King Rat

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The King and Peter Marlowe waited with growing anxiety. Shagata was long overdue.

“What a stinking night,” the King said irritably. “I’m sweating like a pig.”

They were sitting in the King’s corner and Peter Marlowe was watching the King play solitaire. There was a tension in the sultry air settling the camp from the moonless sky. Even the constant scratchings from beneath the hut were hushed.

“I wish he’d get here if he’s coming,” Peter Marlowe said.

“I wish we knew what the hell happened with Cheng San. Least the son of a bitch could’ve done was to send us word.” The King glanced out of his window towards the wire for the thousandth time. He was seeking a sign from the guerrillas that should be there — must be there! But there was no movement, no sign. The jungle, like the camp, drooped and was still.

Peter Marlowe winced as he flexed the fingers of his left hand and moved his aching arm into a more comfortable position.

The King looked back. “How’s it feel?”

“Hurts like hell, old chum.”

“You should get it looked at.”

“I’m on sick call tomorrow.”

“Lousy piece of luck.”

“Accidents happen. Nothing you can do about it.”

It had happened two days previously. On the wood detail. One moment Peter Marlowe had been straining in the swamp against the weight of the fanged tree stump, hauling it with twenty other sweating pairs of hands into the trailer, and the next moment the hands had slipped and his arm had been caught between the stump and the trailer. He had felt the iron-hard barbs of wood rip deep into his arm muscle, the weight of the tree stump almost crushing his bones, and he had screamed in agony.

It had taken minutes for the others to lift the stump and pull his numbed arm free and lay him on the earth, his blood weeping into swamp-ooze — the flies and bugs and insects swarming, frantic with the bloodsweet-smell. The wound was six inches long and two wide and deep in parts. They had pulled out most of the root daggers from the wound and poured water over it and cleaned it as best they could. They had put on a tourniquet, then fought the tree stump onto the trailer and labored it home to Changi. He had walked beside the trailer, faint with nausea.

Dr. Kennedy had looked at the wound and doused it with iodine while Steven held his good hand and he was starched with pain. Next the doctor had put a little zinc ointment on part of the wound, and grease on the rest to stop the clotting blood from melding with the dressing. Then the doctor had bandaged the arm.

“You’re bloody lucky, Marlowe,” he had said. “No bones broken and the muscles are undamaged. More or less just a flesh wound. Come back in a couple of days and we’ll take another look at it.”

The King looked up sharply from the cards as Max hurried into the hut.

“Trouble,” Max said, his voice low and strained. “Grey’s just left the hospital, heading this way.”

“Keep him tailed, Max. Better send Dino.”

“Okay.” Max hurried out.

“What do you think, Peter?”

“If Grey’s out of the hospital, he must know something’s up.”

“He knows, all right.”

“What?”

“Sure. He has a stoolie in the hut.”

“My God. Are you sure?”

“Yes. And I know who.”

The King put a black four on a red five and the red five on a black six and cleared another ace.

“Who is it?”

“I’m not telling you, Peter.” The King smiled hard. “Better you don’t know. But Grey has a man here.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing. Yet. Maybe later I’ll feed him to the rats.” Then the King smiled and changed the subject. “Now the Farm was one helluva’n idea, wasn’t it?”

Peter Marlowe wondered what he would do if he knew who it was. He knew that Yoshima had a plant too, somewhere in the camp, the one who gave old Daven away, the one who had not been caught yet, who was still unknown — the one who was looking for the bottled radio right now. He thought the King was wise to conceal the knowledge, then there would be no slip-up, and he did not resent that the King did not tell him who it was. But even so, he examined possibilities.

“Do you really think,” he asked, “that the — meat’ll be all right?”

“Hell, I don’t know,” the King said. “Whole idea’s sickening when you think about it. But — and it’s a big but — business is business. With the twist we got, it’s a genius idea!”

Peter Marlowe smiled and forgot the hurt of his arm. “Don’t forget. I get the first leg.”

“Anyone I know?”

“No.”

The King laughed. “You wouldn’t hold out on your buddy?”

“I’ll tell you when delivery’s made.”

“When it comes right down to it, meat’s meat and food’s food. Take the dog, for instance.”

“I saw Hawkins a day or so ago.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. I certainly didn’t want to say anything and he didn’t want to talk about it.”

“He’s on the ball, that guy. What’s over’s over.” Then the King said uneasily, tossing the cards on the table, “I wish Shagata’d get here.”

Tex peered through the window. “Hey!”

“Yeah.”

“Timsen says the owner’s getting panicky. How long you going to wait?”

“I’ll go see him.” The King slipped out of the window and whispered, “You watch the shop, Peter. I won’t be far away.”

“All right,” Peter Marlowe said. He picked up the cards and began to shuffle them, shuddering as the ache rose and fell and rose again.

The King kept to the shadows, feeling many eyes on him. Some were the eyes of his guards and the rest were alien and hostile. When he found Timsen, the Aussie was in a sweat.

“Hey, cobber. I can’t keep him here forever.”

“Where is he?”

“When your contact arrives, I produce him. That’s the deal. He ain’t far away.”

“You better keep your eye on him. You don’t want him knocked off, do you?”

“You stick to your end, I’ll stick to mine. He’s well guarded.” Timsen sucked on his Kooa, then passed it over to the King, who took a drag.

“Thanks.” The King nodded up towards the jail wall, east. “You know about them?”

“’Course.” The Aussie laughed. “Tell you another thing. Grey’s on his way down here right now. Whole area’s lousy with cops and bushwhackers. I know of one Aussie gang, and I hear there’s another that’s got wind of the deal. But my cobbers’ve got the area taped. Soon as we get the money, you get the diamond.”

“We’ll give the guard another ten minutes. If he doesn’t arrive then we’ll plan again. Same plan, different details.”

“Right, mate. I’ll see you after grub tomorrow.”

“Let’s hope it’s tonight.”

But it was not that night. They waited, and still Shagata did not arrive, so the King called off the operation.

The next day Peter Marlowe joined the swarm of men waiting outside the hospital. It was after lunch and the sun tormented the air and the earth and the creatures of the earth. Even the flies were somnambulant. He found a patch of shade and squatted heavily in the dust and began to wait. The throb of his arm had worsened.

It was after dusk when his turn came.

Dr. Kennedy nodded briefly to Peter Marlowe and indicated for him to sit. “How’re you today?” he said absently.

“Not too bad, thank you.”

Dr. Kennedy leaned forward and touched the bandage. Peter Marlowe screamed.

“What the devil’s the matter?” Dr. Kennedy said angrily. “I hardly touched you, for God’s sake!”

“I don’t know. The slightest touch hurts like bloody hell.”

Dr. Kennedy stuck a thermometer in Peter Marlowe’s mouth and then set the metronome clicking and took his pulse. Abnormal, pulse rate ninety. Bad. Temperature normal, and that was also bad. He lifted the arm and sniffed the bandage. It had a distinct mousy odor. Bad.

“All right,” he said. “I’m going to take the bandage off. Here.” He gave Peter Marlowe a small piece of tire rubber which he picked out of the sterilizing fluid with a pair of surgical tongs. “Bite on this. I can’t help hurting you.”

He waited until Peter Marlowe had put the rubber between his teeth, then, as gently as he could, he began unwinding the bandage. But it was clotted to the wound and now part of the wound and the only thing to do was rip, and he was not as deft as he should be and once was.

Peter Marlowe had known a lot of pain. And when you know a thing, intimately, you know its limitations and its color and its moods. With practice — and courage — you can let yourself slip into pain and then the pain is not bad, only a welling, controllable. Sometimes it is even good.

But this pain was beyond agony.

“Oh God,” Peter Marlowe whimpered through the rubber bite-piece, tears streaming, his breathing sporadic.

“It’s over now,” Dr. Kennedy said, knowing that it was not. But there was nothing more he could do, nothing. Not here. Certainly the patient should have morphine, any fool knows that, but I can’t afford a shot. “Now let’s have a look.”

He studied the open wound carefully. It was puffy and swollen and there were shades of yellow hue with purple patches. Mucused.

“Hum,” he said speculatively and leaned back and played with his fingers, making a steeple and looking away from the wound to the steeple. “Well,” he said at length, “we have three alternatives.” He got up and began pacing, stoop-shouldered, and then said monotonously, as though delivering a lecture, “The wound has now taken on other attributes. Clostridial myositis. Or, to put it more simply, the wound is gangrenous. Gas gangrenous. I can lay open the wound and excise the infected tissue, but I don’t think that will do, for the infection is deep. So I would have to take out part of the forearm muscles and then the hand won’t be of use anyway. The best solution would be to amputate — ”

“What!”

“Assuredly.” Dr. Kennedy was not talking to a patient, he was only giving a lecture in the sterile classroom of his mind. “I propose a high guillotine amputation. Immediately. Then perhaps we can save the elbow joint — ”

Peter Marlowe burst out desperately, “It’s just a flesh wound. There’s nothing wrong with it, it’s just a flesh wound!”

The fear of his voice brought Dr. Kennedy back, and he looked at the white face a moment. “It is a flesh wound, but very deep. And you’ve got toxemia. Look, my boy, it’s quite simple. If I had serum I could give it to you, but I haven’t got any. If I had sulfonamides I could put them on the wound, but I haven’t got any. The only thing I can do is amputate — ”

“You must be out of your mind!” Peter Marlowe shouted at him. “You talk about amputating my arm when I’ve only got a flesh wound.”

The doctor’s hand snaked out and Peter Marlowe shrieked as the fingers held his arm far above the wound.

“There, you see! That’s not just a flesh wound. You’ve toxemia and it’ll spread up your arm and into your system. If you want to live we’ll have to cut it off. At least it’ll save your life!”

“You’re not cutting off my arm!”

“Please yourself. It’s that or — ” The doctor stopped and sat down wearily. “I suppose it is your privilege if you want to die. Can’t say I blame you. But my God, boy, don’t you realize what I’m trying to tell you? You will die if we don’t amputate.”

“You’re not going to touch me!” Peter Marlowe’s lips were drawn from his teeth and he knew he’d kill the doctor if he touched him again. “You’re out of your mind!” he shouted. “It’s a flesh wound.”

“All right. Don’t believe me. We’ll ask another doctor.”

Kennedy called another doctor and he confirmed the diagnosis and Peter Marlowe knew that the nightmare was not a dream. He did have gangrene. Oh my God! The fear washed his strength away. He listened, terrified. They explained that the gangrene was caused by bacilli multiplying deep down in his arm, breeding death, right now. His arm was a cancerous thing. It had to be cut off. Cut off to the elbow. It had to be cut off soon or the entire arm would have to be removed. But he wasn’t to worry. It wouldn’t hurt. They had plenty of ether now — not like in the old days.

And then Peter Marlowe was outside the hospital, his arm still on him — bacilli breeding — tied with a clean bandage, and he was groping his way down the hill, for he had told them, the doctors, that he would have to think this over … Think what over? What was there to think? He found himself outside the American hut and he saw that the King was alone in the hut and all was prepared for Shagata’s coming — if he came that night.

“Jesus, what’s with you, Peter?”

The King listened, his dismay growing as the story spilled out.

“Christ!” He stared at the arm, which rested on the table.

“I swear to God I’d rather die than live a cripple. I swear to God!” Peter Marlowe looked up at the King, pathetic, unguarded, and out of his eyes came a scream: Help, help, for the love of God, help!

And the King thought, Holy Cow, what would I do if I was Peter and that was my arm, and what about the diamond — got to have Peter to help there, got to …

“Hey,” whispered Max urgently from the doorway. “Shagata’s on his way.”

“All right, Max. What about Grey?”

“He’s down by the wall under cover. Timsen knows about him. His Aussies’re covering.”

“Good, beat it and get ready. Spread the word.”

“Okay.” Max hurried away.

“Come on, Peter, we got to get ready,” the King said.

But Peter Marlowe was in shock. Useless.

“Peter!” The King shook him roughly. “Get up and get with it!” he grated. “Come on. You’ve got to help. Get up!”

He jerked Peter Marlowe to his feet.

“Christ, what — ”

“Shagata’s coming. We’ve got to finish the deal.”

“To hell with your deal!” Peter Marlowe screamed, brinked on insanity. “To hell with the diamond! They’re going to cut off my arm.”

“No they’re not!”

“You’re goddam right they’re not. I’m going to die first — ”

The King backhanded him hard, then slapped him viciously.

The raving stopped abruptly and Peter Marlowe shook his head. “What the hell — ”

“Shagata’s coming. We got to get ready.”

“He’s coming?” Peter Marlowe asked blankly, his face burning from the blows.

“Yes.” The King saw that Peter Marlowe’s eyes were once more guarded and he knew that the Englishman was back in the world. “Jesus,” he said, weak with relief. “I had to do something, Peter, you were shouting your head off.”

“Was I? Oh, sorry, what a fool.”

“You all right now? You got to keep your wits about you.”

“I’m all right now.”

Peter Marlowe slipped through the window after the King. And he was glad of the shaft of pain that soared up his arm as his feet hit the ground. You panicked, you fool, he told himself. You, Marlowe, you panicked like a child. Fool. So you have to lose your arm. You’re lucky it’s not a leg, then you’d really be crippled. What’s an arm? Nothing. You can get an artificial one. Sure. With a hook. Nothing wrong with a false arm. Nothing. Could be quite a good idea. Certainly.

“Tabe,” Shagata greeted them as he ducked under the flap of canvas which shielded the overhang.

“Tabe,” said the King and Peter Marlowe.

Shagata was very nervous. The more he had thought about this deal the less he liked it. Too much money, too much risk. And he sniffed the air like a dog pointing. “I smell danger,” he said.

“He says, ‘I can smell danger.’”

“Tell him not to worry, Peter. I know about the danger and it’s taken care of. But what about Cheng San?”

“I tell thee,” Shagata whispered hurriedly, “that the gods smile upon thee and me and our friend. He is a fox, that one, for the pestilential police let him out of their trap.” The sweat was running down his face and soaking him. “I have the money.”

The King’s stomach turned over. “Tell him we’d better dispense with the yak and get with it. I’ll be right back with the goods.”

The King found Timsen in the shadows.

“Ready?”

“Ready.” Timsen whistled a bird call in the dark. Almost at once it was answered. “Do it fast, mate. I can’t guarantee to hold you safe for long.”

“Okay.” The King waited and out of the darkness came a lean Aussie corporal.

“Hi, cobber. Name’s Townsend. Bill Townsend.”

“Come on.”

The King hurried back to the overhang while Timsen kept guard and his Aussies fanned out, ready for the escape route.

Down by the corner of the jail, Grey was waiting impatiently. Dino had just whispered in his ear that Shagata had arrived, but Grey knew that the preliminaries would take a while. A while, and then he could move.

Smedly-Taylor’s phalanx was ready too, waiting for the transfer to take place. Once Grey was in motion, they too would move.

The King was under the flap with Townsend nervously beside him.

“Show him the diamond,” the King ordered.

Townsend opened his ragged shirt and pulled out a cord and on the end of the cord was the diamond ring. Townsend was trembling as he showed it to Shagata, who focused his portable lamp on the stone. Shagata examined it carefully, a bead of ice-light on the end of a piece of string. Then he took it and scratched the glass surface of the lamp. It screeched and left its mark.

Shagata nodded, sweating. “Very well.” He turned to Peter Marlowe. “Truly it is a diamond,” he said and took out calipers and carefully measured the extent of the stone. Again he nodded. “Truly it is four carats.”

The King jerked his head. “All right. Peter, you wait with Townsend.”

Peter Marlowe got up and beckoned to Townsend and together they went outside the flap and waited in the darkness. And around them they could feel eyes. Hundreds of eyes.

“Bloody hell,” Townsend winced, “wish I’d never got the stone. The strain’s killing me, my bloody oath.” His palsied fingers played with the string and the jewel, making sure for the millionth time that it was around his neck. “Thank God this’s the last night.”

The King watched with increasing excitement as Shagata opened his ammunition pouch and planked down three inches of notes, and opened his shirt and brought out a two-inch bundle, and from his side pockets more bundles until there were two piles of notes, each six inches high. Rapidly the King started counting the notes, and Shagata made a quick nervous bow and left. He pushed past the flap, and when he was once more on the path he felt safer. He adjusted his rifle and began to walk the camp and almost knocked down Grey, who was coming up fast.

Grey cursed and hurried past, ignoring the torrent of abuse from Shagata. This time Shagata did not run after the bastard stinking POW as he should and beat some courtesy into him, for he was thankful to be away and anxious to get back to his post.

“Cops,” Max whispered urgently outside the flap.

The King scooped up the notes and tore out of the overhang, whispering to Townsend as he ran, “Get lost. Tell Timsen I’ve the money now and we’ll pay off tonight when the heat’s off.”

Townsend vanished.

“Come on, Peter.”

The King led the way under the hut as Grey rounded the corner.

“Stay where you are, you two!” Grey shouted.

“Yes, sir!” Max called grandly from the shadows and moved in the way, Tex beside him, covering the King and Peter Marlowe.

“Not you two.” Grey tried to push past.

“But you wanted us to stop — ” began Max easily, moving back in Grey’s way.

Grey shoved past furiously and darted under the hut in pursuit.

The King and Peter Marlowe had already jumped into the slit trench and were up the other side. Another group ran interference as Grey ran after them.

Grey spotted them tearing down the jail wall and blew his whistle, alerting the MP’s already stationed. The MP’s moved out into the open and guarded the area from jail wall to jail wall, and from jail wall to barbed fence.

“This way,” the King said as he jumped through the window of Timsen’s hut. No one in the hut paid any attention to them, but many saw the bulge in the King’s shirt.

They raced through the hut and out the door. Another group of Aussies appeared and covered their retreat just as Grey panted up to the window and caught a fleeting glimpse of them. He rushed around the hut. The Aussies had covered their exit.

Grey called out abruptly, “Which way did they go? Come on! Which way?”

A chorus of “Who?”

“Who, sir?”

Grey pushed his way through them and hurried into the open.

“Everyone’s in position, sir,” an MP said, running up to him.

“Good. They can’t get far. And they won’t dare dump the money. We’ll start moving in on them. Tell the others.”

The King and Peter Marlowe ran towards the north end of the jail and stopped.

“Goddam it to hell!” the King said.

Where there should have been a phalanx of Aussies to run interference for them, now there were only MP’s. Five of them.

“What next?” Peter Marlowe said.

“We’ll have to backtrack. C’mon!”

Moving quickly, the King asked himself, What the hell’s gone wrong? Then suddenly he found it. Four men blocked their run. They had handkerchiefs over their faces and heavy sticks in their hands.

“Better hand over the money, mate, if you don’t want to get hurt.”

The King feinted, then charged, with Peter Marlowe at his side. The King plowed into one man and kicked another in the groin. Peter Marlowe blocked a blow, biting back a scream as it glanced off his arm, and tore the stick out of the man’s grasp. The other bushwhacker took to his heels and was swallowed by the darkness.

“Chrissake,” the King panted, “let’s get out of here.”

Again they were off. They could feel eyes following them and any moment they expected another attack. The King skidded to a stop.

“Look out! Grey!”

They turned back, and keeping to the side of a hut, ducked underneath it. They lay for a moment, their chests heaving. Feet ran past and they heard snatches of angry whispers —

“They went that way. Got t’ get ’em before the stinking cops.”

“The whole goddam camp’s after us,” the King said.

“Let’s stick the money here,” Peter Marlowe said helplessly. “We can bury it.”

“Too risky. They’d find it in a minute. Goddammit, everything was going fine. Except that bastard Timsen let us down.” The King wiped the dirt and sweat off his face. “Ready?”

“Which way?”

The King did not answer. He just crawled silently from under the hut and ran with the shadows, Peter Marlowe following close behind. He headed sure-footed across the path and jumped into the deep storm ditch beside the wire. He squirmed his way down it until they were almost opposite the American hut and stopped and leaned against the wall of the ditch, his breath fluttering. Around them was a whispered uproar and over them was a whispered uproar.

“What’s up?”

“The King’s on the run with Marlowe — they’ve got thousands of dollars with them.”

“The hell they have! Quick, maybe we can catch them.”

“Come on!”

“We’ll get the money.”

And Grey was getting reports and so was Smedly-Taylor and so was Timsen and the reports were confusing and Timsen was cursing and hissing at his men to find them before Grey or Smedly-Taylor’s men found them.

“Get that money!”

Smedly-Taylor’s men were waiting, watching Timsen’s Aussies, and they were confused too. Which way did they go? Where to look?

And Grey was waiting. He knew that both escapes were blocked, north and south. It was only a question of time. And now the search was closing. Grey knew he had them, and when he caught them they would have the money. They wouldn’t dare to let go of it, not now. It was too much money. But Grey didn’t know about Smedly-Taylor’s men or Timsen’s Aussies.

“Look,” Peter Marlowe said as he carefully lifted his head and peered around into the darkness.

The King’s eyes narrowed, searching. Then he saw the MP’s fifty yards away. He spun around. There were many other ghosts, hurrying, looking, searching. “We’ve had it,” he said frantically.

Then the King looked out, over the wire. The jungle was dark. And there was a guard plodding along the other side of the wire. Okay, he told himself. The last plan. The shit-or-bust plan.

“Here,” he said urgently, and he took out all the money and stuffed it into Peter Marlowe’s pockets. “I’ll cover for you. Go through the wire. It’s our only chance.”

“Christ, I’ll never make it. The guard’ll spot me — ”

“Go on, it’s our only chance!”

“I’ll never make it. Never.”

“When you get through, bury it and come back the same way. I’ll cover for you. Goddammit, you’ve got to go.”

“For God’s sake, I’ll get killed. He’s not fifty feet away,” Peter Marlowe said. “We’ll have to give up!”

He looked around, wildly seeking another escape route, and the sudden careless movement slammed his forgotten arm against the wall of the drain and he groaned, agonized.

“You save the money, Peter,” the King said desperately, “and I’ll save your arm.”

“You’ll what?”

“You heard me! Beat it!”

“But how can you — ”

“Beat it,” the King interrupted harshly. “If you save the dough.”

Peter Marlowe stared for an instant into the eyes of the King, then he slipped out of the trench and ran for the wire and slid under it, every moment expecting a bullet in his head. At the second of his dash, the King jumped out of the trench and whirled towards the path. He tripped deliberately and slammed down into the dust with a shout of rage. The guard glanced abruptly through the wire and laughed loudly, and when he turned back to his post he saw only a shadow which might have been anything. Certainly not a man.

