Russell Homer shuddered. “Christ!” he moaned. “That would be just like it, wouldn’t you know!”
But the Geiger tracker went suddenly silent. Peter Hubbard looked around unhappily. Had he lost the insects after all? He stuck the counter out at arm’s length and revolved a full circle. Nothing. The sheriff and Homer watched with disappointed expressions. In their hearts they had somehow expected this to fail. The pariah bugs were proving too smart for even the smartest of them!
But when Hubbard retraced his steps to the fence and tried the ground on his knees, the faint ticking began once more. He did not stop to question what had caused the diversion, but signaled quickly to the others to continue the strange chase. They came on with renewed confidence.
The sheriff saw that they were taking a course between the dump and Dickens Point. He whispered to Homer, “Out that way’s the pirate cave we talked about!”
“It’d be all overgrown now.”
“Sh-sh!” Hubbard was motioning for them to approach him. He had left the forest and moved down a small incline to a sandy ledge. The three men stood on a plateau about six feet wide that dropped to another earthen ledge about four feet below. That platform, in turn, extended some three feet before dipping into high sand dunes bordering the step-like formation.
Peter Hubbard’s face became flushed. The Geiger counter was louder and clearer than before. “They’ve gone down here!” Hubbard said with certainty. “Right here!”
“You mean this is it?” Russell Homer gulped. It was hard, almost impossible, to believe that the terrible search was over, that the danger might be beneath their feet, vulnerable to their own powers of destruction.
“Hallelujah, goddamn!” exploded Amos Tarbell. Could the Judas roaches have led them to the answer Yarkie needed so critically! Peter Hubbard was a genius!—Unless. Unless this too turned out a dry hole, with the diabolical insects fooling them again . . .
There was a whispered exclamation from Russell Homer as Hubbard kept checking the Geiger instrument. “Look down there!” On the ledge below, the three men viewed what no human eyes had ever beheld. It was a brute roach as large as a good-size crab, with mandibles as ferocious looking. The scientist bent carefully and showed the others a hole from which it had emerged. The opening was an inch in diameter, barely large enough for the misshapen insect to squeeze through.
Another of the giants appeared out of the opening, and a third. The gargantuans rotated their big ugly heads like combatants seeking their opponents. Their leathery antennae whipped the air toward the men, like fighters shaking challenging fists. Their thick shells on their overgrown bodies shone like gladiators’ shields in the early sun. Their folded wings—seeming as large as bats’ to the men looking down—reflected an ominous metallic iridescence in the daylight.
Christ, the sheriff thought, if those buzzards ever fly at us we’re gone no matter what we’re wearing! He turned his dry-ice nozzle cautiously in their direction.
Hubbard clamped his arm. “No, Amos! If they’re disturbed, we may lose the whole nest again! These are obviously sentries. Let’s get out of here!” The scientist tread softly away, trying to set up the least possible vibration.
FOUR
The final strategy of the human counterattack against the Yarkie invaders evolved naturally enough, Hubbard considered. Now that he grasped the basic structure of the roaches’ retreat, he could calculate tactics with some assurance. He had the two objectives, plainly: For Yarkie, to wipe out the threat of this mutated species. For science, to study the colony, its organization, and to preserve the leaders he was convinced he would discover at the heart of the cave, as a queen bee is the heart of a hive.
Back in Elias Johnson’s living room, Hubbard told the group how he planned to accomplish both purposes. They had enough gasoline and flares to destroy the vermin in the end, but his necessary scientific investigation required the carbon dioxide strategy first. His plan called for piping auto engine exhaust into the Nest. It would quiet the roaches without killing them. After his studies and photos, the Nest could be fired. In any case, there was no hurry—they still wanted time for strays to get back.
Bonnie wanted to know why the colony would not attack them again, the way it had assaulted the lighthouse.
