An Island Called Moreau Read Online Free PDF Page B

playing—Haydn again. I had expected to see the Master towering over me, but he was not there. It was quite a pleasant room, but almost bare of furniture. There was a long window which gave a view over the top of the palisade—almost a seductive view, you might say, if it were not for the sinister nature of the surroundings.
    I could see part of a placid lagoon, where the water was almost turquoise and sheltered from the blue Pacific beyond by a spine of land which almost enclosed it. On the curve of the lagoon was a harbor, with a battered landing stage and a boat moored to it. Tall palms leaned across to the water, overshadowing some huts. Behind them was jungle, climbing up a slope, the top of which was lost behind the building in which I stood.
    It was such a typical tropical view that I wondered if I had seen it before, perhaps in some previous reincarnation. Then I recalled that this vista embodied one of the favorite early twentieth-century dreams of escape from civilization: the retreat in the South Seas, where the steamer came from Europe once a month and the girls wore grass skirts. And I reflected, as I turned away to observe the Master’s room, that I had a great deal for which to be thankful. Like life itself.
    On one wall was a 3V screen: I was looking into a vast and ornate chamber, part perhaps of some German palace, in which an orchestra was seated, giving of their best to the soul of Joseph Haydn. I recognized the channel instantly as World Third; it beamed music out from Munich twenty-four hours of every day, and was available by satellite anywhere, even on this remote spot on the ocean. They could pick it up in Moon Base too. One of the good things that the war had not yet put a stop to.
    Then the Master’s voice cut in over the music, the orchestra dimmed, and he said, “I’m coming in to speak to you, Roberts. Are you prepared?”
    â€œCertainly. What now?”
    â€œYou may be surprised.”
    At that, a side door opened, and someone entered from the next room. Maastricht followed, but I scarcely noticed him.
    I was too busy looking at the first person who had entered.
    It was the Master. I recognized the pallid face. He was about thirty-five years old. He was cut down to size since I last saw him swaggering along. He came rapidly forward in a mechanized wheelchair and halted in front of me. I backed away and sat down on a relaxer. He had no legs. A loose-flowing garment covered his body.
    â€œThis is where it’s at, Mr. Roberts. Now you see me like this, we both know where we stand.” He was full of old-fashioned slangy phrases from some decades back, and used this one without a hint of humor. “In any event, I can’t take prosthetic limbs for very long in this heat. Now, you and I are going to have a little talk while Bella brings you in something to eat.”
    Peeled from his armor, and decked out in that loose-flowing garment, the self-styled Master looked weak and female on first impression. But in the pallid face with its sheer cheeks and narrow pale mouth I saw a remorseless quality that would have to be taken into account: either respected or circumvented.
    As he turned to say something to the Netherlander who hovered by, I was busy estimating him.
    â€œTough luck about your accident,” I said, indicating the elaborate wheelchair. “How come you’re living on an island in the Pacific War Zone? You’re a Britisher, aren’t you, to judge by that accent of yours?”
    He regarded me unblinkingly.
    â€œIt does so happen I was born in England. So what? I care no more for England than it ever cared for me. Damn England. I’m stateless—as simple as that. Follow me?”
    I let that go unanswered. Bella entered, wheeling a trolley which she set in front of me. The trolley held an assortment of alcoholic drinks which I ignored and some fresh lime juice which I drank avidly. The food was Korean, served straight from