Raylins was middle-aged and bald. He had been a junior manager in the Bank of Singapore and, like Ewart, one of the Malayan Regiment. In peacetime it was a great organization to belong to. Lots of parties, cricket, polo. A man had to be in the Regiment to be anyone. Raylins also looked after the mess fund, and banqueting was his specialty. When they gave him a gun and told him he was in the war and ordered him to take his platoon across the causeway and fight the Japanese, he had looked at the colonel and laughed. His job was accounts. But it hadn't helped him, and he had had to take twenty men, as untrained as himself, and march up the road. He had marched, then suddenly his twenty men were three. Thirteen had been killed instantly in the ambush. Four were only wounded. They were lying in the middle of the road screaming. One had his hand blown off and he was staring at the stump stupidly, catching his blood in his only hand, trying to pour it back into his arm. Another was laughing, laughing as he crammed his entrails back into the gaping hole.

Raylins had stared stupidly as the Japanese tank came down the road, guns blazing. Then the tank was past and the four were merely stains on the asphalt. He had looked at his remaining three men - Ewart was one of them. They had looked back at him. Then they were running, running terror-stricken into the jungle. Then they were lost. Then he was alone, alone in a horror night of leeches and noises, and the only thing that saved him from insanity was a Malay child who had found him babbling and had guided him to a village. He had sneaked into the building where remnants of an army were collected. The next day the Japanese shot two of every ten. He and a few others were kept in the building. Later they were put into a truck and sent to a camp and he was among his own people. But he could never forget his friend Charles, the one with his intestines hanging out.

Raylins spent most of his time in a fog. For the life of him he could not understand why he wasn't in his bank counting his figures, clean neat figures, and why he was in a camp where he excelled at one thing. He could deal out an unknown amount of rice into exactly the right number of parts. Almost to the grain.

"Ah Peter," Raylins said, giving him his share, "you knew Charles, didn't you?"

"Oh yes, nice fellow." Peter Marlowe didn't know him. None of them did.

"Do you think he ever got them back in?" Raylins asked.

"Oh yes. Certainly." Peter Marlowe took his food away as Raylins turned to the next in line.

"Ah, Chaplain Grover, it's a warm day, isn't it? You knew Charles, didn't you?"

"Yes," the Chaplain said, eyes on the measure of rice. "I'm sure he did, Raylins."

"Good, good. I'm glad to hear it. Funny place to find your insides, on the outside, just like that."

Raylins' mind wandered to his cool, cool bank and to his wife, whom he would see tonight, when he left the bank, in their neat little bungalow near the racecourse. Let me see, he thought, we'll have lamb for dinner tonight. Lamb! And a nice cool beer. Then I'll play with Penelope, and the missus'll be content to sit on the veranda and sew.

"Ah," he said, happily recognizing Ewart. "Would you like to come to dinner tonight, Ewart old boy? Perhaps you'd like to bring the missus."

Ewart mumbled through clenched teeth. He took his rice and stew and turned away.

"Take it easy, Ewart," Peter Marlowe cautioned him "Take it easy yourself! How do you know what it feels like? I swear to God I'll kill him one day."

"Don't worry -"

"Worry! They're dead. His wife and child are dead. I saw them dead. But my wife and two children? Where are they, eh? Where? Somewhere dead too. They've got to be after all this time. Dead!"

"They're in the civilian camp-"

"How in Christ's name do you know? You don't, I don't, and it's only five miles away. They're dead! Oh my God," and Ewart sat down and wept, spilling his rice and stew on the ground. Peter Marlowe scooped up the rice and the leaves that floated in the stew and put them in Ewart's mess can.

"Next week they'll let you write a letter. Or maybe they'll let you visit. The Camp Commandant's always asking for a list of the women and children. Don't worry, they're safe." Peter Marlowe left him slobbering his rice into his face, and took his own rice and went down to the bungalow.

"Hello, cobber," Larkin said. "You been up to see Mac?"

"Yes. He looks fine. He even started getting ruffled about his age."

"It'll be good to get old Mac back." Larkin reached under his mattress and brought out a spare mess can. "Got a surprise!" He opened the mess can and revealed a two-inch square of brownish puttylike substance.

"By all that's holy! Blachang! Where the devil did you get it?"

"Scrounged it, of course."

"You're a genius, Colonel. Funny, I didn't smell it." Peter Marlowe leaned over and took a tiny piece of the blachang. "This'll last us a couple of weeks."

Blachang was a native delicacy, easy to make. When the season was right, you went to the shore and netted the myriads of tiny sea creatures that hovered in the surf. You buried them in a pit lined with seaweed, then covered it with more seaweed and forgot about it for two months.

