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Updated: June 12, 2025
Simultaneously, a second of the syringe-headed termites moved to renew the bonds that were being broken. But the move had come a shade too late. Jim kicked his legs free with a last wild jerk, and staggered to his feet. His arms were still held, in a measure, in spite of his utmost efforts to free them of the clinging brown stuff.
Obeying another wordless order, one of the ghastly, syringe-headed monsters had stepped out of line with the start of the short struggle. This one bounded on Jim just as he leaned over for his weapon. Denny shouted a warning, started to run to his friend's aid. The dying termite, with a last burst of incredible vitality, caught his leg and held him. In an instant it was done.
The termite with the distorted head had drenched Jim with a brown, thick liquid that covered him from shoulder to feet and Jim was writhing helplessly on the floor. Denny burst loose at last from the feebly clutching foreleg. He straightened, poised his spear, and with a strength born of near madness shot it at the syringe-headed thing's chest.
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