Part 2

Then Peter moved. Whipping his automatic out of its holster, he burst into the ammunition-packed room, shouting a wild and--he hoped--stern command.

"Hands up!" he cried. "Surrender in the name of the--I mean, stick 'em up! I've got you!"

The little man whirled, startled. But surprisingly, his lips cracked in a grin, and his voice was pleased.

"Oh, _there_ you are!" he said. "I was worrying about you. The others coming along soon? Well--nighty-night!"

And with a movement so swift, so deft, that no human eye could follow it, his hand dipped into the sack, grasped a handful of the slumber-producing dust--and flung it squarely into Peter's face!

* * * * *

For a moment, sheer shock immobilized Peter. He had expected cringing capitulation; he had met defiance, instead. It is a different matter to dream of slaughtering hundreds of charging enemies than to pull the trigger on one, small antagonist armed with only a gunnysack. So Peter did nothing.

But the _saboteur_ did an amazing thing. He pencilled a checkmark in his little notebook. Then, quietly crooning a tune that sounded astonishingly like a lullaby, he shouldered his bag and started from the room. Peter roused. His piping voice rang clarion-clear in the echoing chamber.

"Oh, no you don't! Stand still, you! Drop that bag and lift your hands or I'll--I'll--"

And he got what he wanted. The visitor _did_ drop the bag. But his clutch was not nerveless from fright so much as from surprise! A look of blank incredulity widened his eyes, and his jaw dropped slack as he gasped:

"You--you're still awake!"

"You bet your boots I'm awake!" declared Peter boldly. "You didn't think you'd get _me_ with that stuff, you--"

"And you--" gulped the little man--"you _see_ me!"

"See you? Of course I see you! If you take another step, you dirty old Nazi, you--"

"Nazi!" exclaimed the stranger indignantly. "I'm no Nazi!"

"Oh, no? What's your name?"

"My name," said the chubby one, "is Ole Luk Oie. In some circles I am known as Noctus or Suom, but--"

"Never mind the aliases," said Peter. "Ole Luk Oie, eh? A Norwegian. One of Quisling's men?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," blazed his prisoner. "I don't know anything about quisling. I've never quissled in my life. But I do know _one_ thing: when I see the Assignment Clerk at the O.D.D. again, I'm going to raise blue fumes about this! I was _never_ so mortified! Imagine _me_ held at a pistol's point by a mortal who defies my Sands--"

"That'll do!" rapped Peter sternly. "I'll talk; you answer. What's this O.D.D. you mentioned?"

"Why, the Office of Dream Distribution," snapped the stranger, "of course! The outfit I work for. Now, see here, mortal--point that thing the other way before it goes off by accident and creates a scandal. It can't kill me, of course, but hanged if I want to go through eternity with lead bullets in my gizzard. Woden knows my digestion is awful enough now, what with staying up all night and those brazen Walküre keeping me awake all day with their noisy war-chants--"

But he need not have elaborated on his request. For Peter, his hand wobbling like an aspen leaf in a tornado, had already thrust the .44 back into its holster, and was staring at his captive with horror-stricken eyes. Peter passed a dry tongue over drier lips. And:

"W-who are you?" he croaked.

"I've already told you once," said the little fellow testily. "I'm Ole Luk Oie. The Bringer of Sleep. The Sandman!"

* * * * *

"The Sand--_Ooooh!_" moaned Peter Pettigrew. Beneath his feet the world quaked and quivered. Its motion developed an identical counterpart in Peter's interior. He braced himself to hurl a last rebellious salvo at this enemy of reason. "But--but the Sandman is only a--_a myth_!"

"Myth your eye!" retorted Ole Luk Oie savagely. "Do I _look_ like a myth?" He did not. He looked most solid, most substantial, sturdy arms akimbo on his firmly planted thighs, eyes flashing indignation. "And that reminds me, how can you see me? I'm invisible, you know."

"N-not to me," quavered Peter Pettigrew.

"That," frowned Ole Luk Oie, "is obvious. But--Ah! Those dark things you're wearing over your eyes? What do you call them?"

