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.”
Nam Palung meant business. There was no question about that. But Biff had no intention of yielding without a struggle. He would make his escape if at all possible. Right now, though, as his mind whirled trying to think his way out of this predicament, it would be best to do exactly as he had been told.
Biff promised himself one thing. Once he was free of Nam Palung he, Biff Brewster, was going to give himself, Biff Brewster, one swift kick. He had been played for a sucker, a trusting, easy-to-take American, and he had filled the role perfectly. How, he now thought, could he have been so taken in?
The jeep rolled across the field. Biff shot a sidelong glance at Nam Palung. The jeep moved at a steady pace, not fast enough to attract attention. It was headed toward a gate in the high wire fence surrounding the airfield through which service trucks passed. He noticed that the gate was blocked by an iron bar, raised to allow a vehicle to pass underneath it. When raised, the bar on its upright poles looked like a football goal post.
As the jeep drew near and fell in line behind a truck and a small car, Biff noticed the bar was raised just sufficiently to allow about a foot’s clearance for the vehicle passing beneath. An idea came into Biff’s head. He turned to look over his shoulder at his knife-bearing guards.
“Keep your head straight forward,” Nam ordered. “And no tricks as we pass the gateman.”
Biff watched the truck ahead pass through. It slowed down without stopping as it passed under the raised bar. The bar was lowered to stop position after the truck’s tail-gate went through. Next came the smaller car, its roof much lower than the truck’s. Again the bar was raised, but this time, just high enough to accommodate the car, leaving about two feet between it and the car’s top.
Now the jeep approached the bar barricade. The bar began rising slowly. Biff watched it, his heart in his mouth. “Don’t let them raise it too high,” he prayed. Biff leaned slightly forward, placing his weight on his firmly planted feet. He tensed his leg and thigh muscles until they felt like tightly coiled steel springs.
The bar was about three feet higher than tall Nam’s head. Biff waited until the front of the jeep was directly under the bar. Then he leaped up as if he’d been blasted off a launching pad. His hands seized the bar. Like a trapeze artist, he swung his body forward in a giant arc. At the top of his swing, when his body was parallel to the ground, Biff twisted his head, looking over his shoulder as his body started a swift downward stroke. At the split second, he lashed out with his feet. One foot struck the left knife-wielder square on the side of his head. The man shot over the side of the jeep as if jerked by the hand of a giant.
Biff’s other foot struck the second knife-wielder full in his chest, toppling him out the back of the jeep.
Now Biff was propelling himself into the backward arc of his swing. Again his body came swiftly downward. He lashed at Nam, planting both his feet solidly in the Oriental’s shoulders. Nam shot forward, his head striking the windshield.
Biff swung his body sideways, and dropped to the ground. He ran back toward the terminal building, nearly half a mile away. After a hundred yards, he slowed to catch his breath. Turning, he looked back at the jeep. There was no need to run. Nam still lay sprawled over the steering wheel. One of the knife-bearers was out of sight, apparently still sprawled on the ground on the other side of the jeep. The other guard was just rising from behind the jeep. Biff saw him stagger, still not fully recovered.
He ran back toward the terminal building
He ran back toward the terminal building
There would be no more trouble with those three, Biff said to himself. Not right away, at any rate. The boy continued toward the terminal building at a rapid walk. He didn’t run, no need to, and if he did, he might attract attention. He might be stopped. Explanations would be demanded. The gate-keeper might come up and describe what had happened.
Biff needed time to think. What was his next move?
“Guess I’ll have to play it by ear,” he told himself, and what, he wondered, had happened to Uncle Charlie? Had he been waylaid by those same three?
Inside the teeming terminal building, Biff mingled with the constantly moving crowds. He hoped he wouldn’t be noticeable, but there was little chance of that. In his American clothes, gray slacks and open-necked shirt, he was as noticeable as an Oriental dressed in mandarin clothes would have been at the Indianapolis airport.
There was only one thing to do, Biff decided. Go to the airline check-in counter and see if any message had been left him by his uncle. The boy approached the counter cautiously. He wanted to look around before identifying himself.
