"Where's the comic-book thing being held?" Remo pressed.
"Ballroom."
"Thanks," said Remo, pocketing his FBI ID.
Taking Chiun aside, he said, "That's gotta be our guy. He's operating under Bee-Master's alias. Looks like he's headed to the comic-book show, no doubt to capture first prize in the costume contest now that Death Yellowjacket is out of the picture."
"We will vanquish him and avenge the stalwart wasp," vowed Chiun.
"First, let's check out his room."
They grabbed an elevator.
THE DOOR to room 33-4. opened easily after Remo stunned the electronic lock with the heel of his hand.
Inside, they found stacks of sealed comic books, with the price tags still on the Mylar envelopes. Remo whistled at some of the prices.
Under the bed, Remo found a carrying case with an ID tag in the name of Peter Pym, along with an address in Johnstown, Pennsylvania.
"This guy takes his Bee-Master pretty seriously," said Remo. Setting the box on the bed, he forced it open. Inside was a purple plush shelf like a jeweler's display case except that in each depression sat a fat death's-head bumblebee instead of a precious stone.
Remo blinked. In that blink, his hands became pale blurs. When they stopped moving, the bees were so much mangled mush scattered at his feet.
"Whew! That was close," he said.
"You were in no danger," Chiun said dismissively.
"Only because I stung them first."
Chiun shook his head "They slept the sleep of things that do not live-except at the will of their master."
And stooping, the Master of Sinanju plucked one of the mashed bees from the rug and raised it to the level of his pupil's eyes.
"Look more closely, blind one. And behold the true nature of the not-bee ...."
Chapter 46
"What did you discover when you dissected the bee?" Harold Smith asked.
"At first," said B. Eugene Roache, "I was interested in taking measurements of the thorax, wings and legs. It never occurred to me to enter the body cavities and explore."
"Go on," said Smith, his voice growing tense. This entomologist's nervous urgency was infectious.
"The body parts of course did not correspond to the Bravo bee. I ascertained that from a casual examination. There is no such species as an Africanized bumblebee. But I wanted to record the measurements for future reference. As I was doing that, I felt the detached wing between my fingers. It felt wrong to the touch."
"Wrong?"
"I've handled many bee wings in my career. I know how they feel against naked skin. These were too slick, too smooth. A bee's wing feels something like old cellophane, if you know that texture. This was entirely different. So I did an analysis of it."
"What did you find, Dr. Roache?"
"I found," Roache said in a disturbed voice, "that the bee's wing was composed of Mylar."
"Mylar!"
"Yes. A man-made substance. At that point I attacked the bee's interior structure. What I found gives me the shivers. This bee is not a bee. It's man-made."
"Man-made!"
"Yes. Isn't that fantastic? Someone has engineered a replica bee. That means he's discovered the secret of how bees fly. We've been trying to crack that one for decades! Isn't that incredible?"
"Dr. Roache," Harold Smith said tightly. "Whoever created that bee has devised one of the most deadly killing tools ever unleashed on this nation. Against that threat, the secret of bee aerodynamics is unimportant."
"There's more. Its stinger is a tiny hypodermic needle. The entire abdomen is a reservoir for Africanized bee neurotoxin. It's not an Africanized killer bee, but it carried the same toxin. Isn't that ingenious?"
"Insidious," Smith said.
"And I'm not sure about this part, but the head seems to contain a scanning mechanism. I would have to examine it under an electron microscope, but I have the feeling there's a miniature television camera in there."
"In other words," said Smith, "the bee is a combination of flying spy and assassin in a single package?"
"This bee can do anything an ordinary bee can do except pollinate flowers. And I wouldn't doubt for a minute it could perform that function, as well."
"Dr. Roache, what you have told me must remain classified until you have been cleared to release it to the public."
"I assume I will be allowed to author a paper on my discovery," Roache said huffily.
"You will. Assuming you find a safe and secure place to hide. Several people have already died so that the secret you have uncovered does not leak out to the world."
"Who would want to kill me?" Roache asked indignantly.
"The genius who devised that insidious little creature."
"It's a machine, actually. Not a creature."
"It has killed and will kill again," Smith warned.
"Oh," said Dr. B. Eugene Roache. "I think I'd better be going now."
"You do that," said Harold Smith. No sooner had he hung up than the phone rang again. He brought it back to his face.
"Yes, Remo?"
"We hit the jackpot. Our man's here. He's in town attending a comic-book convention."
"Ridiculous!" snapped Smith.