Title          : The Golden Bugs
Author         : Clifford D. Simak
Original copyright year: 1960
Genre          : science fiction
Comments       : to my knowledge, this is the only available e-text of this book
Source         : scanned and OCR-read from a paperback edition with Xerox TextBridge Pro 9.0, proofread in MS Word 2000.
Date of e-text : February 20, 2000
Prepared by    : Anada Sucka

Anticopyright 2000. All rights reversed.

======================================================================

The Golden Bugs

Clifford D. Simak

    It started as a lousy day.

    Arthur Belsen, across the alley, turned on his orchestra at six o'clock and brought me sitting up in bed.

    I'm telling you, Belsen makes his living as an engineer, but music is his passion. And since he is an engineer, he's not content to leave well enough alone. He had to mess around.

    A year or two before he'd had the idea of a robotic symphony, and the man has talent, you have to give him that. He went to work on this idea and designed machines that could read--not only play, but read--music from a tape, and he built a machine to transcribe the tapes. Then he built a lot of these music machines in his basement workshop.

    And he tried them out!

    It was experimental work, quite understandably, and there was redesigning and adjusting to be done, and Belsen was finicky about the performance that each machine turned out. So he tried them out a lot--and loudly--not being satisfied until he had the instrumentation just the way he thought it should be.

    There had been some idle talk in the neighborhood about a lynching party, but nothing came of it. That's the trouble, one of the troubles, with this neighborhood of ours--they'll talk an arm off you, but never do a thing.

    As yet no one could see an end to all the Belsen racket. It had taken him better than a year to work up the percussion section and that was bad enough. But now he'd started on the strings and that was even worse.

    Helen sat up in bed beside me and put her hands up to her ears, but she couldn't keep from hearing. Belsen had it turned up loud, to get, as he would tell you, the feel of it.

    By this time, I figured, he probably had the entire neighborhood awake.

    'Well, that's it," I said, starting to get up.

    "You want me to get breakfast?"

    "You might as well," I said. "No one's going to get any sleep with that thing turned on."

    While she started breakfast, I headed for the garden back of the garage to see how the dahlias might be faring. I don't mind telling you I was delighted with those dahlias. It was nearly fair time and there were some of them that would be at bloom perfection just in time for showing.

    I started for the garden, but I never got there. That's the way it is in this neighborhood. A man will start to do something and never get it done because someone always catches him and wants to talk a while.

    This time it was Dobby. Dobby is Dr. Darby Wells, a venerable old codger with white chin whiskers, and he lives next door. We all call him Dobby and he doesn't mind a bit, for in a way it's a badge of tribute to the man. At one time Dobby had been an entomologist of some repute at the university and it had been his students who had hung the name on him. It was no corruption of his regular name, but stemmed rather from his one-time interest in mud-dauber wasps.

    But now Dobby was retired, with nothing in the world to do except hold long and aimless conversations with anyone he could manage to nail down.

    As soon as I caught sight of him, I knew I was sunk.

    "I think it's admirable," said Dobby, leaning on his fence and launching into full-length discussion as soon as I was in voice distance, "for a man to have a hobby. But I submit it's inconsiderate of him to practice it so noisily at the crack of dawn."

    "You mean that," I said, making a thumb at the Belsen house, from which the screeching and the caterwauling still issued in full force.

    "Exactly," said Dobby, combing his white chin whiskers with an air of grave deliberation. "Now, mind me, not for a moment would I refuse the man the utmost admiration--"

    "Admiration?' I demanded. There are occasions when I have a hard time understanding Dobby. Not so much because of the pontifical way in which be talks as because of the way he thinks.

    "Precisely;" Debby told me. "Not for his machines, although they are electronic marvels, but for the way in which he engineers his tapes. The machine that he rigged up to turn out those tapes is a most versatile contraption. Sometimes it seems to be almost human."

    "When I was a boy," I said, "we had player pianos and the pianos ran on tapes."

    "Yes, Randall, you are right," admitted Dobby; "the principle was there, but the execution--think of the execution. All those old pianos had to do was tinkle merrily along, but Belsen has worked into his tapes the most delicate nuances."

    "I must have missed them nuances," I told him, without any charity at all. "All I've heard is racket."

    We talked about Belsen and his orchestra until Helen called me in for breakfast.

    I had no sooner sat down than she dragged out her grievance list.

    "Randall," she said, with determination, "the kitchen is positively crawling with grease ants again. They're so small you can hardly see them and all at once they're into everything."

    "I thought you got rid of them," I said.

    "I did. I tracked them to their nest and poured boiling water into it. But this time it's up to you."

    "Sure thing," I promised. "I'll do it right away."

    "That's what you said last time."

    "I was ready to," I told her, "but you beat me to it."

    "And that isn't all," she said. "There are those wasps up in the attic louvers. They stung the little Montgomery girl the other day."

    She was getting ready to say more, but just then Billy, our eleven year old, came stumbling down the stairs.

    "Look, Dad," he cried excitedly, holding out a small-size plastic box. "I have one here I've never seen before."

    I didn't have to ask one what. I knew it was another insect. Last year it had been stamp collecting and this year it was insects--and that's another thing about having an idle entomologist for a next door neighbor.

    I took the box without enthusiasm.

    "A ladybug," I said.

    "No, it's not," said Billy. "It's too big to be a ladybug. And the spots are different and the color is all wrong. This one is gold and a ladybug is orange."

    "Well, look it up," I said, impatiently. The kid will do anything to keep away from reading.

    "I did," said Billy. "I looked all through the book and I couldn't find it."

    "Oh, for goodness sakes," snapped Helen, "sit down and eat your breakfast. It's bad enough to be overrun with ants and wasps without you spending all your time catching other bugs."

    "But, Mom, it's educational," protested Billy. "That's what Dr. Wells says. He says there are seven hundred thousand known families of insects..."

    "Where did you find it, son?" I asked, a bit ashamed of how we both were jumping on him.

    "Right in my room," said Billy.

    "In the house!" screamed Helen. "Ants aren't bad enough..."

    "Soon as I get through eating, I'll show it to Dr. Wells."

    "Now, don't you pester Dobby."

    "I hope he pesters him a lot," Helen said, tight-lipped. "It was Dobby who got him started on this foolishness."

    I handed back the box and Billy put it down beside his plate and started in on breakfast.

    "Randall," Helen said, taking up her third point of complaint. "I don't know what I'm going to do with Nora."

    Nora was the cleaning woman. She came in twice a week.

    "What did she do this time?"

    "It's what she doesn't do. She simply will not dust. She just waves a cloth around and that's all there is to it. She won't move a lamp or vase."

    "Well, get someone else," I said.

    "Randall, you don't know what you're talking about. Cleaning women are hard to find and you can't depend on them. I was talking to Amy..."

    I listened and made the appropriate replies. I've heard it all before.

    As soon as I finished breakfast, I took off for the office. It was too early to see any prospects, but I had some policies to write up and some other work to do and I could use the extra hour or two.

    Helen phoned me shortly after noon and she was exasperated.

    "Randall," she said, without preamble, "someone has dumped a boulder in the middle of the garden."

    "Come again?" I said.

    "You know. A big rock. It squashed down all the dahlias."

    "Dahlias!" I yipped.

    "And the funny thing about it is there aren't any tracks. It would take a truck to move a rock that big and..."

    "Now, let's take this easy. How big, exactly, is this boulder?"

    "It's almost as tall as I am."

    "It's impossible!" I stormed. Then I tried to calm myself, "It's a joke," I said. "Someone played a joke."

    I searched my mind for someone who might have done it and I couldn't think of anyone who'd go to all the trouble involved in that sort of joke. There was George Montgomery, but George was a sobersides. And Belsen, but Belsen was too wrapped up in music to be playing any jokes. And Dobby--it was inconceivable he'd ever play a joke.

    "Some joke!" said Helen.

    Nobody in the neighborhood, I told myself, would have done a trick like that, Everyone knew I was counting on those dahlias to win me some more ribbons.

    "I'll knock off early," I told her, "and see what can be done about it."

    Although I knew there was precious little that could be done about it--just haul the thing away.

    "I'll be over at Amy's," Helen said. "I'll try to get home early."

    I went out and saw another prospect, but I didn't do too well. All the time I was thinking of the dahlias.

    I knocked off work in the middle of the afternoon and bought a spray-can of insecticide at a drugstore. The label claimed it was effective against ants, roaches, wasps, aphids and a host of other pests.

    At home, Billy was sitting on the steps.

    "Hello, son. Nothing much to do?"

