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.’”
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