An Island Called Moreau (10 page)

“It's Hans,” Heather said.

“He's drunk again,” Dart said.

“He's gone on strike,” she said quickly.

I looked from one to the other, conscious that I had them momentarily at a small disadvantage.

“Get your stories straight. What
is
Maastricht's trouble?”

“He thought it was a mistake to lock you up,” Heather said, with a defiance in her tone which I guessed must be aimed at Dart. “So he deliberately hit the bottle.”

Dart said, “I have to go out there. The Beasts will not work. I would be grateful if you would come along. Just to show yourself in the village. I think they should be put in the picture and see that you are okay.”

“Where's Maastricht?”

“He's out there. Come with me, Roberts. We'll get him back here. There's no danger.”

“That's not the impression I get from you. What time is it?”

“Three-thirty in the afternoon.”

I had been in the cell for some twenty-five hours.

We moved down the corridor, the Master clomping heavily along, Heather light and tricky beside him. Mad thoughts ran through my brain; the freedom from the cell brought an unexpected agoraphobia. We reached the door at the far end of the corridor and went outside into the compound. I breathed deep of the warm air. It smelled good. It promised freedom.

Heather let us out of the gate and we stood there under the trees, taking in the scene, as the dull eternal boom of ocean met us.

My eyes went first to the stretch of open sea. It was empty. And there were no planes in the sky; it too was empty. War gave no sign.

The scene on land was almost as null and void. Across the lagoon, I could see a few shadowy figures lying outside their huts. Nobody was stirring. Nearer at hand, the crane stood. In the intense clear light, I could see Maastricht sprawling in the open cab. Outside, leaning against the crane's tracks, was Maastricht's hulking friend George, his leather hat tipped over his eyes and his arms folded, looking completely human in that attitude from this distance.

“It all looks peaceful and harmless,” I said. “Let well alone, Dart. If Hans has had a drop too much, let him sleep it off.”

“Discipline, Mr. Roberts. You in your profession must know the importance of discipline.”

He had a radio amplifier fitted into the breastplate of his armor. Swiveling out a hand mike, he spoke into it. “Hans, snap out of it! Get cracking. Stir it up, will you? Out, everyone, work, work! The Master's is the Wrath that Flames. The Master's is the Whip that Tames.”

There was an immediate stir among the tawdry huts, as the amplified voice went booming across the island. On Maastricht, too, the noise had the desired effect.

I saw Hans stagger to his feet and peer across to where we stood. He rubbed his face, came to the step of the cab, and practically fell to the ground. George jumped up in panic to scuttle to his aid—whereupon Maastricht picked himself up, gave his unlucky foreman a blow in the chest, and started yelling at him.

With a shrill whistle, George went into action. He started running around the crescent of the lagoon at an amazing pace, waving his arms, bellowing. It was an odd sight, partly saddening, partly funny.

What was partly funny developed into a more broadly humorous scene. As George neared the village with all the ostentation of a traction engine, a man came trotting out from the trees in the opposite direction, running along the path I had taken on my arrival here. This newcomer was sturdy and very red, with a fuzz of hair standing out over his brow and a snipy snout. Although he wore a pair of the universal coveralls, he had snipped the legs off to reveal his long shanks, as if he was proud to look more human in that respect than most of his fellows. I have called him a man, but he was only manlike. He resembled those foxes in children's books who dress in men's clothes for purposes of deception.

He was moving fast. He and George both swerved to avoid each other. But they both swerved in the same direction and so collided just the same. They fell over, rolled about, and immediately began to fight.

Maastricht's drunken laughter echoed across the lagoon.

“We must break that up!” said Dart. “This is not a funfair.”

He raised his carbine and fired it into the air, twice.

As soon as the fight commenced, the Beast People began rushing toward the action. The shots halted them momentarily. Then their curiosity got the better of them, and they dashed forward again. With a cry of anger, the cyborg started toward them, moving rapidly on his power-assisted legs. I followed more slowly, walking down the shadow-flecked path until I was halfway between the fight and the point on the harbor where Maastricht stood, still laughing inanely.

