Remo looked Wurmlinger dead in the eye. "I need to ask you a question. I need you to answer it truthfully," he said.
"Yes. Of course," Wurmlinger said earnestly.
"Are you the Bee-Master?"
"No. Of course not. Everyone knows that the Bizarre Bee-Master is really Peter Pym."
Remo looked at Chiun and Chiun at Remo.
"He is telling the truth. His heart rate is normal," said Remo.
"Yes," said Chiun, nodding sagely. "Now tell us where we can find this Peter Pym."
"You cannot."
"Why not?"
"Because he doesn't exist. He's purely a figment of the imaginations of the greatest comic-book geniuses of their time, Irv Ray and Steve Starko."
"What he means," Remo explained to Chiun, "is that Bee-Master is a myth. Kinda like Mickey Mouse."
"I have met Mickey in the fur. He lives."
"Well, Bee-Master doesn't hang around amusement parks. He's strictly a paper tiger."
Removing one of the comic books from its plastic, the Master of Sinanju examined the story within.
"The artwork is terrible."
"How can you say that about Steve Starko?" Wurmlinger said.
"Everyone looks Slavic," said Chiun, dropping the comic book with undisguised disdain.
Wurmlinger lunged, catching it before it hit the floor. "Are you mad? That issue is worth over four thousand dollars in mint condition."
"People pay that much?" Remo asked.
"More for key issues. The origin of Bee-Master is worth ten. In mint, of course."
Remo muttered, "Guess I shouldn't have let Sister Mary Margaret throw mine out."
"You should sue her. It's been done."
"Forget it. She's long gone. Listen, you're the etymologist."
"Entomologist. Not to mention apiculturist," Wurmlinger said proudly.
"There's some nut out there who can communicate with bees. Just like Bee-Master. How could someone do it in real life?"
Wurmlinger's face twitched in thought. "It cannot be done. Not the way Bee-Master did it. That part of the Bee-Master legend was sheer fantasy. And I cannot see anyone possessing that remarkable ability to turn his talents to anything other than the good of mankind and the insect kingdom."
"Take it from us, these death's-head bees are under the control of a guy calling himself Bee-Master," Remo said hotly.
"Has he made public announcements?"
"No." Remo hesitated. "We know this because two of the bees talked to us."
Wurmlinger's upper lip curled. "Bees cannot speak."
"The death's-head bee does and did."
"Yes," chimed in Chiun. "We heard it plainly."
Helwig Wurmlinger looked at them both. "A bee spoke to you?" he asked.
"Yes," said Chiun.
"In English?"
"Yeah," said Remo.
"And understood you in return?"
"That's right," Remo said.
"Bees," said Helwig Wurmlinger in his most authoritative voice, "cannot speak-or understand English if they could. They do not possess a vocal apparatus. Nor are they equipped by nature with language-processing centers in their brains. Queen bees do pipe, it is true. Unfertilized females quack in responses, yes. But it is not language. There is no grammar."
"Yeah, well, bumblebees aren't aggressive, either," Remo countered, "and look how many people are dead."
Helwig X. Wurmlinger had no answer to that.
Chapter 38
Harold W. Smith was waiting for word from Remo in the field.
Waiting was often the hardest part of the dour Smith's job. He had the ability, through his computer links and telephone eavesdropping techniques, of keeping track of everyone from the President of the United States down to his own wife, Maude. With no more instruction than a flurry of keystrokes, he could tell if a telephone was in use, a specific computer was on-line or, increasingly in these days of global positioning satellites, the location of almost any car in the U.S., given sufficient search time.
But Remo and Chiun continued to vex him. They refused to carry cell phones. Remo because he kept losing them, and Chiun because the old Korean had heard on TV an erroneous report that frequent cellphone use could lead to brain cancer. Smith doubted Chiun really believed this. It was just a useful excuse to avoid dealing with what he considered annoying technology.
