Backfire
Neither boy spoke, so startled were they by their striking resemblance
to one another.
“This can’t be,” Biff said, half aloud. “That boy is—is—ME!”
The other lad must have been thinking the same.
“Step forward, please,” the gate attendant called out sharply. “Keep the
line moving.”
In their astonishment, Biff and his double had stopped in their tracks.
Dazedly, Biff and the other boy reached the gate. They presented their
tickets. The attendant looked from one to the other.
“Twins?” he asked, a smile on his face.
Still apparently unable to speak, the boys shook their heads.
They walked across the apron leading to the waiting aircraft. As they
walked along, side by side, each cast quick, questioning glances at one
another.
It was unbelievable!
The boys were the same height. Both were broad of shoulder. Both carried
their well-muscled bodies with the grace and posture of the trained
athlete.
The only immediately noticeable difference distinguishing the boys was
their clothing. Biff was hatless, as always. The other boy wore a hat.
Biff wore light gray slacks, a soft sleeveless sweater, and a loose
sports coat. His double wore a tight-fitting, dark-blue suit and a
white, high-collared shirt. His clothes were as formal as Biff’s were
informal.
They mounted the loading ramp and entered the plane. The stewardess gave
them the same interested, friendly look the gate attendant had given
them.
“I’m sure you two will want to sit together,” she said. “You’re twins,
aren’t you?”
“No, ma’am,” Biff gulped.
The stewardess seated the boys, disbelief showing in her eyes as they
shifted from the face of one boy to the other. She started moving toward
the door, but kept turning her head to cast a look at the boys.
Biff was seated next to the window. His seat companion arose, removed
his hat, and placed it on the rack above. His hair was cropped short, as
Biff’s was. It was a shade darker, perhaps, but just a shade. Biff’s
habit of going hatless could have made the difference.
On close examination of the boys’ faces, there was one noticeable
difference. Biff’s eyes were bluish-gray. The other boy’s were a deep
blue.
Biff turned in his seat to confront his companion.
“Since we look so much alike,” Biff said, “maybe we’d better find out
who we are. I’m Biff Brewster. So you can’t be. I mean, if I am Biff
Brewster—and I know I was until I saw you just now—then you must be
someone else.”
Biff was having a hard time trying to say what he meant. He wasn’t
exactly sure just _what_ he meant.
The other boy smiled.
“I am glad to make your acquaintance, Biff Brewster,” he said quite
formally. “My name is Derek Zook. I am from The Netherlands.”
Derek’s English was good with hardly any trace of accent. His phrasing,
somewhat stiff and formal, marked it as Continental, not American,
English. It was obvious that he had acquired his knowledge of the
language at school. His sentences didn’t have the free and easy swing of
a native language.
“Where are you going?” Biff asked.
“I go to Willemstad in Curaçao. That’s in the Netherlands Antilles.”
“Yes, I know,” Biff replied. His astonishment continued to grow as the
coincidences grew. “I’m going there too. Here we are. We look alike, and
we’re going to the same place. Now how about that!” Biff laughed. Derek
joined in the laughter.
For the next few minutes the boys were quiet as the aircraft taxied to
its take-off runway. The four engines revved up. The plane started
rolling slowly down the strip. It rolled and rolled, gaining momentum.
Then it was airborne, heading out over the Atlantic toward
Port-au-Prince, Haiti, nearly eight hundred miles away.
During the flight, Biff and Derek became more and more friendly. They
had much in common, but Biff noticed during the conversation that while
Derek was most willing to talk about his home in The Netherlands, his
schooling, and other, incidental topics, he said nothing about why he
was going to Curaçao.
Biff was cagey, too. If Derek wouldn’t talk about the reason for his
flying across the Atlantic to visit a speck of an island in the
Caribbean, then Biff felt it wise to say as little about his own visit
as possible.
There wasn’t much Biff could tell, anyway. He wouldn’t know why his
Uncle Charlie wanted him until he saw him. Biff did tell Derek that he
was going to be met by his uncle, but he didn’t tell his new friend the
kind of work Uncle Charlie did.
