King Rat

“Try it.” Now Peter Marlowe was angry and raw, as raw as the King. “You seem to forget there’s a war on and there’s no wireless in the camp. One reason I came was because I hoped I might be able to get a condenser. But now I’ve a whole wireless—and it works.”

“Get rid of it!”

“No.”

The two men faced each other, taut and inflexible. For a split second the King readied to cut Peter Marlowe to pieces.

But the King knew anger was of no value when an important decision had to be made, and now that he had gotten over the first nauseating shock, he could be critical and analyze the situation.

First, he had to admit that although it had been bad business to risk so much, the risk had been successful. If Sutra hadn’t been good and ready to give Pete the radio he’d’ve ducked the issue and said, “Hell, there’s no radio hereabouts.” So no harm was done. And it had been a private deal between Pete and Sutra ’cause Cheng San had already left.

Second, a radio that he knew about and one that wasn’t in his hut would be more than useful. He could keep tabs on the situation and he’d know exactly when to make the break. So, all in all, there was no harm done—except that Peter had exceeded his authority. Now take that. If you trust a guy and hire him, you hire his brains. No point in having a guy around just to take orders and sit on his can. And Peter had sure been great during the negotiations. If and when the break came, well, Peter would be on the team. Got to have a guy to talk the lingo. Yeah, and Pete wasn’t scared. So all in all, the King knew he’d be crazy to rip into him before his mind told him to use the new situation in a businesslike way. Yep, he had blown his stack like a two-year-old.

“Pete.” He saw the challenging set to Peter Marlowe’s jaw. Wonder if I could take the son of a bitch. Sure. Got him by fifty—maybe eighty pounds.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry I blew my stack. The radio’s a good idea.”

“What?”

“I just said I was sorry. It’s a great idea.”

“I don’t understand you,” Peter Marlowe said helplessly. “One moment you’re a crazy man and the next you’re saying that it’s a good idea.”

The King liked this son of a bitch. Got guts. “Eh, radios give me the creeps, no future in them.” Then he laughed softly. “No resale value!”

“You’re really not fed up with me any more?”

“Hell no. We’re buddies.” He punched him playfully. “I was just put out that you didn’t tell me. That wasn’t good.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I apologize. It was ridiculous and unfair. Christ, I wouldn’t want to jeopardize you in any way. Truly I’m sorry.”

“Shake. I’m sorry I blew my stack. But next time, tell me before you do anything.”

Peter Marlowe shook his hand. “My word on it.”

“Good enough.” Well, thank God there was no sweat now. “So what the hell do you mean by condenser?”

Peter Marlowe told him about the three water bottles.

“So all Mac needs is the one condenser, right?”

“He said he thinks so.”

“You know what I think? I think it’d be better just to take out the condenser and dump the radio. Bury it here. It’d be safe. Then if yours doesn’t work we could always come back and get it. Mac could easily put the condenser back. To hide this radio in the camp’d be real tough, and it’d be a helluva temptation just to plug the goddam thing in, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes.” Peter Marlowe looked at the King searchingly. “You’ll come back with me to get it?”

“Sure.”

“If—for any reason—I can’t come back, would you come for it? If Mac or Larkin asked you to?”

The King thought a moment. “Sure.”

“Your word?”

“Yes.” The King smiled faintly. “You put quite a store by the ‘word’ jazz, don’t you, Peter?”

“How else can you judge a man?”

It took Peter Marlowe only a moment to snap the two wires joining the condenser to the innards of the radio. Another minute and the radio was wrapped in its protective cloth and a small hole scraped away in the jungle earth. They put a flat stone on the bottom of the hole, then covered the radio with a good thickness of leaves and smoothed the earth back and pulled a tree trunk over the spot. A couple of weeks in the dampness of its tomb would destroy its usefulness, but two weeks would be enough time to come back and pick it up if the bottles still didn’t work.

Peter Marlowe wiped the sweat away, for a sudden layer of heat had settled on them and the sweat smell frenzied the increasing waves of insects clouding them. “These blasted bugs!” He looked up at the night sky, judging the time a little nervously. “Do you think we’d better go on now?”

“Not yet. It’s only four-fifteen. Our best time is just before dawn. We’d better wait another ten minutes, then we’ll be in position in plenty of time.” He grinned. “First time I went through the wire I was scared and anxious too. Coming back I had to wait at the wire. I had to wait half an hour or more before the coast was clear. Jesus! I sweated.” He waved his hands at the insects. “Goddam bugs.”