“It sure does,” Allison agreed. “Those confounded soft drink ads are plastered all over the world.”
“Here is where you sign up. I was down yesterday,” Stan said. “Still want to head for China?”
O’Malley eyed the dilapidated building, then his eyes moved up and down the street crowded with similar shacks.
“Sure, an’ I’m struck dumb with admiration by the elegance o’ their headquarters, but if they have planes and petrol I’m joinin’ up.”
“They have both,” Stan assured him.
“Suppose we have a look inside,” Allison suggested.
Stan tapped on the wall beside the door. After a brief wait the matting swung aside and a brown face appeared. Two glittering, black eyes regarded them. The doorman was a Malay, smaller than the average. His lips were stained red from chewing betel nut and his skin was a rich red-brown.
“Come,” he beckoned softly.
Stan shoved O’Malley forward and Allison dropped in behind. They entered a small room lighted by yellow rays which filtered in through a screen covering a high window. The room was divided into two parts by a long grass curtain decorated with painted cherry trees and mountains. Against this backdrop sat a gaunt Chinese at a small desk. He wore a white jacket and a pair of billowing pants. His deep-set eyes peered out at the three fliers from unmoving lids. Slowly he lifted a bony hand to his chin and fingered its carved outline.
“Welcome,” he said in a soft voice. “Welcome and please sit down.”