Read Online An Island Called Moreau by Brian W. Aldiss - Free Book Online

crane halted in midswing, and Maastricht jumped down.
    He strolled toward me, bare-chested, riot gun slung over his right shoulder.
    â€œYou’re jack-of-all-trades, I see, Mr. Maastricht.”
    â€œNobody else to do it if I don’t. Can’t leave it to this gang of brutes to do sensible work.” He evaded my gaze as he spoke by glancing at the natives he referred to.
    â€œThere must be other—well, white men on the island.”
    â€œWarren—no, no, there’s no person else, just the Master and me. And Da Silva.” He ran a hand across his face, as if to wipe out a mistake he had nearly made. “I thought you understood the setup. You’re slow to catch on, you a Yankee politician.”
    â€œMy brain’s been boiling in my skull for too many days, Mr. Maastricht.”
    â€œCall me Hans, for heaven’s sake, man. You stuffy politicians, I don’t know. Come and have a drink.”
    â€œI don’t drink. I thought I told you. You’re slow to catch on.”
    He looked almost straight at me and then grinned. He pulled a crumpled pack of mescahales from his pocket and lit one. “Bet you don’t smoke either?”
    â€œCorrect. It’s a vile habit.”
    â€œYou’re not drinking, not smoking—what do you do, Mr. Roberts?”
    I outstared him, and he dropped his eyes, muttering.
    â€œI’m not such a bastard as I might appear.” Then he turned and kicked out with one foot, catching the wretched Bernie on one flank. “You, Bernie, what the hell are you doing? Four Limbs Long, Song Gone Wrong, remember. Back to work.”
    Bernie departed, yelling and hopping. Behind us, the work crew labored slowly and clumsily on. I saw George sitting on a slab of stone, eyeing them darkly from under his hat, and gathered that he was the foreman of the gang.
    â€œYes, as I was saying, I’m not such a bastard. It’s just that the Master—Dart—I get the custom of calling him Master—he brings out the worst. I used to be a painter, in my good days, bygone.”
    â€œAn artist, eh? Amsterdam’s a good city for artists.”
    â€œNo, no, you misunderstand, no Rembrandt. I paint houses, inside or out. I have three men work under me. Now only animals! Come and see what we are doing now here.”
    He showed me how they were straightening out the curve of the lagoon at that point by throwing in stone, so as to make a proper mooring for small ships.
    â€œThat little quay you passed was built by the Japanese, way back in the last world war, when I was a little baby. Here the water is much deeper, to make a better berth. You see the fish?”
    We stood looking over the edge. The water was a clear green. A million little fish glittered in it, all the way down to sand.
    â€œWhere do you get the blocks of stone? It doesn’t look as if you’ve been blasting the cliff.”
    â€œNo, we don’t blast the cliff.” He leaned in the shadow of the crane, picking up his familiar bottle and taking a swig. “See, we have an underground reservoir for fresh water. You get to it from inside the palisade. Much stones. That was all dug out by hand, by the Beast People.”
    â€œThe Beast People!”
    â€œYou see, the secret is to keep them working, Calvert—Mr. Roberts. You must keep them working. Now I’m a Marxist, myself, unlike the Master, who’s a fascist pig, so I know all about the proles. What was I going to be saying? Yes, that’s right. You keep them working. First they dig out the reservoir, take several years, now they build the new quay with the stones.”
    â€œI’d like to ask you a lot of questions about Dart, Hans. But first of all, can I send a radio message from anywhere here?”
    â€œThrough the Master’s transmitters. No other way, of course.”
    â€œThat’s a little awkward, because I have just moved out.”
    His expression became very