King Rat

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It was just after dawn.

Peter Marlowe lay on his bunk in half-sleep.

Was it a dream? he asked himself, suddenly awake. Then his cautious fingers touched the little piece of rag that held the condenser and he knew it was not a dream.

Ewart twisted in the top bunk and groaned awake.

“’Mahlu on the night,” he said as he hung his legs over the bunk.

Peter Marlowe remembered that it was his unit’s turn for the borehole detail. He walked out of the hut and prodded Larkin awake.

“Eh? Oh, Peter,” Larkin said, fighting out of sleep. “What’s up?”

It was hard for Peter Marlowe not to blurt out the news about the condenser, but he wanted to wait until Mac was there too, so he just said, “Borehole detail, old man.”

“My bloody oath! What, again?” Larkin stretched his aching back, retied his sarong and slipped on his clogs.

They found the net and the five-gallon container and walked through the camp, which was just beginning to stir. When they reached the latrine area they paid no heed to the occupants and the occupants paid no heed to them.

Larkin lifted the cover off a borehole, Peter Marlowe quickly scooped the sides with the net. When he brought the net out of the hole it was full of cockroaches. He shook the net clean into the container and scraped again. Another fine haul.

Larkin replaced the cover and they moved to the next hole.

“Hold the thing still,” Peter Marlowe said. “Now look what you did! I lost at least a hundred.”

“There’s plenty more,” Larkin said with distaste, getting a better grip on the container.

The smell was very bad but the harvest rich. Soon the container was packed. The smallest of the cockroaches measured an inch and a half. Larkin clamped the lid on the container and they walked up to the hospital.

“Not my idea of a steady diet,” Peter Marlowe said.

“You really ate them, Peter, in Java?”

“Of course. And so have you, by the way. In Changi.”

Larkin almost dropped the container. “What?”

“You don’t think I’d pass on a native delicacy and a source of protein to the doctors and not take advantage of it for us, do you?”

“But we had a pact!” Larkin shouted. “We agreed, the three of us, that we’d not cook anything weird without telling the other first.”

“I told Mac and he agreed.”

“But I didn’t, dammit!”

“Oh come on, Colonel! We’ve had to catch them and cook them secretly and listen to you say how good the cook-up was. We’re just as squeamish as you.”

“Well, next time I want to know. That’s a bloody order!”

“Yes, sir!” Peter Marlowe chuckled.

They delivered the container to the hospital cookhouse. To the special tiny cookhouse that fed the desperately sick.

When they got back to the bungalow Mac was waiting. His skin was gray-yellow and his eyes were bloodshot and his hands shaking, but he was over the fever. He could smile again.

“Good to have you back, cobber,” Larkin said, sitting down.

“Ay.”

Peter Marlowe absently took out the little piece of rag. “Oh, by the way,” he said with studied negligence, “this might come in handy sometime.”

Mac unwrapped the rag without interest.

“Oh my bloody word!” Larkin said.

“Dammit, Peter,” Mac said, his fingers shaking, “are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

Peter Marlowe kept his voice as flat as his face, enjoying his excitement hugely. “No point in getting all upset about nothing.” Then he could contain his smile no longer. He beamed.

“You and your blasted Pommy underplay.” Larkin tried to be sour, but he was beaming too. “Where’d you get it, cobber?”

Peter Marlowe shrugged.

“Stupid question. Sorry, Peter,” Larkin said apologetically.

Peter Marlowe knew he would never be asked again. It was far better they did not know about the village.

Now it was dusk.

Larkin was guarding. Peter Marlowe was guarding. Under cover of his mosquito net, Mac joined the condenser. Then, unable to wait any longer, with a prayer he fiddled the connecting wire into the electric source. Sweating, he listened into the single earphone.

An agony of waiting. It was suffocating under the net, and the concrete walls and concrete floor held the heat of the vanishing sun. A mosquito droned angrily. Mac cursed but did not try to find it and kill it, for suddenly there was static in the earphone.

His tense fingers, wet with the sweat that ran down his arms, slipped on the screwdriver. He dried them. Delicately he found the screw that turned the tuner and began to twist, gently, oh so gently. Static. Only static. Then suddenly he heard the music. It was a Glenn Miller recording.

The music stopped, and an announcer said, “This is Calcutta. We continue the Glenn Miller recital with his recording ‘Moonlight Serenade.’”

Through the doorway Mac could see Larkin squatting in the shadows, and beyond him men walking the corridor between the rows of cement bungalows. He wanted to rush out and shout, “You laddies want to hear the news in a little while? I’ve got Calcutta tuned in!”

Mac listened for another minute, then disconnected the radio and carefully put the water bottles back into their sheaths of green-gray felt and left them carelessly on the beds. There would be a news broadcast from Calcutta at ten, so to save time Mac hid the wire and the earphone under the mattress instead of putting them into the third bottle.

He had been hunched under the net for so long that he had a crick in his back, and he groaned when he stood up.

Larkin looked back from his station outside. “What’s the matter, cobber? Can’t you sleep?”

“Nay, laddie,” said Mac, coming out to squat beside him.

“You should take it easy, first day out of hospital.” Larkin did not need to be told that it worked. Mac’s eyes were lit with excitement. Larkin punched him playfully. “You’re all right, you old bastard.”

“Where’s Peter?” Mac asked, knowing that he was guarding by the showers.

“Over there. Stupid bugger’s just sitting. Look at him.”

“Hey, ’mahlu sana!” Mac called out.

Peter Marlowe already knew that Mac had finished, but he got up and walked back and said,“’Mahlu senderis,” which means “’Mahlu yourself.” He, too, did not need to be told.

“How about a game of bridge?” Mac asked.

“Who’s the fourth?”

“Hey, Gavin,” Larkin called out. “You want to make a fourth?”

Major Gavin Ross dragged his legs out of the camp chair. Leaning on a crutch, he wormed himself from the next bungalow. He was glad for the offer of a game. Nights were always bad. So unnecessary, the paralysis. Once upon a time a man, and now a nothing. Useless legs. Wheelchaired for life.

He had been hit in the head by a tiny sliver of shrapnel just before Singapore surrendered. “Nothing to worry about,” the doctors had told him. “We can get it out soon as we can get you into a proper hospital with the proper equipment. We’ve plenty of time.” But there was never a proper hospital with the proper equipment and time had run out.

“Gad,” he said painfully as he settled himself on the cement floor. Mac found a cushion and tossed it over. “Ta, old chap!” It took him a moment to settle while Peter Marlowe got the cards and Larkin arranged the space between them. Gavin lifted his left leg and bent it out of the way, disconnecting the wire spring that attached the toe of his shoe to the band around his leg, just under his knee. Then he moved the other leg, equally paralyzed, out of the way and leaned back on the cushion against the wall. “That’s better,” he said, stroking his Kaiser Wilhelm mustache with a quick nervous movement.

“How’re the headaches?” Larkin asked automatically.

“Not too bad, old boy,” Gavin replied as automatically. “You my partner?”

“No. You can play with Peter.”

“Oh Gad, the boy always trumps my ace.”

“That was only once,” Peter Marlowe said.

“Once an evening,” laughed Mac as he began to deal.

“’Mahlu.”

“Two spades.” Larkin opened with a flourish.

The bidding continued furiously and vehemently.

Later that night Larkin knocked on the door of one of the bungalows.

“Yes?” Smedly-Taylor asked, peering into the night.

“Sorry to trouble you, sir.”

“Oh hello, Larkin. Trouble?” It was always trouble. He wondered what the Aussies had been up to this time as he got off his bed, aching.

“No sir.” Larkin made sure there was no one in earshot. His words were quiet and deliberate. “The Russians are forty miles from Berlin. Manila is liberated. The Yanks have landed on Corregidor and Iwo Jima.”

“Are you sure, man?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who — ” Smedly-Taylor stopped. “No. I don’t want to know anything. Sit down, Colonel,” he said quietly. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I can only say, Colonel,” the older man said tonelessly and solemnly, “that I can do nothing to help anyone who is caught with — who is caught.” He did not even want to say the word wireless. “I don’t wish to know anything about it.” A shadow of a smile crossed the granite face and softened it. “I only beg you guard it with your life and tell me immediately you hear anything.”

“Yes sir. We propose — ”

“I don’t want to hear anything. Only the news.” Sadly Smedly-Taylor touched his shoulder. “Sorry.”

“It’s safer, sir.” Larkin was glad that the colonel did not want to know their plan. They had decided that they would tell only two persons each. Larkin would tell Smedly-Taylor and Gavin Ross; Mac would tell Major Tooley and Lieutenant Bosley — both personal friends; and Peter would tell the King and Father Donovan, the Catholic chaplain. They were to pass the news on to two other persons they could trust, and so on. It was a good plan, Larkin thought. Correctly, Peter had not volunteered where the condenser came from. Good boy, that Peter.

Later that night, when Peter Marlowe returned to his hut from seeing the King, Ewart was wide awake. He poked his head out of the net and whispered excitedly, “Peter. You heard the news?”

“What news?”

“The Russians are forty miles from Berlin. The Yanks have landed on Iwo Jima and Corregidor.”

Peter Marlowe felt the inner terror. Oh my God, so soon?

“Bloody rumors, Ewart. Bloody nonsense.”

“No it isn’t, Peter. There’s a new wireless in the camp. It’s the real stuff. No rumor. Isn’t that great? Oh Christ, I forgot the best. The Yanks have liberated Manila. Won’t be long now, eh?”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Maybe we should have just told Smedly-Taylor and no one else, Peter Marlowe thought as he lay down. If Ewart knows, there’s no telling.

Nervously, he listened to the camp. You could almost feel the growing excitement of Changi. The camp knew that it was back in contact.

Yoshima was slimed with fear as he stood to attention in front of the raging General.

“You stupid, incompetent fool,” the General was saying.

Yoshima braced himself for the blow that was coming and it came, openhanded across the face.

“You find that radio or you’ll be reduced to the ranks. Your transfer is canceled. Dismiss!”

Yoshima saluted smartly, and his bow was the perfection of humility. He left the General’s quarters, thankful that he had been let off so lightly. Damn these pestilential prisoners!

In the barracks he lined up his staff and raged at them, and slapped their faces until his hand hurt. In their turn, the sergeants slapped the corporals and they the privates and the privates the Koreans. The orders were clear. “Get that radio or else.”

For five days nothing happened. Then the jailers fell on the camp and almost pulled it apart. But they found nothing. The traitor within the camp did not yet know the whereabouts of the radio. Nothing happened, except the promised return to standard rations was canceled. The camp settled back to wait out the long days, made longer by the lack of food. But they knew that at least there would be news. Not rumors, but news. And the news was very good. The war in Europe was almost over.

Even so, there was a pall on the men. Few had reserve stocks of food. And the good news had a catch to it. If the war ended in Europe, more troops would be sent to the Pacific. Eventually there would be an attack on the home islands of Japan. And such an attack would drive the jailers berserk. Reprisals! They all knew there was only one end to Changi.

Peter Marlowe was walking towards the chicken area, his water bottle swinging at his hip. Mac and Larkin and he had agreed that perhaps it would be safer to carry the water bottles as much as possible. Just in case there was a sudden search.

He was in a good mood. Though the money he had earned was long since gone, the King had advanced food and tobacco against future earnings. God, what a man, he thought. But for him, Mac, Larkin, and I would be as hungry as the rest of Changi.

The day was cooler. Rain the day before had settled the dust. It was almost time for lunch. As he neared the chicken coops his pace quickened. Maybe there’ll be some eggs today. Then he stopped, perplexed.

Near the run that belonged to Peter Marlowe’s unit was a small crowd, an angry, violent crowd. He saw to his surprise that Grey was there. In front of Grey was Colonel Foster, naked but for his filthy loincloth, jumping up and down like a maniac, incoherently screaming abuse at Johnny Hawkins, who was clasping his dog protectively to his chest.

“Hi, Max,” said Peter Marlowe as he came abreast of the King’s chicken run. “What’s up?”

“Hi, Pete,” said Max easily, shifting the rake in his hands. He noticed Peter Marlowe’s instinctive reaction to the “Pete.” Officers! You try to treat an officer like a regular guy and call him by his name and then he gets mad. The hell with them. “Yeah, Pete.” He repeated it just for good measure. “All hell broke loose an hour ago. Seems like Hawkins’ dog got into the Geek’s run and killed one of his hens.”

“Oh no!”

“They’ll hand him his head, that’s for sure.”

Foster was screaming, “I want another hen and I want damages. The beast killed one of my children, I want a charge of murder sworn out.”

“But Colonel,” Grey said, at the end of his patience, “it was a hen, not a child. You can’t swear a — ”

“My hens are my children, idiot! Hen, child, what’s the difference? Hawkins is a dirty murderer. A murderer, you hear?”

“Look, Colonel,” Grey said angrily. “Hawkins can’t give you another hen. He’s said he’s sorry. The dog got off its leash — ”

“I want a court-martial. Hawkins the murderer and his beast, a murderer.” Colonel Foster’s mouth was flecked with foam. “That bloody beast killed my hen and ate it. He ate it and there’s only feathers to show for one of my children.”

Snarling, he suddenly darted at Hawkins, his hands outstretched, nails like talons, tearing at the dog in Hawkins’ arms, screaming, “I’ll kill you and your bloody beast.”

Hawkins avoided Foster and shoved him away. The colonel fell to the ground and Rover whimpered with fear.

“I’ve said I’m sorry,” Hawkins choked out. “If I had the money I’d gladly give you two, ten hens, but I can’t! Grey — ” Hawkins desperately turned to him — “for the love of God do something.”

“What the hell can I do?” Grey was tired and mad and had dysentery. “You know I can’t do anything. I’ll have to report it. But you’d better get rid of that dog.”

“What do you mean?”

“Holy Christ,” Grey stormed at him, “I mean get rid of it. Kill it. And if you won’t, get someone else to do it. But, by God, see that it’s not in the camp by nightfall.”

“It’s my dog. You can’t order — ”

“The hell I can’t!” Grey tried to control his stomach muscles. He liked Hawkins, always had, but that didn’t mean anything now. “You know the rules. You’ve been warned to keep it leashed and keep it out of this area. Rover killed and ate the hen. There are witnesses who saw him do it.”

Colonel Foster picked himself off the ground, his eyes black and beady. “I’m going to kill it,” he hissed. “The dog’s mine to kill. An eye for an eye.”

Grey stepped in front of Foster, who hunched ready for another attack. “Colonel Foster. This matter will be reported. Captain Hawkins has been ordered to destroy the dog — ”

Foster didn’t seem to hear Grey. “I want that beast. I’m going to kill it. Just like it killed my hen. It’s mine. I’m going to kill it.” He began creeping forward, salivating. “Just like it killed my child.”

Grey held his hand out. “No! Hawkins will destroy it.”

“Colonel Foster,” Hawkins said abjectly, “I beg you, please, please, accept my apologies. Let me keep the dog, it won’t happen again.”

“No it won’t.” Colonel Foster laughed insanely. “It’s dead and it’s mine.” He lunged forward, but Hawkins backed off and Grey caught the colonel’s arm.

“Stop it,” Grey shouted, “or I’ll put you under arrest! This is no way for a senior officer to conduct himself. Get away from Hawkins. Get away.”

Foster tore his arm away from Grey. His voice was little more than a whisper as he talked directly to Hawkins. “I’ll get even with you, murderer. I’ll get even with you.” He went back to his chicken coop and crawled inside, into his home, the place where he lived and slept and ate with his children, his hens.

Grey turned back to Hawkins. “Sorry, Hawkins, but get rid of it.”

“Grey,” Hawkins pleaded, “please take back the order. Please, I beg you, I’ll do anything, anything.”

“I can’t.” Grey had no alternative. “You know I can’t, Hawkins, old man. I can’t. Get rid of it. But do it quickly.”

Then he turned on his heel and walked away.

Hawkins’ cheeks were wet with tears, the dog cradled in his arms. Then he saw Peter Marlowe. “Peter, for the love of God help me.”

“I can’t, Johnny. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do or anyone can do.”

Grief-stricken, Hawkins looked around at the silent men. He was weeping openly now. The men turned away, for there was nothing that could be done. If a man had killed a hen, well, it would be almost the same, perhaps the same. A pitying moment, then Hawkins ran away sobbing, Rover still in his arms.

“Poor chap,” Peter Marlowe said to Max.

“Yeah, but thank God it wasn’t one of the King’s hens. Jesus, that’d be my lot.”

Max locked the coop and nodded to Peter Marlowe as he left.

Max liked looking after the hens. Nothing like an extra egg from time to time. And there’s no risk when you suck the egg quick and pound the shell to dust and put it back in the hens’ food. No clues left then. And the shells are good for the hens too. And hell, what’s an egg here and there from the King? Just so long as there’s at least one a day for the King, there’s no sweat. Hell no! Max was indeed happy. For a whole week he’d be looking after the hens.

Later that day, after lunch, Peter Marlowe was lying on his bunk resting.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Peter Marlowe looked up and saw that Dino was standing beside the bunk. “Yes?” He glanced around the hut and felt a twinge of embarrassment.

“Uh, can I speak to you, sir?” The “sir” sounded impertinent as usual. Why is it Americans can’t say “sir” so that it sounds ordinary? Peter Marlowe thought. He got up and followed him out.

Dino led the way to the center of the little clearing between the huts.

