"I'll need the blood analyses to be sure," Barry said. "But if these papers are right, all the deaths around here are the result of a fly."
"A lot of flies," Remo said. "We've got a whole cellar full of them."
"No," Barry said, shaking his head. "A special kind of fly. A fly that can change the source of evolution."
"Imagine that," Remo said.
'If these notes are correct, Morley made the biggest discovery since the discovery of DNA," Barry said.
"Is that anything like PDQ?" Remo asked.
"Don't be belligerent, Remo," Smith said. "Come on, Barry. We're going back to Folcroft. I'll get you lab equipment there."
"And us?" Remo asked.
"Go back to the IHAEO labs," Smith said. "Until we find out if Perriweather is behind all this and until we have him under control."
"No sweat," Remo said. "We'll have him under control."
"How's that?" Smith said.
"We'll just wrap him up in Blankey," Remo said.
Chapter 18
Waldron Perriweather III sat in the middle of the sofa in his suite at the Hotel Plaza in New York City. The jeweled box containing the desiccated body of Mother Fly rested on the arm of the brocaded sofa.
Perriweather had moved aside the coffee table to make room for a small upright video camera mounted on a tripod. He leaned forward to adjust the focus, turned the sound level to medium, then sat back down. With his right hand, out of camera view, he tripped a level that began the camera running. He spoke earnestly, staring directly into the lens.
"Americans. Note that I do not say 'My fellow Americans' because I am not one of your fellows, nor are you mine. Nor do I count myself as of any other nationality. My name is Waldron Perriweather the Third and I do not count myself among any people from whom murder is a daily way of life, as it is with you. For, each day, you seek to decimate the oldest and most self-sufficient type of life which has ever existed.
"You are insect-haters all, from the housewife who carelessly, without thought, murders a struggling life on her kitchen windowsill, to the wealthy executives of the pesticide companies who deal out death in the billions and trillions each day.
"I am accusing you on behalf of the Species Liberation Alliance, in defense of the countless small lives you snuff out hourly without thought, and worse, without remorse. I accuse you."
He held out a bony finger, pointing it directly at the camera.
"Take, as an example, the small housefly. Maligned throughout history, the fly ensures the renewal of the planet in a way far greater than man can even attempt. Can you, do you, eat garbage? No. You only create garbage. With your food, your disposal containers, even your very bodies after your own horrendously long tenure on earth, you make garbage. The fly lives but a moment of a human's lifespan and yet he does so much more than any human.
"You regard yourselves as the ultimate creation of nature, but you are wrong, grossly wrong.
"The fly is the supreme conqueror of earth. He has existed longer, his numbers are greater and his adaptability is a thousand times greater than your own."
He lowered his head, then peered up intently toward the camera.
"And that is what I had arranged to talk to you about today. The adaptability of the fly. A particular fly, never before seen on earth, named by me Musca perriweatheralis. The fly that will restore nature to its original balance. The fly that will become lord of the earth."
He spoke for another fifteen minutes, then packed up the tape he had made. He placed it carefully in a box addressed to the Continental Broadcasting Company, the largest television network in America, went to the hotel lobby and dropped it into the mailbox.
Outside, the noise and clatter of New York City attacked his ears. People rushed by the hotel entrance, at least a hundred in two minutes.
There were so many human beings in the world: Far too many.
But that would end soon. Musca perriweatheralis would inherit the earth. And master it.
Back in his suite, he stroked the dead fly's back idly as he switched on the television set for the news.
"A bizarre report just came in from the wealthy North Shore in Massachusetts," an announcer said. "Police report that two bodies have been found brutally murdered in the home of millionaire Waldron Perriweather III."
Perriweather smiled idly.
"The two victims were identified as Gloria and Nathan Muswasser of Washington, D.C., and of SoHo district of New York. Police said the bodies were found in a cellar that was filthy and fly-infested and, as one officer said, 'like something out of the Dark Ages.' Police spokesmen said there is a possibility of a third murder as well. Mr. Perriweather, who is a well-known spokesman for animal-protection causes, could not be reached for comment."
Perriweather turned off the set with angry fire in his shallow blue eyes. The Muswassers' bodies. Three dead, not five.
"The Muswassers," he whispered in disbelief. Surely those two fools masquerading as scientists had not been able to kill Gloria and Nathan, not in their strengthened state. What had gone wrong?
Was it possible? Had those two killed them? Just who were this Dr. Remo and Dr. Chiun?
"Hello," came a sleepy voice at the other end of the phone line.
"Anselmo?"
"Yeah. Zat you, boss?"
"I'm at the Plaza Hotel in Room 1505. Come over here immediately and come right up. Don't ask for me because I'm registered under a different name."
"Right now?" Anselmo said.
"Right now."
"Ah, jeez, boss."
"Right now. And bring Myron with you."
When the two thugs arrived, Perriweather handed them a clear plastic container. In it were a few grains of sugar and a fly with red wings.
"I want you to take this to the IHAEO labs," Perriweather said. "Get in a room with two scientists named Remo and Chiun, then release the fly."
"That's it?" Anselmo said with some bewilderment. "You want we should deliver a fly?"
"That is correct."
"Like should we bash in their heads or something too?" Myron said. "I mean, we want you should get your money's worth."
"That won't be necessary. Just deliver the fly."