"Don't be foolish. You know the show starts at eight-thirty."

'There's plenty of time -"

"For the love of God, Robin, don't! You'll mess up my makeup!"

'To hell with your makeup," he said. "I won't be here tomorrow."

"Perhaps that's just as well. I don't think you're very kind or very thoughtful."

"What do you expect me to be like? Is it wrong for a husband to want his wife?"

"Stop shouting, My God, the neighbors will hear you."

"Let 'em, by God!" He went towards her, but she slammed the bathroom door in his face.

When she came back into the room she was cold and fragrant. She wore a bra and half slip and panties under the slip, and stockings held by a tiny belt. She picked up the cocktail dress and began to step into it.

"Trina," he began.

"No."

He stood over her, and his knees had no strength in them. "I'm sorry I - I shouted."

"It doesn't matter."

He bent to kiss her shoulders, but she moved away.

"I see you've been drinking again," she said, wrinkling her nose.

Then his rage burst. "I only had one drink, damn you to hell," he shouted and spun her around and ripped the dress off her and ripped the bra off her and threw her on the bed. And he ripped at her clothes until she was naked but for the shreds of stockings clinging to her legs. And all the time she lay still, staring up at him.

"Oh God, Trina, I love you," he croaked helplessly, then backed away, hating himself for what he had done and what he had nearly done.

Trina picked up the shreds of the clothes. As though in a dream, he watched as she went back to the mirror and sat before it and began to repair her makeup and started to hum a tune, over and over.

Then he slammed the door and went back to his unit and the next day he tried to phone her. There was no answer. It was too late to go back to London, in spite of his desperate pleading. The unit moved to Greenock for embarkation and every day, every minute of every day, he phoned her, but there was no answer, and no answer to his frantic telegrams, and then the coast of Scotland was swallowed by the night, and the night was only ship and sea, and he was only tears.

Grey shuddered under the Malayan sun. Ten thousand miles away. It wasn't Trina's fault, he thought, weak with self-disgust. It wasn't her, it was me. I was too anxious. Maybe I'm insane. Maybe I should see a doctor. Maybe I'm oversexed. It's got to be me, not her. Oh Trina, my love.

"Are you all right, Grey?" Colonel Jones asked.

"Oh, yes, sir, thank you." Grey came to and discovered that he was leaning weakly against the supply hut. "It was - was just a touch of fever."

"You don't look too good. Sit down for a minute."

"It's all right, thank you. I'll - I'll just get some water."

Grey went over to the tap and took off his shirt and dunked his head under the stream of water. Bloody fool, to let yourself go like that! he thought. But in spite of his resolve, inexorably his mind returned to Trina. Tonight, tonight I'll let myself think of her, he promised. Tonight, and every night. To hell with trying to live without food. Without hope. I want to die. How much I want to die.

Then he saw Peter Marlowe walking up the hill. In his hands was an American mess can and he was holding it carefully. Why?

"Marlowe!" Grey moved in front of him.

"What the hell do you want?"

"What's in there?"

"Food."

"No contraband?"

"Stop picking on me, Grey."

"I'm not picking on you. Judge a man by his friends."

"Just stay away from me."

"I can't, I'm afraid, old boy. It's my job. I'd like to see that. Please."

Peter Marlowe hesitated. Grey was within his right to look and within his right to take him to Colonel Smedly-Taylor if he stepped out of line. And in his pocket were the twenty quinine tablets. No one was supposed to have private stores of medicine. If they were discovered he would have to tell where he had got them and then the King would have to tell where he got them and anyway, Mac needed them now. So he opened the can.

The katchang idju-bully gave off an unearthly fragrance to Grey. His stomach turned over and he tried to keep from showing his hunger. He tipped the mess can carefully so that he could see the bottom. There was nothing in it other than the bully and the katchang idju, delicious.

"Where did you get it?"

"I was given it."

"Did he give it to you?"

"Yes."

"Where are you taking it?"

"To the hospital."

"For whom?"

"For one of the Americans."

"Since when does a Flight Lieutenant DFC run errands for a corporal?"

"Go to hell!"

