So what?" asked Kevan. "What could he do?" "What could he do?" echoed Brian Shanachie in horror. "Why, there is no end to what he could do. Sour milk, make cows go dry, put changelings in the place of mortal infants, make the hens lay square eggs. Water might run uphill, hens would crow and roosters cackle, and the sun set in the east. And that, mind you, would be only the work of Alviss. If the others of the Little People helped him, and fully half of them would have to, then you can imagine the chaos. "No, it's obvious Alviss must be appeased and since the ones who dropped the bomb will not do so, it is up to us to avert the war." "Why not just explain to--er--Alviss that it was all a mistake?" Kevan suggested.