'Tell him okay," he grumbled to Peter Marlowe. "He's too tough for me. Tell him I'll have to give up my goddamned commission to make up the difference. The son of a bitch won't accept a penny less. But where the hell's my profit in that?"

"Thou art a man of iron," Peter Marlowe said for the King. "I will tell the miserable owner colonel that he can have his price, but to do this I will have to give up my commission to make up the difference between the price that thou hast offered and the price that he, miserable man, will accept. But where is my profit in that? Business is honorable, but even between friends there should be profit on both sides."

"Because thou art my friend, I will add one hundred. Then thy face is saved and the next time thou needst not take the business of so avaricious and miserly a patron."

"I thank thee. Thou art cleverer than I."

The King handed over the watch in its little chamois case and counted the money from the huge roll of new counterfeit bills. Twenty-two hundred were in a neat pile. Then Torusumi handed over the extra hundred. Smiling. He had outsmarted the King, whose reputation as a fine businessman was common knowledge among all the guards. He could sell the Omega easily for five thousand dollars. Well, at least three-five. Not a bad profit for one guard duty.

Torusumi left the opened pack of Kooas and another full pack as compensation for the bad deal the King had made. After all, he thought, there's a long war ahead, and business is good. And if the war is short-well, either way, the King would be a useful ally.

"You did very well, Peter."

"I thought he was going to bust."

"So did I. Make yourself at home, I'll be back in a minute."

The King found Prouty still in the shadows. He gave him nine hundred dollars, the amount that the bitterly unhappy major had reluctantly agreed to, and collected his commission, ninety dollars.

"Things are getting tougher every day," the King said.

Yes, they are, you bastard, Prouty thought to himself. Still, eight-ten isn't too bad for a phony Omega. He chuckled to himself that he'd taken the King.

"Terribly disappointed, Corporal. Last thing I owned." Let's see, he thought happily, it'll take us a couple of weeks to get another in shape. Timsen, the Aussie, can handle the next sale.

Suddenly Prouty saw Grey approaching. He scuttled into the maze of huts, melding with the shadows, safe. The King vaulted through a window into the American hut and joined the poker game and hissed at Peter Marlowe, "Pick up the cards for Chrissake." The two men whose places they had taken calmly kibitzed the game and watched the King deal out the stack of bills until there was a small pile in front of each man, and Grey stood in the doorway.

No one paid him any attention until the King looked up pleasantly. "Good evening. Sir."

"Evening." The sweat was running down Grey's face. "That's a lot of money." Mother of God, I haven't seen so much money in my life. Not all in one place. And what I couldn't do with just a portion of it.

"We like to gamble, sir."

Grey turned back into the night. God damn Samson to hell!

The men played a few hands until the all-clear was sounded. Then the King scooped up the money and gave each man a ten and they chorused their thanks. He gave Dino ten for each of the outside guards, jerked his head at Peter, and together they went back to his end of the hut.

"We deserve a cuppa Joe." The King was a little tired. The strain of being on top was fatiguing. He stretched out on the bed and Peter Marlowe made the coffee.

"I feel I didn't bring you much luck," Peter Marlowe said quietly.

"Huh?"

"The sale. It didn't go too well, did it?"

The King roared. "According to plan. Here," he said, and peeled off a hundred and ten dollars and gave them to Peter Marlowe. "You owe me two bucks."

"Two bucks?" He looked at the money. "What's this for?"

"It's your commission."

"For what?"

"Jesus, you don't think I'd put you to work for nothing, do you? What d'you take me for?"

"I said I was happy to do it. I'm not entitled to anything just for interpreting."

"You're crazy. A hundred and eight bucks - ten percent. It isn't a handout. It's yours. You earned it."

"You're the one who's crazy. How in the hell can I earn a hundred and eight dollars from a sale of two thousand, two hundred dollars when that was the the total price and there was no profit? I'm not taking the money he gave you."

"You can't use it? You or Mac or Larkin?"

"Of course I can. But that's not fair. And I don't understand why a hundred and eight dollars."

"Peter, I don't know how you've survived in this world up to now. Look, I'll make it simple for you. I made ten hundred and eighty bucks on the deal. Ten percent is one hundred and eight. A hundred and ten less two is one hundred and eight. I gave you one hundred and ten. You owe me two bucks."

"How in the hell did you make all that when -"

"I'll tell you. Lesson number one in business. You buy cheap and sell dear, if you can. Take tonight, for instance." The King happily explained how he had outfoxed Prouty. When he finished, Peter Marlowe was silent for a long time. Then he said, "It seems - well, that seems dishonest."

"Nothing dishonest about it, Peter. All business is founded oa the theory that you sell higher than you buy - or it costs you."

"Yes. But doesn't your-profit margin seem a little high?"

"Hell, no. We all knew the watch was a phony. Except Torusumi. You don't mind screwing him, do you? Though he can off-load it on a Chinese, easy, for a profit."

