"Something here! Father, look! Man--with a white flag. See? See him wave it?" Father seized the microscope. He was trembling so that at first he could hardly hold it. I clutched the poison spray; the guard stood behind us, alert with an automatic, and his gaze roved the room. Father murmured: "Not Drake? Is it not Drake?" "No." "Oh--No, no, you're right--it is not Drake." The disappointment in his voice! "Not Drake--a man, a stranger." I pulled at father. "You can see him now without the microscope." The guard--a fellow named Foley, as near without nerves as a man could be--stammered: "You--you going to kill it--him?" "Yes! No! No, Frank!" Father clutched at me. "Look, he's climbing down." The figure of the man was a quarter of an inch high now. He started climbing down the two or three inch jagged side of the chunk of rock. He slipped, slid; and then fell and landed upon the polished surface of the granite slab. He lay motionless. "He killed himself, Frank!" "No--look, he's up again!" He was standing by the rock which towered like a cliff beside him. He was in a moment half an inch high. The white flag was a piece of white fabric. He had thrust it in his belt; he drew it out again and waved it wildly at us. I said: "He's afraid we'll kill him." I put the spray back on the overhead shelf. "Think he can hear us, father? Understand us?" "Yes. Maybe. Try it, Frank. Don't let him get too large. Tell him to stop. You see anybody else?" Foley said: "I'll take a look." He applied his eye to the microscope. "Don't shout, Frank. Slow, distinct. He'll hear you better that way." I said: "Don't--get--much--larger! We'll kill you." "Suppose he doesn't speak our language," father began. Foley said: "Nobody else. He--this one--he's all smashed up. Bloody. You can see his feet; he's got 'em bound with rags." The figure seemed to understand me. I could see the tiny face looking up. He seemed to be shouting at me. I turned to Foley. "Wait, Foley. Quiet." In the silence, as I bent down, the small words came clear: "Don't--kill me! Friend--friend--from Drake." From Drake! The word thrilled us. We stood breathless, watching the figure on the granite slab. An inch high now. A young man. Bruised and bleeding as though from arduous, desperate traveling. His brief suit of knitted fabric was torn, dirty and blood-stained. His head was bare, showing his close-cut blond hair. His feet were wrapped into shapeless bundles with cloth seemingly torn from his garments. He stood wavering. He put the white flag into a belt at his waist--a belt which we could see now held many compartments. Two inches high. He walked away from the chunk of rock. The light overhead appeared to dazzle him; he flung an arm before his face. But it seemed also that in the far distance he had seen the void which was the edge of the granite slab. He shrank back; then he looked up. "Don't hurt me!"