“Plenty of small plateaus. Some of them have been cleared for farming.”
Biff picked up a drawing compass. He adjusted its opening to fit the five-hundred-mile mark on the scale of miles at the bottom of the map. Then, placing the steel point on the dot marking Unhao, he swirled the compass. The pencil end cut right through the area Jack was describing.
“Nice figuring, Jack.” A faraway look floated across Biff’s face.
“Hey! You’re not getting any ideas, are you?” Jack demanded. “An American boy could never make it across the border. Natives, sure—but you—never.”
Maybe not, thought Biff, but in his thoughts, he was already there.
CHAPTER IX
Into the Jungle
A light-skinned boy could never make it. That thought, first suggested by Chuba, restated by Jack Hudson, kept running through Biff’s head. The Chinese Reds’ border patrol would spot a white boy instantly. Biff remembered stories he had read of Americans captured in Red China. The stories weren’t pleasant.
Biff left Headquarters House deep in thought. He walked slowly across the compound. Chuba was waiting for him in the palm grove.
“Biff has big thoughts?” was Chuba’s greeting. “Maybe Chuba can help.”
“Maybe you can, Chuba. Maybe you just can. I’ve got an idea. See what you think of it.”