appeared on the deck, and the sailors quickly covered him with a blanket.
“He’s disguised himself as a human,” Bayang said.
Immediately, the water churned at the boat’s stern. The anchor slid up, water dripping from its flukes. The yacht began to move straight ahead toward Treasure Island and the International Seaplane Terminal that the artificial island housed.
“I’ve heard some collectors pay thieves to steal art treasures for them,” Leech said.
“They’d never be able to show it,” Scirye objected.
Leech had heard rumors about that on the street. “They don’t care,” he said, trying to sound worldly-wise, “as long as they get to enjoy it in private.”
“But why the ring?” Koko wondered.
Scirye touched the axe in her belt. “We’ll ask him when we catch him,” she said grimly.
As they sped after the yacht, a water sprite turned from his chore of cleaning the rust from a buoy to watch them pass. Leech waved in greeting but twisted around and looked up excitedly when he heard a roar of great propellers. A plane was sliding slowly out of the sky like some lovely silver bird. Its wings stuck out from the plane’s top with four propellers spinning so fast that they looked more like flashing disks. Smaller wings extended from its belly and its body tapered gracefully into three tails.
“It’s a Pan American Clipper!” he said, pointing. “I was hoping we’d see one. They say the Germans have a bigger one now, but they don’t crisscross the world like the Clippers do.”
Koko rolled his eyes. “Why do you have to be so bonkers about planes?”
Leech was capable of talking about planes for an hour, but his friend had made him feel self-conscious so he shut up, watching instead with gleaming eyes as the Clipper landed. Its elegantly curved hull skipped across the surface like a stone, leaving white splashes in its wake, the distances shortening between the touchdowns until the seaplane finally stayed on the surface. The bottom pair of wingssteadied it as it glided forward, once again a thing of grace. The pilot killed the engines on the left wing so that it turned in a circle, aiming toward the pier ahead.
The whole world seemed to be arriving at or leaving Treasure Island, which had taken six years for engineers to create out of the bay. Seaplanes of all sizes bobbed up and down at the other piers, for this was a hub. Here passengers could transfer to smaller seaplanes to fly on to other destinations or use the bridge to go into San Francisco to the west or Oakland to the east. Trucks loaded with crates and luggage trundled back and forth among the streams of people bustling to and from the large terminal.
At the northernmost pier, tractors hauled a seaplane onto a submerged, wheeled trailer so that they could roll it onto dry land and into one of the huge rectangular hangars. The tractors looked like little yellow chicks fussing over a plump mother hen.
Farther south, connected by a road, was the smaller Yerba Buena Island, formerly Goat Island, where commercial ship piers had been added to the Coast Guard Station. The beacon in the lighthouse and the foghorns had all been turned off in the bright, clear sunlight. It was here that the surface ships landed, their passengers traveling over to Treasure Island by means of a narrow causeway. Piers and wharves jutted from the sides of the island as thick as whiskers where dozens of sea taxis and private and public boats and ferries bobbed up and down, but they finally picked out the dragon’s yacht.
“Keep an eye out for incoming boats and planes,” Bayang warned.
There was a shout and a loud, angry squawk. She turned to see Leech lying on his back as feathers fluttered down on his chest and a large, indignant seagull flapped away.
“And seagulls,” Scirye said, trying her best not to laugh.
Koko had no such inhibitions. “He must’ve thought you were a hamburger,” he teased. “Come to think of it, there is a
“He’s disguised himself as a human,” Bayang said.
Immediately, the water churned at the boat’s stern. The anchor slid up, water dripping from its flukes. The yacht began to move straight ahead toward Treasure Island and the International Seaplane Terminal that the artificial island housed.
“I’ve heard some collectors pay thieves to steal art treasures for them,” Leech said.
“They’d never be able to show it,” Scirye objected.
Leech had heard rumors about that on the street. “They don’t care,” he said, trying to sound worldly-wise, “as long as they get to enjoy it in private.”
“But why the ring?” Koko wondered.
Scirye touched the axe in her belt. “We’ll ask him when we catch him,” she said grimly.
As they sped after the yacht, a water sprite turned from his chore of cleaning the rust from a buoy to watch them pass. Leech waved in greeting but twisted around and looked up excitedly when he heard a roar of great propellers. A plane was sliding slowly out of the sky like some lovely silver bird. Its wings stuck out from the plane’s top with four propellers spinning so fast that they looked more like flashing disks. Smaller wings extended from its belly and its body tapered gracefully into three tails.
“It’s a Pan American Clipper!” he said, pointing. “I was hoping we’d see one. They say the Germans have a bigger one now, but they don’t crisscross the world like the Clippers do.”
Koko rolled his eyes. “Why do you have to be so bonkers about planes?”
Leech was capable of talking about planes for an hour, but his friend had made him feel self-conscious so he shut up, watching instead with gleaming eyes as the Clipper landed. Its elegantly curved hull skipped across the surface like a stone, leaving white splashes in its wake, the distances shortening between the touchdowns until the seaplane finally stayed on the surface. The bottom pair of wingssteadied it as it glided forward, once again a thing of grace. The pilot killed the engines on the left wing so that it turned in a circle, aiming toward the pier ahead.
The whole world seemed to be arriving at or leaving Treasure Island, which had taken six years for engineers to create out of the bay. Seaplanes of all sizes bobbed up and down at the other piers, for this was a hub. Here passengers could transfer to smaller seaplanes to fly on to other destinations or use the bridge to go into San Francisco to the west or Oakland to the east. Trucks loaded with crates and luggage trundled back and forth among the streams of people bustling to and from the large terminal.
At the northernmost pier, tractors hauled a seaplane onto a submerged, wheeled trailer so that they could roll it onto dry land and into one of the huge rectangular hangars. The tractors looked like little yellow chicks fussing over a plump mother hen.
Farther south, connected by a road, was the smaller Yerba Buena Island, formerly Goat Island, where commercial ship piers had been added to the Coast Guard Station. The beacon in the lighthouse and the foghorns had all been turned off in the bright, clear sunlight. It was here that the surface ships landed, their passengers traveling over to Treasure Island by means of a narrow causeway. Piers and wharves jutted from the sides of the island as thick as whiskers where dozens of sea taxis and private and public boats and ferries bobbed up and down, but they finally picked out the dragon’s yacht.
“Keep an eye out for incoming boats and planes,” Bayang warned.
There was a shout and a loud, angry squawk. She turned to see Leech lying on his back as feathers fluttered down on his chest and a large, indignant seagull flapped away.
“And seagulls,” Scirye said, trying her best not to laugh.
Koko had no such inhibitions. “He must’ve thought you were a hamburger,” he teased. “Come to think of it, there is a
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