  Biff’s connections at Chicago with the jetliner for San Francisco went without a hitch. In less than an hour the sleek, silvery plane was in the air, circling over the bustling city of Chicago. It pointed its slender nose westward, and began a race with the sun to the Pacific Ocean. The liner seemed to hang motionless over the broad plains of the West. Even the towering peaks of the Rocky Mountains passed backward beneath the plane slowly, as if the plane were barely moving, instead of slicing through the air at nearly 700 miles per hour. Once they were in the air, Biff, as casually as he could, had let his eyes sweep the length of the plane, trying to see if the two Chinese were still with him. There were no Orientals on this flight. By early afternoon the plane had left the mountains behind it and was starting its long glide to lose altitude as it neared San Francisco. Far ahead, Biff could see the blue waters of the Pacific, sparkling under the rays of the sun, now standing high in the sky. Before he realized it, the plane was circling over San Francisco Bay. Biff saw the beautiful Golden Gate Bridge, arching gracefully over the harbor. After a two-hour layover, during which time Biff’s papers and baggage were cleared by customs, the boy boarded the plane which was to take him to his final destination, Burma. The sun had a good lead on the plane by the time the huge airliner took off. It would soon disappear over the horizon, and darkness would greet the touch-down in Honolulu. Once the plane was over the water, Biff turned in his seat for a final glance at his homeland. He could just see the hills of San Francisco, fading rapidly behind him. As he turned more toward the front, his eye was caught by two Chinese passengers. Biff looked at them closely. They were dressed in long, flowing robes. The robes were brightly colored in greens and reds and were gold-trimmed. Their wearers had tight skull caps worn low on their foreheads, and each wore heavy, dark sun glasses. Could they be the same two who had been on the plane with him from Indianapolis to Chicago? For a closer look, Biff walked to the rear of the plane for a drink of water. He stood just in back of the pair and inspected the men closely. They could be the same men, he decided. But he couldn’t be sure. It was difficult for him to tell one Chinese from another. And the change, if these were the same two, from American clothes to Oriental, made such a difference that it was impossible for Biff to be certain. Biff decided on a bold move. He stopped at the seat where the two Orientals sat impassively, staring straight ahead. “I’m going to Rangoon,” he said, a friendly smile breaking out on his face. “To a place very near the Chinese border. Are you going to Rangoon, or Hong Kong?” There was no answer. “Don’t you speak English?” Biff asked. “I’m afraid they don’t,” a voice said behind him. Biff whirled. It was the stewardess. “Can I help you?” she asked. “No,” Biff said lamely. “I was just—er—just going to get a glass of water.” The stewardess moved on. Biff downed the glass of water which he didn’t need and started back to his seat. As he came to the side where the Chinese were sitting, he decided to try a little trick. He bent toward the floor of the plane. “Is that your glasses case on the floor?” he asked. The Chinese in the outside seat bent forward. His hand reached down, feeling by his feet. Then, quickly realizing he had given himself away, he sat up straight, and stared ahead. A big smile of satisfaction decorated Biff’s face as he settled himself in his seat. He knew one thing about them at least. They understood English—but good! And they could have taken another airline from Chicago to San Francisco. Biff’s swift flight was without further incident as the plane sped across the Pacific. Then he was on the last leg—the flight from Hong Kong to Rangoon. It was the middle of the afternoon, an hour after the take-off from Hong Kong. Rangoon was still nearly three hours away. The stewardesses were serving tea. With it they served almond cookies and, as a favor from the air lines, each passenger received a fortune cooky, a small delicate piece of folded, crisply cooked dough. Inside each fortune cooky was a narrow ribbon of paper on which was printed a short saying—usually humorous. Biff remembered them from the Chinese restaurant he went to with the family every so often back in Indianapolis. He smiled as he remembered one he had once gotten. It had read: “Man who count chickens before they hatch is egghead.” Biff finished his tea. He reached for the fortune cooky. Just as he did so, someone lurched against his shoulder, upsetting the tray. Cup, saucer, and fortune cooky fell to the floor. Both Biff and the awkward passenger reached to pick up the scrambled tray. Biff’s eyes met his helper’s—it was one of the two Chinese! There was no reason for him to have stumbled. The plane was flying smoothly. It appeared to Biff that the shoulder bumping had been intentional. “So sorry,” the Chinese said. His dark glasses glinted as he straightened up. “Too bad. Fortune cooky smashed to bits. But slip of paper still okay.” Smiling briefly, he handed Biff the slender slip of tissue paper, and made his way hurriedly forward. Biff watched him go, still puzzled by the man’s action. The boy smoothed out the slip. It had only a Chinese character scrawled on it. Through the Chinese printing had been drawn a red “X.” “Now what the dickens is this?” Biff thought. He started to crumple the paper, but something about it held his attention. There was something familiar about it. Then he had it. Carefully, he took out his key chain. He bent low, and compared the character on the cooky slip with that on the surface of the ring’s green stone. They were identical—the letter “K!”