"I suppose not."

"Right. Take Prouty. He was selling a phony. Maybe he'd stolen it, hell, I don't know. But he got a poor price 'cause he wasn't a good trader. If he'd had the guts to take the watch back and start down the street, then I'd have stopped him and upped the price. He could have bartered me. He doesn't give a goddam in hell about me if the watch backfires. Part of the deal is that I always protect my customers - so Prouty's safe and knows it - when I may be out on a limb."

"What'll you do when Torusumi finds out and does come back?"

"He'll come back," the King grinned suddenly and the warmth of it was a joy to see, "but not to scream. Hell, if he did that he'd be losing face. He'd never dare admit that I'd outsmarted him in a deal. Why, his pals'd rib him to death if I spread the word. He'll come back, sure, but to try to outsmart me next time."

He lit a cigarette and gave one to Peter Marlowe.

"So," he continued blithely, "Prouty got nine hundred less my ten percent commission. Low but not unfair, and don't forget, you and I were taking all the risk. Now as to our costs. I had to pay a hundred bucks to get the watch burnished and cleaned and get a new glass. Twenty for Max, who heard about the prospective sale, ten apiece for the four guards and another sixty for the boys for covering with the game. That totals eleven twenty. Eleven twenty from twenty-two hundred is a thousand and eighty bucks even. Ten percent of this is one hundred and eight. Simple."

Peter Marlowe shook his head. So many figures and so much money and so much excitement. One moment they were just talking to a Korean, and the next he had a hundred and ten - a hundred and eight-dollars handed to him as simple as that. Holy mackerel, he thought exultantly. That's twenty-odd coconuts or lots of eggs. Mac! Now we can give him some food. Eggs, eggs are the thing!

Suddenly he heard his father talking, heard him as clearly as though he were beside him. And he could see him, erect and thickset in his Royal Navy uniform "Listen, my son. There is such a thing as honor. If you deal with a man, tell him the truth and then he must of necessity tell you the truth or he has no honor. Protect another man as you expect him to protect you. And if a man has no honor, do not associate with him for he will taint you. Remember, there are honorable people and dirty people. There is honorable money and duty money."

"But this isn't dirty money," he heard himself answer, "not the way the King has just explained it. They were taking him for a sucker. He was cleverer than they."

"True. But it is dishonest to sell the property of a man and tell him that the price was so far less than the real price."

"Yes, but..."

"There are no buts, my son. True there are degrees of honor - but one man can have only one code. Do what you like. It's your choice. Some things a man must decide for himself. Sometimes you have to adapt to circumstances. But for the love of God guard yourself and your conscience - no one else will - and know that a bad decision at the right time can destroy you far more surely than any bullet!"

Peter Marlowe weighed the money and pondered what he could do with it, he, Mac and Larkin. He struck a balance and the scales were heavy on one side. The money rightly belonged to Prouty and his unit. Perhaps it was the last thing they possessed in the world. Perhaps because of the stolen money, Prouty and his unit, none of whom he knew, perhaps they would die. All because of his greed. Against this was Mac. His need was now. And Larkin's. And mine. Mine too, don't forget me. He remembered the King saying, "No need to take a handout," and he had been taking handouts. Many of them.

What to do, dear God, what to do? But God didn't answer.

"Thanks. Thanks for the money," Peter Marlowe said. He put it away. And all of him was conscious of its burn.

"Thanks nothing. You earned it. It's yours. You worked for it. I didn't give you anything."

The King was jubilant and his joy smothered Peter Marlowe's self-disgust. "C'mon," he said. "We got to celebrate our first deal together. With my brains and your Malay, why, we'll live a life of Riley yet!" And the King fried some eggs.

While they ate, the King told Peter Marlowe how he had sent the boys out to buy extra stocks of food when he heard that Yoshima had found the radio.

"Got to gamble in this life, Peter boy. Sure. I figured that the Japs'd make life tough for a while. But only for those who weren't prepared to figure an angle. Look at Tex. Poor son of a bitch hadn't any dough to buy a lousy egg. Look at you and Larkin. Wasn't for me Mac'd still be suffering, poor bastard. Of course, I'm happy to help. Like to help my friends. A man's got to help his friends or there's no point in anything."

"I suppose so," Peter Marlowe replied. What an awful thing to say. He was hurt by the King and did not understand that the American mind is simple in some things, as simple as the English mind. An American is proud of his money-making capability, rightly so. An Englishman, such as Peter Marlowe, is proud to get killed for the flag. Rightly so.

He saw the King glance out of the window and saw the snap of the eyes. He followed the glance and saw a man coming up the path. As the man walked into the shaft of light Peter Marlowe recognized him. Colonel Samson.

When Samson saw the King, he waved amicably. "Evening, Corporal," he said and continued his walk past the hut.

The King peeled off ninety dollars and handed it to Peter Marlowe.

