King Rat

by James Clavell

  “Two’ll get you five of mine,” the King said, “that that wouldn’t do you any good.”

  Brough looked at the others, then back at the King. “You’re probably right. I’d find myself court-martialed.” He laughed. “But there’s no rule I can’t take your dough.”

  He pulled out a five-dollar note and nodded at the card deck in the King’s hands. “High card wins!”

  The King spread the cards out. “Pick one.”

  Brough gloatingly showed the queen. The King looked at the deck, then picked a card—it was a jack.

  Brough grinned. “Double or nothing.”

  “Don,” said the King mildly, “quit while you’re ahead.” He picked another card and turned it face up. An ace. “I could just as easy pick another ace—they’re my cards!”

  “Why the hell didn’t you beat me then?” said Brough.

  “Now, Captain, sir.” The King’s amusement was vast. “It’d be impolite to take your dough. After all you are our fearless leader.”

  “Crap you!” Brough began stacking the plates and mess cans. “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.”

  That night, while most of the camp slept, Peter Marlowe lay under his mosquito net awake, not wishing to sleep. He got out of the bunk and picked his way through the maze of mosquito nets and went outside. Brough was also awake.

  “Hi, Peter,” Brough called quietly. “Come and sit down. Can’t you sleep either?”

  “Just didn’t want to, not just yet, feel too good.”

  Above, the night was velvet.

  “Gorgeous night.”

  “Yes.”

  “You married?”

  “No,” Peter Marlowe replied.

  “You’re lucky. Don’t think it’d be so bad if you’re not married.” Brough was silent a minute. “I go crazy wondering if she’ll still be there. Or if she is, what about now? What’s she up to now?”

  “Nothing.” Peter Marlowe made the automatic response, N’ai vivid in his thoughts. “Don’t worry.” It was like saying, “Stop breathing.”

  “Not that I’d blame her, any woman. It’s such a long time we’ve been away, such a long time. Not her fault.”

  Brough shakily built a cigarette, using a little dried tea and the butt of one of the Kooas. When it was alight he dragged deeply, then passed it over to Peter Marlowe.

  “Thanks, Don.” He smoked, then passed it back.

  They finished the cigarette in silence, racked by their longing. Then Brough got up. “Guess I’ll turn in now. See you around, Peter.”

  “Good night, Don.”

  Peter Marlowe looked back at the nightscape and let his eager mind drift again to N’ai. And he knew that tonight, like Brough, there was only one thing he could do or he would never sleep.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  V-E day came and the men of Changi were elated. But it was just another today and did not actually touch them. The food was the same, the sky the same, the heat the same, the sickness the same, the flies the same, the wasting away the same. Grey was still watching and waiting. His spy had notified him that soon the diamond would pass hands. Very soon now. Peter Marlowe and the King were awaiting the day just as anxiously. Only four days to go.

  B Day came and Eve delivered herself of twelve more young. The code for Birth Day had amused the King and his associates enormously; Grey had heard of B Day from his spy, and on that day he had surrounded that hut and searched all the men for watches or whatever was going to be sold on “Barter” Day. Stupid cop! The King was not disturbed at the reminder that there was a spy in the hut. The third litter was launched.

  Now there were seventy cages under the hut. Fourteen were already occupied. Soon twelve more would be filled.

  The men had solved the problem of names in the simplest possible way. Males were given even numbers and females odd numbers.

  “Listen,” said the King, “we just got to get more cages prepared.”

  They were in the hut having a board meeting. The night was cool and pleasant. A waning moon was cloud-touched.

  “We’re about bushed,” Tex said. “There just ain’t no spare wire netting anywheres. The only thing we can do is to get the Aussies to help out.”

  “We do that,” Max said slowly, “we might just as well let the bastards take over the whole racket.”

  The entire war effort of the American hut had been centered around the living gold that was rapidly exploding beneath them. Already a team of four men had extended the slit trenches into a network of passages. Now they had plenty of space for cages, but no wire with which to make them. Wire was desperately needed; B Day was looming again, and then soon after that another B Day and then another.

