Free Mrs. Pollifax on the China Station by Dorothy Gilman

thanking her now with pleasure. “Now we see, yes,” he said. He turned and spoke sharply to one of the men holding a picture and snatched it back, rubbing away a smudge of dirt before he returned it to her. One by one the snapshots arrived in her hands and she put them away. It seemed an auspicious moment to withdraw. “I go now,” she told them all, bowing. “Good night and thank you!
Zai jian!
”
    “
Good
day,” they called, laughing with her, and as she left they surged again toward Malcolm and his sketchbook.
    Mrs. Pollifax wandered on along the path, ignoring a charming arched bridge over a pond and drawn toward a mysterious bright light in the distance. Iris, catching up with her, said, “I’m ready to go back, it’s growing dark.”
    “Hi there,” called Jenny, emerging from a side path. “Going back?”
    “Yes,” said Mrs. Pollifax, “but not until I’ve investigated that bright light ahead. I’m curious—I noticed it when we entered the park and it’s still there.”
    “Noises, too,” contributed Iris as they strolled toward it.
    “Of people?” asked Jenny doubtfully.
    “Weird sounds,” Iris decided. “People and engines. An adventure for us maybe?”
    “Definitely,” said Mrs. Pollifax happily. “Let’s look and find out.”
    Out of the darkness, the light emerging from its interior, appeared a circular wooden structure with steps leading to the top and the silhouette of heads lining a platform that encircled the structure. “Yes, yes,” said the solitary attendant leaning against a step, and untied a rope to allow them free entry. They mounted narrow precipitous wooden stairs—up, up, toward the suffused brilliant light—to find themselves peering down into an arena with gently sloping sides.
    “Good heavens,” breathed Iris, “it’s like looking into a barrel, it’s so small. Look—two motorcycles!”
    As they watched, two splendidly dressed young men emerged from a small door and mounted the cycles, the crowd murmured appreciatively, the young men bowed, grinned, rev’d up the engines to a roar, rode once around the floor, and then as they gained speed they sent their cycles upward and into the curve of the wall. Mrs. Pollifax braced herself as the cyclists circled higher and higher, engines roaring, the platform creaking and trembling and shuddering under her feet. The cyclists became perpendicular now, and for one moment she thought they might shoot out over the top, taking people and platform with them (headline:
Xian, People’s Republic: In China today dozens were killed when two performing cyclists went out of control and careened into the audience. Among the dead, three American tourists, as yet unidentified
.), and then the engines slackened, the momentum was aborted and—perhaps most difficult of all—the two shining young gods guided their vehicles down, still spinning off the walls, reachedbottom, and came to an earth-trembling stop. Off came the helmets; the cheers were thunderous and joyful.
    Mrs. Pollifax joined the applause; it was over, they had arrived at the end. Slowly they descended the steps with the crowd, to the hard-packed earth where a single light now illuminated the path. “Now
that
,” she said, “was slightly incredible.”
    “So was that platform,” commented Jenny. “It felt like an upside-down bushel basket and just as frail. I was scared to death.”
    “Never mind, it was fun,” breathed Iris, her eyes shining.
    Already the lights were being extinguished all over the park; nothing was wasted, it was nine o’clock, the television screen was dark, the park emptying. They walked out onto the avenue where the small garish lamps of the vendors shone like fireflies in the darkness. People lingered, chatting, under the dim light of the occasional streetlamp, some strolling in pairs, some hurrying home, a few on bicycles.
    “Now which way did we come?” asked Iris.
    “Oh—down that road,” Mrs. Pollifax said, pointing.
    Jenny