wind, slanting, splashing against the earth, it met Stark just outside the door of the infirmary, drenching him to the skin before he reached Hawker’s house. It was not until Obak had shown him to the guest room and he was changing that he remembered—he hadn’t met the doctor’s daughter.
three
THE HAWKER house was gaily lit.
Colored Chinese lanterns glowed like giant fireflies in the garden and on the veranda, and the yellow light from the four copper ceiling lamps gave the main room a festive air. Selinda Hawker, with the aplomb of a good wife entertaining a VIP from the head office, had quickly arranged a small party in Stark’s honor, apologizing for the few guests present.
“Mike couldn’t bring everyone we’d like to have meet you. The demolition job,” she added, with a touch of regret.
“I understand,” he assured her.
“But we have invited a couple from the Royal Dutch.” Her dark eyes twinkled. “We also have some pretty girls.”
He looked at her steadily. “So I see.”
“Unattached,” she added. They laughed.
Turning at sight of some newly arrived guests, she casually tucked his arm through hers and steered him toward the newcomers. She explained they were two of her husband’s field supervisors, Texas Smith and Pete Holden. After the introductions, she left him stuck with a woman presented to him as Martha Hodges.
“. . . So when Jasper talked me into coming out here, he promised it would be only for two years,” she was telling him. “That was eight years ago.”
“I’m sure he had good reason for staying,” he answered politely.
“And what would that be?” Her voice was shrewd.
“Why, you’re here,” he explained. “That makes it home.”
“Blarney, Mr. Stark. She smiled engagingly. Tall and beginning to gray, she had nevertheless managed to retain her youthful figure to an astonishing degree and he found her not unattractive. He guessed her age at a shade over forty. He stared across the room at her husband, a man of middle height, going to fat, with a broad, flushed face and heavy jowls—a man given to excesses, if he guessed right.
She took a sip from her glass and added, “Jasper’s just interested in the money. They all are. A man wouldn’t stay here otherwise.”
“It must have its attractions,” he protested.
“The trouble is, by the time he makes it there won’t be any time left to enjoy it,” she continued wistfully.
“You’ll have plenty of time,” he answered.
“Can you honestly say that with this war going on?”
“Well, it won’t last forever.”
“Neither will we, I’m afraid. We’re probably too late now.” Her voice had become edgy.
“No, I don’t think so,” he encouraged, his eyes resting momentarily on Gurko Singh. The giant Bengali, standing stiffly near the front door, wore a citron-yellow turban. Obak, his yellow face gleaming, was pulling the fan rope while Tombuk, another Malay brought in for the occasion, dashed around supplying drinks. “If the worst comes to the worst, Hawker has an escape route laid out,” he added.
“Oh, sure, up river to Telukbetang, then down to Sunda Strait and across to Java, but I wouldn’t want to be the one to take it, Mr. Stark.”
“Rough, eh?”
“Very rough,” she emphatically agreed. “Let’s get another drink.”
Later he found himself closeted with Texas Smith and Jasper Hodges. When they began talking shop, Stark let his attention wander, feeling all at once bored. Irritably he thought that aside from a brief introduction to Suzanne Ebell, the doctor’s daughter, he’d scarcely exchanged a dozen words with her.
He watched her over Hodges’ shoulder—a graceful brunette who wore a stunning white evening gown shorn of ornaments, and at the moment was talking animatedly with her father and a tubby, gray-haired merchant from Palembang whom Stark had met earlier.
The first thing that struck him was her height. She was unusually tall for a woman, with a curvesome body under the white sheath that met his full approval. Her clear complexion and even features added up to perfection, or as near to it as he could desire. Although he couldn’t see her eyes, he knew they were gray, very large, calm and lovely and utterly passionless.
Watching her now he decided she was no product of make-up or lotions or artificial props. Suzanne Ebell was the real McCoy. He found himself wondering which was the more beautiful, Hawker’s graceful Oriental wife or the tall brunette American girl. East or West?
He again became aware of Smith’s voice, this time explaining how the destruction system would work. Thin, wiry, of medium height, his narrow face was dominated by a huge beaked nose which made his eyes appear even smaller than they actually were. As Stark got it, valves would allow the oil to flow into the huge earthen fire walls that surrounded each tank; in turn the floors of these were being mined with fire bombs connected to a central switch in the powerhouse.
“She’ll go like a goddamned torch,” Smith promised. As someone turned on a phonograph and a wailing song of Hindustan filled the room, Smith grimaced and talked louder.
Over his shoulder Stark saw Mike Hawker and Yoshi talking in a corner. The Japanese girl wore a simple, soft green dress and he thought she appeared quite sophisticated. She held her cocktail glass with just the right negligent air, appearing intent on what her burly companion was saying. Someone moved between them, then Hodges’ grating voice broke into his ear.
“I say we ought to blow this thing now and get out while we can. Hawker’s plumb crazy. He doesn’t know how close the Japs are.”
Stark switched his attention back to the assistant superintendent. The latter’s speech had become thick, slurred, and his small, piggish eyes danced curiously, as if out of focus. Swilled to the gills, he thought. Hawker was right; the man was a drunk. He wondered if Hawker was also right about Martha Hodges.
“Maybe the Japs can’t take the island,” Texas Smith cut in.
“Bushwah. What’s to stop ’em? A couple of Limey flak guns, a handful of Colonial troops and nothing else. They’ll breeze in.” Hodges eyed Stark belligerently. “What about it?”
“Hard to say,” he replied evasively.
“Let ’em come,” Texas Smith snorted. “We’ll make this the Alamo in reverse.”
Hodges snickered. “Listen to him. He thinks he’s Davy Crockett.” He gulped the last of his drink and yelled: “Boy, an Irish whiskey.”
A moment later Smith excused himself and Hodges turned belligerently to Stark, saying loudly, “I hear you’ve been making inquiries about Driscoll, the guy that got killed.”
Stark stared at the red face. “The company’s interested,” he replied.
“Hell, people