The arrival of the Master on the scene was sufficient for the Beast People. They broke and ran, jumping among the bushes and huts with no regard for any scratches they might receive. Even George and Foxy broke apart, to stand glaring at each other and breathing heavily.

Both creatures were bleeding freely, as I saw when I got closer. Foxy nursed his left arm. The sleeve was torn away, revealing a long tear in the sandy flesh where George's teeth had slashed. George had the heavier build and did not seem hurt, although his lower lip was swollen and leaked blood which he did not attempt to stanch. They held their ground and glared defiance, at Dart as well as at each other.

Dart—wisely, I thought—said in calmer tones, “Okay, back to work, everyone! George, get back to the crane. Do what I say, no cause trouble.” He drew his whip and cracked it.

“I all kill up boss-man George very soon,” Foxy said distinctly. He got the whip across his shoulders and fled.

In contrast with the sullen submission I had seen so far, Foxy's was an exceptional piece of defiance—and couched in exceptionally clear English. Maybe the Master thought so as well; but he contented himself by shouting a threat at Foxy's retreating back before stomping off toward the crane.

George, muttering darkly to himself, cast about on the ground, picked up his dusty hat, and rammed it on his head. As if in so doing he regained his courage, he went galloping off toward the harbor, overtaking the Master, waving his stubby arms and yowling, much as he had done previously.

I stood in the shade of a tree, watching, certain that there would be trouble between Dart and Maastricht. The latter was too drunk at present; but later he might be a valuable ally against Dart. The two of us would be more than a match for Dart, for all his armament, if we stayed outside the compound. And Maastricht had a carbine.

Maastricht stopped laughing as Dart approached and began shouting instead. Dart shouted back. A slanging match developed. I saw Dart stoop and seize Maastricht's half-empty bottle from where it stood on top of the caterpillar track. He flung it out toward the open sea.

Uttering a few curses, Maastricht climbed awkwardly into the crane and started it up. George set up a loud hullabaloo. The workers were running past where I stood, jostling to get back to their rocks and their cement. Satisfied, Dart turned away. I walked forward.

Maastricht started up the crane. It began to crawl slowly along the harbor edge. He leaned out of the cab to shout to George, who was furiously conducting the workers. As he did so, he caught my eye, and raised a thumb in a gesture of defiance to the fates. I signaled back. And at that moment the crane tipped forward.

I saw the far track go over the edge of the concrete in a shower of mortar. Slowly, the machine canted to one side. Maastricht swore, tugging at a lever. Its engine roared and the track spun. Then the whole thing slewed over and plunged into the lagoon.

I yelled and broke into a run.

The scene was one of tremendous confusion.

The Beast People milled about on the edge of the water, uttering a medley of cries. Most of them appeared in genuine terror—though here and there I saw furtive gloating at the disaster. Many plunged to the edge of the water, jumping on the rocks and collapsed cement wall without daring to venture into the alien element. One old fellow with a face like a horse fell in; in the scramble to rescue him, others joined him in the water. Never was there so much screaming and crying!

And George—he was the most demented! He charged madly to and fro, hooting madly. Finally, he flung himself in the lagoon and was forced to scramble out again at once.

All this was marginal to my attention. My eyes were fixed on the great confusion in the water where the crane had gone down. One corner of the cab and a section of track was above water. Bubbles came billowing up. There was no sign of Maastricht. I kicked my shoes off.

“Roberts, please—please save him!”

I heard Dart's words as I dived in.

On the first dive I found Hans. Slicing under the cab, kicking strongly in the muddied water, I came on his naked back and right leg. He was struggling. A great deal of sand and muck had been churned up, but I saw that his arms had in some way been trapped in the entrance of the cab and were wedged from inside. His head was in the cab, the rest of him outside, as though he had almost been flung out as the machine tipped over. I seized and shook his shoulder to let him know that help was on the way before returning to the surface to regain breath.

I went down again through the upper door of the cab, plunging down to him through the clouded water. Diesel oil seeped up past my eyes.