Hubbard answered with absolute conviction. “For one thing, they’re no longer receiving the alarm signals they were getting from the roaches in our laboratory. For another, they are scared, if we can use the word. They certainly sense something has gone wrong. The fighter corps hasn’t come back, and they ‘know’ it. I am assuming the colony right now is like a turtle pulling in its head until it feels it’s safe to reconnoiter again.”
“Suppose you’re wrong, Hubbard?” It was Stephen Scott. “My advice is to get right on out there now and burn their unholy guts out! Right now! Let’s vote on that!”
Peter Hubbard was quick as a sword. “Nobody touches that nest until I study it and give permission!”
Scott argued back, “On this island we do things by vote, young man!”
Hubbard’s eyes went stormy. “Don’t lecture me, Mr. Scott! You will not interfere with my doing my job as a biologist!”
“At our expense . . . ?” Scott flashed.
Elias Johnson thundered, “Oh, shut up, Scott! You know what we owe Dr. Hubbard! I wouldn’t blame him if he turned his back and let us sweat in our own juice, the way you’re going on!”
Amos Tarbell said firmly to the important islander, “We will do this Dr. Hubbard’s way!” The scientists had certainly paid their dues—including a life.
Scott snapped frostily, “And you won’t be sheriff on Yarkie long after that!”
Elias Johnson laughed aloud. “Scott, how’d you like for me personally to throw you into that den of roaches!”
But Scott would not be diverted. “I say, see ’em, kill ’em! Talk biology later!”
Elizabeth Carr stepped to the fat man, her eyes blazing. “You, sir, are an unmitigated fathead! Now please sit down and be quiet or leave this house!”
Disconcerted, Scott fumed, “Mind your place, Elizabeth! Your grandfather has something to say about that!”
Elias Johnson shrugged, smiling. “You heard my granddaughter, old friend.”
As Scott subsided, Johnson told Peter Hubbard they did indeed understand his requirement before the nest was annihilated. Then he added with an honest frown, “Peter, you’ve been throwing some heavy stuff at us about this social organization and mutation. I have to say I still don’t get it how a bunch of dumb cockroaches join together and suddenly become what you call a colony.” He showed an uneven smile, confessing, “To admit it, I’ve never really understood about ants and termites and those broods, either.”
Stephen Scott tried to get back on Johnson’s right side by nodding vigorous agreement with the questions. “The whole thing seems damned unnatural to me,” he harrumphed obstreperously.
Hubbard answered the continuing incredulity. “On the contrary,” he said to Scott, “it is the most natural phenomenon in the world, the base of all evolution.” He paused, and saw them waiting for more of an explanation. It was, after all, hard to accept that “dumb cockroaches” could act in concert as cleverly as these had done.
He earnestly wanted them to understand. “You all know that life began with single cell organisms. Way back, some of those cells joined together, making a kind of commune of individuals. We call that a eucaryotic cell. These cells didn’t just cluster like a bunch of grapes—they developed adaptations for different jobs. Some units specialized in gathering food, others in digesting it, others in excretion, locomotion, reproduction, and so forth. Some cells provided a protective skin around the whole group. The process grew more complex through the eons . . .”
Elizabeth interposed, “Right on up to the human body . . .”
“In a way, yes. But in considering a species like termites—or these Yarkie roaches—we’re not talking about cells getting together, we’re talking ab
out separate individual insects forming themselves into a social organism—a group that operates as if it were actually one unity.”
The scientist paused and measured his listeners. What he was about to add would certainly meet with new, deep skepticism. But it was his considered conclusion as a trained biologist. “I am saying,” he told them deliberately, “that the Yarkie roaches are being directed by what I can only describe as a brain.”
Russell Homer’s forehead was strained with his wish to learn, but he could not hold back his scoffing interruption, “A brain like ours . . . ?”
Hubbard declared, “When we open that nest tomorrow, we are going to find the mutation of a whole group of insects—an evolutionary change that has welded together a community. We are going to see, in effect, yes, a brain—but not a system like ours. No, this brain will be using individual insects as its arms, legs, eyes . . .
