CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

When Peter Marlowe arrived outside Colonel Smedly-Taylor’s bungalow, Grey was already there.

“I’ll tell the colonel you arrived,” Grey said.

“You’re so kind.” Peter Marlowe felt uncomfortable. The peaked Air Force cap he had borrowed irritated. The ragged but clean shirt he wore irritated. Sarongs are so much more comfortable, he told himself, so much more sensible. And thinking of sarongs he thought of tomorrow. Tomorrow was the money exchange day. For the diamond. Tomorrow Shagata was to bring the money and then in three days the village once more. Maybe Sulina…

You’re a fool to think about her. Get your wits with you, you’re going to need them.

“All right, Marlowe. ’Tenshun,” Grey ordered.

Peter Marlowe came to attention and began to march, militarily correct, into the colonel’s room. As he passed Grey he whispered, “Up you, Jack,” and felt a little better, and then he was in front of the colonel. He saluted smartly and fixed his eyes through the colonel.

Seated behind a crude desk, cap on, swagger cane on the table, Smedly-Taylor looked at Peter Marlowe bleakly and returned the salute punctiliously. He prided himself on the way he handled camp discipline. Everything he did was Army. By the book.

He sized up the young man in front of him—standing erect. Good, he told himself, that’s at least in his favor. He remained silent for a while, as was his custom. Always unsettle the accused. At last he spoke.

“Well, Flight Lieutenant Marlowe? What have you got to say for yourself?”

“Nothing, sir. I don’t know what I’m charged with.”

Colonel Smedly-Taylor glanced at Grey, surprised, then frowned back at Peter Marlowe. “Perhaps you break so many rules that you have difficulty remembering them. You went into the jail yesterday. That’s against orders. You were not wearing an armband. That’s against orders.”

Peter Marlowe was relieved. It was only the jail. But wait a minute—what about the food?

“Well,” the colonel said curtly, “did you, or didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You knew you were breaking two orders?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why did you go into the jail?”

“I was just visiting some men.”

“Oh?” The colonel waited, then said caustically, “‘Just visiting some men’?”

Peter Marlowe said nothing, only waited. Then it came.

“The American was also in the jail. Were you with him?”

“For part of the time. There is no law against that, sir. But I did break—the two orders.”

“What mischief were you two cooking up?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“So you admit that the two of you are connected with mischief from time to time?”

Peter Marlowe was furious with himself for not thinking before he answered, knowing that with this man, a fine man, he was out of his league. “No, sir.” His eyes focused on the colonel. But he said nothing. One rule. When you’re up before authority, you just say “No, sir,” “Yes, sir” and tell the truth. It was an inviolate rule that officers always told the truth, and here he was, against all his heritage, against everything he knew to be correct, telling lies and partial truths. That was quite wrong. Or was it?

Colonel Smedly-Taylor now began to play the game he had played so many times before. It was easy for him to toy with a man and then slaughter him, if he felt like it. “Look, Marlowe,” he said, his manner becoming fatherly, “it has been reported that you are involving yourself with undesirable elements. You would be wise to consider your position as an officer and a gentleman. Now this association—with this American. He is a blackmarketeer. He hasn’t been caught yet, but we know, and so you must know. I would advise you to cease this association. I can’t order it, of course, but I advise it.”

Peter Marlowe said nothing, bleeding inside. What the colonel said was true, and yet the King was his friend and his friend was feeding and helping both him and his unit. And he was a fine man, fine.

Peter Marlowe wanted to say, “You’re wrong, and I don’t care. I like him and he’s a good man and we’ve had fun together and laughed a lot,” and at the same time he wanted to admit the sales, and admit the village, and admit the diamond, and admit the sale today. But Peter Marlowe could see the King behind bars—robbed of his stature. So he steeled himself to keep from confessing.