Peter Marlowe was hugging the earth and he crawled like a thing of the jungle into the dank vegetation and held his breath and froze. The guard came closer and closer and then his foot was an inch away from Peter Marlowe’s hand and then the other foot straddled it a pace away, and when the guard was five paces away, Peter Marlowe slithered deeper into the brush, into the darkness, five, ten, twenty, thirty, and when he was forty paces away and safe, his heart seemed to begin again and he had to stop, stop for breath, stop for his heart, stop for the hurt of his arm, the arm that was going to be his once more. If the King said — it was.

So he lay on the earth and prayed for breath and prayed for life and prayed for strength and prayed for the King.

The King breathed now that Peter Marlowe had made it to the jungle. He got up and began to brush himself down, and Grey with an MP, was beside him.

“Stand where you are.”

“Who, me?” The King pretended to peer into the darkness and recognize Grey. “Oh, it’s you. Good evening, Captain Grey.” He shoved the MP’s restraining arm away. “Take your hands off me!”

“You’re under arrest,” said Grey, sweating and dirt-covered from the chase.

“For what? Captain.”

“Search him, Sergeant.”

The King submitted calmly. Now that the money wasn’t on him there was nothing that Grey could do. Nothing.

“Nothing on him, sir,” the MP said.

“Search the ditch.” Then, to the King: “Where’s Marlowe?”

“Who?” asked the King blandly.

“Marlowe!” Grey shouted. No money on this swine and no Marlowe!

“Probably taking a walk. Sir.” The King was polite, and his mind was centered only on Grey and the present danger, for he could sense that the danger was not completely past and that beside the jail wall were a group of malevolent ghosts, watching him for an instant before they disappeared.

“Where did you put the money?” Grey was saying.

“What money?”

“The money from the sale of the diamond.”

“What diamond? Sir!”

Grey knew he was beaten for the moment. He was beaten unless he could find Marlowe with the money on him. All right, you bastard, Grey thought, beside himself with rage, all right, I’ll let you go, but I’ll watch you and you’ll lead me to Marlowe.

“That’s all for the moment,” Grey said. “You’ve beaten us this time. But there’ll be another.”

The King walked back to his hut, chuckling to himself. You think I’m going to lead you to Peter, don’t you, Grey? But you’re so goddam smart you’re naïve.

Inside the hut, he found Max and Tex. They too were sweating.

“What happened?” Max said.

“Nothing. Max, go find Timsen. Tell him to wait under the window. I’ll talk to him there. Tell him not to come into the hut. Grey’s still watching us.”

“Okay.”

The King put the coffee on. His mind was working now. How to make the exchange? Where to make it? What to do about Timsen? How to draw Grey off from Peter?

“You wanted me, mate?”

The King didn’t turn to the window. He simply looked down the hut. The Americans got the message and left him alone. He watched Dino leave and returned Dino’s twisted smile.

“Timsen?” he said, busying himself with the coffee.

“Yes, mate?”

“I ought to cut your goddam throat.”

“It wasn’t my fault, cobber. Something went wrong — ”

“Yeah. You wanted the money and the diamond.”

“No harm in trying, cobber.” Timsen chuckled. “It won’t happen again.”

“You’re goddamned right.” The King liked Timsen. Lot on the ball. And no harm in trying, not when the stakes are so high. And he needed Timsen. “We’ll make the transfer during the day. Then there won’t be any ‘slip-ups.’ I’ll send you word when.”

“Right, cobber. Where’s the Pommy?”

“What Pommy?”

Timsen laughed. “See yer tomorrow!”

The King drank his coffee and called Max to guard the fort. Then he jumped cautiously out of the window, darted into the shadows and made his way to the jail wall. He was careful not to be observed, but not too careful, and he laughed to himself as he felt Grey following. He pretended well, backtracking through the huts and dodging this way and that. Grey relentlessly dogged his footsteps, and the King led him up to the jail gate and through the gate and into the cellblocks. Finally the King headed for the cell on the fourth floor and pretended to increase his concern as he went into the cell and left the door half ajar. Every quarter hour or so he’d open the door and peer anxiously around, and this went on until Tex arrived.

“All clear,” Tex said.

“Good.”

Peter was back and safe and there was no need to keep up the pretense, so he returned to his hut and winked at Peter Marlowe. “Where you been?”

“Thought I’d see how you were getting on.”

“Like some Java?”

“Thanks.”

Grey stood in the doorway. He said nothing, just looked. Peter Marlowe was wearing only his sarong. No pockets in a sarong. His armband was on his shoulder.

Peter Marlowe lifted the cup to his lips and drank the coffee and his eyes were locked on Grey and then Grey disappeared into the night.

Peter Marlowe got up exhaustedly. “Think I’ll turn in now.”

“I’m proud of you, Peter.”

“You meant what you said, didn’t you?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.”

That night the King was worrying about a new problem. How in the hell could he do what he had said he would do?

CHAPTER TWENTY

Larkin was deeply troubled as he strode up the path towards the Aussie hut. He was worried about Peter Marlowe — his arm seemed to be troubling him more than somewhat, hurting too much to be brushed off as just a flesh wound. He was worried too about old Mac. Last night Mac’d been talking and screaming in his sleep. And he was worried about Betty. Had bad dreams himself last few nights, all twisted up, Betty and him, with other men in bed with her, and him watching and her laughing at him.

Larkin entered the hut and went over to Townsend, who was lying in his bunk.

Townsend’s eyes were puffed and closed and his face was scratched and his arms and chest were bruised and scratched. When he opened his mouth to answer, Larkin saw the bloody gap where teeth should have been.

“Who did it, Townsend?”

“Don’t know,” Townsend whimpered. “I wuz bushwhacked.”

“Why?”

Tears welled and dirtied the bruises. “I’d — I’d a — nothing — nothing. I don’t — know.”

“We’re alone, Townsend. Who did it?”

“I don’t know.” A sobbing moan burst from Townsend’s lips. “Oh Christ, they hurt me, hurt me.”

“Why were you bushwhacked?”

“I–I — ” Townsend wanted to shout, “The diamond, I had the diamond,” and he wanted the colonel’s help to get the bastards who’d stolen it from him. But he couldn’t tell about the diamond, for then the colonel’d want to know where he’d got it and then he’d have to say from Gurble. An’ then there’d be questions about Gurble, where had he got it from — Gurble? The suicide? Then maybe they’d say that it wasn’t suicide, it were murder, but it weren’t, least he, Townsend, didn’t think so, but who knows, maybe someone did Gurble in for the diamond. But that particular night Gurble was away from his bunk and I’d felt the outline of the diamond ring in his mattress and slipped it out and took off into the night and who could prove anythin’—and Gurble happened to suicide that night so there weren’t no harm. Except that maybe I murdered Gurble, murdered him by stealing the stone, maybe that was the final straw for Gurble, being kicked out of the unit for stealing rations and then having the diamond stole. Maybe that’d put him off his head, poor bastard, an’ made him jump into the borehole! But stealing rations didn’t make sense, not when a man’s a diamond to sell. No sense. No sense at all. Except that maybe I was the cause of Gurble’s death and I curse myself, again and again, for stealing the diamond. Since I become a thief I got no peace, no peace, no peace. An’ now, now I’m glad, glad that it’s gone from me, stolen from me.

“I don’t know,” Townsend sobbed.

Larkin saw that it was no use and left Townsend to his pain.

“Oh, sorry, Father,” Larkin said, as he almost bumped Father Donovan down the hut steps.

“Hello, old friend.” Father Donovan was wraithlike, impossibly emaciated, his eyes deepset and strangely peaceful. “How are you? And Mac? And young Peter?”

“Fine, thanks.” Larkin nodded back towards Townsend. “Do you know anything about this?”

Donovan looked at Townsend and replied gently, “I see a man in pain.”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.” Larkin thought a moment, smiled. “Would you like a game of bridge? Tonight? After supper?”

“Yes. Thank you. I’d like that.”

“Good. After supper.”

Father Donovan watched Larkin walk away and then went over to Townsend’s bed. Townsend was not a Catholic. But Father Donovan gave of himself to all, for he knew that all men are children of God. But are they, all of them? he asked himself in wonder. Could children of God do such things?

At noon the wind and the rain came together. Soon everything and everyone was drenched. Then the rain stopped and the wind continued. Pieces of thatch ripped away and whirled across the camp, mixing with loose fronds and rags and coolie hats. Then the wind stopped and the camp was normal with sun and heat and flies. Water in the storm channels gushed for half an hour, then began to sink into the earth and stagnate. More flies gathered.

Peter Marlowe wandered up the hill listlessly. His feet were mud-stained like his legs, for he had let the tempest surround him, hoping that the wind and the rain would take away the brooding hurt. But they had not touched him.

He stood outside the King’s window and peered in.

“How do you feel, Peter, buddy?” the King asked as he got up from his bed and found a pack of Kooas.

“Awful.” Peter Marlowe sat on the bench under the overhang, nauseated from the pain. “My arm’s killing me.” His laugh was brittle. “Joke!”

The King jumped down and forced a smile. “Forget it — ”

“How the hell can I forget it?” Immediately Peter Marlowe regretted the outburst. “Sorry. I’m jumpy. Don’t know what I’m saying half the time.”

“Have a cigarette.” The King lit it for him. Yep, the King told himself, you’re in a spot. The Limey learns fast, very fast. At least I think so. Let’s see. “We’ll complete the deal tomorrow. You can get the money tonight. I’ll cover for you.”

But Peter Marlowe didn’t hear him. His arm was burning a word into his brain. Amputate! And he could hear the saw shrieking and feel it cutting, grinding bone-dust, his bone-dust. A shudder racked him. “What — about this?” he muttered and looked up from his arm. “Can you really do something?”

The King nodded and told himself, There, you see. You were right. Only Pete knows where the money is, but Pete won’t get the money until you’ve set up the cure. No cure, no dough. No dough, no sale. No sale, no loot. So he sighed and said to himself, Yes, you’re a pretty smart cookie to know men so well. But when you figure it right, like you did last night, it wasn’t a bad trade. If Pete hadn’t taken the chance we’d both be in jail with no money and no nothing. And Pete had brought them luck. The deal was better than ever. And apart from that, Pete’s all right. A good guy. And hell, who wants to lose an arm anyway. Pete’s got a right to put the pressure on. I’m glad he’s learned.

“Leave it to Uncle Sam!”

“Who?”

“Uncle Sam?” The King stared at him blankly. “The American symbol. You know,” he said exasperatedly, “like John Bull.”

“Oh, sorry. I’m just — today — I’m just — ” A wave of nausea surged over Peter Marlowe.

“You beat it back to your bunk and relax. I’ll take care of it.”

Peter Marlowe got up unsteadily. He wanted to smile and thank the King and shake his hand and bless him, but he remembered the word, and he felt only the saw, so he half nodded and walked out of the hut.

For Chrissake, the King told himself bitterly. He thinks I’d let him down, that I wouldn’t do nothin’, unless he had the screws on me. Chrissake, Peter, I would help. Sure. Even though you didn’t have me by the shorts. Hell. You’re my friend.

“Hey, Max.”

“Yeah.”

“Get Timsen here on the double.”

“Sure,” Max said and left.

The King unlocked the black box and took out three eggs. “Tex. You like to cook yourself an egg? Along with these two?”

“Hell no,” Tex said, grinning, and he took the eggs. “Hey, I took a look at Eve. Swear to God she’s fatter today.”

“Impossible. She was only mated yesterday.”

Tex danced a little jig. “Twenty days an’ we’re all daddies again.” He accepted the oil and headed outside for the cooking area.

The King lay back on his bunk, scratching a mosquito bite thoughtfully and watching the lizards on the rafters hunt and fornicate. He closed his eyes and began to drowse contentedly. Here it was only twelve o’clock, and already he’d done a hard day’s work. Hell, everything’d been sewn up by six o’clock this morning.

He chuckled to himself as he remembered. Yes sir, it pays to have a good reputation and it pays to advertise …

It had happened just before dawn. He had been soft asleep. Then a cautious, muted voice had interrupted his dreams.

He awoke at once and looked out of the window and had seen a little weasel of a man staring at him in the shadowed contrails of the dawn. A man he had never seen before.

“Yeah?”

“I got somethin’ yer wanter buy.” The man’s voice had been expressionless and hoarse.

“Who’re you?”

In answer the little man had opened his grimy fist with its broken, dirt-flecked finger nails. The diamond ring was in his palm. “Price’s ten thousand. For a quick sale,” he added sardonically. Then the fingers had snapped tight as the King moved to pick the ring up, and the fist was withdrawn. “Tonight.” The man had smiled toothlessly. “It’s the right one, never fear.”

“Are you the owner?”

“It’s in me ’and, ain’t it?”

“It’s a deal. What time?”

“You wait in. I’ll see yer when there ain’t no narks abart.”

And the man had gone as suddenly as he had appeared.

The King settled more comfortably, gloating. Poor Timsen, he told himself, that poor son of a bitch’s got egg on his face! I get the ring for half price.

“Morning, cobber,” Timsen said. “You wanted me?”

The King opened his eyes and covered a yawn with his hand as Tiny Timsen walked up the hut.

“Hi.” The King swung his legs off the bed and stretched luxuriously. “Tired today. Too much excitement. You want an egg? Got a couple cooking.”

“Too right I’d like an egg.”

“Make yourself at home.” The King could afford to be hospitable. “Now let’s get down to business. We’ll close the deal this afternoon.”

“Na.” Timsen shook his head. “Not t’day. Tomorrer.”

The King was hard put not to beam.

“The heat’ll be off by then,” Timsen was saying. “Hear that Grey’s got himself out’ve hospital. He’ll be eyeing this place.” Timsen seemed gravely concerned. “We got to watch out. You an’ me. Don’t want anything to go wrong. I got to watch out for you, too. Don’t forget we’re cobbers.”

“To hell with tomorrow,” the King said, feigning disappointment. “Let’s do it this afternoon.”

And he listened, shouting with laughter inside, listened while Timsen said how important it was to be careful; the owner’s scared, why he even got beat up last night, and why, it wuz only me and my men what saved the poor bastard. So the King knew for sure then that Timsen was bleeding, that the diamond had slipped through his slimy mitts, that he was playing for time. Why, I’ll bet, the King told himself ecstatically, that the Aussies are going out of their skulls trying to find the hijacker. I wouldn’t like to be him — if they find him. So he allowed himself to be persuaded. Just in case Timsen did find the guy and the original deal stood.

“Well, okay,” the King said grudgingly. “I suppose you got a point. We’ll make it tomorrow.” He lit another cigarette and took a drag and passed it over and said sweetly, still playing the game: “On these hot nights few of my boys sleep. At least four of them are up. All night.”

Timsen understood the threat. But he had other things on his mind. Who, for the love uv God, who bushwhacked Townsend? He prayed that his men would find the buggers quick. He knew he had to find the bushwhackers before they got to the King with the diamond, for then he’d be out of luck. “I know how it is. Just the same with my boys — lucky they’re so close to my poor old pal Townsend.” Stupid bastard. How in the hell could a bugger be so weak as to allow himself to be jumped and not holler afore it was too late? “Man can’t be too careful these days, either.”

Tex brought in the eggs and the three men ate them with lunch-rice, and washed it all down with strong coffee. By the time Tex took out the dishes, the King had the conversation just where he wanted it.

“I know a guy who’s in the market for some drugs.”

Timsen shook his head. “He’s got an ’ope, poor bastard. Ain’t possible! Too right.” Ah, he thought. Drugs! Who’d that be for? Not the King, certainly. He looks healthy enough, an’ not for resale either. The King never deals in drugs, which is all right, for that leaves the market in my hands. Must be for someone close to the King, though. Otherwise he’d never get involved. Drug trade’s not his meat. Old McCoy! Of course. I heard he wasn’t so well these days. Maybe the colonel. He ain’t been lookin’ too well either. “I heard of a Limey who’s some quinine. But Jesus wept, he wants a bloody fortune for it.”

“I want some antitoxin. A bottle. And sulfonamide powder.”

Timsen let out a whistle. “Not an ’ope!” he said. Antitoxin and sulfa! Gangrene! The Pommy. Christ, gangrene! And the whole pattern fell neatly into place. Got to be the Pommy! Not through cunning alone had Timsen cornered the drug market. He knew enough about drugs from civvy street, where he had worked as an assistant druggist, which no bastard but him knew, because then the bastards would’ve put him in the Medical Corps, and that would’ve meant no fighting and no killing, and no self-respecting Aussie’d let his country down and dear old Blighty down by being just a stinking noncombatant medical orderly.

“Not an ’ope,” he said again, shaking his head.

“Listen,” the King said. “I’ll level with you.” Timsen was the only man who could get it in the whole world, so he had to get his help. “It’s for Peter.”

“Tough,” Timsen said. But inside he sympathized. Poor bugger. Gangrene. Good man, lot of guts. He still felt the smash the Pommy’d given him last night. When the four of them had fallen on the King and the Pommy.

Timsen had found out about Peter Marlowe when he had been taken up by the King. A man can’t be too careful and information’s alw’ys important. And Timsen knew about the four German planes and about the three Nips, and he knew about the village and how the Pommy’d tried to escape from Java, not like a lot who’d meekly sat and taken it. And yet, when you thought about it, it was pretty stupid to try. So far to go. Yes. Too far. Yes, this Pommy’s a beaut.

Timsen wondered if he could risk sending a man into the Japanese doctor’s quarters to get the drugs. It was risky, but the quarters and the route had been pegged. Poor bugger Marlowe, he must be sick with worry. Of course I’ll get the drugs — and it’ll be done for free, or just for expenses.

Timsen hated selling drugs, but someone had to, better him than someone else, for the cost was always reasonable, as reasonable as possible, and he knew he could make a fortune selling to the Japanese, but he never did, only to the camp and really only for a slight profit, when you thought of the risks involved.

“It makes you sick,” Timsen said, “when you think of all that Red Cross medical supplies in the go-down on Kedah Street.”

“Hell, that’s a rumor.”

“Oh, no it ain’t. I’ve seen it, mate. On a work party I was. Stashed full of Red Cross stuff — plasma, quinine, sulfa — everything, from floor to ceiling and still in their cases. Why, the go-down must be a good hundred yards long and thirty wide. An’ it’s all going to those bugger Nips. They let the stuff in all right. Comes through Chungking, I’m told. The Red Cross give it to the Siamese — they turn it over to the Nips — all consigned for POW’s, Changi. Christ, I’ve even seen the labels, but the Nips just use it for their own monkeys.”

“Anyone else know about this?”

“I tol’ the colonel and he tol’ the Camp Commandant, who told that Nip bastard — what’s ’is name, oh yus, Yoshima — and the Camp Commandant, see, well, he demanded the supplies. But the Nips just laughed at him and said it was a rumor and that was the last of it. No work parties ’ave ever gone again. Lousy fuckers. Ain’t fair, not when we need the drugs so bad. They could give us a little. My cobber died six months back for want of a little insulin — and I saw crates of it. Crates.” Timsen rolled a cigarette and coughed and spat and was so incensed he kicked the wall.

He knew there was no future in getting upset about it. And there was no way to get at that go-down. But he could get antitoxin and sulfa for the Pommy. Oh, my word, yes — and he’d give it to him for nothing.

But Timsen was much too clever to allow the King to see through him. That would be childish, to let the King know he’d a soft spot, for sure as God’s country was Down Under, the King’d use that as a lever sometime later on. Yus, an’ he had to have the King for the deal of the diamond. Oh bugger! I’d forgotten about that dirty bushwhacker.

So Timsen named an extortionate figure and allowed himself to be beaten down. But he made the price steep, for he knew the King could afford it, and if he said he’d get the goods for a low price, the King’d be very suspicious.

“All right,” the King said glumly. “You got a deal.” Inside he wasn’t glum. Not too glum. He’d expected Timsen to soak him, but although the price was higher than he wanted to pay, it was fair.

“It’ll take three days,” Timsen said, knowing that three days would be too late.

“I’ve got to have it tonight.”

“Then it’ll cost another five hundred.”

“I’m a friend of yours!” the King said, feeling real pain. “We’re buddies and you stick me for another five C’s.”

“All right, cobber.” Timsen was sad, doglike. “But you know how it is. Three days is the best I can do.”

“Goddammit. All right.”

“An’ the nurse’ll be an extra five hundred.”

“For Chrissake! What the hell’s the nurse for?”

Timsen enjoyed seeing the King squirm. “Well,” he said agreeably, “what’re you going to do with the stuff when you’ve got it? How you going to treat the patient?”

“How the hell do I know?”

“That’s what the five hundred’s for. I suppose you’re going to give the stuff to the Pommy and he’s going to take it up to the ’ospital and say to the nearest sawbones, ‘I got hantitoxin and sulfa, fix my bleedin’ arm up,’ and then the doc’s going to say, ‘We ain’t got no hantitoxin so where the ’ell did you get this from,’ and when the Pommy won’t tell, the bastards’ll steal it off him and give it to some stinking Limey colonel who’s a slight case of piles.”

He deftly took the packet of cigarettes out of the King’s pocket and helped himself. “And,” he said, but now completely serious, “you have to find a place where you can treat him private-like. Where he can lie down. These hantitoxins’re tough on some men. An’ part of the deal’s that I accept no responsibility if the treatment turns sour.”

“If you’ve got antitoxin and sulfa, what can go sour?”

“Some folks can’t take it. Nausea. Tough. And it mayn’t work. Depends how much of the toxin’s already in his system.”

Timsen got up. “Sometime tonight. Oh yes, an’ the equipment’ll cost another five hundred.”

The King exploded. “What equipment, for Chrissake?”

“Hypodermics and bandages and soap. Jesus!” Timsen was almost disgusted. “You think hantitoxin’s a pill you stick up ’is arse?”

The King stared after Timsen sourly, kicking himself. Thought you were so clever, didn’t you, finding out what cured gangrene for a cigarette and then, nut-head, you forget to ask what the hell you did with the stuff once you got it.

Well, the hell with it. The dough’s committed. And Pete’s got his arm back. And the cost’s all right too.

Then the King remembered the foxy little hijacker and he beamed. Yes, he felt very pleased with the day’s work.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

That evening Peter Marlowe gave his food away. He did not give it to Mac or Larkin as he should, but to Ewart. He knew that if he had given it to his unit they would have forced him to reveal what was the matter. And there was no point in telling them.