“Listen, Pete,” Dino said urgently. “The King wants you. And you’re to bring Larkin and Mac.”

“What’s the matter?”

“He just said to bring them. You’re to meet him inside the jail in Cell Fifty-four on the fourth floor in half an hour.”

Officers weren’t allowed inside the jail. Japanese orders. Enforced by the camp police. God. Now that’s risky.

“Is that all he said?”

“Yeah. That’s all. Cell Fifty-four, fourth floor, in half an hour. See you around, Pete.”

Now what’s up, Peter Marlowe asked himself. He hurried down to Larkin and Mac and told them.

“What do you think, Mac?”

“Well, laddie,” Mac said carefully, “I dinna think that the King’d lightly ask the three of us, without an explanation, unless it was important.”

“What about going into the jail?”

“If we get caught,” said Larkin, “we better have a story. Grey’ll hear about it sure enough and put a bad smell on it. Best thing to do is to go separately. I can always say I’m going to see some of the Aussies who’re billeted in the jail. What about you, Mac?”

“Some of the Malayan Regiment are there. I could be visiting one of them. How about you, Peter?”

“There are some RAF types I could be seeing.” Peter Marlowe hesitated. “Perhaps I should go and see what it’s about and then come back and tell you.”

“No. If you’re not seen going in, you might be caught coming out and stopped. Then they’d never let you back in. You couldn’t disobey a direct order and go back a second time. No. I think we’d better go. But we’ll go independently.” Larkin smiled. “Mystery, eh? Wonder what’s up?”

“I hope to God it isn’t trouble.”

“Ah, laddie,” said Mac. “Living in these times is trouble. I wouldn’t feel safe not going — the King’s got friends in high places. He might know something.”

“What about the bottles?”

They thought a moment, then Larkin broke the silence. “We’ll take them.”

“Isn’t that dangerous? I mean, once inside the jail, if there’s a snap search, we could never hide them.”

“If we’re going to get caught, we’re going to get caught.” Larkin was serious and hard-faced. “It’s either in the cards or it isn’t.”

“Hey, Peter,” Ewart called out as he saw Peter Marlowe leaving the hut. “You forgot your armband.”

“Oh, thanks.” Peter Marlowe swore to himself as he went back to his bunk. “Forgot the damned thing.”

“I’m always doing it. Can’t be too careful.”

“That’s right. Thanks again.”

Peter Marlowe joined the men walking the path beside the wall. He followed it north and turned the corner and before him was the gate. He slipped off his armband and felt suddenly naked and felt that the men who passed or approached were looking at him and wondering why this officer was not wearing an armband. Ahead, two hundred yards, was the end of the road west. The barricade was open now, for some of the work parties were returning from their day’s work. Most of the laborers were exhausted, hauling the huge trailers with the stumps of trees that were dug with so much labor out of the swamps, destined for the camp cookhouses. Peter Marlowe remembered that the day after tomorrow he was going on such a party. He didn’t mind the almost daily work parties to the airfield. That was easy work. But the wood detail was different. Hauling the logs was dangerous work. Many got ruptured from the lack of the tackle that would make the work easy. Many broke limbs and sprained ankles. They all had to go — the fit ones, once or twice a week, officers as well as men, for the cookhouse consumed much firewood — and it was fair that those who were fit collected for those who were not.

Beside the gate was the MP and on the opposite side of the gate the Korean guard leaned against the wall smoking, lethargically watching the men who passed. The MP was looking at the work party shuffling through the gate. There was one man lying on the trailer. One or two usually ended up that way, but they had to be very tired, or very sick, to be hauled back home to Changi.

Peter Marlowe slipped past the distracted guards and joined the men milling the huge concrete square.

He found his way into one of the cellblocks and began picking his way up the metal stairways and over the beds and bed rolls. There were men everywhere. On the stairways, in the corridors, and in the open cells — four or five to a cell designed for one man. He felt the growing horror of pressure from above, from below, from all around. The stench was nauseating. Stench from rotting bodies. Stench of unwashed human bodies. Stench of a generation of confined human bodies. Stench of walls, prison walls.

Peter Marlowe found Cell 54. The door was shut, so he opened it and went in. Mac and Larkin were already there.

“Christ, the smell of this place is killing me.”

“Me too, cobber,” said Larkin. He was sweating. Mac was sweating. The air was close and the concrete walls were moist with their own wall-sweat and stained with the mold of years of wall-sweat.

The cell was about seven feet wide and eight feet long and ten feet high. In the center of the cell, cemented to one wall, was a bed — a solid block of concrete three feet high and three feet wide and six feet long. Protruding from the bed was a concrete pillow. In one corner of the cell was a toilet — a hole in the floor which joined to the sewer. The sewers no longer worked. There was a tiny barred window nine feet up one wall, but the sky could not be seen because the wall was two feet thick.

“Mac. We’ll give them a few minutes, then get out of this bloody place,” Larkin said.

“Ay, laddie.”

“At least let’s open the door,” Peter Marlowe said, the sweat pouring off him.

“Better keep it closed, Peter. Safer,” Larkin replied uneasily.

“I’d rather be dead than live here.”

“Ay. Thank God for the outside.”

“Hey, Larkin.” Mac indicated the blankets lying on the concrete bed. “I don’t understand where the men are who live in the cell. They can’t all be on a work party.”

“I don’t know either.” Larkin was getting nervous. “Let’s get out of here …”

The door opened and the King came in beaming with pleasure. “Hi, you guys!” In his arms were some packages and he stood aside as Tex came in, also laden. “Put ’em on the bed, Tex.”

Tex put down the electric hot plate and the large stewpan and kicked the door shut as they watched, astonished.

“Go get some water,” the King said to Tex.

“Sure.”

“What’s going on? Why did you want to see us?” said Larkin.

The King laughed. “We’re going to have a cook-up.”

“For Christ sake! You mean to say you got us in here just for that? Why the hell couldn’t we have done it in our billet?” Larkin was furious. The King merely looked at him and grinned. He turned his back and opened a package. Tex returned with the water and put the stewpan on the electric stove.

“Rajah, look, what — ” Peter Marlowe stopped.

The King was emptying the better part of two pounds of katchang idju beans into the water. Then he added salt and two heaping spoons of sugar. Then he turned around and opened another package wrapped in banana-leaf and held it up.

“Mother of God!”

There was a sudden stunned silence in the cell.

The King was delighted with the effect of his surprise. “Told you, Tex,” he grinned. “You owe me a buck.”

Mac reached out and touched the meat. “’Mahlu. It’s real.”

Larkin touched the meat. “I’d forgotten what meat looked like,” he said in a voice hushed with awe. “My bloody oath, you’re a genius. Genius.”

“It’s my birthday. So I figured we’d have a celebration. And I’ve got this,” the King said, holding up a bottle.

“What is it?”

“Sake!”

“I don’t believe it,” Mac said. “Why, there’s the whole hindquarters of a pig here.” He bent forward and sniffed it. “My God, it’s real, real, real, and fresh as a day in May, hurray!”

They all laughed.

“Better lock the door, Tex.” The King turned to Peter Marlowe. “Okay, partner?”

Peter Marlowe was still staring at the meat. “Where the hell did you get it?”

“Long story!” The King took out a knife and scored the meat, then deftly broke the small hindquarters into two joints and put them into the stewpan. They all watched, fascinated, as he added a quantity of salt, adjusted the pan to the absolute center of the hot plate, then sat back on the concrete bed and crossed his legs. “Not bad, huh?”

For a long time no one spoke.

A sudden twist of the door handle broke the spell. The King nodded to Tex, who unlocked the door, opened it a fraction, then swung it wide. Brough entered.

He looked around astonished. Then noticed the stove. He went over and peered into the stewpot. “I’ll be goddamned!”

The King grinned. “It’s my birthday. Thought I’d invite you to dinner.”

“You got yourself a guest.” Brough stuck out his hand to Larkin. “Don Brough, Colonel.”

“Grant’s my Christian name! You know Mac and Peter?”

“Sure.” Brough grinned at them and turned to Tex. “Hi, Tex!”

“Good to see you, Don.”

The King motioned to the bed. “Take a seat, Don. Then we got to go to work!”

Peter Marlowe wondered why it was that American enlisted men and officers called themselves by Christian names so easily. It didn’t sound cheap or unctuous — it seemed almost correct — and he had noticed that Brough was always obeyed as their leader even though they all called him Don — to his face. Remarkable.

“What’s this work jazz?” asked Brough.

The King pulled out some strips of blankets. “We’re going to have to seal the door.”

“What?” Larkin said incredulously.

“Sure,” the King said. “When this begins cooking, we’re liable to have us a riot on our hands. The guys start smelling this, Chrissake, figure for yourselves. We could get torn apart. This was the only place I could figure where we could cook in private. The smell will mostly go out the window. If we seal the door good, that is. We couldn’t cook it outside, that’s for sure.”

“Larkin was right,” said Mac solemnly. “You’re a genius. I’d never have thought of it. Believe me,” he added laughing, “Americans, henceforth, are amongst my friends!”

“Thanks, Mac. Now we’d better do it.”

The King’s guests took the strips of blanket and stuffed them in the cracks around the door and covered the barred peephole in the door. When they had finished the King inspected their work.

“Good,” he said. “Now, what about the window?”

They looked up at the little barred section of sky, and Brough said, “Leave it open until the stew really begins to boil. Then we’ll cover it and stand it as long as we can. Then we can open it up for a while.” He looked around. “I figure it might be all right to let the perfume out sporadically. Like an Indian smoke signal.”

“Is there any wind?”

“Goddamned if I noticed. Anyone?”

“Hey, Peter, give me a lift up, laddie,” said Mac.

Mac was the smallest of the men, so Peter Marlowe let him stand on his shoulders. Mac peered through the bars, then licked his finger and held it out.

“Hurry up, Mac, for God’s sake — you’re no chicken, you know!” Peter Marlowe called out.

“Got to test for wind, you young bastard!” And again he licked his finger and held it out, and he looked so intent and so ridiculous that Peter Marlowe began laughing, and Larkin joined in, and they doubled up and Mac fell down six feet and grazed his leg on the concrete bed and began cursing.

“Look at my bloody leg, blast you,” Mac said, choking. It was only a little graze, but there was a trickle of blood. “I bloody near scraped the skin off the whole bloody thing.”

“Look, Peter,” groaned Larkin, holding his stomach, “Mac’s got blood. I always thought he had only latex in his veins!”

“Go to hell, you bastards, ’mahlu!” Mac said irascibly, then a fit of laughter caught him and he got up and grabbed Peter Marlowe and Larkin and began to sing “Ring around the roses, pocket full of posies…”

And Peter Marlowe grabbed Brough’s arm, and Brough took Tex’s, and the chain of men, hysterical with the song, wove around the stewpot and the King, seated crosslegged behind it.

Mac broke the chain. “Hail, Caesar. We who are about to eat salute thee.”

As one, they threw him the salute and collapsed in a heap.

“Get off my blasted arm, Peter!”

“You’ve got your foot in my balls, you bastard,” Larkin swore at Brough.

“Sorry, Grant. Oh Jesus! I haven’t laughed so much in years.”

“Hey, Rajah,” said Peter Marlowe, “I think we all ought to stir it once for luck.”

“Be my guest,” the King said. It did his heart good to see these guys so happy.

Solemnly they lined up and Peter Marlowe stirred the brew, which was growing hot now. Mac took the spoon and stirred and bestowed an obscene blessing upon it. Larkin, not to be outdone, began to stir, saying, “Boil, boil, boil and bubble …”

“You out of your mind?” said Brough. “Quoting Macbeth for Chrissake!”

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s unlucky. Quoting Macbeth. Like whistling in a theater dressing room.”

“It is?”

“Any fool knows that!”

“I’ll be damned. Never knew that before.” Larkin frowned.

“Anyway, you quoted it wrong,” said Brough. “It’s ‘Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble’!”

“Oh no it isn’t, Yankee. I know my Shakespeare!”

“Betcha tomorrow’s rice.”

“Watch it, Colonel,” said Mac suspiciously, knowing Larkin’s propensity for gambling. “No man’d bet that lightly.”

“I’m right, Mac,” Larkin said, but he didn’t like the smug expression on the American’s face. “What makes you so sure you’re right?”

“Is it a bet?” asked Brough.

Larkin thought a moment. He liked a gamble — but tomorrow’s rice was too high stakes. “No. I’ll lay my rice ration on the card table, but I’ll be damned if I’ll lay it on Shakespeare.”

“Pity,” Brough said. “I could’ve used an extra ration. It’s Act Four, Scene One, line ten.”

“How the hell can you be that exact?”

“Nothing to it,” Brough said. “I was majoring in the arts at USC, with a big emphasis on journalism and playwriting. I’m going to be a writer when I get out.”

Mac leaned forward and peered into the pot. “I envy you, laddie. Writing can be just about the most important job in the whole world. If it’s any good.”

“That’s a lot of nonsense, Mac,” said Peter Marlowe. “There are a million things more important.”

“That just goes to show how little you know.”

“Business is much more important,” interjected the King. “Without business, the world’d stop — and without money and a stable economy there’d be no one to buy any books.”

“To hell with business and economy,” Brough said. “They’re just material things. It’s just like Mac says.”

“Mac,” said Peter Marlowe. “What makes it so important?”

“Well, laddie, first it’s something I’ve always wanted to do and can’t. I tried many times, but I could never finish anything. That’s the hardest part — to finish. But the most important thing is that writers are the only people who can do something about this planet. A businessman can’t do anything — ”

“That’s crap,” said the King. “What about Rockefeller? And Morgan and Ford and Du Pont? And all the others? It’s their philanthropy that finances a helluva lot of research and libraries and hospitals and art. Why, without their dough — ”

“But they made their money at someone’s expense,” Brough said crisply. “They could easily plow some of their billions back to the men who made it for them. Those bloodsuckers — ”

“I suppose you’re a Democrat?” said the King heatedly.

“You betcha sweet life I am. Look at Roosevelt. Look what he’s doing for the country. He dragged it up by its bootstrings when the goddam Republicans — ”

“That’s crap and you know it. Nothing to do with the Republicans. It was an economic cycle — ”

“Crapdoodle on economic cycles. The Republicans — ”

“Hey, you fellows,” said Larkin mildly. “No politics until after we’ve eaten, what do you say?”

“Well, all right,” Brough said grimly, “but this guy’s from Christmas.”

“Mac, why is it so important? I still don’t see.”

“Well. A writer can put down on a piece of paper an idea — or a point of view. If he’s any good he can sway people, even if it’s written on toilet paper. And he’s the only one in our modern economy who can do it — who can change the world. A businessman can’t — without substantial money. A politician can’t — without substantial position or power. A planter can’t, certainly. An accountant can’t, right, Larkin?”

“Sure.”

“But you’re talking about propaganda,” Brough said. “I don’t want to write propaganda.”

“You ever written for movies, Don?” asked the King.

“I’ve never sold anything to anyone. Guy’s not a writer until he sells something. But movies are goddam important. You know that Lenin said the movies were the most important propaganda medium ever invented?” He saw the King readying an assault. “And I’m not a Commie, you son of a bitch, just because I’m a Democrat.” He turned to Mac. “Jesus, if you read Lenin or Stalin or Trotsky you’re called a Commie.”

“Well, you gotta admit, Don,” said the King, “a lotta Democrats are pinks.”

“Since when has being pro-Russian meant that a guy’s a Communist? They are our allies, you know!”

“I’m sorry about that — in a historical way,” said Mac.

“Why?”

“We’re going to have a lot of trouble afterwards. Particularly in the Orient. Those folk were stirring up a lot of trouble, even before the war.”

“Television’s going to be the coming thing,” said Peter Marlowe, watching a thread of vapor dance the surface of the stew. “You know, I saw a demonstration from Alexandra Palace in London. Baird is sending out a program once a week.”

“I heard about television,” said Brough. “Never seen any.”

The King nodded. “I haven’t either, but that could make one hell of a business.”

“Not in the States, that’s for sure,” Brough grunted. “Think of the distances! Hell, that might be all right for one of the little countries, like England, but not a real country like the States.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Peter Marlowe, stiffening.

“I mean that if it wasn’t for us, this war’d go on forever. Why, it’s our money and our weapons and our power — ”

“Listen, old man, we did all right alone — giving you buggers the time to get off your arse. It is your war just as much as ours.” Peter Marlowe glared at Brough, who glared back.

“Crap! Why the hell you Europeans can’t go and kill yourselves off like you’ve been doing for centuries and let us alone, I don’t know. We had to bail you out before — ”

And in no time at all they were arguing and swearing and no one was listening and each had a very firm opinion and each opinion was right.

The King was angrily shaking his fist at Brough, who shook his fist back, and Peter Marlowe was shouting at Mac, when suddenly there was a crashing on the door.

Immediate silence.

“Wot’s all the bleedin’ row about?” a voice said.

“That you, Griffiths?”

“Who d’ja fink it was, Adolf bloody ’Itler? Yer want’a get us jailed or somefink?”

“No. Sorry.”

“Keep tha bleedin’ noise down!”

“Who’s that?” said Mac.

“Griffiths. He owns the cell.”

“What?”

“Sure. I hired it for five hours. Three bucks an hour. You don’t get nothing for nothing.”

“You hired the cell?” repeated Larkin incredulously.

“That’s right. This Griffiths is a smart businessman,” the King explained. “There are thousands of men around, right? No peace and quiet, right? Well, this Limey hires the cell out to anyone who wants to be alone. Not my idea of a sanctuary, but Griffiths does quite a business.”