Smedly-Taylor could easily detect the tumult in the youth in front of him. It would be so simple for him to say, “Wait outside, Grey,” and then, “Listen, my boy, I understand your problem. My God, I’ve had to father a regiment for almost as long as I can remember. I know the problem—you don’t want to rat on your friend. That’s commendable. But you’re a career officer, a hereditary officer—think of your family and the generations of officers who have served the country. Think of them. Your honor’s at stake. You have to tell the truth, that’s the law.” And then his little sigh, practiced over a generation, and “Let’s forget this nonsense of the infraction of rules by going into the jail. I’ve done it myself, several times. But if you want to confide in me…” and he’d let the words hang with just the right amount of gravity and out would come the secrets of the King and the King would be in the camp jail—but what purpose would that serve?

For the moment, the colonel had a greater worry—the weights. That could be a catastrophe of infinite proportions.

Colonel Smedly-Taylor knew that he could always get whatever information he wanted from this child at his whim—he knew the men so very well. He knew he was a clever commander—by God, he should be after all this time—and the first rule was keep the respect of your officers, treat them leniently until they really stepped out of line, then devour one of them ruthlessly as a lesson to the others. But you had to pick the right time, and the right crime, and the right officer.

“All right, Marlowe,” he said firmly. “I’ll fine you a month’s pay. I’ll keep it off your record and we’ll say no more about it. But don’t break any more rules.”

“Thank you, sir.” Peter Marlowe saluted and left, glad to be away from the interview. He had been on the threshold of telling everything. The colonel was a good and kind man, and his reputation for fairness was vast.

“Your conscience bothering you?” Grey asked outside the bungalow, noticing the sweat.

Peter Marlowe didn’t answer. He was still upset and enormously relieved to have escaped.

The colonel called out, “Grey! Could I see you for a moment?”

“Yes, sir.” Grey looked a last time at Peter Marlowe. One month’s pay! Not very much, considering that the colonel had him. Grey was surprised and not a little angry that Marlowe had got off so lightly. But, at the same time, he had seen Smedly-Taylor operate before. And he knew that the colonel was tenacious as a bulldog, that he played men like fish. He must have a plan, to let Marlowe go so easily.

Grey stepped around Peter Marlowe and went inside once more.

“Er, close the door, Grey.”

“Yes, sir.”

When they were alone, Colonel Smedly-Taylor said, “I’ve seen Lieutenant Colonel Jones and Quartermaster Sergeant Blakely.”

“Yes, sir?” Now we’re getting somewhere!

“I have relieved them of their duties as from today,” the colonel said, playing with the weight.

Grey’s smile was broad. “Yes, sir.” Now, when would the court-martial be, and how would it be arranged, and would it be in camera and would they be reduced to the ranks? Soon everyone in camp would know that he, Grey, had caught them at their treachery; he, Grey, was a guardian angel, and my God, how wonderful it would be.

“And we’ll forget the matter,” the colonel said.

Grey’s smile vanished. “What?”

“Yes. I have decided to forget the matter. And so will you. In fact I repeat my order. You are not to mention this to anyone and you are to forget it.”

Grey was so astounded that he sank to the bed and stared at the colonel. “But we can’t do that, sir!” he burst out. “We caught them red-handed. Stealing the camp food. That’s your food and my food. And they tried to bribe me. To bribe me!” His voice became hysterical. “Holy Christ, I caught them, they’re thieves, they deserve to be hung and quartered.”

“True.” Colonel Smedly-Taylor nodded gravely. “But I think, under the circumstances, that this is the wisest decision.”

Grey leaped to his feet. “You can’t do that!” he shouted. “You can’t let them off scot-free! You can’t—”

“Don’t tell me what I can or cannot do!”

“I’m sorry,” Grey said, fighting for control. “But, sir, those men are thieves. I caught them. You’ve got the weight.”

“I’ve decided that this is the end of the matter.” His voice was calm. “The matter is closed.”

Grey’s temper snapped. “By God, it’s not closed! I won’t let it be closed! Those bastards’ve been eating when we’ve been hungry! They deserve to get chopped! And I insist—”

Smedly-Taylor’s voice overrode the hysteria. “Shut up, Grey! You can’t insist on anything. The matter is closed.”

