Wanda Lindstrom acknowledged her with an honest smile, and resumed, “Let’s consider the termites for a minute—they may teach us something about these roaches. The first fact is that termites are amazingly adaptable. Especially in what they eat. Everyone knows they eat wood, and some people know they eat wool and paper, too.” Dr. Lindstrom tapped the table firmly. “But hardly anyone realizes that termites also eat the plastic linings of electric cables, and have even destroyed horn and ivory, and—though you won’t believe this—billiard balls! The Mastotermes darwiniensis of Australia!”

This time there were no rasps of disbelief. The listeners were getting used to their strange journey through the convoluted world of biology and the variegated forms of life.

The woman repeated, “Yes, termites eat plastic and leather and—”

Stephen Scott felt sicker with each word spoken. He echoed feebly, “Leather and rubber?” His one consolation was gone! He had thought it could not possibly be the giant roaches that had taken the Tintons and Hilda Cannon—and maybe Ruth and Rebecca—because he would have found shoes, leather belts, handbags.

He didn’t want to hear Wanda Lindstrom’s confirmation of his nightmarish fear, but the woman was saying, plainly and terribly, “If these roaches have mutated in the direction of the termite, they would not be leaving much evidence of their attacks, you see—whether they killed an animal or a human being.”

Stephen Scott saw all too well. Although it was cool in the room, he was sweating as if it were a steam bath. “Maybe leather belts and stuff,” he cried out desperately, “but what about a wrist watch, a pair of glasses! For God’s sake, don’t tell us they eat those too!”

“No, they’re not that tough.” Dr. Lindstrom permitted herself a sad smile. “At least not yet, to our knowledge. But what they can’t eat, they might take back to their nest—like magpies. You know that’s not unique animal behavior.”

4

FOUR

In Amos Tarbell’s investigative mind, blotchy thoughts were racing parallel to Stephen Scott’s. Ruth and Rebecca Cannon! Had they gone back into the woods to spy on the naked men and been overtaken by the killer roaches? And what about the handcuffed fellows? Only one had shown up at all, with no news of the other anywhere this morning. And why was Stephen Scott asking his questions with his face all crumpled looking? And what was he taking out of his pocket now—?

“What the hell!” the sheriff exclaimed as Scott put Hilda Cannon’s pistol on the kitchen table. With it, his story came spilling out. The group grew deathly white as they gathered the implications. There was the silence of a shared trauma when he finished.

Elias Johnson broke the silence. “So we have got ourselves one hell of a problem, looks like!”