Dinosaurs in the Attic (29 page)

"Insects aren't like mammals," Herman explains. "You can't open them up and look at their teeth, take them apart, and measure every bone and organ. Some insects are so small you can't even observe their behavior in the wild. If you see a particular structure on a mammal, you can find out what it is for by watching how the animal uses it in the wild. You can't do that with many insects. We often discover strange-looking structures on insects and we can't even
imagine
what they're for.

"We sometimes dissect insects under a microscope with scalpels we make from tiny pins. Sometime the pulse in your thumb will cause the scalpel to jump at every beat. You learn to dissect between heartbeats."

While mammalogists and most other Museum scientists study animals that are often well known and widely studied, there are simply so many insects that entomologists end up studying species about which nothing is known except their species names and a few spots where they have been found. "We often find ourselves looking at things no one has ever seen before," says Herman.

Yet there are advantages to studying insects. "You can," says Herman, "collect thousands of the same species or genus to study variation. I remember a collecting trip to Nebraska, when in a half-hour I attracted enough insects with a black light to fill to overflowing a thirteen-quart bucket. It's a great advantage in systematic studies to have the luxury of examining many specimens."

Because the majoriry of insect species remain unknown, some entomologists have discovered and named hundreds of new species by the middle of their careers. We asked Wygodzinsky how many new species he had discovered. He shrugged. "I couldn't even guess," he said. A very rough estimate might put the number at about five hundred, judging from a random sampling of the papers he has published over a long and productive career.

Herman, who is much younger, has discovered more than one hundred new species. "It's a big deal," he says, "when you discover your first new species. You always remember that one. But after a while the numbers get so high you completely lose count." He even says that finding unknown species in a collection under study can be an annoyance, since it means each one has to be described and named before it can be "officially" recognized. In this respect, entomologists contrast with some birders who keep "life lists" of all the bird species they have sighted. Most entomologists consider such lists unimportant, even a little ridiculous. Indeed, it is highly unfashionable in entomology to admit that you care or even know how many species you have discovered.

The naming of new species can be a problem, especially if you have twenty or thirty in a single paper. Strict rules governing nomenclature are set forth in a volume called the
International Code of Zoological Nomenclature.
Within the tortuous rules set forth therein, however, there is some room for personal expression. Often the entomologist will name the species after a friend, colleague, or spouse. (Entomologists like to joke about the man who named a parasitic worm after his mother-in-law.) Museum entomologist Jerome Rozen named a new species of bee
filiorum
(Latin for "children") because his children waited patiently in the sun while he dug up the nest. Other waggish entomologists choose humorous names—within bounds, of course. One fellow who discovered a wasp of the genus
Lalapa
named the species
lusa,
just for the hell of it. Really outrageous names, even if they conform to the Latin rules, have been thrown out by the committee on nomenclature that decides such matters.

Most entomologists end up with many species named after them by colleagues. Rozen had to consult a fat catalog of bee genera names when we asked how many species had been named after him. There were five
rozeni.
He said that he wasn't sure offhand whether any other genera had species named after him. (When we asked whether an entomologist would name a species after himself, we were told in a shocked voice that such a thing "just isn't done.")

Insects are highly specialized, even to the point of coevolving with plants, and thus are unusually sensitive to habitat destruction. Thousands of unknown species may be becoming extinct every year as forests are cut down and habitats are destroyed. People don't normally think of endangered
insects
(except butterflies), especially since the extinction of some insect species would be heartily welcomed by most. Nevertheless, the rapid and uncontrolled extinction of insect species could be a tragic loss. "Nature," says Wygodzinsky, "is finely balanced. Any unprovoked attack can throw everything off in ways we cannot predict. When forests are burned, you destroy species." Thus the food chains on which higher animals depend may be disrupted.