    "Me and Tommy Henderson played soldier for a while, but we got tired of it."

    I put the insecticide on the kitchen table, then headed for the garden. Billy trailed listlessly behind me.

    The boulder was there, squarely in the middle of the dahlia patch, and every bit as big as Helen said it was. It was a funny looking thing, not just a big slab-sided piece of rock, but a freckled looking job. It was a washed out red and almost a perfect globe.

    I walked around it, assessing the damage. There were a few of the dahlias left, but the better ones were gone. There were no tracks, no indication of how the rock might have gotten where it was. It lay a good thirty feet from the alleyway and someone might have used a crane to hoist it off a truck bed, but that seemed most unlikely, for a heavy nest of utility wires ran along the alley.

    I went up to the boulder and had a good, close look at it. The whole face of it was pitted with small, irregular holes, none of them much deeper than half an inch, and there were occasional smooth patches, with the darker luster showing, as if some part of the original surface had been knocked off, The darker, smoother patches had the shine of highly polished wax, and I remembered something from very long ago--when a onetime pal of mine had been a momentary rock collector.

    I bent a little closer to one of the smooth, waxy surfaces and it seemed to me that I could see the hint of wavy lines running in the stone.

    "Billy," I asked, "would you know an agate if you saw one?"

    "Gosh, Dad, I don't know. But Tommy would. He is a sort of rockhound. He's hunting all the time for different kinds of rocks."

    He came up close and looked at one of the polished surfaces. He wet his thumb against his tongue and rubbed it across the waxy surface to bring out the satin of the stone.

    "I don't know," he said, "but I think it is."

    He backed off a ways and stared at the boulder with a new respect.

    "Say, Dad, if it really is an agate--if it is one big agate, I mean, it would be worth a lot of money, wouldn't it?" '

    "I don't know. I suppose it might be."

    "A million dollars, maybe."

    I shook my head. "Not a million dollars."

    "I'll go get Tommy, right away," he said.

    He went around the garage like a flash and I could hear him running down the driveway, hitting out for Tommy's place.

    I walked around the boulder several times and tried to estimate its weight, but I had no knowledge I could go on.

    I went back to the house and read the directions on the can of insecticide. I uncapped and tested it and the sprayer worked.

    So I got down on my knees in front of the threshold of the kitchen door and tried to find the path the ants were using to come in. I couldn't see any of them right away, but I knew from past experience that they are little more than specks and almost transparent in the bargain and mighty hard to see.

    A glittery motion in one corner of the kitchen caught my eye and I wheeled around. A glob of golden shimmer was running on the floor, keeping close to the baseboard and heading for the cabinet underneath the kitchen sink.

    It was another of the outsize ladybugs.

    I aimed the squirt can at it and let it have a burst, but it kept right on and vanished underneath the cabinet.

    With the bug gone, I resumed looking for the ants and found no sign of them. There were none coming in the door. Or going out, for that matter. There were none on the sink or the work table space.

    So I went around the corner of the house to size up Operation Wasp. It would be a sticky one, I knew. The nest was located in the attic louver and would be hard to get at. Standing off and looking at it, I decided the only thing to do was wait until night, when I could be sure all the wasps were in the nest. Then I'd put up a ladder and climb up and let them have it, then get out as fast as I could manage without breaking my fool neck.

    It was a piece of work that I frankly had no stomach for, but I knew from the tone of Helen's voice at the breakfast table there was no ducking it.

    There were a few wasps flying around the nest, and as I watched a couple of them dropped out of the nest and tumbled to the ground.

    Wondering what was going on, I stepped a little closer and then I saw the ground was littered with dead or dying wasps. Even as I watched, another wasp fell down and lay there, twisting and squirming.

    I circled around a bit to try to get a better look at whatever might be happening. But I could make out nothing except that every now and then another wasp fell down.

    I told myself it was all right with me. If something was killing off the wasps it would save me the job of getting rid of them.

    I was turning around to take the insecticide back to the kitchen when Billy and Tommy Henderson came panting in excitement from the backyard.

    "Mr. Marsden," Tommy said, "that rock out there is an agate. It's a banded agate."

    "Well, now, that's fine," I said.

    "But you don't understand," cried Tommy. "No agate gets that big. Especially not a banded agate. They call them Lake Superior agates and they don't ever get much bigger than your fist."

    That did it. I jerked swiftly to attention and went pelting around the house to have another look at the boulder in the garden. The boys came pounding on behind me.

    That boulder was a lovely thing. I put out my hand and stroked it. I thought how lucky I was that someone had plopped it in my garden. I had forgotten all about the dahlias.

    "I bet you," Tommy told me, his eyes half as big as saucers, "that you could get a lot of money for it."

    I won't deny that approximately the same thought had been going through my mind.

    I put out my hand and pushed against it, just to get the solid and substantial feel of it.

    And as I pushed, it rocked slightly underneath the pressure!

    Astonished, I pushed a little harder, and it rocked again.

    Tommy stood bug-eyed. "That's funny, Mr. Marsden. By rights, it hadn't ought to move. It must weigh several tons. You must be awfully strong."

    "I'm not strong," I told him. "Not as strong as that." I tottered back to the house and put away the insecticide, then went out and sat down on the steps to do some worrying.

    There was no sign of the boys. They probably had run swiftly off to spread the news through the neighborhood.

    If that thing was an agate, as Tommy said it was--if it really was one tremendous agate, then it would be a fantastic museum piece and might command some money. But if it was an agate, why was it so light? No ten men, pushing on it, should have made it budge.

    I wondered, too, just what my rights would be if it should actually turn out to be an agate. It was on my property and it should be mine. But what if someone came along and claimed it?

    And there was this other thing: How had it gotten there to start with?

    I was all tied up in knots with my worrying when Dobby came trundling around the corner of the house and sat down on the steps beside me.

    "Lots of extraordinary things going on," he said. "I hear you have an agate boulder in the garden."

    "That's what Tommy Henderson tells me. I suppose that he should know. Billy tells me he's a rockhound."

    Dobby scratched at his whiskers. "Great things, hobbies," he said. "Especially for kids. They learn a lot from them,"

    "Yeah," I said without enthusiasm.

    "Your son brought me an insect for identification after breakfast this morning."

    "I told him not to bother you."

    "I am glad he brought it," Dobby said. "It was one I'd never seen before."

    "It looked like a ladybug."

    "Yes," Dobby agreed, "there is _some_ resemblance. But I'm not entirely certain--well, fact of the matter is, I'm not even sure that it is an insect. To tell the truth, it resembles a turtle in many ways more than it does an insect. There is an utter lack of bodily segmentation, such as you'd find in any insect. The exoskeleton is extremely hard and the head and legs are retractible and it has no antennae."

    He shook his head in some perplexity. "I can't be sure, of course. Much more extensive examination would be necessary before an attempt could be made at classifying it You didn't happen to find any more of them, did your'

    "I saw one running on the floor not so long ago."

    "Would you mind, next time you see one, grabbing it for me?"

    "Not at all," I said. "I'll try to get you one."

    I kept my word. After he left I went down into the basement to look up a bug for him. I saw several of them, but couldn't catch a one. I gave up in disgust.

    After supper, Arthur Belsen came popping from across the alley. He was in a dither, but that was not unusual. He is a birdlike, nervous man and it doesn't take too much to get him all upset.

    "I hear that boulder in your garden is an agate," he said to me. "What do you intend to do with it?"

    "Why, I don't know. Sell it, I suppose, if anyone wants to buy it."

    "It might be valuable," said Belsen. "You can't just leave it out there. Someone might come along and pinch it."

    "Guess there's nothing else to do," I told him. "I certainly can't move it and I'm not going to sit up all night to guard it."

    "You don't need to sit up all night," said Belsen. "I can fix it for you. We can rig up a nest of trip wires and hook up an alarm."

    I wasn't too impressed and tried to discourage him, but he was like a beagle on a rabbit trail. He went back to his basement and came out with a batch of wire and a kit of tools and we fell to work.

    We worked until almost bedtime getting the wires rigged up and an alarm bell installed just inside the kitchen door. Helen took a sour view of it. She didn't like the idea of messing up her kitchen, agate or no agate.

    In the middle of the night the clamor of the bell jerked me out of bed, wondering what all the racket was. Then I remembered and went rushing for the stairs. On the third step from the bottom I stepped on something that rolled beneath my foot and sent me pitching down the stairs into the living room. I fell sprawling and skidded into a lamp, which landed on top and me and hit me on the head. I brought up against a chair, tangled with the lamp.