Biff sidled up to the counter. A tall, handsome man, about thirty years old, was leaning over the counter, questioning the clerk intensely. He was wearing white drill trousers and a white shirt open at the collar. A well-shaped, close-cropped head topped a strong neck and broad shoulders. He spoke to the clerk in a voice filled with authority. Unless he was badly fooled again, Biff felt sure that this man was an American, and there was something about him that the boy liked immediately.
“Hold it,” Biff told himself. “Let’s not jump too fast this time.”
Standing behind the man, Biff saw him take out a worn wallet from his hip pocket.
“Now you listen to me. I’m Jack Hudson. I’m a pilot for Explorations Unlimited. Here, take a look at my papers. I’m here to meet a boy named Biff Brewster, and I want to know where he is. Right now!”
The clerk leaned on the counter. He carefully inspected the list of names on the paper in front of him.
“So sorry. No name like one you say on this list.”
“Is that your passenger manifest list?” the man, Jack Hudson, demanded.
The clerk nodded his head.
Without asking, without waiting, Hudson snatched the list from the man’s hand.
“Here. You can’t do that!”
Hudson ignored the clerk. His eye ran down the list quickly.
“And just what do you think this name is?” Hudson held his index finger beside one of the names.
“Oh, so sorry. I guess I no understand your talk.”
“Fat chance,” Hudson said angrily. “Now you just tell me where that boy is.”
Biff had made up his mind. He couldn’t be mistaken in this man of action.
“I think you’re looking for me, sir,” Biff said and placed his hand on Jack Hudson’s arm.
Hudson swung around. He looked Biff up and down, slowly, carefully, sizing him up, before answering.
“If I weren’t so glad to see you, I’d ask where the devil you’ve been.” Then, seeing Biff’s face fall, Hudson smiled, a warm, immediately friendly smile. “But the important thing is I’ve found you.”
“I guess it is mostly my fault that you’ve had trouble meeting me,” Biff confessed. “I had a little mixup with—” He cut his sentence short. Perhaps he had better wait until he got to know Jack Hudson better before revealing all the mysterious happenings that had taken place from that early hour in the morning four days ago, back in Indianapolis.
“Well, part of it’s my fault, too,” Jack said. “Or the weather’s. Coming in from Unhao, I ran into a terrific headwind. Should have allowed for it. These winds spring up all the time in these parts. I was late. But come on now, we’ve got to clear you with customs and get your gear.”
Jack Hudson, with a forcefulness sharp enough to cut any red tape, literally bulldozed Biff through a maze of inspections, checks, and rechecks.
“I’m slipping,” he grinned at Biff when the boy had been cleared. “Took me thirty-one minutes. My record’s twenty-nine. Come on. We’ve got to make with the plane back to Unhao. Fast. Lots to be done.”
“That sure suits me. I’m anxious to see my uncle.”
“Hope he’s there when we get back.” A frown creased Jack’s face as he spoke.
“He will be, won’t he? That’s what I was told, that the emergency came up quickly and—” Biff ended his sentence feeling foolish. He suddenly remembered who had told him the story.
“Emergency? I don’t know of any emergency. Your uncle wasn’t even in Unhao today. It was arranged for me to pick you up before he left.”
“Before he left? What do you mean?” Biff was getting puzzled.
“Your uncle flew out of Unhao over a week ago.”
Darkness had spread over the airfield by the time Biff and Jack Hudson reached the “Explorations” plane. It was a twin-engine Cessna, a five-passenger, capable of a speed of 250 miles per hour.
“Hop in, Biff,” Jack said. “Be my co-pilot.”
Jack stowed Biff’s gear, and took his place in the pilot’s seat. As quick to action as Hudson was, he was also a sober, careful pilot. He warmed up the plane’s motors. He tested the wing flaps. He made a thorough instrument check. Then he called the tower for take-off instructions.
The plane moved to its assigned runway. Once more Jack revved up his engines. Then, the brakes released, the plane started rolling down the runway. Once it was air-borne, Jack put the plane in a steep climb, made a wide circle over the city of Rangoon, then headed north, following the Irrawaddy River.
