Maybe he thought these covert pleas for sympathy had some effect on me.
The hole for Maastricht’s coffin was dug with great effort. Even the brawniest of the Beast People were making slow headway. Finally, Dart cried, “That’ll do! We aren’t trying to strike oil. George, Alpha, help get the coffin off the truck, and go easy with it. If you drop it, you go in the hole yourself.”
I watched him closely. He never kept still, striding mechanically from side to side, flicking the whip, and towering over the submissive and unkempt heads of the Beast People.
The hole was less than a meter deep. As he passed me, I said, “Are you down to the rock? It’s a very shallow grave.”
“I wouldn’t put it past them to try and dig Hans up once we’re gone, would you?” he replied. “Just to see what really happens when you’re dead.”
The coffin was lowered in and the two surly Bull Men were delegated to shovel back the earth and stones. George pulled his hat from his head with an uncouth parody of reverence.
All this time, the cassette player in the truck had been grinding out Dart’s “hymn”; he switched it off now and addressed the congregation.
“My people, this is a solemn time, when a friend of ours, Hans Maastricht, finally loses his Shape. You all know he did wrong and did not obey the Master, which is me. So we bring him here to the Death Place to be taken up by the Big Master Underground and in the Sky, who watches over all of us, me included. His Whip is bigger than mine, and his wrath greater, and he’s fast, so watch it. It takes a long while to acquire your Shape, but not very long to lose it. That’s what it’s all about.
“Okay, there goes Hans, who did not obey, who took to the bottle.…
“Now, my people, we will say the Creed, and I am watching to see that you all join in. Alpha, George, chuck in the earth …”
Whereupon he led the mourners in a chant, which, like what he chose to call his “hymn,” was a cross between liturgical chant and acid rock.
Four Limbs Long—
Wrong Kind of Song.
No cause trouble.
Four Limbs Short—
Right Kind of Sport.
No cause trouble.
Dare not to slay
Do what they say
No cause trouble.
Speak only speech
Do what they teach
No cause trouble.
The Master’s is the Head that Blames
The Master’s is the Voice that Names
The Master’s is the Hand that Maims
The Master’s is the Whip that Tames
The Master’s is the Wrath that Flames.
And so on, much of it with gestures as to the parts of body referred to. The Beast People responded sullenly at first, looking out of the corner of their eyes to see who was or was not singing. But something like fervor sprang up among them, and they began calling louder and louder, and stamping, until lizards scuttled away among the undergrowth and pigeons fluttered out of the tops of the high palms.
A kind of mob psychology seized them. They started to dance, shouting more and more incoherently, and capering round the grave of their late friend. I saw Dart laughing, his face working as he kept up the chant. He cracked the whip in time to the beat.
Malformed legs and clumsy bodies pranced and quivered as a sort of conga line formed and shuffled round the clearing. Many of the rout clapped their hands above their heads like dervishes, chanting as they went. I stepped back to one side of the clearing to let them by.
While many abandoned themselves to grotesque joy, George’s evil little eyes glanced about continuously. Others, too, as the singing rose to a roar, were keeping a furtive lookout. They might have been awaiting a signal.
Even as I realized who was missing from the crowd, I caught a glimpse of him, balanced on a strut of the pylon and half leaning on the trunk of a tree. Little of him was visible, concealed as he was, but I knew by the sandy head that it was Foxy. He had something in his hands. As I identified the barrel of a carbine, he fired.
He must have been holding the gun incorrectly. The impact of the butt—presumably in his chest—knocked him backward. His long ginger shanks disappeared into the undergrowth as I swung about to see the effect of his shot.
The singing died with the report. The bullet went chirping harmlessly among the trees. Everyone stood stock still.
“Kill! Kill!” George shouted. Waving his little thick arms above his head, he charged toward the Master. After a moment’s hesitation, the rest of the mob surged forward.
Dart paused only for a moment. The shot had nonplussed him; for once, he was at a disadvantage; for once, his nerve failed him. He started to run for the truck instead of standing his ground. And the Beast People charged toward him, crying for blood.