    A marble, I thought. That damn kid has been strewing marbles all over the house again! He's too big for that. He knows better than to leave marbles on the stairs.

    In the bright moonlight pouring through the picture window I saw the marble and it was moving rapidly-- _not rolling, moving!_ And there were a lot of other marbles, racing across the floor. Sparkling golden marbles running in the moonlight.

    And that wasn't all--in the center of the living room stood the refrigerator!

    The alarm bell was still clanging loudly and I picked myself up and got loose from the lamp and rushed for the kitchen door. Behind me I heard Helen yelling at me from the landing.

    I got the door open and went racing in bare feet through the dew-soaked grass around the corner of the house.

    A puzzled dog was standing by the boulder. He had managed to get one foot caught in one of Belsen's silly wires and he was standing there, three-legged, trying to get loose.

    I yelled at him and bent over, scrabbling in the grass, trying to find something I could throw at him. He made a sudden lurch and freed himself. He took off up the alley, ears flapping in the breeze.

    Behind me the clanging bell fell silent.

    I turned around and trailed back to the house, feeling like a fool.

    I suddenly remembered that I had seen the refrigerator standing in the living room. But, I told myself, that must be wrong. The refrigerator was in the kitchen and no one would have moved it. There was, first of all, no reason for a refrigerator to be in the living room; its place was in the kitchen. No one would have wanted to move it, and even if they did, they'd have made noise enough to wake the house if they'd tried to do it.

    I was imagining things, I told myself. The boulder and the bugs had got me all upset and I was seeing things.

    But I wasn't.

    The refrigerator still stood in the center of the living room. The plug had been pulled out of the outlet and the cord trailed across the floor. A puddle of water from the slowly-thawing box had soaked into the carpet.

    "It's ruining the carpet!" Helen shrieked at me, standing in a corner and staring at the errant refrigerator. "And the food will all be spoiled and..."

    Billy came stumbling down the stairs, still half asleep.

    "What's going on?" he asked.

    "I don't know," I said.

    I almost told him about the bugs I'd seen running in the house, but caught myself in time. There was no use upsetting Helen any more than she was right then.

    "Let's get that box back where it belongs," I suggested, as matter-of-factly as I could. "The three of us can do it."

    We tugged and shoved and hauled and lifted and got it back in its proper place and plugged it in again. Helen found some rags and started to mop up the sopping carpet.

    "Was there something at the boulder, Dad?" asked Billy.

    "A dog," I told him. "Nothing but a dog."

    "I was against it--from the start," declared Helen, on her knees, angrily mopping the carpet. "It was a lot of foolishness. No one would have stolen the boulder. It isn't something you can just pick up and carry off. That Arthur Belsen's crazy."

    "I agree with you," I told her, ruefully. "But he is a conscientious sort of fellow and a determined cuss and he thinks in terms of gadgets..."

    "We won't get a wink of sleep," she said. "We'll be up a dozen times a night, chasing off stray dogs and cats. And I don't believe the boulder is an agate. All we have to go on is Tommy Henderson."

    "Tommy is a rockhound," Billy told her, staunchly defending his pal. "He knows an agate when he sees one. He's got a big shoe box full of ones he's found."

    And here we were, I thought, arguing about the boulder, when the thing that should most concern us--the happening with the most brain-twisting implications--was the refrigerator.

    And a thought came to me--a floating, random thought that came bumbling out of nowhere and glanced against my mind.

    I shivered at the thought and it came back again and burrowed into me and I was stuck with it:

    _What if there was some connection between the refrigerator and the bugs?_

    Helen got up from the floor. "There," she said accusingly, "that is the best I can do. I hope the carpet isn't ruined."

    But a bug, I told myself--no bug could move a refrigerator. No bug, nor a thousand bugs. And what was more and final, no bug would want to move one. No bug would care whether a refrigerator was in the living room or kitchen.

    Helen was very businesslike. She spread the wet cloth out on the sink to dry. She went into the living room and turned out the lights.

    "We might as well get back to bed," she said. "If we are lucky, we can get some sleep."

    I went over to the alarm beside the kitchen door and jerked the connections loose.

    "Now," I told her, "we can get some sleep."

    I didn't really expect to get any. I expected to stay awake the rest of the night, worrying about the refrigerator. But I did drop off, although not for very long.

    At six-thirty Belsen turned on his orchestra and brought me out of bed.

    Helen sat up, with her hands against her ears.

    "Oh, not again!" she said.

    I went around and closed the windows. It cut down the noise a little.

    "Put the pillow over your head," I told her.

    I dressed and went downstairs. The refrigerator was in the kitchen and everything seemed to be all right. There were a few of the bugs running around, but they weren't bothering anything.

    I made myself some breakfast; then I went to work. And this was the second day running I'd gone early to the office. If this kept up, I told myself, the neighborhood would have to get together and do something about Belsen and his symphony.

    Everything went all right. I sold a couple of policies during the morning and lined up a third.

    When I came back to the office early in the afternoon a wild-eyed individual was awaiting me.

    "You Marsden?" he demanded. "You the guy that's got an agate boulder?" -

    "That's what I'm told it is," I said.

    The man was a little runt. He wore sloppy khaki pants and engineer boots. Stuck in his belt was a rock hammer, one of those things with a hammer on one end of the head and a pick on the other.

    "I heard about it," said the man, excitedly and a bit belligerently, "and I can't believe it. There isn't any agate that ever ran that big."

    I didn't like his attitude. "If you came here to argue..."

    "It isn't that," said the man. "My name is Christian Barr. I'm a rockhound, you understand. Been at it all my life. Have a big collection. President of our rock club. Win prizes at almost every show. And I thought if you had a rock like this..."

    "Yes?"

    "Well, if you had a rock like this, I might make an offer for it. I'd have to see it first."

    I jammed my hat back on my head.

    "Let us go," I said.

    In the garden, Barr walked entranced around the boulder, He wet his thumb and rubbed the smooth places on its hide. He leaned close and inspected it. He ran a speculative hand across its surface. He muttered to himself.

    "Well?" I asked.

    "It's an agate," Barr told me, breathlessly. "Apparently a single, complete agate. Look here, this sort of pebbled, freckled surface--well, that's the inverse imprint of the volcanic bubble inside of which it formed. There's the characteristic mottling on the surface one would expect to find. And the fractures where the surface has been nicked show subconchoidal cleavage. And, of course, there is the indication of some banding."

    He pulled the rock hammer from his belt and idly banged the boulder. It rang like a monstrous bell.

    Barr froze and his mouth dropped open.

    "It hadn't ought to do that," he explained as soon as he regained some of his composure. "It sounds as if it's hollow."

    He rapped it once again and the boulder pealed.

    "Agate is strange stuff," he said. "It's tougher than the best of steel. I suppose you could make a bell out of it if you could only fabricate it."

    He stuck the hammer back into his belt and prowled around the boulder.

    "It could be a thunderegg," he said, talking to himself, "But no, it can't be that. A thunderegg has agate in its center and not on the surface. And this is banded agate and you don't find banded agate associated with a thunderegg."

    "What is a thunderegg?" I asked, but he didn't answer. He had hunkered down and was examining the bottom portion.

    "Marsden," he asked, "how much will you take for it?"

    "You'd have to name a figure," I told him. "I have no idea what it's worth."

    "I'll give you a thousand as it stands."

    "I don't think so," I said. Not that I didn't think it was enough, but on the principle that it's never wise to take a man's first figure.

    "If it weren't hollow," Barr told me, "It would be worth a whole lot more."

    "You can't be sure it's hollow."

    "You heard it when I rapped it."

    "Maybe that's just the way it sounds."

    Barr shook his head. "It's all wrong," he complained. "No banded agate ever ran this big. No agate's ever hollow. And you don't know where this one came from."

    I didn't answer him. There was no reason for me to.

    "Look here," he said, after a while. "There's a hole in it. Down here near the bottom."

    I squatted down to look where his finger pointed. There was a neat, round hole, no more than half an inch in diameter; no haphazard hole, but round and sharply cut, as if someone might have drilled it.

    Barr hunted around and found a heavy weed stalk and stripped off the leaves. The stalk, some two feet of it, slid into the hole.

    Barr squatted back and stared, frowning, at the boulder.

    "She's hollow, sure as hell," he said.

    I didn't pay too much attention to him. I was beginning to sweat a little. For another crazy thought had come bumbling along and fastened onto me:

    _That hole would be just big enough for one of those bugs to get through!_

    "Tell you what," said Barr. "I'll raise that offer to two thousand and take it off your hands."

