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.

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