The old man did not reply. He puffed his cigarette and waited for him to continue.
"I have need of a little part of a wireless. Is there a wireless in the village, an old one? Perhaps if it is broken, I could take one such little piece from it."
"Thou knowest that wirelesses are forbidden by the Japanese."
"True, but sometimes there are secret places to hide that which is forbidden."
Sutra pondered. A wireless lay in his hut. Perhaps Allah had sent Tuan Marlowe to remove it. He felt he could trust him because Tuan Abu had trusted him before. But if Tuan Marlowe was caught, outside camp with the wireless, inevitably the village would be involved.
To leave the wireless in the village was also dangerous. Certainly a man could bury it deep in the jungle, but that had not been done. It should have been done but had not been done, for the temptation to listen was always too great. The temptation of the women to hear the "sway-music" was too great. The temptation to know when others did not know was great. Truly it is written, Vanity, all is vanity.
Better, he decided, to let the things that are the pink man's remain with the pink man.
He got up and beckoned Peter Marlowe and led the way through the bead curtains into the darker recesses of the hut. He stopped at the doorway to Sulina's bedroom. She was lying on the bed, her sarong loose and full around her, her eyes liquid.
"Sulina," Sutra said, "go onto the veranda and watch."
"Yes, Father." Sulina slipped off the bed and retied the sarong and adjusted her little baju jacket. Adjusted it, thought Sutra, perhaps a little too much, so the promise of her breasts showed clearly. Yes, it is surely time that the girl married. But whom? There are no eligible men.
He stood aside as the girl brushed past, her eyes low and demure. But there was nothing demure in the sway of her hips, and Peter Marlowe noticed them too. I should take a stick to her, Sutra thought. But he knew that he should not be angry. She was but a girl on the threshold of womanhood. To tempt is but a woman's way — to be desired is but a woman's need.
Perhaps I should give thee to the Englishman. Maybe that would lessen thy appetite. He looks more than man enough! Sutra sighed. Ah to be so young again.
From under the bed he brought out the small radio. "I will trust thee. This wireless is good. It works well. You may take it."
Peter Marlowe almost dropped it in his excitement. "But what about thee? Surely this is beyond price."
"It has no price. Take it with thee."
Peter Marlowe turned the radio over. It was a main set. In good condition. The back was off and the tubes glinted in the oil light. There were many condensers. Many. He held the set nearer the light and carefully examined the guts of it, inch by inch.
The sweat began dripping off his face. Then he found the one, three hundred microfarads.
Now what do I do? he asked himself. Do I just take the condenser? Mac had said he was almost sure. Better to take the whole thing, then if the condenser doesn't fit ours, we've got another. We can cache it somewhere. Yes. It will be good to have a spare.
"I thank thee, Tuan Sutra. It is a gift that I cannot thank thee enough for. I am the thousands of Changi."
"I beg thee protect us here. If a guard sees thee, bury it in the jungle. My village is in thy hands."
"Do not fear. I will guard it with my life."
"I believe thee. But perhaps this is a foolish thing to do."
"There are times, Tuan Sutra, when I truly believe men are only fools."
"Thou art wise beyond thy years."
Sutra gave him a piece of material to cover it, then they returned to the main room. Sulina was in the shadows on the veranda. As they entered she got up.
"May I get thee food or drink, Father?"
Wah-lah, thought Sutra grumpily, she asks me but she means him. "No. Get thee to bed."
Sulina tossed her head prettily but obeyed.
"My daughter deserves a whipping, I think."
"It would be a pity to blemish such a delicate thing," Peter Marlowe said. "Tuan Abu used to say, 'Beat a woman at least once a week and thou wilt have peace in thy house. But do not beat her too hard, lest thou anger her, for then she will surely beat thee back and hurt thee greatly!'"
"I know the saying. It is surely true. Women are beyond comprehension."
They talked about many things, squatting on the veranda looking at the sea. The surf was very slight, and Peter Marlowe asked permission to swim.