“How long before we get there?” Biff asked.
“About four hours. If we don’t hit any weather. Unhao’s about fifty miles north of Myitkyina. ’Bout eleven hundred miles from here.”
“How big’s Unhao. Is it much of a place?” Biff asked.
Jack grinned. “Take a look back at Rangoon. That’s the last civilization you’re going to see for a while.”
The plane sped through the night. As the moon rose out of the South China Sea, its light turned the Irrawaddy River, thousands of feet below, into a slender silvery ribbon, reflecting the moon’s rays like a long sliver of mirror.
Jack Hudson put the plane on automatic pilot. He reached behind him and brought out two boxes. He handed one to Biff.
“Hungry?”
Biff hadn’t thought about eating. But now, he realized he was ravenous. “I’ll say I am. Thanks a lot.” He practically tore open the box and chomped on the sandwiches with an appetite that made Jack wonder when the boy had last eaten.
Just before midnight, Hudson switched on the plane’s radio transmitter and called the landing strip at Unhao.
“Keep your eyes dead ahead for the next few minutes,” he told Biff. “I always get a thrill out of it.”
Biff did as he was told. He peered intently through the windshield into the night. Clouds had obscured the moon, and all was darkness. Not a light could be seen anywhere.
Suddenly, as if by magic, the letter “X” blazed out of the jungle, twenty miles ahead. It was so startling that Biff gasped in amazement.
“Our landing field. I told them we’d be in in about ten minutes and to turn on the lights. We have two runways. One from southwest to northeast. The other from southeast to northwest. They bisect in the center, forming a perfect ‘X.’ I think it’s a wonderful sight.”
“It sure is,” Biff replied.
For the next few minutes, Jack’s entire attention was devoted to the landing. The plane swooped out of the dark, flashed over the landing field, circled and entered its final glide path. Biff felt the lurch which told him they had touched down. Jack taxied the plane toward the hangars.
“Well, here we are,” he said to Biff. “Welcome to Unhao.”
Despite the excitement of landing in this strange isolated spot in Upper Burma, Biff couldn’t hold back a yawn. He was just plain, dog-tired. It had been four nights since he had slept in a bed. Oh, he had slept. But sleeping in a sitting position, he told himself, would never replace the good, old stretch-out type of snooze.
Native servants swarmed around the plane. Biff and his gear were deposited in a jeep standing by. Jack hopped behind the wheel. The jeep, with natives clinging to every possible foot and hand-hold, headed through the night toward Headquarters House, a quarter of a mile away.
Headquarters House was a combination office, communications center, and living quarters for the staff of Explorations Unlimited. Sleeping rooms, resembling those of Bachelor Officers’ Quarters on an army post, filled one ell of the building. Into one of these went Biff. Moments after his head hit the pillow, he was in a deep sleep, in spite of the murky heat that was unrelieved by the lateness of the night.
Around five o’clock in the morning, as dawn was transforming the night-blackened jungle into a greenish maze, Biff was awakened by the sound of running feet passing his door. These were followed by others. The whole building seemed to spring to life. Something was up.
Biff jumped out of bed. First he went to the window. Looking out, he saw a tremendous animal faintly outlined in the morning mists not more than thirty feet away. Just as he was about to call out, he saw the floppy ears and the swaying trunk of the animal raise toward the sky, and let go with a trumpeting that rattled the windows. Biff had to smile at himself. What was an elephant doing wandering around loose at that time of the morning? “Some difference from home,” he thought.
Biff dressed quickly. He hurried down the hallway toward the center of Headquarters House. Sounds of activity came from the communications center. He paused in the doorway. Jack Hudson and two other men were bunched together around a short-wave receiver. Static crackled throughout the room. One of the men picked up a hand microphone.
“This is H H One, calling. This is Happy Harry One calling X 0369. Come in X 0369. Repeat: Come in X 0369. We were beginning to read you. Acknowledge. Do you read us?”
His answer was a roar of static.
