Part 1 (1/2)
The Raid on the Termites.
by Paul Ernst.
CHAPTER I
_The Challenge of the Mound_
It was a curious, somehow weird-looking thing, that mound. About a yard in height and three and a half in diameter, it squatted in the gra.s.sy grove next the clump of trees like an enormous, inverted soup plate.
Here and there tufts of gra.s.s waved on it, of a richer, deeper color, testifying to the unwholesome fertility of the crumbling outer stuff that had flaked from the solid mound walls.
Like an excrescence on the flank of Mother Earth herself, the mound loomed; like an unhealthy, cancerous growth. And inside the enigmatic thing was another world. A dark world, mysterious, horrible, peopled by blind and terrible demons--a world like a Dante's dream of a second Inferno.
Such, at least, were the thoughts of Dennis Braymer as he worked with delicate care at the task of sawing into the hard cement of a portion of the wall near the rounded top.
His eyes, dark brown and rimmed with thick black lashes, flashed earnestly behind his gla.s.ses as they concentrated on his difficult job.
His face, lean and tanned, was a mask of seriousness. To him, obviously, this was a task of vital importance; a task worthy of all a man's ability of brain and logic.
Obviously also, his companion thought of the work as just something with which to fill an idle afternoon. He puffed at a pipe, and regarded the entomologist with a smile.
To Jim Holden, Denny was simply fussing fruitlessly and absurdly with an ordinary ”ant-hill,” as he persisted in miscalling a termitary. Playing with bugs, that was all. Wasting his time poking into the affairs of termites--and acting, by George, as though those affairs were of supreme significance!
He grinned, and tamped and relighted the tobacco in his pipe. He refrained from putting his thoughts into words, however. He knew, of old, that Denny was apt to explode if his beloved work were interrupted by a careless layman. Besides, Dennis had brought him here rather under protest, simply feeling that it was up to a host to do a little something or other by way of trying to amuse an old college mate who had come for a week's visit. Since he was there on sufferance, so to speak, it was up to him to keep still and not interrupt Denny's play.
The saw rasped softly another time or two, then moved, handled with surgeon's care, more gently--till at last a section about as big as the palm of a man's hand was loose on the mound-top.
Denny's eyes snapped. His whole wiry, tough body quivered. He visibly held his breath as he prepared to flip back that sawed section of curious, strong mound wall.
He s.n.a.t.c.hed up his gla.s.s, overturned the section.
Jim drew near to watch, too, seized in spite of himself by some of the scientist's almost uncontrollable excitement.
Under the raised section turmoil reigned for a moment. Jim saw a horde of brownish-white insects, looking something like ants, das.h.i.+ng frenziedly this way and that as the unaccustomed light of sun and exposure of outer air impinged upon them. But the turmoil lasted only a little while.
Quickly, in perfect order, the termites retreated. The exposed honeycomb of cells and runways was deserted. A slight heaving of earth told how the insects were blocking off the entrances to the exposed floor, and making that floor their new roof to replace the roof this invading giant had stripped from over them.
In three minutes there wasn't a sign of life in the hole. The observation--if one could call so short a glimpse at so abnormally acting a colony an observation--was over.
Denny rose to his feet, and dashed his gla.s.s to the ground. His face was twisted in lines of utter despair, and through his clenched teeth the breath whistled in uneven gasps.
”My G.o.d!” he groaned. ”My G.o.d--if only I could see them! If only I could get in there, and watch them at their normal living. But it's always like this. The only glance we're permitted is at a stampede following the wrecking of a termitary. And that tells us no more about the real natures of the things than you could tell about the nature of normal men by watching their behavior after an earthquake!”
Jim Holden tapped out his pipe. On his face the impatiently humorous look gave place to a measure of sympathy. Good old Denny. How he took these trivial disappointments to heart. But, how odd that any man could get so worked up over such small affairs! These bugologists were queer people.
”Oh, well,” he said, half really to soothe Denny, half deliberately to draw him out, ”why get all boiled up about the contrariness of ordinary little bugs?”
Denny rose to the bait at once. ”Ordinary little bugs? If you knew what you were talking about, you wouldn't dismiss the termite so casually!