by Stan
Meanwhile, back at the Bearsonian, Professor Actual Factual, Chief Bruno, Ferdy, and the other cubs were waiting for Dr. Smythe-Jones to finish her notes.
“Well, that does it,” she said after dotting a final “i” and crossing a last “t.” She stood and looked Professor Actual Factual in the eye. “Professor,” she said, “I’ve always known what a great scientist you are. Your achievements in such varied fields of study as the environment, astronomy, and atomic science are known far and wide. But what you, a non-specialist, and your nephew have done in the field of hymenoptery is truly astonishing. I would go so far as to say that your development of Antus maximus will go down as the greatest achievement in the history of ant science. I bow to you, my old friend. The name Actual Factual will live forever in the annals of science.”
“As I said before, Doctor,” said the professor, “we really do thank you for those kind words. But quite aside from that, what do you propose we do about the super-ants?”
“Do?” said Dr. Smythe-Jones in a puzzled tone of voice. “Well, I don’t know what you’re going to do about them. But what I’m going to do is go back to the university, write up my report on your glorious achievement, and send it off to Ant: The Journal of Hymenoptery. Now, Chief, if I could trouble you for a lift in your helicopter—”
“But you can’t be serious, Doctor!” protested Professor Actual Factual.
“I beg your pardon, Professor,” said Dr. Smythe-Jones. “I’ve never been more serious in my life. Now, Chief, as I was saying—”
“But don’t you understand?” said Actual Factual. “The super-ants must be stopped! If they are not, they will eat all plant life, all food. They will make the Earth uninhabitable.”
“I beg to differ,” said the ant scientist. “It will be perfectly inhabitable—by ants. Look at it this way: Ants were here millions of years before we were, and they will be here millions of years after we’re gone. Now, Chief—”
“But please, Minerva! I implore you! You’re the only one who might know how to stop them. Please! What about the future?”
“What about it? There’ll be a future whatever we do. If you please, Chief—”
“But, Minerva! What about your family?” cried the professor.
“My family?” said Dr. Smythe-Jones. “Ants are the most magnificent creatures ever designed by nature. They are my family. Again, it’s been nice meeting you all—”
“Dr. Smythe-Jones?” said Brother.
“Yes?”
“What about us?” asked Brother. “What about our future?” Brother’s question seemed to soften Dr. Smythe-Jones just a little.
“And what about the future of science?” asked Ferdy. “What about the search for knowledge?”
“What about the balance of nature?” asked Sister. “What about that?”
Maybe it was Sister’s question that changed Dr. Smythe-Jones’s mind, or maybe it was her little-girl voice. But whatever it was, the great ant scientist agreed to help with the fight against Antus maximus.
“Listen closely,” Dr. Smythe-Jones said. “Especially you, Chief. Because if we’re going to stop the super-ants, we’re going to have to move fast.”
“I can do that,” said the chief. “The mayor has given me emergency powers.”
“The only thing that can stop them now is an insecticide called Super DDT. It’s very dangerous, but the university has kept some on hand to experiment with. Now, here’s what I suggest…”
Chapter Nine
Two Close Calls
“Faster! Faster! We’re almost there!” cried Papa as the Bear family’s tree house came in view.
“No sign of the ants yet,” said Mama as Officer Marguerite pushed the police car to its limits.
“I’m worried about the cubs,” said Mama. “I wonder if we did the right thing leaving them at the Bearsonian.”
“Of course we did,” said Papa. “The Bearsonian’s made of stone. That’s one thing those super-ants can’t eat.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mama. “I’m beginning to smell grape juice again.”
“That means they’re getting close,” said Papa. “Look! Over there! I see them. There’re millions of ’em! They’re all over Farmer Ben’s farm. Wait! They’re after Farmer Ben. He and his missus are trying to escape on their tractor. We have to rescue them!”
“Hang on!” cried Officer Marguerite as she turned and headed right for the on-coming horde of ants. “Prepare for a sickening crunch! We’re going to have to drive right through them!”