Jack Hudson shook his head. His concern and the intense looks on the faces of the other men told Biff they were troubled.
“Was it Keene, Mike?” Jack demanded. “Was it Charlie?”
Biff heard Jack’s question, and he felt a sudden pang of fear.
The radio operator, Mike Dawson, shook his head. “I can’t say for sure. I think it must have been. But the voice was so faint. And the static—”
“Could you make out anything? Any of the words?” Jack’s voice was insistent.
Mike shook his head worriedly. “The sender didn’t identify. I did think I caught some of the words, but I can’t say for sure—”
“Well, what were they, man? What were they?”
“I—I thought he said, ‘They’re coming for me.... My position is lati—’ And right then transmission broke off completely. That’s when I buzzed your rooms. I’ve been working this mike ever since. And getting nothing. But nothing.”
Biff stepped into the room. He crossed to the three men.
“Was that my uncle you were talking about?”
Mike and the other man looked at Jack Hudson. It was obvious that they wouldn’t speak unless he gave them the go-ahead. Jack looked at Biff. He didn’t reply at once. Then, having reached his decision, he answered.
“Yes, Biff. I’m afraid it was.”
“Afraid?” Biff felt a tingle of fear race up his spine. “What do you mean? Is my uncle in danger?”
Jack Hudson’s shoulders sagged. He shook his head as if trying to rid himself of unpleasant thoughts. “Come along, Biff. I’ll tell you about it over some coffee.” At the door, he turned back. “Keep trying, Mike. You might raise him. And if you do—”
“I’ll buzz you fast.”
In the mess hall, the servants had already set the breakfast table. Two of them padded about the room silently on their bare feet. Biff sat down to a plate containing an oval-shaped, reddish fruit, streaked with white.
“It’s the fruit of the durian tree. Try it. We think it’s delicious. If you don’t like it, though, there’s fresh pineapple or guava.”
The taste was like nothing Biff had ever eaten before. He didn’t know whether he liked it or not. And he didn’t care. There were more important things than breakfast fruit right now.
“Tell me about Uncle Charlie.”
Jack sipped some coffee. “I’ll tell you what I can, Biff. It won’t be much. I don’t know it all myself. I know where he went, and I think I know why. The why is what I can’t tell you.”
“Was there danger in this trip of Uncle Charlie’s?”
“Danger? Perhaps. Always dangerous crossing the border. But Charlie should have been able to handle it.”
Biff felt his heart pound.
“Your uncle left here exactly eight days ago. He left early in the morning. He needed the cover of night to fly across the border.”
“The border? What border?” Biff asked.
“The border into Red China. That border’s closed, you know, especially to Americans.”
Jack paused to light a cigarette.
“He took off in a light, four-place plane. It’s the type plane that Charlie could land or take off in on a dime. It carried extra fuel tanks.”
“How long did he expect to be gone?”
“He didn’t know for certain. Not more than four or five days, he said.”
Four or five days, Biff thought. And eight days had passed.
“We’ve been expecting him, Watching for him. I’ve flown from dawn to daylight myself the last three days, hoping to spot him or his plane, if he was forced down. Nothing. He didn’t break radio silence once from the time he left.”
“Until this morning,” Biff cut in.
“Yes. Until this morning. If that was Charlie.”
“Have you any idea where he was going in China?” Jack shook his head. “Not exactly. With the extra tanks, he had fuel for about twelve hundred miles. So, since he had to return, he must have expected to find what he was looking for not more than five hundred miles inside China.”
“And you can’t tell me your ideas of what his search was for?”
Jack hesitated. “All I could tell you would be the results of my own speculations. Your uncle was at Cape Canaveral, as you know, and he must know a lot about guided missiles. He was one of the Navy’s top young officers. Well—put your thinking cap on. Maybe between us we can come up with something.”
Biff thought hard. There were many parts to this puzzle. He thought he himself was probably one of them. But fitting them together into an answer—that would take more than minutes, hours, or even days to do. Too many important parts of the puzzle were still missing. Biff thought that perhaps now he should fill Jack in on his own small mystery. His hand went to his key chain and touched the jade ring. He made a decision. He wouldn’t mention the ring. He would only tell Jack about what had happened when he arrived at the Rangoon airport.