Maastricht's face was close to mine, full of anguish. His carbine and its strap had caught in the grip by the door, trapping his arm as he had tried to jump free. His left arm was still fighting to release himself. It took me only a moment to push the weapon out of the way and let his arm go. I seized him under the armpits and heaved at him.

What I needed was more purchase. For that, I had to get further through the cab and grasp his torso. Against myself, I was forced up to the surface.

Those dark and alien faces whirled round me. What a racket they made—or else it was the blood hammering in my arteries. Dizzily, I gulped air, then plunged for the third time, right down through the cab.

This time, I got my arms round Hans and my feet against the caterpillar wheels. I heaved and tugged and slipped. He was still struggling. Still I could not budge him. With my head in the murk and a vague square shadow of light above me, I heaved … and heaved again, unable to understand why he did not now float free. With my lungs bursting, I kicked down further and found that his left leg was pinned between crane and lagoon floor.

When I returned to the world of sunlight, the Master loomed above me on the broken wall.

“Get him up, you must get him up, Cal!”

George was up to his hocks in the water, his black gaze devouring me. “You fish me out water—please!” Much later, reviewing the scene, recalling what George had said as he crouched there with his great neckless head thrust forward, I asked myself,
Just a confusion with pronouns or a genuine identification with the drowning man?

But the one creature there with real presence of mind was Foxy. He pushed through the melee with a length of rope from the building site. He threw one end to me, with a curious glance of triumph and mistrust from his shifty red eyes.

“Take the other end, Dart,” I called. Then I dived once more.

It was no problem to tie the rope about Hans' chest. His eyes still stared, his hair streamed upward, tendrils of his beard drifted into his open mouth. Slithering in the muck on the floor of the lagoon, I jerked on the rope and kicked out for the surface.

Dart heaved at the rope. The rabble, despite their awe of him, also pulled. It was a ghastly tug-of-war, during which I had visions of Hans floating up with one leg missing. But he never floated up at all.

Twice more I dived to the lagoon floor. His leg and foot were crushed between the crane and one of the slabs of rock thrown in to build the harbor.

At last I pulled myself out of the water.

“He's trapped. You're going to have to move the crane,” I told Dart. “Harness up the two landing craft with hawsers. If you can shift it a few inches, Hans will come free. Speed it up!”

They did as I suggested. The operation was a shambles. What should have taken ten minutes, not more, took over an hour. Eventually, the crane was got to move, and we hauled poor Hans up. Dart laid about him with the whip while I applied the kiss of life. No response.

We emptied a gallon of water out of his lungs and I tried again. It did not work. Hans Maastricht was dead.

I squatted by his pale body, looking round at those who had known him. I was getting to recognize many individuals; not merely George, giving me his black inscrutable stare, Bernie, pleasingly staying as near as he could, Foxy, sneering over some secret pleasure, but several others—an old gray Swine Woman, a heavy Horse-Hippo with slow tread, a pair of Bull Men, very morose. They had enjoyed the excitement; most of them were beginning to back away, content to leave the sprawled body where it lay.

Dart pointed his whip at the two Bull Men. “You two—carry the body to HQ. Pick it up. Quickly!”

They seized Hans' body by the shoulders, dragging it slowly along without expression beyond a habitual one of grievance, letting the dead man's heels trail along the ground. Dart strode on ahead. George trotted about beside the Bull Men, patting the body, prodding it, as if unable to believe that life had fled. The rest of the Beast People milled about and started to trail home. Foxy had disappeared.

The body was brought to a small surgery in one corner of the laboratory block. This was the first time I had been here; something of the Bull Men's unease communicated itself to me. When the corpse was laid on a table, Dart shooed the carriers outside.

“Come back tomorrow. Tomorrow funeral—bury Hans, savvy? Hans go underground, meet Big Master. Savvy?”

The Bull Men looked gloomily at me. Then they turned and galloped for the exit. Dart locked the gate behind them and we went indoors. I got a towel from my bedroom and dried myself.