The one constructive suggestion I can make is that you ask about your friend at the American Embassy. If he's an academic type, they should have some record of him, an itinerary."

"Who could I ask?"

"The culture vultures would be most likely to know, but they are turds to a man.

Try the consul, Steve Powell. He won't know, but he's the kind of guy who could find out."

"At the consulate?"

"Never on Thursday mornings. Steve plays tennis every Thursday. Over at the International Club, the courts they call the Rockpit. Do you know where it is?"

"I've passed it."

"I have to go out, but you're welcome to use the corporate bicycle."

"Corporate bicycle?"

"No correspondent is complete without one," said McCarthy, fishing a small key off a large ring. "Downstairs at the bike rack, license number oh-oh-two-seven-two. It's black, like all the rest of them. Do you know how to get there?"

"I have a map, thanks. Do you ride much?"

"Only in the line of duty."

Seen from a hotel window or a tourist bus, the infinite procession of bicycles is one of China's most impressive sights. On every major street, broad lanes are reserved for bicycles. Even in downtown Peking they outnumber the trucks and cars by a thousand to one. Alice and her friends rhapsodized about the bicycles.

They could talk for hours, insulated in the air-conditioned bus, of the silent, measured stream, as massive and as unstoppable as the Yangtze. They found in the bicycles a symbol of the progressive New China. At faculty teas it would, no doubt, sound quite profound.

Stratton learned some different things before he had wobbled two blocks. For one thing, the Chinese bicycle, copy of old English Raleigh though it may be, is more tank than scooter. It weighs a ton, steers hard and pedals harder.

McCarthy's corporate bike had no gears, and by the time Stratton passed the old imperial observatory he was sweating.