en the series of weird
and startling events began which took me into the tiny world of an atom
of gold, beyond the vanishing point, beyond the range of even the
highest-powered electric-microscope. My name is George Randolph. I was,
that momentous afternoon, assistant chemist for the Ajax International
Dye Company, with main offices in New York City.

It was twelve-twenty when the local exchange call-sorter announced
Alan's connection from Quebec.

"Hello, George? Look here, you've got to come up here at once. Chateau
Frontenac, Quebec. Will you come?"

I could see his face imaged in the little mirror on my desk; the
anxiety, tenseness in his voice, was duplicated in his expression.

"Well--" I began.

"You must, George. Babs and I need you. See here...."

He tried at first to make it sound like an invitation for a New Year's
Eve holiday. But I knew it was not that. Alan and Barbara were my best
friends. They were twins, eighteen years old. I felt that Alan would
always be my best friend; but for Babs, my hopes, longings, went far
deeper, though as yet I had never brought myself to the point of telling
her so.

"I'd like to come, Alan. But--"

"You've got to George! I can't tell you everything over the public air.
But I've seen _him_: He's diabolical. I know it now!"

_Him_! It could only mean, of all the world, one person!

"He's here!" he went on. "Near here. We saw him today! I didn't want to
tell you, but that's why we came. It seemed a long chance, but it's he,
I'm positive!"

I was staring at the image of Alan's eyes; there was horror in them. And
his voice too. "God, George, it's weird! Weird, I tell you. His
looks--he--oh I can't tell you now! Only, come!"

* * * * *

I was busy at the office in spite of the holiday season, but I dropped
everything and went. By one o'clock that afternoon I was wheeling my
little sport Midge from its cage on the roof of the Metropole building,
and went into the air.

It was a cold gray afternoon with the feel of coming snow. I made a good
two hundred and fifty miles at first, taking the northbound
through-traffic lane which today the meteorological conditions had
placed at an altitude of 6,200 feet.

Flying is largely automatic. There was not enough traffic to bother me.
The details of leaving the office so hastily had been too engrossing for
thought of Alan and Babs. But now, in my little pit at the controls, my
mind flung ahead