Dart reached the truck ahead of the pursuit and threw himself clumsily into the driver’s seat. He started the engine as George flung himself against the door. At the same time, with great dexterity, one of the ape-men swung himself up over the back of the truck, and then on top of the cab. He was flung down into the back again as the truck jerked forward, but immediately reinstated himself.
The truck jerked forward a second time and then stopped. Dart was probably having trouble with his artificial limbs in the confines of the driving seat. The pause allowed several of the mob to throw themselves at the truck. They seemed to swarm over it. At that, I ran forward, shouting at them—otherwise, I was going to see Dart torn to bits.
Or so I believed. But Dart had his own way of coping with trouble. The muzzle of the riot gun came out of the cab window. I saw the flash as it fired. The mob fell back, and the truck was off, bumping toward the trail by which we had come. The ape-man crouched on the cab roof and made a jump on to the hood—but a low branch swept him off and he fell, rolling and tumbling in the dust.
George had been hit by Dart’s shot. Blood streamed down his chest by his left armpit. He seized the wound, seized his face, plastered himself with dark blood, ran hooting and crying hither and thither among his companions, adding to their confusion. He was a terrifying sight. Everyone barked or yelled as they dashed about uncontrollably, trampling over the graves.
I had plunged after the truck, but the falling ape-man got in my way. Without waiting, Dart accelerated and was gone, bumping furiously down the rough track.
As I turned to hide, my Dog Man, Bernie, came running toward me. He looked as wild as the rest, so that I wondered if he were coming to attack; then the meaning of his frantic gestures penetrated. I swung about.
Foxy stood not a dozen paces from me, leveling the carbine at my head. There was no doubt where he had got the weapon from. Crouching, I picked up a shard of rock and flung it, just as the gun went off. For a second, I thought I had been hit. My head rang with noise. Foxy’s shot had been decidedly more accurate than his first one, but had missed me. The shock threw me to the ground. Foxy also fell, shouting, so I must have hit him.
Bernie was at my side, yelling—I saw his mouth moving but could not hear. He grasped my arm as I heaved myself up and we ran into the undergrowth. I turned my head and saw some of the others, the Swine Woman among them, starting to head in my direction. That was enough. With Bernie guiding, we plunged through the thick bushes.
In those moments of panic, I believed that we were crashing through the undergrowth without plan. As I gathered my wits, however, I saw that Bernie was leading us along a path which wound upward and avoided the deepest thickets. I ran on behind him, in fear of my life.
The agony of keeping to Bernie’s pace—we were running uphill—at least had the effect of clearing the noise in my ears. I forged on mindlessly, like a hunted animal. When he stopped suddenly, I bumped into him and clung to him.
“You good boy, good man,” he said. He pointed forward with a misshapen hand and arm.
We had emerged on a cliff top. Below us a steep shoulder of rock, studded with bushes, rolled down to cliffs proper. Beyond lay the Pacific Ocean, blue, ev
er moving, yet seeming from this vantage point almost motionless.
Bernie patted me. “Good boy, no go back in water, you. Follow, follow, one at a time, take a little walk, hero—all be safe and no cause trouble, okay?”
“I can’t climb down that cliff, Bernie, not to save my life.”
He was already scrambling down the rock, clinging to grass and bushes. He looked up and smiled, his tongue half out of his mouth.
Craning forward, I watched him slide on to a ledge some feet below. He beckoned me. I stood where I was, afraid to follow. What decided me was a confused noise of pursuit in the undergrowth behind me. Clinging to the rock as best I could, I slithered down from handhold to handhold until I was leaning beside Bernie.
He began to move on at once and I followed. The path was now perfectly well defined, and safe enough if one did not look down at the extent of cliff almost below one’s feet. I saw there were round dry pellets where we walked, the droppings of rabbits or hares.
We continued for some way, encountering only two difficult stretches, where fissures in the rock had to be negotiated. When we reached a gnarled tree whose roots were embedded in the hillside, Bernie hauled himself onto it, we scrambled into the branches, and heaved ourselves up to more level ground.