When you opened the pit, the fishes had decayed into a stinking paste, the stench of which would blow your head off and destroy your sense of smell for a week. Holding your breath, you scooped up the paste and fried it. But you had to stay to windward or you'd suffocate. When it cooled, you shaped it into blocks and sold it for fortune. Prewar, ten cents a cube. Now maybe ten dollars a sliver. Why a delicacy? It was pure protein. And a tiny fraction would flavor a whole bowl of rice. Of course you could easily get dysentery from it. But if it'd been aged right and cooked right and hadn't been touched by flies, it was all right.

But you never asked. You just said, "Colonel, you're a genius," and spooned it into your rice and enjoyed it.

"Take some up to Mac, eh?"

"Good idea. But he's sure to complain it's not cooked enough."

"Old Mac'd complain if it was cooked to perfection -" Larkin stopped. "Hey, Johnny," he called to the tall man walking past, leading a scrawny mongrel on a tether. "Would you like some blachang, cobber?"

"Would I?"

They gave him a portion on a banana leaf and talked of the weather and asked how the dog was. John Hawkins loved his dog above all things. He shared his food with it - astonishing the things a dog would eat - and it slept on his bunk. Rover was a good friend. Made a man feel civilized.

"Would you like some bridge tonight? I'll bring a fourth," Hawkins said.

"Can't tonight," Peter Marlowe said, maiming flies.

"I can get Gordon, next door," suggested Larkin.

"Great. After dinner?"

"Good-oh, see you then."

"Thanks for the blachang," Hawkins said as he left, Rover yapping happily beside him.

"How the hell he gets enough to feed himself and that dingo, damned if I know," Larkin said. "Or kept him out of some bugger's billy can for that matter!"

Peter Marlowe stirred his rice, mixing the blachang carefully. He wanted very much to share the secret of his trip tonight with Larkin. But he knew it was too dangerous.

Chapter 14.

Getting out of the camp was too simple. Just a short dash to a shadowed part of the six-wire fence, then easily through and a quick run into the jungle. When they stopped to catch their breath, Peter Marlowe wished he were safely back talking to Mac or Larkin or even Grey.

All this time, he told himself, I've been wanting to be out, and now when I am, I'm frightened to death.

It was weird-on the outside, looking in. From where they were they could see into the camp. The American hut was a hundred yards away. Men were walking up and down. Hawkins was walking his dog. A Korean guard was strolling the camp. Lights were off in the various huts and the evening check had long since been made. Yet the camp was alive with the sleepless. It was always thus.

"C'mon Peter," the King whispered and led the way deeper into the foliage.

The planning had been good. So far. When he had arrived at the hut, the King was already prepared. "Got to have tools to do a job right," he had said, showing him a well-oiled pak of Jap boots - crepe soles and soft noiseless leather - and the "outfit," a pak of black Chinese pants and short blouse.

Only Dino was in the know about the trip. He had bundled up the two kits and dumped them secretly in the jumping-off point. Then he had returned, and when all was clear Peter Marlowe and the King had walked out casually, saying that they were playing bridge with Larkin and another Aussie. They had had to wait a nerve-wracking half hour before the way was clear for them to run into the storm drain beside the wire and change into their outfits and mud their faces and hands. Another quarter hour before they could run to the fence unobserved. Once they were through and in position, Dino had collected their discarded clothes.

Jungle at night. Eerie. But Peter Marlowe felt at home. It was just like Java, just like the surrounds of his own village, so his nervousness subsided a little.

The King led the way unerringly. He had made the trip five times before. He walked along, every sense alert. There was one guard to pass. This guard had no fixed beat, just a wandering patrol. But the King knew that most times the guard found a clearing somewhere and went to sleep.

After an anxious time, a time when every rotten stick or leaf seemed to shout their passing, and every living branch seemed to want to hold them back, they came to the path. They were past the guard. The path led to the sea. And then the village.

They crossed the path and began to circle. Above the heavy ceiling of foliage, a half-moon stuck in the cloudless sky. Just the right amount of light for safety.

Freedom. No circling wire and no people. Privacy at last. And it was a sudden nightmare to Peter Marlowe.

"What's up, Peter?" the King whispered, feeling something wrong.

"Nothing . . . it's just-well, being outside is such a shock."

"You'll get used to it." The King glanced at his watch. "Got about a mile to go. We're ahead of schedule, so we'd better wait."

He found an overgrowth of twisted vine and fallen trees and leaned against it. "We can take it easy here."

They waited and listened to the jungle. Crickets, frogs, sudden twitters. Sudden silences. The rustle of an unknown beast.

"I could use a smoke."

"Me too."

"Not here though." The King's mind was alive. Half was listening to the jungle. The other was racing and rehashing the pattern of the deal to be. Yes, he told himself, it's a good plan.

