Remo and Chiun were hovering beside his desk like expectant parents.
"Brace yourself," said Remo as Smith brought the slide into focus. "It's uglier than sin."
"I have named it Philogranus remi," sniffed Chiun, "in honor of its corn lusts, but its hideousness of countenance also played a role in my decision."
Remo glared at Chiun.
"A minor one," Chiun amended.
Smith brought the slide into focus. His rimless glasses lay on the desk. One eye was pressed to the microscope eyepiece.
He said nothing. There was no gasp of surprise, no outburst or expression of shock.
But when he looked up from the lens, his grayish face was drained bleached-bone white.
"The mind that created this hellish thing," he said thickly, "is that of a twisted genius who must be stopped. This infernal insect has been bred to be a combination flying shark and multilimbed buzz saw capable of ripping through flesh, grain and wood in an instant. There is no defense against it. All it has to do is enter the human ear and attack the brain. Death is almost instantaneous. No wonder the various medical examiners found nothing." Smith actually shuddered.
"What's the latest on the farm crisis?" asked Remo.
"The swarm-and it appears to be a swarm-has reached California. There is considerable crop damage. But again, it is fiendishly selective. In this case, citrus growers experimenting with a new pesticide have been hit."
"Don't all farmers use pesticides?" asked Remo.
"Yes, of course," said Smith, uncapping a bottle of Zantac 75 and swallowing two dry. "But these-these vermin seem to be targeting only the latest or most advanced insect-resistant crops."
"Why not get them all?"
Smith considered. "To make a statement. Perhaps this is just the first wave."
"If this guy is so big on bees, he's not going to kill every crop. Bees pollinate crops. Take crops out, and bees are out of work."
Smith considered. "Very good, Remo. That is an excellent observation."
"But it still doesn't get us anywhere," Remo muttered.
Smith was about to acknowledge that unfortunate state of affairs when his computer beeped a warning of an incoming message. He called it up, read it and his jaw sagged.
"What is it?" asked Remo.
"It is the latest psychological profile from FBI Behavioral Science."
"I thought they gave up on that stuff after they fingered Wurmlinger."
"This particular profiler is the Bureau's top man. He has never been wrong. Until now."
"He still flogging the Wurmlinger theory?"
"No, he has revised his profile. It is radically different." Smith's voice grew marginally excited. "We may have something here."
Remo looked over Smith's gray-flannel shoulder at the buried desktop screen and frowned the longer he read.
"Smitty, that's Bee-Master he's talking about."
"Yes, of course."
"No. That's the story of how Peter Pym became Bee-Master, right down to being stung by a swarm of radioactive bees."
"I don't see the word radioactive."
"He left that out," said Remo. "Look, he's even claiming the guy has the initials 'P.P.' How can he know that from the facts of the case?"
Smith frowned. "He is the best. These profilers can perform miracles of induction."
"He's pulling your leg. You're just too stiff to see-"
Smith frowned. Remo looked out the window, and the Master of Sinanju paced the room. Back and forth, back and forth, in incredible concentration.
"What are you doing?" asked Remo.
"I am attempting to conjure up a vision of the wretch."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yes. This thing you call profiling is known to Sinanju, only it is called Illuminating the Shadow."
"Illuminating the Shadow?"
"Yes, from time to time, Masters of Sinanju were called upon to divine the identities of shadowy persons who plotted against thrones or had struck in vain against those thrones only to escape into the shadows. I am attempting to divine the identity of this man by piercing the shadows that surround him."
"Feel free," said Remo. "But if it turns out to be Lamont Cranston, we're no better off than we were before."
But Smith looked interested.
"I envision," Chiun said at last, "a Byzantine prince."
"Byzantium no longer exists," Smith argued.
"Told you it was a crock," muttered Remo under his breath.
"A prince of Byzantium who conceals his face from view with a crown of great complexity," added Chiun.
"Sounds like the Man in the Iron Mask," said Remo.
Smith hushed him. Remo subsided.
"This prince rules over a kingdom of subjects who are not of his flesh."