While he waited, Smith sifted through strange reports coming off the wires.
In the Deep South, cotton fields had been decimated. As with the ravaged cornfields in Iowa, many fields were spared. Knowing what to look for, Smith got in touch with a USDA field agent and instructed him to look for problems with genetically engineered cotton.
A preliminary report confirmed his suspicions.
"The fields are a mess down here," the USDA field agent reported, after having dialed a Washington, D.C., number that was rerouted to Folcroft Sanitarium. "The young bolls are all over the ground, like madmen have been playing toss-ball with them. Losses will be in the millions."
"Get to the point," Smith instructed.
"They have a new crop of cotton growing down here. Supposed to be genetically engineered to resist weevils and cotton bollworms by emitting a natural pesticide. That's the crop that got it. The traditional crops are just fine. It's spooky. As if the pests that did this knew exactly what they wanted to hit."
"Verify and report back to me," Smith instructed.
Next, it was Texas wheat.
"Stubble fields down here look like they have been scythed," another unwitting USDA field agent reported.
"Are the fields pest-resistant?"
"That will take a lot of proving, but that's my guess."
"Verify this theory and report back."
Smith hung up and made a grim face.
The pattern was holding. From the killing of geneticist Doyal T. Rand to this. The mastermind was attempting to wage war on that segment of humanity that had waged war against the insects of the world. But why? What was his objective? Why were there no demands or statements of intent?
He checked his wrist Timex. Remo and Chiun had to have reached Wurmlinger's home. If, as the FBI had assured him, Wurmlinger was their man, the pair would make short work of him.
When a telephone rang, Smith knew from its muffled bell that it wasn't Remo. He had dreaded this call, but knew it was coming.
Extracting the fire-engine red telephone from his desk drawer, Smith set it on his glassy desktop and lifted the handset to his ear.
"I am aware of the situation, Mr. President."
"Our breadbasket is under attack," the President said hoarsely.
"Under selective attack," Smith replied calmly.
"How can you be so calm? This is a national emergency," the President sputtered.
Smith tightened the already too-tight knot of his tie. "The farms and crops have been targeted in such a way as to achieve a specific result."
"Result! What result?"
"That is becoming clearer by the moment, but I can tell you that it is tied in with the so-called death's head-bee attacks on both coasts."
"It is?" the President stammered.
"It is," Smith said with unflappable earnestness.
The Chief Executive lowered his voice to a dull hum. "Am I better off knowing about this, or not knowing about it? Politically speaking, that is."
"You are better off awaiting the results of my investigation, Mr. President."
"Those two. The one with the wrists and the old guy with the wrinkles. You have them on the case?"
"They are closing in on a suspect."
The presidential voice grew audibly relieved. "Then I'm going to sit tight. Do you think this will be over by the six-o'clock news?"
"I hope so. But the resolution may be one to which you are better off not being privy."
"It's that grisly, huh?"
"It is," Harold Smith said truthfully, "unbelievable."
"Okay. I'll just sit back and watch CNN and those
Fox people. They seem to be right on top of this thing."
Smith hung up, visibly relieved. He had not wished to take the President into his confidence. Not if it risked exposing to psychological scrutiny the head of the supersecret government agency whose existence, if it were revealed, would surely topple his administration.
There was no telling how the Commander in Chief would react to descriptions of talking killer bees. It was more than possible that he would conclude that Harold Smith had slipped into senility and give the one lawful order a U.S. President was chartered to give CURE.
Disband.
Smith had been concerned that the talking bee's discovery of Folcroft might precipitate such a drastic step, but in truth, it had been such an unbelievable thing that he had all but put it out of his mind. For to disband CURE would be to bury it forever, along with its obscure director.
Smith patted the poison pill he kept in the watch pocket of his gray vest against that dark day and returned to monitoring his system. He wondered how the USDA Honey Bee Research Center was doing with the death's-head-bee specimen.
Chapter 39
The wires were buzzing with report after report.