"There are no currents," the old Malay told him, "but sometimes there are sharks."
"I will take care."
"Swim only in the shadows near the boats. There have been times when Japanese walk along the shore. There is a gun emplacement three miles down the beach. Keep thy eyes open."
"I will take care."
Peter Marlowe kept to the shadows as he made for the boats. The moon was lowering in the sky. Not too much time, he thought.
By the boats some men and women were preparing and repairing nets, chatting and laughing one to another. They paid no attention to Peter Marlowe as he undressed and walked into the sea.
The water was warm, but there were cold pockets, as in all the Eastern seas, and he found one and tried to stay in it. The feeling of freedom was glorious, and it was almost as though he was a small boy again taking a midnight swim in the Southsea with his father nearby shouting, "Don't go out too far, Peter! Remember the currents!"
He swam underwater and his skin drank the salt-chemic. When he surfaced, he spouted water like a whale and swam lazily for the shallows, where he lay on his back, washed by the surf, and exalted in his freedom.
As he kicked his legs at the surf half swirling his loins, it suddenly struck him that he was quite naked and there were men and women within twenty yards of him. But he felt no embarrassment.
Nakedness had become a way of life in the camp. And the months that he had spent in the village in Java had taught him that there was no shame in being a human being with wants and needs.
The sensual warmth of the sea playing on him, and the rich warmth of the food within him, fired his loins into sudden heat. He turned over abruptly on his belly and pushed, himself back into the sea, hiding.
He stood on the sandy bottom, the water up to his neck, and looked back at the shore and the village. The men and women were still busy repairing their nets. He could see Sutra on the veranda of his hut, smoking in the shadows. Then, to one side, he saw Sulina, caught in the light from the oil lamp, leaning on the window frame. Her sarong was half held against her and she was looking out to sea.
He knew she was looking at him and he wondered, shamed, if she had seen. He watched her and she watched him. Then he saw her take away the sarong and lay it down and pick up a clean white towel to dry the sweat that sheened her body.
She was a child of the sun and a child of the rain. Her long dark hair hid most of her, but she moved it until it caressed her back and she began to braid it. And all the time she watched him, smiling.
Then, suddenly, every flicker of current was a caress, every touch of breeze a caress, every thread of seaweed a caress- fingers of courtesans, crafty with centuries of learning.
I'm going to take you, Sulina.
I'm going to take you, whatever the cost.
He tried to will Sultra to leave the veranda. Sulina watched. And waited. Impatient as he.
I'm going to take her, Sutra. Don't get in my way! Don't. Or by God-- He did not see the King approaching the shadows or notice him stop with surprise when he saw him lying on his belly in the shallows.
"Hey, Peter. Peter!"
Hearing the voice through the fog, Peter Marlowe turned his head slowly and saw the King beckoning to him.
"Peter, c'mon. It's time to beat it."
Seeing the King, he remembered the camp and the wire and the radio and the diamond and the camp and the war and the camp and the radio and the guard they had to pass and would they get back in time and what was the news and how happy Mac would be with the three hundred microfarads and the spare radio that worked. The man-heat vanished. But the pain remained.
He stood up and walked for his clothes.
"You got a nerve," the King said.
"Why?"
"Walking about like that. Can't you see Sutra's girl looking at you?"
"She's seen plenty of men without clothes and there's nothing wrong with that." Without the heat there was no nakedness.
"Sometimes I don't understand you. Where's your modesty?"
"Lost that a long time ago." He dressed quickly and joined the King in the shadows. His loins ached violently. "I'm glad you came along when you did. Thanks."
"Why?"
"Oh, nothing."
"You scared I'd forgotten you?"
Peter Marlowe shook his head. "No. Forget it. But thanks."
The King studied him, then shrugged. "C'mon. We can make it easy now." He led the way past Sutra's hut and waved. "Salamat."
"Wait, Rajah. Won't be a second!"