“I’ll bet it wasn’t his idea,” said Brough.

“Cap’n I cannot tell a lie.” The King smiled. “I must confess the idea was mine. But Griffiths makes enough to keep him and his unit going very well.”

“How much do you make on it?”

“Just ten percent.”

“If it’s only ten percent, that’s fair,” said Brough.

“It is,” the King said. The King would never lie to Brough, not that it was any of his business what the hell he did.

Brough leaned over and stirred the stew. “Hey, you guys, it’s boiling.”

They all crowded around. Yes, it was really boiling.

“We’d better fix the window. The stuff’ll start smelling in a minute.”

They put a blanket over the barred outlet, and soon the cell was all perfume.

Mac, Larkin, and Tex squatted against the wall, eyes on the stewpan. Peter Marlowe sat on the other side of the bed, and as he was nearest, from time to time he stirred the pot.

The water simmered gently, making the delicate little beans soar crescentlike to the surface, then cascade back into the depths of the liquid. A puff of steam effervesced, bringing with it the true richness of the meat-buds. The King leaned forward and threw in a handful of native herbs, turmeric, kajang, huan, taka and cloves and garlic, and this added to the perfume.

When the stew had been bubbling ten minutes, the King put the green papaya into the pot.

“Crazy,” he said. “A feller could make a fortune after the war if he could figure a way to dehydrate papaya. Now that’d tenderize a buffalo!”

“The Malays’ve always used it,” Mac answered, but no one was really listening to him and he wasn’t listening to himself really, for the steamrichsweet surrounded them.

The sweat dribbled down their chests and chins and legs and arms. But they hardly noticed the sweat or the closeness. They only knew that this was not a dream, that meat was cooking — there before their eyes, and soon, very soon they would eat.

“Where’d you get it?” asked Peter Marlowe, not really caring. He just had to say something to break the suffocating spell.

“It’s Hawkins’ dog,” answered the King, not thinking about anything except my God does that smell good or does that smell good!

“Hawkins’ dog?”

“You mean Rover?”

“His dog?”

“I thought it was a small pig!”

“Hawkins’ dog?”

“Oh my word!”

“You mean that’s the hindquarters of Rover?” said Peter Marlowe, appalled.

“Sure,” the King said. Now that the secret was out he didn’t mind. “I was going to tell you afterwards, but what the hell? Now you know.”

They looked at one another aghast.

Then Peter Marlowe said, “Mother of God. Hawkins’ dog!”

“Now look,” said the King reasonably. “What’s the difference? It was certainly the cleanest-eatingest dog I’ve ever seen. Much cleaner’n any pig. Or chicken for that matter. Meat’s meat. Simple as that!”

Mac said testily, “Quite right. Nothing wrong with eating dog. The Chinese eat them all the time. A delicacy. Yes. Certainly.”

“Yeah,” said Brough, half nauseated. “But we’re not Chinese and this’s Hawkins’ dog!”

“I feel like a cannibal,” said Peter Marlowe.

“Look,” the King said. “It’s just like Mac said. Nothing wrong with dog. Smell it, for Chrissake.”

“Smell it!” said Larkin for all of them. It was hard to talk, his saliva almost choking him. “I can’t smell anything but that stew and it’s the greatest smell I’ve ever smelled and I don’t care whether it’s Rover or not, I want to eat.” He rubbed his stomach, almost painfully. “I don’t know about you bastards, but I’m so hungry I’ve got cramps. That smell’s doing something to my metabolism that’s just not ordinary.”

“I feel sick, too. And it’s got nothing to do with the fact that the meat’s dog,” said Peter Marlowe. Then he added almost plaintively, “I just don’t want to eat Rover.” He glanced at Mac. “How are we going to face Hawkins afterwards?”

“I don’t know, laddie. I’ll look the other way. Yes, I don’t think I could face him.” Mac’s nostrils quivered and he looked at the stew. “That smells so good.”

“Of course,” the King said blandly, “anyone don’t want to eat can leave.”

No one moved. Then they all leaned back, lost in their own thoughts. Listening to the bubble. Drinking in the fragrance. Magnificence.

“It’s not shocking when you think of it,” said Larkin, more to persuade himself than the others. “Look how affectionate we get with our hens. We don’t mind eating them — or their eggs.”

“That’s right, laddie. And you remember that cat we caught and ate. We didn’t mind that, did we, Peter?”

“No, but that was a stray. This is Rover!”

“It was! Now it’s just meat.”

“Are you the guys that got the cat?” Brough asked, angry in spite of himself. “The one about six months ago?”

“No. This was in Java.”

Brough said, “Oh.” Then he happened to glance at the King. “I might have guessed it,” he exploded. “You, you bastard. And we scavenged for four hours.”

“You shouldn’t get pissed off, Don. We got it. It was still an American victory.”

“My Aussies’re losing their touch,” Larkin said.

The King lifted the spoon and his hand shook as he sampled the brew. “Tastes good.” Then he prodded the meat. It was still tight to the bone. “Be another hour yet.”

Another ten minutes and he tested again. “Maybe a little more salt. What do you think, Peter?”

Peter Marlowe tasted. It was so good, so good. “A dash, just a dash!”

They all tasted, in turn. A touch of salt, a fraction more huan, a little dab of sugar, a breath more turmeric. And they settled back to wait in the exquisite torture cell, almost asphyxiated.

From time to time they pulled the blanket from the window and let some of the perfume out and some new air in.

And outside of Changi, the perfume swam on the breeze. And inside the jail along the corridor, wisps of perfume leaked through the door and permeated the atmosphere.

“Christ, Smithy, can you smell it?”

“’Course I can smell it. You think I’ve got no nose? Where’s it coming from?”

“Wait a second! Somewhere up by the jail, somewhere up there!”

“Bet those yellow bastards are having a cook-up just outside the bleeding wire.”

“That’s right. Bastards.”

“I don’t think it’s them. It seems to be coming from the jail.”

“Oh Christ, listen to Smithy. Look at him pointing, just like a bloody dog.”

“I tell you I can smell it coming from the jail.”

“It’s just the wind. The wind’s coming from that direction.”

“Winds never smelled like that before. It’s meat cooking, I tell you. It’s beef. I’d bet my life. Stewing beef.”

“New Jap torture. Bastards! What a dirty trick!”

“Maybe we’re just imagining it. They say you can imagine a smell.”

“How in hell can we all imagine it? Look at all the men, they’ve all stopped.”

“Who says so?”

“What?”

“You said, ‘They say you can imagine a smell.’ Who’s ‘they’?”

“Oh God, Smithy. It’s just a saying.”

“But who’re ‘they’?”

“How the hell do I know!”

“Then stop saying ‘they’ said this or ‘they’ said that. Enough to drive a man crazy.”

The men in the cell, the chosen of the King, watched him ladle a portion into a mess can and hand it to Larkin. Their eyes left Larkin’s plate and went back to the ladle and then to Mac and back to the ladle and then to Brough and back to the ladle and then to Tex and back to the ladle and then to Peter Marlowe and back to the ladle and then to the King’s portion. And when all were served, they fell to eating, and there was enough left over for at least two portions more per man.

It was agony to eat so well.

The katchang idju beans had broken down and were almost part of the thick soup now. The papaya had tenderized the meat and caused it to fall off the bones, and the meat came apart into chunks, dark brown from the herbs and the tenderizer and beans. The stew had the thickness of a real stew, an Irish stew, with flecks of honey oil globules staining the surface of their mess cans.

The King looked up from his bowl, dry and clean. He beckoned to Larkin.

Larkin just passed his mess can, and silently each one of them accepted another helping. This too disappeared. And then a last portion.

Finally the King put his plate away. “Son of a bitch.”

“Perfection!” Larkin said.

“Superb,” said Peter Marlowe. “I’d forgotten what it’s like to chew. My jaws ache.”

Mac carefully scooped the last bean and belched. It was a wondrous belch. “I’ll tell ye, laddies, I’ve had some meals in my time, from roast beef at Simpson’s in Piccadilly to rijsttafel in the Hotel des Indes in Java, and nothing, no one meal, has ever approached this. Never.”

“I agree,” Larkin said, settling himself more comfortably. “Even in the best place in Sydney — well, the steaks’re great — but I’ve never enjoyed anything more.”

The King belched and passed around a pack of Kooas. Then he opened the bottle of sake and drank deeply. The wine was rough and strong, but it took away the over-rich taste in his mouth.

“Here,” he said, handing it to Peter Marlowe.

They all drank and they all smoked.

“Hey, Tex, what about some Java?” yawned the King.

“Better give it a few more minutes before we open the door,” Brough said, not caring whether or not the door was opened just so long as he was left to relax. “Oh God, I feel great!”

“I’m so full I think I’ll bust,” Peter Marlowe said. “That was without a doubt the finest — ”

“For God’s sake, Peter. We’ve all just said that. We all know it.”

“Well, I had to say it.”

“How’d you manage it?” Brough said to the King, stifling a yawn.

“Max told me about the dog killing the hen. I sent Dino to see Hawkins. He gave it to him. We got Kurt to butcher it. My share was the hindquarters.”

“Why should Hawkins give it to Dino?” asked Peter Marlowe.

“He’s a veterinarian.”

“Oh, I see.”

“The hell he is,” Brough said. “He’s a merchant seaman.”

The King shrugged. “So today he was a vet. Quit bitching!”

“I gotta hand it to you. Sure as hell I gotta hand it to you.”

“Thanks, Don.”

“How — how did Kurt kill it?” Brough asked.

“I didn’t ask him.”

“Quite right, laddie,” said Mac. “Now I think let’s drop the subject, huh?”

“Good idea.”

Peter Marlowe got up and stretched. “What about the bones?” he asked.

“We’ll smuggle them out when we leave.”

“How about a little poker?” Larkin said.

“Good idea,” the King said crisply. “Tex, you get the coffee going. Peter, you clean up a bit. Grant, you fix the door. Don, how about piling the dishes?”

Brough got up heavily. “What the hell are you going to do?”

“Me?” The King raised his eyebrows. “I’m just gonna sit.”

Brough looked at him. They all looked at him. Then Brough said, “I’ve got a good mind to make you an officer — just so as I can have the pleasure of busting you.”

“Two’ll get you five of mine,” the King said, “that that wouldn’t do you any good.”

Brough looked at the others, then back at the King. “You’re probably right. I’d find myself court-martialed.” He laughed. “But there’s no rule I can’t take your dough.”

He pulled out a five-dollar note and nodded at the card deck in the King’s hands. “High card wins!”

The King spread the cards out. “Pick one.”

Brough gloatingly showed the queen. The King looked at the deck, then picked a card — it was a jack.

Brough grinned. “Double or nothing.”

“Don,” said the King mildly, “quit while you’re ahead.” He picked another card and turned it face up. An ace. “I could just as easy pick another ace — they’re my cards!”

“Why the hell didn’t you beat me then?” said Brough.

“Now, Captain, sir.” The King’s amusement was vast. “It’d be impolite to take your dough. After all you are our fearless leader.”

“Crap you!” Brough began stacking the plates and mess cans. “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.”

That night, while most of the camp slept, Peter Marlowe lay under his mosquito net awake, not wishing to sleep. He got out of the bunk and picked his way through the maze of mosquito nets and went outside. Brough was also awake.

“Hi, Peter,” Brough called quietly. “Come and sit down. Can’t you sleep either?”

“Just didn’t want to, not just yet, feel too good.”

Above, the night was velvet.

“Gorgeous night.”

“Yes.”

“You married?”

“No,” Peter Marlowe replied.

“You’re lucky. Don’t think it’d be so bad if you’re not married.” Brough was silent a minute. “I go crazy wondering if she’ll still be there. Or if she is, what about now? What’s she up to now?”

“Nothing.” Peter Marlowe made the automatic response, N’ai vivid in his thoughts. “Don’t worry.” It was like saying, “Stop breathing.”

“Not that I’d blame her, any woman. It’s such a long time we’ve been away, such a long time. Not her fault.”

Brough shakily built a cigarette, using a little dried tea and the butt of one of the Kooas. When it was alight he dragged deeply, then passed it over to Peter Marlowe.

“Thanks, Don.” He smoked, then passed it back.

They finished the cigarette in silence, racked by their longing. Then Brough got up. “Guess I’ll turn in now. See you around, Peter.”

“Good night, Don.”

Peter Marlowe looked back at the nightscape and let his eager mind drift again to N’ai. And he knew that tonight, like Brough, there was only one thing he could do or he would never sleep.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

V-E day came and the men of Changi were elated. But it was just another today and did not actually touch them. The food was the same, the sky the same, the heat the same, the sickness the same, the flies the same, the wasting away the same. Grey was still watching and waiting. His spy had notified him that soon the diamond would pass hands. Very soon now. Peter Marlowe and the King were awaiting the day just as anxiously. Only four days to go.

B Day came and Eve delivered herself of twelve more young. The code for Birth Day had amused the King and his associates enormously; Grey had heard of B Day from his spy, and on that day he had surrounded that hut and searched all the men for watches or whatever was going to be sold on “Barter” Day. Stupid cop! The King was not disturbed at the reminder that there was a spy in the hut. The third litter was launched.

Now there were seventy cages under the hut. Fourteen were already occupied. Soon twelve more would be filled.

The men had solved the problem of names in the simplest possible way. Males were given even numbers and females odd numbers.

“Listen,” said the King, “we just got to get more cages prepared.”

They were in the hut having a board meeting. The night was cool and pleasant. A waning moon was cloud-touched.

“We’re about bushed,” Tex said. “There just ain’t no spare wire netting anywheres. The only thing we can do is to get the Aussies to help out.”

“We do that,” Max said slowly, “we might just as well let the bastards take over the whole racket.”

The entire war effort of the American hut had been centered around the living gold that was rapidly exploding beneath them. Already a team of four men had extended the slit trenches into a network of passages. Now they had plenty of space for cages, but no wire with which to make them. Wire was desperately needed; B Day was looming again, and then soon after that another B Day and then another.

“If you could find a dozen or so fellows you could trust, you could give them a breeding pair and let them have their own farms,” said Peter Marlowe thoughtfully. “We could just be the stock breeders.”

“No good, Peter, we’d never be able to keep it quiet.”

The King rolled a cigarette and remembered that business had been bad recently and he had not had a tailor-made for a whole week. “The only thing to do,” he said after a moment’s reflection, “is to bring Timsen into the deal.”

“That lousy Aussie’s bad enough competition as it is,” said Max.

“We got no alternative,” the King said with finality. “We got to get the cages — and he’s the only guy who’d have the know-how — and the only one I’d trust to keep his mouth shut. If the farm goes according to plan, there’s enough dough in it for everyone.” He looked up at Tex. “Go get Timsen.”

Tex shrugged and went out.

“Come on, Peter,” the King said, “we’d better check below.”

He led the way through the trapdoor. “Holy cow,” he said as he saw the extent of the excavations. “We dig any more and the whole goddam hut’ll fall in, then where the hell’d we be!”

“Don’t you worry, chief,” Miller said proudly. He was in charge of the excavation party. “I got me a scheme so we can just go around the concrete pilings. We’ve enough room for fifteen hundred cages now, if we can get the wire. Oh yeah. And we could double the space if we could lay our hands on enough timber to shore up tunnels. Easy.”

The King walked along the main trench to inspect the animals. Adam saw him coming and viciously hurled himself at the wire as though ready to tear the King to pieces.

“Friendly, huh?”

Miller grinned. “The bastard knows you from somewheres.”

“Perhaps we should call a halt to breeding,” Peter Marlowe said. “Until the cages are ready.”

“Timsen’s the answer,” the King said. “If anyone can get us the supplies it’s his bunch of thieves.”

They climbed back into the hut and wiped the dirt off. After a shower they felt better.

“Hi, cobber.” Timsen walked down the length of the hut and sat down. “You Yanks frightened of getting your balls blown off or something?” He was tall and tough, with deepset eyes.

“What’re you talking about?”

“The way you bastards are digging slit trenches you’d think the whole bloody Air Force’s about to drop on Changi.”

“No harm in being careful.” The King wondered again whether they should chance taking Timsen in. “Won’t be long before they clobber Singapore. And when they do, we’re going to be underground.”

“They’ll never hit Changi. They know we’re here. ’Least the Pommies do. ’Course when you Yanks’re in the sky there’s no telling where the hell the bombs drop.”

He was taken on a tour of inspection. And immediately he saw the immensity of the organization. And the enormousness of the scheme.

“My Gawd, cobber,” Timsen said breathlessly, when they were back in the hut. “I got to hand it to you. My Gawd. And to think we thought you was just scared. My Gawd, you must have room for five or six hundred — ”

“Fifteen hundred,” the King interrupted nonchalantly, “and this B Day there’s going — ”

“B Day?”

“Birth Day.”

Timsen laughed. “So that’s B Day. We been trying to figure that one out for weeks. Oh, my word.” His laughter boomed. “You’re bloody geniuses.”

“I’ll admit it was my idea.” The King tried not to let the pride show, but it did. After all, it was his idea. “This B Day we got at least ninety young due. The one after that something like three hundred.”

Timsen’s eyebrows almost touched his hair line.

“Tell you what we’re prepared to do.” The King paused, revising the offer. “You supply us with the material to make a thousand more cages. We’ll hold our complete stock to a thousand — only the best. You market the produce and we’ll split fifty-fifty. On a deal this size, there’ll be enough for everyone.”

