King Rat

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 III, fidgeting with his eye patch. “The idea makes me…”

“Will you wait for Chrissake,” the King said impatiently. “Men.” Every-one bent forward as, almost overcome, the King spoke in the barest whisper. “We’re only going to sell to officers! Brass! Majors and up!”

“Oh, my Gawd!” breathed Timsen.

“Jesus H. Christ!” said Max, inspired.

“What?” said Peter Marlowe, thunderstruck.

The King felt like a god. “Yeah, officers. They’re the only bastards who can afford to buy. Instead of a mass business, we’ll make it a luxury trade.”

“And the buggers who can afford to buy are the ones you’d want to feed the meat to!” said Peter Marlowe.

“You’re a bloody toff,” said Timsen, awed. “Genius. Why, I know three bastards I’d give my right arm to see eat rat meat and then tell ’em…”

“I know two,” said Peter Marlowe, “that I’d give the meat to, let alone sell to. But if you gave it to the buggers—they’re so cheap they’d smell a rat!”

Max got up and shouted above the laughter, “Listen, you guys. Listen. Listen a minute.” He turned to the King. “You know, I’ve, well, I’ve—” He was so moved that it was difficult for him to speak. “I’ve—I haven’t always been on your side. No harm in that. It’s a free country. But this—this is such a huge—such a—that, well—” He stuck out his hand solemnly. “I’d like to shake the hand of the man that thought of that idea! I think we should all shake the hand of true genius. On behalf of all the enlisted men in the world—I’m proud of you. The King!”

Max and the King shook hands.

Tex was swaying exuberantly from side to side. “Sellars and Prouty and Grey—he’s on the list…”

“He’s got no money,” the King said.

“Hell, we’ll give him some,” Max said.

“We can’t do that. Grey’s no fool. He’d be suspicious,” Peter Marlowe said.

“What about Thorsen—that bastard—”

“None of the Yank officers. Well,” said the King delicately, “maybe one or two.”

The cheer was quickly squashed.

“How about the Aussies?”

“Leave that to me, mate,” said Timsen. “I’ve already got three dozen customers in mind.”

“What about the Limeys?” Max said.