  Biff Brewster was suddenly awake—wide awake. The gray light of dawn outlined the window of his first-floor bedroom. Something—or someone—was outside. He felt sure of it. Something had prodded him out of his deep sleep with startling suddenness. For a moment he lay still, eyes on the window, his ears sharply tuned for the slightest sound. He knew, of course, that he might have been awakened by a stray dog, or a night-prowling cat. But he didn’t think so. Very carefully, Biff slipped out of his bed. Bare-footed, he padded noiselessly toward the window, taking care to remain outside the dim shaft of early light coming through. He moved to one side of the window and peered out cautiously. He detected a slight movement beneath a gnarled apple tree about thirty feet away. Then suddenly, swiftly, a figure emerged from behind the protection of the tree’s drooping limbs. The figure came at a run toward the window. It was a man, small and slight of build. He was wearing blue jeans and a sweat shirt. On the shirt’s front there was an athletic letter—Biff couldn’t make it out—cut from luminous cloth, making it glow faintly in the dawn’s light. Biff drew back, pressing his body against the wall. A moment later a white object, the size of a baseball, came hurtling into the room, tearing a hole in the screen. It fell with a dull plop on Biff’s pillow. Biff held his breath, waiting. The man was leaving the yard on the run. At the sidewalk, he slowed to a casual saunter. Apparently he did not want to risk attracting the attention of some early riser. Biff waited. He counted slowly to a hundred, to make sure his strange visitor was gone. Once more he looked out the window. Nothing moved in the eerie light of the dawn. Biff turned away. Had he waited a few seconds longer, he would have seen two men leave the shadows of a corner tree and stealthily follow the hurler of the object. Biff snapped on the reading light by his bed and picked up the object that had been tossed through his window. It was a round white rock, one of those used to outline his mother’s herb garden. More interesting was the heavy piece of twine tied tightly around it. At the other end of the twine was a ring. It was a man’s heavy ring, set with a square-cut green stone. Biff examined it carefully. The stone was dull, not glittering. He wasn’t sure, but he thought it was jade. He looked at the ring more closely. On its face there was an intricately etched marking. “A design?” he wondered. “No, it looks more like Chinese writing.” Nothing moved in the eerie light of dawn Twisted into a knot around the ring was a small piece of paper. Biff unfolded it carefully and smoothed it out. “Fortune shines upon, and the gods protect, the wearer of this ring,” he read. “‘Protect!’” Biff thought angrily. “Why, that rock could have conked me but good if I hadn’t left my bed.” Biff reread the printed message. “Now what, just what,” he thought, “has this got to do with me?” He stretched out on his bed, cupping his hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. Unable to read any sense into the message, or the mysterious manner in which the ring had come to him, Biff jumped out of bed and made for the shower. Under the pelting needlelike spray, he threw back his broad shoulders and let the water sting his face and soak his light-brown hair. Afterward he toweled himself vigorously, dressed quickly, and placed the ring on his key chain. He knew his father would be up, even though it was only six-thirty. Maybe his father would have some ideas about this or, at least, a couple of good guesses. Biff bounded into the kitchen. “Morning, Dad. Say, what do you think happened—” He stopped short as he saw his mother come out of the pantry. He didn’t want to mention the ring incident in front of her. Not yet, anyway. Not until he had discussed it with his father. He knew his mother already was worried enough about his impending trip to far-off Rangoon. Tomorrow was the day he was leaving. “Good morning, Biff,” his father greeted him. “What were you saying?” “Er—I was just saying it so happens I’m hungry enough to eat a crocodile. Good morning, Mother. What’s for breakfast?” “Certainly not crocodile,” Mrs. Brewster replied. “Even if you and your father do say crocodile steaks are delicious. Ugh!” She gave a quick shudder. Father and son looked at one another and smiled. They had had to eat crocodile on their Brazilian adventure when their food supplies had run short. “What’s on the program this nice bright Saturday morning?” Biff’s mother asked, putting large portions of scrambled eggs and bacon before Biff and his father. Before a reply could be made, Biff’s brother and sister, Ted and Monica, eleven-year-old twins, burst into the room. “Hi, Mom! Hi, Dad!” they shouted together. “Gee, Biff, just think, tomorrow you’ll be on your way to Rangoon in Burma, to visit Uncle Charlie,” Ted said enviously. “Wish I could go, too,” Monica chimed in. “You! Why, you’re a girl,” Ted said derisively. “Now, no arguments, you two,” Mrs. Brewster said. “Drink your orange juice. I’ll start your eggs.” “How far from Indianapolis is it to Rangoon?” Monica asked. “Quite a way. Six or seven thousand miles at least,” Mr. Brewster replied. “You ever been there, Dad?” Ted asked. “No. I envy Biff. Rangoon is one of the places in this world I’ve missed so far.” “And about the only one, Dad, isn’t it?” Biff asked. “There are a few others,” his father replied. “Maybe if I had started out as young as you are, I’d have made them, too. For a sixteen-year-old, you’ve been about this world of ours quite a bit, me boy-o. Well, I’m all for it.” “I am too, Dad,” Biff agreed. “Remember the time in Brazil, when we—” “Hold it!” Mrs. Brewster interrupted, laughing. “Don’t you two get started talking about your adventures. There’s just this one more day before Biff leaves, and my goodness, what a lot has to be done!” Biff smiled. He knew there was hardly anything left to be done. His mother had finished packing for him the day before. Just as Mrs. Brewster brought the twins their eggs, the telephone rang. Monica started to get up. She answered every phone call. “You sit still and eat those eggs while they’re hot, young lady. I’ll take the call,” Mrs. Brewster said. Biff and his father saw a puzzled look come over her face as she answered the telephone. “Yes? I understand. This morning? All right, I’ll tell them.” When she returned to the breakfast table she said, “That was Charlie’s friend, that Chinese merchant, Mr. Ling. Ling Tang, isn’t it?” “Why, yes. What did he want?” Tom Brewster asked. “He said it is most urgent that you and Biff see him before Biff leaves for Rangoon.” |
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