Part 20 (1/2)
”Any physical changes?”
Peter frowned through his magnifying gla.s.s. ”Same species, all right. No, now, wait-there is is a difference, the pincers are more developed, considerably more developed. They're starting to look like modern workers and soldiers.” He handed a rock to Josef. a difference, the pincers are more developed, considerably more developed. They're starting to look like modern workers and soldiers.” He handed a rock to Josef.
”Mmmm, no books here,” said Josef. ”You find any?”
Peter shook his head, and found that he was deeply distressed by the lack of books, searching for them pa.s.sionately. ”They've still got houses, but now they're jammed with people.” He cleared his throat. ”I mean ants.” Suddenly a cry of joy escaped him. ”Josef! Here's one without the big pincers, just like the ones in the lower level!” He turned the specimen this way and that in the sunlight. ”By himself, Josef. In his house, with his family and books and everything! Some of the ants are differentiating into workers and soldiers-some aren't!”
Josef had been reexamining some of the gatherings of the ants with pincers. ”The gregarious ones may not have been interested in books,” he announced. ”But everywhere that you find them, you find pictures.” He frowned perplexedly. ”There's a bizarre twist, Peter; the picture lovers evolving away from the book lovers.”
”The crowd lovers away from the privacy lovers,” said Peter thoughtfully. ”Those with big pincers away from those without.” To rest his eyes, he let his gaze wander to the tool-shed and a weathered poster from which the eyes of Stalin twinkled. Again he let his gaze roam, this time into the distance-to the teeming mouth of the nearest mine shaft, where a portrait of Stalin beamed paternally on all as they shambled in and out; to a cl.u.s.ter of tar-paper barracks below, where a portrait of Stalin stared shrewdly, protected from the weather by gla.s.s, at the abominable sanitary facilities.
”Josef,” Peter began uncertainly, ”I'll bet tomorrow's tobacco ration that those works of art the pincered ants like so well are political posters.”
”If so, our wonderful ants are bound for an even higher civilization,” said Josef enigmatically. He shook rock dust from his clothing. ”Shall we see what is in box number three?”
Peter found himself looking at the third box with fear and loathing. ”You ”You look, Josef,” he said at last. look, Josef,” he said at last.
Josef shrugged. ”All right.” He studied the rocks in silence for several minutes. ”Well, as you might expect, the pincers are even more p.r.o.nounced, and-”
”And the gatherings are bigger and more crowded, and there are no books, and the posters are as numerous as the ants!” Peter blurted suddenly.
”You're quite right,” said Josef.
”And the wonderful ants without pincers are gone, aren't they, Josef?” said Peter huskily.
”Calm down,” said Josef. ”You're losing your head over something that happened a thousand thousand years ago-or more.” He tugged thoughtfully at his earlobe. ”As a matter of fact, the pincerless ants do seem extinct.” He raised his eyebrows. ”As far as I know, it's without precedent in paleontology. Perhaps those without pincers were susceptible to some sort of disease that those with pincers were immune to. At any rate, they certainly disappeared in a hurry. Natural selection at its ruggedest-survival of the fittest.”
”Survival of the somethingest,” said Peter balefully.
”No! Wait, Peter. We're both wrong. Here is one of the old type ants. And another and another! It looks like they were beginning to congregate, too. They're all packed together in one house, like matchsticks in a box.”
Peter took the rock fragment from him, unwilling to believe what Josef said. The rock had been split by Borgorov's diggers so as to give a clean cross section through the ant-packed house. He chipped away at the rock enclosing the other side of the house. The rock sh.e.l.l fell away. ”Oh,” he said softly, ”I see.” His chippings had revealed the doorway of the little building, and guarding it were seven ants with pincers like scythes. ”A camp,” he said, ”a reeducation camp.”
Josef blanched at the word, as any good Russian might, but regained his composure after several hard swallows. ”What is that starlike object over there?” he said, steering away from the unpleasant subject.
Peter chiseled the chip in which the object was embedded free from the rest of the rock, and held it out for Josef to contemplate. It was a sort of rosette. In the center was a pincer-less ant, and the petals looked like warriors and workers with their weapons buried and locked in the flesh of the lone survivor of the ancient race. ”There's your quick evolution, Josef.” He watched his brother's face intently, yearning for a sign that his brother was sharing his hectic thoughts, his sudden insight into their own lives.
”A great curiosity,” said Josef evenly.
Peter looked about himself quickly. Borgorov was struggling up the path from far below. ”It's no curiosity, and you know it, Josef,” said Peter. ”What happened to those ants is happening to us.”
”Hus.h.!.+” said Josef desperately.
”We're the ones without pincers, Josef. We're done. We aren't made to work and fight in huge hordes, to live by instinct and nothing more, perpetuating a dark, damp anthill without the wits even to wonder why!”
They both fell into red-faced silence as Borgorov navigated the last hundred yards. ”Come now,” said Borgorov, rounding the corner of the toolshed, ”our samples couldn't have been as disappointing as all that.”