He checked the time. The minute hand went slowly. But it gave him more time to plan. The more time you plan before a deal, the better it is. No slip-ups and a bigger profit. Thank God for profit! The guy who thought of business was the real genius. Buy for a little and sell for more. Use your mind. Take a chance and money pours in. And with money all things are possible. Most of all, power.

When I get out, the King thought, I'm going to be a millionaire. I'm going to make so much money that it's going to make Fort Knox look like a piggy-bank. I'll build an organization. The organization'll be fitted with guys, loyal but sheep. Brains you can always buy. And once you know a guy's price you can use him or abuse him at will. That's what makes the world go round. There are the elite, and the rest. I'm the elite. I'm going to stay that way.

No more being kicked around or shoved from town to town. That's past. I was a kid then. Tied to Pa - tied to a man who waited tables or jerked gas or delivered phone books or trucked junk or whined handouts to get a bottle. Then cleaning up the mess. Never again. Now others are going to clean up my mess. All I need is the dough.

"All men are created equal ... certain inalienable rights." Thank God for America, the King told himself for the billionth time. Thank God I was born American. "It's God's country," he said, half to himself.

"What?"

"The States."

"Why?"

"Only place in the world where you can buy anything, where you got a chance to make it. That's important if you're not born into it, Peter, and only a goddam few are. But if you're not - and you want to work - why, there're so many goddam opportunities, they make your hair curl. An' if a guy doesn't work and help himself, then he's no goddam good, and no goddam American, and -"

"Listen!" Peter Marlowe warned, suddenly on guard. From the distance came the faint tread of approaching footsteps.

"It's a man," whispered Peter Marlowe, sliding deeper into the protection of the foliage. "A native."

"How the hell d'you know?"

"Wearing native clogs. I'd say he was old. He's shuffling. Listen, you can hear his breath now."

Moments later the native appeared from the gloaming and walked the path unconcerned. He was an old man and on his shoulders was a dead wild pig. They watched him pass and disappear.

"He noticed us," said Peter Marlowe, concerned.

"The hell he did."

"No, I'm sure he did. Maybe he thought it was a Jap guard, but I was watching his feet. You can always tell if you're spotted that way. He missed a beat in his stride."

"Maybe it was a crack in the path or a stick."

Peter Marlowe shook his head.

Friend or enemy? thought the King feverishly. If he's from the village then we're okay. The whole village knew when the King was coming, for they got their share from Cheng San, his contact. I didn't recognize him, but that's not surprising, for a lot of the natives were out night-fishing when I went before. What to do?

"We'll wait, then make a quick recco. If he's hostile, he'll go to the village, then report to the elder. The elder'll give us a sign to get the hell out."

"You think you can trust them?"

"I can, Peter." He started off again. "Keep twenty yards in back of me."

They found the village easily. Almost too easily, Peter Marlowe thought to himself suspiciously. From their position, on the rise, they surveyed it. A few Malays were squatting smoking on a veranda. A pig grunted here and there. Surrounding the village were coconut palm trees, and beyond it, the phosphorescent surf. A few boats, sails curled, fishing nets hanging still. No feel of danger.

"Seems all right to me," Peter Marlowe whispered.

The King nudged him abruptly. On the veranda of the headman's hut was the headman and the man they had seen. The two Malays were deep in conversation, then a distant laugh broke the stillness and the man came down the steps.

They heard him call out. In a moment a woman came running. She took the pig from his shoulders, carried it to the fire-coals and put it on the spit. In a moment there were other Malays, joking, laughing, grouped around.

"There he is!" exclaimed the King.

Walking up the shore was a tall Chinese. Behind him a native furled the sails of the small fishing craft. He joined the headman and they made their soft salutations and they squatted down to wait.

"Okay," grinned the King, "here we go."

He got up and, keeping to the shadows, circled carefully. On the back of the headman's hut a ladder soared to the veranda, high off the ground. The King was up it, Peter Marlowe close behind. Almost immediately they heard the ladder scrape away.

"Tabe," smiled the King as Cheng San and Sutra, the headman, entered.

"Good you see, tuan," said the headman, groping for English words. "You makan-eat yes?" His smile showed betel-nut-stained teeth.

"Trima kassih - thanks." The King put out his hand to Cheng San. "How you been, Cheng San?"

"Me good or' time. You see I -" Cheng San sought the word and then it came. "Here, good time maybe or' same."

The King indicated Peter Marlowe. "Ichi-bon friend. Peter, say something to them, you know, greetings and all that jazz. Get to work, boy." He smiled and pulled out a pack of Kooas, offering them around.

"My friend and I thank thee for thy welcome," Peter Marlowe began. "We appreciate thy kindness to ask if we will eat with thee, knowing that in these times there is a lack. Surely only a snake in the jungle would refuse to accept the kindness of thy offer."