Mrs. Pollifax on the China Station Read Free Page B

worry—and he
would
worry, she conceded; he would know at once why she was going, and there was no way to reassure him that it was a routine assignment. “Routine?” she could hear him say. “Went to Zambia on a routine assignment, didn’t you, Emily? Just to take pictures, stay out of trouble? All hell broke loose, nearly got killed, both of us, and caught an assassin. Don’t mention routine to me, m’dear.”
    And of course at the back of her mind, not ready for admittance yet, lurked an awareness of the tension she had sensed in Bishop. She thought now, uneasily,
He knows much more than I’ve been told; he really hoped I’d say no
.
    Lifting her eyes she glanced around at her safe, familiar apartment—at the sunlight striping the worn oriental rug, the books lining one wall, the tubs of geraniums at the window—and she remembered the number of times she’d left it without knowing what lay ahead of her, or if she would ever see it again. She said aloud, “Yet I’m here. Very definitely still here. Somehow.” One had to havefaith, she reminded herself, and on impulse left the brochures and walked over to her desk and removed from one of its drawers a collection of envelopes bearing colorful and exotic stamps.
Maybe I keep them for just such a moment
, she thought, knowing their contents by heart: a recent letter from her dear friend John Sebastian Farrell in Africa; a birth announcement from Colin and Sabbahat Ramsey in Turkey; a holiday message from the King of Zabya with a note from his son Hafez, and Christmas cards from Robin and Court Bourke-Jones, from the Trendafilovs, from Magda and Sir Hubert, all of them people she’d met on her adventures.
    Last of all she drew out a soiled and wrinkled postcard that had reached her just last year, a card addressed to Mrs. Emily Pollifax, New Brunswick, New Jersey, the United States of America—no street address, no zip code—so that only a very enterprising postman had rescued it for her. On one side was the picture of a castle; on the opposite side the words:
You remain here still with me, Amerikanski. I do not forget. Tsanko
. *
    Yes, she thought softly, her life had become very rich since that day she found it so purposeless that she had tried to give it away. So many new experiences and so many new friends …
    With a glance at the clock she put away the collection of cards and letters, and carrying her cup of tea into the bedroom she quickly changed into slacks and a shirt. An hour later she was in a back room at police headquarters, wearing her brown karate belt and making obeisances to retired police lieutenant Lorvale Brown before advanced instructions began. Presently shouts of
hi-yah
filled the air because Lorvale believed in attacking with sudden blood-curdling shouts as well as a slice of the hand.
    The next day Bishop called and told her to add two more names to the tour group, that of Iris Damson of Oklahoma, and Joseph P. Forbes from Illionis.
    “Is he my coagent?” she blithely inquired. “Or she?”
    He said with equal cheerfulness, “I’m told it’s raining today in Hong Kong.”
    “Then may I ask instead—now that I’ve had more time to go over the list you gave me—why I’m to carry with me four pounds of chocolate, two pairs of thermal socks, and such an incredible supply of vitamin pills and dried fruits?”
    “It’s just a sneaky way to keep you from taking too many clothes,” he told her. “Now don’t you think you’ve asked enough questions?”
    “Obviously,” she said, and rang off.
    During the next nine days Mrs. Pollifax addressed her Garden Club on The Care and Feeding of Geraniums, including their propagation from seed, studied maps and old
National Geographics
, bought a simple Chinese phrase book for the traveler, and began taking malaria tablets. She invested in a rough straw hat with a swashbuckling brim, notified children and friends of her departure, wrote several newsy letters to Cyrus in Africa, and a