That afternoon, sick with pain and worry, he had gone to see Dr. Kennedy. Again he had almost been crazed with agony while the bandage was ripped away. Then the doctor had said simply, “The poison’s above the elbow. I can amputate below, but it’s a waste of time. Might as well do the operation in one time. You’ll have a nice stump — at least five inches from the shoulder. Enough for an artificial arm to be strapped to. Quite enough.” Kennedy had templed his fingers calmly. “Don’t waste any more time, Marlowe,” and he had laughed dryly and quipped, “Domani è troppo tardi,” and when Peter Marlowe had looked at him blankly without understanding, he had said flatly, “Tomorrow may be too late.”

Peter Marlowe had stumbled back to his bunk and had lain in a pool of fear. Then dinner had come and he had given it away.

“You got fever?” Ewart said happily, filled by the extra food.

“No.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“For Christ’s sake leave me alone!” Peter Marlowe turned away from Ewart. After a time he got up and left the hut, regretting that he had agreed to play bridge with Mac and Larkin and Father Donovan for an hour or two. You’re a fool, he told himself bitterly, you should have stayed in your bunk until it was time to go through the wire to get the money.

But he knew that he could not have lain on his bunk, hour after hour, until it was safe to go. Better to have something to do.

“Hi, cobber!” Larkin’s face crinkled with his smile.

Peter Marlowe did not return the smile. He just sat grimly in the doorway. Mac glanced at Larkin, who shrugged imperceptibly.

“Peter,” Mac said, forcing good humor, “the news is better every day, isn’t it? Won’t be long before we’re out of here.”

“Too right!” Larkin said.

“You’re living in a fool’s paradise. We’ll never get out of Changi.” Peter Marlowe did not wish to be harsh, but he could not restrain himself. He knew Mac and Larkin were hurt, but he would do nothing to ease the hurt. He was obsessed with the five-inch stump. A chill dissolved his spine and pierced his testicles. How the hell could the King really help? How? Be realistic. If it was the King’s arm — what could I do, however much I’m his friend? Nothing. I don’t think there’s anything he can do — in time. Nothing. You’d better face it, Peter. It’s amputate or die. Simple. And when it comes down to it, you can’t die. Not yet. Once you’re born, you are obligated to survive. At all costs.

Yes, Peter Marlowe told himself, you’d better be realistic. There’s nothing the King can do, nothing. And you shouldn’t have put him on the spot. It’s your worry, not his. Just get the money and give it to him and go up to the hospital and lie on the table and let them cut your arm off.

So the three of them — he, Mac and Larkin — sat in the fetid night. Silent. When Father Donovan joined them they forced him to eat a little rice and blachang. They made him eat it then, for if they had not, he would have given it away, as he gave away most of his rations.

“You’re very kind to me,” Donovan said. His eyes twinkled as he added, “Now, if you three would see the error of your ways and come over to the right side of the fence, you’d complete my evening.”

Mac and Larkin laughed with him. Peter Marlowe did not laugh.

“What’s the matter, Peter?” Larkin said, an edge to his voice. “You’ve been like a dingo with a sore arse all evening.”

“No harm in being a little out of sorts,” Donovan said quickly, healing the ragged silence. “My word, the news is very good, isn’t it?”

Only Peter Marlowe was outside the friendship that was in the little room. He knew his presence was suffocating, but there was nothing he could do. Nothing.

The game started, and Father Donovan opened with two spades.

“Pass,” Mac said grumpily.

“Three diamonds,” Peter Marlowe said, and as soon as he had said it he wished he hadn’t, for he had stupidly overbid his hand and had said diamonds when he should have said hearts.

“Pass,” Larkin said testily. He was sorry now that he had suggested the game. There was no fun in it. No fun.

“Three spades,” Father Donovan said.

“Pass.”

“Pass,” Peter Marlowe said, and they all looked at him surprised.

Father Donovan smiled. “You should have more faith — ”

“I’m tired of faith.” The words were sudden-raw and very angry.

“Sorry, Peter, I was only — ”

“Now look here, Peter,” Larkin interrupted sharply, “just because you’re in a bad humor — ”

“I’m entitled to an opinion and I think it was a bad joke,” Peter Marlowe flared. Then he whirled back on Donovan. “Just because you martyr yourself by giving your food away and sleeping in the men’s barracks, I suppose that gives you the right to be the authority. Faith’s a lot of nothing! What does it get you? Nothing! Faith’s for children — and so is God. What the hell can He do about anything? Really do? Eh? Eh?”

Mac and Larkin stared at Peter Marlowe without recognition.

“He can heal,” Father Donovan said, knowing about the gangrene. He knew many things he did not want to know.

Peter Marlowe slammed his cards down on the table. “Shit!” he shouted, berserk. “That’s shit and you know it. And another thing while we’re on the subject. God! You know, I think God’s a maniac, a sadistic, evil maniac, a bloodsucker — ”

“Are you out of your mind, Peter?” Larkin exploded.

“No, I’m not. Look at God,” Peter Marlowe raved, his face contorted. “God’s nothing but evil — if He really is God. Look at all the bloodshed that’s been committed in the name of God.” He shoved his face nearer Donovan’s. “The Inquisition. Remember? All the thousands that were burned and tortured to death in His name? By the Catholic sadists? And we won’t even think about the Aztecs and Incas and the poor bloody Indian millions. And the Protestants burning and killing the Catholics; and the Catholics, the Jews and the Mohammedans; and the Jews, more Jews — and the Mormons and Quakers and the whole stinking mess. Kill, torture, burn! Just so long as it’s in the name of God, you’re all right. What a lot of hypocrisy! Don’t give me faith! It’s nothing!”

“And yet you have faith in the King,” Father Donovan said quietly.

“I suppose you’re going to say he’s an instrument of God?”

“Perhaps he is. I don’t know.”

“I must tell him that.” Peter Marlowe laughed hysterically. “He’d laugh to high heaven.”

“Listen, Marlowe!” Larkin got up, shaking with rage. “You’d better apologize or get out!”

“Don’t worry, Colonel,” Peter Marlowe slammed back, “I’m leaving.” He got up and glared at them, hating them, hating himself. “Listen, priest. You’re a joke. Your skirts’re a joke. You’re all an unholy joke, you and God. You don’t serve God because God’s the devil. You’re the servant of the devil.” And then he scooped some of the cards off the table and threw them into Father Donovan’s face and stormed out into the darkness.

“What in God’s name has happened to Peter?” Mac said, shattering the appalled silence.

“In God’s name,” Father Donovan said compassionately. “Peter has gangrene. He has to have his arm amputated or he will die. You could see the scarlet streaks clearly, above his elbow.”

“What?” Larkin stared at Mac, petrified. Then simultaneously they both got up and began hurrying out. But Father Donovan called them back.

“Wait, there’s nothing you can do.”

“Dammit, there must be something.” Larkin stood in the doorway. “The poor lad — and I thought — the poor lad — ”

“There’s nothing to do, except wait. Except have faith, and pray. Perhaps the King will help, can help.” Then Father Donovan added tiredly, “The King is the only man who can.”

Peter Marlowe stumbled into the American hut. “I’ll get the money now,” he muttered to the King.

“Are you crazy? There’s too many people around.”

“To hell with the people,” Peter Marlowe said angrily. “Do you want the money or not?”

“Sit down. Sit down!” The King forced Peter Marlowe to sit and gave him a cigarette and forced him to drink coffee and thought, Jesus, what I have to do for a little loot. Patiently he told Peter Marlowe to keep his wits about him, that everything was going to be all right, for the cure was already arranged, and after an hour Peter Marlowe was calmer and at least coherent. But the King knew he was not getting through to him. He saw that he was nodding from time to time, but he knew, deep down, that Peter Marlowe was quite beyond him, and if he was beyond him, the King, he was beyond anyone.

“Is it time now?” Peter Marlowe asked, almost blinded with pain, knowing if he did not go now he would never go.

The King knew that it was too early for safety, but he knew too that he could not keep him in the hut any longer. So he sent guards in all directions. The whole area was covered. Max was watching Grey, who was on his bunk. Byron Jones III was watching Timsen. And Timsen was north, by the gate, waiting for the drug shipment, and Timsen’s boys, another source of danger, were still desperately combing the area for the hijacker.

The King and Tex watched Peter Marlowe walk, zombielike, out of the hut and across the path and up to the storm ditch. He wavered on the brink, then stepped across it and began to stagger towards the fence.

“Jesus,” Tex said. “I can’t watch!”

“I can’t either,” the King said.

Peter Marlowe was trying to focus his eyes on the fence, through the pain and delirium that was engulfing him. He was praying for a bullet. He could stand the agony no longer. But no bullet came, so he walked on, grimly erect, then reeled against the fence. He grabbed a wire to steady himself for a moment. Then he bent down to step through the wires and gave a little moan as he fell into the dregs of hell.

The King and Tex ran to the fence and picked him up and dragged him away from the fence.

“What’s the matter with him?” someone asked from the darkness.

“Guess he’s just gone stir-crazy,” the King said. “Come on, Tex, let’s get him in the hut.”

They carried him into the hut and laid him on the King’s bed. Then Tex hurried away to recall their guards and the hut returned to normal. Just one guard out.

Peter Marlowe lay on the bed, moaning and mumbling deliriously. After a while, he came out of the faint. “Oh Christ,” he gasped and tried to get off the bed, but his body defeated him.

“Here,” the King said anxiously, giving him four aspirins. “Take it easy, you’ll be all right.” His hand was shaking as he helped him to drink some water. Son of a bitch, he thought bitterly, if Timsen doesn’t bring the stuff tonight Peter won’t make it, and if he doesn’t, then how the hell am I going to get the dough? Son of a bitch!

When Timsen finally arrived the King was a wreck.

“Hi, cobber.” Timsen was nervous too. He had had to cover for his best cobber up by the main gate while the man had gone through the wire and into the Japanese doctor’s quarters, which were fifty yards away and not so very far from the Yoshima house and too near the guardhouse for any man’s nerves. But the Aussie had sneaked in and sneaked out, and while Timsen knew there ain’t no thief in the world like a Digger on the make for a piece of merchandise, no thief in the world, even so he had sweated, waiting until the man got back safely.

“Where we going to fix him?” he asked.

“Here.”

“All right. Better post some guards.”

“Where’s the nurse?”

“I’m the first one,” Timsen said queasily. “Steven can’t get down ’ere now. He’ll take on from me.”

“You sure you know what the hell you’re doing?”

“Strike a bleedin’ light,” Timsen said. “’Course I know. You got some water boiling?”

“No.”

“Well, get some! Don’t you Yanks know anything?”

“Keep your shirt on!”

The King nodded to Tex and Tex got the water going. Timsen undid the surgical haversack and laid out a little towel.

“I’ll be goddamned,” Tex said. “I ain’t never seen something so clean before. Why, it’s almost blue it’s so white.”

Timsen spat and washed his hands carefully with a new cake of soap and started to boil the hypodermic and forceps. Then he bent over Peter Marlowe and slapped his face a little.

“Hey, cobber!”

“Yes,” Peter Marlowe said, weakly.

“I’m going to clean the wound, right?”

Peter Marlowe had to concentrate. “What?”

“I’m going to give you the hantitoxin — ”

“I’ve got to get up to the hospital,” he said drunkenly. “It’s time now — cut it — I’m telling you — ” His spirit left him once more.

“Just as well,” Timsen said.

When the hypodermic was sterilized, Timsen gave an injection of morphine. “You help,” he said brusquely to the King. “Keep the bloody sweat out of me eyes.” Obediently the King got a towel.

Timsen waited until the injection reacted, then he ripped off the old bandage and laid the wound bare. “Jesus!” The whole wound area was puffy and purple and green. “I think it’s too late.”

“My God,” the King said. “No wonder the poor son of a bitch was crazy.”

Gritting his teeth, Timsen carefully cut away the worst of the rotted, putrid skin and probed deep and washed the wound as clean as he could. Then he sprinkled sulfa powder over it and neatly rebandaged it. When this was done, he straightened and sighed. “My bleedin’ back!” He looked at the purity of the bandage, then turned to the King. “Got a piece of shirt?”

The King grabbed a shirt from the wall and gave it to him. Timsen ripped the arm out and tore it into a rough bandage and wrapped it on top of the bandage.

“What the hell’s that for?” the King asked blearily.

“Camouflage,” Timsen said. “I suppose you think he can walk around the camp with a nice new bandage on him and not get stopped by curious docs and MP’s asking him where the hell he got it?”

“Oh, I see.”

“Well now, that’s something!”

The King let the crack pass. He was too qualmish with the memory of Peter Marlowe’s arm and the smell of it and the blood and the clotted mucused bandage that lay on the floor. “Hey Tex, get rid of that stinking thing.”

“Who, me? Why — ”

“Get rid of it.”

Tex reluctantly picked up the bandage and went outside. He kicked the soft earth away and buried it, and was sick. When he came back he said, “Thank God I don’t have to do this every day.”

Timsen shakily filled the hypodermic and bent over Peter Marlowe’s arm. “You got to watch. Watch for Christ’s sake,” he growled as he saw the King turn away. “If Steven doesn’t come, maybe you’ll have to do it. The injection’s got to be intravenous, right? You find the vein. Then you just stick the needle in and inch out a little until you can pull some blood into the syringe. See? Then you’re sure the needle’s in the vein. Once you’re sure, you just squirt the hantitoxin in. But not fast. Take about three minutes for the cc.”

The King watched, revolted, until the needle was jerked out and Timsen pressed a little piece of cotton wool over the puncture.

“Goddammit,” the King said. “I’ll never be able to do that.”

“You want to let him die, okay.” Timsen was sweating and nauseated too. “An’ my old man wanted me to be a doctor!” He pushed the King out of the way and put his head out of the window and was violently sick. “Get me some coffee for God’s sake.”

Peter Marlowe stirred and became half awake.

“You’re going to be all right, cobber. You understand me?” Timsen bent over him, gentle.

Peter Marlowe nodded myopically and lifted his arm. For a moment he stared at it unbelievingly, then he muttered, “What happened? It’s — still on — it’s still on!”

“Of course it’s on,” the King said proudly. “We just fixed you up. Anti-toxin, the lot. Me and Timsen!”

But Peter Marlowe only looked at him, his mouth working and no words coming out. Then at length, he said in a whisper, “It’s still — on.” He used his right hand to feel the arm that should not be there but was. And when he was sure he was not dreaming, he lay back in a pool of sweat and closed his eyes and began to cry. A few minutes later he was asleep.

“Poor bugger,” Timsen said. “He must’ve thought he was on the op table.”

“How long’s he going to be out?”

“About another couple of hours. Listen,” Timsen said, “he’s got to have an injection every six hours until the toxin’s out of him. For, say, about forty-eight hours. And new dressings every day. And more sulfa. But you got to remember. He must keep up the injections. And don’t be surprised if he vomits all over the place. There’s bound to be a reaction. A bad one. I made the first dose heavy.”

“You think he’ll be all right?”

“I’ll answer that in ten days.” Timsen got the haversack together and made a neat little parcel of the towel, soap, hypodermic, antitoxin and sulfa powder. “Now let’s settle up, right?”

The King took out the pack that Shagata had given him. “Smoke?”

“Ta.”

When the cigarettes were lit the King said, matter of fact, “We can settle up when the diamond deal goes through.”

“Oh no, mate. I delivers, I get paid. That’s nothing to do with this,” Timsen said sharply.

“No harm in waiting a day or so.”

“You got enough money and then some from the profit — ” He stopped suddenly as he hit upon the answer. “Oho!” he said with a broad smile, jerking his thumb at Peter Marlowe. “No money until your cobber goes an’ gets it, right?”

The King slipped off his wrist watch. “You want to hold this as security?”

“Oh no, matey, I trust you.” He looked at Peter Marlowe. “Well, seems like a lot depends on you, old son.” When he turned back to the King his eyes were crinkled merrily. “Gives me time, too, don’t it?”

“Huh?” the King said innocently.

“Come off it, mate. You know the ring’s been bushwhacked. There’s only you in the camp what can handle it. If I could’ve, you think I’d let you in on it?” Timsen’s beam was seraphic. “So that gives me time to find the bushwhacker, right? If he comes to you first, you won’t have the money to pay, right? Without the money he won’t let go of it, right? No money, no deal.” Timsen waited and then said benignly, “’Course you could tell me when the bastard offers it, couldn’t you? After all, it’s me property, right?”

“Right,” the King said agreeably.

“But you won’t,” Timsen sighed. “Wot a lot of ruddy thieves.”

He bent over Peter Marlowe and checked his pulse. “Hum,” he said reflectively. “Pulse’s up.”

“Thanks for the help, Tim.”

“Think nothing of it, mate. I got a vested interest in the bastard, right? And I’m going t’watch him like a ruddy ’awk. Right?”

He laughed again and went out.

The King was exhausted. After he had made himself some coffee he felt better, and he lay back in the chair and drifted into sleep.

He awoke with a start and looked at the bed. Peter Marlowe was staring at him.

“Hello,” Peter Marlowe said weakly.

“How you feel?” The King stretched and got up.

“Like hell. I’m going to be sick any moment. You know, there’s nothing — nothing I can say — ”

The King lit the last of the Kooas and stuck it between Peter Marlowe’s lips. “You earned it, buddy.”

While Peter Marlowe lay gathering strength, the King told him about the treatment and what had to be done.

“The only place I can think of,” Peter Marlowe said, “is the colonel’s place. Mac can wake me and help me down from the hut. I can lie on my own bunk most of the time.”

The King gingerly held one of his mess cans as Peter Marlowe vomited.

“Better keep it handy. Sorry. My God,” Peter Marlowe said aghast as he remembered. “The money! Did I get it?”

“No. You passed out this side of the wire.”

“Oh God, I don’t think I could make it tonight.”

“No sweat, Peter. Soon as you feel better. No point in taking chances.”

“It won’t harm the deal?”

“No. Don’t worry about that.”

Peter Marlowe was sick again, and when he had recovered he looked terrible. “Funny,” he said, holding back a retch. “Had a weird dream. Dreamed I had a terrific row with Mac and the colonel and old Father Donovan. My God, I’m glad it was a dream.” He forced himself up on his good arm, wavered and lay back. “Help me up, will you?”

“Take your time. It’s only just after lights-out.”

“Mate!”

The King leaped to the window and stared out into the darkness. He saw the faint outline of the little weasel man crouching against the wall.

“’Urry,” the man whispered. “I got the stone ’ere.”

“You’ll have to wait,” the King said. “I can’t give you the money for two days.”

“Why you rotten bastard — ”

“Listen, you son of a bitch,” the King said. “If you want to wait for two days, great! You don’t, go to hell!”

“All right, two days.” The man swore obscenely and disappeared.

The King heard his feet patter away, and in a moment he heard other feet hot in pursuit. Then silence, broken only by the hum of the crickets.

“What was that all about?” Peter Marlowe said.

“Nothing,” replied the King, wondering if the man had escaped. But he knew that whatever happened, he would get the diamond. So long as he got the money.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

For two days Peter Marlowe battled with death. But he had the will to live. And he lived.

“Peter!” Mac gently shook him awake.

“Yes, Mac?”

“It’s time.”

Mac helped Peter Marlowe off the bunk and together they maneuvered down the steps, youth leaning on age, and made their way in the darkness to the bungalow.

Steven was already there and waiting. Peter Marlowe lay on Larkin’s bunk and submitted again to the needle stab. He had to bite hard not to shout; Steven was gentle, but the needle was blunt.

“There,” Steven said. “Now let’s take your temperature.” He put the thermometer in Peter Marlowe’s mouth, then took off the bandages and looked at the wound. The swelling was down and the green and purple hue was gone and hard clean scabs covered the wound. Steven spread more sulfa powder on the wound.

“Very good.” Steven was pleased with the success of the treatment, but not pleased with today at all. That dirty Sergeant Flaherty, he thought, nasty man. He knows I hate doing it, but he picks me every time. “Rotten,” he said out loud.

“What?” Mac and Larkin and Peter Marlowe were concerned.

“Isn’t it all right?” Peter Marlowe asked.

“Oh yes, dear. I was talking about something else. Now let’s see the temperature.” Steven took the thermometer out and smiled at Peter Marlowe, reading the measure. “Normal. At least, just a point over normal but that doesn’t matter. You’re lucky, very lucky.” He held up the empty antitoxin bottle. “I just gave you the last of it.”

Steven took his pulse. “Very good.” He looked up at Mac. “Do you have a towel?”

Mac gave it to him and Steven put cold water on it and put a compress on Peter Marlowe’s head. “I found these,” he said, giving him two aspirins. “They’ll help a little, dear. Now rest for a while.” He turned to Mac and got up and sighed and smoothed his sarong around his hips. “There’s nothing more for me to do. He’s very weak. You’ll have to give him some broth. And all the eggs you can get. And take care of him.” He turned back and looked at the gauntness of Peter Marlowe. “He must have lost fifteen pounds in the last two days and that’s dangerous at his weight, poor boy. He can’t weigh more than eight stone, which isn’t much for his size.”

“Er, we’d like to thank you, Steven,” Larkin said gruffly. “We, er, appreciate all your work. You know.”

“Always glad to help,” said Steven brightly, fixing a lock of hair that curled on his forehead.

Mac glanced at Larkin. “If there’s anything, er, Steven, we can do — just say the word.”

“That’s very kind. You’re both so — kind,” he said delicately, admiring the colonel, increasing their embarrassment, playing with the Saint Christopher locket that he wore around his neck. “If you could just do my borehole detail for me tomorrow, well, I’d do anything. Just anything. I can’t stand those smelly cockroaches. Disgusting,” he gushed. “Would you?”

“All right, Steven,” Larkin said sourly.

“We’ll see you at dawn then,” Mac grunted and moved back a little, out of the way of Steven’s attempted caress. Larkin was not quick enough and Steven put his hand on the colonel’s waist and patted it affectionately. “Night, dears. Oh, you’re both so kind to Steven.”

When he’d gone, Larkin glared at Mac. “You say anything and I’ll pin your ears back.”

Mac chuckled. “Eh, mon, dinna fash yoursel’. But you certainly gave the impression you enjoyed it.” He bent down to Peter Marlowe, who had been watching. “Eh, Peter?”

“I think you’re both ready for a piece,” said Peter Marlowe, smiling faintly. “He’s well paid, but you two go offering your services, tempting him. But what he could see in you two old farts, damned if I know.”

