Landing on its feet, it spun in a frantic circle as if seeking escape. The skirted figure of the old Korean got between it and the door. Remo stepped up behind it.
"We got you now, you little bastard," Remo growled.
"Don't hurt it," Wurmlinger urged.
"It tried to kill us," Chiun hissed. "It must die."
As if the bee understood every word, it suddenly took off. Remo dropped one Italian loafer in its path. It scooted around it. Remo repositioned his foot, blocking it again.
Each time, the bee moved around it.
Helwig Wurmlinger watched in slack-jawed fascination. Bees, he knew, moved in random patterns. They didn't move toward goals, except toward their hives or food sources.
This bee appeared to be moving toward the dropped minicam, whose light was still blazing through its broken protective lens.
"Peculiar," he said.
Chiun indicated the bee's fuzzy black-and-yellow thorax with a long fingernail.
"Behold, the face of death," he intoned.
Wurmlinger bent at the waist and blinked at the yellow markings on the black thorax. They formed a pattern he had seen before. On moths. It was a tiny but very symmetrical skull, or death's-head.
"I have never seen a death's-head marking on a bee before," he breathed.
"Take a good look," Remo growled. "You won't see it again."
Helwig Wurmlinger started to protest. Before the first word could take shape, the bee gave a last convulsive effort and leaped over Remo's blocking shoe.
And jumped into the hot bulb.
With a sputtery sizzle, it died.
The smell that arose with the tiny grayish black mushroom cloudlette stank amazingly for such a small thing.
Wurlinger pinched his long nose shut with his spidery fingers and said, "It committed suicide."
"Bull," said Remo.
But the cold voice of the Master of Sinanju cut the room with a brief intonation. "It is true. The bee killed itself."
Remo made his voice scoffing. "Why the hell would a bee up and kill itself?"
"Because it is not a bee," returned the Master of Sinanju cryptically.
Chapter 13
"Bees," Remo Williams was insisting, "do not commit suicide."
"That one did," Chiun retorted.
Tammy Terrill decided to put in her two cents. She hadn't resumed her standing-on-her-head position after she failed to gain Dr. Wurmlinger's assistance.
"Hey, they commit suicide every time they sting someone, don't they?"
"It's not the same," Remo said. "And you stay out of this."
"I will not," she said. Then, apparently remembering that she had been stung, suddenly turned the color of yesterday's oatmeal.
"Oh, my God. Am I still dying?"
"Die in seemly quiet if you are," Chiun hissed.
"Let me examine you," Dr. Wurmlinger said.
"Will you suck the poison out?" Tammy asked anxiously.
"No," Dr. Wurmlinger answered.
Tammy sat down, and Wurmlinger began massaging her blond head with his spindly fingers.
"What are you doing?" she challenged.
"Feeling for the bump."
She winced. Her scalp winced, too. "It hurts."
"The sting of a bee is painful, but of short duration," Wurmlinger told her.
As he quested about among Tammy's roots, Remo and Chiun continued their argument.
"No bee in its right mind would commit suicide," Remo was saying. "They're not intelligent. They don't think like we do. That's why they sting. They don't know they're killing themselves by stinging people."
"That not-bee deliberately ended its life," Chiun insisted.
"Why would he do a thing like that?"
"To avoid capture and interrogation at our hands."
"Not a chance in hell, Chiun."
"I am afraid I must agree with you," Wurmlinger commented, fingering Tammy's roots aside to expose a reddish swelling.
"Which one of us?" asked Remo.
"Both."
"See?" Remo said to Chiun. "He's an expert. He knows about bees."
Chiun stiffened his spine. "He knows about bees, not about not-bees. Therefore, he does not know what he is talking about."
"He's an etymologist," Remo argued.
"Entomologist," corrected Wurmlinger.
"What's the difference?"
"Entomology is the study of insects. An etymologist studies the roots of words."
"I stand corrected. Now correct him," said Remo, pointing to Chiun.
But Wurmlinger had already focused the entirety of his attention on the site on Tammy's skull where a reddish bump was rising, angry and dull. It was at the exact top, along the depressed sagital crest.
"Ah."
"Is the stinger still in there?" Tammy moaned.
"No, there is no stinger."
"Is that good or bad?"
"You are in no danger," Wurmlinger said.
"How can you be sure?"
"Because you are breathing normally, and the wound did not penetrate your skull."
"Why not?"
"Because it is exceedingly thick."
Tammy, her eyes rolled up as if she could somehow peer over the top of her own head, made a notch between her pale brows and asked, "Is that good or bad?"
"It's not usually considered a compliment to be thick of head, but in your case, it has saved your life."
"What about the poison?"
"I see no sign of venom or infection."
"Suck it anyway."
"No," said Wurmlinger, stepping back in disgust. Tammy's eyes flew to Remo. "Suck me."
"Bite me," said Remo.
Tammy's blue eyes flared. "Hey, that wasn't nice!"
"It's called tit for tat," returned Remo, who then resumed his argument. "That bee was just a bee, only more stubborn than most bees. You know about being stubborn, Chiun. Not to mention mule-headed."
Chiun's almond eyes squeezed down to knife slits. "You are the stubborn one."
Remo addressed Dr. Wurmlinger. "You're the bee expert. Are they naturally suicidal or not?"
Rudely, Wurmlinger walked between them as if they weren't there and got down on one knee next to the minicam. A faint curl of fading smoke was still wafting upward from the broken bulb. Wurmlinger found the Off switch and doused the light.
"This is most peculiar," he said after a moment.
"What is?" asked Remo.
"I see no remains."
"Of what-the bee?"
"Yes. There are no bee remains."
"He got zapped," Remo contended.
"There should be some matter remaining."
They all gathered around the minicam, which was still emitting a wisp of what looked like cigarette smoke.
Tammy grabbed her nose. "Smells like burning garbage."
"Smells like fried bug to me," grunted Remo.
"A bee is not a bug," Wurmlinger said, grimacing as if suffering a personal insult.
"It is a not-bee," said Chiun. "Why will no one accept my words?"
"I am not familiar with that species," Wurmlinger muttered. He was on his knees now and sniffed around the lamp with his eyelashes held before his sharp nose.
Wurmlinger poked and prodded and attempted to scrape some smoky residue from the flash reflector, but all he got was thin black soot.
Frowning like a twitchy bug himself, he climbed to his long, spindly feet.
"There is nothing left," he said in a small, disappointed voice.
"It was a very thorough suicide," said Chiun.
"The bee did not immolate itself," Wurmlinger explained, snapping out of his mental fog. "It merely sought a light source it mistook for the sun. You see, bees navigate through sighting the sun. Any bright light in an indoor setting will confuse them. He sought escape. The light drew him. And, sadly, he perished."
"Better luck next bee," said Remo, who then drew the Master of Sinanju aside and said, "Cover me. I'm going to call Smitty."
"Do not tell him about the not-bee."
"Why not?"
"Because that is my discovery. I do not want you hogging all credit."
Remo looked at the Master of Sinanju dubiously. "Chiun, the not-bee theory is all yours."