King Rat

Chapter 14

Getting out of the camp was too simple. Just a short dash to a shadowed part of the six-wire fence, then easily through and a quick run into the jungle. When they stopped to catch their breath, Peter Marlowe wished he were safely back talking to Mac or Larkin or even Grey.

All this time, he told himself, I've been wanting to be out, and now when I am, I'm frightened to death.

It was weird-on the outside, looking in. From where they were they could see into the camp. The American hut was a hundred yards away. Men were walking up and down. Hawkins was walking his dog. A Korean guard was strolling the camp. Lights were off in the various huts and the evening check had long since been made. Yet the camp was alive with the sleepless. It was always thus.

"C'mon Peter," the King whispered and led the way deeper into the foliage.

The planning had been good. So far. When he had arrived at the hut, the King was already prepared. "Got to have tools to do a job right," he had said, showing him a well-oiled pak of Jap boots — crepe soles and soft noiseless leather — and the "outfit," a pak of black Chinese pants and short blouse.

Only Dino was in the know about the trip. He had bundled up the two kits and dumped them secretly in the jumping-off point. Then he had returned, and when all was clear Peter Marlowe and the King had walked out casually, saying that they were playing bridge with Larkin and another Aussie. They had had to wait a nerve-wracking half hour before the way was clear for them to run into the storm drain beside the wire and change into their outfits and mud their faces and hands. Another quarter hour before they could run to the fence unobserved. Once they were through and in position, Dino had collected their discarded clothes.

Jungle at night. Eerie. But Peter Marlowe felt at home. It was just like Java, just like the surrounds of his own village, so his nervousness subsided a little.

The King led the way unerringly. He had made the trip five times before.

He walked along, every sense alert. There was one guard to pass. This guard had no fixed beat, just a wandering patrol. But the King knew that most times the guard found a clearing somewhere and went to sleep.

After an anxious time, a time when every rotten stick or leaf seemed to shout their passing, and every living branch seemed to want to hold them back, they came to the path. They were past the guard. The path led to the sea. And then the village.

They crossed the path and began to circle. Above the heavy ceiling of foliage, a half-moon stuck in the cloudless sky. Just the right amount of light for safety.

Freedom. No circling wire and no people. Privacy at last. And it was a sudden nightmare to Peter Marlowe.

"What's up, Peter?" the King whispered, feeling something wrong.

"Nothing . . . it's just-well, being outside is such a shock."

"You'll get used to it." The King glanced at his watch. "Got about a mile to go. We're ahead of schedule, so we'd better wait."

He found an overgrowth of twisted vine and fallen trees and leaned against it. "We can take it easy here."

They waited and listened to the jungle. Crickets, frogs, sudden twitters.

Sudden silences. The rustle of an unknown beast.

"I could use a smoke."

"Me too."

"Not here though." The King's mind was alive. Half was listening to the jungle. The other was racing and rehashing the pattern of the deal to be.

Yes, he told himself, it's a good plan.

He checked the time. The minute hand went slowly. But it gave him more time to plan. The more time you plan before a deal, the better it is. No slip-ups and a bigger profit. Thank God for profit! The guy who thought of business was the real genius. Buy for a little and sell for more. Use your mind. Take a chance and money pours in. And with money all things are possible. Most of all, power.

When I get out, the King thought, I'm going to be a millionaire. I'm going to make so much money that it's going to make Fort Knox look like a piggy-bank. I'll build an organization. The organization'll be fitted with guys, loyal but sheep. Brains you can always buy. And once you know a guy's price you can use him or abuse him at will. That's what makes the world go round. There are the elite, and the rest. I'm the elite. I'm going to stay that way.

No more being kicked around or shoved from town to town. That's past. I was a kid then. Tied to Pa — tied to a man who waited tables or jerked gas or delivered phone books or trucked junk or whined handouts to get a bottle. Then cleaning up the mess. Never again. Now others are going to clean up my mess. All I need is the dough.

"All men are created equal… certain inalienable rights." Thank God for America, the King told himself for the billionth time. Thank God I was born American. "It's God's country," he said, half to himself.

"What?"

"The States."

"Why?"

"Only place in the world where you can buy anything, where you got a chance to make it. That's important if you're not born into it, Peter, and only a goddam few are. But if you're not — and you want to work — why, there're so many goddam opportunities, they make your hair curl. An' if a guy doesn't work and help himself, then he's no goddam good, and no goddam American, and —"

"Listen!" Peter Marlowe warned, suddenly on guard. From the distance came the faint tread of approaching footsteps.

"It's a man," whispered Peter Marlowe, sliding deeper into the protection of the foliage. "A native."

"How the hell d'you know?"

"Wearing native clogs. I'd say he was old. He's shuffling. Listen, you can hear his breath now."

Moments later the native appeared from the gloaming and walked the path unconcerned. He was an old man and on his shoulders was a dead wild pig. They watched him pass and disappear.

"He noticed us," said Peter Marlowe, concerned.

"The hell he did."

"No, I'm sure he did. Maybe he thought it was a Jap guard, but I was watching his feet. You can always tell if you're spotted that way. He missed a beat in his stride."

"Maybe it was a crack in the path or a stick."

Peter Marlowe shook his head.

Friend or enemy? thought the King feverishly. If he's from the village then we're okay. The whole village knew when the King was coming, for they got their share from Cheng San, his contact. I didn't recognize him, but that's not surprising, for a lot of the natives were out night-fishing when I went before. What to do?

"We'll wait, then make a quick recco. If he's hostile, he'll go to the village, then report to the elder. The elder'll give us a sign to get the hell out."

"You think you can trust them?"

"I can, Peter." He started off again. "Keep twenty yards in back of me."

They found the village easily. Almost too easily, Peter Marlowe thought to himself suspiciously. From their position, on the rise, they surveyed it. A few Malays were squatting smoking on a veranda. A pig grunted here and there. Surrounding the village were coconut palm trees, and beyond it, the phosphorescent surf. A few boats, sails curled, fishing nets hanging still.

No feel of danger.

"Seems all right to me," Peter Marlowe whispered.

The King nudged him abruptly. On the veranda of the headman's hut was the headman and the man they had seen. The two Malays were deep in conversation, then a distant laugh broke the stillness and the man came down the steps.

They heard him call out. In a moment a woman came running. She took the pig from his shoulders, carried it to the fire-coals and put it on the spit.

In a moment there were other Malays, joking, laughing, grouped around.

"There he is!" exclaimed the King.

Walking up the shore was a tall Chinese. Behind him a native furled the sails of the small fishing craft. He joined the headman and they made their soft salutations and they squatted down to wait.

"Okay," grinned the King, "here we go."

He got up and, keeping to the shadows, circled carefully. On the back of the headman's hut a ladder soared to the veranda, high off the ground.

The King was up it, Peter Marlowe close behind. Almost immediately they heard the ladder scrape away.

"Tabe," smiled the King as Cheng San and Sutra, the headman, entered.

"Good you see, tuan," said the headman, groping for English words. "You makan-eat yes?" His smile showed betel-nut-stained teeth.

"Trima kassih — thanks." The King put out his hand to Cheng San. "How you been, Cheng San?"

"Me good or' time. You see I —" Cheng San sought the word and then it came. "Here, good time maybe or' same."

The King indicated Peter Marlowe. "Ichi-bon friend. Peter, say something to them, you know, greetings and all that jazz. Get to work, boy." He smiled and pulled out a pack of Kooas, offering them around.