    I shook my head. I was going off _my_ rocker linking up the bugs and boulder--even if there was a bug-size hole drilled into the boulder. I remembered that I likewise had linked the bugs with the refrigerator--and it must be perfectly obvious to anyone that the bugs could not have anything to do with either the refrigerator or the boulder.

    They were just ordinary bugs--well, maybe not just ordinary bugs, but, anyhow, just bugs. Dobby had been puzzled by them, but Dobby would be the first, I knew, to tell you that there were many insects unclassified as yet. This might be a species which suddenly had flared into prominence, favored by some strange quirk of ecology, after years of keeping strictly under cover.

    "You mean to say," asked Barr, astonished, "that you won't take two thousand?"

    "Huh?" I asked, coming back to earth.

    "I just offered you two thousand for the boulder."

    I took a good hard look at him. He didn't look like the kind of man who'd spend two thousand for a hobby. More than likely, I told myself, he knew a good thing when he saw it and was out to make a killing. He wanted to snap this boulder up before I knew what it was worth.

    "I'd like to think it over," I told him, warily. "If I decide to take the offer, where can I get in touch with you?"

    He told me curtly and gruffly said goodbye. He was sore about my not taking his two thousand. He went stumping around the garage and a moment later I heard him start his car and drive away.

    I squatted there and wondered if maybe I shouldn't have taken that two thousand. Two thousand was a lot of money and I could have used it. But the man had been too anxious and he'd had a greedy look.

    Now, however, there was one thing certain. I couldn't leave the boulder out here in the garden. It was much too valuable to be left unguarded. Somehow or other I'd have to get it into the garage where I could lock it up. George Montgomery had a block and tackle and maybe I could borrow it and use it to move the boulder.

    I started for the house to tell Helen the good news, although I was pretty sure she'd read me a lecture for not selling for two thousand.

    She met me at the kitchen door and threw her arms around my neck and kissed me.

    "Randall," she caroled, happily, "It's just too wonderful."

    "I think so, too," I said, wondering how in the world she could have known about it.

    "Just come and look at them," she cried. "The bugs are cleaning up the house!"

    "They're what!" I yelled.

    "Come and look," she urged, tugging at my ann. "Did you ever see the like of it? Everything's just shining!"

    I stumbled after her into the living room and stared in disbelief that bordered close on horror.

    They were working in battalions and they were purposeful about it. One gang of them was going over a chair back, four rows of them in line creeping up the chair back, and it was like one of those before-and-after pictures. The lower half of the chair back was so clean it looked like new, while the upper half was dingy.

    Another gang was dusting an end table and a squad of others was working on the baseboard in the corner and a small army of them was polishing up the television set.

    "They've got the carpeting all done!" squealed Helen. "And this end of the room is dusted and there are some of them starting on the fireplace. I never could get Nora to even touch the fireplace. And now I won't need Nora. Randall, do you realize that these bugs will save us the twenty dollars a week that we've been paying Nora? I wonder if you'll let me have that twenty dollars for my very own. There are so many things I need, I haven't had a new dress for ages and I should have another hat and I saw the cutest pair of shoes the other day..."

    "But bugs!" I yelled. "You are afraid of bugs. You detest the things. And bugs don't clean carpeting. All they do is eat it."

     "These bugs are cute," protested Helen, happily, "and I'm not afraid of them. They're not like ants and spiders. They don't give you a crawly feeling. They are so clean themselves and they are so friendly and so cheerful. They are even pretty. And I just love to watch them work. Isn't it cunning, the way they get together in a bunch to work? They're just like a vacuum cleaner. They just move over something and the dust and dirt are gone."

    I stood there, looking at them hard at work, and I felt an icy finger moving up my spine, for no matter how it might violate common sense, now I knew that the things I had been thinking, about the refrigerator and the boulder, had not been half as crazy as they might have seemed.

    "I'm going to phone Amy," said Helen, starting for the kitchen. "This is just too wonderful to keep. Maybe we could give her some of the bugs. What do you think, Randall? Just enough of them to give her house a start."

    "Hey, wait a minute," I hollered at her. "These things aren't bugs."

    "I don't care what they are," said Helen, airily, already dialing Amy's number, "just so they clean the house."

    "But, Helen, if you'd only listen to me..."

    "Shush," she said playfully. "How can I talk to Amy if you keep--Oh, hello, Amy, is that you..."

    I saw that it was hopeless. I retreated in complete defeat.

    I went around the house to the garage, intending to move some stuff to make room for the boulder at the back.

    The door was open. Inside was Billy, busy at the work bench.

    "Hello, son," I said, as cheerfully as I could manage. "What's going on?"

    "I'm making some bug traps, Dad. To catch some of the bugs that are cleaning up the house. Tommy's partners with me. He went home to get some bait."

    "Bait?"

    "Sure. We found out that they like agates."

    I reached out and grabbed a studding to hold myself erect. Things were going just a bit too fast to take.

    "We tried out the traps down in the basement," Billy told me. "There are a lot of the bugs down there. We tried everything for bait. We tried cheese and apples and dead flies and a lot of other things, but the bugs weren't having any. Tommy had an agate in his pocket, just a little gravel agate that he picked up. So we tried that."

    "But why an agate, son? I can't think of anything less likely..."

    "Well, you see, it was this way, Dad. We tried everything..."

    "Yes," I said, "I can see the logic of it."

    "Trouble is," Billy went on, "we have to use plastic for the traps. It's the only thing that will hold the bugs. They burst right out of a trap made of anything but plastic."

    "Now, just a minute there," I warned him. "Once you catch these bugs, what do you intend to do with them?"

    "Sell them, naturally," said Billy. "Tommy and me figured everyone would want them. Once the people around here find out how they'll clean a house, everyone will want them. We'll charge five dollars for half a dozen of them. That's a whole lot cheaper than a vacuum cleaner."

    "But just six bugs..."

    "They multiply," said Billy. "They must multiply real fast. A day or two ago we had just a few of them and now the house is swarming."

    Billy went on working on the trap.

    Finally he said, "Maybe, Dad, you'd like to come in with us on the deal? We need some capital. We have to buy some plastic to make more and better traps. We might be able to make a big thing out of it."

    "Look, son. Have you sold any of the bugs?"

    "Well, we tried to, but no one would believe us. So we thought we'd wait until Mom noised it around a bit."

    "What did you do with the bugs you caught?"

    "We took them over to Dr. Wells. I remembered that he wanted some. We gave them to him free."

    "Billy, I wish you'd do something for me."

    "Sure, Dad. What is it?"

    "Don't sell any of the bugs. Not right away at least. Not until I say that it's okay."

    "But, gee, Dad..."

    "Son, I have a hunch. I think the bugs are alien."

    "Me and Tommy figured that they might be."

    "You what!"

    "It was this way, Dad. At first we figured we'd sell them just as curiosities. That was before we knew how they would clean a house. We thought some folks might want them because they looked so different, and we tried to figure out a sales pitch. And Tommy said why don't we call them alien bugs, like the bugs from Mars or something. And that started us to thinking and the more we thought about it the more we thought they might really be bugs from Mars. They aren't insects, nor anything else so far as we could find. They're not like anything on Earth..."

    "All right," I said, "All right!"

    That's the way kids are these days. You can't keep up with them. You think you have something all nailed down and neat and here they've beat you to it. It happens all the time.

    I tell you, honestly, it does nothing for a man.

    "I suppose," I said, "that while you were figuring all this out, you also got it doped how they might have got here."

    "We can't be really sure," said Billy, "but we have a theory. That boulder out in back--we found a hole in it just the right size for these bugs. So we sort of thought they used that."

    "You won't believe me, son," I told him, "but I was thinking the same thing. But the part that's got me stumped is what they used for power. What made the boulder move through space?"

    "Well, gee, Dad, we don't know that. But there is something else. They could have used the boulder for their food all the time they traveled. There'd be just a few of them, most likely, and they'd get inside the boulder and there'd be all that food, maybe enough of it to last them years and years. So they'd eat the agate, hollowing out the boulder and making it lighter so it could travel faster--well, if not faster, at least a little easier. But they'd be very careful not to chew any holes in it until they'd landed and it was time to leave."

    "But agate is just rock..."

    "You weren't listening, Dad," said Billy, patiently. "I told you that agate was the only bait they'd go for."

    "Randall," said Helen, coming down the driveway, "if you don't mind, I'd like to use the car to go over and see Amy. She wants me to tell her all about the bugs."

    "Go ahead," I said. "Any way you look at it, my day is shot. I may as well stay home."

