An Island Called Moreau (3 page)

I thought he was about to dash away into the bushes. I tried again.

“All right. I'll go ahead and you can follow me.”

I thought he was about to rush at me.

“You no drive me?”

“I want to get to HQ, George. I must have water. There's no danger, is there?”

He shook his great head to and fro, saying, “Danger, yes. No. No stop on way, no cause any trouble. Go with him to Master.”

I began to walk. He darted forward immediately and remained exactly one pace behind, his little piggy eyes glaring into mine whenever I turned my head. Had I not felt so exhausted, I should have been more frightened or more amused than I was.

In my condition and in this company, I was not well equipped to appreciate scenery. It presented, however, an immediate solid impression to me, an impression formidable and silent. Underfoot was that broken marginal territory which marks the division between ocean and land, even so precarious a wedge of land as this. Just ahead were bleached rocks and the somber greens of palm and thorn bushes. The ocean was at its eternal stir; the foliage hung silent and waiting, and far from welcoming.

The undergrowth came down close to the water's edge. I saw a track leading among the trees, and took it.

George had evidently summed me up by now, for he said, “He got Four Limbs Long. You got Four Limbs Long.”

“That's how it happens to be with mankind,” I said sharply.

George said, or rather chanted, “‘Four Limbs Long—Wrong Kind of Song!'”

“Where did you get that idea from?” I asked. But I did not stand and wait for his answer. I set off along the path, and he sprang to follow on my heels, one pace behind. It was a relief to be among trees again, in shade. After all the days in the boat, my walk was uncertain, although I felt strength returning as we proceeded.

My mind was preoccupied with many things, not least with my weakness and the contrasting strength of the moronic brute behind me. I was also puzzled by what Maastricht—whom I took for a Netherlander from his name and his accent—had said: “Welcome to Moreau Island.” The name meant something to me, yet I could not place it at all. Moreau Island? Had some scandal been connected with it?

Despite these preoccupations, I took care to keep alert to my surroundings, for there had been something threatening in Maastricht's warning to George. What or whom were we likely to meet?

This strip of the island had little to offer, apart from the singular virtue of being terra firma. The rock to our right hand, sculptured as if by water at some earlier period of history, harbored many scuttling things, though probably nothing more exotic than birds and lizards. Bamboos were all about us, growing from cavities in the rock and from the ground, which was littered with stones and large shells. They grew thickly enough to obstruct our passage, though thinly enough for a pattern of sunlight and shadow to be cast where we walked. Occasionally we caught glimpses of the bright sea to our left, through a trellis of leaves.

At one point, I almost tripped over one of the large shells. Kicking it aside, I observed that it was the whitened and empty shell of a tortoise. We seemed almost to be walking through a tortoise graveyard, so thick did the shells lie; there was never a sign of a live one.

Boulders lay close on either side, some of them as tall as we were. Then we had to thread our way between them, and George came uncomfortably close to my vulnerable neck. Two of these big boulders virtually formed a gateway; beyond them, more of George's uncouth breed of native were lurking.

I saw them among the thickets ahead and halted despite myself.

Turning to George, I said, “Why are they in hiding? What's the matter with them?”

With a crafty look, at once furtive and menacing, George said, “‘Four Limbs Long—Wrong Kind of Song.… Four Limbs Short—Right Kind of Sport!'” His feet began a kind of shuffle in the dust. His eyes would not meet mine. There was no point in trying to make conversation with him. Now that his own kind were close, he looked more dangerous than ever.

“George, you take me straight to HQ, savvy? You no stop, you no cause trouble, you no let anybody cause trouble, okay? You savvy?”

He began to pant in a doggy way, his tongue hanging out. “You no got carbine, Cal—” Perhaps he struggled to recall my surname; if so he failed, and his use of my given name carried an unwelcome familiarity.

I was remembering what Maastricht had said, “
Master
got carbine!”

He moved one burly shoulder at me, looking away, mumbling, “Yes, savvy
Master
got carbine …”

“Come on, then!” Advancing between the boulders, I called, “Stand back ahead. We are in a hurry.”