  “If you could find a dozen or so fellows you could trust, you could give them a breeding pair and let them have their own farms,” said Peter Marlowe thoughtfully. “We could just be the stock breeders.”

  “No good, Peter, we’d never be able to keep it quiet.”

  The King rolled a cigarette and remembered that business had been bad recently and he had not had a tailor-made for a whole week. “The only thing to do,” he said after a moment’s reflection, “is to bring Timsen into the deal.”

  “That lousy Aussie’s bad enough competition as it is,” said Max.

  “We got no alternative,” the King said with finality. “We got to get the cages—and he’s the only guy who’d have the know-how—and the only one I’d trust to keep his mouth shut. If the farm goes according to plan, there’s enough dough in it for everyone.” He looked up at Tex. “Go get Timsen.”

  Tex shrugged and went out.

  “Come on, Peter,” the King said, “we’d better check below.”

  He led the way through the trapdoor. “Holy cow,” he said as he saw the extent of the excavations. “We dig any more and the whole goddam hut’ll fall in, then where the hell’d we be!”

  “Don’t you worry, chief,” Miller said proudly. He was in charge of the excavation party. “I got me a scheme so we can just go around the concrete pilings. We’ve enough room for fifteen hundred cages now, if we can get the wire. Oh yeah. And we could double the space if we could lay our hands on enough timber to shore up tunnels. Easy.”

  The King walked along the main trench to inspect the animals. Adam saw him coming and viciously hurled himself at the wire as though ready to tear the King to pieces.

  “Friendly, huh?”

  Miller grinned. “The bastard knows you from somewheres.”

  “Perhaps we should call a halt to breeding,” Peter Marlowe said. “Until the cages are ready.”

  “Timsen’s the answer,” the King said. “If anyone can get us the supplies it’s his bunch of thieves.”

  They climbed back into the hut and wiped the dirt off. After a shower they felt better.

  “Hi, cobber.” Timsen walked down the length of the hut and sat down. “You Yanks frightened of getting your balls blown off or something?” He was tall and tough, with deepset eyes.

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “The way you bastards are digging slit trenches you’d think the whole bloody Air Force’s about to drop on Changi.”

  “No harm in being careful.” The King wondered again whether they should chance taking Timsen in. “Won’t be long before they clobber Singapore. And when they do, we’re going to be underground.”

  “They’ll never hit Changi. They know we’re here. ’Least the Pommies do. ’Course when you Yanks’re in the sky there’s no telling where the hell the bombs drop.”

  He was taken on a tour of inspection. And immediately he saw the immensity of the organization. And the enormousness of the scheme.

  “My Gawd, cobber,” Timsen said breathlessly, when they were back in the hut. “I got to hand it to you. My Gawd. And to think we thought you was just scared. My Gawd, you must have room for five or six hundred—”

  “Fifteen hundred,” the King interrupted nonchalantly, “and this B Day there’s going—”

 
“B Day?”

  “Birth Day.”

  Timsen laughed. “So that’s B Day. We been trying to figure that one out for weeks. Oh, my word.” His laughter boomed. “You’re bloody geniuses.”

  “I’ll admit it was my idea.” The King tried not to let the pride show, but it did. After all, it was his idea. “This B Day we got at least ninety young due. The one after that something like three hundred.”

  Timsen’s eyebrows almost touched his hair line.

  “Tell you what we’re prepared to do.” The King paused, revising the offer. “You supply us with the material to make a thousand more cages. We’ll hold our complete stock to a thousand—only the best. You market the produce and we’ll split fifty-fifty. On a deal this size, there’ll be enough for everyone.”

  “When do we start selling?” Timsen said at once. Even so, in spite of the huge possibilities, he felt seedy.

  “We’ll give you ten hind legs in a week. We’ll use the males first and keep the females. We figure, the hind legs only. We’ll step up the number as we get going.”

  “Why only ten to start with?”

  “If we put more on the market at first, the guys’ll be suspicious. We’ll have to take it easy.”

  Timsen thought a moment. “You sure the—er—meat’ll be—okay?”