"Maybe I will. But before I do I'm going to see you and him get what's coming to you."

Easy, Peter Marlowe told himself, easy. If you take a sock at Grey you'll really be up the creek.

"Are you finished with the questions, Grey?"

"For the moment. But remember -" Grey went a pace closer and the smell of the food tortured him. "You and your damned crook friend are on the list. I haven't forgotten about the lighter."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I've done nothing against orders."

"But you will, Marlowe. If you sell your soul, you've got to pay sometime."

"You're out of your head!"

"He's a crook, a liar and a thief -"

"He is my friend, Grey. He's not a crook and not a thief ..."

"But he is a liar."

"Everyone's a liar. Even you. You denied the wireless. You've got to be a liar to stay alive. You've got to do a lot of things ..."

"Like kissing a corporal's arse to get food?"

The vein in Peter Marlowe's forehead swelled like a thin black snake. But his voice was soft and the venom honey-coated. "I ought to thrash you, Grey. But it's so ill-bred to brawl with the lower classes. Unfair, you know."

"By God, Marlowe -" began Grey, but he was beyond speech, and the madness in him rose up and choked him.

Peter Marlowe looked deep into Grey's eyes and knew that he had won. For a moment he gloried in the destruction of the man, and then his fury evaporated and he stepped around Grey and walked up to the hill. No need to prolong a battle once it's won. That's ill-bred, too.

By the Lord God, Grey swore brokenly, I'll make you pay for that. I'll have you on your knees begging my forgiveness. And I'll not forgive you. Never!

Mac took six of the tablets and winced as Peter Marlowe helped him up a little to drink the water held to his lips. He swallowed and sank back.

"Bless you, Peter," he whispered. "That'll do the trick. Bless you, laddie." He lapsed into sleep, his face burning, his spleen stretched to bursting, and his brain took flight in nightmares. He saw his wife and son floating in the ocean depths, eaten by fish and screaming from the deep. And he saw himself there, in the deep, tearing at the sharks, but his hands were not strong enough and his voice not loud enough, and the sharks tore huge pieces of the flesh of his flesh and there were always more to tear. And the sharks had voices and their laughter was of demons, but angels stood by and told him to hurry, hurry, Mac, hurry or you'll be too late. Then there were no sharks, only yellow men with bayonets and gold teeth, sharpened to needles, surrounding him and his family on the bottom of the sea. Their bayonets huge, sharp. Not them, me! he screamed. Me, kill me! And he watched, impotent, while they killed his wife and killed his son and then they turned on him and the angels watched and whispered in chorus, Hurry, Mac, hurry. Run. Run. Run away and you'll be safe. And he ran, not wanting to run, ran away from his son and his wife and their blood-filled sea, and he fled through the blood and strangled. But he still ran and they chased him, the sharks with slant eyes and gold needle teeth with their rifles and bayonets, tearing at his flesh until he was at bay. He fought and he pleaded but they would not stop and now he was surrounded. And Yoshima shoved the bayonet deep into his guts. And the pain was huge. Beyond agony. Yoshima jerked the bayonet out and he felt his blood pour out of him, through the jagged hole, through all the openings of his body, through the very pores of his skin until only the soul was left in the husk. Then, at last, his soul sped forth and joined with the blood of the sea. A great, exquisite relief filled him, infinite, and he was glad that he was dead.

Mac opened his eyes. His blankets were soaked. His fever had passed. And he knew that he was alive once more.

Peter Marlowe was still sitting beside the bed. Night somewhere behind him.

"Hello, laddie." The words were so faint that Peter Marlowe had to bend forward to catch them.

"You all right, Mac?"

"All right, laddie. It's almost worth the fever, to feel so good. I'll sleep now. Bring me some food tomorrow."

Mac closed his eyes and was asleep. Peter Marlowe pulled the blankets off him and dried the husk of the man.

"Where can I get some dry blankets, Steven?" he asked, as he caught sight of the orderly hurrying through the ward.

"I don't know, sir," Steven said. He had seen this young man many times. And liked him. Perhaps - but no, Lloyd would be terribly jealous. Another day. There's plenty of time. "Perhaps I can help you, sir."