Mac grinned at Larkin. “Ah, the wee laddie’s better than somewhat. Now he can pull his weight for a change. And not, how is it the King puts it — ah yes — and not ‘goof off.’”

“Is it two or three days since the first injection?” Peter Marlowe said.

“Two days.”

Two days? Feels more like two years, Peter Marlowe thought. But tomorrow I’ll be strong enough to get the money.

That night, after the last roll call, Father Donovan came to play bridge with them. When Peter Marlowe told them about the nightmare quarrel he had had with them, they all laughed.

“Eh, laddie,” Mac said, “your mind can play strange tricks with you when there’s fever on you.”

“Yes,” Father Donovan said. Then he smiled at Peter. “I’m glad your arm is healed, Peter.”

Peter Marlowe smiled back. “There’s not much that goes on that you don’t know about, is there?”

“There’s not much that goes on that He doesn’t know about.” Donovan was very sure and completely peaceful. “We’re in good hands.” Then he chuckled and added, “Even you three!”

“Well, that’s something,” Mac said, “though I think the colonel is far beyond the pale!”

After the game, and after Donovan had left, Mac nodded to Larkin. “You keep a lookout. We’ll hear the news, then call it a night.”

Larkin watched the road and Peter Marlowe sat on the veranda and tried to keep his eyes alert. Two days. Needles in his arm and now he was cured and had his arm back. Strange days, dream days, and now it was all right.

The news was enormously good, and they all went back to their beds. Their sleep was dreamless and contented.

At dawn, Mac went to the chicken run and found three eggs. He brought them back and made an omelet and filled it with a little rice he had saved from yesterday and perfumed it with a sliver of garlic.

Then he carried it up to Peter Marlowe’s hut, and woke him and watched while he ate it all.

Suddenly Spence rushed into the hut.

“Hey, chaps!” he shouted. “There’s some mail in the camp!”

Mac’s stomach turned over. Oh God, let there be one for me.

But there was no letter for Mac.

In all there were forty-three letters among the ten thousand. The Japanese had given mail to the camp twice in three years. A few letters. And on three occasions the men had been allowed to write a post card of twenty-five words. But whether these cards were ever delivered they did not know.

Larkin was one who got a letter. The first he had ever received.

His letter was dated April 2, 1945. Four months old. The age of the other letters varied from three weeks to more than two years.

Larkin read and reread the letter. Then he read it to Mac, Peter Marlowe and the King, sitting on the veranda of the bungalow.

Darling, This letter is number 205, it began. I am well and Jeannie is well and Mother is staying with us and we live just where we’ve always lived. We have had no news of you since your letter dated February 1, 1942, posted from Singapore. But even so we know you’re well and happy, and we’re praying for your safe return.

I’ve started each letter off the same, so if you’ve read the above before, forgive me. But it’s difficult, not knowing if this one will reach you, if any of them have. I love you. I need you. And I miss you more than I can bear at times.

Today I feel sad, I don’t know why, but I am. I don’t want to be depressed and I wanted to tell you all manner of wonderful things.

Perhaps I’m sad because of Mrs. Gurble. She got a post card yesterday and I didn’t. I’m just selfish I suppose. But that’s me. Anyway, be sure to tell Vic Gurble that his wife, Sarah, got a post card dated January 6, 1943. She is well and his son is bonny. Sarah is so happy that she is back in contact again. Oh yes, and the Regiment girls are all right. Timsen’s mother is just grand. And don’t forget to remember me to Tom Masters. I saw his wife last night. She’s well too and making a lot of money for him. She’s in a new business. Oh yes and I saw Elizabeth Ford, Mary Vickers…

Larkin looked up from the letter. “She mentions maybe a dozen wives. But the men’re dead. All of ’em. The only man who’s alive is Timsen.”

“Read on, laddie,” said Mac quickly, achingly aware of the agony that was written in Larkin’s eyes.

Today’s hot, Larkin continued, and I’m sitting on the veranda and Jeannie’s playing in the garden and I think this weekend I’ll go up to the cottage in the Blue Mountains.

I’d write about the news, but that’s not allowed.

Oh God, how do you write into a vacuum? How do I know? Where are you, my love, for the love of Christ, where are you? I won’t write any more. I’ll just finish the letter here and won’t send it… oh my love, I pray for you — pray for me. Please pray for me, pray for me —

After a pause, Larkin said, “There’s no signature and it’s — the address is in my mother’s handwriting. Well, what do you think of that?”

“You know how it is with a lass,” Mac said. “She probably just put it in a drawer and then your mother found it and air-posted it off, without reading it, without asking her. You know how mothers are. More than likely Betty forgot all about it and the next day she wrote another letter when she felt better.”

“What does she mean by ‘Pray for me’?” Larkin asked. “She knows I do, every day. What’s going on? For Christ’s sake, is she sick or something?”

“There’s no need to worry, Colonel,” Peter Marlowe said.

“What the hell do you know about things?” Larkin flared abruptly. “How the hell can’t I worry!”

“Well, at least you know she’s all right, and your daughter’s all right,” Mac slammed back, beside himself with longing. “Bless your luck that far! We’ve not had a letter! None of us! You’re lucky!” And he stamped out furiously.

“I’m sorry, Mac.” Larkin ran after him and pulled him back. “I’m sorry, it’s just that, after such a time — ”

“Eh, laddie, it wasn’t anything you said. It was just me. It’s me who should apologize. I was sick with jealousy. I think I hate these letters.”

“You can say that again,” the King said. “’Nough to drive you crazy. Guys that get ’em go crazy, guys that don’t go crazy. Nothing but trouble.”

It was dusk. Just after chow. The whole American hut was assembled.

Kurt spat on the floor and put the tray down.

“Here’s nine. I kept one. My ten percent.” He spat again and left.

They all looked at the tray.

“I think I’m going to be sick again,” Peter Marlowe said.

“Don’t blame you,” the King agreed.

“I don’t know about that.” Max cleared his throat. “They look just like rabbit legs. Small, sure, but still rabbit legs.”

“You want to try one?” the King asked.

“Hell no. I just said they looked like them. I can have an opinion, can’t I?”

“My ruddy oath,” Timsen said. “Never thought we’d really sell any.”

“If I didn’t know — ” Tex stopped. “I’m so hungry. An’ I ain’t seen that much meat since we got that dog — ”

“What dog?” Max asked suspiciously.

“Oh hell, it was, er, years ago,” Tex said. “Back in, er, ’43.”

“Oh.”

“Goddam!” said the King, still fascinated by the tray. “It looks all right.” He bent forward and sniffed the meat, but did not put his nose too close. “It smells all right…”

“But it ain’t,” Byron Jones III interrupted acidly. “It’s rat meat.”

The King pulled his head back. “What the hell you say that for, you son of a bitch!” he said through the laughter.

“Well, it is rat, for Chrissake. The way you were going on, it was enough to make a guy hungry!”

Peter Marlowe carefully picked up a leg and laid it on a banana leaf. “This I’ve got to have,” he said, and returned to his hut. He went to his bunk and whispered to Ewart, “Maybe we’ll eat very well tonight.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Something special.” Peter Marlowe knew that Drinkwater was overhearing them; furtively he put the banana leaf on his shelf and said to Ewart, “I’ll be back in a mo’.” Half an hour later he came back and the banana leaf was gone and so was Drinkwater. “Did you go out?” Peter Marlowe asked Ewart.

“Only for a moment. Drinkwater wanted me to get some water for him. Said he was feeling proper poorly.” And then Peter Marlowe had hysterics and everyone in the hut thought he had gone off his head. Only when Mike shook him could he stop laughing. “Sorry, just a private joke.”

When Drinkwater came back Peter Marlowe pretended to be mortally concerned about the loss of some food, and Drinkwater was concerned too and said, licking his chops, “What a dirty trick,” and Peter Marlowe’s hysterics began again.

At length Peter Marlowe groped into his bunk and lay back, exhausted by the laughter. And quickly this exhaustion added to the exhaustion of the last two days. He fell asleep, and in his dreams Drinkwater was eating mountains of little haunches and he, Peter Marlowe, was there watching all the time, and Drinkwater kept saying, “What’s the matter? They’re delicious, delicious…”

Ewart shook him awake. “There’s an American outside, Peter. Wants to talk to you.”

Peter Marlowe still felt weak and nauseated, but he got off the bed. “Where’s Drinkwater?”

“I don’t know. He took off after you had the fit.”

“Oh.” Peter Marlowe laughed again. “I was afraid it might have been a dream.”

“What?” Ewart studied him.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t know what’s getting into you, Peter. You’ve been acting very strange lately.”

Tex was waiting for Peter Marlowe in the lee of the hut. “Pete,” he whispered. “The King sent me. You’re overdue.”

“Oh blast! Sorry, I dropped off.”

“Yeah, that’s what he figured. ‘Better get with it,’ he told me to tell you.” Tex frowned. “You all right?”

“Yes. Still a bit weak. I’ll be all right.”

Tex nodded, then hurried away. Peter Marlowe rubbed his face and then walked down the steps to the asphalt road and stood under the shower, his body drinking strength from the cold. Then he filled his bottle and walked heavily to the latrines. He chose a hole at the bottom of the slope as near as possible to the wire.

There was only a thread of a moon. He waited until the latrine area was momentarily empty, then he slipped across the naked ground and under the wire and into the jungle. He kept low as he skirted the wire, avoiding the sentry that he knew was meandering the path between jungle and fence. It took him an hour to find the spot where he had hidden the money. He sat down and took the inches of notes and tied them around his thighs, and doubled his sarong around his waist. Now, instead of reaching the ground, the sarong was knee length, and the bulk of it helped to hide the untoward thickness of his legs.

He had to wait another hour just outside the latrine area before he could slip under the wire. He squatted down on the borehole in the darkness to catch his breath and wait until his heart was calmer. At length he picked up his bottle and left the latrine area.

“Hello, cobber,” Timsen said with a grin, coming out of the shadows. “Gorgeous night, ain’t it?”

“Yes,” Peter Marlowe said.

“Beaut of a night for a walk, right?”

“Oh?”

“Mind if I walks along with you?”

“No. Come along, Tim, I’m happy to have you. Then there won’t be any bloody hijackers. Right?”

“Right, mate. You’re a toff.”

“You’re not bad yourself, you old bastard.” Peter Marlowe slapped him on the back. “I never did thank you.”

“Think nothing of it, mate. My bloody oath,” Timsen chuckled, “you nearly had me fooled. I thought you was only going to take a pong.”

The King was grim when he saw Timsen, but at the same time he was not too grim, for the money was once more in his possession. He counted it and put it in the black box.

“Now all we need’s the ice.”

“Yus, mate.” Timsen cleared his throat. “If we catch the bushwhacker, before he comes ’ere or after he come ’ere, then I gets the price we agreed, right? If you buy the ring from him and we don’t catch him — then you’re the winner, right? Fair enough?”

“Sure,” the King said. “It’s a deal.”

“Good-oh! God help him if we catch him.” Timsen nodded to Peter Marlowe and walked out.

“Peter, take the bed,” the King said, sitting on the black box. “You look wrung out.”

“I thought I’d go on back.”

“Stick around. Might need someone I can trust.” The King was sweating, and the heat of the money from the black box seemed to be burning through the wood.

So Peter Marlowe lay on the bed, his heart still aching from the strain. He slept, but his mind was alert.

“Mate!”

The King jumped to the window. “Now?”

“’Urry.” The little man was vastly afraid and the white of his eyes caught the light as they darted back and forth. “C’mon ’urry.”

The King slammed the key into the lock and threw back the lid and took out the pile of ten thousand he had already counted and rushed back to the window. “Here. Ten grand. I’ve counted it. Where’s the diamond?”

“When I gets the money.”

“When I’ve got the diamond,” the King said, still holding tight to the notes.

The little man stared up belligerently and then opened his fist. The King stared at the diamond ring, examining it, not making a move to take it. Got to make sure, he told himself urgently. Got to make sure. Yes, it’s the one. I think it’s the one.

“Go on, mate,” grated the little man. “Take it!”

The King let go of the notes only when he had a firm grip on the ring, and the little man darted away. The King held his breath and bent down beside the light and examined the ring carefully.

“We’ve done it, Peter buddy,” he whispered, elated. “We’ve done it. We got the diamond and we’ve got the money.”

The stress of the last few days closing in on him, the King opened a little sack of coffee beans and made as though to bury the diamond deep within. Instead, he palmed the ring neatly. Even Peter Marlowe, the closest man to him, was fooled. As soon as he had locked the box he was overcome with a fit of coughing. No one saw him transfer the ring to his mouth. He felt around for the cup of cold coffee and drank it down, swallowing the stone. Now the diamond was safe. Very safe.

He sat on a chair waiting for the tension to pass. Oh yes, he told himself exultantly. You’ve done it.

A danger whistle cut the stillness.

Max slipped through the doorway. “Cops,” he said, and quickly joined the game of poker.

“Goddam!” The King forced his legs to move and he grabbed the stacks of money. He threw an inch at Peter Marlowe, stuffed an inch into his own pockets, and raced down the room to the poker table and gave each man a stack which they stuffed in their pockets. Then he dealt out the rest on the table and grabbed another seat and joined the game.

“Come on, for Chrissake, deal,” the King said.

“All right. All right,” Max said. “Five card.” He pushed out a hundred dollars. “Hundred to play.”

“Make it two,” Tex said, beaming.

“I’m in!”

They were all in and gloating and happy and Max dealt the first two cards and dealt himself an ace up. “I bet four hundred!”

“Your four and up four,” said Tex, who had a deuce face up and nothing in the hole.

“I’m in,” said the King, and then he looked up and Grey was standing at the door. Between Brough and Yoshima. And behind Yoshima were Shagata and another guard.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“Stand by your beds,” Brough ordered, his face stark and drawn.

The King shot a murderous glance at Max, who was the night’s lookout. Max had failed in his job. He had said “Cops” and not noticed the Japanese. If he had said “Japs” a different plan would have been used.

Peter Marlowe tried to get to his feet. Standing made his nausea worse, so he stumbled to the King’s table and leaned against it.

Yoshima was looking down at the money on the table. Brough had already seen it and winced. Grey had noticed it and his pulse had quickened.

“Where did this money come from?” Yoshima said.

There was a vast silence.

Then Yoshima shouted, “Where did this money come from?”

The King was dying inside. He had seen Shagata, and knew Shagata was nervous, and the King knew he was within an ace of Utram Road. “It’s gambling money, sir.”

Yoshima walked the length of the hut until he was in front of the King. “None from black market?” he asked.

“No, sir,” he said, forcing a smile.

Peter Marlowe felt the vomit rising. He reeled heavily and almost fell, and could not keep his eyes focused. “Can — I sit — please?” he said.

Yoshima looked down the room and noticed the armband. “What is an English officer doing here?” He was surprised, for his informants had told him there was very little fraternization with the Americans.

“I — was — just visiting…” But Peter Marlowe could not continue. “Excuse — ” he lurched to the window and vomited.

“What’s the matter with him?” Yoshima asked.

“I think — it’s fever, sir.”

“You,” Yoshima said to Tex, “sit him on that chair.”

“Yes, sir,” Tex said.

Yoshima looked back at the King. “How is there so much money without black market?” he said silkily.

The King was conscious of the eyes upon him, and conscious of the appalling silence and conscious of the diamond inside him, and conscious of Shagata in the doorway. He cleared his throat. “Just, we’ve — saved our dough for gambling!”

Yoshima’s hand cracked against the King’s face, rocking him backward. “Liar!”

The blow did not hurt, really, but at the same time it seemed to be a death smash. My God, the King told himself, I’m dead. My luck’s run out.

“Captain Yoshima.” Brough began to walk up the length of the hut. He knew there was no use in trying to interfere — perhaps he would make it worse — but he had to try.

“Shut up!” Yoshima said. “The man lies. Everyone knows. Stinking Yank!”

Yoshima turned his back on Brough and looked up at the King. “Give me your water bottle!”

In a dream, the King got his bottle off the shelf and handed it to Yoshima. The Japanese poured the water out, shook the bottle and peered into it. Then he tossed it on the floor and moved to Tex. “Give me your water bottle.”

Peter Marlowe’s stomach heaved again. What about the water bottles? his brain screamed. Are Mac and Larkin being searched? And what happens if Yoshima asks for mine? He gagged and staggered to the window.

Yoshima worked his way around the hut, examining every bottle. At last he stood in front of Peter Marlowe.

“Your water bottle.”

“I — ” began Peter Marlowe, and again nausea overwhelmed him and buckled his knees and he was beyond speech.

Yoshima turned to Shagata and said something furiously in Japanese at him.

Shagata said, “Hai.”

“You!” Yoshima pointed at Grey. “Go with this man and the guard and get the water bottle.”

“Very well.”

“Excuse me, sir,” the King said quickly. “His water bottle’s here.”

The King reached under his bed and pulled out a bottle, his spare, kept in secret against a rainy day.

Yoshima took it. It was very heavy. Heavy enough to contain a radio or part of a radio. He pulled out the cork and upended it. A stream of dry rice grains poured out. And kept pouring until it was empty and light. No radio inside.

Yoshima hurled the bottle away. “Where is the radio?” he shouted.

“There isn’t one — ” began Brough, hoping to God Yoshima wouldn’t ask him why the Englishman, who was visiting, should put his water bottle under a bed.

“Shut up.”

Yoshima and the guards searched the hut, making sure that there were no more water bottles, and then Yoshima went through the water bottles again.

“Where is the water bottle radio?” he shouted. “I know it is here. That one of you has it! Where is it?”

“There’s no radio here,” Brough repeated. “If you like we’ll strip the whole hut for you.”

Yoshima knew that somehow his information was wrong. This time he had not been told the hiding place, only that it was contained in a water bottle, or water bottles, and tonight one of the men who owned it was, at this moment, in the American hut. His eyes looked at each man. Who? Oh, he could certainly march them all up to the guardhouse, but that wouldn’t help — not without the radio. The General didn’t like failures. And without the radio —

So this time he had failed. He turned to Grey. “You will inform the Camp Commandant that all water bottles are confiscated. They are to be taken up to the guardhouse tonight!”

“Yes, sir,” Grey said. His whole face seemed eyes.

Yoshima realized that by the time the water bottles were taken to the guardhouse the one or ones containing the radio would be buried or hidden. But that didn’t matter — it would make the search easier, for the hiding place would have to be changed, and in the changing eyes would be watching. Who would have thought a radio could be put inside a water bottle?

“Yankee pigs,” he snarled. “You think you’re so clever. So strong. So big. Well, remember. If this war lasts a hundred years we will beat you. Even if you beat the Germans. We can fight on alone. You will never beat us, never. You may kill many of us, but we will kill many more of you. You will never conquer us. Because we are patient and not afraid to die. Even if it takes two hundred years — eventually we will destroy you.”

Then he stormed out.

Brough turned on the King. “You’re supposed to be on the ball and you let the Jap bastard and guards walk into the hut, with all that loot spread around. You need your head examined.”

“Yes, sir. I sure as hell do.”

“And another thing. Where’s the diamond?”

“What diamond, sir?”

Brough sat down. “Colonel Smedly-Taylor called me in and said that Captain Grey had information that you’ve got a diamond ring you’re not supposed to have. You — and Flight Lieutenant Marlowe. Of course, any searching to be done, I’ve got to be present. And I’ve no objection to Captain Grey looking — so long as I’m here. We were just about to high-tail it over here when Yoshima busted in with his guards and started yakking about he was going to search this hut — one of you was supposed to have a radio in a water bottle — how crazy can you get? Grey and I were told to go with him.” Now that the search was over, he thanked God there was no water-bottled radio here, and he knew also that Peter Marlowe and the King were part of the radio detail. Why else would the King pretend that an American water bottle belonged to the Englishman?

“All right,” Brough said to the King, “take your clothes off. You’re going to be searched. And your bunk and your black box.” He turned around. “The rest of you guys keep it quiet and get on with your game.” He glanced back at the King. “Unless you want to hand over the diamond.”

“What diamond, sir?”

As the King began undressing, Brough went over to Peter Marlowe. “Anything I can get you, Pete?” he asked.

“Just some water.”

“Tex,” Brough ordered, “get some water.” Then to Peter Marlowe: “You look terrible, what is it?”

“Just — fever — feel rough.” Peter Marlowe lay back on Tex’s bed and forced a weak smile. “That bloody Jap frightened me to death.”

“Me too.”

Grey went through the King’s clothes and the black box and his shelves and the sack of beans, and the men were astonished when the search failed to uncover the diamond.

“Marlowe!” Grey stood in front of him.

Peter Marlowe’s eyes were bloodshot, and he could hardly see. “Yes?”

“I want to search you.”

“Listen, Grey,” Brough said. “You’re within your rights to search here if I’m here. But you got no authority — ”

“It’s all right,” Peter Marlowe said. “I don’t mind. If I — don’t — he’ll only — think … Give me a hand, will you?”

Peter Marlowe took off his sarong and threw it and the inch of money onto a bed.

Grey went through the hems carefully. Angrily, he threw the sarong back. “Where did you get this money?”

“Gambling,” Peter Marlowe said, retrieving his sarong.

“You,” Grey barked at the King. “What about this?” He held up another inch of notes.

“Gambling, sir,” the King said innocently, as he dressed, and Brough hid a smile.

“Where’s the diamond?”

“What diamond? Sir.”

Brough got up and moved down to the poker table. “Looks as though there’s no diamond.”

“Then where did all this money come from?”

“The man says that it’s gambling money. There’s no law against gambling. Of course I don’t approve of gambling either,” he added with a thin smile, his eyes on the King.

“You know that’s not possible!” Grey said.

“It’s not probable, if that’s what you mean,” interrupted Brough. He was sorry for Grey — with his death-bright eyes, his mouth twitching and his hands palsied — sorry for him. “You wanted to search here, and you’ve searched, and there’s no diamond.”

He stopped as Peter Marlowe began to reel towards the door. The King caught him just before he fell.

“Here, I’ll help you,” the King said. “I’d better take him to his hut.”

“You stay here,” said Brough. “Grey, maybe you’d give him a hand.”

“He can drop dead as far as I’m concerned.” Grey’s eyes went to the King. “You too! But not before I’ve caught you. And I will.”

“When you do, I’ll throw the book at him.” Brough glanced at the King. “Right?”

“Yes. Sir.”

Brough glanced back at Grey. “But until you do — or he disobeys my orders — there’s nothing to be done.”

“Then order him to stop black-marketing,” Grey said.

