  “Guard this letter as you would your life!” Mr. Stannart spoke in a low, tense tone as he glanced around the waiting room at Idlewild Airport. Biff Brewster felt a sudden surge of excitement when he took the envelope that the gray-haired man handed him. The envelope was tightly sealed, and it was addressed to Biff’s father, Thomas Brewster, at the Hotel Jacares in Manaus, Brazil. In the upper corner was the return address of the Ajax Mining Corporation in New York City. Gregg Stannart was the president of the company, and Mr. Brewster was its chief field engineer. “Since you are flying to Brazil to join your father,” Mr. Stannart continued, “I decided to have you deliver this letter personally, rather than take the risk of its falling into the wrong hands.” He paused, gave Biff a keen, steady glance, and asked, “Did your father tell you why he was going to the headwaters of the Amazon River?” “He wrote that he was going on a jungle safari,” replied Biff, “and he invited me to fly to Brazil and join him, as a birthday present.” Biff was thinking back to his birthday party at the Brewster home in Indianapolis less than a week ago. His mother had brought in a cake with sixteen lighted candles that Biff had blown out with a single puff, to the delight of the twins, Ted and Monica, who were five years younger than Biff. But the big surprise was when Biff’s mother had given him the birthday letter from his dad. Next had come the excitement of packing, when it dawned on Biff that nearly all his birthday presents were clothes and equipment he could use on a tropical trip. Then Biff had flown to New York where Mr. Stannart had met him to put him on the plane for Brazil. “Your father is bound on a highly important and secret mission for our company,” Mr. Stannart confided now. “He is going far up the Rio Negro, which joins the Amazon just below the city of Manaus. The party supposedly will be looking for sites for rubber plantations.” Mr. Stannart paused, then said solemnly, “Your father will be looking for gold—a fabulous gold mine about which we have secret information. But here in New York,” he went on, “we have just discovered that there has been a leak in that information. We have learned that certain people would do anything to stop your father and get to the mine first. Even now, he may be in danger.” “But Dad didn’t say anything about it—” “Because he doesn’t know about it. He may change his mind about letting you accompany him after you give him this letter. It will tell him all he needs to know.” Biff put the letter deep down into his coat pocket. Mr. Stannart nodded approvingly. “Be careful what you say to strangers,” he warned Biff, “and above all, guard that letter!” It was nearly time for the departure of Biff’s plane. Mr. Stannart explained that it would take him to Belem, the capital city of the Brazilian state of Para, not far from the mouth of the Amazon. There, Biff would change to a plane for Manaus, a thousand miles up the great river. Mr. Stannart studied the other passengers who were waiting to board the plane. He said to Biff in parting, in a low but confident tone: “You won’t have any trouble on this flight. But be careful after you leave Belem!” The long trip south did prove uneventful. During daylight, the plane was over the Atlantic Ocean, and darkness had settled when it reached the coast of Brazil. Biff landed in Belem at dawn, so it wasn’t until he had changed to the plane for Manaus that he gained his first view of the Brazilian jungle. He saw it from a seat beside the window as the plane climbed above Belem; a vast, solid mass of billowing green that looked ready to swallow the city that spread below. Then the jungle ended, and the plane was flying over a huge expanse of brownish water streaked with waves of white. This was the Amazon River, stretching as far as the eye could see. A smooth voice purred from beside Biff’s shoulder: “It looks more like an ocean than a river, doesn’t it?” Biff turned to meet the gaze of the smiling man sitting beside him whose eyes looked sharp even through his dark-green glasses. The large lenses gave an olive hue to the sleek, oval face that narrowed to a pointed chin. “O Rio Mar,” the smiling man continued. “That is what Brazilians call the Amazon. It means ‘The River Sea’ in Portuguese. Do you understand the language?” “A little,” replied Biff, “but I know Spanish better.” He was about to add that he had learned both from his father. Then, remembering Mr. Stannart’s warning to be careful when he talked to strangers, Biff stated simply but truthfully: “I have been studying Spanish in school.” “You will need to speak Portuguese,” the man declared, “if you are stopping off anywhere between Belem and Manaus.” He paused inquiringly. Then, getting no response, he added, “If you go farther up the Amazon or any of its tributaries, you will need to know the dialects of Indian tribes as well.” The stranger’s easy, persuasive tone almost caused Biff to remark that he was going on beyond Manaus. But he caught himself in time and said nothing. “You may have to talk fast, too,” Biff’s fellow passenger continued. “Those tribes are often dangerous. You are sure to find head-hunters among them.” This time, Biff asked a question. “Have you been among the head-hunters, sir?” The stranger’s smile widened. “My name is Serbot, Nicholas Serbot. And yours?” “Bruce Brewster. My friends call me Biff.” Nicholas Serbot inclined his head politely. “No, I have never been among the head-hunters, Biff. I come to Manaus occasionally to do business for some European concerns that I represent. Mostly in rubber.” “My dad is in Manaus,” Biff volunteered. “I’m meeting him there.” “Perhaps he will take you on a jungle safari. They organize such trips in Manaus.” “That sounds great!” exclaimed Biff. “I’ll mention it to Dad!” “Tell him to inquire at the Hotel Amazonas,” suggested Serbot. “Meanwhile”—he leaned toward Biff as he spoke—“you may find the scene below quite interesting.” They had reached the head of the Para River, the principal mouth of the Amazon, sixty miles above Belem. The plane was thrumming over a gigantic carpet of thickly tufted green, furrowed by a maze of irregular streams. “The region of the Thousand Islands,” Serbot explained. “Those channels that twist through the solid jungle are called the Narrows. They come from the main course of the Amazon, and most of them are deep enough to be navigable.” Below, Biff saw an ocean-going freighter working up through a watery passage. It looked like a toy boat from this altitude, and occasionally it was swallowed by the thick foliage that jutted over the channel, only to emerge from the green arcade. Soon the boat was far behind, and Biff watched the narrow channels widen and merge into a limitless, white-capped sea—the great Amazon itself. Serbot’s purring voice, and the steady drone of the plane’s motors had a lulling effect. Biff’s eyes closed to avoid the glare of the tropical sun; soon he was asleep. He dreamed that he was back at Idlewild, with Mr. Stannart’s voice repeating: “Guard this letter as you would your life! Guard this letter....” In the dream, invisible fingers seemed to be plucking the precious envelope, drawing it up and out of Biff’s pocket. With a sudden start, Biff awoke and shot his own hand to his pocket, where it met the crinkle of paper. The dream had been realistic in one respect. As he dozed, Biff must have kept slumping down into his seat, causing the envelope to work upward every time he hunched his shoulders. A few inches more and it would have fallen from his pocket. Or was that the answer? What if those phantom fingers had been real instead of mere figments of a dream! As he thrust the envelope far down into his inside pocket and buttoned his coat for safer keeping, Biff Brewster shot a suspicious glance toward his companion of the plane trip, the smooth-spoken man who called himself Nicholas Serbot. |
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