"My friend and I thank thee for thy welcome," Peter Marlowe began. "We appreciate thy kindness to ask if we will eat with thee, knowing that in these times there is a lack. Surely only a snake in the jungle would refuse to accept the kindness of thy offer."

Both Cheng San and the headman broke into huge smiles.

"Wah-lah," Cheng San said. "It will be good to be able to talk through thee to my friend Rajah all the words that are in my miserable mouth. Many times have I wanted to say that which neither I nor my good friend Sutra here could find the words to say. Tell the Rajah that he is a wise and clever man to find such a fluent interpreter."

"He says I make a good mouthpiece," said Peter Marlowe happily, now calm and safe. "And he's glad he can now give you the straight stuff."

"For the love of God stick to your well-bred Limey talk. That mouthpiece mishmash makes you look like a bum yet."

"Oh, and I've been studying Max assiduously," Peter Marlowe said, crestfallen.

"Well, don't."

"He also called you Rajah! That's your nickname from here on. I mean

'here on in'."

"Crap off, Peter!"

"Up yours, brother!"

"C'mon, Peter, we haven't much time. Tell Cheng San this. About this deal. I'm gonna —"

"You can't talk business yet, old man," said Peter Marlowe, shocked.

"You'll hurt everything. First we'll have to have some coffee and something to eat, then we can start."

"Tell 'em now."

"If I do, they'll be very offended. Very. You can take my word for it."

The King thought for a moment. Well, he told himself, if you buy brains, it's bad business not to use them — unless you've got a hunch. That's where the smart businessman makes or breaks — when he plays a hunch over the so-called brains. But in this case he didn't have a hunch, so he just nodded. "Okay, have it your way."

He puffed his cigarette, listening to Peter Marlowe speak to them. He studied Cheng San obliquely. His clothes were better than the last time.

He wore a new ring that looked like a sapphire, maybe five carats. His neat, clean, hairless face was honey-toned and his hair well-groomed.

Yep, Cheng San was doing all right for himself. Now old Sutra, he's not doing so good. His sarong's old and tattered at the'hem. No jewelry. Last time he had a gold ring. Now he hasn't, and the crease mark where his ring had been worn was almost unnoticeable. That meant he hadn't just taken it off for tonight's show.

He heard the women off in the other part of the hut chattering softly, and outside, the quietness of the village by night. Through the glassless window came the smell of roasting pig. That meant the village was really in need of Cheng San — their black-market outlet for the fish the village was supposed to sell directly to the Japs — and were making him a gift of the pig. Or perhaps the old man who had just trapped a wild pig was having a party for his friends. But the crowd around the fire was waiting anxiously, just as anxiously as us. Sure, they're hungry too. That means that things must be tough in Singapore. The village should be well stocked with food and drink and everything. Cheng San couldn't be doing too well smuggling their fish to the markets. Maybe the Japs had their eye on him.

Maybe he's not long for this earth!

So maybe he needs the village more than the village needs him. And is putting on a show for them — clothes and jewelry. Maybe Sutra's getting pissed off with lack of business and is ready to dump him for another black-marketeer.

"Hey, Peter," he said, "Ask Cheng San how's the fish biz in Singapore."

Peter Marlowe translated the question.

"He says that business is fine. Food shortages are such that he is able to obtain the best prices on the island. But he says the Japs are clamping down heavily. It's becoming harder to trade every day. And to break the market laws is becoming more and more expensive."

Aha! Got you. The King exulted. So Cheng hasn't come just for my deal! It is fish and the village. Now how can I turn this to my advantage? Betcha Cheng San's having trouble delivering the merchandise. Maybe the Japs intercepted some boats and got tough. Old Sutra's no fool. No money, no deal, and Cheng San knows it. No makee tradee, no makee business and old Sutra'll sell to another. Yes, sir. So the King knew he could trade tough and mentally upped his asking price.

Then food arrived. Baked sweet potatoes, fried eggplant, coconut milk, thick slices of roasted pork, heavy with oil. Bananas. Papayas. The King marked that there was no millionaire's cabbage or lamb or beef and no sweetmeats the Malays loved so much. Yeah, things were tough all right.

The food was served by the headman's chief wife, a wrinkled old woman.

Helping her was Sulina, one of his daughters. Beautiful, soft, curved, honeyed skin. Sweet-smelling. Fresh sarong in their honor.

"Tabe, Sam," winked the King at Sulina.

The girl bubbled with laughter and shyly tried to cover her embarrassment.

"Sam?" winced Peter Marlowe.

"Sure," answered the King dryly. "She reminds me of my brother."

"Brother?" Peter Marlowe stared at him astonished.

"Joke. I haven't got a brother."

"Oh!" Peter Marlowe thought a moment, then asked, "Why Sam?"

"The old guy wouldn't introduce me," said the King, not looking at the girl,

"so I just gave her the name. I think it suits her."

Sutra knew that what they said had something to do with his daughter. He knew he had made a mistake to let her in here. Perhaps, in other times, he would have liked one of the tuan-tuan to notice her and take her back to his bungalow to be his mistress for a year or two. Then she would come back to the village well versed in the ways of men, with a nice dowry in her hands, and it would be easy for him to find the right husband for her.

That's how it would have been in the past. But now romance led only to a haphazard tune in the bushes, and Sutra did not want that for his daughter even though it was time she became a woman.

He leaned forward and offered Peter Marlowe a choice piece of pig.

"Perhaps this would tempt thy appetite?"

"I thank thee."

"You may leave, Sulina."

Peter Marlowe detected the note of finality in the old man's voice and noticed the shadow of dismay that painted the girl's face. But she bowed low and took her leave. The old wife remained to serve the men.

Sulina, thought Peter Marlowe, feeling a long-forgotten urge. She's not as pretty as N'ai, who was without blemish, but she is the same age and pretty. Fourteen perhaps and ripe. My God, how ripe.

"The food is not to thy taste?" Cheng San asked, amused by Peter Marlowe's obvious attraction to the girl. Perhaps this could be used to advantage.

"On the contrary. It is perhaps too good, for my palate is not used to fine food, eating as we do." Peter Marlowe remembered that for the protection of good taste, the Javanese spoke only in parables about women. He turned to Sutra. "Once upon a time a wise guru said that there are many kinds of food. Some for the stomach, some for the eye and some for the spirit. Tonight, I have had food for the stomach. And the sayings of thee and Tuan Cheng San have been food for the spirit. I am replete. Even so, I have also — we have also — been offered food for the eye. How can I thank thee for thy hospitality?"

Sutra's face wrinkled. Well put. So he bowed to the compliment and said simply, "It was a wise saying. Perhaps, in time, the eye may be hungry again. We must discuss the wisdom of the ancient another time."

"What're you looking so smug about, Peter?"

"I'm not looking smug, just pleased with myself. I was just telling him we thought his girl was pretty."

"Yes! She's a doll! How about asking her to join us for coffee?"

"For the love of God." Peter tried to keep his voice calm. "You don't come out and make a date just like that. You've got to take time, build up to it."

"Hell, that's not the American way. You meet a broad, you like her and she likes you, you hit the sack."

"You've no finesse."

"Maybe. But I've a lot of broads."

They laughed and Cheng San asked what the joke was and Peter Marlowe told them that the King had said, "We should set up shop in the village and not bother to go back to camp."

After they had drunk their coffee, Cheng San made the first overture.

"I would have thought it risky to come from the camp by night. Riskier than my coming here to the village."

First round to us, thought Peter Marlowe. Now, Oriental style, Cheng San was at a disadvantage, for he had lost face by making the opening. He turned to the King. "All right, Rajah. You can start. We've made a point so far."