“When do we start selling?” Timsen said at once. Even so, in spite of the huge possibilities, he felt seedy.

“We’ll give you ten hind legs in a week. We’ll use the males first and keep the females. We figure, the hind legs only. We’ll step up the number as we get going.”

“Why only ten to start with?”

“If we put more on the market at first, the guys’ll be suspicious. We’ll have to take it easy.”

Timsen thought a moment. “You sure the — er — meat’ll be — okay?”

Now that he had made a commitment to supply, the King felt squeamish himself. But hell, meat’s meat and business is business. “We’re just offering meat. Rusa tikus.”

Timsen shook his head, the lips pursed. “I don’t like the idea of selling it to my Aussies,” he said queasily. “My word. That don’t seem right. Oh my word no. Not that I’m — well — it don’t seem right at all. Not to my Diggers.”

Peter Marlowe nodded, feeling as sick. “Nor to our chaps either.”

The three of them looked at each other. Yes, the King told himself, it doesn’t seem right at all. But we got to survive. And … suddenly his mind blew open.

He turned white and said tightly, “Get — the — others. I’ve just had a brainstorm.”

The Americans were quickly assembled. Tense, they watched the King. He was calmer, but he had not yet spoken. He just smoked his cigarette, seemingly oblivious of them. Peter Marlowe and Timsen glanced at each other, perturbed.

The King got up and the electricity increased. He stubbed his cigarette. “Men,” he began, and there was a thinness, a strange exhaustion to his voice. “B Day’s four days off. We expect — ” he referred to the stock chart written on the atap wall — “yeah, to increase our stock to a little over a hundred. I’ve made a deal with our friend and associate Timsen. He’s going to supply material for a thousand cages, so by the time we wean the litters, the housing problem’s solved. He and his group are going to market the produce. We’re just going to concentrate on breeding the best strains.” He stopped, and looked steadily at each man. “Men. A week from today the farm begins marketing.”

Now that the appalling day was fixed, their faces fell.

“You really think that we should?” asked Max apprehensively.

“Will you wait a minute, Max?”

“I don’t know about marketing,” said Byron Jones III, fidgeting with his eye patch. “The idea makes me…”

“Will you wait for Chrissake,” the King said impatiently. “Men.” Every-one bent forward as, almost overcome, the King spoke in the barest whisper. “We’re only going to sell to officers! Brass! Majors and up!”

“Oh, my Gawd!” breathed Timsen.

“Jesus H. Christ!” said Max, inspired.

“What?” said Peter Marlowe, thunderstruck.

The King felt like a god. “Yeah, officers. They’re the only bastards who can afford to buy. Instead of a mass business, we’ll make it a luxury trade.”

“And the buggers who can afford to buy are the ones you’d want to feed the meat to!” said Peter Marlowe.

“You’re a bloody toff,” said Timsen, awed. “Genius. Why, I know three bastards I’d give my right arm to see eat rat meat and then tell ’em…”

“I know two,” said Peter Marlowe, “that I’d give the meat to, let alone sell to. But if you gave it to the buggers — they’re so cheap they’d smell a rat!”

Max got up and shouted above the laughter, “Listen, you guys. Listen. Listen a minute.” He turned to the King. “You know, I’ve, well, I’ve — ” He was so moved that it was difficult for him to speak. “I’ve — I haven’t always been on your side. No harm in that. It’s a free country. But this — this is such a huge — such a — that, well — ” He stuck out his hand solemnly. “I’d like to shake the hand of the man that thought of that idea! I think we should all shake the hand of true genius. On behalf of all the enlisted men in the world — I’m proud of you. The King!”

Max and the King shook hands.

Tex was swaying exuberantly from side to side. “Sellars and Prouty and Grey — he’s on the list…”

“He’s got no money,” the King said.

“Hell, we’ll give him some,” Max said.

“We can’t do that. Grey’s no fool. He’d be suspicious,” Peter Marlowe said.

“What about Thorsen — that bastard — ”

“None of the Yank officers. Well,” said the King delicately, “maybe one or two.”

The cheer was quickly squashed.

“How about the Aussies?”

“Leave that to me, mate,” said Timsen. “I’ve already got three dozen customers in mind.”

“What about the Limeys?” Max said.

“We can all think of some of them.” The King felt huge and powerful and ecstatic. “It’s lucky the bastards who’ve the dough, or the means to get the dough, are the ones you want to feed and then tell what it is they’ve eaten,” he said.

Just before lights-out, Max hurried through the doorless doorway and whispered to the King, “A guard’s heading this way.”

“Who?”

“Shagata.”

“Okay,” said the King, trying to keep his voice level. “Check that all our guards are in position.”

“Okay.” Max hurried away.

The King bent close to Peter Marlowe. “Maybe there’s a slip-up,” he said nervously. “Come on, we’d better get ready.”

He slipped out of the window and made sure the canvas overhang was in position. Then he and Peter Marlowe sat under it and waited.

Shagata poked his head under the canvas, and when he recognized the King, he quietly slipped into the overhang and sat down. He propped his rifle against the wall and offered a pack of Kooas.

“Tabe,” he said.

“Tabe,” Peter Marlowe replied.

“Hi,” said the King. His hand was shaking as he took the cigarette.

“Thou hast something to sell me tonight?” Shagata asked sibilantly.

“He asks if you’ve anything to sell him tonight.”

“Tell him no!”

“My friend is overwhelmed that he has nothing to tempt a man of taste this evening.”

“Would your friend have such an article in say three days?”

The King sighed with relief when Peter Marlowe translated this. “Tell him yes. And tell him he’s wise to check.”

“My friend says that it is probable that on that day he would have something to tempt a man of taste. And my friend adds that he feels that to do business with such a careful man is a good portent for the satisfactory conclusion of said transaction.”

“It is always wise when matters must be arranged in the bleakness of night.” Shagata-san sucked in his breath. “If I do not arrive in three nights, wait each night for me. A mutual friend has indicated that he may not be able to do his part with complete accuracy. But I am assured that it will be three nights from tonight.”

Shagata got up and gave the pack of cigarettes to the King. A slight bow and the darkness took him once more.

Peter Marlowe told the King what Shagata had said, and the King grinned. “Great. Just great. You want to come by tomorrow morning? We can discuss plans.”

“I’m on the airfield work party.”

“You want me to get a sub for you?”

Peter Marlowe laughed and shook his head.

“You’d better go anyway,” said the King. “In case Cheng San wants to make contact.”

“Do you think there’s anything wrong?”

“No. Shagata was wise to check. I would have. Everything’s going according to plan. Another week and the whole deal’ll be fixed.”

“I hope so.” Peter Marlowe thought about the village, and prayed that the deal would go through. He desperately wanted to go there again, and if he did, he knew that he would have to have Sulina or he would lose his sanity.

“What’s the matter?” The King had felt more than seen Peter Marlowe’s shudder.

“I was just thinking I’d like to be in Sulina’s arms right now,” Peter Marlowe replied uneasily.

“Yeah.” The King wondered if he might foul up over the broad.

Peter Marlowe caught the look and smiled faintly. “You’ve nothing to worry about, old chum. I wouldn’t do anything foolish, if that’s what you were thinking.”

“Sure.” The King smiled. “We got a lot to look forward to — and tomorrow’s the show. You heard what it’s about?”

“Only that it’s called Triangle. And it stars Sean.” Peter Marlowe’s voice was suddenly flat.

“How did you nearly kill Sean?” The King had never asked bluntly before, knowing that with a man like Peter Marlowe it was always dangerous to ask direct questions about private matters. But now he had felt instinctively that the time was correct.

“There’s not much to tell,” Peter Marlowe said immediately, glad that the King had asked him. “Sean and I were in the same squadron in Java. The day before the war ended there, Sean didn’t come back from a mission. I thought he’d had it.

“About a year ago — the day after we came here from Java — I went to one of the camp shows. When I finally recognized Sean on the stage, you can imagine what a shock it was. He was playing a girl, but I didn’t think anything of that — someone always has to take the girls’ parts — and I just sat back and enjoyed the show. I couldn’t get over finding him alive and fit, and I couldn’t get over what a sensational girl he made — the way he walked and talked and sat — his clothes and his wig were perfect. I was very impressed with his performance — and yet I knew he’d never had anything to do with theatricals before.

“After the show I went backstage to see him. There were some others waiting too, and after a while I got the weirdest feeling that these fellows were like the characters you meet at any stage door anywhere — you know, chaps with their tongues hanging out waiting for their girl friends.

“Finally the dressing room door opened and everyone surged in. I tagged along last and stood in the doorway. It was only then that it hit me that the men were all queers! Sean was sitting on a chair and they seemed to pour all over him, fawning on him and calling him ‘darling,’ hugging him and telling him how ‘marvelous’ he was — treating him like the beautiful star of the show. And Sean — Sean was enjoying it! Christ, he was actually enjoying their pawing! Like a bitch in heat.

“Then he suddenly saw me, and of course he was shocked too.

“He said ‘Hello, Peter’ but I couldn’t say anything. I stood staring at one of the bloody queers who had his hand on Sean’s knee. Sean was wearing a sort of flowing negligee and silk stockings and panties, and I got the feeling that he’d even arranged the folds of the negligee to show off his leg above the stocking — and it looked as if he had breasts under the negligee. Then I suddenly realized he wasn’t wearing a wig — all that hair was his own, and just as long and wavy as a girl’s.

“Then Sean asked everybody to leave. ‘Peter’s an old friend I thought was dead,’ he said. ‘I have to talk to him. Go on, please.’

“When they’d gone I asked Sean, ‘What in God’s name has happened to you? You were actually enjoying those scum pawing you.’

“‘What in God’s name has happened to all of us?’ Sean answered. Then he said with that wonderful smile of his, ‘I’m so glad to see you, Peter. I thought you were very dead. Sit down a moment while I clean my face off. We’ve a lot to talk about. Did you come on the Java work party?’

“I nodded, still in a state of shock, and Sean turned back to the mirror and began to wipe the makeup off with face cream. ‘What happened to you, Peter?’ he asked. ‘Did you get shot down?’

“When he started to take off the makeup I began to relax — everything seemed more normal. I told myself that I’d been stupid — that this was all part of the show — you know, keeping up the legend — and I was sure he’d only been pretending to enjoy it. So I apologized and said, ‘Sorry, Sean — you must think me a bloody fool! My God, it’s good to know you’re all right. I thought you’d had it too.’ I told him what had happened to me and then asked about him.

“Sean told me he’d been pranged by four Zeroes and had to parachute. When he finally got back to the airfield and found my plane, it was just a shambles. I told him how I’d set fire to it before I left — I hadn’t wanted the bloody Japs to repair the wing.

“‘Oh,’ he said, ‘well, I just presumed you’d pranged yourself landing — that you’d had it. I stayed in Bandung at headquarters with the rest of the bods and then we were all put into a camp. Shortly afterwards we were sent to Batavia and from there to here.’

“Sean was looking at himself in the mirror all the time, and his face was as smooth and fine as any girl’s. Suddenly I got the strangest feeling that he had forgotten all about me. I didn’t know what to do. Then he turned away from the mirror and looked right at me, and he was frowning in a funny way. All at once I sensed how unhappy he was, so I asked him if he wanted me to go.

“‘No,’ he said. ‘No, Peter, I want you to stay.’

“And then he picked up a girl’s purse that was on the dressing table, dug out a lipstick and began making up his lips.

“I was stunned. ‘What’re you doing?’ I said.

“‘Putting on lipstick, Peter.’

“‘Come off it, Sean,’ I said. ‘A joke’s a joke. The show was over half an hour ago.’

“But he went right on, and when his lips were perfect he powdered his nose and brushed his hair, and by God he was the beautiful girl again. I couldn’t believe it. I still thought in some weird way he was playing a joke on me.

“He patted a curl here and there and then sat back and examined himself in the mirror, and he seemed absolutely satisfied with what he saw. Then he saw me in the mirror staring at him and he laughed. ‘What’s the matter, Peter?’ he said. ‘Haven’t you been in a dressing room before?’

“‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I have — a girl’s dressing room.’

“He looked at me a long time. Then he straightened his negligee and crossed his legs. ‘This is a girl’s dressing room,’ he said.

“‘Come off it, Sean,’ I said, getting irritated, ‘it’s me, Peter Marlowe. We’re in Changi, remember? The show’s over and now everything’s normal again.’

“‘Yes,’ he said perfectly calmly, ‘everything’s normal.’

“It took me a long time to say anything. ‘Well,’ I managed to get out at last, ‘aren’t you going to get out of those clothes and clean that muck off your face?’

“‘I like these clothes, Peter,’ he said, ‘and I always wear makeup now.’ He got up and opened a cupboard and by God it was full of sarongs and dresses and panties and bras and so on. He turned around and he was perfectly calm. ‘These are the only clothes I wear nowadays,’ he said. ‘I am a woman.’

“‘You must be out of your mind,’ I said.

“Sean walked over and stared up at me, and I couldn’t get it out of my head that somehow this was a girl — he looked like one and acted like one and talked like one and smelled like one. ‘Look, Peter,’ he said, ‘I know it’s difficult for you to understand, but I’ve changed. I’m no longer a man, I’m a woman.’

“‘You’re no more a bloody woman than I am!’ I yelled. But it didn’t seem to touch him at all. He just stood there smiling like a madonna, and then he said, ‘I’m a woman, Peter.’ He touched my arm just the way a girl would, and he said, ‘Please treat me as a woman.’

“Something in my head seemed to snap. I grabbed his arm and ripped the negligee off his shoulders and tore off the padded bra and shoved him in front of the mirror.

“‘You call yourself a woman?’ I shouted. ‘Look at yourself! Where are your bloody breasts?’

“But Sean didn’t look up. He just stood in front of the mirror with his head down and his hair falling over his face. The negligee was hanging off him and he was naked to the waist. I grabbed him by the hair and jerked his head up. ‘Look at yourself, you bloody deviate!’ I yelled. ‘You’re a man, by God, and you always will be.’

“He just stood there saying nothing at all, and finally I realized he was crying. Then Rodrick and Frank Parrish rushed in and shoved me out of the way, and Parrish pulled the negligee around Sean and took him in his arms, and all the time Sean just went on crying.

“Frank kept hugging him and saying, ‘It’s all right, Sean, it’s all right.’ Then he looked at me, and I knew he wanted to kill me. ‘Get out of here, you bloody bastard,’ he said.

“I don’t even know how I got out of there — when I finally came to I was wandering around the camp, and I was beginning to realize that I’d had no right, no right at all, to do what I’d done. It was insane.”

Peter Marlowe’s face was naked with anguish. “I went back to the theater. I had to try to make my peace with Sean. His door was locked but I thought I heard him inside. I knocked and knocked, but he wouldn’t answer and he wouldn’t open the door, so I got angry again and I shoved the door open. I wanted to apologize to his face, not through a door.

“He was lying on the bed. There was a big cut on his left wrist and there was blood all over the place. I put a tourniquet on him and somehow got hold of old Doc Kennedy and Rodrick and Frank. Sean looked like a corpse, and he didn’t make a sound all the time Kennedy was sewing up the scissor slash. When Kennedy finished, Frank said to me, ‘Are you satisfied now, you rotten bastard?’

“I couldn’t say anything. I just stood there hating myself.

“‘Get out and stay out,’ Rodrick said.

“I started off, but then I heard Sean calling me, in a kind of weak, faint whisper. I turned around and saw that he was looking at me not angrily, but as if he pitied me. ‘I’m sorry, Peter,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

“‘Christ, Sean,’ I managed to say. ‘I didn’t mean you any harm.’

“‘I know,’ he said. ‘Please be my friend, Peter.’

“Then he looked at Parrish and Rodrick and said, ‘I wanted to go away, but now,’ and he smiled his wonderful smile, ‘I’m so happy to be home again.’”

Peter Marlowe’s face was drained. The sweat was running down his neck and chest. The King lit a Kooa.

Peter Marlowe half shrugged, helplessly, then got up and walked away, deep in his remorse.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“Come on, hurry up,” Peter Marlowe said to the yawning men lined up bleakly outside the hut. It was just after dawn and breakfast was already memory and the deficiency of it served only to increase the men’s irritability. And, too, the long sun-hot day at the airfield was ahead of them. Unless they had the luck.

It was rumored that today one detail was going to the far west side of the airfield where the coconut trees grew. It was rumored that three trees were going to be cut down. And the heart of a coconut tree was not only edible but very nutritious and a great delicacy. It was called “millionaire’s cabbage,” for a whole coconut tree had to die to provide it. Along with the millionaire’s cabbage there would be coconuts as well. More than enough for a thirty-man detail. So officers and enlisted men alike were tense.

The sergeant in charge of the hut came up to Peter Marlowe and saluted. “That’s the lot, sir. Twenty men including me.”

“We’re supposed to have thirty.”

“Well, twenty’s all we have. The rest’re sick or on wood detail. Nothin’ I can do about it.”

“All right. Let’s get up to the gate.”

The sergeant got the men under way and they began streaming loosely along the jail wall to join the rest of the airfield detail near the barricade-gate west. Peter Marlowe beckoned to the sergeant and got the men herded together in the best position — near the end of the line, where they were likelier to be chosen for the tree detail. When the men noticed that their officer had maneuvered them just right they began to pay attention and sorted themselves out quickly.