"They--they're special glasses," said Peter meekly, "to cut down ultra-violet radiation."

"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!

The underling Nazi agents needed no second bidding. With the grim, mechanical purposefulness of their race, they leaped to their task. One sprang to the nearest hogshead of gunpowder, smashed loose a stave and began scattering the barrel's contents about the chamber. The other ripped open a carton of dynamite sticks, hastily unreeled and adjusted the wires of a detonator.

While his underlings labored, the leader enjoyed the luxury of gloating over his accomplishment.

"So," he gibed, "there you stand, foolishly agape as sheep! You wonder at our being here, _nichts wahr_? Ach, you _verdammt Amerikanische_! You are all fools! Not only do you advertise in the public papers your idiotic practice blackout, but you leave your Armory unguarded!

"In the Fatherland such madness would not be tolerated! Our _Fuehrer_ weeds out the weak and incompetent. That is why we will soon rule the world!" He personalized his scorn, directed it squarely at Peter Pettigrew. "Little man, you have a revolver at your side. Why don't you draw it? Is it because you fear death? What? You don't answer? You are silent? But why is that? You were voluble enough a moment ago when we entered the room. Standing here alone in an empty chamber, chattering to yourself like an insane ape--"

"A-lone!" The word wrenched itself unbidden from Peter's lips. Like a blinding flash of light, the truth hit him. Of course! The _saboteurs_ wore no ultra-violet glasses. They saw no Ole Luk Oie standing and watching this typically "human" drama with detached disinterest. Peter gulped. "Oh! Oh, yes. A-lone. I was just--"

"Come closer, little man!" taunted the Nazi captain. "I would pinch your scrawny arm to test if you are a man or a mouse. _Stop!_ What are you leaning over for?"

"My--my shoelace--" faltered Peter. "It--it came untied--" But his heart gave a tremendous leap. For now he knew that the Sandman's _bag_, too, was invisible to the enemy. And that bag of dream-dust was now secure within his hands.

"Never mind your shoelace!" commanded his antagonist. "Walk toward me slowly with your arms raised--There! _Das ist gut!_ I see you wear a uniform. Tell me, little man, what is the strength of this garrison? When I make my report--"

* * * * *

Peter was grateful for the semi-gloom of the chamber. Were it not shadowy, the German must have noticed that though his arms were above his head his elbows bent with strain, and his knuckles were tensed whitely with the effort of gripping a heavy sack above his head. He shuffled forward another step. Another. Another....

"That is near enough!" said his captor. "Franz, you are nearly finished? You too, Otto? _Gut!_ Light the fuses. In a moment we shall go. Well, little man, speak! Will you answer and be allowed to flee with us, or will you hold your silence and die here?"

"W-what is it you wanted to know?" bleated Peter Pettigrew, desperately stalling for time. He was almost within arm's reach of his foeman now. Another step....

"The strength of this garrison. Yes, I know you call it a 'civilian defense post', but that is dirty, democratic propaganda. Tell me the truth! How strong are your forces?"

And then--Peter acted!

"_This_ strong!" he cried in a voice of shocking thunder. And with the full force of his meagre frame, supplemented by the unleashed vigor of his righteous wrath, he brought the sack down heavily on the Nazi's head!

The German cried out once, thickly--then collapsed. The bag split. A cloud of milky-gray powder spumed into the air, flew, spread, eddied into every nook and cranny. Franz and Otto had barely time to turn before it clogged their nostrils, felling them in their tracks like stricken steers. A stifling sensation gripped Peter Pettigrew by the throat.

Glancing down, he discovered with horror that in his eagerness to strike and strike hard he had torn his gas mask loose. Slumber-dust was now filtering through the crevice, stealing into _his_ lungs, too!

He turned agonized eyes to the attentive Ole Luk Oie. He cried, "Sandman! But you--you can't do this to me! The Sands! Mus' ... have 'em ... f'r the gov'ment. F'r...."

That was all. He lurched forward sleepily and fell headlong to the floor. Ole Luk Oie minced toward him gingerly, retrieved the forsaken sack and studied the rent in its side with sorrow.