Brough kept his temper. “Anything for a peaceful life,” he said, and felt his men’s contempt and smiled inside. Sons of bitches. “You,” he said to the King. “You’re ordered to stop black-marketing. As I understand blackmarketing it means to sell food and goods, anything, to your own people — for profit. You’re not to sell anything for profit.”

“Dealing in contraband, that’s black-marketing.”

“Captain Grey, selling for profit or even stealing from the enemy is not black-marketing. There’s no harm in a little trading.”

“But it’s against orders!”

“Jap orders! And I don’t acknowledge enemy orders. And they are the enemy.” Brough wanted to end this nonsense. “No black-marketing. It’s ordered.”

“You Americans stick together — I’ll say that for you.”

“Now don’t you start. I’ve had enough for one night from Yoshima. No one’s black-marketing here or breaking any laws that are laws — so far as I know. Now that’s the end of it. I catch anyone stealing anything or selling food for profit or drugs for profit I’ll break his arm off myself and stuff it down his throat. And I’m senior American officer and these are my men and that’s what I say. Understand?”

Grey stared at Brough and promised himself that he would watch him too. Rotten people, rotten officers. He turned and stalked out of the hut.

“Help Peter back to his bunk, Tex,” said Brough.

“Sure, Don.”

Tex lifted him in his arms and grinned at Brough. “Like a baby, sir,” he said and went out.

Brough stared at the money on the poker table. “Yep,” he said, nodding, as though to himself, “gambling’s no good. No goddam good at all.” He looked up at the King and said sweetly, “I don’t approve of gambling, do you?”

Watch yourself, the King told himself, Brough’s got that mean officer look about him. Why is it only son of a bitch officers get that look and why is it you always know it — and can always smell the danger twenty feet away?

“Well,” the King said, offering Brough a cigarette and holding the light for him, “I guess it depends on how you look at it.”

“Thanks. Nothing like a tailor-made.” Once more Brough’s eyes locked on the King’s. “And how do you look at it, Corporal?”

“If I’m winning, it looks good. If I’m losing, not so good,” and added under his breath, “You son of a bitch, what the hell’s on your mind?”

Brough grunted and looked at the stack of notes in front of the place where the King had been seated. Nodding thoughtfully, he thumbed through the notes and held them in his hand. All of them. His eyes saw the large piles in front of every place. “Looks like everybody’s winning in this school,” he said reflectively to no one in particular.

The King didn’t answer.

“Looks like you could afford a contribution.”

“Huh?”

“Yes, ‘huh,’ goddammit!” Brough held up the notes. “About this much. To go into the goddam pool. Officers and enlisted men alike.”

The King moaned. Best part of four hundred dollars. “Jesus, Don…”

“Gambling’s a bad habit. Like swearing, goddammit. You play cards, you might just lose the money, then where’d you be? A contribution’d save your soul for better things.”

Barter, you fool, the King told himself. Settle for half.

“Gee, I’d be happy to — ”

“Good.” Brough turned to Max. “You too, Max.”

“But sir — ” the King began heatedly.

“You’ve had your say.”

Max tried not to look at the King, and Brough said, “That’s right, Max. You look at him. Good man. He’s made a contribution, why the hell can’t you?”

Brough took three-fourths of the notes from each stack and counted the money quickly. In front of them. The King had to sit and watch.

“That makes ten bucks a man a week for six weeks,” said Brough. “Thursday’s payday. Oh yeah. Max! Collect all water bottles and take them up to the guardhouse. Right now!” He stuffed the money into his pocket, then walked to the door. At the door he had a sudden thought. He took the notes out once more and peeled off a single five-dollar bill. Looking at the King, he tossed it into the center of the table.

“Burying money.” His smile was angelic. “’Night, you guys.”

Throughout the camp, the collection of water bottles was under way.

Mac and Larkin and Peter Marlowe were in the bungalow. On the bed, beside Peter Marlowe, were their water bottles.

“We could take the wireless out of them and drop the cases down a borehole,” Mac said. “Those bloody bottles are going to be difficult to hide now.”

“We could drop ’em as they are down a borehole,” Larkin said.

“You don’t really mean that, do you, Colonel?” asked Peter Marlowe.

“No, cobber. But I said it, an’ we should all decide what to do.”

Mac picked up one of the bottles. “Perhaps they’ll return the other ones in a day or so. We canna hide the guts of the bottles any better than they’re hid now.” He looked up and said venomously, “But who’s the bastard who knows?”

They stared at the water bottles.

“Isn’t it about time to listen for the news?” Peter Marlowe said.

“Ay laddie,” Mac said and looked at Larkin.

“I agree,” he said.

The King was still awake when Timsen peered through the window. “Cobber?”

“Yeah?”

Timsen held up a bundle of notes. “We got the ten you paid.”

The King sighed and he opened his black box and paid Timsen what was owed.

“Thanks, cobber.” Timsen chuckled. “Hear you had a set-to with Grey and Yoshima.”

“So?”

“Nothin’—just a pity Grey didn’t find the stone. I wouldn’t be in your shoes — or Pete’s for that. Oh dear, no. Very dangerous, right?”

“Go to hell, Timsen.”

Timsen laughed. “Just a friendly warning, right? Oh, yus. The first shipment of netting’s under the hut, enough for a hundred or so cages.” He peeled off one hundred and twenty dollars. “I sold the first shipment at thirty a leg. Here’s your cut — fifty-fifty.”

“Who got ’em?”

Timsen winked. “Just friends of mine. ’Night, cobber.”

The King relaxed in his bed and rechecked to see that the net was once more tight under his mattress. He was alert for danger. He knew that he could not go to the village for two days, and between then and now, many eyes would be watching and waiting. That night his sleep was fitful, and the next day he stayed in the hut surrounded by guards.

After lunch there was a sudden search of the bungalow area. Three times the guards went through the little rooms before the search was called off.

At nightfall Mac groped his way to the latrine area and pulled up the three water bottles that were dangling on a string in one of the boreholes. He cleaned them and brought them back to the room and connected them. He, Larkin and Peter Marlowe listened to the news, memorizing it. Afterwards, he did not take the bottles back to their cache, for though he had been cautious, he knew he had been observed.

The three of them decided not to hide the bottles any more. They knew, without despair, that very soon they would be caught.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The King hurried through the jungle. As he approached the camp he became more careful until he was in a position just opposite the American hut. He lay on the ground and yawned contentedly, waiting for the moment to slip across the path and under the wire and back to the safety of the hut. The balance of the money bulked his pockets.

He had gone alone to the village. Peter Marlowe was not fit enough to go with him. He had met Cheng San and given him the diamond. Then they had had a feast and he had gone to Kasseh and she had welcomed him.

Dawn was painting the new day as the King sneaked under the wire and into the hut. It was only when he got in bed that he noticed that his black box was missing.

“Why, you stupid sons of bitches!” he screamed. “Can’t you be trusted to do a goddam thing!”

“Goddammit to hell,” Max said. “It was there a few hours ago. I got up to go to the latrine.”

“Where the hell is it now?”

But none of the men had seen or heard anything.

“Get Samson and Brant,” the King said to Max.

“Jesus,” Max said, “it’s a little early — ”

“I said get ’em!”

In half an hour Colonel Samson arrived, wet with fear. “What’s the matter? You know I mustn’t be seen here.”

“Some son of a bitch has stolen my box. You can help find out who did it.”

“How can I — ”

“I don’t care how,” the King interrupted. “Just keep your ears open around the officers. There’s no more dough for you until I know who’s done it.”

“But Corporal, I had nothing to do with it.”

“As soon as I know, the weekly pay-off’ll start again. Now beat it.”

A few minutes later Major Brant arrived and got the same treatment. As soon as he left, the King fixed himself some breakfast while the others in the hut were scouring the camp. He had just finished eating when Peter Marlowe came in. The King told him about the theft of the black box.

“That’s a bad bit of luck,” Peter Marlowe said.

The King nodded, then winked. “It doesn’t matter. I got the rest of the dough from Cheng San — so we’ve plenty. I just thought it was about time to bear down a little. The guys got careless — and it’s a matter of principle.” He handed him a small pile of notes. “Here’s your cut from the diamond.”

Peter Marlowe wanted the money badly. But he shook his head. “You keep it. I owe you much more than I can ever pay you. And there’s the money you put out for the medicine.”

“All right, Peter. But we’re still partners.”

Peter Marlowe smiled. “Good.”

The trapdoor opened and Kurt climbed up into the room.

“Seventy so far,” he said.

“Huh?” the King said.

“It’s B Day.”

“Goddam,” the King said. “I’d forgotten all about it.”

“Just as well I didn’t, ain’t it? I’ll butcher another ten in a few days. No need in feeding the males. There’s five or six that’re big enough!”

The King felt sick, but he said, “All right. I’ll tell Timsen.”

When Kurt had gone Peter Marlowe said, “I don’t think I’ll come around for a day or so.”

“Huh?”

“I think it’s better. We can’t hide the wireless any more. We’ve decided, the three of us, to stay around the room.”

“You want to commit suicide? Get rid of the goddam thing if you figure you’re spotted. Then if you’re questioned — deny it.”

“We thought about that, but ours is the only wireless left — so we want to keep it going as long as we can. With a little luck we won’t be caught.”

“You better look after number one, buddy.”

Peter Marlowe smiled. “Yes, I know. That’s why I’m not coming here for a while. Don’t want to drag you into anything.”

“What’re you going to do if Yoshima starts heading your way?”

“Make a run for it.”

“Run where, for God’s sake?”

“Better that than just sit.”

Dino, the guard of the moment, stuck his head through the doorway. “Excuse me, but Timsen’s heading this way.”

“Okay,” the King said. “I’ll see him.” He turned back to Peter Marlowe. “It’s your neck, Peter. My advice is dump it.”

“Wish we could, but we can’t.”

The King knew that there was nothing he could do.

“Hi, cobber,” Timsen said as he came in, his face taut with anger. “Heard you had a bad bit of luck, right?”

“I need a new set of watchdogs, that’s for sure.”

“You and me both,” Timsen said furiously. “The bushwhackers dumped your black box under my bloody hut. My hut!”

“What?”

“That’s right. It’s there, under my hut, clean as a whistle. Bloody bastards, that’s the truth. No Aussie’d steal it and dump it under my hut. No sir. Got to be a Pommy or a Yank.”

“Like who?”

“I don’t know. All I know is they weren’t none of mine. You got my ruddy oath on that.”

“I’ll believe you. But you can spread the word — there’s a thousand bucks reward for the proof as to who hijacked my box.” The King reached under his pillow and deliberately pulled out the pile of notes that Cheng San had given him for the completion of the sale. He peeled off three hundred dollars and offered them to Timsen, who was staring wide-eyed at the vastness of the pile. “I need some sugar and coffee and oil — maybe a coconut or two. You fix it?”

Timsen took the money, unable to tear his eyes from the remaining pile of notes. “You completed the sale, right? My ruddy oath, never thought you’d do it. But you have, right?”

“Sure,” the King said nonchalantly. “I got enough to last a month or two.”

“A bloody year, mate,” Timsen said, overwhelmed. He turned and walked slowly to the door, then looked back with a sudden laugh. “A thousand, eh? I’d say that’d produce results, right?”

“Yeah,” the King said. “Just a question of time.”

Within the hour the news of the reward had spread through the camp. Eyes began to watch with renewed interest. Ears were tuned to catch the whispers on the wind. Memories were searched and re-searched. It was only a question of time before the thousand would be claimed.

That night when the King walked the camp he felt, as never before, the hate and the envy and the strength of the eyes. It made him feel good and better than good, for he knew that they all knew he had a vast pile of notes where they had none — that he, of all of them, truly had it made.

Samson sought him out, and Brant — and many others — and though he sickened at their fawning, it pleased him enormously that for the first time they did it in public. He passed the MP hut, and even Grey, standing outside, merely returned his neat salute and did not call him in to be searched. The King smiled to himself, knowing that even Grey was thinking about the stack of notes and the reward.

Nothing could touch the King now. The stack of notes were safety and life and power. And they were his alone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

When Yoshima came this time, he came stealthily but with great speed. He did not come as usual through the camp along the road, but he came with many guards through the wire, and when Peter Marlowe saw the first of the guards the bungalow was already surrounded and there was nowhere to run. Mac was still under his mosquito net, listening through the earphone, when Yoshima swooped into the bungalow.

Peter Marlow and Larkin and Mac were herded into one corner. Then Yoshima picked up the earphone and listened. The radio was still connected and he heard the tail end of the news broadcast.

“Very ingenious,” he said, putting the earphone down. “Your names, please?”

“I’m Colonel Larkin, this is Major McCoy, and this is Flight Lieutenant Marlowe.”

Yoshima smiled. “Would you like a cigarette?” he asked.

They each took a cigarette and accepted a light from Yoshima, who also lit one for himself. They all smoked in silence. Then Yoshima spoke.

“Disconnect the radio and come with me.”

Mac’s fingers trembled as he bent down. He looked around nervously as another Japanese officer appeared abruptly out of the night. The officer whispered urgently in Yoshima’s ear. For a moment Yoshima stared at him speechless, then he snapped at a guard, who posted himself in the doorway, and hurried away with the officer and all the other guards.

“What’s up?” said Larkin, his eyes on the guard, who covered them with a bayoneted rifle.

Mac stood near his bed, above the radio, his knees shaking, hardly breathing. When at length he could talk he said hoarsely, “I think I know. It’s the news. I didn’t have time to tell you. We’ve — we’ve a new type of bomb. An atom bomb. Yesterday at eight-fifteen in the morning one was dropped on Hiroshima. The whole city disappeared. They say the casualties’ll be in the hundreds of thousands — men, women and children!”

“Oh my God!”

Larkin sat suddenly, and the nervous guard cocked his rifle and half pressed the trigger as Mac shouted in Malay, “Wait, he’s just sitting!”

“All of you sit!” the guard shouted back in Malay, cursing them. When they had obeyed him, he said, “Thou art fools! Be more careful as thou move — for I am responsible that thou do not escape. Sit where thou art. And stay where thou art! I will shoot thee without question.”

So they sat and did not talk. In time they fell asleep, dozing restlessly under the harsh light of the electric lamp, slapping at the mosquitoes until dawn took away the mosquitoes.

At dawn the guard was changed. Still the three friends sat. Outside the bungalow nervous men walked the path, but they looked the other way until they were well clear of the condemned room.

The day was bleak under the scorching sky. It dragged long, longer than any day had ever dragged.

In the middle of the afternoon the three looked up as Grey approached the guard and saluted. In his hands were two mess cans.

“Can I give them this? Makan?” He opened the mess cans and showed the guard the food.

The guard shrugged and nodded.

Grey walked across the veranda and put the food down at the doorway, his eyes red-rimmed and piercing.

“Sorry it’s cold,” he said.

“Come to gloat, Grey, old man?” Peter Marlowe said with a mirthless smile.

“It’s no bloody satisfaction to me that they are going to put you away. I wanted to catch you breaking the laws — not see you caught for risking your life for the good of us all. Just your bloody luck you’ll go in a blaze of glory.”

“Peter,” Mac whispered, “distract the guard!”

Peter Marlowe got up and quickly moved into the doorway. He saluted the guard and asked permission to go to the latrine. The guard pointed to the ground just outside the bungalow. Peter Marlowe squatted in the dirt and relieved himself, hating to do it there in the open, but thankful that they were not going to be made to do it in the little room. As the guard watched Peter Marlowe, Mac whispered the news to Grey, who blanched. Grey got up and nodded to Peter Marlowe, who nodded back, and saluted the guard once more. The guard pointed at the fly-covered mess and told Grey to return with a bucket and clean it away.

Grey passed the news on to Smedly-Taylor, who whispered it to the others, and soon the whole of Changi knew — long before Grey had found a bucket and had cleaned away the mess and set another bucket on the ground for them to use.

The first of the great fears permeated the camp. The fear of reprisal.

At sundown the guard was changed again and the new guard was Shagata. Peter Marlowe tried to talk to him, but Shagata just motioned him back into the little room with his bayonet. “I cannot talk with thee. Thou hast been caught with a radio, which is forbidden. I will shoot even thee if any of thee attempt to escape. I do not wish to shoot thee.” And he moved back to the door.

“My bloody oath,” Larkin said. “I wish they’d just finish us off.”

Mac looked at Shagata. “Sir,” he said, motioning toward his bed, “I beg thee a favor. May I rest there, please? I slept little in the night.”

“Assuredly. Rest while thou hast time, old man.”

“I thank thee. Peace be upon thee.”

“And upon thee.”

Mac went over to his bed and lay down. He let his head rest on the pillow. “It’s still connected,” he said, keeping his voice level with difficulty. “There’s a music recital. I can hear it clearly.”

Larkin saw the earphone near Mac’s head and suddenly laughed. Then they were all laughing. Shagata jerked his rifle towards the men. “Stop it,” he shouted, frightened by the laughter.

“We beg thy pardon,” Peter Marlowe said. “It is just that we who are so near eternity find small things amusing.”

“Truly thou art near death — and also a fool to be caught breaking the law. But I hope that I may have the courage of laughter when my time arrives.” He threw a pack of cigarettes into the room. “Here,” he said. “I’m sorry that thou hast been caught.”

“No sorrier that I,” Peter Marlowe said.

He divided the cigarettes and glanced across at Mac. “What’s the re-cital?”

“Bach, laddie,” Mac said, hard put not to break out into hysterical laughter again. He moved his head nearer the earphone. “Shut up, will you, now. I’d like to enjoy the music.”

“Maybe we can take turns,” Larkin said. “Though anyone who can enjoy Bach is a bit of a wet.”

Peter Marlowe smoked his cigarette and said pleasantly to Shagata, “Thank thee for thy cigarettes.”

Flies were swarming the bucket and its rough lid on top. The afternoon rains came early and settled the stench, and then the sun came out and began to dry the wetness of Changi.

The King walked down the line of bungalows, conscious of the eyes on him. He stopped cautiously outside the condemned bungalow. “Tabe, Shagata-san,” he said. “Ichi-bon day, no? Can I talk to my ichi-bon friend?”

Shagata stared at him uncomprehendingly.

“He begs thy permission to talk to me,” Peter Marlowe said.

Shagata thought a moment, then nodded. “Because of the money I made from the sale, I will let thee talk.” He turned to Peter Marlowe. “If I have thy words that thou wilt not try to escape.”

“Thou hast our words.”

“Be quick. I will watch.” Shagata moved so that he could keep an eye on the road.

“There’s a rumor that guards are pouring into the guardhouse,” the King began nervously. “Goddamned if I’m going to sleep tonight. They’re just the sort of bastards who’d do it at night.” His lips felt dry and he had been watching the wire all day hoping for a sign from the guerrillas that would trigger the decision to make a break. But there had been none. “Listen.” He dropped his voice and told them about the plan. “When the killing starts, rush the guard and break out near our hut. I’ll try and cover for the three of you, but don’t hope for much.”

Then he got up and nodded to Shagata and walked away. Once in the American hut he called a council of war. He told them of his plan, but he didn’t tell them that only ten could go. They all discussed the plan and then decided to wait. “Can’t do more,” Brough said, echoing their fears. “If we tried now, we’d be shot to pieces.”

Only the very sick slept that night. Or those — the infinite few — who could commit themselves peacefully into the hands of God — or Fate. Dave Daven was sleeping.

“They brought Dave back from Utram Road this afternoon,” Grey had whispered as he brought them their evening meal.

“How is he?” Peter Marlowe asked.

“He only weighs seventy pounds.”

Daven slept that night and the next awesome day, and he died in his coma as Mac was listening to the news commentator: “The second atom bomb has destroyed Nagasaki. President Truman has issued a last ultimatum to Japan — surrender unconditionally or face total destruction.”

The next day the work parties went out and, unbelievably, returned. Rations continued to come into the camp and Samson weighed the rations in public and took extra down to the men who had put him in charge of the supplies. There were still two days’ rations in the store hut and cookhouses, and there was cooked food, and the flies swarmed and nothing had changed.

The bedbugs bit and the mosquitoes bit and the rats suckled their young. A few men died. Ward Six had three new patients.

Another day and another night and another day. Then Mac heard the holy words: “This is Calcutta calling. The Tokyo radio has just announced that the Japanese Government has surrendered unconditionally. Three years, two hundred and fifty days since the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor — the war is over. God save the King!”

Soon all of Changi knew. And the words became part of the earth and sky and walls and cells of Changi.

Still, for two more days and two more nights nothing changed. On the third day the Camp Commandant walked along the line of bungalows with Awata, the Japanese sergeant.

Peter Marlowe and Mac and Larkin saw the two men approaching, and they died a thousand times for each pace the men took. They knew at once that their time had come.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“Pity,” Mac said.

“Yes,” replied Larkin.

Peter Marlowe simply stared at Awata, frozen.

The Camp Commandant’s face was etched deep with fatigue, but even so, his shoulders were squared and he walked firmly. He was dressed neatly as always, the left arm of his shirt tucked neatly into his belt. On his feet were wooden slippers, and he wore his peaked cap, gray-green with years of tropic sweat. He walked up the steps of the veranda and hesitated in the doorway.

“Good morning,” he said hoarsely as they got up.

Awata snapped gutturally at the guard. The guard bowed and fell into place beside Awata. Another curt order and the two men shouldered their rifles and walked away.

“It’s over,” the Camp Commandant said throatily. “Bring the wireless and follow me.”

Numbly they did as he ordered, and they walked out of the room into the sun. And the sun and the air felt good. They followed the Camp Commandant up the street watched by the stunned eyes of Changi.

The six senior colonels were waiting in the Camp Commandant’s quarters. Brough was also there. They all saluted.

“Stand easy, please,” the Camp Commandant said, returning the salute. Then he turned to the three. “Sit down. We owe you a debt of gratitude.”

Eventually Larkin said, “It’s really over?”

“Yes. I’ve just seen the General.” The Camp Commandant looked around the speechless faces, collecting his thoughts. “At least I think it’s over,” he said. “Yoshima was with the General. I said — I said, ‘The war’s over.’ The General just stared at me when Yoshima translated. I waited, but he said nothing, so I said again, ‘The war’s over. I–I — I demand your surrender.’” The Camp Commandant rubbed his bald head. “I didn’t know what else to say. For a long time the General just looked at me. Yoshima said nothing, nothing at all.