“I can visualize this brain made of millions of ‘nerve roaches,’ in actual physical and chemical contact, the way our own individual brain cells are. The anatomy of this ‘colony brain’ would be similar to the neurons and dendrites of our higher nervous systems. In their multitude of numbers, they could even begin to approximate the cortical richness of higher animals. And they might well be using all the kinds of chemicals our own brains use to carry nerve messages from one cell to another across the synapses.
“I don’t mean to be too technical, but I want you to realize this possibility is very real and not at all farfetched.”
Amos Tarbell breathed, “Maybe not to you . . .”
“Obviously, the ‘brain cells’ of this roach colony would be primitive, but there could be much more ‘intelligence’ than we might otherwise expect—with the central brain telling the specialized cockroaches what to do in much the way my brain tells my hand to move and my head to turn, and so on.”
Stephen Scott demanded testily, “You say this has happened before in biology?”
“In parallel ways, many times. Let me remind you of what you learned in high school biology, or can see in the natural history museums. After the Protozoa, which lived as isolated single cells, there began to be clusters called Phytomastigophores, and Rhizopodea, and the Ciliata.
“The sponges, Hydrozea, are similar, showing first steps toward a differentiation of functions.
“Another step up the ladder brought even clearer specialization, in the Mesozoa. In this stage, a single layer of cells became surrounded by units whose sole function was reproduction.”
Hubbard paused. His listeners were not bored or put off by the Latin names. Their eyes were bright and their ears open, because he was talking about their own lives, not book texts. The scientist saw their eyes on him, and he understood that they did not want him to talk down to them.
“Going on, then, a two-layer organism evolved, called Cnidaria. The reason for such banding together is obvious in terms of survival. When they bind together, cells have greater protection against the environment. They find food more easily. They fend off enemies.
“How do they get together in the first place? One theory is that individual cells congregate in one spot because of a concentration of a common food—certain bacteria, for example. We see something of this in a higher form like the ladybird beetles. They’re usually loners, but sometimes in autumn a group will be attracted to a certain bush where they feed on aphids, and then they sometimes continue as a combined group after that. They form a colony held together by chemical attractants and tactile stimuli . . .
“You folks, particularly, know the ocean’s Portuguese man-of-war . . .” Heads inclined in agreement, glad to be hearing a familiar name. “In these forms, several types of individuals get together to divide life functions in a crude way. In the man-of-war, this division of labor is actually controlled by a primitive nervous system—a ‘nerve net,’ it’s called. I am saying the Yarkie roaches may have the same morphology . . .”
Elizabeth’s voice came across the room, clear and accepting. “You mean it really wouldn’t be all that unusual if the roaches coming out of a single colony were controlled by a master brain! Not beyond a natural phenomenon!”
“Exactly,” Hubbard said. “And now you can see why I’m so anxious not to destroy anything before examining and studying this major biological possibility.”
Elias Johnson shook his large head, saying with a rueful smile, “There is something indecent in learning such important matters for the first time at my age.”
Stephen Scott’s expression said he would not believe a word of the folderol. The notion was crazier than the astronomy stuff about black holes and four dimensions spouted by the Harvard types. Any man knew that bugs didn’t have “brains,” and nothing this professor said would make him credit it!
The sheriff spoke, more to himself than to others. “Why Yarkie?”
Peter Hubbard heard him. “Who knows? You have a quiet island. The dump would be a great starting place . . .” He held his voice level. “As Dr. Lindstrom and I explained at the beginning, chemical variations can start a mutation. I mentioned ‘ENU.’ There are DNA changes that alter amino acid sequences. Some biologists have mapped the development of the races entirely on the basis of the amino acid changes in a basic life substance known as the cytochrome c molecule.”
Russell Homer’s chest swelled. This was like being in a Harvard classroom!
Amos Tarbell was frowning. The scientist was way over his head now. He said so forthrightly.
Hubbard gave them all a friendly, understanding smile. “I have gone deeper than I intended, though this is still just on the surface of what biology knows today.”
