An Island Called Moreau Read Online Free PDF

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.
    I heard the Master shouting at him. “Why the hell did you dump that politician where you did? It was asking for trouble—this is no fun-fair! Suppose George had—”
    â€œI didn’t bother to take him round to the harbor because I was in a haste to get to the fish nets, like you told me,” Maastricht’s voice replied. “I’ve had enough shouting at for one day. George brought him in safely, didn’t he?”
    â€œI had to go and rescue the man. They were about to tear him apart, just to put you in the picture.”
    â€œPfhuh! I don’t believe you. Anyway, what do we do with the guy now he’s here?”
    â€œYou know he can’t be allowed to stay. Hypothesize, man. Suppose he took it into his head to team up with Warren?”
    â€œJeez, don’t mention Warren.… Let it ride a while, Master. It’s time I had a drink.”
    There was more, but strange waves were radiating through my head, bringing darkness. I staggered back to the bed, tucked a hand under the pillow, and fell into a deep, troubled sleep. Over and over again, I was half roused by the terrors of my dreams, in which the recurrent motif was a gigantic letter M , black, carved sometimes from rock, sometimes from flesh. Occasionally I roused to find the woman Bella ministering to me, or clumsily mopping my brow.
    Since I was on the Moon, things were pleasant that would otherwise have been unpleasant. In her cat-like fashion, Bella pressed herself against me. Her mouth, with its sharp incisors, lay against mine. I enjoy power, and the wielding of it; in any given situation, I will maneuver until I am in control; but with Bella against me, fawning yet predatory, I relished the weakness in which I floated. Things go like that on Luna.
    At last a time came when I sat up and was absolutely clear in my head. My internal clocks told me I had been in fever for two or more days. Neatly pressed clothes lay by my bed. I climbed out and stood. My shanks looked thinner than before. I tested my balance, and a faint heaving still lingered, a phantom of the days adrift in the boat; but I took command of myself and had no trouble walking across to the window.
    There lay Moreau Island, soaking in the unending daily dosage of sun, with the Pacific waiting as always on the horizon, a vat of energy. In the untidy courtyard, a bird swooped. All else was motionless. The Moon had set below my psychic horizon. I returned to the bed and sat down.
    A while later, Bella slunk into the room.
    â€œYou—are better?” she asked.
    I beckoned her closer. She stayed where she was, one hand on the door. Scrutinizing her, I reassembled the mixed feelings I had toward her during my fever. She wore an ankle-length drab gold dress. It was torn. The tear, and her general demeanor, conveyed an impression of wretchedness; yet there was in her regard, in her hunched shoulder, a defiance which I admired. By the same token, she was ugly enough; yet there was an animality about her which had made some kind of appeal to my more carnal instincts.
    â€œI appreciate your attentions to me while I was sick, Bella,” I said. “Now I have to work. Where’s your shower? I sure can use a shower.”
    â€œThe Master wish to speak to you.” Maybe she understood, maybe not.
    She led me down a short corridor and into another room. Music was