”It's just that we're tired,” said Josef, giving his ingratiating grin. ”The fossils are so sensational we're stunned.”
Peter gently laid the chip with the murdered ant and its attackers embedded in it on the last pile. ”We have the most significant samples from each layer arranged in these piles,” he said, pointing to the row of rock mounds. He was curious to see what Borgorov's reaction might be. Over Josef's objections, he explained about two kinds of ants evolving within the species, showed him the houses and books and pictures in the lower levels, the crowded gatherings in the upper ones. Then, without offering the slightest interpretation, he gave Borgorov his magnifying gla.s.s, and stepped back.
Borgorov strolled up and down the row several times, picking up samples and clucking his tongue. ”It couldn't be more graphic, could it?” he said at last.
Peter and Josef shook their heads.
”Obviously,” said Borgorov, ”what happened was this.” He picked up the chip that showed the bas-relief of the pincerless ant's death struggle with countless warriors. ”There were these lawless ants, such as the one in the center, capitalists who attacked and exploited the workers-ruthlessly killing, as we can see here, scores at a time.” He set down the melancholy exhibit, and picked up the house into which the pincerless ants were crammed. ”And here we have a conspiratorial meeting of the lawless ants, plotting against the workers. Fortunately”-and he pointed to the soldier ants outside the door-”their plot was overheard by vigilant workers.
”So,” he continued brightly, holding up samples from the next layer, a meeting of the pincered ants and the home of a solitary ant, ”the workers held democratic indignation meetings, and drove their oppressors out of their community. The capitalists, overthrown, but with their lives spared by the merciful common people, were soft and spoiled, unable to survive without the ma.s.ses to slave for them. They could only dillydally with the arts. Hence, put on their own mettle, they soon became extinct.” He folded his arms with an air of finality and satisfaction.
”But the order was just the reverse,” objected Peter. ”The ant civilization was wrecked when some of the ants started growing pincers and going around in mobs. You can't argue with geology.”
”Then an inversion has taken place in the limestone layer-some kind of upheaval turned it upside down. Obviously.” Borzorov sounded like sheathed ice. ”We have the most conclusive evidence of all-the evidence of logic. The sequence could only have been as I described it. Hence, there was was an inversion. Isn't that so?” he said, looking pointedly at Josef. an inversion. Isn't that so?” he said, looking pointedly at Josef.
”Exactly, an inversion,” said Josef.
”Isn't that so?” Borgorov wheeled to face Peter.
Peter exhaled explosively, slouched in an att.i.tude of utter resignation. ”Obviously, Comrade.” Then he smiled, apologetically. ”Obviously, Comrade,” he repeated ...
Epilogue.
”Good Lord, but it's cold!” said Peter, letting go of his end of the saw and turning his back to the Siberian wind.
”To work! To work!” shouted a guard, so m.u.f.fled against the cold as to look like a bundle of laundry with a submachine gun sticking out of it.
”Oh, it could be worse, much worse,” said Josef, holding the other end of the saw. He rubbed his frosted eyebrows against his sleeve.
”I'm sorry you're here, too, Josef,” said Peter sadly. ”I'm the one who raised his voice to Borgorov.” He blew on his hands. ”I guess that's why we're here.”
”Oh, that's all right,” sighed Josef. ”One stops thinking about such things. One stops thinking. It's the only way. If we didn't belong here, we wouldn't be here.”
Peter fingered a limestone chip in his pocket. Embedded in it was the last of the pincerless ants, ringed by his murderers. It was the only fossil from Borgorov's hole that remained above the surface of the earth. Borgorov had made the brothers write a report on the ants as he saw them, had had every last fossil shoveled back into the bottomless cavity, and had s.h.i.+pped Josef and Peter to Siberia. It was a thorough piece of work, not likely to be criticized.
Josef had pushed aside a pile of brush, and was now staring with fascination at the bared patch of earth. An ant emerged furtively from a hole, carrying an egg. It ran around in crazy circles, then scurried back into the darkness of the tiny earth womb. ”A marvelous adjustment ants have made, isn't it, Peter?” said Josef enviously. ”The good life-efficient, uncomplicated. Instinct makes all the decisions.” He sneezed. ”When I die, I think I'd like to be reincarnated as an ant. A modern ant, not a capitalist ant,” he added quickly.
”What makes you so sure you aren't one?” said Peter.
Josef shrugged off the jibe. ”Men could learn a lot from ants, Peter, my boy.”
”They have, Josef, they have,” said Peter wearily. ”More than they know.”
THE HONOR OF A NEWSBOY.
Charley Howes was the police chief in a Cape Cod village. He was in command of four patrolmen in the summer and one in the winter. It was late winter now. The one patrolman was down with the flu, and Charley didn't feel too good himself. On top of that, there'd been a murder. Somebody had given Estelle Fulmer, the Jezebel waitress over at the Blue Dolphin, a beating that had killed her.
They found her in a cranberry bog on Sat.u.r.day. The medical examiner said she'd been killed Wednesday night.