A Fortune Cooky
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.”