Scirye
Driven by a strong sense of urgency, Scirye and the others didn’t stop where travelers were gathering to wait with their luggage for the bus shuttle. Instead, they kept on going, almost jogging along the causeway and then northeast up a broad street called California Avenue.
At the same time that Pan America had opened its terminal on Treasure Island, San Francisco had also staged a world’s fair there. Most of the fair’s structures had been constructed with cheap materials because they were only meant to be temporary, but the seaplane port’s buildings had been more permanent. The semicircular building on their immediate right had been the fair’s administration building but now served as a control tower and terminal. Farther up the road were two former exhibit halls whose graceful arches and tall windows made them resemble cathedrals, but which were now hangars.
The rest of the fair’s exhibits and gardens were being replaced by other airport facilities and additional hangars. Clearly, business was booming at the seaplane port.
Passengers were bustling in and out of the terminal, the walls of which curved like a giant smile, and they entered through the main doors into a high, spacious lobby. A huge aluminum mobile hung from the ceiling. A globe with the skeletal framework of the continents symbolized the earth. About it bobbed huge rings on which seaplanes had been soldered, suggesting the different flight paths of the airlines. More bold metal artwork adorned the upper part of the surrounding walls, while flowers and small trees served as ornaments to decorate the lower areas.
The noise inside hit them with the force of a tidal wave. Hundreds of people were all chatting in dozens of tongues above the slapping sound of shoes, boots, and sandals on the marble floor. There were diplomats from the Dahomey kingdom, Azteca from the southern realms, Turkomans in fezzes and with mustaches large enough to damage an eye. Brushing shoulders with them were furry kobolds from the Russian steppes and airy ifrits from the Saharan deserts. All that was missing were penguins from Antarctica.
Kles gazed at the different colorful costumes passing by. “This is just like back in Bactra. It almost makes me homesick.”
Scirye, who barely remembered her life there, made a vague grunt.
“Pan American Flight 54 to Honolulu will be leaving shortly,” a voice boomed from a loud speaker.
Bayang scanned the people hurrying by. “I’ve seen Roland’s face in the newspapers and newsreels, but there’s just too many people.”
“Couldn’t we page him?” Scirye offered.
“He’d just send one of his underlings,” Bayang said.
“Sometimes two nostrils are better than a pair of eyes,” Kles said. He turned his head in a slow circle, sampling the air until he straightened. “I’ve caught the thief’s scent.” Then he rubbed his beak with a forepaw, suddenly puzzled. He sniffed again and his gaze fell on Bayang.
“What’s wrong?” the woman asked. “Did you lose the trail?”
Kles’s eyes narrowed suspiciously but all he said was, “No. The thief’s over there.” And he pointed a claw.
“What if he’s already handed the ring to Roland?” Scirye asked.
“Then we’ll see if the thief knows where his former employer is going,” Bayang said, “before we take care of him.”
They followed Kles’s directions through the crowd to the huge Pan American counter where uniformed clerks were taking care of the passengers.
“That’s Roland,” Bayang said in a low voice.
Scirye had been expecting some slick-haired, pencil-mustached villain like in the movies. However, Bayang nodded to a tall, well-built man with long blond hair and delicate features—the kind who might have been seen conducting an orchestra.
He was dressed in a cream velvet coat with wide lapels and white pants. In his hand was a straw panama hat. Scirye had been at enough diplomatic receptions to recognize simple but elegantly tailored clothes.
There were a half dozen suited men and women with him, one of whom was handling the actual tickets.
Kles pointed his beak toward a young man in the back. He might have looked handsome if he didn’t have such a sour expression on his face. “He’s the thief.”
“Keep an eye on them,” Bayang murmured to the children, and then surveyed the terminal until she saw a uniformed airport policeman. A veteran would have slouched comfortably, but this one stood at ramrod attention. Hunching over again like an old woman, she walked toward him. As she drew closer, she saw how young he was— and also eager to prove himself.
“Did you hear about the theft at the museum?” she asked.
The officer nodded toward a bank of lights where new headlines streamed across. “We just saw it now.”
“Well, the thief is right here trying to escape,” she said.
The children were still where she had left them and they signaled to her.
Roland had only moved a few paces away from the counter and was now talking with a beaming, bald-headed man.
Bayang pointed at the disguised dragon. “There’s the thief.”
Roland turned as the determined young officer bore down toward him. “Is there a problem, Officer?”
When the bald-headed man turned, the officer stopped in mid-stride. “What’s the meaning of this, Jenkins?”
Jenkins touched the visor of his cap respectfully. “This lady”— he indicated Bayang—”says that this gentleman”—he waved his hand now at the shape-shifting dragon—”is the museum thief.”
Roland seemed amused. “What sort of prank is this, Pete?”
“One in very poor taste,” Pete said.
It seemed clear to Scirye that Roland’s money was protecting the thief as well as himself. It was too much for the girl to stand and she charged over.
Scirye drew herself up and tried to sound like her mother when she was carrying out official business. “I represent the Kushan Consulate,” the girl announced. “They’ve got the ring.” As she waved a hand at them, the bundle of axes clinked. “Search them all. And their luggage, too.”
“I am the manager of this seaplane port, young lady,” Pete spluttered. “Don’t tell me what to do. And don’t go about making such wild accusations.”
Jenkins looked as if he were having second thoughts. Even so, he stuck to his guns. “Maybe so, sir. But we can’t let them go until we find out the truth.”
The dragon must have had heard the clinking noise from within Scirye’s bundle and took the opportunity to whisper his suspicions in Roland’s ear.
Roland raised his cane and knocked the rolled-up carpet from her arm. Though the fragment hung in the air, the axes with their golden shafts clinked loudly on the marble tiles.
“I believe, Officer,” Roland drawled, “that you’ll find the axes were stolen from the museum.” He motioned his cane toward Bayang and the children. “There are your real thieves.”
Scirye was furious when she saw that Jenkins was staring at them angrily. “He’s lying.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Roland,” Pete apologized.
Roland raised a hand and fluttered his fingers. “No need. The poor granny must have gone senile, and she’s convinced her halfwit grandchildren about her fantasy.” Though he had spoken in a breezy tone, his eyes were hard.
“Jenkins,” Pete said, “take this crazy mob away.”