  Now that he had made a commitment to supply, the King felt squeamish himself. But hell, meat’s meat and business is business. “We’re just offering meat. Rusa tikus.”

  Timsen shook his head, the lips pursed. “I don’t like the idea of selling it to my Aussies,” he said queasily. “My word. That don’t seem right. Oh my word no. Not that I’m—well—it don’t seem right at all. Not to my Diggers.”

  Peter Marlowe nodded, feeling as sick. “Nor to our chaps either.”

  The three of them looked at each other. Yes, the King told himself, it doesn’t seem right at all. But we got to survive. And … suddenly his mind blew open.

  He turned white and said tightly, “Get—the—others. I’ve just had a brainstorm.”

  The Americans were quickly assembled. Tense, they watched the King. He was calmer, but he had not yet spoken. He just smoked his cigarette, seemingly oblivious of them. Peter Marlowe and Timsen glanced at each other, perturbed.

  The King got up and the electricity increased. He stubbed his cigarette. “Men,” he began, and there was a thinness, a strange exhaustion to his voice. “B Day’s four days off. We expect—” he referred to the stock chart written on the atap wall—“yeah, to increase our stock to a little over a hundred. I’ve made a deal with our friend and associate Timsen. He’s going to supply material for a thousand cages, so by the time we wean the litters, the housing problem’s solved. He and his group are going to market the produce. We’re just going to concentrate on breeding the best strains.” He stopped, and looked steadily at each man. “Men. A week from today the farm begins marketing.”

  Now that the appalling day was fixed, their faces fell.

  “You really think that we should?” asked Max apprehensively.

  “Will you wait a minute, Max?”

  “I don’t know about marketing,” said Byron Jones III, fidgeting with his eye patch. “The idea makes me…”

  “Will you wait for Chrissake,” the King said impatiently. “Men.” Every-one bent forward as, almost overcome, the King spoke in the barest whisper. “We’re only going to sell to officers! Brass! Majors and up!”

  “Oh, my Gawd!” breathed Timsen.

  “Jesus H. Christ!” said Max, inspired.

  “What?” said Peter Marlowe, thunderstruck.

  The King felt like a god. “Yeah, officers. They’re the only bastards who can afford to buy. Instead of a mass business, we’ll make it a luxury trade.”

  “And the buggers who can afford to buy are the ones you’d want to feed the meat to!” said Peter Marlowe.

  “You’re a bloody toff,” said Timsen, awed. “Genius. Why, I know three bastards I’d give my right arm to see eat rat meat and then tell ’em…”

  “I know two,” said Peter Marlowe, “that I’d give the meat to, let alone sell to. But if you gave it to the buggers—they’re so cheap they’d smell a rat!”

  Max got up and shouted above the laughter, “Listen, you guys. Listen. Listen a minute.” He turned to the King. “You know, I’ve, well, I’ve—” He was so moved that it was difficult for him to speak. “I’ve—I haven’t always been on your side. No harm in that. It’s a free country. But this—this is such a huge—such a—that, well—” He stuck out his hand solemnly. “I’d like to shake the hand of the man that thought of that idea! I think we should all shake the hand of true genius. On behalf of all the enlisted men in the world—I’m proud of you. The King!”

  Max and the King shook hands.

  Tex was swaying exuberantly from side to side. “Sellars and Prouty and Grey—he’s on the list…”

  “He’s got no money,” the King said.

  “Hell, we’ll give him some,” Max said.

  “We can’t do that. Grey’s no fool. He’d be suspicious,” Peter Marlowe said.

  “What about Thorsen—that bastard—”

  “None of the Yank officers. Well,” said the King delicately, “maybe one or two.”

  The cheer was quickly squashed.

  “How about the Aussies?”

  “Leave that to me, mate,” said Timsen. “I’ve already got three dozen customers in mind.”

  “What about the Limeys?” Max said.

  “We can all think of some of them.” The King felt huge and powerful and ecstatic. “It’s lucky the bastards who’ve the dough, or the means to get the dough, are the ones you want to feed and then tell what it is they’ve eaten,” he said.