"We have?"

"Yes. What do you want me to tell him?"

"Tell him I've a big deal. A diamond. Four carats. Set in platinum.

Flawless, blue-white. I want thirty-five thousand dollars for it. Five thousand British Malay Straits dollars, the rest in Jap counterfeit money."

Peter Marlowe's eyes widened. He was facing the King, so his surprise was hidden from the Chinese. But Sutra marked it. Since he was no part of the deal, but merely collected a percentage as a go-between, he settled back to enjoy the parry and thrust. No need to worry about Cheng San —

Sutra knew to his cost that the Chinese could handle himself as well as anyone.

Peter Marlowe translated. The enormousness of the deal would cover any lapse of manners. And he wanted to rock the Chinese.

Cheng San brightened palpably, caught off his guard. He asked to see the diamond.

"Tell him I haven't got it with me. Tell him I'll make delivery in ten days.

Tell him I have to have the money three days before I make delivery because the owner won't let it out of his possession until he has the money."

Cheng San knew that the King was an honest trader. If he said he had the ring and would hand it over, then he would. He always had. But to get such an amount of money and pass it into the camp, where he could never keep track of the King — well, that was quite a risk.

"When can I see the ring?" he asked.

"Tell him if he likes he can come into the camp, in seven days."

So I must hand over the money before I even see the diamond! thought Cheng San. Impossible, and Tuan Rajah knows it. Very bad business. If it really is four carats, I can get fifty — a hundred thousand dollars for it.

After all, I know the Chinese who owns the machine that prints the money.

But the five thousand in Malay Straits dollars — that is another thing. This he would have to buy black-market. And what rate? Six to one would be expensive, twenty to one cheap.

"Tell my friend the Rajah," he said, "that this is a strange business arrangement. Consequently I must think, longer than a man of business should need to think."

He wandered over to the window and gazed out.

Cheng San was tired of the war and tired of the undercover machinations that a businessman had to endure to make a profit. He thought of the night and the stars and the stupidity of man, fighting and dying for things which would have no lasting value. At the same time, he knew that the strong survive and the weak perish. He thought of his wife and his children, three sons and a daughter, and the things he would like to buy them to make them comfortable. He thought also of the second wife he would like to buy.

Somehow or another he must make this deal. And it was worth the risk to trust the King.

The price is fair, he reasoned. But how to safeguard the money? Find a go-between whom he could trust. It would have to be one of the guards.

The guard could see the ring. He could hand over the money if the ring was real and the weight right. Then the Tuan Rajah could make delivery, here at the village. No need to trust the guard to take the ring and turn it over. How to trust a guard?

Perhaps we could concoct a story — that the money was a loan to the camp from Chinese in Singapore — no, that would be no good, for the guard would have to see the ring. So the guard would have to be completely in the know. And would expect a substantial fee.

Cheng San turned back to the King. He noticed how the King was sweating. Ah, he thought, you want to sell badly! But perhaps you know I want to buy badly. You and I are the only ones who can handle such a deal. No one has the honest name for trading like you — and no one but I, of all the Chinese who deal with the camp, is capable of delivering so much money.

"So, Tuan Marlowe. I have a plan which perhaps would cover both my friend the Rajah and myself. First, we agree to a price. The price mentioned is too high, but unimportant at the moment. Second, we agree to a go-between, a guard whom we both can trust. In ten days I will give half the money to the guard. The guard can examine the ring. If it is truly as the owner claims, he can pass over the money to my friend the Rajah.

The Rajah will make delivery here to me. I will bring an expert to weigh the stone. Then I will pay the other half of the money and take the stone."

The King listened intently as Peter Marlowe translated.

"Tell him it's okay. But I've got to have the full price. The guy won't turn it over without the dough in his hands."

"Then tell my friend the Rajah I will give the guard three-quarters of the agreed price to help him negotiate with the owner."

Cheng San felt that seveny-five percent would certainly cover the amount of money paid to the owner. The King would merely be gambling his profit, for surely he was a good enough businessman to obtain a twenty-five percent fee!

The King had figured on three-quarters. That gave him plenty to maneuver with. Maybe he could knock a few bucks off the owner's asking price, nineteen-five. Yep, so far so good. Now we get down to the meat.

"Tell him okay. Who does he suggest as the go-between?"

"Torusumi."

The King shook his head. He thought a moment, then said direct to Cheng San, "How 'bout Immuri?"

"Tell my friend that I would prefer another. Perhaps Kimina?"

The King whistled. A corporal yet! He had never done business with him.

Too dangerous. Got to be someone I know. "Shagata-san?"

Cheng San nodded in agreement. This was the man he wanted, but he did not want to suggest it. He wanted to see who the King wanted — a last check on the King's honesty.

Yes, Shagata was a good choice. Not too bright, but bright enough. He had dealt with bun before. Good.

"Now, about the price," said Cheng San. "I suggest we discuss this. Per carat four thousand counterfeit dollars. Total sixteen thousand. Four thousand in Malay dollars at the rate of fifteen to one."

The King shook his head blandly, then said to Peter Marlowe, "Tell him I'm not going to crap around bargaining. The price is thirty thousand, five in Straits dollars at eight to one, all in small notes. My final price."

"You'll have to bargain a bit more," said Peter Marlowe. "How about saying thirty-three, then—"

The King shook his head. "No. And when you translate use a word like

'crap'"

Reluctantly Peter Marlowe turned back to Cheng San. "My friend says thus: He is not going to mess around with the niceties of bargaining. His final price is thirty thousand - five thousand in Straits dollars at a rate of eight to one. All in small denomination notes."

To his astonishment Cheng San said immediately, "I agree!" for he too didn't want to fool with bargaining. The price was fair and he had sensed that the King was adamant. There comes a time in all deals when a man must decide, yea or nay. The Rajah was a good trader.

They shook hands. Sutra smiled and brought forth a bottle of sake. They drank each other's health until the bottle was gone. Then they fixed the details.

In ten days Shagata would come to the American hut at the time of the night guard change. He would have the money and would see the ring before he handed over the money. Three days after, the King and Peter Marlowe would meet Cheng San at the village. If for some reason Shagata could not make the date, he would arrive the next day, or the next.

Similarly, if the King couldn't make their appointment at the village, they were to come the next day.

After paying and receiving the usual compliments, Cheng San said that he had to catch the tide. He bowed courteously and Sutra went out with him, escorting him to the shore. Beside the boat they began their polite quarrel about the fish business.

The King was triumphant. "Great, Peter. We're in!"

"You're terrific! When you said to give it to him in the teeth like that, well, old man, I thought you'd lost him. They just don't do those things."

"Had a hunch," was all the King said. Then he added, chewing on a piece of meat, "You're in for ten percent of the profit, of course. But you'll have to work for it, you son of a bitch."

"Like a horse! God! Just think of all that money. Thirty thousand dollars would be a stack of notes perhaps a foot high."

"More," the King said, infected by the excitement.

"My God, you've got nerve. How on earth did you arrive at the price? He agreed, boom, just like that. One moment's talk, then boom, you're rich!"

"Got a lot of worrying to do before it is a deal. Lot of things could go wrong. It ain't a deal till the cash is delivered and in the bank."

"Oh, I never thought of that."

"Business axiom. You can't bank talk. Only greenbacks!"

"I still can't get over it. We're outside the camp, we've more food inside us than we've had in weeks. And prospects look great. You're a bloody genius."

"We'll wait and see, Peter."

The King stood up. "You wait here. I'll be back in an hour or so. Got another bit of business to attend to. So long as we're out of here in a couple of hours, we'll be okay. Then we'll hit the camp just before dawn.