    She went tripping back down the driveway and I said to Billy: "You just lay off everything until I get back."

    "Where are you going, Dad?"

    "Over to see Dobby."

    I found Dobby roosting on a bench beneath an apple tree, his face all screwed up with worry. But it didn't stop him from talking.

    "Randall," he said, beginning to talk as soon as I hove in sight, "this is a sad day for me. All my life I've been vastly proud of my professional exactitude in my chosen calling. But this day I violated, willingly and knowingly and in a fit of temper, every precept of experimental observation and laboratory technique."

    "That's too bad," I said, wondering what he was talking about. Which was not unusual. One often had to wonder what he was getting at.

    "It's those damn bugs of yours," Dobby accused me explosively.

    "But you said you wanted some more bugs. Billy remembered that and he brought some over."

    "And so I did. I wanted to carry forward my examination of them. I wanted to dissect one and see what made him go. Perhaps you recall my telling you about the hardness of the exoskeletons."

    "Yes, of course I do."

    "Randall," said Dobby sadly, "would you believe me if I told you that exoskeleton was so hard I could do nothing with it? I couldn't cut it and I couldn't peel it off. So you know what I did?"

    "I have no idea," I declared, somewhat exasperated. I hoped that he'd soon get to the point, but there was no use in hurrying him. He always took his time.

    "Well, I'll tell you, then," said Dobby, seething. "I took one of those little so-and-sos and I put him on an anvil. Then I picked up a hammer and I let him have it. And I tell you frankly that I am not proud of it. It constituted, in every respect, a most improper laboratory technique."

    "I wouldn't let that worry me at all," I told him. "You'll simply have to put this down as an unusual circumstance. The important thing, it seems to me, is what you learned about the bug..."

    And then I had a terrible thought. "Don't tell me the hammer failed!"

    "Not at all," said Dobby with some satisfaction. "It did a job on him. He was smashed to smithereens."

    I sat down on the bench beside him and settled down to wait. I knew that in due time he'd tell me.

    "An amazing thing," said Dobby. "Yes, a most amazing thing. That bug was made of crystals--of something that looked like the finest quartz. There was no protoplasm in him. Or, at least," he qualified, judiciously, "none I could detect."

    "But a crystal bug! That's impossible!"

    "Impossible," said Dobby. "Yes, of course, by any earthly standard. It runs counter to everything we've ever known or thought. But the question rises: Can our earthly standards, even remotely, be universal?"

    I sat there, without saying anything, but somehow I felt a great relief that someone else was thinking the same thing I had thought It went to prove, just slightly, that I wasn't crazy.

    "Of course," said Dobby, "it had to happen sometime. Soon or late, it should be almost inevitable that some alien intelligence would finally seek us out. And knowing this, we speculated on monsters and monstrosities, but we fell short of the actual mark of horr--"

    "There's no reason at the moment," I told him hastily, "that we should fear the bugs. They might in fact, become a useful ally. Even now they are cooperating. They seemed to strike up some sort of deal. We furnish them a place to live and they, in turn..."

    "You're mistaken, Randall," Dobby warned me solemnly. "These things are alien beings. Don't imagine for a moment that they and the human race might have a common purpose or a single common concept. Their life process, whatever it may be, is entirely alien to us. So must be their viewpoints. A spider is blood-brother to you as compared with these."

    "But we had ants and wasps and they cleaned out the ants and wasps."

    "They may have cleaned out the ants and wasps, but it was no part, I am sure, of a cooperative effort. It was no attempt on their part to butter up the human in whose dwelling place they happened to take refuge, or set up their camp, or carve out their beachhead, however you may put it. I have grave doubts that they are aware of you at all except as some mysterious and rather shadowy monstrosity they can't bother with as yet. Sure they killed your insects, but in this they did no more than operate on a level common with their own existence. The insects might have been in their way or they may have recognized in them some potential threat or hindrance."

    "But even so, we can use them," I told him impatiently, "to control our insect pests, or carriers of disease."

    "Can we?" Dobby asked. "What makes you think we can? And it would not be insect pests alone, but rather all insects. Would you, then deprive our plant life of its pollination agents--to mention just one example of thousands?"

    "You may be right," I said, "but you can't tell me that we must be afraid of bugs, of even crystal bugs. Even if they should turn out to be a menace, we could find a way in which to cope with them."

    "I have been sitting here and thinking, trying to get it straight within my mind," said Dobby, "and one thing that has occurred to me is that here we may be dealing with a social concept we've never met with on this planet. I'm convinced that these aliens must necessarily operate on the hive-mind principle. We face not one of them alone nor the total number of them, but we face the sum total of them as a single unit, as a single mind and a single expression of purpose and performance."

    "If you really think they're dangerous, what would you have us do?"

    "I still have my anvil and my hammer."

    "Cut out the kidding, Dobby."

    "You are right," said Dobby. "This is no joking matter, nor is it one for an anvil and a hammer. My best suggestion is that the area be evacuated and an atom bomb be dropped."

    Billy came tearing clown the path.

    "Dad!" he was yelling. "Dad!"

    "Hold up there," I said, clutching at his arm. "What is going on?"

    "Someone is ripping up our furniture," yelled Billy, "and then throwing it outdoors."

    "Now, wait a minute--are you sure?"

    "I saw them doing it," yelled Billy. "Gosh, will Mom be sore!"

    I didn't wait to hear any more. I started for the house as fast as I could go. Billy followed close behind me and Dobby brought up the rear, white whiskers bristling like an excited billy goat.

    The screen door off the kitchen was standing open as if someone had propped it, and outside, beyond the stoop, lay a pile of twisted fabric and the odds and ends of dismembered chairs.

    I went up the steps in one bound and headed for the door. And just as I reached the doorway I saw this great mass of stuff bulleting straight toward me and I ducked aside. A limp and gutted love seat came hurtling out the door and landed on the pile of debris. It sagged into a grotesque resemblance of its former self.

    By this time I was good and sore. I dived for the pile and grabbed up a chair leg. I got a good grip on it and rushed through the door and across the kitchen into the living room. I had the club at ready and if there'd be anybody there I would have let him have it.

    But there was no one there--no one I could see.

    The refrigerator was back in the center of the room and heaped all about it were piles of pots and pans. The tangled coil springs from the love seat were leaning crazily against it and scattered all about the carpet there were nuts and bolts, washers, brads and nails and varying lengths of wire.

    There was a strange creaking noise from somewhere and I glanced hurriedly around to find out what it was. I found out, all right.

    Over on one corner, my favorite chair was slowly am deliberately and weirdly coming apart. The upholstery nails were rising smoothly from the edging of the fabric--rising from the wood--as if by their own accord--and dropping to the floor with tiny patterings. As I watched a bolt fell to the floor and one leg bent underneath the chair and the chair tipped over. The upholstery nails kept right on coming out.

    And as I stood there watching this, I felt the anger draining out of me and a fear come dribbling in to take its place. I started to get cold all over and I could feel the gooseflesh rising.

    I started sneaking out. I didn't dare to turn my back so I backed carefully away and I kept my club ready.

    I bumped into something and let out a whoop and spun around and raised my club to strike.

    It was Dobby. I just stopped the club in time. "Randall," said Dobby calmly, "it's those bugs of yours again."

    He gestured toward the ceiling and I looked. The ceiling was a solid mass of golden-gleaming bugs.

    I lost some of my fear at seeing them and started to get sore again. I pulled back my arm and aimed the club up at the ceiling. I was ready to let the little stinkers have it, when Dobby grabbed my arm.

    "Don't go getting them stirred up," he yelled. "No telling what they'd do."

    I tried to jerk my arm away from him, but he hung on to it.

    "It is my considered opinion," he declared, even as he wrestled with me, "that the situation has evolved beyond the point where it can be handled by the private citizen."

    I gave up. It was undignified trying to get my arm loose from Dobby's clutching paws and I likewise began to see that a club was no proper weapon to use against the bugs.

    "You may be right," I said.

    I saw that Billy was peering through the door.

    "Get out of here," I yelled at him. "You're in the line of fire. They'll be throwing that chair out of here in another minute. They're almost through with it."

    Billy ducked back out of sight.

    I walked out to the kitchen and hunted through a cupboard drawer until I found the phone book. I looked up the number and dialed the police.

    "This is Sergeant Andrews talking," said a voice.

    "Now listen closely, Sergeant," I said. "I have some bugs out here..."

    "Ain't we all?" the sergeant asked in a happy tone of voice.

