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 art 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," Scan 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 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."