Crazy, he thought cynically. Plain crazy. What's there to be scared of? The guy's only a captain. Yep, he's sure going to need a hand. But what the hell he's so scared about beats me!

He quickened his pace, but his footsteps made no noise.

"Morning, sir," he said crisply, saluting.

Captain Forsyth spun around, startled. "Oh! Hello." He returned the salute with a sigh of relief. "Thank God someone here is normal." Then he realized what he had said. "Oh, sorry. I didn't mean -"

"That's all right," the King said agreeably. "This dump's enough to put anyone off kilter. Boy, are we pleased to see you. Welcome to Changi!"

Forsyth smiled. He was much shorter than the King but built like a tank. "Thank you. I'm Captain Forsyth. I've been sent to look after the camp until the fleet arrives."

"When's that?"

"Six days."

"Can't they make it any sooner?"

"These things take time, I suppose." Forsyth nodded toward the huts. "What's the matter with everyone? It's as though I was a leper."

The King shrugged. "Guess they're in a state of shock. Don't believe their eyes yet. You know how some guys are. And it has been a long time."

"Yes it has," Forsyth said slowly.

"Crazy that they'd be scared of you." The King shrugged again. "But that's life, and their business."

"You're an American?"

"Sure. There are twenty-five of us. Officers and enlisted men. Captain Brough's our senior officer. He got shot down flying the hump in '43. Maybe you'd like to meet him?"

"Of course." Forsyth was dead-tired. He had been given this assignment in Burma four days ago. The waiting and the flight and the jump and the walk to the guardhouse and the worry of what he would meet and what the Japanese would do and how the hell he was going to carry out his orders, all these things had wrecked his sleep and terrored his dreams. Well, old chap, you asked for the job and you've got it and here you are. At least you passed the first test up at the main gate. Bloody fool, he told himself, you were so petrified all you could say was "Salute, you bloody bastards."

From where he stood, Forsyth could see clusters of men staring at him from the huts and the windows and the doorways and shadows. They were all silent.

He could see the bisecting street, and beyond the latrine area. He noticed the sores of huts and his nostrils were filled with the stench of sweat and mildew and urine. Zombies were everywhere - zombies in rags, zombies in loincloths, zombies in sarongs - boned and meatless.

"You feeling okay?" the King asked solicitously. "You don't look so hot."

"I'm all right. Who are those poor buggers?"

"Just some of the guys," the King said. "Officers."

"What?"

"Sure. What's wrong with them?"

"You mean to tell me those are officers?"

"That's right. All these huts're officers' huts. Those rows of bungalows are where the Brass live, majors and colonels. There's about a thousand Aussies and Lim-English," he said quickly, correcting himself, "in huts south of the jail. Inside the jail are about seven or eight thousand English and Aussies. All enlisted men."

"Are they all like that?"

"Sir?"

"Do they all look like that? Are they all dressed like that?"

"Sure." The King laughed. "Guess they do look like a bunch of bums at that. It sure never bothered me up to now." Then he realized that Forsyth was studying him critically.

"What's the matter?" he asked, his smile fading.

Behind and all around men were watching, Peter Marlowe among them. But they all stayed out of range. They were all wondering if their eyes really saw a man, who looked like a man, with a revolver at his waist, talking to the King.

"Why're you so different from them?" Forsyth said.

"Sir?"

"Why're you properly dressed - and they're all in rags?"

The King's smile returned. "I've been looking after my clothes. I guess they haven't."

"You look quite fit."

"Not as fit as I'd like to be, but I guess I'm in good shape. You like me to show you around? Thought you'd need a hand. I could rustle up some of the boys, get a detail together. There's no supplies in the camp worth talking about. But there's a truck up at the garage. We could drive into Singapore and liberate -"

"How is it that you are apparently unique here?" Forsyth interrupted, the words like bullets.

"Huh?"

Forsyth pointed a blunt finger at the camp. "I can see perhaps two or three hundred men but you're the only one clothed. I can't see a man who's not as thin as a bamboo, but you," he turned back and looked at the King, his eyes flinty, "you are 'in good shape.' "

"I'm just the same as them. I've just been on the ball. And lucky."

"There's no such thing as luck in a hellhole like this!"

"Sure there is," the King said. "And there's no harm in looking after your clothes, no harm in keeping fit as you can. Man's got to look after number one. No harm in that!"

"No harm at all," Forsyth said, "providing it's not at the expense of others!" Then he barked, "Where's the Camp Commandant's quarters?"

"Over there." The King pointed. "The first row of bungalows. I don't know what's gotten into you. I thought I could help. Thought you'd need someone to put you in the picture-"

"I don't need your help, Corporal! What's your name!"

The King was sorry that he had taken the time out to try to help. Son of a bitch, he thought furiously, that's what comes of trying to help! "King. Sir."

"You're dismissed, Corporal. I won't forget you. And I'll certainly make sure I see Captain Brough at the earliest opportunity."

"Now what the hell does that mean?"

"It means I find you entirely suspicious," Forsyth rapped. "I want to know why you're fit and others aren't. To stay fit in a place like this you've got to have money, and there would be very few ways to get money. Very few ways. Informing, for one! Selling drugs or food for another-"

"I'll be goddamned if I'll take that crap -"

"You're dismissed, Corporal! But don't forget I'll make it my business to look into you!"

It took a supreme effort for the King to keep from smashing his fist into the captain's face.

"You're dismissed," Forsyth repeated, then added viciously, "Get out of my sight!"

