Free Unexpected Mrs. Pollifax by Dorothy Gilman Page A

intravenously.”
    “Intravenously!” she gasped. “But
why
?”
    “To keep us alive.” He leaned forward and said in a low voice, “That’s not all, there’s something else. The plane I heard landing back there in Mexico was a propeller job. The plane we’re traveling in now is a jet.”
    In astonishment Mrs. Pollifax took note of the sound of the engines. “Why so it is!” She stared at him with incredulous eyes. “Wh-what does it mean, do you think?”
    He said quietly, “I think we’ve been unconscious for a longer time than we realized. I think we’ve been unconsciousfor a whole day instead of a few hours. I think this must be
another
night, and we met
yesterday
in that shack, not today. I think they must have landed us somewhere during the day where they switched planes and took the precaution of feeding us intravenously so that we wouldn’t die on their hands.”
    Mrs. Pollifax put down her cards with finality. It was not difficult to follow his reasoning to its obvious conclusion. “But jets travel very fast,” she said, her eyes fastened on his face. “And if we have been traveling for such a long time—”
    He nodded. “Exactly. I don’t think that you are going to see Cuba after all.”
    “Not see Cuba,” she echoed, and then, “but where…?” On second thought Mrs. Pollifax stifled this question; it was much better left unsaid. Instead she said in a voice that trembled only a little, “I do hope Miss Hartshorne is remembering to water my geraniums.”

CHAPTER 8
    It was still night when they began their descent through the clouds—through the very stars, seemingly—and Mrs. Pollifax felt a flutter of excited dread such as she had often felt as a child when the dentist beckoned her into his office, saying it was her turn now. She pressed her face to the glass, staring in amazement at the unearthly convolutions and formations below.
    “Mountains,” said Farrell, frowning. “High ones, some of them snow-covered.” His gaze went from them to the stars, assessing, appraising, judging, his eyes narrowed.
    Mrs. Pollifax watched him hopefully, but he did not say what he was thinking or on what continent such mountains might be. The flight continued, with Farrell’s glance constantly moving from earth to sky. “We’re going to land,” he said suddenly.
    Mrs. Pollifax leaned forward. A scattering of lights increased in density, the plane wheeled and began its approach to the runway. Mrs. Pollifax braced herself—there were no seat belts on this plane—and suddenly the earth was rushing past her with dizzying speed, they touched land and taxied to a very bumpy stop. Mrs. Pollifax gathered up her playing cards and put them in her purse. The door to the cockpit opened and two men they had not seen before walked in, one of them carryinga revolver. The other drew out keys and unshackled their ankles. Both were Chinese. The door was pulled away and by gestures it was indicated that Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell were to get out. This was accomplished only with difficulty because there was nothing more than a wooden ladder propped against the side of the plane, and for illumination a flashlight was shone on its rungs. Mrs. Pollifax descended into an oppressively warm night that gave the feeling of new heat lying in wait for sunrise. The two men waiting for them at the bottom of the ladder were not Orientals and she saw Farrell stare intently into their faces. To Mrs. Pollifax they looked—perhaps Greek, she decided, recalling an evening spent in Miss Hartshorne’s apartment viewing slides on Greece; at least to Mrs. Pollifax their skin had that same similarity to the skin of an olive, moist and supple and smooth. She saw Farrell glance from them to the mountains behind the plane and then again at the stars in the sky. She said anxiously, “It’s not Cuba, is it.”
    He shook his head.
    “Do you know—have you any idea
where
we may be?”
    His eyes narrowed. He said grimly, “If my guess is