Produced by Frank van Drogen, Greg Weeks, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. THE ROTIFERS BY Robert Abernathy _Beneath the stagnant water shadowed by water lilies Harry found the fascinating world of the rotifers—but it was their world, and they resented intrusion._ _Illustrated by Virgil Finlay_ Henry Chatham knelt by the brink of his garden pond, a glass fish bowl cupped in his thin, nervous hands. Carefully he dipped the bowl into the green-scummed water and, moving it gently, let trailing streamers of submerged water weeds drift into it. Then he picked up the old scissors he had laid on the bank, and clipped the stems of the floating plants, getting as much of them as he could in the container. When he righted the bowl and got stiffly to his feet, it contained, he thought hopefully, a fair cross-section of fresh-water plankton. He was pleased with himself for remembering that term from the book he had studied assiduously for the last few nights in order to be able to cope with Harry’s inevitable questions. There was even a shiny black water beetle doing insane circles on the surface of the water in the fish bowl. At sight of the insect, the eyes of the twelve-year-old boy, who had been standing by in silent expectation, widened with interest. "What’s that thing, Dad?" he asked excitedly. "What’s that crazy bug?" "I don’t know its scientific name, I’m afraid," said Henry Chatham. "But when I was a boy we used to call them whirligig beetles." "He doesn’t seem to think he has enough room in the bowl," said Harry thoughtfully. "Maybe we better put him back in the pond, Dad." "I thought you might want to look at him through the microscope," the father said in some surprise. "I think we ought to put him back," insisted Harry. Mr. Chatham held the dripping bowl obligingly. Harry’s hand, a thin boy’s hand with narrow sensitive fingers, hovered over the water, and when the beetle paused for a moment in its gyrations, made a dive for it. But the whirligig beetle saw the hand coming, and, quicker than a wink, plunged under the water and scooted rapidly to the very bottom of the bowl. Harry’s young face was rueful; he wiped his wet hand on his trousers. "I guess he wants to stay," he supposed. The two went up the garden path together and into the house, Mr. Chatham bearing the fish bowl before him like a votive offering. Harry’s mother met them at the door, brandishing an old towel. "Here," she said firmly, "you wipe that thing off before you bring it in the house. And don’t drip any of that dirty pond water on my good carpet."