Free Mrs. Pollifax on the China Station by Dorothy Gilman

words;
hadn’t it been the Chinese who first said this ?
    Her friend was 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, reached bottom, 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. ”If 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