“Puki ’mahlu. And get me some water, Marlowe!”
“Yes sir, Colonel, sir!” He gave Larkin his water bottle. When Larkin saw it he smiled through his pain.
“All right, Peter boy?” he asked quietly.
“Yes. My God, I was in a bit of a panic for a time.”
“Mac and me both.”
Larkin sipped the water and carefully handed the water bottle back.
“All right, Colonel?” Peter Marlowe was perturbed by Larkin’s color.
“My bloody oath,” Larkin said. “Nothing a bottle of beer couldn’t cure. Be all right tomorrow.”
Peter Marlowe nodded. “At least you’re over the fever,” he said. Then he took out the pack of Kooas with studied negligence.
“My God,” said Mac and Larkin in one breath.
Peter Marlowe broke the pack and gave them each a cigarette. “Present from Father Christmas!”
“Where the hell you get them, Peter?”
“Wait till we’ve smoked them a bitty,” Mac said sourly, “before we hear the bad news. He’s probably sold our beds or something.”
Peter Marlowe told them about the King and about Grey. They listened with growing astonishment. He told them about the tobacco-curing process and they listened silently until he mentioned the percentages.
“Sixty-forty!” exploded Mac delightedly. “Sixty-forty, oh my God!”
“Yes,” said Peter Marlowe, misreading Mac. “Imagine that! Anyway, I just showed him how to do it. He seemed surprised when I wouldn’t take anything in return.”
“You gave the process away?” Mac was appalled.
“Of course. Anything wrong, Mac?”
“Why?”
“Well, I couldn’t go into business. Marlowes aren’t tradesmen,” Peter Marlowe said, as though talking to a child. “It’s just not done, old boy.”
“My God, you get a wonderful opportunity to make some money and you turn it down with a big fat sneer. I suppose you know that with the King behind the deal, you could have made enough to buy double rations from now until doomsday. Why the hell didn’t you keep your mouth shut and tell me and let me make — ”
“What are you talking about, Mac?” Larkin interrupted sharply. “The boy did all right, and it would have been bad for him to go into business with the King.”
“But — ”
“But nothing,” Larkin said.
Mac simmered down immediately, hating himself for his outburst. He forced a nervous laugh. “Just teasing, Peter.”
“Are you sure, Mac? My God,” said Peter Marlowe unhappily. “Have I been a fool or something? I wouldn’t want to let the side down.”
“Nay, laddie, it was just my way of joking. Go on, tell us what else happened.”
Peter Marlowe told them what had happened and all the time he wondered if he had done something wrong. Mac was his best friend, and shrewd, and never lost his temper. He told them about Sean, and when he had finished he felt better. Then he left. It was his turn to feed the chickens.
When he had gone Mac said to Larkin, “Dammit — I’m sorry. I’d no cause to fly off the handle like that.”
“Don’t blame you, cobber. He’s got his head in the sky. That boy’s got some strange ideas. But you never can tell. Maybe the King’ll have his uses yet.”
“Ay,” said Mac thoughtfully.
Peter Marlowe carried a billycan filled with scraps of leaves that had been foraged. He walked past the latrine area until he came to the runs where the camp chickens were kept.
There were big runs and small runs, runs for one scraggy hen and a huge run for one hundred and thirty hens — those that were owned by the whole camp, whose eggs went into the common pool. The other runs were owned by units, or a commune of units who had pooled their resources. Only the King owned alone.
Mac had built the chicken run for Peter Marlowe’s unit. In it were three hens, the wealth of the unit. Larkin had bought the hens seven months ago when the unit had sold the last thing it possessed, Larkin’s gold wedding ring. Larkin had not wanted to sell it, but Mac was sick at the time and Peter Marlowe had dysentery, and two weeks earlier the camp rations had been cut again, so Larkin sold it. But not through the King. Through one of his own men, Tiny Timsen, the Aussie trader. With the money he had bought four hens through the Chinese trader who had the camp concession from the Japanese, and along with the hens, two cans of sardines, two cans of condensed milk and a pint of orange-colored palm oil.
The hens were good and laid their eggs on time. But one of them died and the men ate it. They saved the bones and put them into a pot with the entrails and feet and head and the green papaya that Mac had stolen on a work party and made a stew. For a whole week their bodies had felt huge and clean.
Larkin had opened one can of the condensed milk on the day they had bought it. They each had a spoonful as long as it lasted, once a day. The condensed milk did not spoil from the heat. On the day that there was no more to spoon, they boiled the can and drank the liquor. It was very good.
The two cans of sardines and the last can of condensed milk were the unit’s reserve. Against a very bad run of luck. The cans were kept in a cache, which was constantly guarded by one of the unit.
Peter Marlowe looked around before he opened the lock on the chicken coop and made sure there was no one near who could see how the lock worked. He opened the door and saw two eggs.
“All right, Nonya,” he said gently to their prize hen, “I’m not going to touch you.”
Nonya was sitting on a nest of seven eggs. It had taken a great amount of will for the unit to let the eggs remain beneath her, but if they were lucky and got seven chicks, and if the seven chicks lived to become hens or cocks, then their herd would be vast. Then they could spare one of the hens to sit permanently on a clutch. And they would never have to fear Ward Six.
Ward Six housed the sightless, the men blinded by beri-beri.
Any vitamin strength was magic against this constant threat, and eggs were a vast source of strength, usually the only one available. Thus it was that the Camp Commandant begged and cursed and demanded more from the Overlord. But most of the time there was only one egg per man per week. Some of the men received an extra one every day, but by then it was usually too late.
Thus it was that the chickens were guarded day and night by an officer guard. Thus it was that to touch a chicken belonging to the camp, or to another, was a vast crime. Once a man had been caught with a strangled hen in his hand and had been beaten to death by his captors. The authorities ruled it was justifiable homicide.
Peter Marlowe stood at the end of his run admiring the King’s hens. There were seven, plump and giants against all others. There was a cock within the run, the pride of the camp. His name was Sunset. His sperm grew fine sons and daughters and he could be had for stud by any. At a price: choice of litter.
Even the King’s hens were inviolate and guarded like the others.
Peter Marlowe watched Sunset nail a hen into the dust and mount her. The hen picked herself off the dust and ran about clucking and pecked another hen for good measure. Peter Marlowe despised himself for watching. He knew it was weakness. He knew he would think of N’ai and then his loins would ache.
He went back to the henhouse and checked to see that the lock was tight and left, holding the two eggs carefully all the way back to the bungalow.
“Peter, mon,” Mac grinned, “this is our lucky day!”
Peter Marlowe found the pack of Kooas and divided them into three piles. “We’ll draw for the other two.”