Adventure Magazine Cover — page 127: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Go-Fever Cole forced himself to give attention. It wasn’t easy. His brain didn’t seem to work properly in the heat, there was no correlation of ideas. But this seemed fair enough if the native was not lying. To cure Petrie now and to accept freedom later as reward. But Petrie was owner of the dog and Morbora might be seek- ing vengeance on Petrie for Dango and himself. He doubted whether Morbora would do that and face certain death. The careless mention of the ant hill had really frightened him. No—the black was m earnest. But he was naked as a garden slug. He carried nothing with him. Where would he find the cure for dysentery out here with the sand, the spmifex and the ants? ' Morbora watched his face. “Can do,’ he persisted. “You speak along him.” He meant Reynolds, and Cole took his advice. He had to tap the Anzac on the shoulder to rouse him from the sort of stu- ‘por into which he had sunk. But his eyes brightened as he took in the meaning of Cole’s words. He got up and talked with Morbora while Cole went over to Petrie and squatted down by him. “Petrie, old chap, this black says he knows something that will stop your dysen- tery if we'll let him go free. Reynolds is talking with him. It may be all lies but— do you want to try it?” The answering voice was low; Petrie did not move as he talked. “Try—anything once. Don’t—want to go—west. Not afraid but—hate to get skinned out—after all as “All right. Well, Tom?” Reynolds had come up. 4 “i if I know what to think of it. I’ve heard something about it, in a way, but it seems crazy. The blacks often get dysentery from eating rotten meat and the odds and ends they pick up and gobble and they do cure themselves. But it’s ants—some special kind—I don’t quite savvy that part of it. He wants us to make a fire and boil ’em, like tea leaves. What d’ye think of it, Jim? I’ve heard of folks out in the bush making ant vinegar.”’ “IT know something about ants. Read quite a little about ’em. Got a book in hospital time I got the shrapnel shower. They’ve got formic acid in ’em and that would be an astringent—make your vinegar. 125 It might stop the fluxes. Or it might be the exudates.” ‘The whate”’ “Sort of fatty stuff that works out of ants through their belly plates. Other ants eat it. Queen ants have lots of it. They grow big and they’re full of this but- ter-fat. May be that. Or it might be the stuff they spray on their enemies and paralyze ’em. It sounds half-way reason- able, Tom, and we’ve got to do something.” They were out of earshot of Petrie, talk- ing low, standing beside Morbora. “Petrie’s game to try anything,” Cole went on, ‘‘and if he smks much lower, there won’t be any Petrie.” Reynolds nodded. Then he spoke to Morbora. ‘“Go get your ants. You try any tricks and I’ll settle you.” ‘“‘How about the fire? They may spot it from the cave.” “The dry grass won’t make much smoke if we don’t pile it. Got to chance that. It’s going to take all the rest of the water, though.” Cole shrugged his shoulders. “Tf we get too thirsty, a dose of the stuff may not do us any harm. Save out a little for the pup, though. Might give Morbora a drink.”’ “T’ll be —— if Ido. Let him chew grass roots.” They stood guard over Morbora as the black began to hunt under the decaying vegetation and grass mould. He squatted, digging with his hands as rapidly as Perro could have done with his legs and claws, heedless of the swarms of indignant and excited termites that came rushing wildly, lifting their antenne for sense of smell and touch. Black, brown, red and yellow ants the black ignored, finally locating a galley from which poured ants that were practi- cally colorless. Morbora looked up at Reynolds and Cole and grinned. “You catch paper?” he asked. Cole gave him an empty envelope which he swiftly filled with the white ants, scrap- ing them into it. When it was full he gave it over to be held while he delved more deeply into the broken stronghold. At last he triumphantly displayed what looked more like a white grub, over three inches long, than an ant. It was the queen, an egg-laying automaton, modified and dis- torted for motherhood. DOOK (C©