of water and some of the greenish stuff. My fear was gone, to be replaced by a numbing sense of tedium: it is remarkable how rapidly the human mind can accommodate the most remarkable of changed circumstances. Was this to be my fate from now on? – boredom, a hard bed, lukewarm water, and a diet of slabs of boiled cabbage? It was like being back at school, I reflected with gloom.
‘ Pau .’
The single syllable, softly spoken, sounded as loud to me in all that silence as a gun shot.
I cried out, scrambled to my feet, and held out my food slabs – it was absurd, but I lacked any other weapon. The sound had come from behind me, and I whirled around, my boots squealing on the Floor.
A Morlock stood there, just beyond the edge of my light circle, half-illuminated. He stood upright – he did not share the crouching, ape-like gait of those creatures I had encountered before – and he wore goggles that made a shield of blue glass which coated his huge eyes, turning them black to my view. ‘ Tik.’ Pau ,’ this apparition pronounced, his voice a queer gurgle.
I stumbled backwards, stepping on a tray with a clatter. I held up my fists. ‘Don’t come near me!’
The Morlock took a single pace forward, coming closer to the light shaft; despite his goggles, he flinched a little from the brightness. This was one of that new breed of advanced-looking Morlock, one of which had stunned me, 1 realized; he seemed naked, but the pale hair which coated his back and head was cut and shaped – deliberately – into a rather severe style, square about the breast bone and shoulders, giving it something of the effect of a uniform. He had a small, chinless face, something like an ugly child’s.
A ghost of memory of that sweet sensation of Morlock skull cracking under my club returned to me. I considered rushing this fellow, knocking him to the ground. But what would it avail me? There were uncounted others, no doubt, out there in the dark. I had no weapons, not even my poker, and I recalled how this chap’s cousin had raised that queer gun against me, knocking me down without effort.
I decided to bide my time.
And besides – this might seem strange! – I found my anger was dissipating, into an unaccountable feeling of humour. This Morlock, despite the standard wormy pallor of his skin, did look comical: imagine an orang-utan, his hair clipped short and dyed pale yellow-white, and then encouraged to stand upright and wear a pair of gaudy spectacles, and you’ll have something of the effect of him.
‘ Tik. Pau ,’ he repeated.
I took a step towards him. ‘What are you saying to me, you brute?’
He flinched – I imagined he was reacting to my tone rather than my words – and then he pointed, in turn, to the food slabs in my hands. ‘ Tik ,’ he said. ‘ Pau .’
I understood. ‘Good heavens,’ I said, ‘you are trying to talk to me, aren’t you?’ I held up my food slabs in turn. ‘ Tik. Pau . One. Two. Do you speak English? One. Two …’
The Morlock cocked his head to one side – the way a dog will sometimes – and then he said, not much less clearly than I had, ‘ One. Two .’
‘That’s it! And there’s more where that came from – one, two, three, four … ’
The Morlock strode into my light circle, though I noticed he kept out of my arm’s reach. He pointed to my water bowl. ‘ Agua .’
‘ Agua ?’ That had sounded like Latin – though the Classics were never my strong point. ‘Water,’ I replied.
Again the Morlock listened in silence, his head on a tilt.
So we continued. The Morlock pointed to common things – bits of clothing, or parts of the body like a head or a limb – and would come up with some candidate word. Some of his tries were frankly unrecognizable to me, and some of them sounded like German, or perhaps old English. And I would come back with my modern usage. Once ortwice I tried to engage him in a longer conversation – for I could not see how this simple register
‘ Pau .’
The single syllable, softly spoken, sounded as loud to me in all that silence as a gun shot.
I cried out, scrambled to my feet, and held out my food slabs – it was absurd, but I lacked any other weapon. The sound had come from behind me, and I whirled around, my boots squealing on the Floor.
A Morlock stood there, just beyond the edge of my light circle, half-illuminated. He stood upright – he did not share the crouching, ape-like gait of those creatures I had encountered before – and he wore goggles that made a shield of blue glass which coated his huge eyes, turning them black to my view. ‘ Tik.’ Pau ,’ this apparition pronounced, his voice a queer gurgle.
I stumbled backwards, stepping on a tray with a clatter. I held up my fists. ‘Don’t come near me!’
The Morlock took a single pace forward, coming closer to the light shaft; despite his goggles, he flinched a little from the brightness. This was one of that new breed of advanced-looking Morlock, one of which had stunned me, 1 realized; he seemed naked, but the pale hair which coated his back and head was cut and shaped – deliberately – into a rather severe style, square about the breast bone and shoulders, giving it something of the effect of a uniform. He had a small, chinless face, something like an ugly child’s.
A ghost of memory of that sweet sensation of Morlock skull cracking under my club returned to me. I considered rushing this fellow, knocking him to the ground. But what would it avail me? There were uncounted others, no doubt, out there in the dark. I had no weapons, not even my poker, and I recalled how this chap’s cousin had raised that queer gun against me, knocking me down without effort.
I decided to bide my time.
And besides – this might seem strange! – I found my anger was dissipating, into an unaccountable feeling of humour. This Morlock, despite the standard wormy pallor of his skin, did look comical: imagine an orang-utan, his hair clipped short and dyed pale yellow-white, and then encouraged to stand upright and wear a pair of gaudy spectacles, and you’ll have something of the effect of him.
‘ Tik. Pau ,’ he repeated.
I took a step towards him. ‘What are you saying to me, you brute?’
He flinched – I imagined he was reacting to my tone rather than my words – and then he pointed, in turn, to the food slabs in my hands. ‘ Tik ,’ he said. ‘ Pau .’
I understood. ‘Good heavens,’ I said, ‘you are trying to talk to me, aren’t you?’ I held up my food slabs in turn. ‘ Tik. Pau . One. Two. Do you speak English? One. Two …’
The Morlock cocked his head to one side – the way a dog will sometimes – and then he said, not much less clearly than I had, ‘ One. Two .’
‘That’s it! And there’s more where that came from – one, two, three, four … ’
The Morlock strode into my light circle, though I noticed he kept out of my arm’s reach. He pointed to my water bowl. ‘ Agua .’
‘ Agua ?’ That had sounded like Latin – though the Classics were never my strong point. ‘Water,’ I replied.
Again the Morlock listened in silence, his head on a tilt.
So we continued. The Morlock pointed to common things – bits of clothing, or parts of the body like a head or a limb – and would come up with some candidate word. Some of his tries were frankly unrecognizable to me, and some of them sounded like German, or perhaps old English. And I would come back with my modern usage. Once ortwice I tried to engage him in a longer conversation – for I could not see how this simple register
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