Best time. That's when the guards'll be at their lowest mark. See you," and he disappeared down the steps.

In spite of himself, Peter Marlowe felt alone, and quite a little afraid.

Christ, what's he up to? Where's he going? What if he's late? What if he doesn't come back? What if a Jap comes into the village? What if I'm left on my own? Shall I go looking for him? If we don't make it back by dawn, Christ, we'll be reported missing and we'll have to run. Where? Maybe Cheng San'll help? Too dangerous! Where does he live? Could we make the docks and get a boat? Maybe contact the guerrillas who're supposed to be operating?

Get hold of yourself, Marlowe, you damn coward! You're acting like a three-year-old!

Curbing his anxiety, he settled down to wait. Then suddenly he remembered the coupling condenser — three hundred microfarads.

"Tabe, Tuan," Kasseh smiled as the King entered her hut.

"Tabe, Kasseh!"

"You like food, yes?"

He shook his head and held her close, his hands moving over her body.

She stood on tiptoe to put her arms around his neck, her hair a plume of black gold falling to her waist.

"Long time," she said, warmed by his touch.

"Long time," he replied. "You miss me?"

"Uh-uh," she laughed, aping his accent

"He arrived yet?"

She shook her head. "No like this thing, tuan. Has danger."

"Everything has danger."

They heard footsteps and soon a shadow splashed the door. It opened and a small dark Chinese walked in. He wore a sarong and Indian chappals on his feet. He smiled, showing broken mildewed teeth. On his back was a war parang in a scabbard. The King noticed that the scabbard was well oiled. Easy to jerk that parang out and cut a man's head off —just like that. Tucked into the man's belt was a revolver.

The King had asked Kasseh to get in touch with the guerrillas operating in Johore and this man was the result. Like most, they were converted bandits now fighting the Japanese under the banner of the Communists, who supplied them with arms.

"Tabe. You speak English?" the King asked, forcing a smile. He didn't like the look of this Chinese.

"Why you want talk with us?"

"Thought we might be able to make a deal."

The Chinese leered at Kasseh. She flinched.

"Beat it, Kasseh," the King said.

Noiselessly she left, going through the bead curtain into the rear of the house.

The Chinese watched her go. "You lucky," he said to the King. 'Too lucky.

I bet woman give good time two, three men one night. No?"

"You want to talk a deal? Yes or no?"

"You watch, white man. Maybe I tell Japs you here. Maybe I tell them village safe for white prisoners. Then they kill village."

"You'll end up dead, fast, that way."

The Chinese grunted, then squatted down. He shifted the parang slightly, menacingly. "Maybe I take woman now."

Jesus, thought the King, maybe I made a mistake.

"I got a proposal for you guys. If the war ends suddenly — or the Japs take it into their heads to start chopping us POW's up, I want you to be around for protection. I'll pay you two thousand American dollars when I'm safe."

"How we know if Japs kill prisoners?"

"You'll know. You know most things that go on."

"How we know you pay?"

"The American government will pay. Everyone knows there's a reward."

"Two thousand! Mahlu! We get two thousand any day. Kill bank. Easy."

The King made his gambit. "I'm empowered by our commanding officer to guarantee you two thousand a head for every American that is saved. If the shoot blows up."

"I no understan'."

"If the Japs start trying to knock us off-kill us. If the Allies land here, the Japs're going to get mean. Or if the Allies land on Japan, then the Japs here will take reprisals. If they do, you'll know and I want you to help us get away."

"How many men?"

"Thirty."

"Too many."

"How many will you guarantee?"

"Ten. But the price will be five thousand per man."

"Too much."

The Chinese shrugged.

"All right. It's a deal. You know the camp?"

The Chinese showed his teeth in a twisted grin. "We know."

"Our hut's to the east. A small one. If we have to make a break, we'll break through the wire there. If you're in the jungle, you can cover us. How will we know if you're in position?"

Again the Chinese shrugged. "If not, you die anyway."

"Could you give us a signal?"

"No signal."

This is crazy, the King told himself. We won't know when we're going to have to make a break, and if it's going to be sudden there'll be no way of getting a message to the guerrillas in time. Maybe they'll be there, maybe not. But if they figure there's five grand apiece for any of us they get out, then maybe they'll keep a good lookout from here on in.

"Will you keep an eye on the camp?"

"Maybe leader says yes, maybe no."

"Who's your leader?"

The Chinese shrugged and picked his teeth.

"It's a deal then?"

"Maybe." The eyes were hostile. "You finish?"

"Yes." The King stuck out his hand. "Thanks."

The Chinese looked down at the hand, sneered and went to the door.

"Remember. Ten only. Rest kill!" He left.

Well, it's worth a try, the King assured himself. Those bastards could sure as hell use the money. And Uncle Sam would pay. Why the hell not! What the hell do we pay taxes for?

"Tuan," said Kasseh gravely as she stood at the door. "I not like this thing."

"Got to take a chance. If there's a sudden killing maybe we can get out."

He winked at her. "Worth a try. We'd be dead anyway. So, what the hell.

Maybe we got a line of retreat."

"Why you not make deal for you alone? Why you not go with him now and escape camp?"

"Easy. First, it's safer at the camp than with the guerrillas. No point in trusting them unless there's an emergency. Second, one man's not worth their trouble. That's why I asked him to save thirty. But he could only handle ten."

"How you choose ten?"

"It'll be every man for himself, as long as I'm okay."

"Maybe your command officer no like only ten."

"He'll like it if he's one of the lucky ones."

"You think Japanese kill prisoners?"

"Maybe. But let's forget it, huh?"

She smiled. "Forget. You hot. Take shower, yes?"

"Yes."

In the shower section of the hut the King bailed water over himself from the concrete well. The water was cold, and it made him gasp and his flesh sting.

"Kasseh!"

She came through the curtains with a towel. She stood looking at him.

Yes, her tuan was a fine man. Strong and fine and the color of his skin pleasing. Wah-lah, she thought, I am lucky to have such a man. But he is so big and I am so small. He towers over me by two heads.

Even so, she knew that she pleased him. It is easy to please a man. If you are a woman. And not ashamed of being woman.

"What're you smiling at?" he asked her as he saw the smile.

"Ah, tuan, I just think, you are so big and I so small. And yet, when we lie down, there is not so much difference, no?"

He chuckled and slapped her fondly on the buttocks and took the towel.

"How 'bout a drink?"

"It is ready, tuan."

"What else is ready?"

She laughed with her mouth and her eyes. Her teeth were stark white and her eyes deep brown and her skin was smooth and sweet-smelling. "Who knows, tuan?" Then she left the room.

Now there's one helluva dame, the King thought, looking after her, drying himself vigorously. I'm a lucky guy.

Kasseh had been arranged by Sutra when the King had come to the village the first time. The details had been fixed neatly. When the war was over, he was to pay Kasseh twenty American dollars for every time he stayed with her. He had knocked a few bucks off the first asking price —business was business — but at twenty bucks she was a great buy.

"How do you know I'll pay?" he had asked her.

"I do not. But if you do not, you do not, and then I gained only pleasure. If you pay me, then I have money and pleasure too." She had smiled.

He slipped on the native slippers she had left for him, then walked through the bead curtain. She was waiting for him.

Peter Marlowe was still watching Sutra and Cheng San down by the shore. Cheng San bowed and got into the boat and Sutra helped shove the boat into the phosphorescent sea. Then Sutra returned to the hut.

"Tabe-lah!" Peter Marlowe said.