The plane flew high over the easternmost tip of Cuba. Near three o’clock
in the morning, Haiti was spotted, a dark, shadowy mass in the grayness
of the dawn. High up over the Haitian mountains, the sky could be seen
lightening on the eastern horizon. Neither boy saw it. They had talked
themselves out and were sleeping.
The plane went into a sharp descent for its landing at Port-au-Prince.
There was an hour’s delay before the plane took off on its next leg, the
two-and-a-half hour flight to Curaçao.
Derek was the first to stir. Biff opened one eye, closed it again, and
settled down into the seat.
“Do you know our time of arrival, Biff?” Derek asked, his voice clear
and wide awake.
“’Bout seven,” Biff mumbled sleepily. “Let’s get some more shut-eye.”
“Shut-eye? I do not understand,” Derek said, puzzled.
“Sleep,” answered Biff. “Good old sleep. But I can see this is the end
of it for now.”
Wide awake, the two boys chatted in low voices until the island of
Curaçao, fifty miles off the coast of Venezuela, came into view.
The island is less than forty miles long and not more than seven miles
wide at its broadest point. From the air, it looked like a long
splinter. To the south, the boys could see the mountainous coastline of
oil-rich Venezuela.
The plane began a long, gradual descent for its landing at Willemstad.
It came in low, seemingly only a few feet above the spanking waves of
the Caribbean Sea. It shot over land and, minutes later, the crunch of
the aircraft’s rubber-tired landing wheels was felt throughout the
plane.
As the plane rolled to a stop, an idea hit Biff. “Hey, Derek. I’ve got a
plan,” he exclaimed. “A good one. I’d like to play a joke on my uncle.”
“Good, I like jokes, Biff. What is it?”
Biff didn’t answer right away. Some of the excitement and eagerness
faded from his face. “I just thought—somebody must be waiting to meet
you, so I guess my idea wouldn’t work.”
“I’m not sure anyone is going to meet me, Biff. In fact, I’m almost
certain no one will.”
Biff was so busy thinking about his idea that the significance of
Derek’s reply didn’t register. Only later did he remember the remark,
and realize how strange it was that Derek, who had come thousands of
miles, had no one to meet him.
“In that case then,” Biff went on, “here’s what I have in mind. We look
so much alike, I’d like to try and see if we can fool my uncle. So, if
you’re game, here’s my plan. You get off the plane first. Go right into
the terminal. If you look as much like me as I think you do, and as
others do too, then Uncle Charlie will think you’re me.”
A grin came over the Dutch boy’s face.
“That does sound like fun. I’d be Biff Brewster to your uncle, wouldn’t
I?”
“That’s right. I’ll stay in the plane until you’re in the terminal. I’ll
follow you in about five minutes.”
The passengers were piling out of their seats now, reaching up to the
racks above for their hats and coats. Derek retrieved his hat, turned to
wink at Biff, and started toward the front of the plane.
“Hey, Derek!” Biff called. “Wait a minute.”
Biff got up and overtook his new friend.
“’Fraid Uncle Charlie would spot you in a second if you wore that hat.
He knows I never wear one.”
Derek took off his hat and handed it to Biff.
“Another thing,” Biff continued. “Your coat. Looks too European for me
to be wearing it. Let’s change.”
Derek doffed his suit coat and put on Biff’s sports jacket. Then he left
the plane.
Biff, grinning in anticipation, waited until almost everyone was off the
plane. Then, wearing Derek’s coat and hat, he deplaned and walked toward
the terminal.
As he stood at the entrance to the terminal, it took several moments for
Biff’s eyes to adjust from the bright glare of the outside sun to the
soft light of the terminal’s interior. He looked about, trying to spot
his uncle. He finally saw him, to the right, standing in front of a
cigar counter, smiling as he talked to Derek.
Biff was starting toward his uncle and Derek when two men entered the
terminal from the street side. They looked around quickly, saw Biff, and
came hurriedly over to him.
“Derek Zook?” one of the men asked.
Before Biff could protest or explain, the other man grasped him firmly
by the arm.
“We must hurry. Your father is waiting.”
Biff found himself being hustled toward the terminal exit.