"Do me a favor, Peter. Put a ten with this and give it to that guy."

"Samson? Colonel Samson?"

"Sure. You'll find him up near the corner of the jail."

"Give him the money? Just like that? But what do I say to him?"

"Tell him it's from me."

My God, thought Peter Marlowe, appalled, is Samson on the payroll? He can't be! I can't do it. You're my friend, but I can't go up to a colonel and say here's a hundred bucks from the King. I can't!

The King saw through his friend. Oh Peter, he thought, you're such a goddam child. Then he added, To hell with you! But he threw the last thought away and cursed himself. Peter was the only guy in the camp he had ever wanted for his friend, the only guy he needed. So he decided to teach him the facts of life. It's going to be tough, Peter boy, and it may hurt you a lot, but I'm going to teach you if I have to break you. You're going to survive and you're going to be my partner.

"Peter," he said, "there are times when you have to trust me. I'll never put you behind the eightball. As long as you're my friend, trust me. If you don't want to be my friend, fine. But I'd like you to be my friend."

Peter Marlowe knew that here was another moment of truth. Take the money in trust - or leave it and be gone.

A man's life is always at a crossroads. And not his life alone, not if he's a man. Always others in the balance.

He knew that one path risked Mac's and Larkin's lives, along with his own, for without the King they were as defenseless as any in the camp; without the King there was no village, for he knew that he would never risk it alone - even for the wireless. The other path would jeopardize a heritage or destroy a past. Samson was a power in the Regular Army, a man of caste, position and wealth, and Peter Marlowe was born to be an officer - as his father before him and his son after him - and such an accusation could never be forgotten. And if Samson was a hireling, then everything he had been taught to believe would have no value.

Peter Marlowe watched himself as he took the money and went into the night and walked up the path and found Colonel Samson, and heard the man whisper, "Oh hello, you're Marlowe, aren't you?"

He saw himself hand over the money. "The King asked me to give you this."

He saw the mucused eyes light up as Samson greedily counted the money and tucked it away in his threadbare pants.

"Thank him," he heard Samson whisper, "and tell him I stopped Grey for an hour. That was as long as I could hold him. That was long enough, wasn't it?"

"It was enough. Just enough." Then he heard himself say, "Next time keep him longer, or send word, you stupid bugger!"

"I kept him as long as I could. Tell the King I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry and it won't happen again. I promise. Listen, Marlowe. You know how it is sometimes. It gets a bit difficult."

"I'll tell him you're sorry."

"Yes, yes, thank you, thank you, Marlowe. I envy you, Marlowe. Being so close to the King. You're lucky."

Peter Marlowe returned to the American hut. The King thanked him and he thanked the King again and walked out into the night.

He found a small promontory overlooking the wire and wished himself into his Spitfire soaring the sky alone, up, up, up in the sky, where all is clean and pure, where there are no lousy people - like me - where life is simple and you can talk to God and be of God, without shame.

Chapter 13.

Peter Marlowe lay on his bunk drifting in half sleep. Around him men were waking, getting up, going to relieve themselves, preparing for work parties, going and coming from the hut. Mike was already grooming his mustache, fifteen inches from tip to tip; he had sworn never to cut it until he was released. Barstairs was already standing on his head practicing Yoga, Phil Mint already picking his nose, the bridge game already started, Raylins already doing his singing exercises, Myner already doing scales on his wooden keyboard, Chaplain Grover already trying to cheer everyone up, and Thomas was already cursing the lateness of breakfast. Above Peter Marlowe, Ewart, who had the top bunk, groaned out of sleep and hung his legs over the bunk. "Mahlu on the night!"

"You were kicking like hell." Peter Marlowe had said the same remark many times, for Ewart always slept restlessly.

"Sorry."

Ewart always said, Sorry. He jumped down heavily. He had no place in Changi. His place was five miles away, in the civilian camp, where his wife and family were - perhaps were. No contact had ever been allowed between the camps.

"Let's burn the bed after we've showered," he said yawning. He was short and dark and fastidious.

"Good idea."

"Never think we did it three days ago. How did you sleep?"

"Same as usual." But Peter Marlowe knew that nothing was the same, not after accepting the money, not after Samson.

The impatient line for breakfast was already forming as they carried the iron bunk out of the hut. They lifted the top bed off and pulled out the iron posts which fitted into slots on the lower one. Then they got coconut husks and twigs from their section under the hut and built fires under the four legs.

While the legs were heating, they took burning fronds and held them under the longitudinal bars and under the springs. Soon the earth beneath the bed was black with bedbugs.

"For Christ's sake, you two," Phil shouted at them. "Do you have to do that before breakfast?" He was a sour, pigeon-chested man with violent red hair.

They paid no attention. Phil always shouted at them, and they always burned their bunk before breakfast.

"God, Ewart," Peter Marlowe said. "You'd think the buggers could pick up the bunk and walk away with it."