The hands of the alarm clock on the table in front of Mr. Crangle stood at 3:47, on a summer afternoon.

“You’re wrong about that, you know,” he said, not taking his eyes from the face of the clock. “You’re quite wrong, Pet, as I have explained to you often enough before. The moral angle presents no difficulties at all.”

The parrot, in the cage hanging above him, cocked her head and looked down with a hard, cold, reptilian eye, an ancient eye, an eye older by age upon age than the human race.

She said, “Nut.”

Mr. Crangle, his eye still on the clock, took a peanut from a cracked bowl at his elbow and held it above his head, to the bars of the cage. Pet clutched it in a leathery claw. The spring-steel muscles opened the horny beak. She clinched the peanut and crushed it, the sound mingling in the furnished room with the big-city sounds coming through the open window—cars honking, feet on the sidewalk, children calling to each other, a plane overhead like a contented, industrious bee.

“It is quite true,” Mr. Crangle said at 3:49, “that only someone above all personal emotions, only someone who can look at the whole thing as if from the outside, can be trusted morally to make such a decision.” As the big hand reached 3:50, he felt a sense of power surge deeply through him. “Think, Pet. In ten minutes. In ten little minutes, when I say the word, all the evil people all over the world will become half their present size, so they can be known. All the uncaught murderers and the tyrants and the proud and sinful, all the bullies and the wrongdoers and the blackmailers and nicotine fiends and transgressors.” His eyes blazed with omnipotence. “All of them, every one.”

Pet said, “Nut.”

Mr. Crangle gave her one.

“I know you don’t agree fully with the half-size solution,” he said, “but I do believe it to be the best one, all things considered.”

He had studied over the alternatives day and night since that morning three weeks ago when, as he sat on a bench in the park, looking at the pictures in the clouds across the lake, it came to him that he had the power to do this thing, that upon him at that moment had been bestowed the gift of putting a mark on all the bad people on earth, so that they should be known.

The realization surprised him not at all. Once before, such a thing had happened. He had once held the power to stop wars. That was when the radio was telling about the big air raids on the cities. In that case the particular thing he could do was to take the stiffness out of airplane propellers, so that some morning when the crews, bundled like children against cold, went out to get in their planes, they would find the props hanging Ump, like empty banana skins.

That time, he had delayed too long, waiting for just the right time and just the right plan, and they had outwitted him, unfairly. They had invented the jet, to which his power did not apply.

Then, too, there had been the thing about wheels. The thing about wheels came to him in a coffee place as he was looking at a newspaper photograph of a bad traffic accident, three killed. The power, that was, to change all the wheels in the world from round to square, or even to triangular if he wished, so they would stub in the asphalt and stop. But he wasn’t allowed to keep that power. Before he could work out a plan and a time, he had felt it taken from him.

The power over bad people had stayed. It had even grown stronger, if power like that could grow stronger. And this time he had hurried, though of course there were certain problems to be thought through.

First, who was to decide what people were evil? That wasn’t too hard, really, in spite of Pet’s doubts. An evil person was a person who would seem evil to a man who held within himself the knowledge of good and evil, if that man could know all the person’s innermost secrets. An evil person was a person who would seem evil to an all-knowing Mr. Crangle.

Then, how to do it, the method? Mark them on the forehead, or turn them all one color, say purple? But then they would simply be able to recognize each other the more readily, and to band together in their wickedness.

When at last he hit upon the idea of a change in size, what came to him first was the thought of doubling the height and bulk of all the bad people. That would make them inefficient. They couldn’t handle delicate scientific instruments or typewriters or adding machines or telephone dials. In time they would expire from bigness, like the dinosaurs in the article in the Sunday paper. But they might first run wild, with their great weight and strength, and hurt other people. Mr. Crangle wouldn’t have liked that. He hated violence.

Half-size people, it was true, might be able to manipulate some of the machines. They could also be dangerous. But it would take them a long time to develop tools and weapons to their scale, and think how ridiculous they would be, meanwhile, with their clothes twice too big and their hats falling down over their ears.

At 3:54, Mr. Crangle smiled at the thought of how ridiculous they would be.

“Nut,” Pet said.

He reached up and gave her one, his eyes still on the clock.

“I think,” he said, “that the most interesting place to be would be at a murder trial where nobody knew whether the accused was guilty or not. And then at 4 o’clock, if he was guilty—”

Mr. Crangle’s breath was coming faster. The clock hands stood at 3:56.

“Or watching the drunkards in a saloon,” he said.

“Nut,” Pet said, and he gave her one.

“Oh,” he said, “there are so many places, so many places to be. But I’d rather be with you when it happens, Pet. Right here alone with you.”

He sat tense in his chair. He could actually see the big hand of the clock move, in the tiniest little jerkings, leaving a hairline of white between itself and the black 3:57 dot, and moving to the 3:58 dot, narrowing the space, until it touched that dot, and then stood directly on it, and then moved past toward the 3:59 dot.

“At first,” Mr. Crangle said, “the newspapers won’t believe it. Even though some of it will happen right in the newspaper offices, they won’t believe it. At first they won’t. And then when they begin to understand that it has happened to a lot of people everybody knows are evil, then they’ll see the design.”

The clock said 3:59.

“A great story,” Mr. Crangle said. “A great newspaper story. And nobody will know who did it, Pet, nobody but you and me.”

The point of the big hand crept halfway past the 3:59 dot. Mr. Crangle’s heart beat hard. His eyes were wide, his lips parted. He whispered, “Nobody will know.”

The tip of the big hand touched the dot at the top of the clock face. The alarm went off. Mr. Crangle felt a great surge of strength, like water bursting a dam, and a great shock, as of a bolt of lightning. He closed his eyes.

“Now!” he said softly, and slumped exhausted.

By going to the window and looking down at the crowd in the street, he could have seen whether it had worked or not. He did not go to the window. He did not need to. He knew.

The alarm bell ran down.

Pet cocked her head and looked at him with an eye like polished stone. “Nut,” she said.

His hand, as he stretched it up, failed by a full foot and a half to reach the cage.