'Yes, Father.' Sulina slipped off the bed and relied the sarong and adjusted her little baju jacket. Adjusted it, thought Sutra, perhaps a little too much, so the promise of her breasts showed clearly. Yes, it is surely time that the girl married. But whom? There are no eligible men.
He stood aside as the girl brushed past, her eyes low and demure. But there was nothing demure in the sway of her hips, and Peter Marlowe noticed them too. I should take a stick to her, Sutra thought. But he knew that he should not be angry. She was but a girl on the threshold of womanhood. To tempt is but a woman's way — to be desired is but a woman's need.
Perhaps I should give thee to the Englishman. Maybe that would lessen thy appetite. He looks more than man enough! Sutra sighed. Ah to be so young again.
From under the bed he brought out the small radio. 'I will trust thee. This wireless is good. It works well. You may take it.'
Peter Marlowe almost dropped it in his excitement. 'But what about thee?
Surely this is beyond price.'
'It has no price. Take it with thee.'
Peter Marlowe turned the radio over. It was a main set. In good condition.
The back was off and the tubes glinted in the oil light. There were many condensers. Many. He held the set nearer the light and carefully examined the guts of it, inch by inch.
The sweat began dripping off his face. Then he found the one, three hundred microfarads.
Now what do I do? he asked himself. Do I just take the condenser? Mac had said he was almost sure. Better to take the whole thing, then if the condenser doesn't fit ours, we've got another. We can cache it somewhere.
Yes. It will be good to have a spare.
'I thank thee, Tuan Sutra. It is a gift that I cannot thank thee enough for. I am the thousands of Changi.'
'I beg thee protect us here. If a guard sees thee, bury it in the jungle. My village is in thy hands.'
'Do not fear. I will guard it with my life.'
'I believe thee. But perhaps this is a foolish thing to do.'
'There are times, Tuan Sutra, when I truly believe men are only fools.'
'Thou art wise beyond thy years.'
Sutra gave him a piece of material to cover it, then they returned to the main room. Sulina was in the shadows on the veranda. As they entered she got up.
'May I get thee food or drink, Father?'
Wah-lah, thought Sutra grumpily, she asks me but she means him. 'No.
Get thee to bed.'
Sulina tossed her head prettily but obeyed.
'My daughter deserves a whipping, I think.'
'It would be a pity to blemish such a delicate thing,' Peter Marlowe said.
'Tuan Abu used to say, 'Beat a woman at least once a week and thou wilt have peace in thy house. But do not beat her too hard, lest thou anger her, for then she will surely beat thee back and hurt thee greatly!''
'I know the saying. It is surely true. Women are beyond comprehension.'
They talked about many things, squatting on the veranda looking at the sea. The surf was very slight, and Peter Marlowe asked permission to swim.
'There are no currents,' the old Malay told him, 'but sometimes there are sharks.'
'I will take care.'
'Swim only in the shadows near the boats. There have been times when Japanese walk along the shore. There is a gun emplacement three miles down the beach. Keep thy eyes open.'
'I will take care.'
Peter Marlowe kept to the shadows as he made for the boats. The moon was lowering in the sky. Not too much time, he thought.
By the boats some men and women were preparing and repairing nets, chatting and laughing one to another. They paid no attention to Peter Marlowe as he undressed and walked into the sea.
The water was warm, but there were cold pockets, as in all the Eastern seas, and he found one and tried to stay in it. The feeling of freedom was glorious, and it was almost as though he was a small boy again taking a midnight swim in the Southsea with his father nearby shouting, 'Don't go out too far, Peter! Remember the currents!'
He swam underwater and his skin drank the salt-chemic. When he surfaced, he spouted water like a whale and swam lazily for the shallows, where he lay on his back, washed by the surf, and exalted in his freedom.
As he kicked his legs at the surf half swirling his loins, it suddenly struck him that he was quite naked and there were men and women within twenty yards of him. But he felt no embarrassment.
Nakedness had become a way of life in the camp. And the months that he had spent in the village in Java had taught him that there was no shame in being a human being with wants and needs.
The sensual warmth of the sea playing on him, and the rich warmth of the food within him, fired his loins into sudden heat. He turned over abruptly on his belly and pushed, himself back into the sea, hiding.
He stood on the sandy bottom, the water up to his neck, and looked back at the shore and the village. The men and women were still busy repairing their nets. He could see Sutra on the veranda of his hut, smoking in the