"Would thou eat more?"

"No thank you, Tuan Sutra."

My word, thought Peter Marlowe, it's a change to be able to turn down food. But he had eaten his fill, and to eat more would have been impolite.

It was obvious that the village was poor and the food would not be wasted.

"I have heard," he said tentatively, "that the news, the war news, is good."

"Thus too I have heard, but nothing that a man could repeat. Vague rumors."

"It is a pity that times are not like those in former years. When a man could have a wireless and hear news or read a newspaper."

"True. It is a pity."

Sutra made no sign of understanding. He squatted down on his mat and rolled a cigarette, funnel-like, and began to smoke through his fist, sucking the smoke deep within him.

"We hear bad tales from the camp," he said at last.

"It is not so bad, Tuan Sutra. We manage, somehow. But not to know how the world is, that is surely bad."

"I have heard it told that there was a wireless in the camp and the men who owned the wireless were caught. And that they are now in Utram Road Jail."

"Hast thou news of them? One was a friend of mine."

"No. We only heard that they had been taken there."

"I would dearly like to know how they are."

"Thou knowest the place, and the manner of all men taken there, so thou already knowest that which is done."

"True. But one hopes that some may be lucky."

"We are in the hands of Allah, said the Prophet."

"On whose name be praise."

Sutra glanced at him again; then, calmly puffing his cigarette, he asked,

"Where didst thou learn the Malay?"

Peter Marlowe told him of his life in the village. How he had worked the paddy fields and lived as a Javanese, which is almost the same as living as a Malay. The customs are the same and the language the same, except for the common Western words — wireless in Malaya, radio in Java, motor in Malaya, auto in Java. But the rest was the same. Love, hate, sickness and the words that a man will speak to a man or a man to a woman were the same. The important things were always the same.

"What was the name of thy woman in the village, my son?" Sutra asked. It would have been impolite to ask before, but now, when they had talked of things of the spirit and the world and philosophy and Allah and certain of the sayings of the Prophet, on whose name be praise, now it was not rude to ask.

"Her name was N'ai Jahan."

The old man sighed contentedly, remembering his youth. "And she loved thee much and long."

"Yes." Peter Marlowe could see her clearly.

She had come to his hut one night when he was preparing for bed. Her sarong was red and gold, and tiny sandals peeped from beneath its hem.

There was a thin necklace of flowers around her neck and the fragrance of the flowers filled the hut and all his universe.

She had laid her bed roll beside her feet and bowed low before him.

"My name is N'ai Jahan," she had said. "Tuan Abu, my father, has chosen me to share thy life, for it is not good for a man to be alone. And thou hast been alone for three months now."

N'ai was perhaps fourteen, but in the sun-rain lands a girl of fourteen is already a woman with the desires of a woman and should be married, or at least with the man of her father's choice.

The darkness of her skin had a milk sheen to it and her eyes were jewels of topaz and her hands were petals of the fire orchid and her feet slim and her child-woman body was satin and held within it the happiness of a hummingbird. She was a child of the sun and a child of the rain. Her nose was slender and fine and the nostrils delicate.

N'ai was all satin, liquid satin. Firm where it should be firm. Soft where it should be soft. Strong where it should be strong. And weak where it should be weak.

Her hair was raven. Long. A gossamer net to cover her.

Peter Marlowe had smiled at her. He had tried to hide his embarrassment and be like her, free and happy and without shame. She had taken off her sarong and stood proudly before him, and she had said, "I pray that I shall be worthy to make thee happy and make thee soft-sleep. And I beg thee to teach me all the things that thy woman should know to make thee 'close to God.'"

Close to God, how wonderful, Peter Marlowe thought; how wonderful to describe love as being close to God.

He looked up at Sutra. "Yes. We loved much and long. I thank Allah that I have lived and loved unto eternity. How glorious are the ways of Allah."

A cloud reached out and grappled with the moon for possession of the night.

"It is good to be a man," Peter Marlowe said.

"Does thy lack trouble thee tonight?"

"No. In truth. Not tonight." Peter Marlowe studied the old Malay, liking him for the offer, smoothed by his gentleness.

"Listen, Tuan Sutra. I will open my mind to thee, for I believe that in time we could be friends. Thou couldst in time have time to weigh my friendship and that of me. But war is an assassin of time. Therefore I would speak to thee as a friend of thine, which I am not yet."

The old man did not reply. He puffed his cigarette and waited for him to continue.

"I have need of a little part of a wireless. Is there a wireless in the village, an old one? Perhaps if it is broken, I could take one such little piece from it."

"Thou knowest that wirelesses are forbidden by the Japanese."

"True, but sometimes there are secret places to hide that which is forbidden."

Sutra pondered. A wireless lay in his hut. Perhaps Allah had sent Tuan Marlowe to remove it. He felt he could trust him because Tuan Abu had trusted him before. But if Tuan Marlowe was caught, outside camp with the wireless, inevitably the village would be involved.

To leave the wireless in the village was also dangerous. Certainly a man could bury it deep in the jungle, but that had not been done. It should have been done but had not been done, for the temptation to listen was always too great. The temptation of the women to hear the "sway-music" was too great. The temptation to know when others did not know was great. Truly it is written, Vanity, all is vanity.

Better, he decided, to let the things that are the pink man's remain with the pink man.

He got up and beckoned Peter Marlowe and led the way through the bead curtains into the darker recesses of the hut. He stopped at the doorway to Sulina's bedroom. She was lying on the bed, her sarong loose and full around her, her eyes liquid.

"Sulina," Sutra said, "go onto the veranda and watch."

"Yes, Father." Sulina slipped off the bed and relied the sarong and adjusted her little baju jacket. Adjusted it, thought Sutra, perhaps a little too much, so the promise of her breasts showed clearly. Yes, it is surely time that the girl married. But whom? There are no eligible men.

He stood aside as the girl brushed past, her eyes low and demure. But there was nothing demure in the sway of her hips, and Peter Marlowe noticed them too. I should take a stick to her, Sutra thought. But he knew that he should not be angry. She was but a girl on the threshold of womanhood. To tempt is but a woman's way — to be desired is but a woman's need.

Perhaps I should give thee to the Englishman. Maybe that would lessen thy appetite. He looks more than man enough! Sutra sighed. Ah to be so young again.

From under the bed he brought out the small radio. "I will trust thee. This wireless is good. It works well. You may take it."

Peter Marlowe almost dropped it in his excitement. "But what about thee?

Surely this is beyond price."

"It has no price. Take it with thee."

Peter Marlowe turned the radio over. It was a main set. In good condition.

The back was off and the tubes glinted in the oil light. There were many condensers. Many. He held the set nearer the light and carefully examined the guts of it, inch by inch.

The sweat began dripping off his face. Then he found the one, three hundred microfarads.

Now what do I do? he asked himself. Do I just take the condenser? Mac had said he was almost sure. Better to take the whole thing, then if the condenser doesn't fit ours, we've got another. We can cache it somewhere.

Yes. It will be good to have a spare.

"I thank thee, Tuan Sutra. It is a gift that I cannot thank thee enough for. I am the thousands of Changi."

"I beg thee protect us here. If a guard sees thee, bury it in the jungle. My village is in thy hands."

"Do not fear. I will guard it with my life."

"I believe thee. But perhaps this is a foolish thing to do."

"There are times, Tuan Sutra, when I truly believe men are only fools."

"Thou art wise beyond thy years."

Sutra gave him a piece of material to cover it, then they returned to the main room. Sulina was in the shadows on the veranda. As they entered she got up.