They all had their rag shirts tucked into grub-bags. Grub-bags were an institution, and took many forms. Sometimes they were regulation haversacks, sometimes suitcases, sometimes rattan baskets, sometimes bags, sometimes a cloth and a stick, sometimes a piece of material. But all the men carried some container for the plunder to be. On a work party there was always plunder, and if it wasn’t millionaire’s cabbage or coconut, it could be driftwood, firewood, coconut husks, bananas, oil palm nuts, edible roots, leaves of many types, or even sometimes papaya.

Most of the men wore clogs of wood or tire rubber. Some wore shoes with the toes cut out. And some had boots. Peter Marlowe was wearing Mac’s boots. They were tight, but for a three-mile march and a work party they were better than clogs.

The snake of men began marching through the gate west, an officer in charge of each company. At the head was a group of Koreans and at the tail was a single Korean guard.

Peter Marlowe’s group waited near the rear for space to join the march. He was looking forward to the trek and the prospect of the trees. He shifted his shirt more comfortably in the rucksack strap and adjusted his water bottle — not the bottle, for to take that would have been dangerous on a work party. You could never tell when a guard or someone else might want to take a drink.

Finally it was time to move, and he and his men began to walk towards the gate. As they passed the guardhouse they saluted, and the squat little Japanese sergeant stood on the veranda and returned their salute stiffly. Peter Marlowe gave the number of his men to the other guard, who checked them against the total already tallied.

Then they were outside the camp and walking the tarmac road. It curled easily, with gentle hills and dales, then sped through a rubber plantation. The rubber trees were unkempt and untapped. Now that’s strange, thought Peter Marlowe, for rubber was at a premium and a vital food for war.

“Hello, Duncan,” he said as Captain Duncan and his group began to pass. He fell into step beside Duncan, keeping his eyes on his own group, the next ahead.

“Isn’t it great to have the news again?” Duncan said.

“Yes,” he replied automatically, “if it’s true.”

“Must say it sounds too good to be true.”

Peter Marlowe liked Duncan. He was a little Scot, red-haired and middle-aged. Nothing seemed to faze him. He always had a smile and a good word. Peter Marlowe had the feeling that something was different about him today. Now what was it?

Duncan noted his curiosity and grimaced to show his new false teeth.

“Oh, that’s it,” said Peter Marlowe. “I was wondering what was different.”

“How do they look?”

“Oh, better than none at all.”

“Now that’s a fine remark. I thought they looked pretty good.”

“I can’t get used to aluminum teeth. They look all wrong.”

“Went through bloody hell to have mine taken out. Bloody hell!”

“Thank God my teeth are all right. Had to have them filled last year. Rotten business. You’re probably wise to have had all yours taken out. How many did — ”

“Eighteen,” said Duncan angrily. “Makes you want to spit blood. But they were completely rotten. Doc said something about the water and lack of chewable material and rice diet and lack of calcium. But my God, these false ones feel great.” He chomped once or twice reflectively, then continued, “The dental chaps are very clever the way they make them. Lot of ingenuity. Of course, I have to admit it’s a bit of a shock — not having white teeth. But for comfort, why, lad, I haven’t felt so good in years, white or aluminum makes no difference. Always had trouble with my teeth. To hell with teeth anyway.”

Up ahead, the column of men moved into the side of the road as a bus began to pass. It was ancient and puffing and steaming and had seats for twenty-five passengers. But inside were nearly sixty men, women and children, and outside another ten were hanging on with fingers and toes. The top of the bus was piled with cages of chickens and baggage and mat-rolls. As the asthmatic bus passed, the natives looked curiously at the men and the men eyed the crates of half-dead chickens and hoped the bloody bus would break down or go into a ditch and then they could help push it out of the ditch and liberate a dozen or so chickens. But today the bus passed, and there were many curses.

Peter Marlowe walked alongside Duncan, who kept on chattering about his teeth and showing them in the broadness of his smile. But the smile was all wrong. It looked grotesque.

Behind them a Korean guard, slouching lethargically, shouted at a man who fell out of the line to the side of the road, but the man merely dropped his pants and quickly relieved himself and called out “Sakit marah”—dysentery — so the guard shrugged and took out a cigarette and lit it while he waited, and quickly the man was back in line once more.

“Peter,” said Duncan quietly, “cover for me.”

Peter Marlowe looked ahead. About twenty yards from the road, on a little path beside the storm ditch, were Duncan’s wife and child. Ming Duncan was Singapore Chinese. Since she was Oriental, she was not put into a camp along with the wives and children of the other prisoners, but lived freely in the outskirts of the city. The child, a girl, was beautiful like her mother, and tall for her age, and she had a face that would never wear a sigh upon it. Once a week they “happened” to pass by so that Duncan could see them. He always said that as long as he could see them Changi was not so bad.

Peter Marlowe moved between Duncan and the guard, shielding him, and let Duncan fall back to the side of his men.

As the column passed by, the mother and child made no sign. When Duncan passed, their eyes met his, briefly, and they saw him drop the little piece of paper to the side of the road, but they kept on walking, and then Duncan had passed and was lost in the mass of men. But he knew they had seen the paper, and knew that they would keep on walking until all the men and all the guards were gone; then they would return and find the paper and they would read it and that thought made Duncan happy. I love you and miss you and you are both my life, he had written. The message was always the same, but it was always new, both to him and to them, for the words were written afresh, and the words were worth saying, over and over and over. Forever.

“Don’t you think she’s looking well?” Duncan said as he rejoined Peter Marlowe.

“Wonderful, you’re very lucky. And Mordeen’s growing up to be a beauty.”

“Ay, a real beauty that one. She’ll be six this September.”

The happiness faded, and Duncan fell silent. “How I wish this war was over,” he said.

“Won’t be long now.”

“When you get married, Peter, marry a Chinese girl. They make the best wives in the world.” Duncan had said the same thing many times. “I know that it’s hard to be ostracized, and hard on the children — but I’ll die content if I die in her arms.” He sighed. “But you won’t listen. You’ll marry some English girl and you’ll think you’re living. What a waste! I know. I’ve tried both.”

“I’ll have to wait and see, won’t I, Duncan?” Peter Marlowe laughed. Then he quickened his pace to get into position ahead of his men. “I’ll see you later.”

“Thanks, Peter,” Duncan called after him.

They were almost up to the airfield now. Ahead was a group of guards waiting to take their parties to their work areas. Beside the guards were mattocks and spades and shovels. Already many of the men were streaming under guard across the airfield.

Peter Marlowe looked west. There was one party heading for the trees already. Bloody hell!

He stopped his men and saluted the guards, noticing that one of them was Torusumi.

Torusumi recognized Peter Marlowe, and smiled. “Tabe!”

“Tabe,” replied Peter Marlowe, embarrassed by Torusumi’s obvious friendliness.

“I will take thee and thy men,” said Torusumi and nodded to the implements.

“I thank thee,” said Peter Marlowe and nodded at the sergeant. “We’re to go with him.”

“That bleeder works the east end,” said the sergeant irritably. “Just our bloody luck.”

“I know that,” said Peter Marlowe just as irritably, and as the men moved forward to get the tools he said to Torusumi, “I hope today thou wilt be taking us to the west end. It is cooler there.”

“We are to go to the east. I know it is cooler on the west side, and I always get the east.”

Peter Marlowe decided to gamble. “Perhaps thou shouldst ask for better treatment.” It was dangerous to make a suggestion to a Korean or a Japanese. Torusumi observed him coldly, then turned abruptly and went over to Azumi, a Japanese corporal, who stood grimly to one side. Azumi was known for his bad temper.

Apprehensively, Peter Marlowe watched Torusumi bow and start to speak rapidly and harshly in Japanese. And he felt Azumi’s stare on him.

Beside Peter Marlowe the sergeant was also watching the exchange anxiously. “What’d you say, sir?”

“I said it’d be a good idea if we went to the west end for a change.”

The sergeant winced. If the officer got a slap the sergeant got one automatically. “You’re taking a chance — ” He stopped abruptly as Azumi began walking towards them, followed by Torusumi, deferentially two paces behind.

Azumi, a small bowlegged man, halted five paces from Peter Marlowe, then stared up into his face for perhaps ten seconds. Peter Marlowe readied himself for the slap that was to come. But it didn’t. Instead Azumi suddenly smiled and showed his gold teeth and sucked in air and took out a pack of cigarettes. He offered Peter Marlowe one and said something in Japanese which Peter Marlowe didn’t understand, but he caught “Shoko-san” and was even more astonished, since he hadn’t been called Shoko-san before.” Shoko” is “officer” and “san” means “mister,” and to be called Mr. Officer by a fiendish little bastard like Azumi was praise indeed.

“Arigato,” Peter Marlowe said, accepting the light. “Thank you” was the only Japanese he knew, apart from “Stand easy” and “Attention” and “Quick march” and “Salute” and “Come here, you white bastard.” He ordered the sergeant, who was obviously nonplussed, to get the men lined up.

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant, glad of an excuse to get out of range.

Then Azumi snapped in Japanese at Torusumi and Torusumi moved up too and said, “Hotchatore,” which means “quick march.” When they were halfway across the airfield and well out of Azumi’s hearing distance, Torusumi smiled at Peter Marlowe. “We’re going to the west end today. And we’re going to cut down the trees.”

“We are? I don’t understand.”

“It is simple. I told Azumi-san that thou art the King’s interpreter, and that I felt he should know this, since he takes ten percent of our profits. So,” Torusumi shrugged, “of course we must look after each other. And maybe we can discuss some business during the day.”

Peter Marlowe weakly ordered the men to halt.

“What’s the matter, sir?” asked the sergeant.

“Nothing, Sergeant. Listen, all of you! Now no noise. We’ve got the trees.”

“Oh bloody hell, how great.”

There was the beginning of a cheer, quickly stifled.

When they got to the three trees, Spence and his working party were already there with their guard. Torusumi went up to the guard and they had a slanging match in Korean. But Spence and his angry men were lined up and marched away by the furious guard. “Why the hell have you got the trees, you bastard? We were here first!” Spence called out.

“Yes,” said Peter Marlowe sympathetically. He knew how Spence felt.

Torusumi beckoned to Peter Marlowe and sat down in the shade and propped his rifle against a tree. “Post a guard,” he yawned. “I hold thee responsible if I am caught asleep by any pestilential Japanese or Korean.”

“Thou mayest sleep soft in my trust,” Peter Marlowe replied.

“Wake me at the hour of food.”

“It will be done.”

Peter Marlowe posted guards in vantage points, then led the furious assault on the trees. He wanted the trees down and carved up before anyone changed their orders.

By noon the three trees were down and the millionaire’s cabbage out of the trees. The men were all exhausted and ant-bitten, but that didn’t matter, for today’s booty was huge. There were two coconuts per man to take home and another fifteen left over. Peter Marlowe said that they would save five for Torusumi and share the other ten for lunch. He divided two millionaire’s cabbage and said that the other should be kept for Torusumi and Azumi, just in case they wanted it. If they didn’t, then it too would be divided.

Peter Marlowe was propped against a tree, panting from the exertion, when a sudden danger whistle rocked him to his feet and he was quickly beside Torusumi, shaking him awake.

“A guard, Torusumi-san, hurry.”

Torusumi scrambled to his feet and brushed down his uniform. “Good. Go back to the trees and look busy,” he said softly.

Then Torusumi wandered nonchalantly into the clearing. When he recognized the guard, he relaxed and motioned the man into the shade and they both propped their rifles and lay back and began to smoke. “Shoko-san,” Torusumi called out. “Rest easy, it is only my friend.”

Peter Marlowe smiled, then called out, “Hey, Sergeant. Cut open a couple of the best young coconuts and take them to the guards.” He couldn’t take them himself, for he would have lost much face.

The sergeant chose the two carefully and sliced the tops off. The outside husks were green-brown and two inches thick and pithy on the deep imbedded nut. The white meat that lined the interior of the nut was just soft enough and easy to eat with a spoon if you’d a mind, and the juice cool and sweet-tasting.

“Smith,” he called out.

“Yes, Sarn’t.”

“Take these over to the bloody Nips.”

“Why me? I’m bloody well always having to do more than the — ”

“Get your arse over here.”

Smith, a spare little Cockney, grumbled to his feet and did as he was ordered.

Torusumi and the other guard drank deeply. Then Torusumi called out to Peter Marlowe, “We thank thee.”

“Peace be with thee,” replied Peter Marlowe.

Torusumi jerked out a crumpled pack of Kooas and handed them to Peter Marlowe.

“I thank thee,” said Peter Marlowe.

“Peace be with thee,” Torusumi replied politely.

There were seven cigarettes. The men insisted that Peter Marlowe take two. The other five were split up, one to four men, and by general consent the cigarettes were to be smoked after lunch.

Lunch was rice and fish water and weak tea. Peter Marlowe took only rice and mixed in a touch of blachang. For dessert he enjoyed his share of coconut. Then he settled tiredly against the stump of one of the trees and looked over the airfield, waiting for the lunch hour to end.

To the south there was a hill, and surrounding the hill were thousands of Chinese coolies. They all carried two bamboo baskets on a bamboo pole over their shoulders, and they walked up the hill and collected two baskets of earth and walked down the hill and emptied the two baskets. Their movement was perpetual and you could almost see the hill disappear. Under the burning sun.

Peter Marlowe had been coming to the airfield four, five times a week for almost two years now. When he and Larkin had first seen the site, with its hills and swamps and sand, they had laughed and thought that it would never be turned into an airfield. After all, the Chinese had no tractors or bulldozers. But now, two years later, there was already one operative strip, and the big one, the bomber strip, was nearly finished.

Peter Marlowe marveled at the patience of all those worker-ants and wondered what their hands could not do if they were set in motion with modern equipment.

His eyes closed and he was asleep.

“Ewart! Where’s Marlowe?” Grey asked curtly.

“On a work party at the airfield. Why?”

“Just tell him to report to me immediately he gets back.”

“Where’ll you be?”

“How the hell do I know! Just tell him to find me.” As Grey left the hut he felt a spasm building, and he began to hurry to the latrines. Before he got halfway the spasm climaxed and a little of the bloody mucus oozed out of him, soaking even more the grass pad he wore in his pants. Tormented and very weak, he leaned against a hut to gather strength.

Grey knew that it was time to change the pad once more, the fourth time today, but he didn’t mind. At least the pad was hygienic and it saved his pants, the only pair he possessed. And without the pad he could not walk around. Disgusting, he told himself, just like a sanitary napkin. What a bloody mess! But at least it was efficient.

He should have reported sick today, but he couldn’t, not when he had Marlowe nailed. Oh no, this was too good to miss, and he wanted to see Marlowe’s face when he told him. It was worth the pain to know he had him. The cheap, no-good bastard. And through Marlowe the King’d sweat a little. In a couple of days he would have them both. For he knew about the diamond and knew that contact was to be made within the next week. He didn’t know yet exactly when, but he would be told. You’re clever, he told himself, clever to have such an efficient system.

He went up to his jail hut and told the MP to wait outside. He changed the pad and scrubbed his hands, hoping to wash the stain away, the invisible stain.

Feeling better, Grey forced himself off the veranda steps and headed for the supply hut. Today he was to make his weekly inspection of the supplies of rice and food. The supplies always checked, for Lieutenant Colonel Jones was efficient and dedicated and always weighed the day’s rice himself, personally, in public. So there was never any chance of skulduggery.

Grey admired Lieutenant Colonel Jones and liked the way he did everything himself — then there were no slips. He envied him too, for he was very young to be a lieutenant colonel. Just thirty-three. Makes you sick, he told himself, he’s a lieutenant colonel and you’re a lieutenant — and the only difference is being in the right job at the right time. Still, you’re doing all right, and making friends who will stand up for you when the war’s over. Of course, Jones was a civilian soldier, so he wouldn’t stay in the service afterwards. But Jones was a pal of Samson and also of Smedly-Taylor, Grey’s boss, and he played bridge with the Camp Commandant. Lucky bastard. I can play bridge as good as you can, but I don’t get invited, and I work harder than anyone.

When Grey got to the supply hut, the day’s issue of rice was still in progress.

“Morning, Grey,” Jones said. “I’ll be right with you.” He was a tall man, handsome, well-educated, quiet. He had a boyish face and was nicknamed the Boy Colonel.

“Thank you, sir.”

Grey stood and watched as the cookhouse representatives — a sergeant and an enlisted man — came up to the scales. Each cookhouse supplied two men to pick up the allotment — one to keep an eye on the other. The tally of men submitted by the representatives was checked and the rice weighed out. Then the tally sheet was initialed.

When the last cookhouse had been served, the remains of the sack of rice was lifted by Quartermaster Sergeant Blakely and carried into the hut. Grey followed Lieutenant Colonel Jones inside and listened absently as Jones wearily gave him the figures: “Nine thousand four hundred and eighty-three officers and men. Two thousand three hundred and seventy and three-quarters pounds of rice issued today, four ounces per man. Twelve bags approx.” He nodded to the empty jute bags. Grey watched him count them, knowing that there would be twelve. Then Jones continued, “One bag was short ten pounds”—this was not unusual — “and the residue is twenty and a quarter pounds.”

The lieutenant colonel went over and picked up the almost empty sack and put it on the scales that Quartermaster Sergeant Blakely had pulled inside the hut. He carefully placed the weights on the platform and built them up to twenty and one quarter pounds. The sack lifted and balanced. “It checks,” he smiled, satisfied, looking at Grey.