    "Sergeant," I told him, trying to sound as reasonable as I could, "I know that this sounds funny. But these are a different kind of bug. They're breaking up my furniture and throwing it outdoors."

    "I tell you what," the sergeant said, still happy. "You better go on back to bed and try to sleep it off. If you don't, I'll have to run you in."

    "Sergeant," I told him, "I am completely sober..."

    A hollow click came from the other end and the phone went dead.

    I dialed the number back.

    "Sergeant Andrews," said the voice.

    "You just hung up on me," I yelled. "What do you mean by that? I'm a sober, law-abiding, taxpaying citizen and I'm entitled to protection, and even if you don't think so, to some courtesy as well. And when I tell you I have bugs..."

    "All right," said the sergeant wearily. "Since you are asking for it. What's your name and address?"

    I gave them to him.

    "And Mr. Marsden," said the sergeant.

    "What is it now?"

    "You better have those bugs. If you know what's good for you, there better be some bugs."

    I slammed down the phone and turned around.

    Dobby came tearing out of the living room.

    "Look out! Here it comes!" he yelled.

    My favorite chair, what was left of it, came swishing through the air. It hit the door and stuck. It jiggled violently and broke loose to drop on the pile outside.

    "Amazing," Dobby panted. "Truly amazing. But it explains a lot."

    "Tell me," I snapped at him, "what explains a lot?" I was getting tired of Dobby's ramblings.

    "Telekinesis," said Dobby.

    "Tele-what?"

    "Well, maybe only teleportation," Dobby admitted sheepishly. "That's the ability to move things by the power of mind alone."

    "And you think this teleportation business bears out your hive-mind theory?"

    Dobby looked at me with some astonishment. "That's exactly what I meant," he said.

    "What I can't figure out," I told him, "is why they're doing this."

    "Of course you can't," said Dobby. "No one expects you to. No one can presume to understand an alien motive. On the surface of it, it would appear they are collecting metal, and that well may be exactly what they're doing. But the mere fact of their metal grabbing does not go nearly far enough. To truly understand their motive..."

    A siren came screaming down the street.

    "There they are," I said, racing for the door.

    The police car pulled up to the curb and two officers vaulted out.

    "You Marsden?" asked the first one.

    I told him that I was.

    "That's funny," said the second one. "Sarge said he was stinko."

    "Say," said the first one, staring at the pile of wreckage outside the kitchen door, "what is going on here?"

    Two chair legs came whistling out the door and thudded to the ground.

    "Who is in there throwing out the stuff?" the second cop demanded.

    "Just the bugs," I told them. "Just the bugs and Dobby. I guess Dobby's still in there."

    "Let's go in and grab this Dobby character," said the first one, "before he wrecks the joint."

    I stayed behind. There was no use of going in. All they'd do would be ask a lot of silly questions and there were enough of them I could ask myself without listening to the ones thought up by someone else.

    A small crowd was beginning to gather. Billy had rounded up some of his pals and neighbor women were rushing from house to house, cackling like excited chickens. Several cars had stopped and their occupants sat gawping.

    I walked out to the street and sat down on the curbing.

    And now, I thought, it all had become just a little clearer. If Dobby was right about this teleportation business, and the evidence said he was, then the boulder could have been the ship the bugs had used to make their way to Earth. If they could use their power to tear up furniture and throw it out of the house, they could use that selfsame power to move anything through space. It needn't have been the boulder; it could have been anything at all.

    Billy, in his uninhibited, boyish thinking, probably had struck close to the truth--they had used the boulder because it was their food.

    The policemen came pounding back out of the house and stopped beside me.

    "Say, mister," said one of them, "do you have the least idea what is going on?"

    I shook my head. "You better talk to Dobby. He's the one with answers."

    "He says these things are from Mars."

    "Not Mars," said the second officer. "It was you who said it might be Mars. He said from the stars."

    "He's a funny-talking old coot," complained the first policeman. "A lot of stuff he says is more than a man can swallow."

    "Jake," said the other one, "we better start doing something about this crowd. We can't let them get too close."

    "I'll radio for help," said Jake.

    He went to the police car and climbed into it.

    "You stick around," the other said to me, 'Tm not going anywhere," I said.

    The crowd was good-sized by now. More cars had stopped and some of the people in them had gotten out, but most of them just sat and stared. There were an awful lot of kids by this time and the women were still coming, perhaps from blocks away. Word spreads fast in an area like ours.

    Dobby came ambling down the yard. He sat down beside me and started pawing at his whiskers.

    "It makes no sense," he said, "but, then, of course, it wouldn't."

    "What I can't figure out," I told him, "is why they cleaned the house. Why did it have to be spic and span before they started piling up the metal? There must be a reason for it."

    A car screeched down the street and slammed up to the curb just short of where we sat. Helen came bustling out of it.

    "I can't turn my back a minute," she declared, "but something up and happens."

    "It's your bugs," I said. "Your nice house-cleaning bugs. They're ripping up the place."

    "Why don't you stop them, then?"

    "Because I don't know how."

    "They're aliens," Dobby told her calmly. "They came from somewhere out in space."

    "Dobby Wells, you keep out of this! You've caused me all the trouble I can stand. The idea of getting Billy interested in insects! He's had the place cluttered up all summer."

    A man came rushing up. He squatted down beside me and started pawing at my arm. I turned around and saw that it was Barr, the rockhound.

    "Marsden," he said, excitedly, "I have changed my mind. I'll give you five thousand for that boulder. I'll write you out a check right now."

    "What boulder?" Helen asked. "You mean our boulder out in the back?"

    "That's the one," said Barr. "I've got to have that boulder."

    "Sell it to him," Helen said.

    "I will not," I told her.

    "Randall Marsden," she screamed, "you can't turn down five thousand! Think of what five thousand..."

    "I can turn it down," I told her, firmly. "It's worth a whole lot more than that. It's not just an agate boulder any longer. It's the first spaceship that ever came to Earth. I can get anything I ask."

    Helen gasped.

    "Dobby," she asked weakly, "is he telling me the truth?"

    "I think," said Dobby, "that for once he is." The wail of sirens sounded down the street. One of the policemen came back from the car.

    "You folks will have to get across the street," he said.

    "As soon as the others get here, we'll cordon off the place."

    We got up to start across the street.

    "Lady," said the officer, "you'll have to move your car." "If you two want to stay together," Dobby offered, "I'll drive it down the street."

    Helen gave him the keys and the two of us walked across the street. Dobby got into the car and drove off,

    The officers were hustling the other cars away.

    A dozen police cars arrived. Men piled out of them. They started pushing back the crowd. Others fanned out to start forming a circle around the house.

    Broken furniture, bedding, clothing, draperies from time to time came flying out the kitchen door. The pile of debris grew bigger by the moment.

    We stood across the street and watched our house be wrecked.

    "They must be almost through by now," I said, with a strange detachment. "I wonder what comes next."

    "Randall," said Helen tearfully, clinging to my arm, "what do we do now? They're wrecking all my things. How about it--is it covered by insurance?"

    "Why, I don't know," I said. "I never thought of it."

    And that was the truth of it--it hadn't crossed my mind. And me an insurance man!

    I had written that policy myself and now I tried desperately to remember what the fine print might have said and I had a sinking feeling. How, I asked myself, could anything like this be covered? It certainly was no hazard that could have been anticipated.

    "Anyhow," I said, "we still have the boulder. We can sell the boulder."

    "I still think we should have taken the five thousand," Helen told me. "What if the Government should move in and just grab the boulder off?"

    And she was right, I told myself. This would be just the sort of thing in which the Government could become intensely interested.

    I began to think myself that maybe we should have taken that five thousand.

    Three policemen walked across the yard and went into the house. Almost at once they came tearing out again. Pouring out behind them came a swarm of glittering dots that hummed and buzzed and swooped so fast they seemed to leave streaks of their golden glitter in the air behind them. The policemen ran in weaving fashion, ducking and dodging. They waved their hands in the air above their heads.

    The crowd surged back and began to run. The police cordon broke and retreated with what dignity it could.

    I found myself behind the house across the street, my hand still gripping Helen's arm. She was madder than a hornet.

    "You needn't have pulled me along so fast," she told me. "I could have made it by myself. You made me lose my shoes."

    "Forget your shoes," I told her sharply. "This thing is getting serious. You go and round up Billy and the two of you get out of here. Go up to Amy's place."

    "Do you know where Billy is?"

    "He's around somewhere. He is with his pals. Just look for a bunch of boys."

    "And you?"

    "I'll be along," I said.

    "You'll be careful, Randall?"

