An Island Called Moreau by Aldiss Brian W

Author:Aldiss, Brian W [Aldiss, Brian W]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781504010290
Publisher: Open Road Media Sci-Fi & Fantasy
Published: 2015-05-18T16:00:00+00:00

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,

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