Tammy picked a microphone off the desk and pointed it at the bee. "Mr. Bee, speak your piece. America is listening."
The bee started to speak.
Later, there were those who denied the bee ever spoke. Or who swore that Tammy Terrill was practicing a cheap form of ventriloquism.
But at that moment, all over America, millions of viewers heard a tinny amplified voice that said clearly, "I bring mankind greetings from the Bizarre Bee-Master, King of all Insects."
"Is that anything like the King of all Media?" Tammy quipped.
The bee didn't reply. For a moment, Tammy thought she had offended the bee. So she asked, "Tell us about the Bee-Master."
The bumblebee just sat there.
Tammy said, "Go ahead. We're listening. We're live."
The bee just sat there.
Face frowning, Tammy nudged it with the mike.
The bee fell over. Its tiny legs stuck up stiff and lifeless in the air.
And seeing her great moment dispersing like pixels in a blown TV tube, Tammy attempted another broadcast first. She tried to give the bee mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
All she succeeded in accomplishing was to accidentally swallow her guest interviewee.
In the control booth, there was a collective groan.
Coughing violently, Tammy gasped, "We-we seem to be having ...technical...difficulties."
The set went black. So did the career of Tammy Terrill, AKA Tamara.
Chapter 48
A week later, Remo was waiting for the doorbell to ring when the telephone rang instead.
"I have determined the identity of the Bee-Master," said the lemony voice of Harold W. Smith.
"Okay. But hurry up. I have a hot date."
"His real name was Palmer Pym," said Smith.
"Wait a minute. That's the real Bee-Master's real name. I mean, the fictitious one's real name."
"Peter Pym is a nanoscientist attached to UCLA. His diaries have been found. Evidently, as a young boy he discovered a Bee-Master comic book and, struck by the coincidence of their shared name, he resolved to become Bee-Master in real life when he grew up. He studied biology and biochemistry, but his plans were frustrated when he discovered it was impossible to commune with insects through electronic means. And further, that he was highly allergic to bee stings. So Pym pursued other avenues. In time, he was attracted to the field of nanotechnology, and there realized that his dream was not impossible after all. He needn't communicate with actual bees if he could instead create obedient artificial bees of his own."
"That is the nuttiest thing I ever heard," Remo exploded, looking at a wall clock. Jean was due at any moment.
"Nevertheless, it is true. Pym set out on a campaign to wage war on those who had waged war on the insect world, starting with Doyal T. Rand. His nanomites, as he called them, were created to demonstrate his power. But he was unable to make his demands public because his chosen vehicle refused to cooperate."
"Who was that?" asked Remo, not really caring and instead wondering what was keeping his date.
"The publisher of the Sacramento Bee."
"Well, that makes sense in a moronic kind of way," said Remo.
"Instead, he chose Tammy Terrill."
"Yeah. And we know what happened there."
"Your timing was fortunate. She has been so professionally embarrassed she is unlikely to resurface again. More importantly, the Bee-Master menace is over. There has been not a single attack since you vanquished Pym. All his equipment and insects we have found have been destroyed. I have so informed the President."
"Well, all's well that ends," grunted Remo, looking out the window for the zillionth time.
He saw a long white stretch limousine pull up. "And here's my date. Catch you later, Smitty."
Hanging up, Remo started down the stairs as the doorbell chimed. He heard the door open and Jean's smoky voice clash briefly with Grandmother Mulberry's witch's croak.
A moment later, the old bat herself came rushing up, her yellowed prune face crimson as an apple.
"How's it going, Granny?" he asked jauntily.
She glared at him and said, "Hope you and foul-mouth white girl marry soon. You deserve each other. Good riddance."
"Have a nice evening yourself," returned Remo.
Jean was waiting at the door, dressed in a shimmering blue nightgown.
She took one look at Remo's casual attire and asked, "You're not going out looking like that, are you?"
Remo stopped in his tracks. "Oops."
Jean's frown turned into a grin as she reached behind her and hoisted into view a neatly pressed suit on a hanger.
"I cashed in my lottery ticket. So tonight we ride in style and you dress so I'm not embarrassed to be seen in public with you. Not that I would be anyway."
Remo took the suit. "What'd you tell Grandma Mulberry?" he asked. "She looked like someone spanked her good."
"She tried to give me a hard time, so I used the line you taught me to."
"Dwe juhla?"
"Yep."
"That got her, huh?"
Jean smiled mischievously.
"Well, I added 'you old bone bag,' too."
Remo grinned. "Okay, I just gotta let Chiun know not to wait up."
But they couldn't find Chiun anywhere. He wasn't in the bell-tower meditation room. Nor in the kitchen. The fish cellar was empty, too.
Finally, Remo knocked on the door of Chiun's private room. It fell open.
Inside, there was no sign of the Master of Sinanju.
But on a low taboret, Remo found a book. Recognizing the cover, he picked it up.
The title was The Joy of Astral Sex.
"Hey, this is the same book I caught Grandma Mulberry with!" Remo blurted.
"So? They're reading the same book. What's wrong with sharing?"
"Except I jammed her copy down the garbage disposal."
Remo's face turned shock white. "You don't suppose... Not Chiun. Not with her..."
"Hey," said Jean, beckoning Remo to follow her out the door, "he's old. He's not dead. Neither are you. And the night is young. Come on. You can change clothes in the car. I'll try not to peek."
Shrugging, Remo dropped the book and followed her out, muttering, "Now I'll never get rid of that old fishwife ...."