Quickly he told Jack the story. As he poured it out rapidly, Jack’s look of worried concern deepened.
“There must be some connection. Charlie disappears, and you’re almost kidnaped. Describe the man again.”
Biff sketched the three men in as best he could. “I only saw the one called Nam Pulang closely. He said he was the Number One man here at Explorations.”
“Never heard of him. Was he Chinese, or Burmese?”
“I’d say Chinese,” Biff answered. “Although I don’t really know how Burmese look.”
Jack was thoughtful.
“But Jack,” Biff said, “we’re not just going to sit here, are we? Can’t we do something? Can’t we go into China and find Uncle Charlie?”
“Go into China? Impossible. You get any such idea out of your head.”
That idea, though, was very much in Biff’s head. The idea had been growing from the moment he first heard of his uncle’s disappearance.
“I mean that,” Jack said. “You have no idea of the difficulty in crossing the border. It’s patroled night and day. And the border guards shoot to kill.”
Man and boy sat in silence, both deep in thought. The silence was suddenly broken. A native boy about Biff’s age, but smaller, came running into the room.
“Sahib Jack! Come on run! Come on run! Quick! Quick!” He ran out of the room.
Biff and Jack were at his heels.
The native boy raced across the open compound toward the group of low buildings where the servants slept. Jack and Biff ran side by side, ten feet behind the boy.
“What is it, Chuba? What is it?” Jack called. But the boy didn’t answer until he reached the door of one of the small white cabins. There he stopped, gasping for breath, and turned to Jack and Biff. His face was contorted with fear; his eyes were opened wide and filled with terror.
“Now get hold of yourself, Chuba. Steady. We’re right here. What’s inside your cabin that’s so frightening?”
Chuba’s voice trembled as he spoke. “The evil ones. They come. They come to punish Chuba and the father of Chuba.”
“The evil ones? What are you talking about?” Jack’s voice was firm, but his tone was kind. He had to quiet this boy’s fears.
“It has been spoken,” Chuba said, his voice trembling. “Many, many years ago, the gods spoke to the ancestors of my father. They said”—and here the boy’s voice almost broke—“they said that evil will befall any member of the House of Chin Fu who leaves his land to become a slave of the white man.”
Biff watched the boy. He felt sympathy toward him, yet it was hard for Biff to believe that such superstitious beliefs could still cast their spell in these modern days.
“That’s nonsense, Chuba. You and your father are not slaves. You are honorable workers. Without your help, we could not live here. You are well paid, and you hold positions of responsibility and dignity. Enough of this. Just what is inside your cabin?”
“Chuba not know. But is bad. Very bad. It is voices of the evil ones, casting spell on Chuba and his honorable father.”
“All right. Come on and show us what it is.”
“Please, Sahib Jack. You to go first.”
“Okay. Come on, Biff.”
Jack and Biff entered the one-room cabin. It was small, but comfortably furnished. Beds stood against the walls on either side of the room. At the rear there was a small, compact kitchen. Biff and Jack inspected the room quickly. They saw nothing unusual.
Chuba stood behind them, standing on tiptoes.
“There!” he said. “Watch, and you shall hear evil spirits.” He pointed to a small box on the floor by one of the beds.
As they watched, a low growl came from the box. The growl grew louder. It became a wail. Then it turned into the high, piercing scream of a siren. It held this chilling, blood-curdling pitch for about ten seconds. Then the lid of the box slowly raised. A yellowish hand emerged. It bent over the front of the box. One finger touched a small button. The high scream dropped down to a wail, then to a growl, then stopped. The hand withdrew into the box. The lid closed. All was silent again.
Biff put a restraining hand on Chuba, keeping the boy from fleeing in terror. On Biff’s face a slow grin was spreading. He wanted to laugh, but one glance at Chuba’s stricken face stopped him. This was a serious thing to Chuba. Chuba would feel Biff was laughing at him, insulting him.
