Luck was on Russell Homer’s side. He had forgotten about the Yarkie bulldozer. It was standing like a hulking, patient animal of burden where he had left it—could it have been only yesterday morning? But Homer saw that he was not yet out of danger. As if the cockroaches realized now that he had a means of escape, many of them left off crawling and spread wings to fly. The strong winds made it difficult for them to reach the man, gave him more time in the savage, deadly contest. Homer leaped to his bulldozer seat just as a flying roach made for his right eye. He batted it away, and another. He had a moment to start the motor, disregarding a jabbing sting in his left cheek. He thanked God for the reliability of the powerful engine. The explosions frightened off other flying cockroaches that had started to circle his head. With one hand, Russell Homer plucked the clinging roach off his face. With his other he ground the gear shift into low. There was a stab in the palm of his hand. A giant roach was on the gear knob. It had brought blood, but he uttered a happy shout in his vindictiveness—he had smashed it dead.

He was far from home free yet. Flying roaches resumed their attack. Russell Homer poured the power to the great machine, and it lumbered blindly over the garbage pile while he squeezed his eyes shut and clamped both hands over his face. The stings and bites didn’t matter. He had the specimens and the garbage for laboratory analysis. He had been able to lift the can into the bulldozer scoop, and it was riding safely in front of him now. Lest it roll out, he wanted to lift the scoop higher, but reaching for the control would mean risking half of his face. He could feel the roaches climbing all over his hands. It was a chance he had to take. With a flashing motion, he hit the scoop lever and heard the hydraulic piston go to work.

The can was lifted safely, and Homer let out a cry of victory—only to swallow it as the bulldozer began to stall. The extra power he had called on was stalling the motor; there had been no time for warming up. He worked the throttle and clutches with all his skill. If the machine died on him now, he was a goner for sure. Huge roaches were flying all about him; more and more were filling the air behind the trundling behemoth.

The motor sputtered again, and died. The machine halted. Homer’s hands were soaked with dripping blood, his fingers slipped on the ignition key as he tried frenziedly to get the engine going. There was a sputtering, and his hope flared, but then silence except for the maddened hissing of the attackers all around him now.