Still a potentially dangerous situation.

On a piece of official stationery he wrote select out class of chess players employing queen’s pawn opening. For Invigorating Forest-renewal Team, he decided. Fnools are small, but they can plant saplings… we must get some use out of them. Seeds; they can plant sunflower seeds for our tundra-removal vegetable-oil venture.

A year of hard physical work, he decided, and they’ll think twice before they invade Terra again.

On the other hand, we could make a deal with them, offer them an alternative to invigorating forest-renewal activity. They could enter the Army as a special brigade and be used in Chile, in the rugged mountains. Being only sixty-one centimeters high, many of them could be packed into a single nuclear sub for transport… but can Fnools be trusted?

The thing he hated most about Fnools—and he had learned to know them in their previous invasions of Terra—was their deceitfulness. Last time they had taken the physical form of a troupe of ethnic dancers… and what dancers they had turned out to be. They had massacred an audience in Leningrad before anyone could intervene, men, women and children all dead on the spot by weapons of ingenious design and sturdy although monotonous construction which had masqueraded as folk-instruments of a five-stringed variety.

It could never happen again; all Democratic lands were alert, now; special youth groups had been set up to keep vigil. But something new—such as this chess-player deception—could succeed as well, especially in small towns in the East republics, where chess players were enthusiastically welcomed.

From a hidden compartment in his desk Serge Nicov brought out the special non-dial phone, picked up the receiver and said into the mouthpiece, “Fnools back, in North Caucasus area. Better get as many tanks as possible lined up to accept their advance as they attempt to spread out. Contain them and then cut directly through their center, bisecting them repeatedly until they’re splintered and can be dealt with in small bands.”

“Yes, Political Officer Nicov.”

Serge Nicov hung up and resumed eating his—now cold—late breakfast.

As Captain Lightfoot piloted the ‘copter back to Washington, D.C. one of the two captured Fnools said, “How is it that no matter what guise we come in, you Terrans can always detect us? We’ve appeared on your planet as filling station attendants, Volkswagen gear inspectors, chess champions, folk singers complete with native instruments, minor government officials, and now real-estate salesmen—”

Lightfoot said, “It’s your size.”

“That concept conveys nothing to us.”

“You’re only two feet tall!”

The two Fnools conferred, and then the other Fnool patiently explained, “But size is relative. We have all the absolute qualities of Terrans embodied in our temporary forms, and according to obvious logic—”

“Look,” Lightfoot said, “stand here next to me.” The Fnool, in its gray business suit, carrying its briefcase, came cautiously up to stand beside him. “You just come up to my knee cap,” Lightfoot pointed out. “I’m six feet high. You’re only one-third as tall as I. In a group of Terrans you Fnools stand out like an egg in a barrel of kosher pickles.”

“Is that a folk saying?” the Fnool asked. “I’d better write that down.” From its coat pocket it produced a tiny ball point pen no longer than a match. “Egg in barrel of pickles. Quaint. I hope, when we’ve wiped out your civilization, that some of your ethnic customs will be preserved by our museums.”

“I hope so, too,” Lightfoot said, lighting a cigarette.

The other Fnool, pondering, said, “I wonder if there’s any way we can grow taller. Is it a racial secret preserved by your people?” Noticing the burning cigarette dangling between Lightfoot’s lips, the Fnool said, “Is that how you achieve unnatural height? By burning that stick of compressed dried vegetable fibers and inhaling the smoke?”

“Yes,” Lightfoot said, handing the cigarette to the two-foot-high Fnool. “That’s our secret. Cigarette-smoking makes you grow. We have all our offspring, especially teen-agers, smoke. Everyone that’s young.”

“I’m going to try it,” the Fnool said to its companion. Placing the cigarette between its lips, it inhaled deeply.

Lightfoot blinked. Because the Fnool was now four feet high, and its companion instantly imitated it; both Fnools were twice as high as before. Smoking the cigarette had augmented the Fnools’ height incredibly by two whole feet.

“Thank you,” the now four-foot-high real-estate salesman said to Lightfoot, in a much deeper voice than before. “We are certainly making bold strides, are we not?”

Nervously, Lightfoot said, “Gimme back the cigarette.”

In his office at the CIA building, Major Julius Hauk pressed a button on his desk, and Miss Smith alertly opened the door and entered the room, dictation pad in hand.

“Miss Smith,” Major Hauk said, “Captain Lightfoot’s away. Now I can tell you. The Fnools are going to win this time. As senior officer in charge of defeating them, I’m about to give up and go down to the bomb-proof shelter constructed for hopeless situations such as this.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” Miss Smith said, her long eyelashes fluttering. “I’ve enjoyed working for you.”

“But you, too,” Hauk explained. “All Terrans are wiped out; our defeat is planet-wide.” Opening a drawer of his desk he brought out an unopened fifth of Bullock & Lade Scotch which he had been given as a birthday present. “I’m going to finish this B & L Scotch off first,” he informed Miss Smith. “Will you join me?”

“No thank you, sir,” Miss Smith said. “I’m afraid I don’t drink, at least during the daylight hours.”

Major Hauk drank for a moment from a dixie cup, then tried a little more from the bottle just to be sure it was Scotch all the way to the bottom. At last he put it down and said, “It’s hard to believe that our backs could be put to the wall by creatures no larger than domestic orange-striped tomcats, but such is the case.” He nodded courteously to Miss Smith. “I’m off for the concrete sub-surface bomb-proof shelter, where I hope to hold out after the general collapse of life as we know it.”

“Good for you, Major Hauk,” Miss Smith said, a little uneasily. “But are you—just going to leave me here to become a captive of the Fnools? I mean—” Her sharply pointed breasts quivered in becoming unison beneath her blouse. “It seems sort of mean.”

“You have nothing to fear from the Fnools, Miss Smith,” Major Hauk said. “After all, two feet tall—” He gestured. “Even a neurotic young woman could scarcely—” He laughed. “Really.”

“But it’s a terrible feeling,” Miss Smith said, “to be abandoned in the face of what we know to be an unnatural enemy from another planet entirely.”

“I tell you what,” Major Hauk said thoughtfully. “Perhaps I’ll break a series of strict CIA rulings and allow you to go below to the shelter with me.”

Putting down her pad and pencil and hurrying over to him, Miss Smith breathed, “Oh, Major, how can I thank you!”

“Just come along,” Major Hauk said, leaving the bottle of B & L Scotch behind in his haste, the situation being what it was.

Miss Smith clung to him as he made his way a trifle unsteadily down the corridor to the elevator.

“Drat that Scotch,” he murmured. “Miss Smith, Vivian, you were wise not to touch it. Given the cortico-thalamic reaction we are all experiencing in the face of the Fnoolian peril, Scotch isn’t the beneficial balm it generally is.”

“Here,” his secretary said, sliding under his arm to help prop him up as they waited for the elevator. “Try to stand firm, Major. It won’t be long now.”

“You have a point there,” Major Hauk agreed. “Vivian, my dear.”