"I," he said in a deep, commanding voice, "the avenger of insects, am now ready to go forth and face my destiny."
Squishing with each step, he took the elevator to the lobby floor and, oblivious to the gawking and staring of common mortals, stepped out into the bustle of the crossroads of the world for his rendezvous with destiny.
OFFICER ANDY FUNKHAUSER had thought he had seen everything.
He was directing traffic when he happened to look at the corner of Seventh Avenue and East Forty-fifth Street.
There, standing calm as could be, was a man tricked up like a human yellow jacket, for Christ's sake.
The man crossed the street and came striding down as big as life and twice as stupid looking. Some pedestrians stared at him, while others just ignored him. This was New York. It took a lot to get a rise out of New Yorkers.
The man seemed not to be bothered by the attention. If anything, he walked with his shoulders squared and his stride more jaunty. He looked like the jackass to beat all jackasses, but he was the last to know it.
"Probably some kind of goofy Fox stunt," Funkhauser muttered, returning to his duties. Ever since that Rand guy died, people kept expecting killer bees to descend on Times Square.
It had only been a few days since the eyeless stiff had been carted off. And yesterday a beekeeper had come to lure away the swarm of bees that had congregated around the streetlight when it had all happened. Funkhauser had watched. It was amazing. The guy had put on protective gloves and net veil pith helmet and shinnied up the pole.
Once he'd gotten close, the bees just took to him like honey. They clung to his well-protected body like glued-on popcorn.
He'd come down, got into the back of his van that said Bee Busters on the side, and when he'd come out again, there hadn't been a bee in his bonnet. Or anywhere else on him, for that matter.
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."
"The hour is not yet five. Why do you say six?"
Looking over, Chiun saw Remo's arm leveled at a comical figure striding down Broadway. He was dressed like a black-and-yellow insect. His step as he walked was springy. The antennae on his shiny forehead bounced happily.
"There's our Bee-Master!" Remo shouted. "Come on."
Remo raced to the door to the roof. Sensing the Master of Sinanju was not behind him, he paused. "Shake a leg, Little Father."
Chiun shook his head in the negative. "No. That is not him."
"What do you mean, it's not him?"
"Look at his legs. He is dressed as a wasp."
"Yeah. So?"
"A yellow jacket is a wasp, not a bee."
"That makes him a not-bee, right?"
"No," Chiun said stubbornly. "A not-bee is a thing entirely different. Go without me. For you go on a fool's errand."
Remo hit the stairs, flashing to street level faster than an elevator could carry him. By the time he got out into the rushing river of New Yorkers, there was no sign of his quarry.
Remo looked up Broadway. Then down. Then he heard the high, anxious droning filtering down from the sky.