One of the smaller flying monstrosities had pulled ahead of the others. Skimming several feet above the ground, it darted at the man. Closer now, Bryan was able to make out details that previously had escaped him. The creature was the size of a child, with two pairs of arms, its lean body human in shape. It had large bulging eyes in a small hairless head. Its face projected in a long tapering needle-like proboscis, which together with delicate gauzy wings gave the appearance of an enormous insect--a mosquito. The luminous radiance that glowed from the thing was not the only remaining unearthly feature; Bryan discovered that it was mistily transparent as well, somehow unsubstantial. The man saw the winged apparition coming at him. His hands lifted in defense, but in the next instant the creature's needle-shaped snout plunged into his chest like a thrust sword. Then, with a blur of wings, the creature pulled free and circled away. The man did not move again. He stood with hands still defensively raised, statuesque, frozen. It was as if a lightning paralysis had struck him. * * * * * Bryan checked himself sharply, shocked by what he had seen. There was a wrenching unexpectedness about it, a chilling weirdness. And yet it held a certain logic, a deadly significance. For Bryan recalled what Dave had told him about the previous park victim. The man had been found with a queer reddish mark near the shoulder--a mark that presently had vanished. Now Bryan thought he knew how it had been caused. But how could an object penetrate flesh and bone--as he had seen the flying thing's needle-like proboscis pierce the chest of the man before the pavilion--and still make no wound, leave only a reddish mark that soon faded? Only a few instants had passed. The winged band was still descending toward the pavilion. But Bryan's presence on the scene had been noticed. Two of the mosquito-men--their appearance automatically suggested the term--were even now curving toward him. Bryan saw them approach. He tensed, fighting back his dismay. Flight was out of the question. He had seen the mosquito-men in action and knew they could easily overtake him. That left only-- Bryan whipped off his jacket. He flailed at his attackers with it as they closed in. They darted back, their huge eyes widening as if in startled confusion. There was a quality about them as child-like as their shapes, appealing--and somehow not evil. It was a thing Bryan did not understand and which at the moment he had no time to fathom. He pressed his advantage, beating at the shapes with the jacket. It was as though he beat at phantoms. He could feel no contact with solidity through the cloth. And the mosquito-men seemed to realize their immunity, for abruptly they closed in, their sharp snouts thrusting at him. He twisted aside to evade one--but the second reached him before he could move again. Its needle-shaped organ speared his shoulder.