Smedly-Taylor sighed heavily and picked up a piece of paper and said, “This is your official report. I’ve added something today. I’ll read it to you. ‘I strongly recommend Lieutenant Grey for his work as Provost Marshal of the Camp Police. His performance of duty is, beyond question, excellent. I would like to recommend that he be given the acting rank of Captain.’” He looked up from the paper. “I propose sending this to the Camp Commandant today and recommending that your promotion be effective from today’s date.” He smiled. “You know of course that he has the authority to promote you. Congratulations, Captain Grey. You deserve it.” He offered Grey his hand.

But Grey didn’t accept it. He merely looked at it and at the paper, and he knew. “Why, you rotten bastard! You’re buying me off. You’re as bad—maybe you’ve been eating the rice too. Why, you shit, you dirty rotten shit—”

“You hold your tongue, you jumped-up subaltern! Stand to attention! I said stand to attention!”

“You’re in with them, and I’m not going to let any of you get away with it,” Grey shouted and snatched the weight off the table and backed away. “I can’t prove anything about you yet, but I’ve proof against them. This weight—”

“What about the weight, Grey?”

It took Grey an age to look down at the weight. The bottom was un-marred.

“I said, ‘What about the weight?’” Stupid fool, Smedly-Taylor thought contemptuously as he watched Grey search for the hole. What a fool! I could eat him for breakfast and not notice it.

“It’s not the one I gave you,” Grey choked. “It’s not the same. It’s not the same.”

“You’re quite wrong. It’s the same one.” The colonel was quite calm.

He continued, his voice benign and solicitous. “Now, Grey, you’re a young man. I understand that you want to stay in the army when the war’s over. That’s good. We can use intelligent, hard-working officers. Regular Army’s a wonderful life. Certainly. And Colonel Samson was telling me how highly he thinks of you. As you know, he’s a friend of mine. I’m sure I could prevail upon him to add to my recommendation that you should be granted a permanent commission. You’re just overwrought, understandably so. These are terrible times. I think it’s wise to let this matter drop. It would be ill-advised to involve the camp in a scandal. Very ill-advised. I’m sure you understand the wisdom of this.”

He waited, despising Grey. At just the correct time—for he was an expert—he said, “Do you want me to send your recommendation for captaincy to the Camp Commandant?”

Grey slowly turned to the paper, eyeing it with horror. He knew that the colonel could give or withhold, and where he could give or withhold, he could also slaughter. Grey knew he was beaten. Beaten. He tried to speak, but so vast was his misery that he could not speak. He nodded and he heard Smedly-Taylor say, “Good, you can take it as read that your captaincy is confirmed. I feel sure my recommendation and Colonel Samson’s will add tremendous weight to your being granted a permanent commission after the war,” and he felt himself go out of the room and up to the jail hut and dismiss the MP and he didn’t care that the man looked at him as though he were mad. Then he was alone inside the jail hut. He shut the door and sat on the edge of the bed within the cell and his misery erupted and he wept.

Broken.

Ripped apart.

Tears wet his hands and face. His spirit whirled in terror, teetering on the brink of the unknown, then fell into eternity…

When Grey came to, he was lying on a stretcher being carried by two MP’s. Dr. Kennedy was clomping ahead. Grey knew that he was dying but he did not care. Then he saw the King standing beside the path, looking down at him.

Grey noticed the neat polished shoes, the trousers’ crease, the tailor-made Kooa, the well-fed countenance. And he remembered that he had a job to do. He could not die yet. Not yet, not while the King was well-creased and polished and well fed. Not with the diamond in the offing. By God, no!

“We’d better make this the last game,” Colonel Smedly-Taylor was saying. “Mustn’t miss the show.”

“Can’t wait to get an eyeful of Sean,” Jones said, sorting his cards. “Two diamonds.” He opened smugly.