“Into the car! Into the car!” shouted Papa as Farmer and Mrs. Ben clambered down from the tractor.
“Phew!” said Farmer Ben. “That was a close call!”
Which, indeed, it was. While the super-ants couldn’t eat the tractor, which was made of steel, they were eating through the huge tractor tires as if they were cheese.
Crop Duster Joe was sitting in his office way over on the other side of town, working on his schedule. Just outside of his office on a small airstrip was his airplane, an old two-wing Jenny that was perfect for crop-dusting. Joe was half-listening to music on his radio as he worked on his schedule. But his ears perked up when somebody broke in on the music.
“This is an emergency,” said the radio announcer. “We are breaking in on our regular program to bring you Mayor Horace J. Honeypot, speaking from City Hall.”
“My cellow fitizens—er, my fellow citizens…YIPE! YOWL! YIP!”
“Since we seem to have lost our signal from City Hall, I will read what the mayor was about to say: ‘My fellow citizens, our fair city is being attacked by ants—I repeat, our fair city is being attacked by ants. But these are not ordinary ants….’”
As Joe turned to listen, he caught sight of a large ant out of the corner of his eye. Since Joe was in the crop-dusting business, he knew quite a lot about insects, and he knew it was no ordinary ant. He was about to swat it with his schedule, but when he saw its giant jaws, he decided to go after it with a hammer. Bonk! went the hammer. Then he saw another ant, and another, and another. As Joe went after them with his hammer, his phone rang.
“Hello, Crop Duster Joe here…. Yes, Chief…I understand…I just killed a few of ’em right here in the office. Uh-huh…Uh-huh…I understand. Let me repeat that, Chief. I’m to fly to the university and pick up a supply of Super DDT. Then I’m to rendezvous with you in the police helicopter over Farmer Ben’s farm…Sure, I know where it is. Ben’s a regular customer…. What’s this all about, Chief?… Army ants, you say?… My plane? She’s an old Jenny. All wood and fabric, except for the control wires, of course…She’s painted with aluminum dope. Why do you ask?” That’s when Joe looked out the window and saw a narrow black ribbon of ants going after his plane.
“I’m coming, Jenny! I’m coming!” shouted Joe as he raced the ribbon of ants to the plane. He beat them, but not by much. He hit the ignition. The motor sputtered at first, then coughed into a roar.
“Good old Jenny!” he shouted as the plane took off. But as he pulled back on the stick to climb, he saw that some of the ants had managed to reach the plane. The ones on the wings seemed to be trying to eat through the aluminum dope. And some were already eating through the bamboo struts that held the biplane together.
The situation was desperate, and desperate situations call for desperate action. He pulled back on the stick and climbed. He climbed to 10,000 feet, which was as high as old Jenny could go. Then he pushed forward on the stick and put her into a steep power dive. Joe’s idea was to dive so fast that the slipstream would blow the ants off the plane. Down, down, down roared old Jenny! The question was, which would come off first, the ants or the wings?
As the ground came up to meet him, Joe held his breath and pulled back on the stick to fly up again—and glory be! The wings stayed on and the ants didn’t.
Joe thanked his lucky stars and headed for the university.
Chapter Ten
A Closer Look
The chief looked out the front door of the Bearsonia
n to see if the coast was clear.
“It’s hard to be sure, but I don’t see any ants. Of course, there could be scouts. But scouts or not, we’ve got to go ahead with our plan. Okay, I’ll make a run for it to the helicopter and get it revved up. Then, when I give you the high sign, you all make a run and climb on.”
“Will it hold us all?” asked Brother.
“Easily,” said the chief. “It’s an old Army surplus chopper. Now be ready for the rotor wash. It’s very powerful. Okay, here I go!”
“There didn’t seem to be any scouts,” said Dr. Smythe-Jones as the chief climbed into the chopper and started the motor. Within seconds, the rotors were a blur.
“There’s the high sign!” cried Ferdy. “Let’s go!”
The group, which included the professor, Dr. Smythe-Jones, Ferdy, Brother, Sister, Cousin Fred, and Babs, rushed to the chopper and climbed in.