Peter Marlowe ran up the stairs and into the hut. The radio was still there. Holding it under his arm, wrapped in the cloth, he bowed to Sutra.
"I thank thee. It is in good hands."
"Go with god." Sutra hesitated, then smiled. "Guard thy eyes, my son. Lest when there is food for them, thou canst not eat."
"I will remember." Peter Marlowe felt suddenly hot. I wonder if the stories are true, that the ancients can read thoughts from time to time. "I thank thee. Peace be upon thee."
"Peace be upon thee until our next meeting."
Peter Marlowe turned and left. Sulina was at her window as they passed underneath it. Her sarong covered her now. Their eyes met and caught and a compact was given and received and returned. She watched as they shadowed up the rise towards the jungle and she sent her safe wishes on them until they disappeared.
Sutra sighed, then noiselessly went into Sulina's room. She was standing at the window dreamily, her sarong around her shoulders. Sutra had a thin bamboo in his hands and he cut her neatly and hard, but not too hard, across her bare buttocks.
"That is for tempting the Englishman when I had not told thee to tempt him," he said, trying to sound very angry.
"Yes, Father," she whimpered, and each sob was a knife in his heart. But when she was alone, she curled luxuriously on the mattress and let the tears roll a little, enjoying them. And the heat spread through her, helped by the sting of the blow.
When they were about a mile from the camp, the King and Peter Marlowe stopped for a breather. It was then that the King noticed for the first time the small bundle wrapped in cloth.
He had been leading the way, and so concentrated had he been on the success of the night's work, and so watchful of the darkness against possible danger, that he had not noticed it before.
"What you got? Extra chow?"
He watched while Peter Marlowe grinned and proudly unwrapped the cloth. "Surprise!"
The King's heart missed six beats.
"Why, you goddam son of a bitch! Are you out of your skull?"
"What's the matter?" Peter Marlowe asked, flabbergasted.
"Are you crazy? That'll land us in more trouble than hell knows what. You got no right to risk our necks over a goddam radio. You got no right to use my contacts for your own goddam business."
Peter Marlowe felt the night close in on him as he stared unbelievingly. Then he said, "I didn't mean any harm -"
"Why, you goddam son of a bitch!" the King raged. "Radios are poison."
"But there isn't one in the camp -"
"Tough. You get rid of that goddam thing right now. And I'll tell you something else. We're finished. You and me. You got no right to get me mixed in something without telling me. I ought to kick the shit outta you!"
"Try it." Now Peter Marlowe was angry and raw, as raw as the King. "You seem to forget there's a war on and there's no wireless in the camp. One reason I came was because I hoped I might be able to get a condenser. But now I've a whole wireless — and it works."
"Get rid of it!"
"No."
The two men faced each other, taut and inflexible. For a split second the King readied to cut Peter Marlowe to pieces.
But the King knew anger was of no value when an important decision had to be made, and now that he had gotten over the first nauseating shock, he could be critical and analyse the situation.
First, he had to admit that although it had been bad business to risk so much, the risk had been successful. If Sutra hadn't been good and ready to give Pete the radio he'd've ducked the issue and said, "Hell, there's no radio hereabouts." So no harm was done. And it had been a private deal between Pete and Sutra 'cause Cheng San had already left.
Second, a radio that he knew about and one that wasn't in his hut would be more than useful. He could keep tabs on the situation and he'd know exactly when to make the break. So, all in all, there was no harm done — except that Peter had exceeded his authority. Now take that. If you trust a guy and hire him, you hire his brains. No point in having a guy around just to take orders and sit on his can. And Peter had sure been great during the negotiations. If and when the break came, well, Peter would be on the team. Got to have a guy to talk the lingo. Yeah, and Pete wasn't scared. So all in all, the King knew he'd be crazy to rip into him before his mind told him to use the new situation in a businesslike way. Yep, he had blown his stack like a two-year-old.
"Pete." He saw the challenging set to Peter Marlowe's jaw. Wonder if I could take the son of a bitch. Sure. Got him by fifty — maybe eighty pounds.
