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.'