"May I get thee food or drink, Father?"

Wah-lah, thought Sutra grumpily, she asks me but she means him. "No.

Get thee to bed."

Sulina tossed her head prettily but obeyed.

"My daughter deserves a whipping, I think."

"It would be a pity to blemish such a delicate thing," Peter Marlowe said.

"Tuan Abu used to say, 'Beat a woman at least once a week and thou wilt have peace in thy house. But do not beat her too hard, lest thou anger her, for then she will surely beat thee back and hurt thee greatly!'"

"I know the saying. It is surely true. Women are beyond comprehension."

They talked about many things, squatting on the veranda looking at the sea. The surf was very slight, and Peter Marlowe asked permission to swim.

"There are no currents," the old Malay told him, "but sometimes there are sharks."

"I will take care."

"Swim only in the shadows near the boats. There have been times when Japanese walk along the shore. There is a gun emplacement three miles down the beach. Keep thy eyes open."

"I will take care."

Peter Marlowe kept to the shadows as he made for the boats. The moon was lowering in the sky. Not too much time, he thought.

By the boats some men and women were preparing and repairing nets, chatting and laughing one to another. They paid no attention to Peter Marlowe as he undressed and walked into the sea.

The water was warm, but there were cold pockets, as in all the Eastern seas, and he found one and tried to stay in it. The feeling of freedom was glorious, and it was almost as though he was a small boy again taking a midnight swim in the Southsea with his father nearby shouting, "Don't go out too far, Peter! Remember the currents!"

He swam underwater and his skin drank the salt-chemic. When he surfaced, he spouted water like a whale and swam lazily for the shallows, where he lay on his back, washed by the surf, and exalted in his freedom.

As he kicked his legs at the surf half swirling his loins, it suddenly struck him that he was quite naked and there were men and women within twenty yards of him. But he felt no embarrassment.

Nakedness had become a way of life in the camp. And the months that he had spent in the village in Java had taught him that there was no shame in being a human being with wants and needs.

The sensual warmth of the sea playing on him, and the rich warmth of the food within him, fired his loins into sudden heat. He turned over abruptly on his belly and pushed, himself back into the sea, hiding.

He stood on the sandy bottom, the water up to his neck, and looked back at the shore and the village. The men and women were still busy repairing their nets. He could see Sutra on the veranda of his hut, smoking in the shadows. Then, to one side, he saw Sulina, caught in the light from the oil lamp, leaning on the window frame. Her sarong was half held against her and she was looking out to sea.

He knew she was looking at him and he wondered, shamed, if she had seen. He watched her and she watched him. Then he saw her take away the sarong and lay it down and pick up a clean white towel to dry the sweat that sheened her body.

She was a child of the sun and a child of the rain. Her long dark hair hid most of her, but she moved it until it caressed her back and she began to braid it. And all the time she watched him, smiling.

Then, suddenly, every flicker of current was a caress, every touch of breeze a caress, every thread of seaweed a caress- fingers of courtesans, crafty with centuries of learning.

I'm going to take you, Sulina.

I'm going to take you, whatever the cost.

He tried to will Sultra to leave the veranda. Sulina watched. And waited.

Impatient as he.

I'm going to take her, Sutra. Don't get in my way! Don't. Or by God…

He did not see the King approaching the shadows or notice him stop with surprise when he saw him lying on his belly in the shallows.

"Hey, Peter. Peter!"

Hearing the voice through the fog, Peter Marlowe turned his head slowly and saw the King beckoning to him.

"Peter, c'mon. It's time to beat it."

Seeing the King, he remembered the camp and the wire and the radio and the diamond and the camp and the war and the camp and the radio and the guard they had to pass and would they get back in time and what was the news and how happy Mac would be with the three hundred microfarads and the spare radio that worked. The man-heat vanished. But the pain remained.

He stood up and walked for his clothes.

"You got a nerve," the King said.

"Why?"

"Walking about like that. Can't you see Sutra's girl looking at you?"

"She's seen plenty of men without clothes and there's nothing wrong with that." Without the heat there was no nakedness.

"Sometimes I don't understand you. Where's your modesty?"

"Lost that a long time ago." He dressed quickly and joined the King in the shadows. His loins ached violently. "I'm glad you came along when you did. Thanks."

"Why?"

"Oh, nothing."

"You scared I'd forgotten you?"

Peter Marlowe shook his head. "No. Forget it. But thanks."

The King studied him, then shrugged. "C'mon. We can make it easy now."

He led the way past Sutra's hut and waved. "Salamat."

"Wait, Rajah. Won't be a second!"

Peter Marlowe ran up the stairs and into the hut. The radio was still there.

Holding it under his arm, wrapped in the cloth, he bowed to Sutra.

"I thank thee. It is in good hands."

"Go with god." Sutra hesitated, then smiled. "Guard thy eyes, my son.

Lest when there is food for them, thou canst not eat."

"I will remember." Peter Marlowe felt suddenly hot. I wonder if the stories are true, that the ancients can read thoughts from time to time. "I thank thee. Peace be upon thee."

"Peace be upon thee until our next meeting."

Peter Marlowe turned and left. Sulina was at her window as they passed underneath it. Her sarong covered her now. Their eyes met and caught and a compact was given and received and returned. She watched as they shadowed up the rise towards the jungle and she sent her safe wishes on them until they disappeared.

Sutra sighed, then noiselessly went into Sulina's room. She was standing at the window dreamily, her sarong around her shoulders. Sutra had a thin bamboo in his hands and he cut her neatly and hard, but not too hard, across her bare buttocks.

"That is for tempting the Englishman when I had not told thee to tempt him," he said, trying to sound very angry.

"Yes, Father," she whimpered, and each sob was a knife in his heart. But when she was alone, she curled luxuriously on the mattress and let the tears roll a little, enjoying them. And the heat spread through her, helped by the sting of the blow.

When they were about a mile from the camp, the King and Peter Marlowe stopped for a breather. It was then that the King noticed for the first time the small bundle wrapped in cloth.

He had been leading the way, and so concentrated had he been on the success of the night's work, and so watchful of the darkness against possible danger, that he had not noticed it before.

"What you got? Extra chow?"

He watched while Peter Marlowe grinned and proudly unwrapped the cloth. "Surprise!"

The King's heart missed six beats.

"Why, you goddam son of a bitchl Are you out of your skull?"

"What's the matter?" Peter Marlowe asked, flabbergasted.

"Are you crazy? That'll land us in more trouble than hell knows what. You got no right to risk our necks over a goddam radio. You got no right to use my contacts for your own goddam business."

Peter Marlowe felt the night close in on him as he stared unbelievingly.

Then he said, "I didn't mean any harm —"

"Why, you goddam son of a bitch!" the King raged. "Radios are poison."

"But there isn't one in the camp —"

"Tough. You get rid of that goddam thing right now. And I'll tell you something else. We're finished. You and me. You got no right to get me mixed in something without telling me. I ought to kick the shit outta you!"

"Try it." Now Peter Marlowe was angry and raw, as raw as the King. "You seem to forget there's a war on and there's no wireless in the camp. One reason I came was because I hoped I might be able to get a condenser.

But now I've a whole wireless — and it works."

"Get rid of it!"

"No."

The two men faced each other, taut and inflexible. For a split second the King readied to cut Peter Marlowe to pieces.

But the King knew anger was of no value when an important decision had to be made, and now that he had gotten over the first nauseating shock, he could be critical and analyze the situation.