Jack stared at the box in amazement. “Now just what on earth is that thing?” He scratched his head. Biff started across the room toward the box.
“Hold it, Biff. We don’t know what that gadget might be. Might be a bomb.”
Now Biff did laugh. Even Jack was concerned. Not terror-stricken like Chuba, but the weird performance of the box had undoubtedly alarmed Jack.
Biff reached for the box, bent over, and picked it up. Chuba cowered behind Jack. But the native boy’s curiosity got the better of him. He watched Biff’s every move, his eyes wide.
“It’s only a toy, Jack,” Biff said. “My kid brother got one last Christmas. It was the newest thing out. Caused a sensation.”
“Let me take a look at it,” Jack said, and Biff handed it to him.
A great feeling of relief had come over Biff. When Chuba had come rushing in, crying out in a voice filled with fright, Biff had figured that another in the series of strange happenings had taken place. To discover that all the excitement was only about a toy relaxed Biff completely for the first time since he had arrived in the Orient.
Jack inspected the toy somewhat gingerly. “How does it work?”
Biff took the box back. “Look. I’ll show you.” He raised the lid of the box, and as he did so, Chuba took a step back. He was taking no chances with evil spirits even if the Americans did. Jack’s and Biff’s heads were together inspecting the box. This was too much for Chuba. He had to see, too. He cautiously poked his head forward for a closer look.
“See this small siren? That’s where the noises come from. The toy has two small batteries, like the ones used in a transistor radio. They power this small motor, and it does the rest. Raises the lid and makes this hand snake out.”
Biff looked at Chuba and smiled. A shy, friendly grin lit up the native boy’s face. “Want to see it work with the lid open?”
Chuba nodded his head rapidly.
Biff set the toy in motion. The siren reached its high pitch. The hand, attached to the end of a small iron rod, snaked out, flopped over the front side of the box, and touched the cut-off button.
“That’s all there is to it. Some gadget, isn’t it?”
Jack laughed. “I can see how it must have been the toy sensation of last Christmas. I can also see why it scared the daylights out of Chuba. It would scare me, too, if it woke me from a sound sleep.”
“That’s what happen, Sahib Jack. I sleep deep. This thing start screaming. Chuba jump, run fast, plenty scared, for help.”
“I suppose once it’s turned on, it keeps operating until the batteries run out.”
“That’s right,” Biff said. “Its action is set so it goes off once about every three minutes. You turn it off here.” Biff pointed to a switch on the bottom of the box.
“But how it get in my father’s house this morning?” Chuba demanded.
“I can answer that one.” Jack’s shoulders started shaking with laughter. Biff started laughing, too, partly from relief, and partly because when Jack laughed everyone joined in. Chuba, his eyes darting from Jack to Biff, decided his worries had passed. He giggled shyly at first, then added his high laugh to the chorus. The little white cabin shook with their hilarity.
“The ‘evil’ one, Chuba,” Jack said, “is a certain red-headed maintenance mechanic called Muscles.”
“Muscles! Him play another joke on Chuba. He much cool fellow. Him way in.”
“What’s this?” Biff thought. “Jive talk from a native boy? This kid’s all right.”
“You mean this Muscles is real cool; he’s way out, don’t you, Chuba?” Biff asked.
“That’s what Chuba say. He here, man, here.”
Biff slapped his thighs and doubled up again with glee. Chuba’s mixed-up talk was so far “gone,” it had come back to “here.”
“How old are you, Chuba?” Jack asked.
Chuba drew himself fully erect. He puffed out his chest. “Chuba soon be sixteen.”
“Aren’t you about the same, Biff?” Biff nodded his head. “Chuba, shake hands with Biff Brewster. Biff’s Sahib Charlie’s nephew.”
The boys shook hands. There was no doubt but that they took to one another right off.
“Chuba, you show Biff around. I’ve got to get back and see if Mike’s been able to—”
“I get it, Jack,” Biff said.
The two boys watched Jack stride back to Headquarters House.
“Come, Sahib Biff, I show you many things.”
Biff didn’t reply at once. A plan was beginning to shape up in his head. It would work, too, with the help of Chuba.
