"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!"