Everything else — a side of beef, sixteen tubs of dried fish, forty pounds of gula malacca, five dozen eggs, fifty pounds of salt and bags of peppercorns and dried red chilis — checked out perfectly also.

Grey signed the store chart, and winced as another spasm racked him.

“Dysentery?” asked Jones, concerned.

“Just a touch, sir.” Grey looked around the semidarkness, then saluted. “Thank you, sir. See you next week.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

On the way out, Grey was hit by another spasm and stumbled against the scale, knocking it over and scattering the weights across the dirt floor.

“Sorry,” Grey cursed, “bloody careless of me.” He lifted the machine and groped on the floor for the weights, but Jones and Blakely were already on their knees picking them up.

“Don’t bother, Grey,” Jones said, then he barked at Blakely, “I’ve told you before to put the scale in the corner.”

But Grey had already picked up a two-pound weight. He couldn’t believe what he saw, and he carried the weight to the door and inspected it in the light to make certain his eyes weren’t deceiving him. They weren’t. In the bottom of the iron weight was a small hole packed hard with clay. He picked out the clay with a fingernail, his face chalky.

“What is it, Grey?” said Jones.

“This weight’s been tampered with.” The words were an accusation.

“What? Impossible!” Jones went up to Grey. “Let me see that.” For an eternity he studied it, then smiled.

“It’s not been tampered with. This is merely a corrective hole. The particular weight was probably a fraction heavier than it was supposed to be.” He laughed weakly. “My God, you had me worried for a moment.”

Grey walked rapidly over to the rest of the weights and picked up another one. It too had a hole in it.

“Christ! They’ve all been tampered with!”

“That’s absurd,” Jones said. “They’re just corrective — ”

“I know enough about weights and measures,” Grey said, “to know holes aren’t allowed. Not corrective holes. If the weight’s wrong, it’s never issued.”

He whirled on Blakely, who cringed against the door. “What do you know about it?”

“Nothing, sir,” Blakely said, terrified.

“You’d better tell me!”

“I don’t know anything, sir, honest — ”

“All right, Blakely. You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to go out of the hut and I’m going to tell everyone I meet about you, everyone — and I’m going to show them this weight, and before I can report it to Colonel Smedly-Taylor you’ll be torn apart.”

Grey started for the door.

“Wait, sir,” Blakely choked out. “I’ll tell you. It wasn’t me, sir, it was the colonel. He made me do it. He caught me pinching a little rice and he swore he’d turn me in if I didn’t help him — ”

“Shut up, you fool,” Jones said. Then, in a calmer voice, he said to Grey, “The fool’s trying to implicate me. I never knew anything — ”

“Don’t you listen to him, sir,” Blakely interrupted, babbling. “He always weighs the rice himself. Always. And he has the key to the safe that he keeps the weights in. You know yourself how he does it all. And anyone who handles weights has to look at the bottom sometimes. However well the holes’re camouflaged, you’ve got to notice them. And it’s been going on for a year or more.”

“Shut up, Blakely!” Jones screamed. “Shut up.”

Silence.

Then Grey said, “Colonel, how long have these weights been used?”

“I don’t know.”

“A year? Two years?”

“How the hell do I know? If the weights are fixed it’s nothing to do with me.”

“But you have the key and you keep them locked up?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean — ”

“Have you ever looked at the bottom of the weights?”

“No, but — ”

“That’s somewhat strange, isn’t it?” said Grey relentlessly.

“No, it isn’t, and I won’t be cross-questioned by — ”

“You’d better be telling the truth, for your own sake.”

“Are you threatening me, Lieutenant? I’ll have you court-martialed — ”

“I don’t know about that, Colonel. I’m here legally and the weights have been tampered with, haven’t they?”

“Now, look here, Grey — ”

“Haven’t they?” Grey held the weight up to Jones’s drained face, which was no longer boyish.

“I — suppose — so,” said Jones, “but that doesn’t mean — ”

“It means that either Blakely or you is responsible. Perhaps both of you. You’re the only two allowed here. The weights are short, and one or both of you has been taking the extra ration.”

“It wasn’t me, sir,” Blakely whined. “I only got a pound in every ten — ”

“Liar!” shouted Jones.

“Oh no I’m not. I’ve told you a thousand times we’d be for it.” He turned to Grey, wringing his hands. “Please sir, please, don’t say anything. The men’d tear us to pieces.”

“You bastard, I hope they do.” Grey was glad that he had found the false weights. Oh yes, he was glad.

Jones took out his cigarette box and began to roll a cigarette. “Would you like one?” he said, the boy face jowled and strangely sick and tentatively smiling.

“No thank you.” Grey hadn’t had a smoke for four days and he needed one.

“We can sort this out,” Jones said, his boyishness and good breeding returning. “Perhaps someone has tampered with the weights. But the amount is insignificant. I can easily get other weights, correct ones — ”

“So you admit that they’re crooked?”

“I’m only saying, Grey — ” Jones stopped. “Get out, Blakely. Wait outside.”

Immediately Blakely turned for the door.

“Stay where you are, Blakely,” Grey said. Then he glanced back at Jones, his manner deferential. “There’s no need for Blakely to go, is there, sir?”

Jones studied him through the smoke, then said, “No. Walls don’t have ears. All right. You’ll get a pound of rice a week.”

“Is that all?”

“We’ll make it two pounds per week, and half a pound of dried fish. Once a week.”

“No sugar? Or eggs?”

“They both go to the hospital, you know that.”

Jones waited and Grey waited and Blakely sobbed in the background. Then Grey began to leave, pocketing the weight.

“Grey, just a minute.” Jones took two eggs and offered them to him. “Here, you’ll get one a week, along with the rest of the supplies. And some sugar.”

“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Colonel. I’m going to go down to Colonel Smedly-Taylor and tell him what you said and I’m going to show him the weights — and if there’s a borehole party, and I pray there will be one, I’m going to be there and I’m going to shove you down, but not too fast, because I want to see you die. I want to hear you scream and see you die, for a long time. Both of you.”

Then he went out of the hut into the sun, and the heat of the day hit him and the pain ripped through his insides. But he willed himself to walk and started slowly down the hill.

Jones and Blakely at the door of the supply hut watched him go. And both were terrified.

“Oh, Christ, sir, what’s going to happen?” Blakely whimpered. “They’ll string us up — ”

Jones jerked him back into the hut, slammed the door and backhanded him viciously. “Shut up!”

Blakely was babbling on the floor and tears were streaming down his face, so Jones jerked him up and smashed him again.

“Don’t hit me, you’ve no right to hit — ”

“Shut up and listen.” Jones shook him again. “Listen, damn you to hell. I’ve told you a thousand times to use the real weights on Grey’s inspection day, you bloody incompetent fool. Stop sniveling and listen. First, you’re to deny that anything was said. You understand? I made no offer to Grey, you understand?”

“But sir — ”

“You’re to deny it, you understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. We’ll both deny it and if you stick to the story I’ll get us out of this mess.”

“Can you? Can you, sir?”

“I can if you deny it. Next. You know nothing about the weights and neither do I. You understand?”

“But we’re the only ones — ”

“You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Next. Nothing took place here except that Grey discovered the false weights and you and I were just as astonished. You understand?”

“But — ”

“Now tell me what happened. God damn you, tell me!” Jones bellowed, towering over him.

“We — we were finishing the check, and then — then Grey fell against the weighing machine, and the weights got knocked over, and — and then we discovered the weights were false. Is that all right, sir?”

“What happened next?”

“Well, sir.” Blakely thought a moment, then his face lit up. “Grey asked us about the weights, and I’d never seen that they were false, and you were just as surprised. Then Grey left.”

Jones offered him some tobacco. “You’ve forgotten what Grey said. Don’t you remember? He said, ‘If you give me some extra rice, a pound a week, and an egg or two, I won’t report this.’ And then I told him to go to hell, that I would report the weights myself and would report him too, and I was beside myself with worry about the false weights. How did they get there? Who was the swine?”

Blakely’s little eyes filled with admiration. “Yes, sir, I remember distinctly. He asked for a pound of rice and an egg or two. Just like you said.”

“Then remember it, you stupid fool! If you’d used the right weights and held your tongue we wouldn’t be in this mess. Don’t you fail me again or I’ll put the blame on you. It’ll be your word against mine.”

“I won’t fail, sir, I promise — ”

“It’s our word against Grey’s anyway. So don’t worry. If you keep your head and remember!”

“I won’t forget, sir, I won’t.”

“Good.” Jones locked the safe and the front door of the hut and left the area.

Jones is a sharp man, Blakely persuaded himself, he’ll get us out of this. Now that the shock of being discovered had worn off he was feeling safer. Yes, and Jones’ll have to save his own neck to save yours. Yes, Blakely my man, you’re smart yourself, smart to make sure you’ve got the goods on him, just in case of a double-cross.

Colonel Smedly-Taylor scrutinized the weight ponderously.

“Astonishing!” he said. “I just can’t believe it.” He looked up keenly. “You seriously mean to tell me that Lieutenant Colonel Jones offered to bribe you? With camp provisions?”

“Yes, sir. It was exactly like I told you.”

Smedly-Taylor sat down on his bed in the little bungalow and wiped off the sweat, for it was hot and sultry. “I don’t believe it,” he repeated, shaking his head.

“They were the only ones who had access to the weights — ”

“I know that. It’s not that I dispute your word, Grey, it’s just so, well, incredible.”

Smedly-Taylor was quiet for a long time and Grey waited patiently.

“Grey.” The colonel still examined the weight and the tiny hole as he continued. “I’ll think what to do about this. The whole — affair — is fraught with danger. You must not mention this to anyone, anyone, you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“My God, if it’s as you say, well, those men would be massacred.” Again Smedly-Taylor shook his head. “That two men — that Lieutenant Colonel Jones could — the camp rations! And every weight is false?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How much do you think they are light, all in all?”

“I don’t know, but perhaps a pound in every four hundred pounds. I suppose they were getting away with three or four pounds of rice per day. Not counting the dried fish or the eggs. Perhaps there are others mixed up in this — there would have to be. They couldn’t cook rice and not have it noticed. Probably a cookhouse’s mixed up in it too.”

“My God!” Smedly-Taylor got up and began pacing. “Thank you, Grey, you’ve done a fine job. I’ll see that it goes into your official report.” He put out his hand. “A good job, Grey.”

Grey shook his hand firmly. “Thank you, sir. I’m only sorry I didn’t discover it before.”

“Now, not a word to anyone. That’s an order!”

“I understand.” He saluted and left, his feet hardly touching the ground.

That Smedly-Taylor should say, “I’ll see that it goes into your official report”! Maybe they’d promote him, Grey thought with sudden hope. There had been a few camp promotions and he could certainly use the upped rank. Captain Grey — it had a nice ring to it. Captain Grey!

The afternoon was dragging now. Without work, it was difficult for Peter Marlowe to keep the men on their feet, so he organized foraging parties and kept the guards changing, for Torusumi was sleeping again. The heat was vicious and the air parched and everyone cursed the sun and prayed for night.

Finally Torusumi woke up and relieved himself in the undergrowth and picked up his rifle and began to walk up and down to take the sleep away. He screamed at some of the men who were dozing, and he shouted to Peter Marlowe, “I beg thee get these sons of pigs up and about and make them work, or at least make them look as though they are working.”

Peter Marlowe came over. “I’m sorry that thou art troubled.” Then he turned to the sergeant: “For Christ sake, you know you were supposed to keep an eye on him. Get these bloody idiots up and dig a hole or chop that bloody tree or cut some palm fronds, you bloody idiot!”

The sergeant was suitably apologetic and in no time he had the men hurrying about, pretending to be busy. They had it down to a fine art.

A few husks of coconut were moved, and a few fronds were piled, and a few first saw cuts made in the trees. If they worked at the same speed, day after day, well, soon the whole area would be clean and level.

The sergeant tiredly reported back to Peter Marlowe. “They’re all as busy as they’ll ever be, sir.”

“Good. Won’t be long now.”

“Look, sir, would you — would you do something — for me?”

“What?”

“Well, it’s like this. Seeing as how — as you — well…” He wiped his mouth on his sweatrag, embarrassed. But it was too good an opportunity to miss. “Look at this.” He brought out a fountain pen. “Would you see if the Nip’ll buy it?”

“You mean you want me to sell it for you?” Peter Marlowe gaped at him.

“Yes, sir. It’s — well — I thought, you being a friend of the King like, you’d know — maybe you’d know how to go about it.”

“It’s against orders to sell to the guards, both our orders and theirs.”

“Aw, come on, sir, you can trust me. Why, you and the King — ”

“What about me and the King?”

“Nothing, sir,” said the sergeant cautiously. What’s the matter with this bugger? Who’s he trying to fool? “I just thought you might help me. And my unit, of course.”

Peter Marlowe looked at the sergeant and at the pen and wondered why he had got so angry. After all, he had sold for the King — or at least, tried to sell for the King — and truthfully he was a friend of the King. And there was nothing wrong in that. If it wasn’t for the King they would have never got the tree area. More likely he would be nursing a busted jaw, or at least a slapped face. So he should really uphold the reputation of the King. He did get you the coconuts.

“What do you want for it?”

The sergeant grinned. “Well, it isn’t a Parker, but it’s got a gold nib,” and he unscrewed the top and showed it, “so it should be worth something. Maybe you could see what he’d give.”

“He’ll want to know what you want for it. I’ll ask him, but you set a price.”

“If you could get me — sixty-five dollars, I’d be happy.”

“Is it worth that much?”

“I think so.”

The pen did have a gold nib and a fourteen karat mark, and as near as Peter Marlowe could judge it was genuine. Not like the other pen.

“Where’d you get it?”

“It’s mine, sir. I’ve been keeping it against a rainy day. Been raining a lot recently.”

Peter Marlowe nodded briefly. He believed the man. “All right, I’ll see what I can do. You keep an eye on the men, and make sure there’s a guard out.”

“Don’t you worry, sir. The buggers won’t bat a bleeding eyelid.”

Peter Marlowe found Torusumi leaning against a squat tree, heavy with a grasping vine. “Tabe,” he said.

“Tabe.” Torusumi glanced at his watch, and yawned. “In an hour we can go. It’s not time yet.” He took off his cap and wiped the sweat off his face and neck. “This stinking heat and stinking island!”

“Yes.” Peter Marlowe tried to make the words sound important, as though it were the King speaking and not he: “One of the men has a pen he wishes to sell. It occurred to me that thee, as a friend, might wish to buy it.”

“Astaghfaru’llah! Is it a Parka?”

“No.” Peter Marlowe brought out the pen and unscrewed the top and held the nib so it caught the sunlight. “But it has a gold nib.”

Torusumi examined it. He was disappointed that it wasn’t a Parker, but that would have been too much to expect. Certainly not on the airfield. A Parker would be handled by the King personally.

“It is not worth much,” he said.

“Of course. If thou dost not wish to consider it…” Peter Marlowe put the pen back in his pocket.

“I can consider it. Perhaps we can pass the hour, considering such a worthless item.” He shrugged. “It would only be worth seventy-five dollars.”

Peter Marlowe was amazed that the first bid was so high. The sergeant can’t have any idea of its value. God, I wish I knew how much it was really worth.

So they sat and haggled. Torusumi got angry and Peter Marlowe was firm and they settled on a hundred and twenty dollars and a pack of Kooas.

Torusumi got up and yawned again. “It is time to go.” He smiled. “The King is a good teacher. The next time I see him I will tell him how thou hast taken advantage of my friendship by driving such a hard bargain.” He shook his head with feigned self-pity. “Such a price for such a miserable pen! The King will surely laugh at me. Tell him, I beg thee, that I will be on guard in seven days from today. Perhaps he can find me a watch. A good one — this time!”

Peter Marlowe was content that he had safely made his first real transaction for what seemed to be a fair price. But he was in a quandary. If he gave all the money to the sergeant, the King would be very upset. That would ruin the price structure that the King had so carefully built. And Torusumi would certainly mention the pen and the amount to the King. However, if he gave the sergeant only what he had asked and kept the rest, well that was cheating, wasn’t it? Or was it good “business”? In truth, the sergeant had asked for sixty-five, and that’s what he should get. And Peter Marlowe did owe the King a lot of money.

He wished he’d never started the stupid business. Now he was caught in the trap of his own making. Trouble with you, Peter, is you’ve too big an idea of your own importance. If you’d said no to the sergeant you wouldn’t be up the creek now. What are you going to do? Whatever you do is going to be wrong!

He strolled back slowly, pondering. The sergeant had already lined the men up, and took Peter aside expectantly. “They’re all ready, sir. An’ I’ve checked the tools.” He lowered his voice. “Did he buy it?”

“Yes.” Then Peter Marlowe made the decision. He put his hand in his pocket and gave the sergeant the bundle of notes. “Here you are. Sixty-five dollars.”

“Sir, you’re a bloody toff!” He peeled off a five dollar bill and offered it to him. “I owe you a dollar-fifty.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Ten percent’s yours. That’s legal, an’ I’m happy to pay it. I’ll give you the dollar an’ a half soon as I get change.”

Peter Marlowe shoved the note back. “No,” he said, feeling suddenly guilty. “Keep it.”

“I insist,” the sergeant said, pushing the note back into his hand.

