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The Raid on the Termites

Ernst, Paul Frederick

Published: 1932

Type(s): Novels, Science Fiction

Source: http://www.gutenberg.org

About Ernst:

Paul Frederick Ernst (1899 - 1985) was an American pulp fiction writer.

He is best known as the author of the original 24 "Avenger" novels, pub-

lished by Street and Smith Publications under the house name Kenneth

Robeson.

Also available on Feedbooks for Ernst:

• The Radiant Shell (1932)

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Chapter 1

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 grassy

grove next the clump of trees like an enormous, inverted soup plate.

Here and there tufts of grass waved on it, of a richer, deeper color, testi-

fying 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 glasses 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 su-

preme significance!

He grinned, and tamped and relighted the tobacco in his pipe. He re-

frained 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 vis-

ibly held his breath as he prepared to flip back that sawed section of curi-

ous, strong mound wall.

He snatched up his glass, 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, dashing

frenziedly this way and that as the unaccustomed light of sun and expos-

ure of outer air impinged upon them. But the turmoil lasted only a little

while.

Quickly, in perfect order, the termites retreated. The exposed honey-

comb 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 observa-

tion—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 glass to the ground. His face

was twisted in lines of utter despair, and through his clenched teeth the

breath whistled in uneven gasps.

"My God!" he groaned. "My God—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!

These 'ordinary little bugs' are the most intelligent, the most significant

and highly organized of all the insect world.

"Highly organized?" he repeated himself, his voice deepening.

"They're like a race of intelligent beings from another planet—superior

even to Man, in some ways. They have a king and queen. They have

'soldiers,' developed from helpless, squashy things into nightmare cre-

ations with lobster-claw mandibles longer than the rest of their bodies

put together. They have workers, who bore the tunnels and build the

mounds. And they have winged ones from among which are picked new

kings and queens to replace the original when they get old and useless.

And all these varied forms, Jim, they hatch at will, through some mar-

velous power of selection, from the same, identical kind of eggs. Now, I

ask you, could you take the unborn child and make it into a man with

four arms or a woman with six legs and wings, at will, as these insects, in

effect, do with theirs?"

"I never tried," said Jim.

"Just a soft, helpless, squashy little bug, to begin with," Denny went

on, ignoring his friend's levity. "Able to live only in warm countries—yet

dying when exposed directly to the sun. Requiring a very moist atmo-

sphere, yet exiled to places where it doesn't rain for months at a time.

And still, under circumstances harsher even than those Man has had to

struggle against, they have survived and multiplied."

"Bah, bugs," murmured Jim maddeningly.

But again Denny ignored him, and went on with speculations concern-

ing the subject that was his life passion. He was really thinking aloud,

now; the irreverent Holden was for the moment nonexistent.

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