"I stand corrected. Now correct him," said Remo, pointing to Chiun.
But Wurmlinger had already focused the entirety of his attention on the site on Tammy's skull where a reddish bump was rising, angry and dull. It was at the exact top, along the depressed sagital crest.
"Ah."
"Is the stinger still in there?" Tammy moaned.
"No, there is no stinger."
"Is that good or bad?"
"You are in no danger," Wurmlinger said.
"How can you be sure?"
"Because you are breathing normally, and the wound did not penetrate your skull."
"Why not?"
"Because it is exceedingly thick."
Tammy, her eyes rolled up as if she could somehow peer over the top of her own head, made a notch between her pale brows and asked, "Is that good or bad?"
"It's not usually considered a compliment to be thick of head, but in your case, it has saved your life."
"What about the poison?"
"I see no sign of venom or infection."
"Suck it anyway."
"No," said Wurmlinger, stepping back in disgust. Tammy's eyes flew to Remo. "Suck me."
"Bite me," said Remo.
Tammy's blue eyes flared. "Hey, that wasn't nice!"
"It's called tit for tat," returned Remo, who then resumed his argument. "That bee was just a bee, only more stubborn than most bees. You know about being stubborn, Chiun. Not to mention mule-headed."
Chiun's almond eyes squeezed down to knife slits. "You are the stubborn one."
Remo addressed Dr. Wurmlinger. "You're the bee expert. Are they naturally suicidal or not?"
Rudely, Wurmlinger walked between them as if they weren't there and got down on one knee next to the minicam. A faint curl of fading smoke was still wafting upward from the broken bulb. Wurmlinger found the Off switch and doused the light.
"This is most peculiar," he said after a moment.
"What is?" asked Remo.
"I see no remains."
"Of what-the bee?"
"Yes. There are no bee remains."
"He got zapped," Remo contended.
"There should be some matter remaining."
They all gathered around the minicam, which was still emitting a wisp of what looked like cigarette smoke.
Tammy grabbed her nose. "Smells like burning garbage."
"Smells like fried bug to me," grunted Remo.
"A bee is not a bug," Wurmlinger said, grimacing as if suffering a personal insult.
"It is a not-bee," said Chiun. "Why will no one accept my words?"
"I am not familiar with that species," Wurmlinger muttered. He was on his knees now and sniffed around the lamp with his eyelashes held before his sharp nose.
Wurmlinger poked and prodded and attempted to scrape some smoky residue from the flash reflector, but all he got was thin black soot.
Frowning like a twitchy bug himself, he climbed to his long, spindly feet.
"There is nothing left," he said in a small, disappointed voice.
"It was a very thorough suicide," said Chiun.
"The bee did not immolate itself," Wurmlinger explained, snapping out of his mental fog. "It merely sought a light source it mistook for the sun. You see, bees navigate through sighting the sun. Any bright light in an indoor setting will confuse them. He sought escape. The light drew him. And, sadly, he perished."
"Better luck next bee," said Remo, who then drew the Master of Sinanju aside and said, "Cover me. I'm going to call Smitty."
"Do not tell him about the not-bee."
"Why not?"
"Because that is my discovery. I do not want you hogging all credit."
Remo looked at the Master of Sinanju dubiously. "Chiun, the not-bee theory is all yours."
"See that it is," said Chiun, who then turned his attention to the shambles that was the office.
As Remo slipped out the door, the Master of Sinanju was poking about the room with all the focused concentration of an Asian Sherlock Holmes, searching for clues while Tammy piped up with a question.
"How can bees have sex? Don't their stingers get in the way?"