He flung himself flat in the grass, then proceeded cautiously along, following the line of the drop. We crossed a small stream bed in which the merest trickle of water ran, and I recalled that I was parched with thirst. Through the trees growing all about us, ocean was still visible. Punctuating the sea below us, a large rock crowned with palms came in view. I recognized it as Seal Rock. Bernie and I had reached the highest point of Moreau Island.
Bernie slowed his pace and stretched out a warning hand.
We were confronted by a thorn barrier, threaded with barbed rattans.
I joined him and peered ahead through the screening foliage. Beyond the foliage was an open space with low meager buildings on its far side.
“Four Limbs Long Warren—he home there,” Bernie said. “Warren, Warren, go see Warren, no shoot, okay?”
When I looked at him, he dropped his gaze.
“Okay,” I said. “Go see Warren.”
8
An Independent Point of View
Far, far overhead, pilotless B989s were crossing the sky; a faint rumble of their noise came to us. Otherwise, it was one of those perfect Pacific days that seem destined to continue for ever. The lusty young sun reigned in the sky, a slight breeze moved through the trees. Murmurous sounds of ocean filled the background. An occasional fulmar sailed across the treetops and alighted.
Over the buildings Bernie and I were approaching, complete silence lay. Nothing moved. I had kept careful watch as we skirted the thorn barrier, uncertain of our reception, but had seen nothing stir. Although Bernie pushed forward with confidence, my nerves were alert for fresh danger. I’d had enough shooting for one day.
The bungalows did not inspire confidence. All were the same size, all neglected; one of them, draped in creeper, looked derelict. Panes of glass were broken here and there. Aerials and solar heaters cluttered the roofs of the two more promising buildings. The complex was dominated by a three-tier lattice structure such as I had seen before elsewhere. It handled beamed power, as well as radio signals, while the global navigational system, linked to orbiting satellites, replaced an older system represented by the pylons rotting in the bushes nearby. This was where Mortimer Dart drew his power supply from.
I halted before an open door in what looked like the main bungalow.
“Anyone there?” I called.
Silence and the dull Pacific sound. I called again.
A lean man with white hair appeared round the corner of one of the buildings, an old-fashioned wrench in his hand. He stopped and looked us over from several meters away. He was naked to the waist and of a traditional shape.
“Hello, there, Bernie. Don’t tell me that’s something from Dart’s laboratory you have there with you!”
“My name’s Calvert Madle Roberts,” I said. “I’m an American.”
“Well, you’re a long way from the stars and stripes here, friend.” He came forward and said, without proffering his hand, “My name’s Jed Warren. I don’t have no nationality or profession.”
I made no comment on that. He had a fine midwestern accent.
Bernie gave a long, confused account of how we had arrived. Jed Warren listened to it all without any indication of impatience or interest. At the end of the recital, he said, “You sure look like you been pushing your way through some mighty unfriendly territory. Guess you both better come in and wash up, since you’re here. I just hope you don’t bring no trouble with you.” He cast his gaze meditatively round the clearing, but all was still.
I followed him into the building. Bernie would come no further than the step. I was able to strip off my overalls and lave my arms and face, which had suffered a thousand scratches, under a cold shower in Warren’s washroom. I stood there with my head up and my mouth open, letting water pour into my parched mouth. After a few minutes of that, I felt decidedly more human. Going outside again, I was pleased to see that Warren had brought Bernie a bowl of water, in which the Dog Man soaked himself.
Warren wore an old pair of trousers and plimsolls. His torso was tanned a deep brown. He was so thin that every rib showed like a bar. A straggle of white hair on his chest matched his untidy beard. The hair on his head was long, drawn back, and tied with a strip of fabric behind his neck. He was about sixty years old.
“I take it this ain’t in the nature of a social visit,” he said.
“No. As Bernie said, we were lucky to get away with our lives. Foxy managed to get Hans’ carbine up from the lagoon.”
“He’s a troublemaker, is Foxy. Different altogether from Bernie. And George got shot?”