“Okay, Chuba. But first off—cut out that sahib stuff. To you, I’m just plain Biff.”
The friendship between Biff and Chuba developed rapidly. Chuba was an odd boy, with his mixed-up jive talk, his quick Oriental mind, and his desperate anxiety to be “like American kid.” He was half a head shorter than Biff. He had long, black, wiry hair, usually plastered down with smelly hair tonics. These he got from Muscles. The burly mechanic tried every new hair conditioner that came along, in an attempt to control his unruly light brown hair. Chuba’s skin was dark, so deeply tanned that its yellowish tinge from his Chinese blood hardly showed. He looked more Burmese than Chinese.
His daily clothes were a pair of hand-me-down brown shorts and hand-made sandals, ideal for the heavy, humid weather which turned the jungle-enclosed camp into a smoking oven. The shorts Chuba got from the Americans in the camp. Chuba did his own alterations on the shorts to cut them down to his size. He was far from an expert tailor. One pair had the left leg six inches longer than the right. Another pair, handed down from a man with a forty-four-inch waist, gave Chuba a laughable balloon effect in the rear, particularly when he ran.
Biff’s second day at the camp in Unhao began with a visit to the communications room. Mike Dawson, the radio operator, merely shook his head at the question written on Biff’s face.
No word from Uncle Charlie.
Biff hurried through breakfast. He left Headquarters House, stepping into a blazing sun already sending heat waves up from the brown dirt surface of the camp.
Chuba was waiting just outside the entrance to headquarters.
“I hurry up this morning. Help my father. Now I can show you rest of camp.” Chuba’s father was in charge of the servants in the camp. “My father Number One Boss here,” Chuba told Biff proudly.
The boys roamed around for more than an hour. Chuba chattered on as fast as any of the monkeys scampering about the trees which fringed the camp.
“Are there elephants around here?” Biff asked. “Yesterday morning I thought I saw one out of my bedroom window.”
“Sure. Sure. Much elephants. Wild ones.” Chuba grinned. “But one you saw must be Suzie. She dig it here big. That means likes it here,” Chuba explained. Biff smiled to himself. “When they clear jungle to make the camp, many elephants used to push over trees, and pull them away. When job is done, Suzie and Tiny, that’s the other elephant, they won’t leave. So—who can make an elephant go when he no want to? They stay on.”
“Where did you pick up all this jive talk, Chuba?” Biff asked.
“Jive talk? You mean talk like American boys?”
“They don’t all talk that way. Jive talk is American slang. Some boys use it more than others.”
“I learn it from Muscles. He has many magazines come to him by the mail from United States. Many books of the comics, too. You like to meet up with Muscles? He come back from Rangoon early this morning.”
“I sure would,” Biff said.
There was no mistaking Muscles. Biff spotted him as soon as they entered the hangar. The plane maintenance mechanic, wearing only shorts, shoes, and a long white mechanic’s coat, towered over the small natives whom he was directing. Big was the word for Muscles. Biff could only compare him with some of the giant linesmen he had seen play for the Chicago Bears professional football team. He and his father went to the games in Chicago every now and then.
As the boys approached the plane Muscles was working on, they saw the powerful man heave an oil drum off the floor as if it were made of tissue paper. The drum could have weighed anywhere from one hundred to three hundred pounds. He up-ended the drum, and a heavy stream of thick oil flowed smoothly to the intake pipe. Muscles held the drum steadily for a couple of minutes.
“That ought to do it,” he said, and put the drum back on the floor. He looked at the boys.
“Well, now, if it isn’t my young friend and Number One boy Chuba. Hey, did you have a visitor yesterday morning?” A big grin cracked across Muscles’ face. It was clear that Muscles had a great liking for the Chinese boy.
“Friend? No friend,” Chuba replied. He didn’t want Muscles to think he had been frightened by what Chuba now called his Evil Spirit Box. “I find evil spirits in my room. They make with strange noises, like wild animals howling.”
“Yeah?” Muscles was all interest. “So what gave? Did the evil spirits send you?”