"Yes?"
"I'm sorry I blew my stack. The radio's a good idea."
"What?"
"I just said I was sorry. It's a great idea."
"I don't understand you," Peter Marlowe said helplessly. "One moment you're a crazy man and the next you're saying that it's a good idea."
The King liked this son of a bitch. Got guts. "Eh, radios give me the creeps, no future in them." Then he laughed softly. "No resale value!"
"You're really not fed up with me any more?"
"Hell no. We're buddies." He punched him playfully. "I was just put out that you didn't tell me. That wasn't good."
"I'm sorry. You're right. I apologise. It was ridiculous and unfair. Christ, I wouldn't want to jeopardise you in any way. Truly I'm sorry."
"Shake. I'm sorry I blew my stack. But next time, tell me before you do anything."
Peter Marlowe shook his hand. "My word on it."
"Good enough." Well, thank God there was no sweat now. "So what the hell do you mean by condenser?"
Peter Marlowe told him about the three water bottles.
"So all Mac needs is the one condenser, right?"
"He said he thinks so."
"You know what I think? I think it'd be better just to take out the condenser and dump the radio. Bury it here. It'd be safe. Then if yours doesn't work we could always come back and get it. Mac could easily put the condenser back. To hide this radio in the camp'd be real tough, and it'd be a helluva temptation just to plug the goddam thing in, wouldn't it?"
"Yes." Peter Marlowe looked at the King searchingly. "You'll come back with me to get it?"
"Sure."
"If — for any reason — I can't come back, would you come for it? If Mac or Larkin asked you to?"
The King thought a moment. "Sure."
"Your word?"
"Yes." The King smiled faintly. "You put quite a store by the 'word' jazz, don't you, Peter?"
"How else can you judge a man?"
It took Peter Marlowe only a moment to snap the two wires joining the condenser to the innards of the radio. Another minute and the radio was wrapped in its protective cloth and a small hole scraped away in the jungle earth. They put a flat stone on the bottom of the hole, then covered the radio with a good thickness of leaves and smoothed the earth back and pulled a tree trunk over the spot. A couple of weeks in the dampness of its tomb would destroy its usefulness, but two weeks would be enough time to come back and pick it up if the bottles still didn't work.
Peter Marlowe wiped the sweat away, for a sudden layer of heat had settled on them and the sweat smell frenzied the increasing waves of insects clouding them. "These blasted bugs!" He looked up at the night sky, judging the time a little nervously. "Do you think we'd better go on now?"
"Not yet. It's only four-fifteen. Our best time is just before dawn. We'd better wait another ten minutes, then we'll be in position in plenty of time." He grinned. "First time I went through the wire I was scared and anxious too. Coming back I had to wait at the wire. I had to wait half an hour or more before the coast was clear. Jesus! I sweated." He waved his hands at the insects. "Goddam bugs."
They sat awhile listening to the constant movement of the jungle. Swaths of fireflies cut patches of brilliance in the small rain ditches beside the path.
"Just like Broadway at night," said the King.
"I saw a film once called Times Square. It was a newspaper yarn. Let me see. I think it was Cagney."
"Don't remember that one. But Broadway, you got to see it for real. It's just like day in the middle of the night. Huge neon signs and lights all over the place."
"Is that your home? New York?"
"No. I've been there a couple of times. Been all over."
"Where's your home?"
The King shrugged. "My pa moves around."
"What's his work?"
"That's a good question. Little of this, little of that. He's drunk most of the time."
"Oh! That must be pretty rough."
"Tough on a kid."
"Do you have any family?"
"My ma's dead. She died when I was three. Got no brothers or sisters. My pa brought me up. He's a bum, but he taught me a lot about life. Number one, poverty's a sickness. Number two, money's everything. Number three, it doesn't matter how you get it as long as you get it."
"You know, I've never thought much about money. I suppose in the service — well, there's always a monthly pay check, there's always a certain standard of living, so money doesn't mean much."