First, he had to admit that although it had been bad business to risk so much, the risk had been successful. If Sutra hadn't been good and ready to give Pete the radio he'd've ducked the issue and said, "Hell, there's no radio hereabouts." So no harm was done. And it had been a private deal between Pete and Sutra 'cause Cheng San had already left.

Second, a radio that he knew about and one that wasn't in his hut would be more than useful. He could keep tabs on the situation and he'd know exactly when to make the break. So, all in all, there was no harm done —except that Peter had exceeded his authority. Now take that. If you trust a guy and hire him, you hire his brains. No point in having a guy around just to take orders and sit on his can. And Peter had sure been great during the negotiations. If and when the break came, well, Peter would be on the team. Got to have a guy to talk the lingo. Yeah, and Pete wasn't scared.

So all in all, the King knew he'd be crazy to rip into him before his mind told him to use the new situation in a businesslike way. Yep, he had blown his stack like a two-year-old.

"Pete." He saw the challenging set to Peter Marlowe's jaw. Wonder if I could take the son of a bitch. Sure. Got him by fifty — maybe eighty pounds.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry I blew my stack. The radio's a good idea."

"What?"

"I just said I was sorry. It's a great idea."

"I don't understand you," Peter Marlowe said helplessly. "One moment you're a crazy man and the next you're saying that it's a good idea."

The King liked this son of a bitch. Got guts. "Eh, radios give me the creeps, no future in them." Then he laughed softly. "No resale value!"

"You're really not fed up with me any more?"

"Hell no. We're buddies." He punched him playfully. "I was just put out that you didn't tell me. That wasn't good."

"I'm sorry. You're right. I apologize. It was ridiculous and unfair. Christ, I wouldn't want to jeopardize you in any way. Truly I'm sorry."

"Shake. I'm sorry I blew my stack. But next time, tell me before you do anything."

Peter Marlowe shook his hand. "My word on it."

"Good enough." Well, thank God there was no sweat now. "So what the hell do you mean by condenser?"

Peter Marlowe told him about the three water bottles.

"So all Mac needs is the one condenser, right?"

"He said he thinks so."

"You know what I think? I think it'd be better just to take out the condenser and dump the radio. Bury it here. It'd be safe. Then if yours doesn't work we could always come back and get it. Mac could easily put the condenser back. To hide this radio in the camp'd be real tough, and it'd be a helluva temptation just to plug the goddam thing in, wouldn't it?"

"Yes." Peter Marlowe looked at the King searchingly. "You'll come back with me to get it?"

"Sure."

"If — for any reason — I can't come back, would you come for it? If Mac or Larkin asked you to?"

The King thought a moment. "Sure."

"Your word?"

"Yes." The King smiled faintly. "You put quite a store by the 'word' jazz, don't you, Peter?"

"How else can you judge a man?"

It took Peter Marlowe only a moment to snap the two wires joining the condenser to the innards of the radio. Another minute and the radio was wrapped in its protective cloth and a small hole scraped away in the jungle earth. They put a flat stone on the bottom of the hole, then covered the radio with a good thickness of leaves and smoothed the earth back and pulled a tree trunk over the spot. A couple of weeks in the dampness of its tomb would destroy its usefulness, but two weeks would be enough time to come back and pick it up if the bottles still didn't work.

Peter Marlowe wiped the sweat away, for a sudden layer of heat had settled on them and the sweat smell frenzied the increasing waves of insects clouding them. "These blasted bugs!" He looked up at the night sky, judging the time a little nervously. "Do you think we'd better go on now?"

"Not yet. It's only four-fifteen. Our best time is just before dawn. We'd better wait another ten minutes, then we'll be in position in plenty of time."

He grinned. "First time I went through the wire I was scared and anxious too. Coming back I had to wait at the wire. I had to wait half an hour or more before the coast was clear. Jesus! I sweated." He waved his hands at the insects. "Goddam bugs."

They sat awhile listening to the constant movement of the jungle. Swaths of fireflies cut patches of brilliance in the small rain ditches beside the path.

"Just like Broadway at night," said the King.

"I saw a film once called Times Square. It was a newspaper yarn. Let me see. I think it was Cagney."

"Don't remember that one. But Broadway, you got to see it for real. It's just like day in the middle of the night. Huge neon signs and lights all over the place."

"Is that your home? New York?"

"No. I've been there a couple of times. Been all over."

"Where's your home?"

The King shrugged. "My pa moves around."

"What's his work?"

"That's a good question. Little of this, little of that. He's drunk most of the time."

"Oh! That must be pretty rough."

"Tough on a kid."

"Do you have any family?"

"My ma's dead. She died when I was three. Got no brothers or sisters. My pa brought me up. He's a bum, but he taught me a lot about life. Number one, poverty's a sickness. Number two, money's everything. Number three, it doesn't matter how you get it as long as you get it."

"You know, I've never thought much about money. I suppose in the service — well, there's always a monthly pay check, there's always a certain standard of living, so money doesn't mean much."

"How much does your father make?"

"I don't know exactly. I suppose around six hundred pounds a year."

"Jesus. That's only twenty-four hundred bucks. Why, I make thirteen hundred as a corporal myself. I sure as hell wouldn't work for that nothing dough."

"Perhaps it's different in the States. But in England you can get by quite well. Of course our car is quite old, but that doesn't matter, and at the end of your service you get a pension."

"How much?"

"Half your pay approximately."

"That seems to me to be nothing. Can't understand why people go in the service. Guess because they're failures as people."

The King saw Peter Marlowe stiffen slightly. "Of course," he added quickly, "that doesn't apply in England. I was talking about the States."

"The service is a good life for a man. Enough money — an exciting life in all parts of the world. Social life's good. Then, well, an officer always has a great deal of prestige." Peter Marlowe added almost apologetically, "You know, tradition and all that."

"You going to stay in after the war?"

"Of course."

"Seems to me," the King said, picking at his teeth with a little thread of bark, "that it's too easy. There's no excitement or future in taking orders from guys who are mostly bums. That's the way it looks to me. And hell, you don't get paid nothing. Why Pete, you should take a look at the States.

There's nothing like it in the world. No place. Every man for himself and every man's as good as the next guy. And all you have to do is figure an angle and be better than the next guy. Now that's excitement."

"I don't think I'd fit in. Somehow I know I'm not a moneymaker. I'm better off doing what I was born to do."

"That's nonsense. Just because your old man's in the service —"

"Goes back to 1720. Father to son. That's a lot of tradition to try to fight."

The King grunted. "That's quite a time!" Then he added, "I only know about my dad and his dad. Before that - nothing. Least, my folks were supposed to have come over from the old country in the '80's."

"From England?"

"Hell no. I think Germany. Or maybe Middle Europe. Who the hell cares?

I'm an American and that's all that counts."

"Marlowes are in the service and that's that!"

"Hell no. It's up to you. Look. Take you now. You're in the chips 'cause you're using your brains. You'd be a great businessman if you wanted to.

You can talk like a Wog, right? I need your brains. I'm paying for the brains

— now don't get on your goddam high horse. That's American style. You pay for brains. It's got nothing to do with us being buddies. Nothing. If I didn't pay, then I'd be a bum."

"That's wrong. You don't have to be paid to help a bit."

"You sure as hell need an education. I'd like to get you in the States and put you on the road. With your phony Limey accent you'd knock the broads dead. You'd clean up. We'll put you in ladies' underwear."

"Holy God." Peter smiled with him, but the smile was tinged with horror. "I could no more try to sell something than fly."

"You can fly."

"I meant without a plane."

"Sure. I was making a joke."

The King glanced at his watch. "Times goes slow when you're waiting."

