Moreau’s Other Island. Brian Aldiss

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 on to 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 overalls 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 favoured 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?’

      It touched its 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 St 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 tried to flee.

      He was too late. The Master appeared. George sank to the ground, covering his head with a humble slavish gesture. A whip cracked across his shoulders and then the Master passed him and strode towards 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 metres 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 metres 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 unsusceptible to scientific method. I have met otherwise scientific men who believe in telepathy whilst 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 unshakeable 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 is 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 it. Once I had got a grip of 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 metres 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 façades. 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 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, nailbombs, 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 Under-Secretary 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. Why didn’t he bring you round to the lagoon?’

      ‘I’ve been nine СКАЧАТЬ