    I patted her shoulder and stooped down to kiss her. "I'll be careful. I'm not very brave, you know. Now go and get the boy."

    She started away and then turned back. "Will we ever go back home?" she asked.

    "I think we will," I said, "and soon. Someone will find a way to get them out of there."

    I watched her walk away and felt the chilly coldness of the kindness of my lie.

    Would we, in solemn truth, ever go back home again? Would the entire world, all of humanity, ever be at home again? Would the golden bugs take away the smug comfort and the warm security that Man had known for ages in his sole possession of a planet of his own?

    I went up the backyard slope and found Helen's shoes. I put them in my pocket. I came to the back of the house and peeked around the corner.

    The bugs had given up the chase, but now a squadron of them flew in a lazy, shining circle around and just above the house. It was plain to see that they were on patrol.

    I ducked back around the house and sat down in the grass, with my back against the house. It was a warm amid blue-sky summer day; the kind of day a man should mow his lawn.

    A slobbering horror, I thought, no matter how obscene or fearful, might be understood, might be fought against. But the cold assuredness with which the golden bugs were directed to their purpose, the self-centered, vicious efficiency with which they operated, was something else again.

    And their impersonal detachment, their very disregard of us, was like a chilly blast upon human dignity.

    I heard footsteps and looked up, startled.

    It was Arthur Belsen and he was upset.

    But that was not unusual. Belsen could get upset at something that was downright trivial.

    "I was looking for you everywhere," he chattered. "I met Dobby just a while ago and he tells me these bugs of yours..."

    "They're no bugs of mine," I told him sharply. I was getting tired of everyone talking as if I owned the bugs, as if I might be somehow responsible for their having come to Earth.

    "Well, anyway, he was telling me they are after metal." I nodded. "That's what they're after. Maybe it's precious stuff to them. Maybe they haven't got too much of it wherever they are from."

    And I thought about the agate boulder. If they had had metal, certainly they'd not have used the agate boulder.

    "I had an awful time getting home," said Belsen. "I thought there was a fire. There are cars parked in the street for blocks and an awful crowd. I was lucky to get through."

    "Come on and sit down," I told him. "Stop your fidgeting."

    But he paid no attention to me.

    "I have an awful lot of metal," he said. "All those machines of mine down in the basement. I've put a lot of time and work and money into those machines and I can't let anything happen to them. You don't think the bugs will start branching out, do you?"

    "Branching out?"

    "Well, yes, you know--after they get through with everything in your house, they might start getting into other houses."

    "I hadn't thought of it," I said. "I suppose that it could happen."

    I sat there and thought about it and I had visions of them advancing house by house, cleaning out and salvaging all the metal, putting it into one big pile until it covered the entire block and eventually the city.

    "Dobby says that they are crystal. Isn't that a funny thing for bugs to be?"

    I said nothing. After all, he was talking to himself.

    "But crystal can't be alive," protested Belsen. "Crystal is stuff that things are made of. Vacuum tubes and such. There is no life in it."

    "Don't try to fight with me," I told him. "I can't help it if they are crystal."

    There seemed to be a lot of ruckus going on out in the street and I got on my feet to peer around the corner of the house.

    For a moment there was nothing to see. Everything looked peaceful. One or two policemen were running around excitedly, but I couldn't see that anything was happening. It looked just as it had before.

    Then a door slowly, almost majestically, detached itself from one of the police cars parked along the curb and started floating toward the open kitchen door. It reached the door and made a neat left turn and disappeared inside.

    A rear vision mirror sailed flashing through the air. It was followed by a siren. Both disappeared within the house.

    Good Lord, I told myself, the bugs are going after the cars!

    Now I saw that a couple of the cars were already minus hoods and fenders and that some other doors were missing.

    The bugs, I thought, had finally really hit the jackpot. They wouldn't stop until they'd stripped the cars clean down to the tires.

    And I was thinking, too, with a strange perverse reaction, that there wasn't nearly room enough inside the house to pack all those dismantled cars, What, I wondered, would the bugs do when the house was full?

    A half dozen policemen dashed across the street and started for the house. They reached the lawn before the bug patrol above the house became aware of them and swooped down in a screaming, golden arc.

    The policemen ran back pell-mell. The bug patrol, it's duty done, returned to circling the house. Fenders, doors, taillights, headlights, radio antennae, and other parts of cars continued to pour into the house.

    A dog came trotting out of nowhere and went across the lawn, tail wagging in friendly curiosity.

    A flight of bugs left the patrol and headed down toward him.

    The dog, startled by the whistle of the diving bugs, wheeled about to run.

    He was too late.

    There was a sickening thud of missiles hitting flesh. The dog leaped high into the air and fell over on his back.

    The bugs swooped up into the air again. There were no gaps in their ranks.

    The dog lay twitching in the yard and blood ran in the grass.

    I ducked back around the corner, sick. I doubled up, retching, trying hard to keep from throwing up.

    I fought it off and my stomach quieted down. I peeked around the corner of the house.

    All was peaceful once again. The dead dog lay sprawling in the yard. The bugs were busy with their stripping of the cars. No policemen were in sight. There was no one in sight at all. Even Belsen had disappeared somewhere.

    It was different now, I told myself. The dog had made it different.

    The bugs were no longer only a mystery; now they were a deadly danger. Each of them was a rifle bullet with intelligence.

    I remembered something that Dobby had said just an hour or so ago. Evacuate the area, he had said, then drop an atom bomb.

    And would it come to that? I wondered. Was that the measure of the danger?

    No one, of course, was thinking that way yet, but in time they might. This was just the start of it. Today the city was alerted and the police were on the scene; tomorrow it might be the governor sending in some troops. And in time it would be the Federal Government. And after that, Dobby's solution might be the only answer.

    The bugs hadn't spread too far as yet. But Belsen's fear was valid; in time they would expand, pushing out their beachhead block by block as there were more and more of them. For Billy had been right when he had said they must multiply real fast.

    I tried to imagine how the bugs could multiply, but I had no idea.

    First of all, of course, the Government would probably try to make contact with them, would attempt to achieve some communication with them--not with the creatures themselves, perhaps, but rather with that mass mind which Dobby had figured them to have.

    But was it possible to communicate with creatures such as these? On what intellectual level might one approach them? And what good could possibly come of such communication if it was established? Where was the basis for understanding between these creatures and the human race?

    And I realized, even as I thought all this, that I was thinking with pure panic. To approach a problem such as the bugs presented, there was need of pure objectivity--there could be no question of either fear or anger. The time had come for Man to discard the pettiness of one-planet thinking.

    It was no problem of mine, of course, but thinking of it, I saw a deadly danger--that the eventual authority, whoever that might be, might delay too long in its objectivity.

    There had to be a way to stop the bugs; there must be some measure to control them. Before we tried to establish contact, there must be a way in which we could contain them.

    And I thought of something--of Billy telling me that to hold them once you caught them you needed a plastic trap.

    I wondered briefly how the kid had known that. Perhaps it had been no more than simple trial and error. After all, he and Tommy Henderson must have tried several different kinds of traps.

    Plastic might be the answer to the problem I had posed. It could be the answer if we acted before they spread too far.

    And why plastic? I wondered. What element within plastic would stop them cold and hold them once they were trapped within it? Some factor, perhaps, that we would learn only after long and careful study. But it was something that did not matter now; it was enough we knew that plastic did the trick.

    I stood there for a time, turning the matter in my mind, wondering who to go to.

    I could go to the police, of course, but I had a feeling I would get little hearing there. The same would be true of the officials of the city. For while it was possible the might listen, they'd have to talk it over, they'd have to call a conference, they'd feel compelled to consult some expert before they did anything about it. And the Government in Washington, at the moment, was unthinkable.

    The trouble was that no one was scared enough as yet to act as quickly as they should. They'd have to be scared silly--and I had had a longer time to get scared silly than any of the rest.

    Then I thought of another man who was as scared as I was.

    Belsen.

    Belsen was the man to help me. Belsen was scared stiff.

    He was an engineer and possibly he could tell me if what I had been thinking was any good or not. He could sit down and figure how it might be done. He'd know where to get the plastic that we needed and the best type of it to use and more than likely he'd know how to go about arranging for its fabrication. And he might, a well, know someone it would do some good to talk to.

    I went back to the corner of the house and had a look around.

    There were a few policemen in sight, but not too many of them. They weren't doing anything, just standing there and watching while the bugs kept on working at the cars. They had the bodies pretty well stripped down by now and were working on the engines. As I watched I saw one motor rise and sail toward the house. It was dripping oil, and chunks of caked grease and dust were falling off of it. I shivered at the thought of what a mess like that would do to Helen's carpeting and the decorating.

