We're in the black and white world now. Some fellow is taking the top off one of a tall group of hives probably filled with honey. The top levels of the hive that hold all that money-making liquor (as is planned in the design of the box) It is a sunny Sunday, church is out, most of the congregation is back at home with their family, except for the beekeeper here, who works day and night, chained to the site (by that leg outstretched behind him), a busy bee in giant form.     By the fall of 1917, James Hive-Maker had begun to hate his brother-in-law Zoltan Abbassid.