Times Square had quieted down since then, if Times Square could ever be said to quiet down, and Officer Funkhauser went about his duties when he heard the high, shrill humming.
His eyes went to the light pole, thinking the swarm had returned. But there was no swarm. What there was was an earsplitting buzz that swelled and swelled, sounding as if it was all around him.
Then a man screamed.
Funkhauser tried to fix the sound. It seemed to be all around him. A zit-zit-zit, like tiny air pellets zipping by.
A black-and-yellow figure jumped into traffic, clutching his coppery green-eyed head and twisting as if stung by a million bees.
No bees were visible, Funkhauser saw. There was just the guy, and he was screaming to beat the band.
He ran across Broadway, reversed himself and pitched to his left. That didn't shake whatever was eating him. So he dropped to the ground and rolled up into a tight ball.
There, he curled up like a bug set on fire, as the life quickly went out of him.
Funkhauser was at his side by that time. The droning had fallen quiet. It seemed to pour up into the sky. It was only a distant, fading ziii now.
If it hadn't, there was no way Funkhauser was going to get near the dead guy.
There was no question the yellow jacket man was dead. Nobody screamed like that just from pain. This guy made as if to scream the lining out of his throat.
One look, and Funkhauser decided against mouth-to-mouth and CPR.
The guy's mouth hung open, and there was no tongue.
"Oh, Jesus, not again."
He got the weird helmet off, and it was no surprise that the eyes were hollow caverns. Funkhauser replaced the helmet. That spared the gathering crowd the horrible sight of the dead man's eyes. Or lack thereof.
Jumping to his feet, Funkhauser blew a shrill blast on his police whistle. Impatient traffic was inching closer to him like a line of hungry tigers.
"Can't turn your back for a minute in this crazy town," he growled.
Chapter 44
Harold Smith took the call from B. Eugene Roache of the USDA Honey Bee Breeding Center in Baton Rouge.
"I have the results you requested," he said breathlessly.
"Have you been running?" asked Smith.
"No, I've been working."
"Then why are you so out of breath?"
"Because," puffed Roache, "I have just gotten off the wildest roller coaster of my professional life."
"Explain," prompted Smith.
"First, I attempted to examine the detached wing. Inadvertently, I held it too close to a high-intensity desk lamp. The wing shriveled up from the heat."
"That was inexcusably careless."
"Not all of it was burned," Roache went on urgently. "I saved a corner of it. When I projected it onto the wall, I saw something that almost gave me a heart attack."
"Yes?"
"This bee has a death's-head on its thorax. It's almost perfect. You couldn't get a more perfect skull if an artist painted it."
"I understand that," said Smith, voice growing impatient.
"I should have suspected it from that evidence alone. But I had no idea. Who would have thought it."
"Thought what?" Smith snapped, wondering why the man hadn't gotten to the point.
Roache's voice sank to an awed whisper. "In the corner of the wing was a machine-perfect black T in a circle."
"A marking you recognize?"
"A marking a five-year-old would recognize. It's a trademark symbol!"
Smith's unimaginative brain caught on. "Trademark?"
"Yes, a trademark. I examined the whole bee, and its right wing also showed the same marking. This bee is trademarked!"
"Then there is no question that the death's-head bee was created by some genetic program," said Harold Smith. "Just as certain enzymes and bacteria can be trademarked for commercial use."
"That was my thinking, too. Until I dissected the bee."
Smith's ears registered the low, amazed tone of the entomologist's voice, and he felt the first tingle of anticipation.
Chapter 45
By the time Remo and Chiun reached the street, it was over.
They had stationed themselves atop the Disney Store overlooking Times Square, watching the surging crowds below. The sun was going down. Lights were coming on all around Times Square. They had been at their post a little more than two hours when Remo spotted the man with the yellow jacket legs and green-eyed helmet.
"I don't believe this," Remo exploded.
On the opposite corner of the roof, the Master of Sinanju was watching a different quadrant of the square. His tiny ears were protected by padded earmuffs to ward against the brain-attacking insects.
"What do you not believe?" Chiun said thinly.
Remo pointed to the street below.
"Bug-eyed man at six o'clock low."