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bastard could at least cook before lunch — not just after — not when supper’s five hours away.”
    “The Americans are the second shift today. They haven’t eaten yet.”
    Within the American hut, the men picked up the strings of time. Dino tried to go back to sleep and Kurt continued sewing and the poker game resumed and Miller and Byron Jones III resumed their interminable chess. But the sizzle destroyed the drama of an inside straight and Kurt stuck the needle in his finger and swore obscenely, and Dino’s sleep-urge left him and Byron Jones III watched appalled as Miller took his queen with a lousy stinking pawn.
    “Jesus H. Christ,” Byron Jones III said to no one, choked. “I wish it would rain.”
    No one answered. For no one heard anything except the crackle and the hiss.
    The King too was concentrating. Over the frypan. He prided himself that no one could cook an egg better then he. To him a fried egg had to be cooked with an artist’s eye, and quickly — yet not too fast.
    The King glanced up and smiled at Peter Marlowe, but Marlowe’s eyes were on the eggs.
    “Christ,” he said softly, and it was a benediction, not a curse. “That smells so good.”
    The King was pleased. “You wait till I’ve finished. Then you’ll see the goddamnedest egg you’ve ever seen.” He powdered the eggs delicately with pepper, then added the salt. “You like cooking?” he asked.
    “Yes,” said Peter Marlowe. His voice sounded unlike his real voice to him. “I do most of the cooking for my unit.”
    “What do you like to be called? Pete? Peter?”
    Peter Marlowe covered his surprise. Only tried and trusted friends called you by your Christian name — how else can you tell friends from acquaintances? He glanced at the King and saw only friendliness, so, in spite of himself, he said, “Peter.”
    “Where do you come from? Where’s your home?”
    Questions, questions, thought Peter Marlowe. Next he’ll want to know if I’m married or how much I have in the bank. His curiosity had prompted him to accept the King’s summons, and he almost cursed himself for being so curious. But he was pacified by the glory of the sizzling eggs.
    “Portchester,” he answered. “That’s a little hamlet on the south coast. In Hampshire.”
    “You married, Peter?”
    “Are you?”
    “No.” The King would have continued but the eggs were done. He slipped the frypan off the stove and nodded to Peter Marlowe. “Plates’re in back of you,” he said. Then he added not a little proudly, “Lookee here!”
    They were the best fried eggs Peter Marlowe had ever seen, so he paid the King the greatest compliment in the English world. “Not bad,” he said flatly. “Not too bad, I suppose,” and he looked up at the King and kept his face as impassive as his voice and thereby added to the compliment.
    “What the hell are you talking about, you son of a bitch?” the King said furiously. “They’re the best goddam eggs you’ve seen in your life!”
    Peter Marlowe was shocked, and there was a death-silence in the hut. Then a sudden whistle broke the spell. Instantly Dino and Miller were on their feet and rushing towards the King, and Max was guarding the doorway. Miller and Dino shoved the King’s bed into the corner and took up the carpets and stuffed them under the mattress. Then they took other beds and shoved them close to the King so that now, like everyone else in Changi, the King had only four feet of space by six feet of space. Lieutenant Grey stood in the doorway. Behind him a nervous pace was Sergeant Masters.
    The Americans stared at Grey, and after just enough of a pause to make their point they all got up. After an equally insulting pause Grey saluted briefly and said, “Stand easy.” Peter Marlowe alone had not moved and still sat in his chair.
    “Get up,” hissed the King, “he’ll throw the book at you. Get up!” He knew from long experience that Grey was hopped up now. For once Grey’s eyes were not