“Then the General said and Yoshima interpreted, ‘Yes. The war is over. You will return to your post in the camp. I have ordered my guards to turn their backs on the camp and guard you against anyone who tries to force an entrance into the camp to hurt you. They are your guards now — for your protection — until I have further orders. You are still responsible for the camp’s discipline.’

“I didn’t know what to say, so I asked him to double the rations and give us medicines and he said, ‘Tomorrow the rations will be doubled. You will receive some medical supplies. Unfortunately, we do not have much. But you are responsible for discipline. My guards will protect you against those who wish to kill you.’ ‘Who are they?’ I asked. The General shrugged and said, ‘Your enemies. This interview is over.’”

“Goddam,” Brough said. “Maybe they want us to go out — to give them an excuse to shoot us.”

“We can’t let the men out,” Smedly-Taylor said, appalled, “they’d riot. But we must do something. Perhaps we should tell them to hand over their weapons — ”

The Camp Commandant held up his hand. “I think all we can do is wait. I’m — I think someone will arrive. And until they do, I think it’s best we carry on as usual. Oh yes. We are allowed to send a bathing party to the sea. Five men from each hut. In rotation. Oh my God,” he said, and it was a prayer, “I hope no one goes off half-cocked. There’s still no guarantee that the Japs here will obey the surrender. They may even go on fighting. All we can do is hope for the best — and prepare for the worst.”

He paused and looked at Larkin. “I think that the wireless should be left here.” He nodded at Smedly-Taylor. “You’ll arrange for permanent guards.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Of course,” the Camp Commandant said to Larkin, including Peter Marlowe and Mac, “you are still to operate it.”

“If you don’t mind, sir,” Mac said, “let someone else do that. I’ll repair it if anything goes wrong, but, well, I suppose you’ll want to have it connected twenty-four hours a day. We couldna do that — and somehow — well, speaking for mysel’, now that it’s in the open, let people share in the listening.”

“Take care of it, Colonel!” the Camp Commandant said.

“Yes, sir,” Smedly-Taylor said.

“Now we’d better discuss operations.”

Outside the Camp Commandant’s quarters a group of curious bystanders — including Max — began to collect, impatient to learn what was being said, and what had happened, and why the Japanese guard had been taken off the radio.

When Max could stand the strain no longer, he ran back to the American hut.

“Hey, you guys!” he managed to shout.

“The Japs’re coming?” The King was ready to jump through the window and head for the fence.

“No! Jesus,” Max said, out of breath, unable to go on.

“Well, what the hell’s up?” the King said.

“They’ve taken the Jap guards off Pete and the radio!” Max said getting his breath. “Then the Camp Commandant took Pete, Larkin and the Scot — and the radio — up to his quarters. There’s a big powwow going on there right now. All the senior colonels are there — even Brough’s there!”

“You sure?” the King asked.

“I tell you I saw it with my own eyes, but I don’t believe it either.”

In the violent silence, the King pulled out a cigarette and then Tex said what he had already realized.

“It’s over then. It’s really over. That’s what it’s gotta mean — if they’ve taken the guard off the radio!” Tex looked around. “Doesn’t it?”

Max sank heavily onto his bunk and wiped the sweat off his face. “That’s what I figure. If they’ve taken the guard away, that means that they’re gonna give up here — not go on fighting.” He peered at Tex helplessly. “Doesn’t it?”

But Tex was lost in his own private bewilderment. At length he said impassively, “It’s over.”

The King soberly puffed his cigarette. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” Then, suddenly, in the eerie silence, he was afraid.

Dino was automatically maiming flies. Byron Jones III absently moved a bishop. Miller took it and left his queen unguarded. Max was staring at his feet. Tex scratched.

“Well, I don’t feel different,” Dino said and stood up. “I gotta go take a piss,” and he went out.

“Don’t know whether I’m gonna laugh or cry,” Max said. “Just feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

“Don’t make sense,” Tex said aloud, but he was talking to himself and did not know that he had spoken. “Just don’t make sense.”

“Hey, Max,” the King said. “You want to fix some coffee?”

Automatically Max went out and filled the saucepan with water. When he came back he plugged in the hot plate and set the saucepan on it. He began to go back to his bunk, but he stopped in his tracks, turned around and stared at the King.

“What’s the matter, Max?” the King said uneasily.

Max just looked at him, his lips moving spastically and soundlessly.

“What the hell’re you staring at?”

Suddenly Max grabbed the saucepan and hurled it through the window.

“You out of your goddam mind?” the King exploded. “You got me all wet!”

“That’s tough,” Max shouted, his eyes bulging.

“I ought to beat the bejesus outta you! You gone crazy?”

“The war’s over. Get your own goddam coffee,” Max screamed, a touch of foam in the corners of his lips.

The King was on his feet and towering over Max, his face mottled with rage. “You get outta here before I put my foot through your face!”

“You do that, just do that, but don’t forget I’m a top sergeant! I’ll have you court-martialed!”

Max began to laugh hysterically, then abruptly the laughter turned to tears, shattering tears, and Max fled the hut, leaving a horrified silence in his wake.

“Crazy son of a bitch,” the King muttered. “Fix some water, will you, Tex,” and he sat down in his corner.

Tex was at the doorway, staring after Max. He looked around slowly. “I’m busy,” he said after an agony of indecision.

The King’s stomach turned over. He forced back his nausea and set his face.

“Yeah,” the King said with a grim smile. “So I notice.” He could feel the depths of the stillness. He took out his wallet and selected a note. “Here’s a ten-spot. Get unbusy and go get some water, will you.” He hid the ache in his bowels and watched Tex.

But Tex said nothing, just shuddered nervously and looked away.

“You still got to eat — till it’s really over,” the King said disdainfully, then looked around the hut. “Who wants some coffee?”

“I’d like some coffee,” Dino spoke up, unapologetically. He fetched the saucepan and filled it and set it to cook.

The King dropped the ten-dollar note on the table. Dino stared at it.

“No thanks,” he said throatily, shaking his head, “just the coffee.”

He walked unsteadily back down the length of the hut.

Self-consciously the men turned away from the King’s smoldering contempt. “I hope for your sakes, you sons of bitches, the war’s over for real,” the King said.

When the Colonel returned, a week later, Mema was shocked to see him look so ill. He interrupted her brusquely.

She stared at him incredulously. “I don’t understand.”

“We have — surrendered,” he began again. “The war is over. We have lost.”

“But that’s impossible,” Mema cried, brinked on insanity. “You told me — ”

“Apparently,” said the Colonel, “my — information was incorrect.”

“But then”—Mema stared at him, bewildered — “then they’ve — the English and Americans — they’ve beaten us, I mean — ” the words were almost too extraordinary to say, “you mean we’ve beaten you?”

“Yes.”

The Colonel grimly took off his Samurai sword and sat down.

“But that means — ” Mema sank onto a chair, staring at him, trying to understand. Then the thought burst through her: “Then Mac, my husband — ”

“You will have to speak in Japanese if you wish me to understand you!” the Colonel said curtly.

“Then my husband, what about my real husband?”

“He may be dead. He may be alive, perhaps he is!”

“Alive?” Mem repeated weakly.

“Yes.” The Colonel got up. “You are free to go.”

“Go where?” she burst out.

“Anywhere. With the loss of the war, my love for you is lost. The war is over. My love is over.”

“But, but, what shall I do?”

“That is your problem.”

Mema got up and weakly sat again, for her legs did not seem to be her own, trying to understand, trying to think, but it was too difficult. Too difficult. “Be patient with me, my husband,” she said. “The war is over and you — and we have lost.”

“I’ve said so,” the Colonel snapped. “This whole interview is distasteful.”

Mema didn’t hear the words, so locked was she in her nightmare. “Then what I think — I — will you please kill me, before, before you — commit hari kiri.” The tears were streaming.

“I’m not going to commit hari kiri,” said the Colonel contemptuously.

“But, but our code of honor, Bushido, you’re a Samurai…”

“I obey the orders of the Emperor. He has ordered that we surrender.”

The scales fell from Mema’s eyes and she saw him standing before her. In one clear instant she knew. She KNEW. “You’re afraid,” she gasped. “You’re afraid!”

“I’m not.”

The Colonel’s face was ashen.

“You’re afraid, you, the Samurai, you’re afraid.”

“I am going now. With my men. We have orders to assemble for transshipment for home.” He bowed curtly and walked, the heels of his polished boots clicked on the veranda steps and he began to walk down them.

“But what about me?” Mema gasped. “And our children?”

The Colonel stopped and looked back at her. “Angus is your child, not mine. And as for the girl, she’s a half-caste and a bastard. Do what you like with her.”

Mema stared at him blankly. “What?”

The Colonel’s fury lashed out. “It would be easy to kill you. Very easy. But you can live or take your own life. You damned whites! You’ve beaten us, but by my ancestors, I can have a little revenge by leaving you alive. Let’s both be honest — you bought yourself a soft life with your body. You’re no better than a whore. Rot in the stupid hell you believe in, for all I care.”

Then he walked down the path and his chauffeur bowed and he got into the car and the chauffeur closed the door and the car was lost in the Sumatran night.

Mema was crying now, piteously.

“Okasan,” piped Angus as he ran across the room. “Okasan, doshita naiterulno?”

Mema stared at him blankly, not understanding the gibberish words. “What did you say, darling?”

Angus stared at her frightened, not understanding the strange gibberish that his mother was speaking and not understanding her tears. So he said again, pathetically, “Okasan.”

And Mema forced her brain to think the words her son understood, Japanese words, only Japanese words, her son — the son of her and Angus McCoy, who might be alive, her true husband. “I don’t know, my son,” she said, the tears streaming.

Then there were more frightened little feet and then little Nobu was in her arms, whimpering; too young to know speech, but old enough to know terror and know that tears were frightening and that her mother was frightened, even as she.

And because Mema was crying, silently, helplessly, frighteningly, and moaning in a strange gibberish, Angus and little Nobu began crying too. Caught in her arms.

“Oh God,” Mema said aloud. “What shall I do? What shall I do?”

Peter Marlowe walked out of the Camp Commandant’s quarters and hurried towards the American hut. He replied automatically to the greetings of the men he knew and he could sense the constant eyes — incredulous eyes — that watched him. Yes, he thought, I don’t believe it either. Soon to be home, soon to fly again, soon to see my old man again, drink with him, laugh with him. And all the family. God, it’ll be strange. I’m alive. I’m alive. I made it!

“Hello, you fellows!” He beamed as he entered the hut.

“Hi, Peter,” Tex said as he jumped to his feet and shook his hand warmly. “Boy, were we glad to hear about the guard, old buddy!”

“That’s a masterpiece of understatement,” Peter Marlowe said and laughed. As they surrounded him, he basked in the warmth of their greetings.

“What happened with the Brass?” Dino asked.

Peter Marlowe told them, and they became even more apprehensive. All except Tex. “Hell, there’s no need to prepare for the worst. It’s over!” he said confidently.

“It’s over for sure,” Max said gruffly as he walked into the hut.

“Hello, Max, I — ” Peter Marlowe did not continue. He was shocked by the frightening look in Max’s eyes.

“You all right?” he asked, perturbed.

“’Course I’m all right!” Max flared. He shoved past and fell on his bunk. “What the hell’re you staring at? Can’t a guy lose his temper once in a while without all you bastards staring?”

“Take it easy,” Tex said.

“Thank Christ, I’ll be outta this lousy dump soon.” Max’s face was gray-brown and his mouth twitched. “And that goes for you lousy bastards!”

“Shut up, Max!”

“Go to hell!” Max wiped the spittle from his chin; he reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of ten-dollar notes, then savagely ripped them and scattered them like confetti.

“What the hell’s gotten into you, Max?” Tex asked.

“Nothin’, you son of a bitch! The bills’re no goddam good.”

“Huh?”

“I just been to the store. Yeah. Thought I’d get me a coconut. But that goddam Chinee wouldn’t take my dough. Wouldn’t take it. Said he’d sold his whole stock to the goddam Camp Commandant. On a note. ‘The English Government promises to pay X Straits Dollars!’ You can wipe your goddam ass on the Jap bucks — that’s all they’re good for!”

“Wow,” Tex said. “That’s the clincher. If the Chinese won’t take the dough, then we’ve really got it made, eh, Peter?”

“We have indeed.” Peter Marlowe felt warmed by their friendship. Even Max’s malevolent stare could not destroy his happiness. “Can’t tell you how much you fellows have helped me, you know, kidding around and all that.”

“Hell,” Dino said. “You’re one of us.” He punched him playfully. “You’re not bad for a goddam Limey!”

“You better get your ass State-side when you get out. We might even let you become an American!” Byron Jones III said.

“You gotta see Texas, Peter boy. You ever get to the States, you gotta come to the state!”

“Not much chance of that,” Peter Marlowe said amid the catcalls. “But if I ever do, you can depend on it.” He glanced towards the King’s corner. “Where’s our fearless leader?”

“He’s dead!” Max rocked with obscene laughter.

“What?” Peter Marlowe said, frightened in spite of himself.

“He’s still alive,” Tex said. “But he’s dead all the same.”

Peter Marlowe looked searchingly at Tex. Then he saw the expressions on all their faces. Suddenly he felt very sad. “Don’t you think that’s a little abrupt?”

“Abrupt nothin’.” Max spat. “He’s dead. We worked our asses off for that son of a bitch, and now he’s dead.”

Peter Marlowe pounced on Max, loathing him. “But when things were bad, he gave you food and money and — ”

“We worked for it!” Max screamed, the tendons in his neck stretching. “I took enough crap from that bastard!” His eyes saw the rank insignia on Peter Marlowe’s arm. “And from you, you Limey bastard! You wanna kiss my ass like you kissed his?”

“Shut up, Max,” Tex said warningly.

“Drop dead, you Lone Star pimp!” Max spat at Tex and the spittle streaked the rough wood floor.

Tex flushed. He hurled himself at Max and smashed him against the wall with a backhanded blow across the face. Max reeled and fell off his bunk, but he whirled to his feet, grabbed a knife off his shelf and lunged at Peter Marlowe. Tex just managed to catch Max’s arm, and the knife only scored Peter Marlowe’s stomach. Dino grabbed Max around the throat and shoved him back on the bunk.

“You outta your skull?” Dino gasped.

Max stared up, his face twitching, his eyes fixed on Peter Marlowe. Suddenly he began screaming, and he hurled himself off the bunk fighting insanely, his arms flailing, lips stretched from his teeth, nails clawing. Peter Marlowe grabbed an arm and they all fell on Max and hauled him back to the bunk. It took three men to hold him down as he kicked and screamed and fought and bit.

“He’s flipped!” Tex shouted. “Clobber him, someone!”

“Get some rope!” Peter Marlowe yelled frantically as he held on to Max, his forearm jammed under Max’s chin, away from the grinding teeth.

Dino shifted his grip, worked one arm free, and smashed Max on the jaw, knocking him unconscious. “Jesus,” he said to Peter Marlowe as they stood up. “He goddam near murdered you!”

“Quick,” Peter Marlowe said urgently. “Put something between his teeth, he’ll bite his bloody tongue off.”

Dino found a piece of wood and they tied it between Max’s teeth. Then they tied his hands.

When Max was secure, Peter Marlowe relaxed, weak with relief. “Thanks, Tex. If you hadn’t stopped that knife, I would have had it.”

“Think nothing of it. Reflex action. What we going to do about him?”

“Get a doctor. He just had a fit, that’s all. There wasn’t any knife.” Peter Marlowe rubbed the score on his stomach as he watched Max jerking spastically. “Poor bugger!”

“Thank God you stopped him, Tex,” Dino said. “Gives me a sweat to think about it.”

Peter Marlowe looked at the King’s corner. It seemed very lonely. Unconsciously he flexed his hand and arm and gloried in its strength.

“How is it, Peter?” Tex asked.

It took Peter Marlowe a long time to find the right words. “Alive, Tex, alive — not dead.” Then he turned and walked out of the hut into the sun.

When he found the King eventually, it was already dusk. The King was sitting on a broken coconut stump in the north vegetable garden, half hidden by vines. He was staring moodily out of the camp and made no sign that he heard Peter Marlowe approaching.

“Hello, old chap,” Peter Marlowe said cheerfully, but the welcome in him died when he saw the King’s eyes.

“What do you want? Sir?” the King asked insultingly.

“I wanted to see you. Just wanted to see you.” Oh my God, he thought with pity, as he saw through his friend.

“Well, you’ve seen me. So now what?” The King turned his back. “Get lost!”

“I’m your friend, remember?”

“I got no friends. Get lost!”

Peter Marlowe squatted down beside the coconut stump and found the two tailor-made cigarettes in his pocket. “Have a smoke. I got them off Shagata!”

“Smoke ’em yourself. Sir!”

For a moment Peter Marlowe wished that he had not found the King. But he did not leave. He carefully lit the two cigarettes and offered one to the King. The King made no move to take it.

“Go on, please.”

The King smashed the cigarette out of his hands. “Screw you and your goddam cigarette. You want to stay here? All right!” He got up and began to stride away.

Peter Marlowe caught his arm. “Wait! This is the greatest day in our lives. Don’t spoil it because your cellmates got a little thoughtless.”

“You take your hand away,” the King said through his teeth, “or I’ll stomp it off!”

“Don’t worry about them,” Peter Marlowe said, the words beginning to pour out of him. “The war’s over, that’s the important thing. It’s over and we’ve survived. Remember what you used to drum into me? About looking after number one? Well, you’re all right! You’ve made it! What does it matter what they say?”

“I don’t give a good goddam about them! They’ve got nothing to do with it. And I don’t give a good goddam about you!” The King ripped his arm away.

Peter Marlowe stared at the King helplessly. “I’m your friend, dammit. Let me help you!”

“I don’t need your help!”

“I know. But I’d like to stay friends. Look,” he continued with difficulty. “You’ll be home soon — ”

“The hell I will,” the King said, his blood roaring in his ears. “I got no home!”

The wind rustled the leaves. Crickets grated monotonously. Mosquitoes swarmed around them. Hut lights began to cast harsh shadows and the moon sailed in a velvet sky.

“Don’t worry, old chum,” Peter Marlowe said compassionately. “Everything’s going to be all right.” He did not flinch from the fear he saw in the King’s eyes.

“Is it?” the King said in torment.

“Yes.” Peter Marlowe hesitated. “You’re sorry it’s over, aren’t you?”

“Leave me alone. Goddammit, leave me alone!” the King shouted and turned away and sat on the coconut stump.

“You’ll be all right,” Peter Marlowe said. “And I’m your friend. Never forget it.” He reached out with his left hand and touched the King’s shoulder, and he felt the shoulder jerk away under his touch.

“’Night, old chum,” he said quietly. “See you tomorrow.” And miserably he walked away. Tomorrow, he promised himself, tomorrow I’ll be able to help him.

The King shifted on the coconut stump, glad to be alone, terrified by his loneliness.

Colonels Smedly-Taylor and Jones and Sellars were cleaning their plates.

“Magnificent!” Sellars said, licking the juice off his fingers.

Smedly-Taylor sucked the bone, though it was already quite clean. “Jones, my boy. I have to hand it to you.” He belched. “What a superb way to end the day. Delicious! Just like rabbit! A little stringy and somewhat tough, but delicious!”

“Haven’t enjoyed a meal so much in years,” Sellars chortled. “The meat’s a little greasy, but by Jove, just marvelous.” He glanced at Jones. “Can you get any more? One leg each isn’t very much!”

“Perhaps.” Jones picked up the last grain of rice delicately. His plate was dry and empty and he was feeling very full. “It was a bit of luck, wasn’t it?”

“Where did you get them?”

“Blakely told me about them. An Aussie was selling them.” Jones belched. “I bought all he had.” He glanced at Smedly-Taylor. “Lucky you had the money.”

Smedly-Taylor grunted. “Yes.” He opened a wallet and tossed three hundred and sixty dollars on the table. “There’s enough for another six. No need to stint ourselves, eh, gentlemen?”

Sellars looked at the notes. “If you had all this money hidden away, why didn’t you use a little months ago?”

“Why indeed?” Smedly-Taylor got up and stretched. “Because I was saving it for today! And that’s the end of it,” he added. His granite eyes locked on Sellars.

“Oh, come off it, man, I don’t want you to say anything. I just can’t understand how you managed to do it, that’s all.”

Jones smiled. “Must have been an inside job. I hear the King nearly had a heart attack!”

“What’s the King got to do with my money?” Smedly-Taylor asked.

“Nothing.” Jones began counting the money. There were, indeed, three hundred and sixty dollars, enough for twelve Rusa tikus haunches at thirty dollars each, which was their real price, not sixty dollars as Smedly-Taylor believed. Jones smiled to himself thinking that Smedly-Taylor could well afford to pay double, now that he had so much money. He wondered how Smedly-Taylor had managed to effect the theft, but he knew Smedly-Taylor was right to keep a tight rein on his secrets. Like the other three Rusa tikus. The ones that he and Blakely had cooked and eaten in secret this afternoon. Blakely had eaten one, he had eaten the other two. And the two added to the one he had just devoured was the reason that he was satiated. “My God,” he said, rubbing his stomach, “don’t think I could eat as much every day!”

“You’ll get used to it,” Sellars said. “I’m still hungry. Try and get some more, there’s a good chap.”

Smedly-Taylor said, “How about a rubber or two?”

“Admirable,” said Sellars. “Who’ll we get as a fourth?”

“Samson?”

Jones laughed. “I’ll bet he’d be very upset if he knew about the meat.”

“How long do you think it’ll take our fellows to come to Singapore?” Sellars asked, trying to conceal his anxiety.

Smedly-Taylor looked at Jones. “A few days. At the most a week. If the Japs here are really going to give in.”

“If they leave us the wireless, they mean to.”

“I hope so. My God, I hope so.”

They looked at one another, the goodness of the food forgotten, lost in the worry of the future.

“Nothing to worry about. It’s — it’s going to be all right,” Smedly-Taylor said, outwardly confident. But inside he was panicked, thinking of Maisie and his sons and daughter, wondering if they were alive.

Just before dawn a four-engined airplane roared over the camp. Whether it was Allied or Japanese no one knew, but at the first sound of the engines the men had been panic-stricken waiting for the expected bombs that would rain down. When the bombs did not fall and the airplane droned away, the panic built once more. Perhaps they’ve forgotten us — they’ll never come.

Ewart groped his way into the hut and shook Peter Marlowe awake. “Peter, there’s a rumor that the plane circled the airfield — that a man parachuted out of it!”

“Did you see it?”

“No.”