An amazing array of faces peered out of the bushes. They bore a family resemblance to George, although there was great variety in their deformity. Here were snouts that turned up and proboscises that turned down; mouths with no lips, mouths with serrated lips; hairless faces and faces covered almost completely with hair or stubble; eyes that glared with no visible lids, eyes that dreamed under heavy lids like horses'. All these faces were turned suspiciously toward me, noses twitching in my direction, and all managed to avoid my direct gaze by a hairbreadth. From some eyes in the deeper shadows, I caught the red or green blank glare of iridescence, as if I were confronted by animals from a ludicrous fairy tale.

Indeed, I recalled series of drawings by artists like Charles Le Brun and Thomas Rowlandson, in which the physiognomies of men and women merged through several transformations into the physiognomies of animals—bulls, lions, leopards, dogs, oxen, and pigs. The effect was absurd as well as alarming. I moved forward, clapping my hands slowly, and slowly they gave way.

But they were calling to George, who still followed me.

“Has he not Four Limbs Long?”

“Is he from the Lab'raty?”

“Where is the one with the bottle?”

“Has he a carbine?”

And other things I could not understand, for I was soon to learn that George's diction was a marvel of distinctness among his friends, and he a creature of genius among morons. He still followed stubbornly behind me, saying, or rather chanting—most of their sentences were in singsong—“He find in big water. He Four Limbs Long. He Five Fingers Long—Not Wise or Strong. No stop, no cause trouble. Plenty beat at HQ.”

He chanted. I staggered beside him. They fell back or hopped back, letting us through—but hands with maimed stubs of fingers, hands more like paws or hooves, reached out and touched me as I went by.

Now I caught a strong rank smell, like the whiff of a tiger cage in a zoo. The trees and bushes thinned, the sun beat down more strongly, and we came to the native village.

Near the first houses, a rock on my right hand rose in a high wall. Climbers and vines, some brilliantly flowering, hung down the rock face, and among them fell a slender waterfall, splashing from shelf to shelf of the rock. It filled a small pool, where it had been muddied and fouled. But I ran to the rock, and let the blessed stuff fall direct onto my face, my lips, my parched tongue, my throat! Ah, that moment! In truth, the waterfall was not much more than a drip, but Niagara itself could not have been more welcome!

After a while, I had to rest dizzily against the rock, letting the water patter on the back of my neck. I could hear the natives stealthily gather about me. But I offered a prayer of thanks for my deliverance before I turned to face them.

Their ungainly bodies were hidden under the same coveralls that George wore; many an unseemly bulk was thus concealed from the world. One or two of them wore boots; most went barefoot. Some had made barbaric attempts to decorate themselves with shells or bits of bone in their hair or round their necks. Only later did I realize that these were the females of this wonderfully miscegenous tribe.

Fascinated as I was with them, I believe they were far more fascinated with me.

“He laps water,” one said, sidling up and addressing me without meeting my gaze.

“I drink water, as I guess you must,” I said. I was torn between curiosity and apprehension, not knowing whether to try to establish communication or make a break for it, but at least this creature who came forward looked as harmless as any of them. George resembled an outré blend of boar and hyena; this creature looked like a kind of dog. He had the fawning aspect of a mongrel which one sometimes notices in human beings even in more favored parts of the world.

“What's your name?” I asked, pointing at him to get the message home.

He slunk back a pace. “‘The Master's is the Hand that Maims. The Master's is the Voice that Names.…'”

“What is your name?”

He touched his pouting chest humbly. “Your name Bernie, Good man, good boy.”

“Yes, you're a good man, Bernie.” Weakness and a touch of hysteria overcame me. To find a Bernie here in this miserable patch of jungle on some forgotten rock in the Pacific—a Bernie looking so much like a stray pooch—was suddenly funny. Why, I thought, Bernie as in Saint Bernard! I began helplessly to laugh, collapsing against the rock. I still laughed when I found myself sitting in the mud. When they clustered nearer to me, staring down in a bovine way, I covered my face and laughed and wept.