“You’ve the luck of the devil,” Sellars said sharply. “Two spades.”

“Pass.”

“Not always the luck of the devil, partner,” Smedly-Taylor said with a thin smile. His granite eyes looked at Jones. “You were pretty stupid today.”

“It was just bad luck.”

“There’s no excuse for bad luck,” Smedly-Taylor said, studying his cards. “You should have checked. You were incompetent not to check.”

“I’ve said I’m sorry. You think I don’t realize that it was stupid? I’ll never do that again. Never. I never knew what it was like to be panicked.”

“Two no trumps.” Smedly-Taylor smiled at Sellars. “This’ll make it rubber, partner.” Then he turned to Jones again. “I’ve recommended that Samson take over from you—you need a ‘rest.’ That’ll take Grey off the scent—oh yes, and Sergeant Donovan’ll be Samson’s Quartermaster Sergeant.” He laughed shortly. “It’s a pity we have to change the system, but it doesn’t matter. We’ll just have to make sure that Grey’s busy on the days the false weights are used.” He looked back at Sellars. “That’ll be your job.”

“Very good.”

“Oh, by the way, I fined Marlowe a month’s pay. He’s in one of your huts, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Sellars said.

“I was soft on him, but he’s a good man, comes from a good family—not like that lower-class sod Grey. My God, what a bloody nerve—to think I’d recommend him for a permanent commission. That’s just the sort of guttersnipe we don’t need in the Regular Army. My God, no! If he gets a permanent commission it’ll be over my dead body.”

“I quite agree,” Sellars said with distaste. “But with Marlowe you should have made it three months’ pay. He can afford it. That damned American’s got the whole camp tied up.”

“He has for the time being.” Smedly-Taylor grunted and re-examined his cards once more, trying to cover his slip.

“You’ve something on him?” Jones asked tentatively. Then he added, “Three diamonds.”

“Blast you,” Sellars said. “Four spades.”

“Pass.”

“Six spades,” Smedly-Taylor said.

“Do you really have something on the American?” Jones asked again.

Colonel Smedly-Taylor kept his face blank. He knew about the diamond ring and he’d heard that a deal had been made, that the ring would change hands soon. And when the money was in the camp, well, a plan had been thought of—a good plan, a safe plan, a private plan—to get the money. So he just grunted and smiled his thin smile and said off-hand, “If I have, I’m certainly not going to tell you about it. You’re not to be trusted.”

When Smedly-Taylor smiled, they all smiled, relieved.

Peter Marlowe and Larkin joined the stream of men going into the open-air theater.

The stage lights were already on and the moon beamed down. At capacity the theater could hold two thousand. The seats, which fanned out from the stage, were planks set on coconut stumps. Each show was repeated for five nights, so that everyone in the camp could see it at least once. Seats were allocated by lot and were always at a premium.

Most of the rows were already crammed. Except the front rows where the officers sat. Officers always sat in front of the enlisted men and came later. Only the Americans did not follow the custom.

“Hey, you two,” the King called out. “You want to sit with us?” He had the favored seat on the aisle.

“Well, I’d like to, but you know—” Peter Marlowe said uncomfortably.

“Yeah. Well, see you later.”

Peter Marlowe glanced at Larkin and knew he was thinking too that it was wrong not to sit with your friends if you wanted—and at the same time it was wrong to sit there.

“You, er, want to sit here, Colonel?” he asked, passing the buck and hating himself for passing the buck.

“Why not?” Larkin said.

They sat down, acutely embarrassed, aware of their defection and aware of the astonished eyes.

“Hey, Colonel!” Brough leaned over, a smile creasing his face. “You’ll get handed your head. Bad for discipline and all that jazz.”

“If I want to sit here, I’ll sit here.” But Larkin wished he hadn’t agreed so readily.

“How’re things, Peter?” the King asked.

