Snow White and the Giants by J. T. McIntosh

she had no pockets.

"Where do you carry things?" I asked.

"What things?"

"Money, cosmetics, a handkerchief, keys -- that sort of thing."

"Why would I need them?" she asked mildly.

We had emerged into bright sunlight. It was as hot as usual.

"Thanks for the lunch, Val," Miranda said. "I'll see you later."

And she strode off so abruptly that even to attempt to detain her I'd

have had to shout or run after her.

From the way she walked, I knew she could run faster than I could.

Looking after her, I decided that Miranda, in her way, was as careless

as she thought Greg was. True, it was a different way.

We had lunched together, man and girl. And we might have been robots.

Certainly some apparently personal things had been said. I'd said a

lot. I had acted more or less like a human being.

But Miranda . . .

Everything she had said and done she might have said and done from ten

thousand miles and ten thousand years away.

"You don't really believe it, do you?" Gil sneered. A sneer was the

only way to describe it. Where anyone else would have expressed polite

surprise, Gil's reaction was incredulity that anyone could be so stupid,

even you.

"I do," I said.

"You mean one of these -- giants tells you Jota will arrive at 3:10,

and you expect him on the dot?"

I looked at my watch. It was eight after three.

"You can believe what you like, Gil," I said. "But these giants are

no ordinary kids. I've been trying to figure out how Miranda was able

to make me talk like that an hour or so ago, without ever letting the

conversation get more than two or three degrees above absolute zero,

and now I see it. She knew the questions to ask."

Gil started to say something, but I hadn't finished. "Maybe Greg meant

Jota would arrive in Shuteley at 3:10 exactly, he didn't say. But I think

he meant here. I think he meant that wherever I was, whether I went home

or stayed in the Red Lion or came back here, Jota would walk in at 3:10."

"Of all the fatuous, ridiculous, superstitious . . . " Gil began.

He'd probably have found quite a few more adjectives before he had to

cap them with a noun. But just then the door opened.

I'd given instructions for anyone who called on me after three to be

sent straight in. That was why Miranda found it so easy.

"Why look surprised?" she said. "I told you I wanted you to introduce

me to Jota.'

"I'm surprised," I observed, "that you should consider an introduction

necessary. You didn't with me."

She smiled and turned to Gil. "Hello, Gil," she said. "Has Garry's flush

gone yet?"

Although Gil didn't answer, I could see he was startled. Garry evidently

had had a flush, and it wouldn't have surprised me to learn that there

was no apparent way for the giants to know about it.

Miranda sat down, primly arranging her skirt the way girls do (though

I suspected she had had to practice ). And the very instant that she

turned and looked at the door, Jota came in.

He had never been handsome. I never knew any lady-killer who was really

goodlooking. Women seem to go for men of the oddest shapes and sizes. Jota

had a long nose, very deep-set eyes, hollow cheeks and black hair nearly,

but not quite, as dark as Miranda's. He was tall and very thin. He

looked like a fanatic or visionary, and this impression wasn't wrong,

though fanaticism was only part of his complex makeup.

He didn't look at Gil or me. He went straight to Miranda, took her hand

gently and pulled her to her feet and said, from his nine-inch advantage

in height: "You're exquisite."

"I know," said Mirand~ coolly. "But thanks for noticing."

"Your name must be Venus."

"If you say so," said Miranda.

There was a lot more of this, and I realized as I watched that Jota,

for only the second time, was annoying me far more than Gil ever could.

It's strange about old friends, people you know from way back -- you've

forgotten long ago whether you like them or not. The question has ceased

to be relevant.

Gil, now . . . He had not