Steven went over to the fourth bed and took the blanket off the man, then deftly slid the bottom blanket off and came back. "Here," he said. "Use these."

"What about him?"

"Oh," Steven said with a gentle smile. "He doesn't need them any more. The detail's due. Poor boy."

"Oh!" Peter Marlowe looked across to see who it was, but it was a face he didn't know. "Thanks," he said and began to fix the bed.

"Here," Steven said. "Let me. I can do it much better than you." He was proud of the way he could make a bed without hurting the patient.

"Now don't you worry about your friend," he said, "I'll see that he's all right." He tucked Mac in like a child. "There." He stroked Mac's head for a moment, then took out a handkerchief and wiped the remains of the sweat off Mac's forehead. "He'll be fine in two days. If you have some extra food -" but he stopped and looked at Peter Marlowe and the tears gathered in his eyes. "How silly of me. But don't you fret, Steven will find something for him. Now don't you worry. There's nothing more you can do tonight. You go off and have a good night's rest. Go on, there's a good boy."

Speechless, Peter Marlowe allowed himself to be led outside. Steven smiled good night and went back inside.

From the darkness Peter Marlowe watched Steven smooth a fevered brow and hold an agued hand, and caress away the night-devils and soften the night-cries and adjust the covers and help a man to drink and help a man to vomit, and all the time a lullaby, delicate and sweet. When Steven came to Bed Four, he stopped and looked down on the corpse. He straightened the limbs and crossed the hands, then took off his smock and covered the body, his touch a benediction. Steven's slim smooth torso and slim smooth legs glowed in the glittering half light.

"You poor boy," he whispered and looked around the tomb. "Poor boys. Oh, my poor boys," and he wept for them all.

Peter Marlowe turned away into the night, filled with pity, ashamed that Steven had once upon a time disgusted him.

Chapter 12.

As Peter Marlowe neared the American hut he was full of misgivings. He was sorry that he had agreed so readily to interpret for the King, and at the same time upset that he was unhappy about doing it. You're a fine friend, he told himself, after all he's done for you.

The sinking in his stomach increased. Just like before you go up for a mission, he thought. No, not like that. This feeling's like when you've been sent for by the headmaster. The other's just as painful, but at the same time mixed with pleasure. Like the village. That makes your heart take flight. To take such a chance, just for the excitement - or in truth for the food or the girl that might be there.

He wondered for the thousandth tune just why the King went and what he did there. But to ask would be impolite and he knew that he only had to have a little patience to find out. That was another reason he liked the King. The way that he volunteered nothing and kept most of his thoughts to himself. That's the English way, Peter Marlowe told himself contentedly. Just let out a little at a time, when you're in the mood. What you are or who you are is your own affair - until you wish to share with a friend. And a friend never asks. It has to be freely given or not at all.

Like the village. My God, he thought, that shows how much he thinks of you, to open up like that. Just to come out and say do you want to come along, the next time I go.

Peter Marlowe knew that it was an insane thing to do. To go to the village. But perhaps not so insane now. Now there was a real reason. An important reason. To try to get a part to fix the wireless - or to get a wireless, a whole one. Yes. This makes the risk worthwhile.

But at the same time he knew that he would have gone just because he had been asked to go, and because of the might-be-food and might-be girl.

He saw the King deep in a shadow, beside a hut, talking to another shadow. Their heads were close together and their voices were inaudible. So intent were they that Peter Marlowe decided to pass the King by, and he began to mount the stairs into the American hut, crossing the shaft of light.

"Hey, Peter," the King called out.

Peter Marlowe stopped.

"Be right with you, Peter." The King turned back to the other figure. "Think you'd better wait here, Major. Soon as he arrives I'll give you the word."

"Thank you," the small man said, his voice wet with embarrassment.

"Have some tobacco," the King said, and it was accepted avidly. Major Prouty backed deeper into the shadows but kept his eyes on the King as he walked the space to his own hut.

"Missed you, buddy," the King said to Peter Marlowe and punched him playfully. "How's Mac?"