“Look, Sergeant — ”

“Well, at least take the five. I’d feel terrible, sir, if you didn’t. Terrible. I can’t thank you enough.”

All the way back to the airfield Peter Marlowe was silent. He felt unclean with the monstrous bundle of notes in his pocket, but at the same time he knew that he owed the money to the King and was pleased to have it, for it would buy extras for the unit. The only reason the sergeant had asked him was because he knew the King, and the King, not the sergeant, was his friend. The whole miserable business was still going round and round in his mind when he got back to his hut.

“Grey wants to see you, Peter,” Ewart said.

“What for?”

“I don’t know, Peter boy. But he seemed peed off about something.”

Peter Marlowe’s tired mind adjusted to the new danger. It had to be something to do with the King. Grey meant trouble. Now, think, think, Peter. The village? The watch? The diamond? Oh my God — the pen? No, that’s being foolish. He can’t know about that yet. Shall I go to the King? Maybe he’d know what it’s about. Dangerous. Perhaps that’s why Grey told Ewart, to force me to make a mistake. He must have known I was on a work party.

No point in going like a lamb to the slaughter when you’re hot and dirty. A shower, then I’ll stroll up to the jail hut. Take my time.

So he went to the shower. Johnny Hawkins was under one of the spouts.

“Hello, Peter,” Hawkins said.

Sudden guilt flushed Peter Marlowe’s face. “Hello, Johnny.” Hawkins looked ill. “Say, Johnny, I–I was so sorry — ”

“Don’t want to talk about it,” Hawkins said. “I’d be glad if you never mentioned it.”

Does he know, Peter Marlowe asked himself, appalled, that I’m one of the ones who — ate? — Even now — was it only yesterday? — the sudden thought was revolting: cannibalism. He can’t, surely, for then he would have tried to kill me. I know if I were in his shoes, I would. Or would I?

My God, what a state we’ve come to. Everything that seems wrong is right, and vice versa. It’s too much to understand. Much too much. Stupid screwed-up world. And the sixty dollars and the pack of Kooas I’ve earned, and at the same time stolen — or made — which is it? Should I give them back? That would be quite wrong.

“Marlowe!”

He turned and saw Grey standing malevolently at the side of the shower.

“You were told to report to me when you got back!”

“I was told you wanted to see me. As soon as I’d showered I was going to — ”

“I left orders that you were to report to me immediately.” There was a thin smile on Grey’s face. “But it doesn’t matter. You’re under hut arrest.”

There was a quiet in the showers and all the officers were watching and listening.

“What for?”

Grey rejoiced in the flash of concern he saw. “For disobeying orders.”

“What orders?”

“You know as well as I do.” That’s right, sweat! Your guilty conscience will trouble you a little — if you’ve got a conscience, which I doubt. “You’re to report to Colonel Smedly-Taylor after supper. And be dressed like an officer, not a bloody tart!”

Peter Marlowe snapped off the shower and slipped into his sarong and made the knot with a deft twist, conscious of the curious stares of the other officers. His mind was in a turmoil wondering what the trouble was, but he tried to hide his anxiety. Why give Grey the satisfaction?

“You’re really so ill-bred, Grey. Such a bore,” he said.

“I’ve learned a lot about breeding today, you bloody sod,” Grey said. “I’m glad I don’t belong to your stinking class, you rotten bugger. All shysters, cheats, thieves — ”

“For the last time, Grey, button your mouth, or by God I’ll button it for you.”

Grey tried to control himself. He wanted to pit himself against this man, here and now. He could beat him, he knew he could. Any time. Dysentery or no. “If we ever get out of this mess alive, I’ll look for you. The first thing. The very first thing.”

“It would be a pleasure. But until that time, if you ever insult me again I’ll whip you.” Peter Marlowe turned to the other officers. “You all heard me. I’m giving him warning. I’m not going to be sworn at by this lower-class ape.” He whipped around on Grey. “Now stay away from me.”

“How can I when you’re a lawbreaker?”

“What law?”

“Be at Colonel Smedly-Taylor’s after supper. And one more thing — you’re under hut arrest until time to report.”

Grey walked away. Most of his exultation had been drained from him. It was stupid to call Marlowe names. Stupid, when there was no need.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

When Peter Marlowe arrived outside Colonel Smedly-Taylor’s bungalow, Grey was already there.

“I’ll tell the colonel you arrived,” Grey said.

“You’re so kind.” Peter Marlowe felt uncomfortable. The peaked Air Force cap he had borrowed irritated. The ragged but clean shirt he wore irritated. Sarongs are so much more comfortable, he told himself, so much more sensible. And thinking of sarongs he thought of tomorrow. Tomorrow was the money exchange day. For the diamond. Tomorrow Shagata was to bring the money and then in three days the village once more. Maybe Sulina…

You’re a fool to think about her. Get your wits with you, you’re going to need them.

“All right, Marlowe. ’Tenshun,” Grey ordered.

Peter Marlowe came to attention and began to march, militarily correct, into the colonel’s room. As he passed Grey he whispered, “Up you, Jack,” and felt a little better, and then he was in front of the colonel. He saluted smartly and fixed his eyes through the colonel.

Seated behind a crude desk, cap on, swagger cane on the table, Smedly-Taylor looked at Peter Marlowe bleakly and returned the salute punctiliously. He prided himself on the way he handled camp discipline. Everything he did was Army. By the book.

He sized up the young man in front of him — standing erect. Good, he told himself, that’s at least in his favor. He remained silent for a while, as was his custom. Always unsettle the accused. At last he spoke.

“Well, Flight Lieutenant Marlowe? What have you got to say for yourself?”

“Nothing, sir. I don’t know what I’m charged with.”

Colonel Smedly-Taylor glanced at Grey, surprised, then frowned back at Peter Marlowe. “Perhaps you break so many rules that you have difficulty remembering them. You went into the jail yesterday. That’s against orders. You were not wearing an armband. That’s against orders.”

Peter Marlowe was relieved. It was only the jail. But wait a minute — what about the food?

“Well,” the colonel said curtly, “did you, or didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You knew you were breaking two orders?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why did you go into the jail?”

“I was just visiting some men.”

“Oh?” The colonel waited, then said caustically, “‘Just visiting some men’?”

Peter Marlowe said nothing, only waited. Then it came.

“The American was also in the jail. Were you with him?”

“For part of the time. There is no law against that, sir. But I did break — the two orders.”

“What mischief were you two cooking up?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“So you admit that the two of you are connected with mischief from time to time?”

Peter Marlowe was furious with himself for not thinking before he answered, knowing that with this man, a fine man, he was out of his league. “No, sir.” His eyes focused on the colonel. But he said nothing. One rule. When you’re up before authority, you just say “No, sir,” “Yes, sir” and tell the truth. It was an inviolate rule that officers always told the truth, and here he was, against all his heritage, against everything he knew to be correct, telling lies and partial truths. That was quite wrong. Or was it?

Colonel Smedly-Taylor now began to play the game he had played so many times before. It was easy for him to toy with a man and then slaughter him, if he felt like it. “Look, Marlowe,” he said, his manner becoming fatherly, “it has been reported that you are involving yourself with undesirable elements. You would be wise to consider your position as an officer and a gentleman. Now this association — with this American. He is a blackmarketeer. He hasn’t been caught yet, but we know, and so you must know. I would advise you to cease this association. I can’t order it, of course, but I advise it.”

Peter Marlowe said nothing, bleeding inside. What the colonel said was true, and yet the King was his friend and his friend was feeding and helping both him and his unit. And he was a fine man, fine.

Peter Marlowe wanted to say, “You’re wrong, and I don’t care. I like him and he’s a good man and we’ve had fun together and laughed a lot,” and at the same time he wanted to admit the sales, and admit the village, and admit the diamond, and admit the sale today. But Peter Marlowe could see the King behind bars — robbed of his stature. So he steeled himself to keep from confessing.

Smedly-Taylor could easily detect the tumult in the youth in front of him. It would be so simple for him to say, “Wait outside, Grey,” and then, “Listen, my boy, I understand your problem. My God, I’ve had to father a regiment for almost as long as I can remember. I know the problem — you don’t want to rat on your friend. That’s commendable. But you’re a career officer, a hereditary officer — think of your family and the generations of officers who have served the country. Think of them. Your honor’s at stake. You have to tell the truth, that’s the law.” And then his little sigh, practiced over a generation, and “Let’s forget this nonsense of the infraction of rules by going into the jail. I’ve done it myself, several times. But if you want to confide in me…” and he’d let the words hang with just the right amount of gravity and out would come the secrets of the King and the King would be in the camp jail — but what purpose would that serve?

For the moment, the colonel had a greater worry — the weights. That could be a catastrophe of infinite proportions.

Colonel Smedly-Taylor knew that he could always get whatever information he wanted from this child at his whim — he knew the men so very well. He knew he was a clever commander — by God, he should be after all this time — and the first rule was keep the respect of your officers, treat them leniently until they really stepped out of line, then devour one of them ruthlessly as a lesson to the others. But you had to pick the right time, and the right crime, and the right officer.

“All right, Marlowe,” he said firmly. “I’ll fine you a month’s pay. I’ll keep it off your record and we’ll say no more about it. But don’t break any more rules.”

“Thank you, sir.” Peter Marlowe saluted and left, glad to be away from the interview. He had been on the threshold of telling everything. The colonel was a good and kind man, and his reputation for fairness was vast.

“Your conscience bothering you?” Grey asked outside the bungalow, noticing the sweat.

Peter Marlowe didn’t answer. He was still upset and enormously relieved to have escaped.

The colonel called out, “Grey! Could I see you for a moment?”

“Yes, sir.” Grey looked a last time at Peter Marlowe. One month’s pay! Not very much, considering that the colonel had him. Grey was surprised and not a little angry that Marlowe had got off so lightly. But, at the same time, he had seen Smedly-Taylor operate before. And he knew that the colonel was tenacious as a bulldog, that he played men like fish. He must have a plan, to let Marlowe go so easily.

Grey stepped around Peter Marlowe and went inside once more.

“Er, close the door, Grey.”

“Yes, sir.”

When they were alone, Colonel Smedly-Taylor said, “I’ve seen Lieutenant Colonel Jones and Quartermaster Sergeant Blakely.”

“Yes, sir?” Now we’re getting somewhere!

“I have relieved them of their duties as from today,” the colonel said, playing with the weight.

Grey’s smile was broad. “Yes, sir.” Now, when would the court-martial be, and how would it be arranged, and would it be in camera and would they be reduced to the ranks? Soon everyone in camp would know that he, Grey, had caught them at their treachery; he, Grey, was a guardian angel, and my God, how wonderful it would be.

“And we’ll forget the matter,” the colonel said.

Grey’s smile vanished. “What?”

“Yes. I have decided to forget the matter. And so will you. In fact I repeat my order. You are not to mention this to anyone and you are to forget it.”

Grey was so astounded that he sank to the bed and stared at the colonel. “But we can’t do that, sir!” he burst out. “We caught them red-handed. Stealing the camp food. That’s your food and my food. And they tried to bribe me. To bribe me!” His voice became hysterical. “Holy Christ, I caught them, they’re thieves, they deserve to be hung and quartered.”

“True.” Colonel Smedly-Taylor nodded gravely. “But I think, under the circumstances, that this is the wisest decision.”

Grey leaped to his feet. “You can’t do that!” he shouted. “You can’t let them off scot-free! You can’t — ”

“Don’t tell me what I can or cannot do!”

“I’m sorry,” Grey said, fighting for control. “But, sir, those men are thieves. I caught them. You’ve got the weight.”

“I’ve decided that this is the end of the matter.” His voice was calm. “The matter is closed.”

Grey’s temper snapped. “By God, it’s not closed! I won’t let it be closed! Those bastards’ve been eating when we’ve been hungry! They deserve to get chopped! And I insist — ”

Smedly-Taylor’s voice overrode the hysteria. “Shut up, Grey! You can’t insist on anything. The matter is closed.”

Smedly-Taylor sighed heavily and picked up a piece of paper and said, “This is your official report. I’ve added something today. I’ll read it to you. ‘I strongly recommend Lieutenant Grey for his work as Provost Marshal of the Camp Police. His performance of duty is, beyond question, excellent. I would like to recommend that he be given the acting rank of Captain.’” He looked up from the paper. “I propose sending this to the Camp Commandant today and recommending that your promotion be effective from today’s date.” He smiled. “You know of course that he has the authority to promote you. Congratulations, Captain Grey. You deserve it.” He offered Grey his hand.

But Grey didn’t accept it. He merely looked at it and at the paper, and he knew. “Why, you rotten bastard! You’re buying me off. You’re as bad — maybe you’ve been eating the rice too. Why, you shit, you dirty rotten shit — ”

“You hold your tongue, you jumped-up subaltern! Stand to attention! I said stand to attention!”

“You’re in with them, and I’m not going to let any of you get away with it,” Grey shouted and snatched the weight off the table and backed away. “I can’t prove anything about you yet, but I’ve proof against them. This weight — ”

“What about the weight, Grey?”

It took Grey an age to look down at the weight. The bottom was un-marred.

“I said, ‘What about the weight?’” Stupid fool, Smedly-Taylor thought contemptuously as he watched Grey search for the hole. What a fool! I could eat him for breakfast and not notice it.

“It’s not the one I gave you,” Grey choked. “It’s not the same. It’s not the same.”

“You’re quite wrong. It’s the same one.” The colonel was quite calm.

He continued, his voice benign and solicitous. “Now, Grey, you’re a young man. I understand that you want to stay in the army when the war’s over. That’s good. We can use intelligent, hard-working officers. Regular Army’s a wonderful life. Certainly. And Colonel Samson was telling me how highly he thinks of you. As you know, he’s a friend of mine. I’m sure I could prevail upon him to add to my recommendation that you should be granted a permanent commission. You’re just overwrought, understandably so. These are terrible times. I think it’s wise to let this matter drop. It would be ill-advised to involve the camp in a scandal. Very ill-advised. I’m sure you understand the wisdom of this.”

He waited, despising Grey. At just the correct time — for he was an expert — he said, “Do you want me to send your recommendation for captaincy to the Camp Commandant?”

Grey slowly turned to the paper, eyeing it with horror. He knew that the colonel could give or withhold, and where he could give or withhold, he could also slaughter. Grey knew he was beaten. Beaten. He tried to speak, but so vast was his misery that he could not speak. He nodded and he heard Smedly-Taylor say, “Good, you can take it as read that your captaincy is confirmed. I feel sure my recommendation and Colonel Samson’s will add tremendous weight to your being granted a permanent commission after the war,” and he felt himself go out of the room and up to the jail hut and dismiss the MP and he didn’t care that the man looked at him as though he were mad. Then he was alone inside the jail hut. He shut the door and sat on the edge of the bed within the cell and his misery erupted and he wept.

Broken.

Ripped apart.

Tears wet his hands and face. His spirit whirled in terror, teetering on the brink of the unknown, then fell into eternity…

When Grey came to, he was lying on a stretcher being carried by two MP’s. Dr. Kennedy was clomping ahead. Grey knew that he was dying but he did not care. Then he saw the King standing beside the path, looking down at him.

Grey noticed the neat polished shoes, the trousers’ crease, the tailor-made Kooa, the well-fed countenance. And he remembered that he had a job to do. He could not die yet. Not yet, not while the King was well-creased and polished and well fed. Not with the diamond in the offing. By God, no!

“We’d better make this the last game,” Colonel Smedly-Taylor was saying. “Mustn’t miss the show.”

“Can’t wait to get an eyeful of Sean,” Jones said, sorting his cards. “Two diamonds.” He opened smugly.

“You’ve the luck of the devil,” Sellars said sharply. “Two spades.”

“Pass.”

“Not always the luck of the devil, partner,” Smedly-Taylor said with a thin smile. His granite eyes looked at Jones. “You were pretty stupid today.”

“It was just bad luck.”

“There’s no excuse for bad luck,” Smedly-Taylor said, studying his cards. “You should have checked. You were incompetent not to check.”

“I’ve said I’m sorry. You think I don’t realize that it was stupid? I’ll never do that again. Never. I never knew what it was like to be panicked.”

“Two no trumps.” Smedly-Taylor smiled at Sellars. “This’ll make it rubber, partner.” Then he turned to Jones again. “I’ve recommended that Samson take over from you — you need a ‘rest.’ That’ll take Grey off the scent — oh yes, and Sergeant Donovan’ll be Samson’s Quartermaster Sergeant.” He laughed shortly. “It’s a pity we have to change the system, but it doesn’t matter. We’ll just have to make sure that Grey’s busy on the days the false weights are used.” He looked back at Sellars. “That’ll be your job.”

“Very good.”

“Oh, by the way, I fined Marlowe a month’s pay. He’s in one of your huts, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Sellars said.

“I was soft on him, but he’s a good man, comes from a good family — not like that lower-class sod Grey. My God, what a bloody nerve — to think I’d recommend him for a permanent commission. That’s just the sort of guttersnipe we don’t need in the Regular Army. My God, no! If he gets a permanent commission it’ll be over my dead body.”

“I quite agree,” Sellars said with distaste. “But with Marlowe you should have made it three months’ pay. He can afford it. That damned American’s got the whole camp tied up.”

“He has for the time being.” Smedly-Taylor grunted and re-examined his cards once more, trying to cover his slip.

“You’ve something on him?” Jones asked tentatively. Then he added, “Three diamonds.”