  Just before lights-out, Max hurried through the doorless doorway and whispered to the King, “A guard’s heading this way.”

  “Who?”

  “Shagata.”

  “Okay,” said the King, trying to keep his voice level. “Check that all our guards are in position.”

  “Okay.” Max hurried away.

  The King bent close to Peter Marlowe. “Maybe there’s a slip-up,” he said nervously. “Come on, we’d better get ready.”

  He slipped out of the window and made sure the canvas overhang was in position. Then he and Peter Marlowe sat under it and waited.

  Shagata poked his head under the canvas, and when he recognized the King, he quietly slipped into the overhang and sat down. He propped his rifle against the wall and offered a pack of Kooas.

  “Tabe,” he said.

  “Tabe,” Peter Marlowe replied.

  “Hi,” said the King. His hand was shaking as he took the cigarette.

  “Thou hast something to sell me tonight?” Shagata asked sibilantly.

  “He asks if you’ve anything to sell him tonight.”

  “Tell him no!”

  “My friend is overwhelmed that he has nothing to tempt a man of taste this evening.”

  “Would your friend have such an article in say three days?”

  The King sighed with relief when Peter Marlowe translated this. “Tell him yes. And tell him he’s wise to check.”

  “My friend says that it is probable that on that day he would have something to tempt a man of taste. And my friend adds that he feels that to do business with such a careful man is a good portent for the satisfactory conclusion of said transaction.”

  “It is always wise when matters must be arranged in the bleakness of night.” Shagata-san sucked in his breath. “If I do not arrive in three nights, wait each night for me. A mutual friend has indicated that he may not be able to do his part with complete accuracy. But I am assured that it will be three nights from tonight.”

  Shagata got up and gave the pack of cigarettes to the King. A slight bow and the darkness took him once more.

  Peter Marlowe told the King what Shagata had said, and the King grinned. “Great. Just great. You want to come by tomorrow morning? We can discuss plans.�
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  “I’m on the airfield work party.”

  “You want me to get a sub for you?”

  Peter Marlowe laughed and shook his head.

  “You’d better go anyway,” said the King. “In case Cheng San wants to make contact.”

  “Do you think there’s anything wrong?”

  “No. Shagata was wise to check. I would have. Everything’s going according to plan. Another week and the whole deal’ll be fixed.”

  “I hope so.” Peter Marlowe thought about the village, and prayed that the deal would go through. He desperately wanted to go there again, and if he did, he knew that he would have to have Sulina or he would lose his sanity.

  “What’s the matter?” The King had felt more than seen Peter Marlowe’s shudder.

  “I was just thinking I’d like to be in Sulina’s arms right now,” Peter Marlowe replied uneasily.

  “Yeah.” The King wondered if he might foul up over the broad.

  Peter Marlowe caught the look and smiled faintly. “You’ve nothing to worry about, old chum. I wouldn’t do anything foolish, if that’s what you were thinking.”

  “Sure.” The King smiled. “We got a lot to look forward to—and tomorrow’s the show. You heard what it’s about?”

  “Only that it’s called Triangle. And it stars Sean.” Peter Marlowe’s voice was suddenly flat.

  “How did you nearly kill Sean?” The King had never asked bluntly before, knowing that with a man like Peter Marlowe it was always dangerous to ask direct questions about private matters. But now he had felt instinctively that the time was correct.

  “There’s not much to tell,” Peter Marlowe said immediately, glad that the King had asked him. “Sean and I were in the same squadron in Java. The day before the war ended there, Sean didn’t come back from a mission. I thought he’d had it.

  “About a year ago—the day after we came here from Java—I went to one of the camp shows. When I finally recognized Sean on the stage, you can imagine what a shock it was. He was playing a girl, but I didn’t think anything of that—someone always has to take the girls’ parts—and I just sat back and enjoyed the show. I couldn’t get over finding him alive and fit, and I couldn’t get over what a sensational girl he made—the way he walked and talked and sat—his clothes and his wig were perfect. I was very impressed with his performance—and yet I knew he’d never had anything to do with theatricals before.