Mrs. Pollifax on the China Station

until I’ve officially disappeared.”
    She glanced over their itinerary. ”And when—when will
the—uh—disappearance happen?” The words had stuck in her throat, she couldn’t
think why; it seemed a simple enough question.
    ”At the grasslands, directly after we’ve visited Turfan. On Thursday.”
    ”Thursday,” she repeated, nodding. And this was Monday... three more
days. Until he officially died, leaving no body behind. She said carefully,
”Why has it been so important that we go to Turfan first?”
    He waited as a workman passed, wheeling a cart filled with bricks. ”To
hide things there. A cache,” he explained. ”If you look at your map you’ll find
Turfan’s a desert oasis four hours by car south of Urumchi, and on the same
route that X and I will take as we head for the mountains. We can collect food
and blankets there on our way, since I can scarcely disappear with a suitcase.”
    He sounded pleased; she glanced into his face and found no hint of
tension or fear. ”That’s very clever,” she told him, adding dryly, ”I forgive
you here and now that forgotten drinking glass.”
    ”Forgotten what?”
    ”Never mind... Peter, does it have to be the mountains, isn’t there any
other way? You must have brought identification papers that would take you
anywhere.”
    ”Forged identity papers,” he pointed out. ”Nice authentic forged ones,
yes. Four of them, actually, to cover a variety of people and intricacies of
disguise and destinations.”
    She said earnestly, ”Then why can’t you and X leave the country an
easier way? Those mountains, Peter—even if it is summer!”
    ”What easier way?” asked Peter. ”Easier how? Think a minute. We’re more
than three thousand miles from Peking right now, and not much closer than that
to Canton . To
head for either would mean train, bus, plane, hiking, and remember X and I
won’t be traveling as American tourists, we’ll be natives, subject to
checkpoints and queries. No, there are too many variables,” he said with a
shake of his head. ”Too many bottlenecks, risks, and cliff-hangers, whereas the
mountains are only six hundred miles away from where we are now. And besides,”
he added mischievously, ”we just might meet the ‘Mother-Queen of the West’
somewhere in the Kunluns.”
    ” ‘Mother-Queen of the West!’ ”
    He nodded. ”There are surviving records of an adventurous emperor back
in 600 b.c. who liked to go exploring. His name
was Wa Tei and he went off traveling in the west with his retinue—a large one,
I gather—and he’s said to have penetrated as far as the Kunlun mountains that
divide Tibet and Khotan. That’s where he met the Mother-Queen of the West— a kind of Queen
of Sheba person—who ruled this strange top-of-the-world land. He was lavishly
entertained and brought back stories that have turned into myths and legends,
rather like Homer’s tales. Except,” he added, with a smile, ”a good many of
Homer’s stories were assumed to have been myths and turned out to be real. Who
knows, it could happen to me!”
    ”A Shangri-la,” breathed Mrs. Pollifax, her eyes shining. ”How
absolutely wonderful!”
    ”Of course,” he added, ”it may have been a scruffy little mountain
village full of dirt and lice—”
    ”Don’t,” she begged. ”I demand a Shangri-la.”
    ”Mrs. Pollifax, you’re a romantic.”
    ”I know,” she told him happily. ”I am, I insist on it—but so are you, I
think?”
    ”Guilty,” he acknowledged with a boyish grin. ”But legends aside, it’s
true that it may be more rugged skirting the Tarim Basin and the desert but we
can travel by night on donkeys, avoid people almost entirely, and go at our own
speed. And there is a British weather expedition somewhere in those
mountains if we can find it.”
    ”As well as the ghost of the Mother-Queen of the West.” She nodded. ”Of
course as soon as you mentioned that I knew there wasn’t a shred of hope
that you’d change your mind. A British weather expedition sounds rather
persuasive, too.”
    ”If it can be found,” he said politely.
    ”If it can be found,” she agreed politely, and thought how unreal it was
to be sitting here looking out on a dusty alley lined with sheds, tools, and
carts and discussing with Peter a mere six-hundred-mile stroll toward mountain
ranges that peaked at 28,000 feet. I wish Cyrus were here, she thought
suddenly, and wondered if he was back in Connecticut yet; it was so very
difficult