"The very _best_ material!" he muttered. "Now they'll make me get a new one. Oh, well--it was an interesting show, anyhow!" And before he left, he leaned once, strangely tender, over the prostrate little Pettigrew.

"Well done, small human," he crooned softly. "Sleep well, and sweet dreams. Forever may your dreams henceforth come true!"

And he turned, but he did not walk from the chamber. He simply lifted his head in a curious gesture. One instant he was there--the next he was gone.

* * * * *

Out of the dark and pleasant rollingness of slumber, Peter wakened to hear faraway voices drawing nearer and nearer. Something cold and wet was at his lips; he swallowed and choked on a liquid-like honeyed fire. The voice said:

"You all right now, Pettigrew? Here, take another swig of this brandy--"

"Brandy!" gasped Peter Pettigrew, wide awake. "Oh, my gracious, _brandy_! T-take it away!"

"Sure," soothed the voice. "Sure, Pettigrew. Anything you say. After tonight, you can have anything you want around here, including the world with a pink ribbon around it if you ask."

After tonight! Recollection flooded back upon Peter. He lifted himself to one elbow. He was lying on a cot in the upper drill-hall of the Armory. About him were the faces of his fellow student Air Wardens, uniformed figures of regular Army officers; the shoulder propping him up, the voice speaking into his ear, the face peering down into his, all belonged to Sergeant McCurdle. An inexplicably altered Sergeant McCurdle, whose eyes were respectful and admiring.

"Wh-what happened?" demanded Peter. "Ole Luk Oie--did he get away? And the Nazi agents--?"

"Old who?" puzzled McCurdle. "We got the Heinies--three of 'em. That's all there were, wasn't it? Man--" He shook his head admiringly--"I take back everything I ever said or thought about you, Pettigrew. You're a regular wildcat! Why, Joe Louis couldn't have knocked them babies colder than you did! Every one of 'em was out like a light. Their leader ain't come to _yet_. He's as cold as a Labrador herring."

Another voice, deeper and more authoritative, reached Peter's ears. It was the Commanding Officer of the Armory.

"Yes, Pettigrew, it was a magnificent piece of work. You have done your country a great service this night. Had it not been for you, I shudder to think what horror might have been unleashed in this city. You apprehended them in the nick of time. They had already scattered the gunpowder, set their fuses. In another moment--"

"Yes," said Peter. "I know. I mean--Oh, is that so? How about the--er--was there a bag lying on the floor? A bag filled with dust?"

The officers glanced at each other questioningly; one of them muttered sotto voce, "_Wool-gathering, poor chap! And no wonder. After what he's been through_--" The commandant ignored the query. He said, "So I am sending a recommendation to the President, Pettigrew, that you receive a Congressional Medal. Moreover, if you should ever decide to enter the service of your country as a full-fledged militiaman, I should be proud, sir, proud to have you as a member of my company!"

"And now, gentlemen--" With an effort, the officer concealed a yawn--"the hour is late, and I am sure we are all very tired. Suppose we--yaw-rrrm!--leave Mr. Pettigrew to get some much-needed rest."

And he trudged away, followed by a sleepy-eyed staff of subordinates. Peter thought he knew why. Someone had left the basement door open; mingled with the oil and tobacco smoke of the drill-room was a fine scud of eddying dust whose nature Peter knew all too well.

He, too, was drowsy again. But there was one thing he must say to his only remaining companion. "Sergeant," he said, "in the morning we must sweep the storage-room floor carefully, and send the dust to Washington. They've got to analyze it. Very important--"

"Huh?" answered Sergeant McCurdle languidly. "Dust? Oh, sure, Petty, old boy. If you say so. But I don't quite see--aw-rrrm!--why. Hey, move over, willya? I'm gettin' sorta tired myself...."

* * * * *

Thus, planning for the morrow, slumbered Peter Pettigrew, side by side with a newfound friend. And valiant were his dreams. But one person--or was he a person?--knew that this was the only dream of Peter Pettigrew's which should not reach accomplishment. Ole Luk Oie knew that with the dawn no trace would remain of the Sands.

For they were the Sands of Slumber. Such stuff as dreams are made of....

THE END