“Did you talk to anyone who did?”

“No. It’s just a rumor.” Ewart tried not to show his fear. “I’m scared to death that as soon as the fleet comes into the harbor the Japs’ll go crazy.”

“They won’t!”

“I went up to the Camp Commandant’s office. There’s a whole group of chaps there, they keep giving out news bulletins. The last one said that — ” for a moment Ewart couldn’t speak, then he continued — “that the casualties in Hiroshima and Nagasaki are over three hundred thousand. They say people are still dying like flies there — that this hell-bomb does something to the air and keeps on killing. My God, if that happened to London and I was in charge of a camp like this — I’d — I’d slaughter everyone. I would, by God I would.”

Peter Marlowe calmed him, then left the hut and walked to the gate in the gathering light. Inside, he was still afraid. He knew that Ewart was right. Such a hell-bomb was too much. But he knew, of a sudden, a great truth, and he blessed the brains that had invented the bombs. Only the bombs had saved Changi from oblivion. Oh yes, he told himself, whatever happens because of the bombs, I will bless the first two and the men who made them. Only they have given me back my life when there was truly no hope of life. And though the first two have consumed a multitude, by their very vastness they have saved the lives of countless hundred thousand others. Ours. And theirs. By the Lord God, this is the truth.

He found himself beside the main gate. The guards were there, as usual. Their backs were toward the camp, but they still had rifles in their hands. Peter Marlowe watched them curiously. He was sure that these men would blindly die in defense of men who only a day ago were their despised enemies.

My God, Peter Marlowe thought, how incredible some people are.

Then suddenly, out of the growing light of dawn, he saw an apparition. A strange man, a real man who had breadth and thickness, a man who looked like a man. A white man. He wore a strange green uniform and his parachute boots were polished and his beret decal flashed like fire and he had a revolver on his wide belt and there was a neat field pack on his back.

The man walked the center of the road, his heels click-clicking until he was in front of the guardhouse.

The man — now Peter Marlowe could see that he wore the rank of a captain — the captain stopped and glared at the guards and then he said, “Salute, you bloody bastards.”

When the guards stared at him stupidly, the captain went up to the nearest guard and ripped the bayoneted rifle out of his hands and stuck it viciously in the ground, and said again, “Salute me, you bloody bastards.”

The guards stared at him nervously. Then the captain pulled out his revolver and fired a single round into the earth at the feet of the guards and said, “Salute, you bloody bastards.”

Awata, the Japanese sergeant, Awata the Fearful, sweating and nervous, stepped forward and bowed. Then they all bowed.

“That’s better, you bloody bastards,” the captain said. Then he tore the rifle out of each man’s hands and threw it on the ground. “Get back in the bloody guardhouse.”

Awata understood the movement of his hand. He ordered the guards to line up. Then, on his command, they bowed again.

The captain stood and looked at them. Then he returned the salute.

“Salute, you bloody bastards,” the captain said once more.

Again the guards bowed.

“Good,” the captain said. “And next time I say salute, salute!”

Awata and all the men bowed and the captain turned and walked to the barricade.

Peter Marlowe felt the eyes of the captain on him and on the men near him, and he started with fear and backed away.

He saw first revulsion in the eyes of the captain, then compassion.

The captain shouted at the guards. “Open this bloody gate, you bloody bastards.”

Awata understood the point of the hand and quickly ran out with three guards and pulled the barricade out of the way.

Then the captain walked through, and when they began to close it again he shouted, “Leave that bloody thing alone.” And they left it alone and bowed in salute.

Peter Marlowe tried to concentrate. This was wrong. All wrong. This could not be happening. Then, suddenly, the captain was standing in front of him.

“Hello,” the captain said. “I’m Captain Forsyth. Who’s in charge here?” The words were soft and very gentle. But Peter Marlowe could only see the captain looking at him from head to toe.

What’s the matter? What’s wrong with me? Peter Marlowe desperately asked himself. What’s the matter with me? Frightened, he backed another step.

“There’s no need to be afraid of me.” The captain’s voice was deep and sympathetic. “The war’s over. I’ve been sent to see that you’re all looked after.”

The captain took a step forward. Peter Marlowe recoiled and the captain stopped. Slowly the captain took out a pack of Players. Good English Players.

“Would you like a cigarette?”

The captain stepped forward, and Peter Marlowe ran away, terrified.

“Wait a minute!” the captain shouted after him. Then he approached another man, but the man turned tail and fled too. And all the men fled from the captain.

The second great fear engulfed Changi.

Fear of myself. Am I all right? Am I, after all this time? I mean, am I all right in the head? It is three and a half years. And my God, remember what Van der Zelt said about impotence? Will it work? Will I be able to make love? Will I be all right? I saw the horror in the eyes of the captain when he looked at me. Why? What was wrong? Do you think, dare I ask him, dare I … am I all right?

When the King first heard about the officer, he was lying on his bed, brooding. True, he still had the choice position under the window, but now he had the same space as the other men — six feet by four feet. When he had returned from the north garden he had found his bed and chairs moved, and other beds were now spread into the space that was his by right. He had said nothing and they had said nothing, but he had looked at them and they had all avoided his eyes.

And, too, no one had collected or saved his evening meal. It had just been consumed by others.

“Gee,” Tex had said absently, “I guess we forgot about you. Better be here next time. Every man’s responsible for his own chow.”

So he had cooked one of his hens. He had cleaned it and fried it and eaten it. At least he had eaten half of it and kept half of it for breakfast. Now he had only two hens left. The others had been consumed during the last days — and he had shared them with the men who had done the work.

Yesterday he had tried to buy the camp store, but the pile of money that the diamond had brought was worthless. In his wallet he still had eleven American dollars, and these were good currency. But he knew — chilled — he could not last forever on eleven dollars and two hens.

He had slept little the previous night. But in the bleak watches of the early morning he had faced himself and told himself that this was weak and foolish and not the pattern of a King — it did not matter that when he had walked the camp earlier people had looked through him — Brant and Prouty and Samson and all the others had passed by and not returned his salute. It had been the same with everyone. Tinker Bell and Timsen and the MP’s and his informants and employees — men he had helped or known or sold for or given food or cigarettes or money. They had all looked at him as though he did not exist. Where always eyes had been watching him, and hate had been surrounding him when he walked the camp, now there was nothing. No eyes, no hate, no recognition.

It had been freezing to walk the camp a ghost. To return to his home a ghost. To lie in bed a ghost.

Nothingness.

Now he was listening as Tex poured out to the hut the incredible news of the captain’s arrival, and he could sense the new fear gnawing at them.

“What’s the matter?” he said. “What’re you all so goddam silent about? A guy’s arrived from outside, that’s all.”

No one said anything.

The King got up, galled by the silence, hating it. He put on his best shirt and his clean pants and wiped the dust off his polished shoes. He set his cap at a jaunty angle and stood for a moment in the doorway.

“Think I’m going to have me a cook-up today,” he said to no one in particular.

When he glanced around he could see the hunger in their faces and the barely concealed hope in their eyes. He felt warmed again and normal again, and looked at them selectively.

“You going to be busy today, Dino?” he said at length.

“Er, no. No,” Dino said.

“My bed needs fixing and there’s some laundry.”

“You, er, want me to do them?” Dino asked uncomfortably.

“You want to?”

Dino swore under his breath, but the remembrance of the perfume of the chicken last night shattered his will. “Sure,” he said.

“Thanks, pal,” said the King derisively, amused by Dino’s obvious struggle with his conscience. He turned and started down the steps.

“Er, which hen d’you want to have?” Dino called out after him.

The King did not stop. “I’ll think about that,” he said. “You just fix the bed and the laundry.”

Dino leaned against the doorway, watching the King walk in the sun along the jail wall and around the corner of the jail. “Son of a bitch!”

“Go get the laundry,” Tex said.

“Crap off! I’m hungry.”

“He aced you into doing his work without any goddam chicken.”

“He’ll eat one today,” Dino said stubbornly. “And I’ll help him eat it. He’s never eaten one before without giving the helper some.”

“What about last night?”

“Hell, he was fit to be tied ’cause we took over his space.” Dino was thinking about the English captain and home and his girl friend and wondered if she was waiting or if she was married. Sure, he told himself sullenly, she’ll be married and no one’ll be there. How the hell am I going to get me a job?

“That was before,” Byron Jones III was saying. “I’ll bet the son of a bitch cooks it and eats it in front of us.” But he was thinking about his home. Goddamned if I’m going to stay there any more. Got to get me my own apartment. Yeah. But where the hell’s the dough coming from?

“So what if he does?” Tex asked. “We got maybe two or three days to go.” Then home to Texas, he was thinking. Can I get my job back? Where the hell will I live? What am I going to use for dough? When I get in the hay, is it going to work?

“What about the Limey officer, Tex? You think we should go talk with him?”

“Yeah, we should. But hell, later today, or tomorrow. We gotta get used to the idea.” Tex suppressed a shudder. “When he looked at me — it was as though, just like he was looking at a — a geek! Holy cow, what’s so goddam wrong with me? I look all right, don’t I?”

They all studied Tex, trying to see what the officer had seen. But they saw only Tex, the Tex they had known for three and a half years.

“You look all right to me,” Dino said finally. “If anyone’s a freak it’s him. Goddamned if I’d parachute into Singapore alone. Not with all the lousy Japs around. No sir! He’s the real freak.”

The King was walking along the jail wall. You’re a stupid son of a bitch, he told himself. What the hell’re you so upset about? All’s well in the world. Sure. And you’re still the King. You’re still the only guy who knows how to get with it.

He cocked his hat at a rakish angle and chuckled as he remembered Dino. Yeah, that bastard would be cursing, wondering if he’d really get the chicken, knowing he’d been aced into working. The hell with him, let him sweat, the King thought cheerfully.

He crossed the path between two of the huts. Around the huts were groups of men. They were all looking north, towards the gate, silently, motionless. He rounded another hut and saw the officer standing in a pool of emptiness, staring around bewildered, his back towards him. He saw the officer go toward some men and laughed sardonically as he saw them retreat.

Crazy, he thought cynically. Plain crazy. What’s there to be scared of? The guy’s only a captain. Yep, he’s sure going to need a hand. But what the hell they’re so scared about beats me!

He quickened his pace, but his footsteps made no noise.

“’Morning, sir,” he said crisply, saluting.

Captain Forsyth spun around, startled. “Oh! Hello.” He returned the salute with a sigh of relief. “Thank God someone here is normal.” Then he realized what he had said. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean — ”

“That’s all right,” the King said agreeably. “This dump’s enough to put anyone off kilter. Boy, are we pleased to see you. Welcome to Changi!”

Forsyth smiled. He was much shorter than the King but built like a tank. “Thank you. I’m Captain Forsyth. I’ve been sent to look after the camp until the fleet arrives.”

“When’s that?”

“Six days.”

“Can’t they make it any sooner?”

“These things take time, I suppose.” Forsyth nodded toward the huts. “What’s the matter with everyone? It’s as though I was a leper.”

The King shrugged. “Guess they’re in a state of shock. Don’t believe their eyes yet. You know how some guys are. And it has been a long time.”

“Yes it has,” Forsyth said slowly.

“Crazy that they’d be scared of you.” The King shrugged again. “But that’s life, and their business.”

“You’re an American?”

“Sure. There are twenty-five of us. Officers and enlisted men. Captain Brough’s our senior officer. He got shot down flying the hump in ’43. Maybe you’d like to meet him?”

“Of course.” Forsyth was dead-tired. He had been given this assignment in Burma four days ago. The waiting and the flight and the jump and the walk to the guardhouse and the worry of what he would meet and what the Japanese would do and how the hell he was going to carry out his orders, all these things had wrecked his sleep and terrored his dreams. Well, old chap, you asked for the job and you’ve got it and here you are. At least you passed the first test up at the main gate. Bloody fool, he told himself, you were so petrified all you could say was “Salute, you bloody bastards.”

From where he stood, Forsyth could see clusters of men staring at him from the huts and the windows and the doorways and shadows. They were all silent.

He could see the bisecting street, and beyond the latrine area. He noticed the sores of huts and his nostrils were filled with the stench of sweat and mildew and urine. Zombies were everywhere — zombies in rags, zombies in loincloths, zombies in sarongs — boned and meatless.

“You feeling okay?” the King asked solicitously. “You don’t look so hot.”

“I’m all right. Who are those poor buggers?”

“Just some of the guys,” the King said. “Officers.”

“What?”

“Sure. What’s wrong with them?”

“You mean to tell me those are officers?”

“That’s right. All these huts’re officers’ huts. Those rows of bungalows are where the Brass live, majors and colonels. There’s about a thousand Aussies and Lim — English,” he said quickly, correcting himself, “in huts south of the jail. Inside the jail are about seven or eight thousand English and Aussies. All enlisted men.”

“Are they all like that?”

“Sir?”

“Do they all look like that? Are they all dressed like that?”

“Sure.” The King laughed. “Guess they do look like a bunch of bums at that. It sure never bothered me up to now.” Then he realized that Forsyth was studying him critically.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, his smile fading.

Behind and all around men were watching, Peter Marlowe among them. But they all stayed out of range. They were all wondering if their eyes really saw a man, who looked like a man, with a revolver at his waist, talking to the King.

“Why’re you so different from them?” Forsyth said.

“Sir?”

“Why’re you properly dressed — and they’re all in rags?”

The King’s smile returned. “I’ve been looking after my clothes. I guess they haven’t.”

“You look quite fit.”

“Not as fit as I’d like to be, but I guess I’m in good shape. You like me to show you around? Thought you’d need a hand. I could rustle up some of the boys, get a detail together. There’s no supplies in the camp worth talking about. But there’s a truck up at the garage. We could drive into Singapore and liberate — ”

“How is it that you are apparently unique here?” Forsyth interrupted, the words like bullets.

“Huh?”

Forsyth pointed a blunt finger at the camp. “I can see perhaps two or three hundred men but you’re the only one clothed. I can’t see a man who’s not as thin as a bamboo, but you,” he turned back and looked at the King, his eyes flinty, “you are ‘in good shape.’”

“I’m just the same as them. I’ve just been on the ball. And lucky.”

“There’s no such thing as luck in a hellhole like this!”

“Sure there is,” the King said. “And there’s no harm in looking after your clothes, no harm in keeping fit as you can. Man’s got to look after number one. No harm in that!”

“No harm at all,” Forsyth said, “providing it’s not at the expense of others!” Then he barked, “Where’s the Camp Commandant’s quarters?”

“Over there.” The King pointed. “The first row of bungalows. I don’t know what’s gotten into you. I thought I could help. Thought you’d need someone to put you in the picture — ”

“I don’t need your help, Corporal! What’s your name!”

The King was sorry that he had taken the time out to try to help. Son of a bitch, he thought furiously, that’s what comes of trying to help! “King. Sir.”

“You’re dismissed, Corporal. I won’t forget you. And I’ll certainly make sure I see Captain Brough at the earliest opportunity.”

“Now what the hell does that mean?”

“It means I find you entirely suspicious,” Forsyth rapped. “I want to know why you’re fit and others aren’t. To stay fit in a place like this you’ve got to have money, and there would be very few ways to get money. Very few ways. Informing, for one! Selling drugs or food for another — ”

“I’ll be goddamned if I’ll take that crap — ”

“You’re dismissed, Corporal! But don’t forget I’ll make it my business to look into you!”

It took a supreme effort for the King to keep from smashing his fist into the captain’s face.

“You’re dismissed,” Forsyth repeated, then added viciously, “Get out of my sight!”

The King saluted and walked away, blood filming his eyes.

“Hello,” Peter Marlowe said, intercepting the King. “My God, I wish I had your guts.”

The King’s eyes cleared and he croaked, “Hi. Sir.” He saluted and began to pass.

“My God, Rajah, what the hell’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Just don’t — feel like talking.”

“Why? If I’ve done something to hurt you, or get you fed up with me, tell me. Please.”

“Nothing to do with you.” The King forced a smile, but inside he was screaming, Jesus, what’ve I done that’s so wrong? I fed the bastards and helped them, and now they look at me as though I’m not here any more.

He looked back at Forsyth and saw him walk between two huts and disappear. And him, he thought in agony, he thinks I’m a goddam informer.

“What did he say?” Peter Marlowe asked.

“Nothing. He — I’ve got to — do something for him.”

“I’m your friend. Let me help. Isn’t it enough that I’m here?”

But the King only wanted to hide. Forsyth and the others had taken away his face. He knew that he was lost. And faceless, he was terrified.

“See you around,” he muttered and saluted and hurried away. Jesus God, he wept inside, give me back my face. Please give me back my face.

The next day a plane buzzed the camp. Out of its belly poured a supply drop. Some of the supplies fell into the camp. Those that fell outside the camp were not sought. No one left the safety of Changi. It still could be a trick. Flies swarmed, a few men died.

Another day. Then planes began to circle the airstrip. A full colonel strode into the camp. With him were doctors and orderlies. They brought medical supplies. Other planes circled and landed.

Suddenly there were jeeps screaming through the camp and huge men with cigars and four doctors. They were all Americans. They rushed into the camp and stabbed the Americans with needles and gave them gallons of fresh orange juice and food and cigarettes and embraced them — their boys, their hero boys. They helped them into the jeeps and drove them to Changi Gate, where a truck was waiting.

Peter Marlowe watched, astonished. They’re not heroes, he thought, bewildered. Neither are we. We lost. We lost the war, our war. Didn’t we? We’re not heroes. We’re not!

He saw the King through the fog of his mind. His friend. He had been waiting the days to talk with him, but each time he had found him the King had put him off. “Later,” the King had always said, “I’m busy now.” When the new Americans had arrived there still had been no time.

So Peter Marlowe stood at the gate, with many men, watching the departure of the Americans, waiting to say a last good-by to his friend, waiting patiently to thank him for his arm and for the laughter they had had together.

Among the watchers was Grey.

Forsyth was standing tiredly beside the lorry. He handed over the list. “You keep the original, sir,” he said to the senior American officer. “Your men are all listed by rank, service and serial number.”

“Thanks,” said the major, a squat, heavy-jowled paratrooper. He signed the paper and handed back the other five copies. “When’re the rest of your folks arriving?”

“A couple of days.”

The major looked around and shuddered. “Looks like you could use a hand.”

“Have you any excess drugs, by any chance?”

“Sure. We got a bird stacked with the stuff. Tell you what. Once I’ve got our boys on their way, I’ll bring it all back in our jeeps. I’ll let you have a doc and two orderlies until yours get here.”

“Thanks.” Forsyth tried to rub the fatigue out of his face. “We could use them. I’ll sign for the drugs. SEAC will honor my signature.”

“No goddam paper. You want the drugs, you got ’em. That’s what they’re there for.”

He turned away. “All right, Sergeant, get ’em in the truck.” He walked over to the jeep and watched as the stretcher was lashed securely. “What you think, Doc?”

“He’ll make it State-side.” The doctor glanced up from the unconscious figure neatly trussed in the straitjacket, “but that’s about it. His mind’s gone for good.”

“Son of a bitch,” the major said wearily, and he made a check mark against Max’s name on the list. “Seems kinda unfair.” He dropped his voice. “What about the rest of them?”

“Not good. Withdrawal symptoms generally. Anxiety about the future. There’s only one that’s in halfway decent shape physically.”

“I’ll be goddamned if I know how any of ’em made it. You been in the jail?”

“Sure. Just a quick runaround. That was enough.”

Peter Marlowe was watching morosely. He knew his unhappiness was not due solely to the departure of his friend. It was more than that. He was sad because the Americans were leaving. Somehow he felt he belonged there with them, which was wrong, because they were foreigners. Yet he knew he did not feel like a foreigner when he was with them. Is it envy? he asked himself. Or jealousy? No, I don’t think so. I don’t know why, but I feel they’re going home and I’m being left behind.

He moved a little closer to the truck as the orders began to sound and the men began to climb aboard. Brough and Tex and Dino and Byron Jones III and all the others resplendent in their new starched uniforms, looked unreal. They were talking and shouting and laughing. But not the King. He stood slightly to one side. Alone.

Peter Marlowe was glad that his friend was back once more with his own people, and he prayed that once the King was on his way all would be well with him.

“Get in the truck, you guys.”

“C’mon, get in the goddam truck.”

“Next stop State-side!”

Grey was unaware that he was standing beside Peter Marlowe. “They say,” he said looking at the truck, “that they’ve a plane to fly them all the way back to America. A special plane. Is that possible? Just a handful of men and some junior officers?”

Peter Marlowe had also been unaware of Grey. He studied him, despising him. “You’re such a goddam snob, Grey, when it comes down to it.”

Grey’s head whipped around. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Yes.” Peter Marlowe nodded at the truck. “They think that one man’s as good as another. So they get a plane, all to themselves. It’s a great idea when you think of it.”

“Don’t tell me the upper classes have at last realized — ”

“Oh shut up!” Peter Marlowe moved away, his bile rising.

Beside the truck was a sergeant, a vast man with many stripes on his sleeve and an unlit cigar in his mouth. “C’mon. Get in the truck,” he repeated patiently.

The King was the last on the ground.

“For Chrissake, get in the truck!” the sergeant growled. The King didn’t move. Then, impatiently, the sergeant threw the cigar away, and stabbing the air with his finger shouted, “You! Corporal! Get your goddam ass in the truck!”

The King came out of his trance. “Yes, Sergeant. Sorry, Sergeant!”

Meekly he got into the back of the truck and stood while everyone else sat, and around him there were excited men talking one to another, but not to him. No one seemed to notice him. He held to the side of the truck as it roared into life and swept the Changi dust into the air.

Peter Marlowe frantically ran forward and held up his hand to wave at his friend. But the King did not look back. He never looked back.

Suddenly, Peter Marlowe felt very lonely, there by Changi Gate.

“That was worth watching,” Grey said, gloating.

Peter Marlowe turned on him. “Go away before I do something about you.”

“It was good to see him go like that. ‘You, Corporal, get your goddam arse in the truck.’” There was a vicious glint in Grey’s eyes. “Like the scum he was.”

But Peter Marlowe only remembered the King as he truly was. That wasn’t the King who meekly said, “Yes, Sergeant.” Not the King. This had been another man, torn from the womb of Changi, the man that Changi had nurtured so long.

“Like the thief he was,” Grey said deliberately.

Peter Marlowe bunched his good left fist. “I told you before, a last time.”

