'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 deep-set 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 in, fidgeting with his eye patch. 'The idea makes me…'
'Will you wait for Chrissake,' the King said impatiently. 'Men.' Everyone bent forward as, almost overcome, the King spoke in the barest whisper.
'We're only going to sell to officers! Brass! Majors and up!'
