‘M for Moon,’ 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 funfair! Suppose George had—’
‘I didn’t bother to take him round to the harbour 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?’
‘I had to go and rescue the man. They were about to tear him apart, just to put you in the picture.’
‘Pfhuh! I don’t believe you. Anyway, what do we do with the guy now he’s here?’
‘You know he can’t be allowed to stay. Hypothesize, man. Suppose he took it into his head to team up with Warren?’
‘Jeez, 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 manoeuvre 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 a 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.
‘You – 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 towards her during my fever. She wore an ankle-length drab gold dress. It was torn. The tear, and her general demeanour, 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.
‘I 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.’
‘The Master wish to speak to you.’ Maybe she understood, maybe not.
She led me down a short corridor and into another room. Music was 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 harbour, 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 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 favourite 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 sat giving of their best to the soul of Joseph Haydn. I recognized the channel instantly as World Third; it beamed music out from Chicago for twenty-four hours every day and was available by satellite anywhere, even in 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?’
‘Certainly. What now?’
‘You 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 person who had preceded him.
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 looseflowing garment covered his body.
‘This 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 decade back, and used this one without a hint of humour. ‘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 out of his armour, and decked out in that looseflowing 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 anyone’s account: either respected or circumvented.
As he turned to say something to the Netherlander, who hovered by, I was busy estimating him.
‘Tough 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.
‘It 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 deep-freeze lunch trays and very palatable, especially to a man who had had nothing solid in his stomach for