We asked Wygodzinsky why he devoted his life to studying insects, a question entomologists are often asked. "I suppose," he said, "it would be nice for me to say that we study insects for altruistic reasons—to save crops and prevent disease. But I think most entomologists would tell you that they study insects because of a love for pure knowledge. We
like
insects."

PERIPATETIC ROACHES (AND OTHER INSECTS)

Paradoxically, the study of insects, while seemingly obscure, is the systematic science that most often has direct consequences for the average person. While a new discovery about, say, gorillas may be fascinating, a new discovery relating to cockroaches could affect millions of people. Indeed, the Museum's Entomology Department receives thousands of queries and requests a year for information on insects—mostly on how to get rid of them. One such problem is worth recounting. Several years ago a Museum research associate was called upon to solve a tricky problem for the New York City Transit Authority. The problem was brought to the attention of the TA by dozens of letters, of which the one below is an example:

Dear Sir,

I'm hoping this is not another exercise in futility. Letters of complaint are so easy to ignore, so I rarely, if ever, write them. It seems only the danger of public exposure produces any effect.

Most of the time, despite momentary flashes of anger, one can shrug off the indifference, hostility, and even outrageous rudeness unleashed by bus operators on the unfortunate riders of the New York City bus system.

But roaches!!! And from the many sizes, second generations of them!! How dare you inflict this on those who support your system, pay your salaries, and put their trust in you. Roaches—I will not sit still for them. This horde of roaches was on bus number 8553, October 4, 1979, at 2:50 P.M.

This obviously bespeaks gross negligence as well as total indifference. Littered buses, soiled windows—bad enough. But vermin? I can't imagine the heyday the media would have with such a news item, and unless something is done, and fast, I shall do everything in my power to see that it is publicized.

A Disgusted Rider

Cockroaches, as it turns out, have been riding the city's buses for over fifty years. Generally they have kept a low profile and stayed out of trouble. But around 1979, a minor population explosion took place on the city's buses. The Transit Authority tried one ineffectual remedy after another without any success, until finally, in desperation, someone from the TA called the Museum.

Joseph DeVito, director of safety at the TA at the time, explained the problem: "A few years ago, the TA embarked on a program of bus washing. But believe it or not, the more we washed the buses, the more complaints we got about the roaches." In response, the TA stepped up its insect bomb and fumigation program; but the itinerant roaches, like roaches everywhere, held fast to their domain, and bus drivers complained of the fumes. Other remedies were attempted. One ingenious engineer even rigged up a grid of live wires at a roach hangout on a bus, but after several roach electrocutions the bugs learned to avoid the trap.

It was at this point that a TA executive suggested that an entomologist might be able to help. "We hoped," explained DeVito, "that by studying roach behavior, perhaps there would be a way—something like the Pied Piper of Hamelin—to get the insects to march right off."

Dr. Betty Faber, a research associate in the Entomology Department, offered her expertise free of charge. The TA gave her a transit pass and she began riding the buses and visiting the terminals, jotting down the behavior of the stowaway roaches in her field notebook.

Faber is experienced in roach-watching. For her research she keeps a colony of wild roaches in the greenhouse on the roof of the Museum, where they share quarters with electric eels, black-jawed fish, and various plants. Faber provides her roaches with protection from insecticides' (with large warning signs posted around the greenhouse), but the roaches have to shift for themselves when it comes to food and water. Faber herself traps most of the wild roaches, and affixes numbered strips of tape to their backs so she can tell one from another. At night, Faber observes her wards using a sophisticated infrared scope similar to the kind the army uses for seeing in the dark. She has also set up closed-circuit TV cameras so that she can watch the roaches from her office.

The cockroach, Faber explained, is one of the earth's most venerable animals. A cockroachlike insect was one of the first animals to colonize the land hundreds of millions of years ago, and its ancestors have thrived ever since. Its survivability is due, in part, to the fact that it has been able to adjust to changing environments. For example, fossil roaches have been found within the same strata with dinosaur bones, indicating that they probably ate dinosaur flesh. They seem equipped to survive as well in spotless Park Avenue kitchens as in steaming Cretaceous swamps. Hungry roaches have even been known to eat the inner organs of television sets and refrigerators.

