An Island Called Moreau

  So one of the original denizens of the island still managed to survive. For how many millions of years had the giant tortoises had their being on this lonely rock? Looking at that seamed face of a successor to the orders of dinosauria, I had felt time close up between us. Maybe they would flourish here long after humanity was finished. Somewhere beyond these horizons, man was getting ready to extinguish himself.

  Directly I thought of that, the problems of Moreau Island became small indeed. Yet the connection between what went on here and what went on there did not escape me.

  Filled with an unease which at least renewed my energy, I shook Bernie off and rose. Dart was the man I had to deal with.

  I went to the gate of the Master’s enclosure, Bernie following. The island lay quiet, enjoying its siesta, though the rock music still played.

  “Dart!” I called. “Dart!”

  After a while, a mechanical-sounding voice near my ear said, “What do you want?”

  I looked for the intercom but it was on the inside of the gate, out of harm’s way. The arrangement was a good one, considering the deep scratches on the metal of gate and posts.

  “Dart, I want you to let me back in. I need to talk to you.”

  “What do you want to talk about, Mr. Undersecretary? God?”

  “I’ll settle for lesser subjects—I’ve been thinking the situation over.”

  “What situation?”

  “There is only one situation on this island, as you know—and you’re in it.”

  Silence.

  “And, Dart—I want to bring my pal Bernie along.”

  Fright showed in the Dog Man’s eyes. He understood more than he could express, just like the rest of us.

  The gate swung open.

  “Come on, Bernie! He won’t hurt you! Stay with me.”

  What a pitiful, divided look I received!

  “Master, savvy. You speak. You no drive, Four Long Limbs, no trouble. This my bad house, Lab’raty. No like Whip, be good, be good boy.”

  He took a step forward and a step back. And another step back.

  “You’d better return to the village, then, Bernie. Thanks for coming along.”

  “Goodbye, good man. One, two, three …”

  I entered, and the gate closed behind me.

  For the first time, I took in the crudity of the construction of the low building. The greatest care had been expended on the front, where the big control room was; there the facade had been given some sort of pebble-dash finish. The rest was roughly done. The walls were of breeze blocks, crudely mortared together; the eaves lacked guttering; and many of the windows were unglazed, the combined effect being one of incompletion if not downright dereliction. One or two tropical creepers, seizing hold of the rough walls, did something to counterbalance the general rawness.

  Going through the door into the house, I found Mortimer Dart in the main room, sitting alert in his chair. Again I scrutinized that pale, puffy face, but could read nothing vital. Bella hovered restlessly behind his chair. Heather was in the far corner of the room, sitting by a luxuriant plant in a bronze tub. She wore the same saffron tunic and dark trousers as she had done on our last meeting; to these, she had added a flimsy mauve scarf, which was knotted incongruously round her neck.

  I made a small nod in Heather’s direction. It was not returned. She remained unmoving.

  “A pleasant family gathering,” I said. The room was air conditioned. No jingles here; only Haydn played as usual. I shivered.

  “You have had a good look round my estate, Roberts.”

  “Yes. I’m feeling a touch of fever, I believe. Has Bella any more of that lime juice?”

  “Of course. Bella! Let me feel your pulse.”

  I stood there. As he came nearer, the seat of his chair was raised until he was high enough to touch my forehead. The hand he brought up ended in variegated fingers; the finger he placed on my forehead was soft and hard at once. I tried to look at it as the metal hand retracted and hung down again over the side of the vehicle. Glancing at a small panel of instruments by his left knee, Dart said, “Your pulse is normal. Your temperature is a couple of points above average, but that is only to be expected when you’ve been walking about in the sun and swimming in the lagoon. Sit down.”

  I guessed I was meant to appreciate his delicate reminder that he had much of the island under surveillance.

  As I sat down, he lowered himself until his eye level was only slightly above mine, and said, “I must have your promise not to disrupt the placid routine of what goes on here. Keep quiet and you are okay. If you upset the Beast People, or poor Hans, or me, or anyone—well, we must take steps. This is not a fun-fair. You savvy?”

  Looking away from him, I asked coldly, “Have you sent that radio message yet, Dart?”