“Blast you,” Sellars said. “Four spades.”

“Pass.”

“Six spades,” Smedly-Taylor said.

“Do you really have something on the American?” Jones asked again.

Colonel Smedly-Taylor kept his face blank. He knew about the diamond ring and he’d heard that a deal had been made, that the ring would change hands soon. And when the money was in the camp, well, a plan had been thought of — a good plan, a safe plan, a private plan — to get the money. So he just grunted and smiled his thin smile and said off-hand, “If I have, I’m certainly not going to tell you about it. You’re not to be trusted.”

When Smedly-Taylor smiled, they all smiled, relieved.

Peter Marlowe and Larkin joined the stream of men going into the open-air theater.

The stage lights were already on and the moon beamed down. At capacity the theater could hold two thousand. The seats, which fanned out from the stage, were planks set on coconut stumps. Each show was repeated for five nights, so that everyone in the camp could see it at least once. Seats were allocated by lot and were always at a premium.

Most of the rows were already crammed. Except the front rows where the officers sat. Officers always sat in front of the enlisted men and came later. Only the Americans did not follow the custom.

“Hey, you two,” the King called out. “You want to sit with us?” He had the favored seat on the aisle.

“Well, I’d like to, but you know — ” Peter Marlowe said uncomfortably.

“Yeah. Well, see you later.”

Peter Marlowe glanced at Larkin and knew he was thinking too that it was wrong not to sit with your friends if you wanted — and at the same time it was wrong to sit there.

“You, er, want to sit here, Colonel?” he asked, passing the buck and hating himself for passing the buck.

“Why not?” Larkin said.

They sat down, acutely embarrassed, aware of their defection and aware of the astonished eyes.

“Hey, Colonel!” Brough leaned over, a smile creasing his face. “You’ll get handed your head. Bad for discipline and all that jazz.”

“If I want to sit here, I’ll sit here.” But Larkin wished he hadn’t agreed so readily.

“How’re things, Peter?” the King asked.

“Fine, thanks.” Peter Marlowe tried to overcome his discomfort. He felt everyone was looking at him. He had not yet told the King about the sale of the pen, what with being on the carpet in front of Smedly-Taylor, and the brawl he had almost had with Grey…

“Evening, Marlowe.”

He glanced up and winced as he saw Smedly-Taylor passing. Flint eyes.

“Evening, sir,” he replied weakly. Oh my God, he thought, that’s torn it.

There was a sudden quickening of excitement as the Camp Commandant walked down the aisle and sat down in the very front row. The lights dimmed. The curtain parted. On the stage was the five-piece camp band, and standing in the center of the stage was Phil, the band leader.

Applause.

“Good evening,” Phil began. “Tonight we’re presenting a new play by Frank Parrish called Triangle, which takes place in London before the war. It stars Frank Parrish, Brod Rodrick, and the one and only Sean Jennison…”

Tumultuous cheers. Catcalls. Whistles. Shouts of “Where’s Sean?” and “What war?” and “Good old Blighty” and “Get on with it” and “We want Sean!”

Phil gave the downbeat with a flourish and the overture began.

Now that the show was on, Peter Marlowe relaxed a little.

Then it happened.

Dino was abruptly at the King’s side and whispering urgently in his ear. “Where?” Peter Marlowe heard the King say. Then, “Okay, Dino. You beat it back to the hut.”

The King leaned across. “We gotta go, Peter.” His face was taut, his voice barely a whisper. “A certain guy wants to see us.”

Oh my God! Shagata! Now what? “We can’t just get up and leave now,” Peter Marlowe said uneasily.

“The hell we can’t. We both got a touch of dysentery. C’mon.” The King was already walking up the aisle.

Nakedly aware of the astonished eyes, Peter Marlowe hurried after him.

They found Shagata in the shadows behind the stage. He was nervous too. “I beg thee forgive my bad manners in sending for thee suddenly, but there is trouble. One of the junks of our mutual friend was intercepted and he is presently being questioned for smuggling by the pestilential police.” Shagata felt lost without his rifle and knew that if he was caught in the camp off duty he would be put in the windowless box for three weeks. “It occurred to me that if our friend is questioned brutally, he may implicate us.”

“Jesus,” the King said.

Unsteadily he accepted a Kooa and the three of them went deeper into the shadows.

“I thought that, thou being a man of experience,” Shagata continued with a rush, “thou might have a plan whereby we could extricate ourselves.”

“He’s got a hope!” the King said.

His mind raced back and forth and it always gave him the same answer. Wait and sweat.

“Peter. Ask him if Cheng San was on the junk when it was stopped.”

“He says no.”

The King sighed. “Then maybe Cheng San can squeeze out of it.” He thought again, then said, “The only goddam thing we can do is wait. Tell him not to panic. He’s got to keep tabs on Cheng San somehow and find out if he talks. He’s got to send us word if the goddam shoot blows.”

Peter Marlowe translated.

Shagata sucked air between his teeth. “I am impressed that the two of thee are so calm while I am fluttering with fear, for if I am caught I shall be lucky if they shoot me first. I will do as thou sayest. If thou are caught, I beg thee try not to implicate me. I will try to do likewise.” His head jerked around as there was a soft warning whistle. “I must leave thee. If all goes well we will keep to the plan.” He hurriedly thrust the pack of Kooas into Peter Marlowe’s hand. “I do not know about thee and thy gods, but I will certainly talk to mine, long and hard, on our mutual behalf.”

Then he was gone.

“What if Cheng San lets the cat out?” Peter Marlowe asked, his stomach an aching knot. “What can we do?”

“Make a break.” The King shakily lit another cigarette and leaned back against the side of the theater, hugging the shadows. “Better that than Utram Road.”

Behind them the overture ended to applause and cheers and laughter. But they did not hear the applause and cheers and laughter.

Rodrick was standing in the wings glowering at the stage hands setting the stage for the play, chasing them, hurrying them.

“Major!” Mike rushed up to him. “Sean’s throwing a fit. He’s crying his bloody eyes out!”

“Oh for the love of Heaven! What happened? He was all right a minute ago,” Rodrick exploded.

“I don’t know for certain,” Mike said sullenly.

Rodrick cursed again and hurried away. Anxiously he knocked on the dressing room door. “Sean, it’s me. Can I come in?”

There were muffled sobs coming through the door. “No. Go away. I’m not going on. I just can’t.”

“Sean. Everything’s all right. You’re just overtired, that’s all. Look — ”

“Go away and leave me alone,” Sean shouted hysterically through the door. “I’m not going on!”

Rodrick tried the door but it was locked. He rushed back to the stage. “Frank!”

“What do you want?” Frank, covered with sweat, was irritably perched on a ladder, fixing a light that refused to work.

“Come down here! I’ve got to talk — ”

“For the love of God, can’t you see I’m busy? Do it yourself, whatever it is,” he flared. “Do I have to do everything? I’ve still got to get changed and still haven’t got my makeup on!” He looked up at the catwalk again. “Try the other banks of switches, Duncan. Come on, man, hurry.”

Beyond the curtain Rodrick could hear the growing chorus of impatient whistles. Now what do I do? he asked himself frantically. He began to go back to the dressing room.

Then he saw Peter Marlowe and the King near the side door. He ran down the steps.

“Marlowe. You’ve got to help me!”

“What’s up?”

“It’s Sean, he’s throwing a tantrum,” Rodrick began breathlessly, “refuses to go on. Would you talk to him? Please. I can’t do a thing with him. Please. Talk to him. Will you?”

“But — ”

“Won’t take you a second,” Rodrick interrupted. “You’re my last chance. Please. I’ve been worried about Sean for weeks. His part would be hard enough for a woman to play, let alone …” He stopped, then went on weakly, “Please, Marlowe, I’m afraid for him. You’d do us all a great service.”

Peter Marlowe hesitated. “All right.”

“Can’t thank you enough, old boy.” Rodrick mopped his brow and led the way through the pandemonium to the back of the theater, Peter Marlowe reluctantly in tow. The King followed absently, his mind still concentrating on how and where and when to make the break.

They stood in the little corridor. Uneasily Peter Marlowe knocked. “It’s me, Peter. Can I come in, Sean?”

Sean heard him through the fog of terror, slumped on his arms in front of the dressing table.

“It’s me, Peter. Can I come in?”

Sean got up, the tears streaking his makeup, and unbolted the door. Peter Marlowe hesitantly came into the dressing room. Sean shut the door.

“Oh Peter, I can’t go on. I’ve had it. I’m at the end,” Sean said helplessly. “I can’t pretend any more, not any more. I’m lost, lost, God help me!” He hid his face in his hands. “What am I going to do? I can’t face it any more. I’m nothing. Nothing!”

“It’s all right, Sean old chum,” Peter Marlowe said, deep with pity. “No need to worry. You’re very important. Most important person in the whole camp, if the truth be known.”

“I wish I were dead.”

“That’s too easy.”

Sean turned and faced him. “Look at me, for the love of God! What am I? What in God’s name am I?”

In spite of himself, Peter Marlowe could see only a girl, a girl in pathetic torment. And the girl was wearing a white skirt and high heels and her long legs were silk-stockinged and her blouse showed the swell of breasts beneath.

“You’re a woman, Sean,” he said as helplessly. “God knows how — or why — but you are.”

And then the terror and the self-hatred and the torment left Sean.

“Thank you, Peter,” Sean said. “Thank you with all my heart.”

There was a tentative knock on the door. “On in two minutes,” Frank called anxiously through the door. “Can I come in?”

“Just a second.” Sean went to the dressing table and brushed away the tear stains and repaired the makeup and stared at the reflection.

“Come in, Frank.”

The sight of Sean took Frank’s breath away, as it always had. “You look wonderful!” he said. “You all right?”

“Yes. Afraid I made a bit of a fool of myself. Sorry.”

“Just overwork,” Frank said, hiding his concern. He glanced at Peter Marlowe. “Hello, good to see you.”

“Thanks.”

“You’d better get ready, Frank,” Sean said. “I’m all right now.”

Frank felt the girl’s smile, deep within him, and automatically fell into the pattern that he and Rodrick had begun three years before and bitterly regretted ever since. “You’re going to be marvelous, Betty,” he said, hugging Sean. “I’m proud of you.”

But now, unlike all the countless other times, suddenly they were man and woman, and Sean relaxed against him, needing him with every molecule of being. And Frank knew it.

“We’ll — we’re on in a minute,” he said unsteadily, rocked by the suddenness of his own need. “I’ve — I’ve got to get ready.” He left.

“I’d, er, better be getting back to my seat,” Peter Marlowe said, deeply troubled. He had felt more than seen the spark between them.

“Yes.” But Sean hardly noticed Peter Marlowe.

A final check of the makeup and then Sean was waiting for a cue in the wings. The usual terrored ecstasy. Then Sean walked on and became. The cheers and wonder and lust poured over her — eyes following as she sat and crossed her legs, as she walked and talked — eyes reaching out, touching her, feeding on her. Together she and the eyes became one.

“Major,” Peter Marlowe said as he and the King and Rodrick stood in the wings, watching, “what’s this Betty business?”

“Oh, part of the whole mess,” Rodrick replied miserably. “That’s the name of Sean’s part this week. We’ve — Frank and I — we always call Sean by the part he’s playing.”

“Why?” the King asked.

“To help him. Help him get into the part.” Rodrick looked back to the stage waiting for his cue. “It started as a game,” he said bitterly, “now it’s an unholy joke. We created that — that woman — God help us. We’re responsible.”

“Why?” Peter Marlowe said slowly.

“Well, you remember how tough it was in Java.” Rodrick glanced at the King. “Because I was an actor before the war, I was assigned the job of starting the camp theatricals.” He let his eyes stray back to the stage, to Frank and Sean. Something strange about those two tonight, he thought. Critically he studied their performances and knew them to be inspired. “Frank was the only other professional in the camp so we started to work getting shows together. When we got to the job of casting, of course, someone had to play the female roles. No one would volunteer, so the authorities detailed two or three. One of them was Sean. He was bitterly opposed to doing it, but you know how stubborn senior officers are. ‘Someone’s got to play a girl, for God’s sake,’ they said to him. ‘You’re young enough to look like one. You don’t shave more than once a week. And it’s only putting on clothes for an hour or so. Think of what it’ll do for everyone’s morale.’ And however much Sean raved and cursed and begged, it did no good.

“Sean asked me not to accept him. Well, there’s no future in working with uncooperative talent, so I tried to have him dropped from the company. ‘Look,’ I said to the authorities, ‘acting’s a great psychological strain …’

“‘Poppycock!’ they said. ‘What harm can come of it?’

“‘The fact that he’s playing a female might warp him. If he were the slightest way inclined …’

“‘Stuff and nonsense,’ they said. ‘You damned theatrical people’ve pervert on the brain. Sergeant Jennison? Impossible! Nothing wrong with him! Damn fine fighter pilot! Now look here, Major. This is the end of it. You’re ordered to take him and he’s ordered to do it!’

“So Frank and I tried to smooth Sean down, but he swore he was going to be the worst actress in the world, that he was going to make sure that he was sacked after the first disastrous performance. We told him that we couldn’t care less. His first performance was terrible. But after that he didn’t seem to hate it so much. To his surprise, he even seemed to like it. So we really started to work. It was good having something to do — it took your mind off the stinking food and stinking camp. We taught him how a woman talks and walks and sits and smokes and drinks and dresses and even thinks. Then, to keep him in the mood, we began to play make-believe. Whenever we were in the theater, we’d get up when he came in, help him into a chair, you know, treat him like a real woman. It was exciting at first, trying to keep up the illusion, making sure Sean was never seen dressing or undressing, making sure his costumes were always concealing but just suggestive enough. We even got special permission for him to have a room of his own. With his own shower.

“Then, suddenly, he didn’t need coaching any more. He was as complete a woman on the stage as it was possible to be.

“But little by little, the woman began to dominate him off stage too, only we didn’t notice it. By this time, Sean had grown his hair quite long — the wigs we had were no damn good. Then Sean started to wear a woman’s clothes all the time. One night someone tried to rape him.

“After that Sean nearly went out of his mind. He tried to crush the woman in him but couldn’t. Then he tried to commit suicide. Of course it was hushed up. But that didn’t help Sean, it made things worse and he cursed us for saving him.

“A few months later there was another rape attempt. After that Sean buried his male self completely. ‘I’m not fighting it any more,’ he said. ‘You wanted me to be a woman, now they believe I am one. All right. I’ll be one. Inside I feel I am one, so there’s no need to pretend any more. I am a woman, and I’m going to be treated like one.’

“Frank and I tried to reason with him, but he was quite beyond us. So we told ourselves that it was only temporary, that Sean’d be all right later. Sean was great for morale and we knew we could never get anyone a tenth as good as Sean to play the girl. So we shrugged and continued the game.

“Poor Sean. He’s such a wonderful person. If it wasn’t for him, Frank and I would have given up the ghost long ago.”

There was a roar of applause as Sean made another entrance from the other side of the stage. “You’ve no idea what applause’ll do to you,” Rodrick said, half to himself, “applause and adoration. Not unless you’ve experienced it yourself. Out there, on the stage. No idea. It’s fantastically exciting, a frightening, terrifying, beautiful drug. And it’s always poured into Sean. Always. That and the lust — yours, mine, all of us.”

Rodrick wiped the sweat off his face and hands. “We’re responsible all right, God forgive us.”

His cue came and he walked onto the stage.

“Do you want to go back to our seats?” Peter Marlowe asked the King.

“No. Let’s watch from here. I’ve never been backstage before. Something I always wanted to do.” Is Cheng San spilling his guts right now, the King asked himself.

But the King knew there was no value in worrying. They were committed and he was ready — whatever card came up. He looked back at the stage. His eyes watched Rodrick and Frank and Sean. Inexorably, his eyes followed Sean. Every movement, every gesture.

Everyone was watching Sean. Intoxicated.

And Sean and Frank and the eyes became one, and together the brooding passion on the stage soared into the players and into the watchers, ripping them bare.

When the curtain descended on the last act, there was utter silence. The watchers were spellbound.

“My God,” Rodrick said, awed. “That’s the greatest compliment they could ever pay us. And you deserve it, you two, you were inspired. Truly inspired.”

The curtain began to rise, and when it was completely up the awful silence shattered and there were cheers and ten curtain calls and more cheers and then Sean stood alone drinking the life-giving adoration.

In the continuing ovation, Rodrick and Frank came out a last time to share the triumph, two creators and a creation, the beautiful girl who was their pride and their nemesis.

The audience filed quietly out of the auditorium. Each man was thinking of home, thinking of her, locked in his own brooding hurt. What’s she doing, right now?

Larkin was the most hit. Why in God’s name call the girl Betty? Why? And my Betty — is she — would she — is she now, is she now in someone else’s arms?

And Mac. He was swept with fear for Mem. Did the ship get sunk? Is she alive? Is my son alive? And Mem — would she — is she now — is she? It’s been so long, my God, how long?

And Peter Marlowe. What of N’ai, the peerless? My love, my love.

And all of them.

Even the King. He was wondering who she was with — the vision of loveliness he had seen when he was still in his teens, still on the bum — the girl who’d said with a perfumed handkerchief to her nose that white trash smell worse than niggers.

The King smiled sardonically. Now that was one hell of a broad, he told himself as he turned his mind to more important things.

The lights were out now in the theater. It was empty but for the two in the landlocked dressing room.