An Island Called Moreau by Brian W. Aldiss

“work.” Not that any rationale could serve as moral justification for the misery he was inflicting. But it was important to establish just what he was doing, and what were those “three stages” of research of which he had spoken with some pride.
    It was not hard to understand how an intelligent man afflicted by his disabilities might be obsessed with the function of those disabilities and their cause. I knew how erroneous was the popular view of scientists as being “detached,” of science as being “pure”; scientists, like artists, were often obsessionals, and the most outstanding work came from obsessionals. Dart would have as strong a drive as any man to comprehend the mysteries of genetic structure and programming. If that was what he was working on.
    So I arrived at the point where I decided that what he was doing might possibly be of value to the world, and that he must immediately be prevented from doing it. Was there a contradiction there? All knowledge was valuable; only in the wrong hands was it destructive, and Dart’s were decidedly wrong hands.
    If my reasoning was correct, then I had to return and face Dart with greater resolution than I had shown. And more than reason would be required there …
    So deep in thought was I that I stumbled over a branch half hidden in the grass and fell full length.
    Bernie virtually jumped on to me and began patting my hand.
    â€œMy Master, good man, good boy. No trouble, no trouble. Take care! You go down, boy, hero, okay!”
    â€œI’m okay,” I said, sitting up. “I’m glad of your company, Bernie. Just don’t touch me.”
    The glade we were in was littered with rock and the great white shells of dead tortoises. The sun, high overhead, beat down among the straggling eucalyptus and bamboo. I sat and rubbed my knee, weary again. The swim had been too much. Whatever terrific events may inform our lives, it always comes to that in the end; we just want to lie down.
    Leaning back, I shaded my eyes from the sun and watched Bernie cast himself down beside me. The garish distant music came to my ears, together with the continuous sound of the ocean, which one could never escape. I dozed, half comfortable.
    A scuffling near at hand brought me back to present realities. Bernie was already peering alertly across my chest at a point to the right.
    Only three meters from us, with ponderous tread, a giant tortoise was crossing the clearing. Its head craned on its rough neck, tendons stretching with effort as it pulled at a small plant growing there. It stood for a while, munching the green thing until even the stalk was gone, giving us an abstracted look from its dark liquid eyes. Then it marched past, edging aside the relic of a former comrade as it went. Bernie whined but did not pursue.
    So one of the original denizens of the island still managed to survive. For how many millions of years had the giant tortoises had their being on this lonely rock? Looking at that seamed face of a successor to the orders of dinosauria, I had felt time close up between us. Maybe they would flourish here long after humanity was finished. Somewhere beyond these horizons, man was getting ready to extinguish himself.
    Directly I thought of that, the problems of Moreau Island became small indeed. Yet the connection between what went on here and what went on there did not escape me.
    Filled with an unease which at least renewed my energy, I shook Bernie off and rose. Dart was the man I had to deal with.
    I went to the gate of the Master’s enclosure, Bernie following. The island lay quiet, enjoying its siesta, though the rock music still played.
    â€œDart!” I called. “Dart!”
    After a while, a mechanical-sounding voice near my ear said, “What do you want?”
    I looked for the intercom but it was on the inside of the gate, out of harm’s way. The arrangement was a good one, considering the deep scratches on the