Smith tightened the already too-tight knot of his tie. "The farms and crops have been targeted in such a way as to achieve a specific result."
"Result! What result?"
"That is becoming clearer by the moment, but I can tell you that it is tied in with the so-called death's head-bee attacks on both coasts."
"It is?" the President stammered.
"It is," Smith said with unflappable earnestness.
The Chief Executive lowered his voice to a dull hum. "Am I better off knowing about this, or not knowing about it? Politically speaking, that is."
"You are better off awaiting the results of my investigation, Mr. President."
"Those two. The one with the wrists and the old guy with the wrinkles. You have them on the case?"
"They are closing in on a suspect."
The presidential voice grew audibly relieved. "Then I'm going to sit tight. Do you think this will be over by the six-o'clock news?"
"I hope so. But the resolution may be one to which you are better off not being privy."
"It's that grisly, huh?"
"It is," Harold Smith said truthfully, "unbelievable."
"Okay. I'll just sit back and watch CNN and those Fox people. They seem to be right on top of this thing."
Smith hung up, visibly relieved. He had not wished to take the President into his confidence. Not if it risked exposing to psychological scrutiny the head of the supersecret government agency whose existence, if it were revealed, would surely topple his administration.
There was no telling how the Commander in Chief would react to descriptions of talking killer bees. It was more than possible that he would conclude that Harold Smith had slipped into senility and give the one lawful order a U.S. President was chartered to give CURE.
Disband.
Smith had been concerned that the talking bee's discovery of Folcroft might precipitate such a drastic step, but in truth, it had been such an unbelievable thing that he had all but put it out of his mind. For to disband CURE would be to bury it forever, along with its obscure director.
Smith patted the poison pill he kept in the watch pocket of his gray vest against that dark day and returned to monitoring his system. He wondered how the USDA Honey Bee Research Center was doing with the death's-head-bee specimen.
Chapter 39
The wires were buzzing with report after report.
"Down south, the cotton's been cut down," an intern said breathlessly. "Isn't that great?"
"Fantastic!" Tammy agreed. "I've always wanted to tour the Deep South."
She was packing her overnight bag and calling down to the cameraman pool when the intern poked her green-streaked blond head into Tammy's New York office and relayed another bulletin.
"Texas wheat's come a cropper!"
"I love it!" Tammy screeched. "I can just see me now, doing a dramatic stand-up against waving fields of amber grain."
"Breakfast-cereal prices will go back through the roof again."
"Who cares? I'm a certified media star now. I can afford any size Wheaties they make."
And she could. Her bee report had electrified the nation.
Then her news director showed up and closed the door behind him, leaning his body against it and grinning from ear to ear.
"Guess what?" he asked.
"Don't tell me-California oranges are so much juicy pulp?"
"Not yet. But we think it's coming. We're retitling the 'Fox Death's-Head Superbee Report.'"
Tammy's eyes flared like blue brakelights. "You can't do that! It's the main hook."
"It's going to be called 'The Tamara Terrill Report.' Congratulations, kid. You've made the big time."
Tammy shot a fist into the air. "I have my own show!"
"That's right. And we're going live this afternoon, so get that saucy little butt of yours ready."
"But I'm going to Texas."
"Make it Alabama. Cotton is white. It'll show up better on the screen. You'll premiere in a field of smashed cotton."
"Just like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz!"
"I think that was poppies. Just get ready, Tam."
"I've been ready ever since I graduated from broadcast school," Tammy exulted.
After Smoot had left, she finished packing and stopped to close her office window against the April chill.
A fuzzy bee zipped in before she could complete the task. She caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of her eye. It seemed to look back with its skull emblem. Her blood ran cold as fifth-place ratings. By then, it was too late. The window had thunked into place.
Tammy stood rigid for a moment, thinking.
"I'm going to pretend I didn't see it," she said to herself as a cold trickle of perspiration ran down the gully of her back.
Swallowing hard, she went to her desk, grabbed her bag and steeled herself to make a dash for the door. If she had to, she'd brain the bee with the bag.
Tammy took three steps. And froze.
The killer bee floated between her and the shut door. It hung on its blurry wings, tiny legs suspended like the landing gear of a miniature helicopter.
Then a tiny voice said, "Tamara Terrill!"
"Who's there?" Tammy called to the door in a dry, nervous squeak.
"Tamara Terrill," the voice repeated. "You have been chosen."
"Me?"
"Chosen for an important destiny."
The sound seemed to be coming from the door. Tammy was virtually certain of that. But it wasn't muffled as it should be. It was just small, almost tinny.
"Whoever you are, I need a quick favor," Tammy whispered urgently.
"What is that?" the tiny tinny voice asked.
"First, I need you to open that door. Then I need you to be very, very brave and jump on something for me."
"What is that?"
"I've got a killer bee in here with me and I need you to sacrifice your life for me."
"There is no need for that," said the voice that had to be coming from the other side of the door, despite its unmuffled sound.
"Oh, there is. I have my own show now. I need to survive. It's for the good of the network. You do have insurance, don't you?"
"You are in no danger," the tinny voice assured her.
"I'm staring down a death's-head super-duper killer bee, buster. I most definitely am in danger."
"I am the bee."
"Huh?"
"You are speaking with one of the drone bees of the Bizarre Bee-Master."
Tammy blinked. "I am?" She gulped.
The bee floated closer.
"There is no one on the other side of the door. I am speaking to you," said the voice, which to the dazed Tammy started to sound as if it might be coming from the bee.
"This is a joke, right? Somebody in the writing staff is playing ventriloquist."
"This is no joke. Upon your shoulders rests the awesome responsibility for dissemination of the Bee-Master's demands to a trembling, unsuspecting world."
The voice sure sounded as if it was coming from the bee.
"I like how you talk," Tammy said. "But I don't understand a thing you're saying."
"I wish you to interview me."
"A bee?"
"Yes."
"You want me to interview a bumblebee on live TV?" Tammy repeated.
"It will be a television first," assured the bee.
"And if I don't, what? You're going to sting me or something?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you have failed your insect brethren."
"My insect what?"
"Obey the commands of the Bee-Master, and you will go down in history, Tamara Terrill," the bee insisted.
Tammy frowned. "Television history or history history?"
"Both," said the voice that was definitely coming from the bee. "For the Bizarre Bee-Master is about to reveal himself to the world."
"Now wait a minute. You've been assassinating people, right?"
"I have been exacting revenge," the bee countered.
"And covering it up by siccing your killer bees on assorted medical examiners."