  “I need certain guarantees—”

  “Because you can be in deep trouble if you haven’t done so. Let me remind you forcibly that an extensive Search-Rescue is under way right now, seeking out survivors from the Leda over an ever widening area of ocean.”

  Dart said, “That was all ten days ago, in the middle of a war. They’ll have packed in the search by now. You can’t kid me.”

  “They never give up,” I said.

  Bella came and set a misty glass of lime by my side.

  “How is it,” Dart asked, “that, if this search you speak of took place, we’ve seen no aircraft over the island for more than a week?”

  “That reinforces my point. They have not yet combed this sector. They’ll be around at any time.”

  I could see he did not believe me. My discomfort was added to by private knowledge I had. Ordinarily, survey satellites high above the stratosphere recorded all land and ocean activity; one of them would have relayed the sinking of the Leda back to base; but I knew that the vital satellite had been disintegrated by the enemy only two days previously—the report had come through while I was in conference on the Moon.

  Dart began wheeling himself about the room. Bella followed, until he gestured her savagely to get out of the way.

  “You have no proof of your identity—” he began, when the siren started to blow. He glanced at his watch and said, “We have a punctual computer, you see. That’s time to get back to work. End of siesta. End also of our talk.”

  I put my foot on the footrest of his chair and halted him. “Dart, I demand, as Undersecretary of State, that you or I radio at once to ASASC. Those are my instructions to you, and I must warn you that under the Emergency Powers Act I have the right to commandeer your equipment. If you resist, you can be tried by an emergency court, whose powers include pronouncement of the death sentence. What do you say, Yes or No?”

  His face seemed to change shape as he hunched up his shoulders in sudden rage. His hands clasped the arms of his chair.

  “The radio transmitter is out of action today,” he said at last.

  “You’re, lying!”

  “I will not be dictated to on my own island.”

  “Stay where you are,” said a voice from behind.

  Turning, I saw the slim man in the white lab coat. He had a withered, dull face, screwed at this moment into an expression of determined nastiness. He held a strange weapon, something like a long air pistol, which he pointed at me.

  “Da Silva,” I said, “under wartime regulations, you, like your boss, are committing an offense which carries the death penalty. Put that weapon down.”

  “Okay, Roberts, or whatever your name is, no more bluff.”

  Dart also had a weapon aimed at me. I recognized it as a Browning automatic. It took little deductive power to realize that he would have a signal device on his chair to summon help when needed.

  As I stood there, hands half raised, wondering whether to throw myself on Dart, the other protagonists in the scene were on the move. Bella slunk away, vanishing furtively out of the door like an image of betrayal—though why I expected anything from her I cannot say. By contrast, Heather came closer, rising from her chair a
nd approaching almost as noiselessly as Bella had retreated. At least she was unarmed, but the look on her face was not attractive. A mute signal passed between her and Dart.

  “You are recovering your strength and getting dangerous,” he said. “We shall have to lock you up. It will give you a chance to think things over.”

  “You have me at a disadvantage, Dart. That’s just temporary as you’ll realize if you consider your actions within the context of the war being waged over Pacific waters. You have been informed of my role in affairs. Cooperate, or face the consequences.”

  Dart kept the weapon leveled at me, smiling thinly. “Warfare … the perfect human excuse to exercise power, personal power as well as national. That’s your sort of caper, not mine, Mr. Roberts. You think I’m automatically on your side in the struggle, don’t you? You’re wrong. Humanity always kept me at arm’s length; I don’t have arms, so I don’t have to have human feelings. I’m excused. Okay, savvy?”

  “It’s not a matter of what you feel—”

  “That’ll do, thanks a lot. Da Silva, lock him up.”

  6

  A Little Striptease

  To estimate the size of the building over which Dart’s will prevailed was not easy.

  From outside, it was almost impossible, for the structure had been sited so that it backed on to the thickly afforested hill which ran up toward the eastern end of the island. In addition, it was surrounded by the high stockade.