“Fine, thanks.” Peter Marlowe tried to overcome his discomfort. He felt everyone was looking at him. He had not yet told the King about the sale of the pen, what with being on the carpet in front of Smedly-Taylor, and the brawl he had almost had with Grey…

“Evening, Marlowe.”

He glanced up and winced as he saw Smedly-Taylor passing. Flint eyes.

“Evening, sir,” he replied weakly. Oh my God, he thought, that’s torn it.

There was a sudden quickening of excitement as the Camp Commandant walked down the aisle and sat down in the very front row. The lights dimmed. The curtain parted. On the stage was the five-piece camp band, and standing in the center of the stage was Phil, the band leader.

Applause.

“Good evening,” Phil began. “Tonight we’re presenting a new play by Frank Parrish called Triangle, which takes place in London before the war. It stars Frank Parrish, Brod Rodrick, and the one and only Sean Jennison…”

Tumultuous cheers. Catcalls. Whistles. Shouts of “Where’s Sean?” and “What war?” and “Good old Blighty” and “Get on with it” and “We want Sean!”

Phil gave the downbeat with a flourish and the overture began.

Now that the show was on, Peter Marlowe relaxed a little.

Then it happened.

Dino was abruptly at the King’s side and whispering urgently in his ear. “Where?” Peter Marlowe heard the King say. Then, “Okay, Dino. You beat it back to the hut.”

The King leaned across. “We gotta go, Peter.” His face was taut, his voice barely a whisper. “A certain guy wants to see us.”

Oh my God! Shagata! Now what? “We can’t just get up and leave now,” Peter Marlowe said uneasily.

“The hell we can’t. We both got a touch of dysentery. C’mon.” The King was already walking up the aisle.

Nakedly aware of the astonished eyes, Peter Marlowe hurried after him.

They found Shagata in the shadows behind the stage. He was nervous too. “I beg thee forgive my bad manners in sending for thee suddenly, but there is trouble. One of the junks of our mutual friend was intercepted and he is presently being questioned for smuggling by the pestilential police.” Shagata felt lost without his rifle and knew that if he was caught in the camp off duty he would be put in the windowless box for three weeks. “It occurred to me that if our friend is questioned brutally, he may implicate us.”

“Jesus,” the King said.

Unsteadily he accepted a Kooa and the three of them went deeper into the shadows.

“I thought that, thou being a man of experience,” Shagata continued with a rush, “thou might have a plan whereby we could extricate ourselves.”

“He’s got a hope!” the King said.

His mind raced back and forth and it always gave him the same answer. Wait and sweat.

“Peter. Ask him if Cheng San was on the junk when it was stopped.”

“He says no.”

The King sighed. “Then maybe Cheng San can squeeze out of it.” He thought again, then said, “The only goddam thing we can do is wait. Tell him not to panic. He’s got to keep tabs on Cheng San somehow and find out if he talks. He’s got to send us word if the goddam shoot blows.”

Peter Marlowe translated.

Shagata sucked air between his teeth. “I am impressed that the two of thee are so calm while I am fluttering with fear, for if I am caught I shall be lucky if they shoot me first. I will do as thou sayest. If thou are caught, I beg thee try not to implicate me. I will try to do likewise.” His head jerked around as there was a soft warning whistle. “I must leave thee. If all goes well we will keep to the plan.” He hurriedly thrust the pack of Kooas into Peter Marlowe’s hand. “I do not know about thee and thy gods, but I will certainly talk to mine, long and hard, on our mutual behalf.”

Then he was gone.

“What if Cheng San lets the cat out?” Peter Marlowe asked, his stomach an aching knot. “What can we do?”

“Make a break.” The King shakily lit another cigarette and leaned back against the side of the theater, hugging the shadows. “Better that than Utram Road.”

Behind them the overture ended to applause and cheers and laughter. But they did not hear the applause and cheers and laughter.

Rodrick was standing in the wings glowering at the stage hands setting the stage for the play, chasing them, hurrying them.

“Major!” Mike rushed up to him. “Sean’s throwing a fit. He’s crying his bloody eyes out!”