"Down south, the cotton's been cut down," an intern said breathlessly. "Isn't that great?"
"Fantastic!" Tammy agreed. "I've always wanted to tour the Deep South."
She was packing her overnight bag and calling down to the cameraman pool when the intern poked her green-streaked blond head into Tammy's New York office and relayed another bulletin.
"Texas wheat's come a cropper!"
"I love it!" Tammy screeched. "I can just see me now, doing a dramatic stand-up against waving fields of amber grain."
"Breakfast-cereal prices will go back through the roof again."
"Who cares? I'm a certified media star now. I can afford any size Wheaties they make."
And she could. Her bee report had electrified the nation.
Then her news director showed up and closed the door behind him, leaning his body against it and grinning from ear to ear.
"Guess what?" he asked.
"Don't tell me-California oranges are so much juicy pulp?"
"Not yet. But we think it's coming. We're retitling the 'Fox Death's-Head Superbee Report.'"
Tammy's eyes flared like blue brakelights. "You can't do that! It's the main hook."
"It's going to be called 'The Tamara Terrill Report.' Congratulations, kid. You've made the big time."
Tammy shot a fist into the air. "I have my own show!"
"That's right. And we're going live this afternoon, so get that saucy little butt of yours ready."
"But I'm going to Texas."
"Make it Alabama. Cotton is white. It'll show up better on the screen. You'll premiere in a field of smashed cotton."
"Just like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz!"
"I think that was poppies. Just get ready, Tam."
"I've been ready ever since I graduated from broadcast school," Tammy exulted.
After Smoot had left, she finished packing and stopped to close her office window against the April chill.
A fuzzy bee zipped in before she could complete the task. She caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of her eye. It seemed to look back with its skull emblem. Her blood ran cold as fifth-place ratings. By then, it was too late. The window had thunked into place.
Tammy stood rigid for a moment, thinking.
"I'm going to pretend I didn't see it," she said to herself as a cold trickle of perspiration ran down the gully of her back.
Swallowing hard, she went to her desk, grabbed her bag and steeled herself to make a dash for the door. If she had to, she'd brain the bee with the bag.
Tammy took three steps. And froze.
The killer bee floated between her and the shut door. It hung on its blurry wings, tiny legs suspended like the landing gear of a miniature helicopter.
Then a tiny voice said, "Tamara Terrill!"
"Who's there?" Tammy called to the door in a dry, nervous squeak.
"Tamara Terrill," the voice repeated. "You have been chosen."
"Me?"
"Chosen for an important destiny."
The sound seemed to be coming from the door. Tammy was virtually certain of that. But it wasn't muffled as it should be. It was just small, almost tinny.
"Whoever you are, I need a quick favor," Tammy whispered urgently.
"What is that?" the tiny tinny voice asked.
"First, I need you to open that door. Then I need you to be very, very brave and jump on something for me."
"What is that?"
"I've got a killer bee in here with me and I need you to sacrifice your life for me."
"There is no need for that," said the voice that had to be coming from the other side of the door, despite its unmuffled sound.
"Oh, there is. I have my own show now. I need to survive. It's for the good of the network. You do have insurance, don't you?"
"You are in no danger," the tinny voice assured her.
"I'm staring down a death's-head super-duper killer bee, buster. I most definitely am in danger."
"I am the bee."
"Huh?"
"You are speaking with one of the drone bees of the Bizarre Bee-Master."
Tammy blinked. "I am?" She gulped.
The bee floated closer.
"There is no one on the other side of the door. I am speaking to you," said the voice, which to the dazed Tammy started to sound as if it might be coming from the bee.
"This is a joke, right? Somebody in the writing staff is playing ventriloquist."
"This is no joke. Upon your shoulders rests the awesome responsibility for dissemination of the Bee-Master's demands to a trembling, unsuspecting world."
The voice sure sounded as if it was coming from the bee.