—the seal of the lords of the House of Kwang. Was this a warning of some kind? Did the red “X” cancel out the protection and good fortune the ring was supposed to insure? But why? Why? Biff’s brain kept signaling that one word with its question mark. The plane climbed over the coastal mountains of Viet Nam, dropped down to skim over the rice fields of Thailand, then swung out over the Bay of Bengal for its approach to Rangoon. As the plane banked, Biff could see the many mouths of the Irrawaddy River, spread out like long fingers from the broad, brown arm of the river itself. The plane came low over the bay on its approach to the city, and Biff could see the colorful sails of the dhows, the native craft which dotted the harbor. Some of the sails were bright red, some dirty brown. Many wore patches of every color of the rainbow. The plane followed the course of the Hlaing River, twenty-one miles inland to the city of Rangoon. Standing out against the low, white buildings, Biff saw the pagoda of Shwe Dagon, rising nearly 400 feet skyward. It was entirely covered with gold leaf which glistened in the setting sun. Then he remembered. Ling Tang had told him this was the important shrine of Buddha where the head of the House of Kwang used to worship. Biff stretched and twisted. In spite of the cooky accident and the red “X,” he smiled. “Almost there, at last,” he said to the passing stewardess. The long trip had been pleasant enough, but being confined to a plane for three days and three nights had become monotonous. Just as soon as he could, Biff bounded down the ramp from the airliner and ran eagerly to the entrance of the airport terminal. Through the portal into the terminal, Biff was caught up in a swirling mass of figures. Fat merchants, skinny students, long-robed mandarins, ragged beggars, and men in the uniforms of all the world’s military forces milled about the huge room. Biff searched the crowds, trying to spot his Uncle Charlie. He was nowhere to be seen. Worried minutes followed. Then Biff saw a tall, very thin Oriental, wearing a long, straight white robe approach. The man came up to Biff. With hands clasped to his chest, he bowed low. “Sahib Brewster?” he asked. “I’m Biff Brewster,” the boy answered, thinking, “Gee, I’m a sahib!” “I come from Sahib Charles Keene. He had planned to meet you. However, an emergency arose, and he had to fly to the north. But he should be back at Unhao by the time we get there.” “Oh.” Biff was slightly shaken by this unexpected turn of events. “And how do we get there, then?” “It is all arranged. Another pilot was dispatched to pick you up when your uncle was unable to come himself. Come. If you will follow me, even now the plane is ready.” The Oriental turned, and a path in the human mass seemed to open for him. Biff followed, still not sure of this man. “Hey,” he called. “Wait a minute!” The Oriental paused and turned to the boy. “I’d like to know your name,” Biff said. “I don’t like calling people just ‘hey.’” The Oriental’s puzzled expression changed to a slight smile as understanding of Biff’s “hey” came to him. “I am called Nam Palung, head of the servants in your uncle’s house.” “Okay, Nam. But what about getting through customs?” “That is all arranged. Your uncle is a man of much importance and influence. Come. We must hurry before darkness spreads its mantle upon the land.” Biff didn’t like being rushed like this. “Yeah, but what about my luggage—my suitcase and trunk?” “Even now they precede us to the plane. All is cared for.” The whole business seemed a bit cockeyed to Biff, but then, shrugging his shoulders, he followed Nam to the northern exit of the terminal. Nam walked quickly, his fast, short steps limited by the skirt of his robe. Even so, Biff had to step up his pace to stay with the man. Suspicion again came to Biff as they left the terminal building and appeared to be taking a direction away from the airport. “Look, Nam. Just where are we going? The airstrips are back that way.” “Those, Sahib Brewster,” Nam replied, “are for the commercial airlines planes. Private planes, such as those used by Explorations Unlimited, use a different part of the field.” Biff’s suspicions dropped a degree. Nam’s explanation made sense. His suspicions dropped still further when Nam reached a jeep, and with a low bow, indicated that Biff was to get in. An American jeep, Biff thought. They’re found everywhere. The small vehicle represented home and safety to Biff. He hopped aboard, and Nam took his place behind the wheel. Biff looked across the airport where a mile away, several small planes were clustered. He figured that was where they were heading. He heard a rustling behind him and turned abruptly. In the jeep’s rear seat now sat, as if they had appeared out of thin air, two more Orientals. Both were dressed like Nam. But, as Biff looked at them more closely, he noticed that each man’s hand was partly thrust into a fold of his robe, and each hand clasped the hilt of a slender dagger. Biff turned to Nam, alarmed. “Who are those men—with knives—” His voice shook in spite of his attempt to control it. Nam interrupted. His manner was no longer courteous, his voice no longer smooth. His reply was stem and harsh. “You will remain silent. Any outcry, any attempt to escape, and my men have been told to use those knives.” |
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