One Of Our Dinosaurs Is Missing by David Forrest Page B

She paused and took a deep breath. “Dear Sir ... this is a request on behalf of our eldest son, who is, as you may know, a student of archaeology. He wishes to examine the specimens in your famous Early Dinosaur Hall--as they are among the finest available in the world. He will . . “
    Emily panted for a few seconds, then began again. “He will arrive in New York in about fourteen days’ time and will travel incognito. It is unnecessary for you to make any special arrangements, like redecorating the Early Dinosaur Hall or removing the direction signs to the ladies’ lavatories, or deodorizing the drains. Charles is well travelled and knows about things like that. Please just treat him as you would any other Crown Prince.
    “We ask only that he be given every help in the pursuit of his studies ... Yours faithfully ... There, how’s that?”
    “Och, that doesnae sound like a royal letter to us,” said Hettie. “It’s almost sacrilege.”
    “I composed it most carefully,” said Emily, peevishly. “It has to be friendly and chatty, not too formal. Just like an ordinary mother looking after her boy.”
    “How will that letter make them paint the museum?” asked Una.
    “Human nature,” replied Emily. “You wait. It’ll happen.”
    She put the letter back in the envelope and sealed it. Twenty minutes later it was in the hands of the U.S. Post Office. The following morning it was opened by the museum director.
    “Hmmmm.” He handed it back to his secretary. “Check it out with the British Embassy. You never know, might just be right.”
    By five that evening, it was collected, along with other refuse, by the museum garbage man.
     
    Lui Ho cleared his throat and spat noisily, as the thick steam from the Plaza showers gushed into the Tse Eih Aei headquarters.
    “Learn to play the piano,” he said, through the fog. “It is written here, in the book.”
    His spies, relaxing naked or loincloth-clad in their bunks, tried to look wise, and prepared themselves for the inevitable lecture.
    “Our beloved Mao writes that, in playing the piano, all ten fingers are in motion; it won’t do to move some fingers only, and not others.”
    ”But if all ten fingers press down at once, there is no melody. To produce good music, the ten fingers should move rhythmically and in co-ordination.” Lui Ho paused. On his bunk, Fat Choy counted his fingers. He could find only eight, and two thumbs. He suddenly felt sorry for himself. Mao Tse-tung was NEVER wrong. Therefore he, Fat Choy, must be deformed.
    “It means that we fingers must work in rhythm,” continued Lui Ho. He peered at Sam Ling, whose head was contained in a turban-like bandage. “Two of our fingers were not working rhythmically today, were they? Wounded? Wounded? How does one get oneself wounded in an ice cream barrow?”
    “I was wounded, almost trepanned, by a certain colleague who forgot which was the dummy barrel, and tried to spoon ten cents’ worth of my head into a cornet,” protested Sam Ling.
    “But, Comrade Leader, I made a day’s profit of nine dollars, fifty-three cents,” said Chou-Tan, proudly.
    “Good,” replied Lui Ho. “Dollars are always useful. And now . . . play back the recording of the nanny-ladies’ meeting.”
    The spies listened as the tapes spun through the machine. Lui Ho’s frown wrinkled back on to his scalp.
    “Those strange noises are smackings, and children crying,” explained Sam Ling. “And one must remember to ignore the normal domestic conversation. You will readily see that these nanny-ladies lack any form of sophistication in the art of intrigue.”
    “Will their plan work?” asked Pi Wun Tun. He hoped that no one would suddenly suggest they should all stand to salute Chairman Mao’s portraits, as the soft voices of the nannies and the slapping noises had given him an erection.
    Sam Ling shook his head in silent reply.
    “Then,” said Lui Ho. “Tonight we will mount our portable short-range rocket