"I sometimes think we'll never get out of this stinking hole."

"Eh, Uncle Sam's got the Nips on the run. Won't take long. Even if it does, what the hell? We've got it made, buddy. That's all that counts."

The King looked at his watch. "We'd better take a powder."

"What?"

"Get going."

"Oh!" Peter Marlowe got up. "Lead on, Macduff!" he said happily.

"Huh?"

"Just a saying."It means 'Let's take a powder.'"

Happy now that they were friends once more, they started into the jungle.

Crossing the road was easy. Now that they had passed the area patrolled by the roving guard, they followed a short path and were within quarter of a mile of the wire. The King led, calm and confident. Only the clouds of fireflies and mosquitoes made their progress unpleasant

"Jesus. The bugs are bad."

"Yes. If I had my way I'd fry them all," Peter Marlowe whispered back.

Then they saw the bayonet pointing at them, and stopped dead in their tracks.

The Japanese was sitting leaning against a tree, and his eyes were fixed on them, a frightening grin stretching his face, and the bayonet was held propped on his knees.

Their thoughts were the same. Christ! Utram Road! I'm dead. Kill!

The King was the first to react. He leaped at the guard and tore the bayoneted rifle away, rolled as he twisted aside, then got to his feet, the rifle butt high to smash it into the man's face. Peter Marlowe was diving for the guard's throat. A sixth sense warned him and his clutching hands avoided the throat and he slammed into the tree.

"Get away from him!" Peter Marlowe sprang to his feet and grabbed the King and pulled him out of the way.

The guard had not moved. The same wide-eyed malevolent grin was on his face.

"What the hell?" the King gasped, panicked, the rifle still held high above his head.

"Get away! For Christ's sake hurry!" Peter Marlowe jerked the rifle out of the King's hands and threw it beside the dead Japanese. Then the King saw the snake in the man's lap.

"Jesus," he croaked as he went forward to take a closer look.

Peter Marlowe caught him frantically. "Get away! Run, for God's sake!"

He took to his heels, away from the trees, carelessly crashing through the undergrowth. The King raced after him, and only when they had reached the clearing did they stop.

"You gone crazy?" The King winced, his breathing torturing him. "It was only a goddam snake!"

"That was a flying snake," Peter Marlowe wheezed. "They live in trees.

Instant death, old man. They climb the trees, then flatten their bodies and sort of spiral down to earth and fall on their victims. There was one in his lap and one under him. There was sure to be more 'cause they're always in nests."

"Jesus!"

"Actually, old man, we ought to be grateful to those bloody things," Peter Marlowe said, trying to slow his breathing. "That Jap was still warm. He hadn't been dead more than a couple of minutes. He would've caught us if he hadn't been bitten. And we should thank God for our quarrel. It gave the snakes time. We'll never be closer to pranging! To death! Never!"

"I don't ever want to see a goddam Jap with a goddam bayonet pointing at me in the middle of the goddam night again. C'mon. Better get away from here."

When they were in position near the wire, they settled down to wait. They couldn't make their dash to the wire yet. Too many people about. Always people walking about, zombies walking the camp, the sleepless and the almost asleep.

It was good to rest, and both felt their knees shaking and were thankful to be alive again.

Jesus, this has been a night, the King thought. If it hadn't been for Pete I'd be a dead duck. I was going to put my foot in the Jap's lap as I smashed down the rifle. My foot was six inches away. Snakes! Hate snakes. Sons of bitches!

And as the King calmed, his esteem for Peter Marlowe increased.

"That's the second time you saved my neck," he whispered.

"You got to the rifle first. If the Jap hadn't been dead, you'd've killed him. I was slow."

"Eh, I was just in front." The King stopped, then grinned. "Hey Peter. We make a good team. With your looks and my brains, we do all right."

Peter Marlowe began to laugh. He tried to hold it inside and rolled on the ground. The choked laughter and the tears streaming his face infected the King, and his laughter too began to contort him. At last Peter Marlowe gasped, "For Christ sake, shut up."

"You started it."

"I did not."

"Sure you did, you said, you said…" But the King couldn't continue. He wiped the tears away. "You see that Jap? That son of a bitch was just sitting like an ape —"

"Look!"

Their laughter vanished.

On the other side of the wire Grey was walking the camp. They saw him stop outside the American hut. They saw him wait in the shadows, then look out across the wire, almost directly at them.

"You think he knows?" Peter Marlowe whispered. "Don't know. But sure as hell we can't risk going in for a while. We'll wait."

They waited. The sky began to lighten. Grey stood in the shadows looking at the American hut, then around the camp. The King knew from where Grey stood he could see his bed. He knew that Grey could see he wasn't in it. But the covers were turned back and he could be with the other sleepless, walking the camp. No law against being out of your bed. But hurry up, get to hell out of there, Grey.

"We'll have to go soon," the King said. "Light's against us."

"How about another spot?"

"He's got the whole fence covered, way up to the corner."

"You think there's been a leak — someone sneaked?"

"Could be. Maybe just a coincidence." The King bit his lip angrily.

"How about the latrine area?"

"Too risky."

They waited. Then they saw Grey look once more over the fence towards them and walk away. They watched him until he rounded the jail wall.

"May be a phony," the King said. "Give him a couple of minutes."

The seconds were like hours as the sky lightened and the shadows began to dissolve. Now there was no one near the fence, no one in sight.

"Now or never, c'mon."

They ran for the fence; in seconds they were under the wire and in the ditch.

"You go for the hut, Rajah. I'll wait."

"Okay."

For all his size the King was light on his feet and he swiftly covered the distance to his hut. Peter Marlowe got out of the ditch. Something told him to sit on the edge looking out of the camp over the wire. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw Grey turn the corner and stop. He knew he had been seen immediately.

"Marlowe."

"Oh hello, Grey. Can't you sleep either?" he said, stretching.

"How long have you been here?"

"Few minutes. I got tired of walking so I sat down."

"Where's your pal?"

"Who?"

"The American," Grey sneered.

"I don't know. Asleep I suppose."

Grey looked at the Chinese type outfit. The tunic was torn across the shoulders and wet with sweat. Mud and shreds of leaves on his stomach and knees. A streak of mud on his face.

"How did you get so dirty? And why are you sweating so much? What're you up to?"

"I'm dirty because — there's no harm in a little honest dirt. In fact," Peter Marlowe said as he got up and brushed off his knees and the seat of his pants, "there is nothing like a little dirt to make a man feel clean when he washes it off. And I'm sweating because you're sweating. You know, the tropics-heat and all that!"

"What have you got in your pockets?"

"Just because you've a suspicious beetle brain doesn't mean that everyone is carrying contraband. There's no law against walking the camp if you can't sleep."

"That's right," Grey replied, "but there is a law against walking outside the camp."

Peter Marlowe studied him nonchalantly, not feeling nonchalant at all, trying to read what the hell Grey meant by that. Did he know? "A man'd be a fool to try that."

"That's right." Grey looked at him long and hard. Then he wheeled around and walked away.

Peter Marlowe stared after him. Then he turned and walked in the other direction and did not look at the American hut. Today, Mac was due out of hospital. Peter Marlowe smiled, thinking of Mac's welcome home present.

From the safety of his bed, the King watched Peter Marlowe go. Then he focused on Grey, the enemy, erect and malevolent in the growing light.

Skeletal thin, ragged pair of pants, crude native clogs, no shirt, his armband, his threadbare Tank beret. A ray of sunlight burned the Tank emblem in the beret, converting it from nothing into molten gold.

How much do you know, Grey, you son of a bitch? the King asked himself.