The King saluted and walked away, blood filming his eyes.

"Hello," Peter Marlowe said, intercepting the King. "My God, I wish I had your guts."

The King's eyes cleared and he croaked, "Hi. Sir." He saluted and began to pass.

"My God, Rajah, what the hell's the matter?"

"Nothing. Just don't - feel like talking."

"Why? If I've done something to hurt you, or get you fed up with me, tell me. Please."

"Nothing to do with you." The King forced a smile, but inside he was screaming, Jesus, what've I done that's so wrong? I fed the bastards and helped them, and now they look at me as though I'm not here any more.

He looked back at Forsyth and saw him walk between two huts and disappear. And him, he thought in agony, he thinks I'm a goddam informer.

"What did he say?" Peter Marlowe asked.

"Nothing. He - I've got to - do something for him."

"I'm your friend. Let me help. Isn't it enough that I'm here?"

But the King only wanted to hide. Forsyth and the others had taken away his face. He knew that he was lost. And faceless, he was terrified.

"See you around," he muttered and saluted and hurried away. Jesus God, he wept inside, give me back my face. Please give me back my face.

The next day a plane buzzed the camp. Out of its belly poured a supply drop. Some of the supplies fell into the camp. Those that fell outside the camp were not sought. No one left the safety of Changi. It still could be a trick. Flies swarmed, a few men died.

Another day. Then planes began to circle the airstrip. A full colonel strode into the camp. With him were doctors and orderlies. They brought medical supplies. Other planes circled and landed.

Suddenly there were jeeps screaming through the camp and huge men with cigars and four doctors. They were all Americans. They rushed into the camp and stabbed the Americans with needles and gave them gallons of fresh orange juice and food and cigarettes and embraced them-their boys, their hero boys. They helped them into the jeeps and drove them to Changi Gate, where a truck was waiting.

Peter Marlowe watched, astonished. They're not heroes, he thought, bewildered. Neither are we. We lost. We lost the war, our war. Didn't we? We're not heroes. We're not!

He saw the King through the fog of his mind. His friend. He had been waiting the days to talk with him, but each time he had found him the King had put him off. "Later," the King had always said, "I'm busy now." When the new Americans had arrived there still had been no time.

So Peter Marlowe stood at the gate, with many men, watching the departure of the Americans, waiting to say a last goodbye to his friend, waiting patiently to thank him for his arm and for the laughter they had had together.

Among the watchers was Grey.

Forsyth was standing tiredly beside the lorry. He handed over the list. "You keep the original, sir," he said to the senior American officer. "Your men are all listed by rank, service and serial number."

"Thanks," said the major, a squat, heavy-jowled paratrooper. He signed the paper and handed back the other five copies. "When're the rest of your folks arriving?"

"A couple of days."

The major looked around and shuddered. "Looks like you could use a hand."

"Have you any excess drugs, by any chance?"

"Sure. We got a bird stacked with the stuff. Tell you what. Once I've got our boys on their way, I'll bring it all back in our jeeps. I'll let you have a doc and two orderlies until yours get here."

"Thanks." Forsyth tried to rub the fatigue out of his face. "We could use them. I'll sign for the drugs. SEAC will honor my signature."

"No goddam paper. You want the drugs, you got 'em. That's what they're there for."

He turned away. "All right, Sergeant, get 'em in the truck." He walked over to the jeep and watched as the stretcher was lashed securely. "What you think, Doc?"

"He'll make it state-side." The doctor glanced up from the unconscious figure neatly trussed in the straitjacket, "but that's about it. His mind's gone for good."

"Son of a bitch," the major said wearily, and he made a check mark against Max's name on the list. "Seems kinda unfair." He dropped his voice. "What about the rest of them?"

"Not good. Withdrawal symptoms generally. Anxiety about the future. There's only one that's in halfway decent shape physically."

"I'll be goddamned if I know how any of 'em made it. You been in the jail?"

"Sure. Just a quick runaround. That was enough."

Peter Marlowe was watching morosely. He knew his unhappiness was not due solely to the departure of his friend. It was more than that. He was sad because the Americans were leaving. Somehow he felt he belonged there with them, which was wrong, because they were foreigners. Yet he knew he did not feel like a foreigner when he was with them. Is it envy? he asked himself. Or jealousy? No, I don't think so. I don't know why, but I feel they're going home and I'm being left behind.

He moved a little closer to the truck as the orders began to sound and the men began to climb aboard. Brough and Tex and Dino and Byron Jones III and all the others resplendent in their new starched uniforms, looked unreal. They were talking and shouting and laughing. But not the King. He stood slightly to one side. Alone.

Peter Marlowe was glad that his friend was back once more with his own people, and he prayed that once the King was on his way all would be well with him.

"Get in the truck, you guys."

"C'mon, get in the goddam truck."

"Next stop Stateside!"

Grey was unaware that he was standing beside Peter Marlowe. "They say," he said looking at the truck, "that they've a plane to fly them all the way back to America. A special plane. Is that possible? Just a handful of men and some junior officers?"

Peter Marlowe had also been unaware of Grey. He studied him, despising him. "You're such a goddam snob, Grey, when it comes down to it."

Grey's head whipped around. "Oh, it's you."

"Yes." Peter Marlowe nodded at the truck. "They think that one man's as good as another. So they get a plane, all to themselves. It's a great idea when you think of it."

"Don't tell me the upper classes have at last realized -"

"Oh shut up!" Peter Marlowe moved away, his bile rising.