People who believe the Scandinavian climate is chiefly arctic would change their minds if they landed in the south Swedish inland a hot day in July. Temperatures, easily matching the heat of Mediterranean seaside resorts are not unusual. The deep forest glades where no wind stirs are even warmer. Sensible people don't think of setting out for those spots those days, not least because of the myriad of mosquitoes and flies.

Except for his students, most people considered biology teacher John Johanson fairly sensible. His eccentric disposition and devotion for disgusting little creeps had brought upon him a reputation, but if left alone with the insects he was usually harmless. Besides, he didn't take much notice of unsignificant creatures like human beings.

To reach the little bog where he meant to study a rare specimen of dragonfly, he had walked three hours on hilly footpaths and waded across miles of muddy marshland. By all means, tractor roads led to the spot from other directions, but Johanson was not in possession of motor transport and he enjoyed the trekking.

Within ten minutes after arrival, he observed through his binoculars a female ready to reproduce at the far end of the bog. This was luck beyond expectation. He decided to secure a sample of the ova. The spot might be difficult to approach but his boots reached his knees.

Sitting on a sloping rockside with the pad in his lap, he made industrious use of his pen. The essay to come, sure to be published in the biologists' periodical, would make his name known among zoologists throughout the nation, perhaps the world. He was positive that this dragonfly hadn't been observed before.

Regardless of weather conditions, he was seldom seen without his spotted gray blazer - probably inherited from his grandfather - but the heat of this day forced the sacrifice upon him. He pulled a small packet of sandwiches from the pocket and folded the article over a fallen off pine tree branch that stretched from under the water surface and bent in a comfortable angle to his side. The weight made the stick move and a huge bubble found its way to the oily surface. Even John Johanson concealed a mischievious boy inside him and he couldn't resist to making the stick move again. Another bubble emerged. His turned inward giggle reddened his face as he pressed his lips to choke it. Laughing was no habit of his and laughing when alone was an offense to his dignity. A horrifying imagination of one of his most disgusting students, finding him laughing alone in a secluded glade moderated his hilarity. He corrected his air and cleared his throat as if preparing a rebuke.

He unfolded the sandwhich paper and chose between the two items, one cheese and one ham. As he opened his mouth for the first bite yet another bubble emerged, larger than the the other two and followed by a sickening stench. The noise and the smell made him lose his appetite. His eyes flashed another teacher's reprimand as to inform the bog it was overdoing the joke.

His air and mood changed as his attention was drawn to an object slowly rising to the surface, an object that hadn't been there a minute ago. The particular seemed to be alive. He took off his spectacles, polished them against his skirt and put them back.

The sandwhich fell out of his hand as he realized what he was staring at. The thing wasn't alive, but certainly had once been alive. The sight of the sorrowful remains of a human hand sticking out of a sleeve with a gleaming cufflink squeezed the pit of his stomach. He forgot all about dragonflies and sandwhiches.