The roach's adaptation to city life is nothing short of remarkable. Despite vigorous efforts to eliminate them,. they can still be found at some of the best addresses and some of the finest restaurants in New York. (Faber told us about one exclusive New York restaurant that discreetly contacted her about a desperate roach problem.)

Faber explained that the bus-riding bug is usually the German cockroach. Long a victim of wanderlust, this peripatetic creature immigrated to New York City from Asia (not Germany) at least a century ago, and has since established itself as the dominant species. (The larger American roach, sometimes erroneously called a waterbug, is still very much around, however.) Like most cockroaches, the German roach is strongly attracted to water. After looking into the TA's problem, Faber suggested that the bus-washing program, which started before the infestation, might actually have exacerbated it by making the buses a wetter and more appealing environment for roaches. People eating on buses provide roaches with food, and Faber noted that eating on buses has gradually increased over the years. The third ingredient for cockroach comfort—warmth—is provided by the engine and heating system.

But the real question Faber faced was how roaches got on the buses in the first place. "A roach," said Faber, "could conceivably climb on a bus while it is sitting in the terminal. But the terminals are actually kept very clean, and most are unheated. Anyway, it would be like climbing Mount Everest for a roach to get on a bus."

After some thought, she came to a definite conclusion: "Roaches get on the bus riding the passengers, and then get off the passengers once on the bus. These German roaches will hang on for dear life when disturbed or upset, and a perfectly clean person could be carrying a roach around in his clothing this way."

Unfortunately, Faber had to tell the TA that there was nothing it could do to eliminate roaches. She recommended simply that the buses be kept as dry as possible, and free of rubbish, especially in the rear seat areas, where the roaches were most noticeable. This approach may prevent roaches from staying too long on the bus, but it won't prevent them from getting on with riders. That problem, Faber felt, was insoluble. "After a point," said Faber, "there isn't much you can do about roaches except to learn to live with them. Roaches are a lesson in humility for all of us humans."

Roaches are not the only live insects in the Museum, however. One of the most celebrated "pet" collections belongs to Alice Gray, Senior Scientific Assistant Emeritus at the Museum. Gray and her menagerie live in a sunny tower office on the Museum's third floor, commanding spectacular views east across the park and south down Central Park West.

Miss Gray is a kindly lady in her seventies, a little hard of hearing, and a veritable storehouse of information about insects. Anyone who calls the Museum with questions about insects is referred to Miss Gray. Visitors with scurrying things in shoeboxes and jars are told to go to Miss Gray. She and her menagerie have appeared on such TV programs as "To Tell the Truth," "What's My Line?" and "The Mike Douglas Show."

Scattered about Gray's office, which she shares with the Origami Society of America, are mayonnaise jars, glass cages, and plastic boxes crawling and rustling with exotic creatures. One of her favorites is a colony of three-inch-long Madagascar hissing cockroaches, surely one of the most horrific insects in existence. When disturbed, the Madagascar cockroach emits a loud, evil hiss by drawing air through spiracles in its chitinous shell. (Gray explains that the spiracles are also used in molting; the insect simply sucks air into them until the pressure bursts the skin along its back.) Cockroach enthusiasts, of which there are many on the Museum's staff, are delighted to find numerous rare species in Gray's collection, including bright green Cuban roaches, lobster roaches, and species from Central America, as well as the old standbys—the American and German cockroach.

The grande dame of Gray's collection, though, isn't an insect at all, but a large tarantula named Blondie. Gray raised Blondie from infancy in the Museum, and the giant spider—the size of a small salad plate—is tame enough to be picked up and handled. Gray has other tarantulas, but most are too "frisky" to tolerate handling, she explained.