“The point is,” Elizabeth repeated, “there is absolutely nothing impossible about there being a roach world in that cave not too terribly different from ours.”
“That,” said Bonnie Taylor unhappily, “is a terribly spooky thought!”
Stephen Scott made his pronouncement. “Well, natural or not, we get rid of those damned things tomorrow!”
Amos Tarbell grunted, “What if we don’t?” Having experienced the carnage of the past two days, he wasn’t at all sure they were entirely over the hill.
Elias Johnson stared at the sheriff. “If we don’t get rid of them, Amos, we give Yarkie to the Navy for target practice!”
FIVE
Despite Hubbard’s assurances that the Yarkie cockroaches would not likely leave their nest, no one slept easily that night. Elizabeth made up a bed for the scientist in a Johnson guest room. The other men went to their homes, half missing the camaradie of the lighthouse hours, fearful though the experience had turned out. The night did pass without incident, and they were all grateful for an uninterrupted, if fitful rest.
Alertly the next morning, Hubbard presented his briefing, concisely and candidly. The group in the Johnson living room was now enlarged by the contingent of some twenty volunteer firemen. The latter had been standing by in the village, with growing irritation at official silence and mystery. In the now-crowded room, it was difficult for the men to absorb the weird story the Harvard scientist was telling, but they could see from their Yarkie neighbors—all men they respected—that the impossible-sounding cockroach incursions on the island were true. Along with the Task Force, the volunteers listened closely to Peter Hubbard’s instructions.
He told them, “My scheme is to introduce carbon dioxide vapor into the nest. There is already an opening on the bottom we can use. At the same time, we will prepare a small hole in the ceiling, and send more vapor down from the top. In this way, we have the best chance of immobilizing all the layers in the nest before they have a chance to escape through the tunnels they undoubtedly have.
“I will then have my own chance to examine the colony. Amos tells me the top of the cave is soft shale, so there should be no trouble removing the ceiling. I will go down into the nest, take my photos and make my studies—”
Elizabeth could not restrain a cry. “Down in the nest? That’s terribly risky, isn’t it,
Peter?”
“Mr. Scott is lending me full diving regalia,” Hubbard told her. “I’ll be safe enough.” He turned back to the others. “After I am through, you men will come on with the gasoline and start the fire. Some of you will be standing guard nearby with dry-ice tanks. Amos will station others back to spray any roaches that may get out.”
A beefy volunteer asked cantankerously, “Hey, isn’t carbon dioxide dangerous? Why not use just the regular roach stuff?”
Hubbard answered patiently, “Two reasons. I don’t know whether, or how, pesticides like boric acid, chlordane, pyrethrum, or sodium fluoride will work on this species of roaches. More important, all of them take time, and we want to be in and out of that cave damn fast.”
The volunteer demanded again, “If carbon dioxide’s the best, why don’t we use it all the time?”
Russell Homer replied in a superior tone, offended that such a silly question should be put to a man like Dr. Peter Hubbard, “We’d knock ourselves out! Can’t you figure that out?”
Hubbard explained further. “The gas is just for knocking them out for a while, you see.” The man withdrew with reddened face. The scientist said, “The only danger I see is in our approaching the nest. We know there are guard roaches, and they are big and murderously dangerous, I promise you.”
A husky man scoffed. “I haven’t seen a damn ol’ cockroach yet could scare me!” To him and many of his company the reports of the morning were clear exaggerations, old-maid’s lollygagging over some damn nuisance water bugs.
Amos Tarbell answered for Hubbard, with a grim smile. “You fellows will change your mind! Just take your orders from Dr. Hubbard here, and you’ll be all right.”
The scientist moved the sheriff aside. “Amos, when you shear off the top of the nest for me, the trick will be not to drop too much dirt inside.”
The sheriff told him, “I understand. Should be okay—shale there—should come away clean.”
“Then we’re all set,” Dr. Peter Hubbard said finally.
The Nest Page 24