"How much does your father make?"
"I don't know exactly. I suppose around six hundred pounds a year."
"Jesus. That's only twenty-four hundred bucks. Why, I make thirteen hundred as a corporal myself. I sure as hell wouldn't work for that nothing dough."
"Perhaps it's different in the States. But in England you can get by quite well. Of course our car is quite old, but that doesn't matter, and at the end of your service you get a pension."
"How much?"
"Half your pay approximately."
"That seems to me to be nothing. Can't understand why people go in the service. Guess because they're failures as people."
The King saw Peter Marlowe stiffen slightly. "Of course," he added quickly, "that doesn't apply in England. I was talking about the States."
"The service is a good life for a man. Enough money — an exciting life in all parts of the world. Social life's good. Then, well, an officer always has a great deal of prestige." Peter Marlowe added almost apologetically, "You know, tradition and all that."
"You going to stay in after the war?"
"Of course."
"Seems to me," the King said, picking at his teeth with a little thread of bark, "that it's too easy. There's no excitement or future in taking orders from guys who are mostly bums. That's the way it looks to me. And hell, you don't get paid nothing. Why Pete, you should take a look at the States. There's nothing like it in the world. No place. Every man for himself and every man's as good as the next guy. And all you have to do is figure an angle and be better than the next guy. Now that's excitement."
"I don't think I'd fit in. Somehow I know I'm not a moneymaker. I'm better off doing what I was born to do."
"That's nonsense. Just because your old man's in the service -"
"Goes back to 1720. Father to son. That's a lot of tradition to try to fight."
The King grunted. "That's quite a time!" Then he added, "I only know about my dad and his dad. Before that — nothing. Least, my folks were supposed to have come over from the old country in the '80's."
"From England?"
"Hell no. I think Germany. Or maybe Middle Europe. Who the hell cares? I'm an American and that's all that counts."
"Marlowes are in the service and that's that!"
"Hell no. It's up to you. Look. Take you now. You're in the chips 'cause you're using your brains. You'd be a great businessman if you wanted to. You can talk like a Wog, right? I need your brains. I'm paying for the brains — now don't get on your goddam high horse. That's American style. You pay for brains. It's got nothing to do with us being buddies. Nothing. If I didn't pay, then I'd be a bum."
"That's wrong. You don't have to be paid to help a bit."
"You sure as hell need an education. I'd like to get you in the States and put you on the road. With your phony Limey accent you'd knock the broads dead. You'd clean up. We'll put you in ladies' underwear."
"Holy God." Peter smiled with him, but the smile was tinged with horror. "I could no more try to sell something than fly."
"You can fly."
"I meant without a plane."
"Sure. I was making a joke."
The King glanced at his watch. "Times goes slow when you're waiting."
"I sometimes think we'll never get out of this stinking hole."
"Eh, Uncle Sam's got the Nips on the run. Won't take long. Even if it does, what the hell? We've got it made, buddy. That's all that counts."
The King looked at his watch. "We'd better take a powder."
"What?"
"Get going."
"Oh!" Peter Marlowe got up. "Lead on, Macduff!" he said happily.
"Huh?"
"Just a saying."It means 'Let's take a powder.'"
Happy now that they were friends once more, they started into the jungle. Crossing the road was easy. Now that they had passed the area patrolled by the roving guard, they followed a short path and were within quarter of a mile of the wire. The King led, calm and confident. Only the clouds of fireflies and mosquitoes made their progress unpleasant "Jesus. The bugs are bad."
"Yes. If I had my way I'd fry them all," Peter Marlowe whispered back.
Then they saw the bayonet pointing at them, and stopped dead in their tracks.
The Japanese was sitting leaning against a tree, and his eyes were fixed on them, a frightening grin stretching his face, and the bayonet was held propped on his knees.
Their thoughts were the same. Christ! Utram Road! I'm dead. Kill!
