Panting, helpless as mummies, they glared up at the stony eyes of the ruler-termite. The team of workers moved, bearing their burden of almost bodiless, mushroom brain like well-oiled machines. Their forelegs went out. The two men were shoved along the floor ahead of the monarch--and were laid in one of the lines of paralyzed insects so patently held as the ruler's private food supply! * * * * * The great, stony eyes were next bent, as though in curiosity, on the spears that had done such damage to the termite with the conical head. In the true insect world there was no such phenomenon as those glittering steel bars; and it appeared that the over-developed brain of the monarch held questions concerning their nature. The team of termites wheeled, and walked over to the nearest spear, trailing the feeble, atrophied legs of their rider as they went. They squatted close to the floor, and the staring eyes examined the spears at close range. Then the owner of the eyes apparently sent out another command; for one of the guards at the door left its post and drew near, scissor-mandibles opened in obedience. The hard mandible's clashed over one of the steel bars. The jaws crunched shut, with a nerve-rasping grind. They made, naturally, no impression on the bar. The guard retired to its post at the doorway. The termite-ruler seemed to think this over, for a moment. Then at some telepathic order, its two bearers picked up the spear and carried it, and their physically helpless ruler, over to one of the living cisterns--one filled with a dark red liquid. One of the beasts of burden reached up and thrust an end of the spear into the hugely distended abdomen filled with the unknown red liquid. The spear was withdrawn, with about a foot of its blunt end reddened by the fluid. The termite laid it down; the staring, dull eyes watched it.... Slowly the end of the bar dulled with swift oxidation; slowly it turned brownish and flaked away, almost entirely consumed. The acid--if that was what the red stuff was--was awesomely powerful, at least with inorganic substances. The termite team turned away from the bar, as if it were now a matter of indifference to the bloated brain borne on their backs. It approached the men again. "I suppose," groaned Jim, "that our turn is next. The thing will probably have us dipped into the red stuff, to see if we're consumed, too." * * * * * But here His Majesty's curiosity was interrupted while he partook of nourishment. The clashing jaws of the two termite soldiers at the door stopped for a moment. Jim and Dennis struggled to turn their heads--all of them they could move--to see what the cessation of jaw-clashing might mean.