King Rat

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.”