  From inside, locked doors foiled any attempts at exploration. I knew only two corridors, which formed a T, and some of the rooms off them. On one side of the longer corridor were the rooms whose windows faced out over what I suppose served as the front of the building. These rooms consisted of two cell-like bedrooms, in one of which I had been lodged when I first arrived, another small room with a locked door, and the large control room. These rooms faced northwest. On the other side of the corridor were the kitchen, Bella’s room, a generator room (locked), then the side corridor, then a store, a hall with double doors (locked) to the laboratory area, and a W.C. Down the side corridor were more locked doors, Dart’s quarters, Heather’s quarters, toilets, and, I suspected, the radio room, as well as another locked door to the labs. I estimated that the T-corridors gave access to less than a third of the total building.

  Under surveillance of the two guns, I was taken to a cell next to the generator room and locked in. There was a light in the cell and a vent in the ceiling. I judged from its position in the house that it was entirely surrounded by other rooms, perhaps other cells. It contained a bunk with two blankets and a paperback novel on it, and a slop pail standing in one corner. Nothing else.

  Burning with fury and frustration, I marched up and down the tiny room.

  A long time passed. Hours uncounted. Then the door was unlocked. Heather came in warily with a tray of food. Da Silva stood behind her, still carrying his air pistol. She put the tray down on the floor and left. The key turned in the lock.

  Long after that, I fell on the bunk and went to sleep. When I woke, the light still glared down into my eyes. I had no idea whether it was night or day.

  Never in my life had I been held prisoner. It was impossible to recapture the sustaining rage I had felt when first shut in. I began pacing again, but this time it was to keep anxieties at bay.

  Heather returned and took the tray away. I had eaten nothing. She was back fairly soon, with more food and a cup of hot coffee. As soon as she had gone, I squatted down and drank the coffee avidly. I ate the food. I began to pace again.

  Long after I had wearied of pacing, and was sitting sprawled on the bunk, there was a thump on the door.

  “Mr. Roberts? It’s me, Mortimer Dart. I expect you can hear? I’ve come to say that everything’s okay and that we’re going to let you out. You hear me?”

  I remained on the bed. A trick? Were they going to shoot me? What had they to lose?

  “Mr. Roberts, are you awake? Don’t try anything. You’re free to go and I don’t want any trouble. We’ve checked on your credentials and you’re genuine. I’m convinced.”

  “You checked with ASASC?” I asked.

  A small silence. Then he said, “I was suspicious with good reason. No mention of you being missing on the Co-Allied News. So I couldn’t believe your story. You had no verification, did you? How did I know you weren’t some sort of a subversive?”

  “Dart, did you check with ASASC?”

  “It was on the news this morning, Mr. Roberts. You know how they censor things in wartime. They flashed your picture and announced you just died in a Washington hospital. Your funeral is three tomorrow afternoon. That’s interesting, isn’t it?”

  So they had given up the search. The cover story was characteristic; the public did not like to hear that politicians went on risky missions. But—did Dart know that? Did he still have doubts about my identity? If he did believe I was a subversive, he would have reason to kill me. On the other hand, if he did now believe that I was who I claimed to be, he would still have good reason for not wanting my return to the States.

  “You hear what I say in there? If I let you out, can I count on your cooperation? No funny business?”

  He had not radioed ASASC. That alone was proof I had good reason for mistrust. It was essential that I humor him, at least until I was as far from this cell as I could get.

  “Let me out,” I said. “Maybe we can watch my funeral on 3V together.”

  Relief sounded in his voice as he said, “Maybe we can. Quite a giggle. Meanwhile, I have a little trouble on my hands and I might be glad of your help, if you feel so inclined.”

  The key turned in the lock. The door opened. He was clad in his amazing prosthetic armor, looking as he had done when I first encountered him, robot-like, his helmet almost brushing the ceiling. Despite myself, I was caught off guard. I sidled cautiously past into the corridor. Heather was standing there; she flashed me a strained smile.

  I looked up at Dart, at a psychological disadvantage after my period of confinement. The time would come when he would regret his treatment of me.

  He said coldly, “So, how does it feel to be dead and practically buried?”

  “All right, Dart, you know I’m alive because you need my help. I’ll decide about that when I hear what your trouble is. Been whipping Bella again?”

  “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.