Brian Aldiss - Moreau’s Other Island

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 days adrift. I’m about all in and I need to contact my department soonest, OK? 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.’

‘That’s big of you. I’ve told you my name. Roberts. What’s your name?’

His lip curled slightly. ‘You call me Master, same as the rest of them do.’ He swung himself about with a violent bodily motion and began striding back the way he had come. I followed.

We made our way along what served as a wretched street for the native village. The natives, having gathered their courage, had returned to peer at us. They uttered apotropaic phrases as their Master went by.

‘His is the Hand that Maims …’

‘His is the Head that Blames …’

‘His is the Whip that Tames …’

Beyond the little ragged village lay the lagoon. The road skirted it, winding past its tranquil green waters to buildings glimpsed through trees. Beyond everything was a steep hill, its grey cliffs looming above the forest. However mean the affairs of men, nature had added a note of grandeur.

It was impossible to keep up with the great mechanical strides of the self-styled Master. I lagged farther and farther behind. There was a gang of natives working on the far side of the lagoon, where I observed a mobile crane; they stopped work to stare at us.

My vision began to waver as I moved uphill. A stockade of tall and rusty metal posts stood here. The top of the stockade was decorated with barbed wire, strand after entangled strand of it. The Master halted at a narrow gate in the wall, stooping awkwardly to unlock it. I heard tumblers click back. He turned a wheel, the gate swung open, and he passed in. As soon as I had followed him, he pushed the gate shut and locked it from the inside.

Weakness overcame me. I fell to one knee.

‘Bella!’ he called, ignoring me.

I rose again, making my way forward as a strange figure came out of a building towards us. It was wearing a dress. It – no, she, Bella – had the short deformed legs common to most of the other islanders. Her skin was a dull pink. Her face was as hideous as George’s and his fellows’, although her eyes were curiously – lambent, I believe the word is. They seemed to glow and had an oriental cast. She would not look directly at me, although she approached readily enough while listening to what the Master was telling her.

To my surprise she came straight up to me and attempted to lift me off my feet. I felt a sort of nervous thrill at her embrace. Then I collapsed.

My senses never entirely left me. I was aware of strange faces about, and of being carried into a shadowy room. Something cool was placed on my forehead. Water was poured into my mouth; I could hardly swallow, and the cup was taken away. Then my eyes were bandaged. I lay without volition as expert hands ran over my body and I was given a thorough examination. These were things that hardly registered at the time, although they came back to me afterwards.

When I finally roused myself, the bandage was off my eyes. I lay naked under a sheet and felt refreshed. As I propped myself up on one elbow, I saw that an ointment to soothe my sunburns had been applied to my chest and face. The woman called Bella sat hunched in one corner of the room. Her eyes flashed greenly at me as she turned her head.

‘You – feel OK now?’

‘I think so.’

‘You like whisky?’

‘Thanks, but I don’t drink.’

‘No drink? You drink water.’

‘I meant that I don’t drink whisky.’

She stared motionlessly at me. She had short dark hair. I wondered if it was a wig. She had a nose that resembled a cat’s muzzle.

‘Thanks for seeing me through, Bella. I was in a bad way. Just reaction.’

‘I tell Master.’ She slunk away, hardly opening the door enough to get through, closing it directly she was through it. Decidedly feline.

The room took on new proportions as soon as she had gone. My body felt extremely light. Well, I said to myself, that’s how it is, here on the Moon. You mustn’t expect reality. Reality here is only one-sixth of what it is on Earth.

Without any sense of effort, I climbed out of bed and found it was easy to stand on my two feet if I stretched out my arms for balance. Being naked made things much easier. I floated over to my one unglazed window. No glass: but of course there were no minerals on the Moon.

‘M for Moon,’ I told myself aloud.

There was music, played close by, music and the strong heat of a tropical day. The music was Haydn’s, that composer who had come to dominate all the others, even Bach and Beethoven, in the last decade. I believed it was his Fifty-Fourth Symphony being played. Haydn and heat …

By some trick of the mind, I remembered who Moreau was.

I was gazing out at an untidy courtyard. Cans of paint were stacked there, sheets of wood, and panels of metal. Maastricht, still clutching his bottle, crossed my line of sight. I had forgotten he was on the Moon.