"Of course it's on," the King said proudly. "We just fixed you up. Antitoxin, 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 be conies 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 and dry. 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 22.

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 th 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 21, 1945. Four months old. The age of the other letters varied from three weeks to more than two years.