“Oh for the love of Heaven! What happened? He was all right a minute ago,” Rodrick exploded.

“I don’t know for certain,” Mike said sullenly.

Rodrick cursed again and hurried away. Anxiously he knocked on the dressing room door. “Sean, it’s me. Can I come in?”

There were muffled sobs coming through the door. “No. Go away. I’m not going on. I just can’t.”

“Sean. Everything’s all right. You’re just overtired, that’s all. Look—”

“Go away and leave me alone,” Sean shouted hysterically through the door. “I’m not going on!”

Rodrick tried the door but it was locked. He rushed back to the stage. “Frank!”

“What do you want?” Frank, covered with sweat, was irritably perched on a ladder, fixing a light that refused to work.

“Come down here! I’ve got to talk—”

“For the love of God, can’t you see I’m busy? Do it yourself, whatever it is,” he flared. “Do I have to do everything? I’ve still got to get changed and still haven’t got my makeup on!” He looked up at the catwalk again. “Try the other banks of switches, Duncan. Come on, man, hurry.”

Beyond the curtain Rodrick could hear the growing chorus of impatient whistles. Now what do I do? he asked himself frantically. He began to go back to the dressing room.

Then he saw Peter Marlowe and the King near the side door. He ran down the steps.

“Marlowe. You’ve got to help me!”

“What’s up?”

“It’s Sean, he’s throwing a tantrum,” Rodrick began breathlessly, “refuses to go on. Would you talk to him? Please. I can’t do a thing with him. Please. Talk to him. Will you?”

“But—”

“Won’t take you a second,” Rodrick interrupted. “You’re my last chance. Please. I’ve been worried about Sean for weeks. His part would be hard enough for a woman to play, let alone …” He stopped, then went on weakly, “Please, Marlowe, I’m afraid for him. You’d do us all a great service.”

Peter Marlowe hesitated. “All right.”

“Can’t thank you enough, old boy.” Rodrick mopped his brow and led the way through the pandemonium to the back of the theater, Peter Marlowe reluctantly in tow. The King followed absently, his mind still concentrating on how and where and when to make the break.

They stood in the little corridor. Uneasily Peter Marlowe knocked. “It’s me, Peter. Can I come in, Sean?”

Sean heard him through the fog of terror, slumped on his arms in front of the dressing table.

“It’s me, Peter. Can I come in?”

Sean got up, the tears streaking his makeup, and unbolted the door. Peter Marlowe hesitantly came into the dressing room. Sean shut the door.

“Oh Peter, I can’t go on. I’ve had it. I’m at the end,” Sean said helplessly. “I can’t pretend any more, not any more. I’m lost, lost, God help me!” He hid his face in his hands. “What am I going to do? I can’t face it any more. I’m nothing. Nothing!”

“It’s all right, Sean old chum,” Peter Marlowe said, deep with pity. “No need to worry. You’re very important. Most important person in the whole camp, if the truth be known.”

“I wish I were dead.”

“That’s too easy.”

Sean turned and faced him. “Look at me, for the love of God! What am I? What in God’s name am I?”

In spite of himself, Peter Marlowe could see only a girl, a girl in pathetic torment. And the girl was wearing a white skirt and high heels and her long legs were silk-stockinged and her blouse showed the swell of breasts beneath.

“You’re a woman, Sean,” he said as helplessly. “God knows how—or why—but you are.”

And then the terror and the self-hatred and the torment left Sean.

“Thank you, Peter,” Sean said. “Thank you with all my heart.”

There was a tentative knock on the door. “On in two minutes,” Frank called anxiously through the door. “Can I come in?”

“Just a second.” Sean went to the dressing table and brushed away the tear stains and repaired the makeup and stared at the reflection.

“Come in, Frank.”

The sight of Sean took Frank’s breath away, as it always had. “You look wonderful!” he said. “You all right?”

“Yes. Afraid I made a bit of a fool of myself. Sorry.”