“A flesh wound only, I’d guess. But George is in a difficult position now that his friend Hans is dead.”
“Since I ain’t a sociable man, I’m right glad to hear this ain’t a sociable visit, Mr. Roberts. I suppose that you’ll be heading straight back for Dart’s place, now that you’re refreshed.”
“Can I radio the ASASC in San Diego from here?”
“You can’t do nothing from here, excepting leave. Facilities are kind of limited, as I guess you observed.”
“Mr. Warren, you don’t make a man feel very welcome.”
“I didn’t shoot you, did I? I’m busy with something, if you must know, and I want to get on with it. Now why don’t you and Bernie head right on back down that trail and see how Mortimer Dart’s getting along.”
“Are you anxious about Dart? I got the impression you two weren’t on very good terms.”
“We keep clear of each other, that’s the main thing.” He stood there unmoving, waiting for us to leave.
“We go, good boy, yes, no cause trouble,” Bernie said, casting anxious glances at me.
“I’ve not come here just to be turned away, Mr. Warren. I want refuge. You may like to know that a Search-Rescue party is looking for me even if I don’t get a call through to them. They’ll be here within forty-eight hours, at maximum. I shall then make a full report to the appropriate authorities of what I’ve seen on this island.”
He spat on the ground. “Appropriate authorities.… Why, if that ain’t one of the phrases I came here to escape from. It makes my hackles stand up, that’s what it does. Appropriate authorities, my left foot.…”
“As you may imagine, Mr. Warren, every one of the Beast People will be a living witness to the unholy goings-on here. As you can further imagine, the island will be cleared. You’d better further imagine what could happen to you if you were implicated in the proceedings.”
Warren put his arms akimbo, still hefting the wrench, and looked me in the eye. “You turn very threatening all of a sudden, Mac, when a man don’t lay on a red carpet for you. That’s the way folk are, I guess, and that’s why I don’t make you welcome. But just you tell me—wh
o do you think these appropriate authorities are as is going to be surprised at what they come across on Moreau Island?”
“You’re American, Warren, aren’t you? From the Midwest. Well then, it’s the American government that will be surprised at what they find here. Not to mention the Army, and the Co-Allies. When the media get on to what’s happening here, they’ll blazon it—and your part in it, whatever that part is—all round the civilized globe.”
He swung round unexpectedly and caught Bernie a smart blow on his haunches. “Beat it, Bernie! Go home to Master!”
Bernie gave a yelp of pain and started running. When he was some distance away, he turned and looked back. I called to him. But Warren made a stone-throwing motion with his hand, and the Dog Man disappeared into the bush.
Warren turned back to me. “Now we’ll talk, Mac.”
“My name’s Roberts, not Mac, Mr. Warren.”
“Now that creature is out of the way, we’ll talk over what you just said to me. First off, we’ll take a speedy look around my pitch. Maybe you’ll learn something, maybe you won’t.”
I would not let my anger show. Instead, I walked with him, believing that I might well see and learn more than he intended me to do.
It was a brief walk. He did no more than take me round the outside of the buildings. He had a sort of glorified junkyard out back, stacked with old oildrums and crates with U.S. naval markings, and piles of metal scrap. Warren evidently fancied himself an artist, for the rear of one bungalow had been painted with a crude fresco, while other large paintings, executed on board, stood about in the sun. There were also abstract figures built from the metal scrap, elaborate and tall. One of these, unfinished, stood by the back door. More distant was a pool with glass over it; I caught the glint of a fish in the water. We walked past the leading foot of the power lattice and returned to the front of the building.
“So you see, Mr. Roberts, there’s quite a lot of junk around supplied direct by the U.S. Forces. One of their nuclear submarines calls here with fresh supplies every other month. Who do you think built this here power unit? Dart and me with our own bare hands?” He laughed. “Where do you think Dart gets all his finance from for his research? It ain’t from me, I’ll tell you that. It comes out of the long pocket of the American government, that’s where it comes!”
An Island Called Moreau Page 10