"I like how you talk," Tammy said. "But I don't understand a thing you're saying."
"I wish you to interview me."
"A bee?"
"Yes."
"You want me to interview a bumblebee on live TV?" Tammy repeated.
"It will be a television first," assured the bee.
"And if I don't, what? You're going to sting me or something?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you have failed your insect brethren."
"My insect what?"
"Obey the commands of the Bee-Master, and you will go down in history, Tamara Terrill," the bee insisted.
Tammy frowned. "Television history or history history?"
"Both," said the voice that was definitely coming from the bee. "For the Bizarre Bee-Master is about to reveal himself to the world."
"Now wait a minute. You've been assassinating people, right?"
"I have been exacting revenge," the bee countered.
"And covering it up by siccing your killer bees on assorted medical examiners."
"I was not yet ready to reveal myself to the world at large," the bee said flatly. "Now that my Revenge program has been implemented, that time has come."
"Gotcha. But now you do?"
"That is correct. The Bee-Master is weary of all pretense, all secrecy. It is time mankind knows the incredible truth."
"Okay, I got it. So answer one last question-why me?"
"Because my chosen publicity organ, the Sacramento Bee, has been ignoring my faxes."
Tammy's blue eyes narrowed. "Didn't one of their editors just die?"
"No," said the bee calmly. "He did not just die."
"Oh," said Tammy, understanding perfectly. She reached for her desk telephone. "Well, I guess you and me are about to share the most famous two-shot in broadcast history."
The bee showed that it was more than just a talking bee when it jumped on the switch hook, cutting off the line.
"No tricks," it warned.
"Honey, I wouldn't double-cross you for Ricki Lake's ratings."
"Don't call me honey," buzzed the bee.
"Oh, right. It's sexist."
"Good point," said Tammy as the bee jumped off the switch hook so she could complete her call. "I'll try to remember that."
Chapter 40
"Okay," Remo was saying, "you're not the Bee-Master."
"I used to wish I was," Dr. Helwig X. Wurmlinger muttered wistfully.
"But someone is."
"Someone does seem to have bred genetically superpowered bees," Wurmlinger admitted.
"And something else," Chiun inserted. "A swarm of things that drone and are invisible to the eye."
"There are some species of bees that are quite small," Wurmlinger said, "but they are not invisible. I have never heard of an invisible insect."
Chiun began to pace the room. "If these creatures are truly invisible, how do we know that one does not lurk here in our midst, observing all?" he asked suspiciously.
"It's possible," Remo said worriedly.
"It is not possible," Wurmlinger snapped. "Bees cannot be invisible."
"Name one reason why," challenged Remo.
"No such bee has ever been discovered."
"If you weren't looking for invisible bees, you wouldn't find them."
Wurmlinger blinked. He had no ready answer to that.
"Perhaps they are not invisible, but exceedingly tiny," he said after some time. "Trigona minima, for example, is the size of a mosquito."
"It's a thought," Remo acknowledged.
"It is a good thought," said Chiun.
They went to the door, which had been gnawed to sawdust by the invisible swarm of insects.
Wurmlinger scooped up sawdust samples into a dustpan with a whisk. He brought this into his insect lab and started preparing glass slides of sawdust samples.
While he was doing that, Remo and Chiun examined the loose dust in the pan. They were very intent in this work. Their eyes didn't blink at all.
Wurmlinger noticed this and asked, "What are you doing?"
"Looking for tiny bugs," said Remo, not looking up.
"Insects so small would be microscopic-or nearly so."
"That's what we're looking for," Remo said, nodding absently.
"You would need Bee-Master's superacuity compound goggles to see such a thing," he said tartly.
"We work with what God gave us," Remo replied distantly.
Shrugging, Wurmlinger clipped the first prepared slide into his microscope. Several minutes of careful observation revealed only sawdust. The grains were marvelously fine, as if run through an infinitely refined disintegrating process.
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