“Just overwork,” Frank said, hiding his concern. He glanced at Peter Marlowe. “Hello, good to see you.”

“Thanks.”

“You’d better get ready, Frank,” Sean said. “I’m all right now.”

Frank felt the girl’s smile, deep within him, and automatically fell into the pattern that he and Rodrick had begun three years before and bitterly regretted ever since. “You’re going to be marvelous, Betty,” he said, hugging Sean. “I’m proud of you.”

But now, unlike all the countless other times, suddenly they were man and woman, and Sean relaxed against him, needing him with every molecule of being. And Frank knew it.

“We’ll—we’re on in a minute,” he said unsteadily, rocked by the suddenness of his own need. “I’ve—I’ve got to get ready.” He left.

“I’d, er, better be getting back to my seat,” Peter Marlowe said, deeply troubled. He had felt more than seen the spark between them.

“Yes.” But Sean hardly noticed Peter Marlowe.

A final check of the makeup and then Sean was waiting for a cue in the wings. The usual terrored ecstasy. Then Sean walked on and became. The cheers and wonder and lust poured over her—eyes following as she sat and crossed her legs, as she walked and talked—eyes reaching out, touching her, feeding on her. Together she and the eyes became one.

“Major,” Peter Marlowe said as he and the King and Rodrick stood in the wings, watching, “what’s this Betty business?”

“Oh, part of the whole mess,” Rodrick replied miserably. “That’s the name of Sean’s part this week. We’ve—Frank and I—we always call Sean by the part he’s playing.”

“Why?” the King asked.

“To help him. Help him get into the part.” Rodrick looked back to the stage waiting for his cue. “It started as a game,” he said bitterly, “now it’s an unholy joke. We created that—that woman—God help us. We’re responsible.”

“Why?” Peter Marlowe said slowly.

“Well, you remember how tough it was in Java.” Rodrick glanced at the King. “Because I was an actor before the war, I was assigned the job of starting the camp theatricals.” He let his eyes stray back to the stage, to Frank and Sean. Something strange about those two tonight, he thought. Critically he studied their performances and knew them to be inspired. “Frank was the only other professional in the camp so we started to work getting shows together. When we got to the job of casting, of course, someone had to play the female roles. No one would volunteer, so the authorities detailed two or three. One of them was Sean. He was bitterly opposed to doing it, but you know how stubborn senior officers are. ‘Someone’s got to play a girl, for God’s sake,’ they said to him. ‘You’re young enough to look like one. You don’t shave more than once a week. And it’s only putting on clothes for an hour or so. Think of what it’ll do for everyone’s morale.’ And however much Sean raved and cursed and begged, it did no good.

“Sean asked me not to accept him. Well, there’s no future in working with uncooperative talent, so I tried to have him dropped from the company. ‘Look,’ I said to the authorities, ‘acting’s a great psychological strain …’

“‘Poppycock!’ they said. ‘What harm can come of it?’

“‘The fact that he’s playing a female might warp him. If he were the slightest way inclined …’

“‘Stuff and nonsense,’ they said. ‘You damned theatrical people’ve pervert on the brain. Sergeant Jennison? Impossible! Nothing wrong with him! Damn fine fighter pilot! Now look here, Major. This is the end of it. You’re ordered to take him and he’s ordered to do it!’

“So Frank and I tried to smooth Sean down, but he swore he was going to be the worst actress in the world, that he was going to make sure that he was sacked after the first disastrous performance. We told him that we couldn’t care less. His first performance was terrible. But after that he didn’t seem to hate it so much. To his surprise, he even seemed to like it. So we really started to work. It was good having something to do—it took your mind off the stinking food and stinking camp. We taught him how a woman talks and walks and sits and smokes and drinks and dresses and even thinks. Then, to keep him in the mood, we began to play make-believe. Whenever we were in the theater, we’d get up when he came in, help him into a chair, you know, treat him like a real woman. It was exciting at first, trying to keep up the illusion, making sure Sean was never seen dressing or undressing, making sure his costumes were always concealing but just suggestive enough. We even got special permission for him to have a room of his own. With his own shower.