    There were a few knots of spectators here and there, but all of them were standing at quite a distance off.

    It looked to me as if I'd have no trouble reaching Belsen's house if I circled around the block, so I started out.

    I wondered if Belsen would be at home and was afraid he might not be. Most of the houses in the neighborhood seemed to be deserted. But it was a chance, I knew, that I had to take. If he wasn't at his house, I'd have to hunt him down.

    I reached his place and went up the steps and rang the bell. There wasn't any answer, so I walked straight in.

    The house seemed to be deserted.

    "Belsen," I called.

    He didn't answer me and I called again.

    Then I heard footsteps clattering up a stairs.

    The basement door came open and Belsen stuck his head out.

    "Oh, it's you," he said. "I'm glad you came. I will need some help. I sent the family off."

    "Belsen," I said, "I know what we can do. We can get a monstrous sheet of plastic and drop it on the house. That way they can't get out. Maybe we can get some helicopters, maybe four of them, one for each corner of the sheet..."

    "Come downstairs," said Belsen. "There's work for both of us."

    I followed him downstairs into his workroom.

    The place was orderly, as one might expect from a fuss-budget such as Belsen.

    The music machines stood in straight and shining lines, the work bench was immaculate and the tools were al in place. The tape machine stood in one corner and it was all lit up like a Christmas tree.

    A table stood in front of the tape machine, but it was far from tidy. It was strewn with books, some of then lying flat and open and others piled haphazardly. There were scribbled sheets of paper scattered everywhere and balled-up bunches of it lay about the floor.

    "I cannot be mistaken," Belsen told me, jittery as ever "I must be sure the first time. There'll be no second chance. I had a devil of a time getting it all figured out but I think I have it now."

    "Look, Belsen," I said, with some irritation, "I don't know what harebrained scheme you may be working on, but whatever it may be, this deal of mine is immediate and important."

    "Later," Belsen told me, almost hopping up and down in his anxiety. "Later you can tell me. I have a tape I have to finish. I have the mathematics all worked out..."

    "But this is about the bugs!"

    Belsen shouted at me: "And so is this, you fool! What else did you expect to find me working on? You know I can't take a chance of their getting in here. I won't let them take all this stuff I've built."

    "But, Belsen..."

    "See that machine," he said, pointing to one of the smaller ones. "That's the one we'll have to use. It is battery powered. See if you can get it moved over to the door."

    He swung around and scurried over to the tape machine and sat down in front of it. He began punching slowly and carefully on the keyboard and the machine began to mutter and to chuckle at him and its lights winked on and off.

    I saw there was no sense in trying to talk to him until he had this business done. And there was a chance, of course, that he knew what he was doing--that he had figured out some way either to protect these machines of his or to stop the bugs.

    I walked over to the machine and it was heavier than it looked. I started tugging at it and I could move it only a few inches at a time, but I kept on tugging it.

    And suddenly, as I tugged away, I knew without a question what Belsen must be planning.

    And I wondered why I hadn't thought of it myself, why Dobby, with all his talk of A-bombs, hadn't thought of it. But, of course, it would take a man like Belsen, with his particular hobby, to have thought of it.

    The idea was so old, so ancient, so much a part of the magic past that it was almost laughable--and yet it ought to work.

    Belsen got up from the machine and lifted a reel of tape from a cylinder in its side. He hurried over to me and knelt down beside the machine I'd tugged almost to the door.

    "I can't be sure of exactly what they are," he told me. "Crystal. Sure, I know they're crystalline in form, but what kind of crystals--just what type of crystals? So I had to work out a sort of sliding shotgun pattern of supersonic frequencies. Somewhere in there, I hope, is the one that will synchronize with whatever structure they may have."

    He opened a section of the small machine and started threading in the tape.

    "Like the violin that broke the goblet," I said.

    He grinned at me nervously. "The classical example, I see you've heard of it."

    "Everyone has," I said.

    "Now listen to me carefully," said Belsen. "All we have to do is flip this switch and the tape starts moving. The dial controls the volume and it's set at maximum. We' open up the door and we'll grab the machine, one on each side of it, and we'll carry it as far as we can before we set it down. I want to get it close."

    "Not too close," I cautioned. "The bugs just killed a dog. Couple of them hit him and went through him without stopping. They're animated bullets."

    Belsen licked his lips. "I figured something like that." He reached out for the door.

    "Just a minute, Belsen. Have we got a right to?"

    "A right to what?" he asked.

    "A right to kill these things. They're the first aliens I come to visit us. There's a lot we might learn from them if we could only talk to them..."

    "Talk to them?"

    'Well, communicate. Get to understand them."

    And I wondered what was wrong with me, that should be talking that way.

    "After what they did to the dog? After what they did to you?"

    "Yes, I think," I said, "even after what they did to me." 

    "You're crazy," Belsen screamed.

    He pulled the door wide open.

    "Now!" he shouted at me.

    I hesitated for a second, then grabbed hold.

    The machine was heavy, but we lifted it and rushed out into the yard. We went staggering with it almost to the alley and there the momentum of our rush played out and we set it down.

    I looked up toward my house and the bug patrol was there, circling at rooftop height, a flashing golden circle in the light of the setting sun.

    "Maybe," Belsen panted, "maybe we can get it closer."

    I bent to pick it up again and even as I did I saw the patrolling circle break.

    "Look out!" I screamed. The bugs were diving at us.

    "The switch!" I yelled. "The switch!"

    But Belsen stood there, staring at them, frozen, speechless, stiff.

    I flung myself at the machine and found the switch and flipped it and then I was groveling in the dirt, rooting into it, trying to make myself extremely thin and small.

    There was no sound and, of course, I had known there would be none, but that didn't stop me from wondering why I didn't hear it. Maybe, I thought, the tape had broken; maybe the machine had failed to work.

    Out of the tail of my eye I saw the patrol arrowing down on us and they seemed to hang there in the air, as if something might have stopped them, but I knew that was wrong, that it was simply fright playing tricks with time.

    And I was scared, all right, but not as seared as Belsen. He still stood there, upright, unable to move a muscle, staring at oncoming death in an attitude of stricken disbelief.

    They were almost on top of us. They were so close that I could see each of them as a dancing golden mote and then suddenly each little mote became a puff of shining dust and the swarm was gone.

    I climbed slowly to my feet and brushed off my front. "Snap out of it," I said to Belsen. I shook him.

    He slowly turned toward me and I could see the tension going from his face.

    "It worked," he said, in a flat sort of voice. "I was pretty sure it would."

    "I noticed that," I said. "You're the hero of the hour." And I said it bitterly, without even knowing why.

    I left him standing there and walked slowly across the alley.

    We had done it, I told myself. Right or wrong, we'd done it. The first things from space had come and we had smashed them flat.

    And was this, I wondered, what would happen to us, too, when we ventured to the stars? Would we find as little patience and as little understanding? Would we act as arrogantly as these golden bugs had acted?

    Would there always be the Belsens to outshout the Marsdens? Would the Marsdens always be unable or unwilling to stand up before the panic-shouting--always fearful that their attitude, slowly forming, might be antisocial? Would the driving sense of fear and the unwillingness to understand mar all things from the stars?

    And that, I told myself, was a funny thing for me, of all people, to be thinking. For mine was the house the bugs had ruined.

    Although, come to think of it, they might have cost me not a dime. They might have made me money. I still had the agate boulder and that was worth a fortune.

    I looked quickly towards the garden and the boulder wasn't there!

    I broke into a run, breath sobbing in my throat. I stopped at the garden's edge and stared in consternation at the neat pile of shining sand.

    There was one thing I'd forgotten: that an agate, as well as bugs and goblet, was also crystalline!

    I turned around and stared back across the yard and I was sore clean through.

    That Belsen, I thought--him and his sliding shotgun pattern!

    I would take one of those machines of his and cram it down his throat!

    Then I stopped dead still. There was, I realized, nothing I could do or say. Belsen was the hero, exactly as I said he was.

    He was the man, alone, who'd quashed the menace from the stars.

    That was what the headlines would be saying, that was what the entire world would think. Except, perhaps, a few scientists and others of their kind who didn't really count.

    Belsen was the hero and if I laid a finger to him I'd probably be lynched.

    And I was right. Belsen is the hero.

    He turns on his orchestra at six o'clock each morning and there's no one in the neighborhood who'll say a word to him.

    Is there anyone who knows how much it costs to soundproof an entire house?