“I send them. I take evil spirit’s hand, shake it good, and evil spirit’s howl become purr of pussycat.”
“Didn’t scare you? Gosh, and that thing cost me twenty bucks to have it sent out from the States.” Muscles was disappointed. Biff grinned. Chuba had carried the thing off well. He wasn’t going to give Muscles the satisfaction of knowing how really frightened he had been.
“And you must be Biff Brewster.” Muscles turned away from Chuba. “Charlie Keene’s nephew.”
“You’re right the first time, Muscles. I’ve sure heard a lot about you. Particularly from Chuba.”
“I’m going to make an American kid out of that rascal, no matter what. Say, I’m awfully sorry about your uncle.” He paused, as he saw a worried look come over Biff’s face. Then he hurried on rapidly. “But don’t worry. Charlie Keene can take care of himself. He always has. I was with him in Korea, and I know. He’ll get back. If he doesn’t, we’ll go in and get him.”
Going into Red China to hunt for his uncle had been a thought growing more and more prominent in Biff’s mind. If no word came from Uncle Charlie soon, Biff knew that he couldn’t just sit around and wait any longer. He’d have to do something.
After a few more minutes of talk with Muscles, Biff and Chuba left the hangar. Biff was silent as they walked across the hot field to the shade of a small coconut palm grove. Chuba kept rattling on, but his words just bounced off Biff’s ears. Biff seated himself against the leaning trunk of a palm.
“Sit down a minute, Chuba. I want to ask you some questions.”
“Shoots. Chuba will make with the answers.”
Biff frowned. “Tell me, just how tough would it be to slip across the border into China?”
“For Chuba, easy. Very easy. I do it many times.”
“How about me? Think I could get across?”
“Not by yourself. But with Chuba for Number One guide—” The native boy shrugged his shoulders. “I know all trails. I know just where Red border patrol guards strong, and where they guard weak. Afraid to guard some places.”
“Why is that?”
“Wild animals. Black bears—fierce, big, kill a man with one big swipe with paw. Also tigers and leopards. Snakes, too. All kinds. They hang from trees. Big python slide off tree, wrap around man’s neck and—urgle gurgle—” Chuba made a rattling noise in his throat. “No more man.”
Biff swallowed hard. “And you go over the border in a place where all the wild animals are?”
“Sure,” Chuba boasted. “Chuba smell and see animals before they see Chuba. Is safer to go into China that way.”
“That way? Safer? What do you mean?”
“Red patrol stays close to main road. Sometimes they let kids like me through. But, if they angry, or their Big Boss chew ’em out, then they don’t care whether you kid or not. They shoot you or catch you and make you work like slave. Once you in slave labor camp, you never come back.”
Biff was silent.
“You think maybe you like to go in find your Uncle Charlie. Put snatch on him from Red baddies?”
“Something like that, Chuba. Think we could do it?”
Chuba didn’t answer too quickly. His thin face was screwed up in thought. “Be most rough. But we smart. Most patrol dumb. Maybe all go well—maybe not—”
Biff didn’t want to hear any more. His mind was made up. If they had a fifty-fifty chance of finding Uncle Charlie, then that was all he wanted.
“Meet me back here in an hour, Chuba. I want to talk to Sahib Jack.”
Biff found Jack Hudson in the communications center, pouring over a large map of China. Biff moved to his side.
“Trying to figure out where Charlie might be,” Jack said. He pointed to a position on the map.
“Now if you drew a line from Chungking to Chengtu, I’d say he was somewhere west of that line.”
Biff leaned closer. “Why do you think he’s in that area?” he asked.
“Well, I do remember Charlie’s mentioning a small place called Jaraminka. About two, maybe three weeks ago. He’d just received a letter from his friend, Ling Tang, back in the States. Right after that, he went into Rangoon for a few days. I do know that there’s a village by that name somewhere in that area.”
“Rough country?” Biff asked.
“In spots. It’s north of the Yunnan plateau. In the foothills of Mt. Minya Konka. And some of those foothills would be called mountains back where you come from.” Jack smiled.