“Then, suddenly, he didn’t need coaching any more. He was as complete a woman on the stage as it was possible to be.

“But little by little, the woman began to dominate him off stage too, only we didn’t notice it. By this time, Sean had grown his hair quite long—the wigs we had were no damn good. Then Sean started to wear a woman’s clothes all the time. One night someone tried to rape him.

“After that Sean nearly went out of his mind. He tried to crush the woman in him but couldn’t. Then he tried to commit suicide. Of course it was hushed up. But that didn’t help Sean, it made things worse and he cursed us for saving him.

“A few months later there was another rape attempt. After that Sean buried his male self completely. ‘I’m not fighting it any more,’ he said. ‘You wanted me to be a woman, now they believe I am one. All right. I’ll be one. Inside I feel I am one, so there’s no need to pretend any more. I am a woman, and I’m going to be treated like one.’

“Frank and I tried to reason with him, but he was quite beyond us. So we told ourselves that it was only temporary, that Sean’d be all right later. Sean was great for morale and we knew we could never get anyone a tenth as good as Sean to play the girl. So we shrugged and continued the game.

“Poor Sean. He’s such a wonderful person. If it wasn’t for him, Frank and I would have given up the ghost long ago.”

There was a roar of applause as Sean made another entrance from the other side of the stage. “You’ve no idea what applause’ll do to you,” Rodrick said, half to himself, “applause and adoration. Not unless you’ve experienced it yourself. Out there, on the stage. No idea. It’s fantastically exciting, a frightening, terrifying, beautiful drug. And it’s always poured into Sean. Always. That and the lust—yours, mine, all of us.”

Rodrick wiped the sweat off his face and hands. “We’re responsible all right, God forgive us.”

His cue came and he walked onto the stage.

“Do you want to go back to our seats?” Peter Marlowe asked the King.

“No. Let’s watch from here. I’ve never been backstage before. Something I always wanted to do.” Is Cheng San spilling his guts right now, the King asked himself.

But the King knew there was no value in worrying. They were committed and he was ready—whatever card came up. He looked back at the stage. His eyes watched Rodrick and Frank and Sean. Inexorably, his eyes followed Sean. Every movement, every gesture.

Everyone was watching Sean. Intoxicated.

And Sean and Frank and the eyes became one, and together the brooding passion on the stage soared into the players and into the watchers, ripping them bare.

When the curtain descended on the last act, there was utter silence. The watchers were spellbound.

“My God,” Rodrick said, awed. “That’s the greatest compliment they could ever pay us. And you deserve it, you two, you were inspired. Truly inspired.”

The curtain began to rise, and when it was completely up the awful silence shattered and there were cheers and ten curtain calls and more cheers and then Sean stood alone drinking the life-giving adoration.

In the continuing ovation, Rodrick and Frank came out a last time to share the triumph, two creators and a creation, the beautiful girl who was their pride and their nemesis.

The audience filed quietly out of the auditorium. Each man was thinking of home, thinking of her, locked in his own brooding hurt. What’s she doing, right now?

Larkin was the most hit. Why in God’s name call the girl Betty? Why? And my Betty—is she—would she—is she now, is she now in someone else’s arms?

And Mac. He was swept with fear for Mem. Did the ship get sunk? Is she alive? Is my son alive? And Mem—would she—is she now—is she? It’s been so long, my God, how long?

And Peter Marlowe. What of N’ai, the peerless? My love, my love.

And all of them.

Even the King. He was wondering who she was with—the vision of loveliness he had seen when he was still in his teens, still on the bum—the girl who’d said with a perfumed handkerchief to her nose that white trash smell worse than niggers.

The King smiled sardonically. Now that was one hell of a broad, he told himself as he turned his mind to more important things.

The lights were out now in the theater. It was empty but for the two in the landlocked dressing room.