The King was the first to react. He leaped at the guard and tore the bayoneted rifle away, rolled as he twisted aside, then got to his feet, the rifle butt high to smash it into the man's face. Peter Marlowe was diving for the guard's throat. A sixth sense warned him and his clutching hands avoided the throat and he slammed into the tree.
"Get away from him!" Peter Marlowe sprang to his feet and grabbed the King and pulled him out of the way.
The guard had not moved. The same wide-eyed malevolent grin was on his face.
"What the hell?" the King gasped, panicked, the rifle still held high above his head.
"Get away! For Christ's sake hurry!" Peter Marlowe jerked the rifle out of the King's hands and threw it beside the dead Japanese. Then the King saw the snake in the man's lap.
"Jesus," he croaked as he went forward to take a closer look.
Peter Marlowe caught him frantically. "Get away! Run, for God's sake!"
He took to his heels, away from the trees, carelessly crashing through the undergrowth. The King raced after him, and only when they had reached the clearing did they stop.
"You gone crazy?" The King winced, his breathing torturing him. "It was only a goddam snake!"
"That was a flying snake," Peter Marlowe wheezed. "They live in trees. Instant death, old man. They climb the trees, then flatten their bodies and sort of spiral down to earth and fall on their victims. There was one in his lap and one under him. There was sure to be more 'cause they're always in nests."
"Jesus!"
"Actually, old man, we ought to be grateful to those bloody things," Peter Marlowe said, trying to slow his breathing. "That Jap was still warm. He hadn't been dead more than a couple of minutes. He would've caught us if he hadn't been bitten. And we should thank God for our quarrel. It gave the snakes time. We'll never be closer to pranging! To death! Never!"
"I don't ever want to see a goddam Jap with a goddam bayonet pointing at me in the middle of the goddam night again. C'mon. Better get away from here."
When they were in position near the wire, they settled down to wait. They couldn't make their dash to the wire yet. Too many people about. Always people walking about, zombies walking the camp, the sleepless and the almost asleep.
It was good to rest, and both felt their knees shaking and were thankful to be alive again.
Jesus, this has been a night, the King thought. If it hadn't been for Pete I'd be a dead duck. I was going to put my foot in the Jap's lap as I smashed down the rifle. My foot was six inches away. Snakes! Hate snakes. Sons of bitches!
And as the King calmed, his esteem for Peter Marlowe increased.
"That's the second time you saved my neck," he whispered.
"You got to the rifle first. If the Jap hadn't been dead, you'd've killed him. I was slow."
"Eh, I was just in front." The King stopped, then grinned. "Hey Peter. We make a good team. With your looks and my brains, we do all right."
Peter Marlowe began to laugh. He tried to hold it inside and rolled on the ground. The choked laughter and the tears streaming his face infected the King, and his laughter too began to contort him. At last Peter Marlowe gasped, "For Christ sake, shut up."
"You started it."
"I did not."
"Sure you did, you said, you said--" But the King couldn't continue. He wiped the tears away. "You see that Jap? That son of a bitch was just sitting like an ape -"
"Look!"
Their laughter vanished.
On the other side of the wire Grey was walking the camp. They saw him stop outside the American hut. They saw him wait in the shadows, then look out across the wire, almost directly at them.
"You think he knows?" Peter Marlowe whispered. "Don't know. But sure as hell we can't risk going in for a while. We'll wait."
They waited. The sky began to lighten. Grey stood in the shadows looking at the American hut, then around the camp. The King knew from where Grey stood he could see his bed. He knew that Grey could see he wasn't in it. But the covers were turned back and he could be with the other sleepless, walking the camp. No law against being out of your bed. But hurry up, get to hell out of there, Grey.
"We'll have to go soon," the King said. "Light's against us."
"How about another spot?"
"He's got the whole fence covered, way up to the corner."
"You think there's been a leak — someone sneaked?"
"Could be. Maybe just a coincidence." The King bit his lip angrily.
"How about the latrine area?"
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