Read Mrs. Pollifax on the China Station for Free Online Page B

tastes like egg, it just looks rather odd, as if it had been left out of the refrigerator too long.”
    Jenny said, “I believe they’re soaked in brine or something, and buried in the earth.”
    “The food’s coming with frightening speed now,” pointed out Malcolm across the table as the waiter brought still another platter to the table. “Sweet and sour something,” he announced, spearing a piece between chopsticks and delivering it to his mouth before passing it on. “How many meals will be Chinese on our trip?”
    “It is good, you all using chopsticks,” said Mr. Li. “Very good. You, Mr. Fox—press fingers a little higher,” he told Peter, receiving a hostile glance in return. “The food? After tomorrow no Western food.”
    “Not even breakfast?” gasped Jenny.
    “Chinese breakfast.”
    “What fun,” cried Iris with a radiant smile.
    “I’ve been studying Chinese this last year,” Joe Forbes told him across the table. “I’d like to try it out on you now and then. For instance, would I be called a
da bi zi?
”
    Both Mr. Li and Mr. Tung burst out laughing.
“Xiao hua,”
cried Mr. Li enthusiastically.
    “Meaning what?” asked Jenny.
    Joe Forbes said, “I
hope
I asked if I’d be called a ‘long nose’ among the Chinese—except it’s so damn easy to get the tones wrong. Did I?”
    “You did, yes,” Mr. Tung assured him, “and Comrade Li said
Xiao hua
, meaning ‘a joke’!”
    “Surely we’re called round eyes, not long noses,” asked Malcolm.
    “Anyway not foreign devils anymore,” contributed Jenny.
    “Capitalist-roaders?” suggested Iris, grinning.
    Mr. Tung gave an embarrassed laugh. Mr. Li lifted hisglass of pale orange soda pop and said, “Let us toast to Chinese-American friendship!”
    Mrs. Pollifax raised her own glass of soda. The others lifted their glasses of Chinese beer, which she promised herself she would try the next day, since water was advised against, the tea extremely weak, and the soda tasted rather like flavored water. In the meantime she waited to ask George Westrum just what his government service might have been. He was a silent man but he talked well when he did speak; his face was expressionless, even harsh, but there was that occasional twinkle of humor that suggested other dimensions. He must certainly have retired early—as CIA men often did, Bishop had told her—because he looked to be still in his fifties, and he was obviously strong. She felt that he was noticing everyone and everything—watching and alert—and she was amused that he had especially noticed Iris.
    But there was no opportunity to question George Westrum further. Mr. Li, pleased that Forbes was learning Mandarin, at once grasped the chance to practice his English, and their exchange of words occupied the others. “Yes, I teach history,” Forbes was saying, “in a small Midwestern university.” He was smiling but Mrs. Pollifax realized that actually he did not smile all the time, it was merely an illusion caused by the arrangement of his features, but definitely smiling now, she could see the difference.
    “Professor?” said Iris, and made a startled gesture that struck a nearby bottle of beer and sent it rolling off the table. Iris turned scarlet. “Oh,” she gasped. “Oh I’m terrible sorry.” She dropped her napkin and started after it.
    Malcolm placed a firm hand on her arm. “Please,” he said with a smile. “Not again. Let me do the honors this time.”
    “Oh! Oh thank you,” said Iris, her cheeks burning.
    But a waiter had rushed to the table to wipe up the spilled beer, just as another waiter arrived bearing a huge soup tureen. “Now that looks too heavy for Iris to tip over,” Jenny said, with a laugh.
    “I understand soup means the end of a meal in your country,” Joe Forbes put in. “In America we have it first, you know.”
    Mr. Tung looked appalled.
    “We feel,” explained Mr. Li gently, “that it belongs at the end. To settle the