“Radio central,” said the chief. “We’re taking off. Do you read me, radio central? Over and out.”
“We read you.”
Babs, who had been up in her dad’s helicopter many times, showed the group where to sit and how to buckle up.
“How far to this farm?” asked Dr. Smythe-Jones, who was buckled into the copilot’s seat.
“Not far,” said the chief. “You saw it from the tower. We’ll be there in a jiffy. I’m going to climb for a better view.”
“Gee, I hope Mama and Papa are safe,” said Sister.
“Perfectly safe,” said the chief. “After they rescued Ben and his missus, Officer Marguerite took them to the police station. They almost had to tie Ben down. He wanted to go back and beat those ants off with a shovel.”
“It’s a good thing that he didn’t,” said Dr. Smythe-Jones. “If he had, there wouldn’t have been anything left of him but the shovel.”
The chief took the chopper so high they could see for miles around. They could see downtown Beartown, its suburbs, and the surrounding countryside. It was very beautiful, and the idea that this strange breed of ants that the professor and his nephew had developed could destroy it all was on all their minds. Even Dr. Smythe-Jones, who had devoted her life to the study of ants and loved them dearly, knew they had to be stopped.
“There they are!” said the chief. Right at the center of all that beauty was a black spot. It looked almost like an inkblot. It was the army of super-ants. They covered every inch of Farmer Ben’s farm. If the super-ants weren’t stopped, they would destroy not only Ben’s crops but his barn, his silo, and his house as well.
“I wonder what happened to his livestock,” said Brother.
“I’m going to take her down for a closer look,” said the chief.
“There’s that grape juice smell again,” said Sister as the chopper went lower. “Doctor Smythe-Jones, may I ask you a question?”
“Of course, my dear,” she said.
“Why the heck do those dopey ants smell like grape juice?”
Dr. Smythe-Jones smiled. “All ants smell like grape juice, my dear. It’s just that super-ants are bigger, so they have a bigger grape juice smell. The answer is simple. Ants are of the order Hymenoptera. But they are also of the family Formicidae. That’s pronounced for-MIS-uh-dee, and it means that ant bodies are made mostly of a chemical called formic acid. And grape juice is made of very similar chemicals. That’s why ants smell like grape juice.”
“That’s all very well,” said the chief. “But Crop Duster Joe should have been here with the Super DDT by now. I wonder what’s keeping him.”
Chapter Eleven
Countdown!
What was keeping him was that old Jenny had needed repairs. The ants had not only eaten through some of the struts, they had found some thin places in the aluminum dope on the wings. But Joe had managed some quick repairs and had put the Super DDT into Jenny’s dusting tanks. He had made good time getting to the university airport, but was being slowed down by a headwind on the way back. Jenny shuddered and shook as she fought the headwind. “I hope we get there in time,” said Joe. “I hope, I hope, I hope.”
The group in the helicopter hoped so, too. Farmer Ben’s farm was looking worse moment by moment. The chief had brought the chopper down to 1,000 feet. That’s where they were supposed to meet Crop Duster Joe’s plane. The ants, which had looked like an inkblot from way up high, now looked like a great spreading stain.
“Joe should be here by now,” said the chief as they hovered over the ruins of Ben’s farm. “We can’t hover much longer. We’re getting low on gas. Are you sure this Super DDT will stop the super-ants?”
“After what I’ve seen today, Chief, I’m not sure of anything,” said Dr. Smythe-Jones. “The trouble is that Super DDT may be as dangerous as the super-ants.”
“Why is that?” asked Cousin Fred.
“The reason we stopped using DDT—and Super DDT’s even worse—is that it’s bad for the environment. It causes all kinds of problems. It’s an excellent insect killer, but it kills good insects as well as bad insects.”
“Are there good insects?” asked Sister.
“You better believe it,” said Dr. Smythe-Jones. “There are honeybees, of course. Certain ants eat aphids that destroy crops. And we’d be in big trouble if we didn’t have butterflies to carry pollen from plant to plant.”