I scarcely heard the whistle blow.

They heard. “The Master Knows! The Master Blows!” They milled about uneasily. I looked up, afraid of being trampled on. Then one started to run and they all followed, stampeding as if they were a herd of cattle. George stood till last, looking at me with a great puzzlement from under his hat, muttering to himself. Then he too attempted to flee.

He was too late. The Master appeared. George sank to the ground, covering his head with humble slavish gesture. A whip cracked across his shoulders and then the Master passed him and strode toward me.

Climbing slowly to my feet, I stood with my back to the rock. I was tempted to imitate the natives and take to my heels.

The so-called Master was tremendously tall! I reckoned he was at least three meters high, impossibly tall for a human being.

I could see him among the trees and huts, marching along a wide track, and not much more than fifty meters from me. I had a glimpse of tranquil waters behind him, but all my attention was concentrated on him.

He carried a carbine in the alert position, ready to fire. It was aimed at me in a negligent sort of way. His stride was one of immeasurable confidence; there was about it something rigid and mechanical.

His face was concealed beneath a helmet. I could not see his eyes. As he came near, I saw that his arms and legs were of metal and plastic.

“My God, it's a robot!” I said aloud.

Then it came round the corner of the rock and confronted me.

“Where did you spring from?” it demanded.

3

In the Hands of the Master

One of my reasons for believing in God has been the presence in my life of emotions and understandings not susceptible to scientific method. I have met otherwise scientific men who believe in telepathy while denying God. To me, it makes more sense to believe in God than telepathy; telepathy seems to me to be unscientific mumbo-jumbo like astrology (although I have met men working prosaically on the Moon who held an unshakable belief in astrology), while God can never be unscientific, because he is the Prime Mover who contains science along with all the other effects of our universe. Or so I had worked it out, to my temporary satisfaction. God's shifting ground.

Directly I faced the Master, I felt some of those emotions—call them empathic if you will—which I have referred to as being unsusceptible to scientific method. Directly he spoke, I knew that in him, as in his creatures, aggression and fear were mixed. God gave me understanding.

This could not be a robot.

I looked up at him. Once I got a grip on myself, I saw that the Master, although indeed a fearsome figure, was not as tall as I had estimated in my near panic. He stood perhaps two and a quarter meters high, which is to say just over a head taller than I.

Beneath his helmet was a pale face which sweated just like mine did.

“Who are you, and where did you spring from?” he demanded.

I am trained to understand men, to cut through their poses. I understand tough men, and men who have merely tough facades. Despite the truculence of this man's voice, I thought I detected uncertainty in it. I moved forward from the rock where I had been leaning.

He shuffled awkwardly in order to remain facing me, at the same time swinging his gun up to aim it at my stomach. Once my attention was thus directed to it, I recognized the riot gun as a kind issued to Co-Allied Invasion and Occupation Forces. It was a Xiay 25A, cheaply manufactured by our Chinese allies, capable of multiple-role usage, firing ordinary bullets, CS gas bullets, nail bombs, and other similar devices. The robot-like man carried a whip and a revolver in his belt. He was well armed if he was out for a morning walk.

He repeated his question.

I faced him squarely, fighting down my weakness.

“I'm American, which I believe is more than you can claim. My name is Calvert Madle Roberts, and I am an Undersecretary of State in the Willson Administration. I was returning from state business when my plane was shot down in the Pacific. Your employees brought me ashore. I have to get in touch with Washington immediately.”

“My employees? You must mean Maastricht. What the devil was he playing at, landing you here? This isn't a funfair I'm running. A carnival, you'd say, being American. Why didn't he bring you round to the lagoon?”

“I've been nine days adrift. I'm about all in and I need to contact my department soonest, okay? If you're in charge, I hold you responsible for looking after me.”

He uttered a grunt which might have represented laughter. “I am in charge here, that's for sure.… And I can't very well have you thrown back into the ocean.”