An Island Called Moreau Read Online Free Page B

immeasurable confidence; there was about it something rigid and mechanical.
    His face was concealed beneath a helmet. I could not see his eyes. As he came near, I saw that his arms and legs were of metal and plastic.
    â€œMy God, it’s a robot!” I said aloud.
    Then it came round the corner of the rock and confronted me.
    â€œWhere did you spring from?” it demanded.

3
    In the Hands of the Master
    One of my reasons for believing in God has been the presence in my life of emotions and understandings not susceptible to scientific method. I have met otherwise scientific men who believe in telepathy while 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 unshakable 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’s 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 him. Once I got a grip on 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 meters 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.
    â€œWho 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 facades. 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 riot 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, nail bombs, 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.
    â€œI’m American, which I believe is more than you can claim. My name is Calvert Madle Roberts, and I am an Undersecretary 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.”
    â€œMy employees? You must mean Maastricht. What the devil was he playing at, landing you here? This isn’t a funfair I’m running. A carnival, you’d say, being American. Why didn’t he bring you round to the lagoon?”
    â€œI’ve been nine days adrift. I’m about all in and I need to contact my department soonest, okay? 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.”
    â€œThat’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