“If Joe doesn’t get here pretty soon,” said the chief, “we’re going to be in even bigger trouble.”
“Dr. Smythe-Jones,” said Cousin Fred, “how come the ant army keeps getting bigger?”
“I’m afraid it means they’re creating new colonies even as they destroy Ben’s farm. If that crop duster fellow doesn’t get here soon, I’m afraid it’ll be too—”
“I see him! I see him!” cried Babs. And sure enough, there was Joe flying old Jenny to the rescue.
“Crop Duster Joe calling the chopper. Crop Duster Joe calling the chopper.” This was Joe’s first look at the super-ant army. It was the scariest thing he had ever seen. There were acres and acres of ants. “Don’t be nervous, Jenny. This is the mission we were made for. Crop Duster Joe calling the chopper. Crop Duster Joe calling the chopper…”
“This is the chopper. This is the chopper. Chief Bruno here. Dr. Smythe-Jones is going to take over now. Do exactly what she says. Do you read me?”
“I read you.”
“This is Dr. Smythe-Jones speaking. Here are your instructions. Follow them to the letter. Do you read me?”
“I read you.”
“Descend to 300 feet. Go no lower! About ten percent of these super-ants can fly, and we don’t want them getting on your plane. Begin your run against the wind. That’s important. You don’t want any of this Super DDT blowing back to you. Go in at 80 miles per hour. Got that?”
“Got it.”
“Now here’s your final instruction. As you begin your run, I’m going to count down from ten. When I get to ‘one,’ open up with the Super DDT. Is that understood?”
“Understood.”
Joe checked the wind, took a wide turn, went down to 300 feet, throttled down to 80 miles per hour, and began his run. “Joe to chopper—starting my run.”
The chief and Dr. Smythe-Jones had watched as Joe moved into position. The whole group had unbuckled and was now crowding the front of the cabin for a better view. They waited with bated breath.
Dr. Smythe-Jones began her countdown: “Ten…nine…eight…seven…six…five…four…three…two…” But she never reached “one.”
“Attack canceled! Attack canceled!” shouted Dr. Smythe-Jones. “Take her down lower, Chief! Something strange is happening down there!”
“What is it, Minerva? Why have you canceled the attack?” asked Professor Actual Factual.
“Still lower,” said Dr. Smythe-Jones. “Ferdy, you’re a bright young fellow. Do you see anything strange going on down there?”
Ferdy studied the scene. “Well, I see a couple of things. First, the army seems to have stopped expanding, and second, it may even be shrinking a little.”
“What do you suppose it means?” asked the professor.
“I have my suspicions,” said Dr. Smythe-Jones. “But the only way to make sure is to go down there and find out.”
“You mean land?” said the chief.
“That’s right, Chief,” she said. “No, not at the center! At the edge.”
“What should we do about Joe?” asked the chief.
“Tell him to keep circling until we check things out at ground zero.”
“Chopper to Joe. Chopper to Joe. Keep circling until further notice.”
“I’m not going to get off and walk around in those nasty ants!” said Sister. “No way!”
“That won’t be a problem,” said the chief. “The rotor wash’ll clear ’em away!”
“That’s right,” said Dr. Smythe-Jones. “Especially since they’ll be dead.”
“Dead?”
“At least the ones at the edge.”
There was an eerie feeling in the cabin as the helicopter touched down at the edge of the great ant army.
Chapter Twelve
Help for the Bens
The chief had been right. Ants flew every which way as the rotor wash cleared a big space. But there were ants as far as the eye could see. The smell of formic acid was overwhelming.
“Pee-yew!” said Sister, holding her nose. “I’m never going to drink grape juice again!”
Dr. Smythe-Jones walked over to the edge of the army. The dead ants were turning brown. She picked one up with tweezers and looked at it through a magnifying glass.
“Hmm,” she said. “It’s just as I suspected.”
“Is it dead?” asked Brother.
“Dead as a doornail,” she said.
“But look,” said Babs. “Those ants in the middle are alive and kicking.”