Then he slammed his fist into Grey’s face, knocking him backwards, but Grey stayed on his feet and threw himself at Peter Marlowe. The two men tore at each other and suddenly Forsyth was beside them.

“Stop it,” he ordered. “What the hell are you two fighting about?”

“Nothing,” Peter Marlowe said.

“Take your hand off me,” Grey said and pulled his arm from Forsyth. “Get out of the way!”

“Any more trouble out of either of you and I’ll confine you to your quarters.” Appalled, Forsyth noticed that one man was a captain and the other a flight lieutenant. “Ought to be ashamed of yourselves, brawling like common soldiers! Go on, both of you, get out of here. The war’s over, for God’s sake!”

“Is it?” Grey looked once at Peter Marlowe, then walked off.

“What’s between you two?” Forsyth said.

Peter Marlowe stared into the distance. The truck was nowhere to be seen. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said and turned away.

Forsyth watched him until he had disappeared. You can say that a million times, he thought exhaustedly. I don’t understand anything about any of you.

He turned back to Changi Gate. There were, as always, groups of men silently staring out. The gate was, as always, guarded. But the guards were officers and no longer Japanese or Koreans. The day he had arrived, he had ordered them away and posted an officer guard to keep the camp safe and to keep the men in. But the guards were unnecessary, for no one had tried to break out. I don’t understand, Forsyth told himself tiredly. It doesn’t make sense. Nothing here makes sense.

It was only then that he remembered he had not reported the suspicious American — the corporal. He had had so much to worry about that the man had completely slipped his mind. Bloody fool, now it’s too late! Then he recalled that the American major was coming back. Good, he thought, I’ll tell him. He can deal with him.

Two days later more Americans arrived. And a real American General. He was swarmed like a queen bee by photographers and reporters and aides. The General was taken to the Camp Commandant’s bungalow. Peter Marlowe and Mac and Larkin were ordered there. The General picked up the earphone of the radio and pretended to listen.

“Hold that, General!”

“Just one more, General!”

Peter Marlowe was shoved to the front and told to bend over the radio as though explaining it to the General.

“Not that way — let’s see your face. Yeah, let’s see your bones, Sam, in the light. That’s better.”

That night the third and last and greatest fear crucified Changi.

Fear of tomorrow.

All Changi knew, now, that the war was over. The future had to be faced. The future outside of Changi. The future was now. Now.

And the men of Changi withdrew into themselves. There was nowhere else to go. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere but inside. And inside was terror.

The Allied Fleet arrived at Singapore. More outsiders converged on Changi.

It was then that the questions began.

— Name, rank, serial number, unit?

— Where did you fight?

— Who died?

— Who was killed?

— What about atrocities? How many times were you beaten? Who did you see bayoneted?

— No one? Impossible! Think, man. Use your head! Remember. How many died? On the boat? Three, four, five? Why? Who was there?

— Who’s left in your unit? Ten? Out of a regiment? Good, that’s better. Now, how did the others die? Yes, the details!

— Ah, you saw them bayoneted?

— Three Pagoda Pass? Ah, the railroad! Yes. We know about that. What can you add? How much food did you get? Anesthetics? Sorry, of course, I forgot. Cholera?

— Yes, I know all about Camp Three. What about Fourteen? The one on the Burma-Siam border? Thousands died there, didn’t they?

With the questions, the outsiders brought opinions. The men of Changi heard them furtively whispered, one to another.

— Did you see that man? My God, it’s impossible! He’s walking around naked! In public!

— And look over there! There’s a man doing it in public! And good God, he’s not using paper! He’s using water and his hands! My God — they all do!

— Look at that filthy bed! My God, the place is crawling with bugs!

— What degradation these poor swine have sunk to — worse than animals!

— Ought to be in an insane asylum! Certainly the Japs did it to them, but all the same it’d be safer to lock them up. They don’t seem to know what’s right and what’s wrong!

— Look at them lap up that filth! My God, you give them bread and potatoes and they want rice!

— Got to get back to the ship. Can’t wait to bring the fellows out. Chance of a lifetime, never see this again.

— My God, those nurses are taking a chance, walking around.

— Rubbish, they’re safe enough. Seen a lot of the girls coming up to have a look. By jove, that one’s a corker!

— Disgusting the way the POW’s are looking at them!

With the questions and the opinions the outsiders brought answers.

— Ah, Flight Lieutenant Marlowe? Yes, we’ve had a cable answer from the Admiralty. Captain Marlowe RN is, er, I’m afraid your father’s dead. Killed in action on the Murmansk run. September 10, ’43. Sorry. Next!

— Captain Spence? Yes. We’ve a lot of mail for you. You can get it at the guardhouse. Oh yes. Your — your wife and child were killed in London in an air raid. January this year. Sorry. A V2. Terrible. Next!

— Lieutenant Colonel Jones? Yes, sir. You’ll be on the first party leaving tomorrow. All senior officers are going. Bon voyage! Next!

— Major McCoy? Oh yes, you were inquiring about your wife and son. Let me see, they were aboard the Empress of Shropshire, weren’t they? The ship that sailed from Singapore on February 9, 1942? Sorry, we’ve no news, except that we know it was sunk somewhere off Borneo. There are rumors that there were survivors, but if there were or where they would be — no one knows. You’ll have to be patient! We hear there are POW camps all over — the Celebes — Borneo — you’ll have to be patient! Next!

— Ah, Colonel Smedly-Taylor? Sorry, bad news, sir. Your wife was killed in an air raid. Two years ago. Your youngest son, Squadron Leader P. R. Smedly-Taylor VC, was lost over Germany in ’44. Your son John is presently in Berlin with the occupation forces. Here is his address. Rank? Lieutenant Colonel. Next!

— Colonel Larkin? Oh, Australians are dealt with somewhere else. Next!

— Captain Grey? Ah, well, it’s somewhat difficult. You see, you were reported lost in action in ’42. I’m afraid your wife remarried. She’s — er — well, here’s her present address. I don’t know, sir. You’ll have to ask the Solicitor General’s Office. Afraid legalities are out of my line. Next!

— Captain Ewart? Oh yes, the Malayan Regiment? Yes. I’m happy to tell you your wife and three children are safe and well. They’re at Cha Song Camp in Singapore. Yes, we’ve transport for you this afternoon. I beg your pardon? Well, I don’t know. The memo says three — not two children. Perhaps it’s an error. Next!

More men went swimming now. But the outside was still fearful and the men that went were glad to be back inside once more. Sean went swimming. He walked down to the shore with the men and in his hand was a bundle. When the party got to the beach, Sean turned away, and the men laughed and jeered, most of them, at the pervert who wouldn’t take off his clothes like anyone else.

“Pansy!”

“Bugger!”

“Rotten fairy!”

“Homo!”

Sean walked up the beach, away from the jeers, until he found a private place. He slipped off his short pants and shirt and put on the evening sarong and padded bra and belt and stockings and combed his hair and put on makeup. Carefully, very carefully. And then the girl stood up, confident and very happy. She put on her high-heeled shoes and walked into the sea.

The sea welcomed her and made her sleep easy, and then, in the course of time, devoured the clothes and body and the time of her.

A major was standing in the doorway of Peter Marlowe’s hut. His tunic was crusted with medal ribbons and he seemed very young. He peered around the hut at the obscenities lying on their bunks or changing or smoking or preparing to take a shower. His eyes came to rest on Peter Marlowe.

“What the fucking hell are you staring at?” Peter Marlowe screamed.

“Don’t talk to me like that! I’m a major and — ”

“I don’t give a goddam if you’re Christ! Get out of here! Get out!”

“Stand to attention! I’ll have you court-martialed!” the major snapped, eyes popping, sweat pouring. “Ought to be ashamed of yourself, standing there in a skirt — ”

“It’s a sarong — ”

“It’s a skirt, standing in a skirt, half-naked! You POW’s think you can get away with anything. Well, thank God you can’t. And now you’ll be taught respect for — ”

Peter Marlowe caught up his hafted bayonet, rushed to the door and thrust the knife in the major’s face. “Get away from here or by Christ I’ll cut your fucking throat…”

The major evaporated.

“Take it easy, Peter,” Phil muttered. “You’ll get us all into trouble.”

“Why do they stare at us? Why? Goddammit why?” Peter Marlowe shouted. There was no answer.

A doctor walked into the hut, a doctor with a Red Cross on his arm, and he hurried — but pretended not to hurry — and smiled at Peter Marlowe. “Don’t pay any attention to him,” he said, indicating the major who was walking through the camp.

“Why the hell do all you people stare at us?”

“Have a cigarette and calm down.”

The doctor seemed nice enough and quiet enough, but he was an outsider — and not to be trusted.

“Have a cigarette and calm down! That’s all you bastards can say,” Peter Marlowe raged. “I said, why do you all stare at us?”

The doctor lit a cigarette himself and sat on one of the beds and then wished he hadn’t, for he knew that all the beds were diseased. But he wanted to help. “I’ll try to tell you,” he said quietly. “You, all of you, have suffered the unsufferable and endured the unendurable. You’re walking skeletons. Your faces are all eyes, and in the eyes there’s a look…” He stopped a moment, trying to find the words, for he knew that they needed help and care and gentleness. “I don’t quite know how to describe it. It’s furtive — no, that’s not the right word, and it’s not fear. But there’s the same look in all your eyes. And you’re all alive, when by all the rules you should be dead. We don’t know why you aren’t dead or why you’ve survived — I mean each of you here, why you? We, from the outside, stare at you because you’re fascinating…”

“Like freaks in a goddam side show, I suppose?”

“Yes,” said the doctor calmly. “That would be one way of putting it, but — ”

“I swear to Christ I’ll kill the next bugger who looks at me as though I’m a monkey.”

“Here,” the doctor said, trying to appease him. “Here are some pills. They’ll calm you down — ”

Peter Marlowe knocked the pills out of the doctor’s hand and shouted, “I don’t want any goddam pills. I just want to be left alone!” And he fled the hut.

The American hut was deserted.

Peter Marlowe lay on the King’s bed and wept.

“’By, Peter,” Larkin said.

“’By, Colonel.”

“’By, Mac.”

“Good luck, laddie.”

“Keep in touch.”

Larkin shook their hands, and then he walked up to Changi Gate, where trucks were waiting to take the last of the Aussies to ships. To home.

“When are you off, Peter?” Mac asked after Larkin had disappeared.

“Tomorrow. What about you?”

“I’m leaving now, but I’m going to stay in Singapore. No point in getting a boat until I know which way.”

“Still no news?”

“No. They could be anywhere in the Indies. But if she and Angus were dead, I think I’d know. Inside.” Mac lifted his rucksack and unconsciously checked that the secret can of sardines was still safe. “I heard a rumor there are some women in one of the camps in Singapore who were on the Shropshire. Perhaps one of them will know something or give me a clue. If I can find them.” He looked old and lined but very strong. He put out his hand. “Salamat.”

“Salamat.”

“Puki ’mahlu!”

“Senderis,” said Peter Marlowe, conscious of his tears but not ashamed of them. Nor was Mac of his.

“You can always write me care of the Bank of Singapore, laddie.”

“I will. Good luck, Mac.”

“Salamat!”

Peter Marlowe stood in the street that bisected the camp and watched Mac walk the hill. At the top of the hill, Mac stopped and turned and waved once. Peter Marlowe waved back, and then Mac was lost in the crowd.

And now, Peter Marlowe was quite alone.

Last dawn in Changi. A last man died. Some of the officers of Hut Sixteen had already left. The sickest ones.

Peter Marlowe lay under his mosquito net on his bunk in half-sleep. Around him men were waking, getting up, going to relieve themselves. Barstairs was standing on his head practicing yoga, Phil Mint was already picking his nose with one hand and maiming flies with the other, the bridge game already started, Myner already doing scales on his wooden keyboard, and Thomas already cursing the lateness of breakfast.

“What do you think, Peter?” Mike asked.

Peter Marlowe opened his eyes and studied him. “Well, you look different, I’ll say that.”

Mike rubbed his shaven top lip with the back of his hand. “I feel naked.” He looked back at himself in the mirror. Then he shrugged. “Well, it’s off and that’s that.”

“Hey, grub’s up,” Spence called out.

“What is it?”

“Porridge, toast, marmalade, scrambled eggs, bacon, tea.”

Some men complained about the smallness of their portions, some complained about the bigness.

Peter Marlowe took only scrambled eggs and tea. He mixed the eggs into some rice he had saved from yesterday and ate with vast enjoyment.

He looked up as Drinkwater bustled in. “Oh, Drinkwater.” He stopped him. “Have you got a minute?”

“Why, certainly.” Drinkwater was surprised at Peter Marlowe’s sudden affability. But he kept his pale blue eyes down, for he was afraid that his consuming hatred for Peter Marlowe would spill out. Hold on, Theo, he told himself. You’ve stuck it for months. Don’t let go now. Only a few more hours, then you can forget him and all the other awful men. Lyles and Blodger had no right to tempt you. No right at all. Well, they got what they deserved.

“You remember that rabbit leg you stole?”

Drinkwater’s eyes flashed. “What — what are you talking about?”

Across the aisle, Phil stopped scratching and looked up.

“Oh, come on, Drinkwater,” Peter Marlowe said. “I don’t care any more. Why the hell should I? The war’s over and we’re out of it. But you do remember the rabbit leg, don’t you?”

Drinkwater’s eyes flashed. “What — what are you talking about? No,” he said gruffly, “no I don’t.” But he was hard put not to say, delicious, delicious!

“It wasn’t rabbit, you know.”

“Oh? Sorry, Marlowe — it wasn’t me. And I don’t know, to this day, who took it, whatever it was!”

“I’ll tell you what it was,” Peter Marlowe said, glorying in the moment. “It was rat meat. Rat meat.”

Drinkwater laughed. “You’re very amusing,” he said sarcastically.

“Oh but it was rat! Oh yes it was. I caught a rat. It was big and hairy and there were scabs all over it. And I think it had plague.”

Drinkwater’s chin trembled, his jowls shaking.

Phil winked at Peter Marlowe and nodded cheerfully, “That’s right, Reverend. It was all scabby. I saw Peter skin the leg…”

Then Drinkwater vomited all over his nice clean uniform and rushed out and vomited some more. Peter Marlowe began laughing and soon the entire hut was roaring.

“Oh God,” Phil said weakly. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Peter. What a brilliant idea. To pretend it was a rat. Oh my God! That pays the bugger back!”

“But it really was rat,” Peter Marlowe said. “I planted it so he’d steal it.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Phil said sarcastically, automatically using his flyswat. “Don’t try to cap such a wonderful story! Wonderful!”

Peter Marlowe knew they would not believe him. So he didn’t say any more. No one would believe him unless he showed the Farm to them…. My God! The Farm! And his stomach turned over.

He put on his new uniform. On the epaulets was his rank — flight lieutenant. On his left breast, his wings. He looked around at his possessions — bed, mosquito net, mattress, blanket, sarong, rag shirt, a ragged pair of shorts, two pairs of clogs, knife, spoon and three aluminum plates. He scooped everything off his bed and carried it outside and set fire to it.

“Hey you … oh excuse me, sir,” the sergeant said. “Fires’re dangerous.” The sergeant was an outsider, but Peter Marlowe wasn’t afraid of outsiders. Not now.

“Beat it,” snapped Peter Marlowe.

“But sir…”

“I said beat it, goddammit!”

“Yes sir.” The sergeant saluted and Peter Marlowe felt very pleased that he wasn’t afraid of outsiders any more. He returned the salute and then wished he hadn’t, for he didn’t have his cap on. So he tried to cover his mistake with “Oh, where the hell’s my cap?” and walked back into the hut feeling the fear of outsiders returning. But he forced it away and swore to himself, by the Lord my God, I’ll never be afraid again. Never.

He found his cap and the concealed can of sardines. He put the can in his pocket and walked down the stairs of the hut and up the road beside the wire. The camp was almost deserted now. The last of the English troops were going today, on the same convoy as his. Going away. Long after all the Aussies had left, and an age after the Yanks. But that was only to be expected. We’re slow but very sure.

He stopped near the American hut. The canvas flap of the overhang waved miserably on a wind of the past. Then Peter Marlowe went inside the hut for the last time.

The hut was not empty. Grey was there, polished and uniformed.

“Come to look a last time at the place of your triumphs?” he asked venomously.

“That’s one way of putting it.” Peter Marlowe rolled a cigarette and replaced the savings in his tobacco box. “And now the war’s over. Now we’re equal, you and me.”

“That’s right.” Grey’s face was stretched, his eyes snake-like. “I hate your guts.”

“Remember Dino?”

“What about him?”

“He was your informer, wasn’t he?”

“I suppose there’s no harm in admitting it now.”

“The King knew all about Dino.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Dino was giving you information on orders. On the King’s orders!” Peter Marlowe laughed.

“You’re a bloody liar!”

“Why should I lie?” Peter Marlowe’s laugh died abruptly. “The time for lying’s over. Finished. But Dino was doing it on orders. Remember how you were always just too late? Always.”

Oh my God, thought Grey. Yes, yes, I can see that now.

Peter Marlowe drew on his cigarette. “The King figured that if you didn’t get real information, you’d really try to get an informer. So he gave you one.”

Suddenly Grey felt very tired. Very tired. A lot of things were hard to understand. Many things, strange things. Then he saw Peter Marlowe and the taunting smile and all his pent-up misery exploded. He slammed across the hut and kicked the King’s bed over and scattered his possessions, then whipped on Peter Marlowe. “Very clever! But I saw the King cut down to size, and I’ll see it happen to you. And your stinking class!”

“Oh?”

“You can bet your bloody life! I’ll fix you somehow, if I have to spend the rest of my life doing it. I’ll beat you in the end. Your luck’s going to run out.”

“Luck’s got nothing to do with it.”

Grey pointed a finger in Peter Marlowe’s face. “You were born lucky. You’ve ended Changi lucky. Why, you’ve even escaped with what precious little soul you ever had!”

“What’re you talking about?” Peter Marlowe shoved the finger away.

“Corruption. Moral corruption. You were saved just in time. A few more months around the King’s evil and you’d have been changed forever. You were beginning to be a great liar and a cheat — like him.”

“He wasn’t evil and he cheated no one. All he did was adapt to circumstances.”

“The world’d be a sorry place if everyone hid behind that excuse. There’s such a thing as morality.”

Peter Marlowe threw his cigarette on the floor and ground it to dust. “Don’t tell me you’d rather be dead with your goddam virtues than alive and know you’ve had to compromise a little.”

“A little?” Grey laughed harshly. “You sold out everything. Honor — integrity — pride — all for a handout from the worst bastard in this stinkhole!”

“When you think about it, the King’s sense of honor was pretty high. But you’re right in one thing. He did change me. He showed me that a man’s a man, irrespective of background. Against everything I’ve been taught. So I was wrong to sneer at you for something you had no hand in, and I’m sorry for that. But I don’t apologize for despising you for the man you are.”

“At least I didn’t sell my soul!” Grey’s uniform was streaked with sweat and he stared malevolently at Peter Marlowe. But inside he was choked with self-hatred. What about Smedly-Taylor? he asked himself. That’s right, I sold out too. I did. But at least I know what I did was wrong. I know it. And I know why I did it. I was ashamed of my birth, and I wanted to belong to the gentry. To your bloody class, Marlowe. In the service. But now I couldn’t care less. “You buggers’ve got the world by the shorts,” he said aloud, “but not for long, by God, not any more. We’re going to get even, people like me. We didn’t fight the war to be spat on. We’re going to get even.”

“Jolly good luck!”

Grey tried to control his breathing. He unclenched his fists with an effort and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. “But you, you’re not worth fighting. You’re dead!”

“The point is we’re both very much alive.”

Grey turned away and walked to the doorway. On the top step he turned back. “Actually, I should thank you and the King for one thing,” he said viciously. “My hatred of you two kept me alive.” Then he strode away and never looked back.

Peter Marlowe gazed out at the camp, then back at the hut and the scattered possessions of the King. He picked up the plate that had served the eggs and noticed that it was already covered with dust. Absently he stood the table upright and put the plate on it, lost in thought. Thoughts of Grey and the King and Samson and Sean and Max and Tex and where was Mac’s wife and was N’ai just a dream and the General and the outsiders and home and Changi.

I wonder, I wonder, he thought helplessly. Is it wrong to adapt? Wrong to survive? What would I have done had I been Grey? What would Grey have done if he’d been me? What is good and what is evil?

And Peter Marlowe knew, tormented, that the only man who could, perhaps, tell him had died in freezing seas on the Murmansk run.

His eyes looked at the things of the past — the table where his arm had rested, the bed where he had recovered, the bench he and the King had shared, the chairs they had laughed in — already ancient and molding.

In the corner was a wad of Japanese dollars. He picked them up and stared at them. Then he let them drop, one by one. As the notes settled, flies clustered on them, swarmed and clustered back once more.

Peter Marlowe stood in the doorway. “Good-by,” he said with finality to all that had belonged to his friend. “Good-by and thanks.”

He walked out of the hut and along the jail wall until he reached the line of trucks that waited patiently at the gate of Changi.

Forsyth was standing beside the last truck, glad beyond gladness that his work was finished. He was exhausted and the mark of Changi was in his eyes. He ordered the convoy to begin.

The first truck moved and the second and the third, and all the trucks left Changi, and only once did Peter Marlowe look back.

When he was far away.

When Changi looked like a pearl in an emerald oyster shell, blue-white under a bowl of tropical skies — when Changi stood on a slight rise and around was a belt of green, and farther off the green gave way to blue-green seas, and the seas to infinity of horizon.

And then, in his turn, he looked back no more.

That night Changi was deserted. By men. But the insects remained.

And the rats.

They were still there. Beneath the hut. And many had died, for they had been forgotten by their captors. But the strongest were still alive.

Adam was tearing at the wire to get at the food outside his cage, fighting the wire as he had been fighting it for as long as he had been within the cage. And his patience was rewarded. The side of the cage ripped apart and he fell on the food and devoured it. And then he rested and with renewed strength he tore at another cage, and in the course of time devoured the flesh within.

Eve joined him and he had his fill of her and she of him and then they foraged in consort. Later the whole side of a trench collapsed, and many cages were opened and the living fed on the dead, and the living-weak became food for the living-strong until the survivors were equally strong. And then they fought among themselves and foraged.

And Adam ruled, for he was the King. Until the day his will to be King deserted him. Then he died, food for a stronger. And the strongest was always the King, not by strength alone, but King by cunning and luck and strength together. Among the rats.