to paddle since there was nowhere to paddle to.
Seconds, minutes, hours drifted by before I looked up again. Who knows the teeming thoughts that poured through my mind? When I finally broke from my reverie and peered about me an island was in sight.
How beautiful it looked, how superbly more positive, more created, than the miserable element swilling all about me! I stood up in my excitement and capsized my boat immediately. Once I was back in it again, I turned eagerly to see what I could see.
At this distance the land appeared as a large rock with a flat top. On that top an installation of some kind had been built; this was what I had seen as I stopped to pick up the flying fish. Although such an indication of human enterprise filled me with hope, I had reservations from the beginning; the world was so full of automated machinery of various sorts, from missile-detection systems to navigational aids, that evidence of an installation was no proof men would be nearby. Yet even a deserted island was a hundred times more welcome than open sea. To die under a palm tree suddenly seemed like heaven.
The island was still distant. A current was carrying me towards it, and I was content for a while to lie back in exhaustion and be borne onwards. Again my mind wandered, half deliriously; I became involved in complex situations with people I did not know but thought I recognized.
When I shook myself from my lethargy, the sun was low in the west and magnificent layers of cloud were drawing about it to celebrate its descent. The island was considerably nearer; I could make out grey walls of cliff. The installation was lost in late afternoon light.
My drinking water was entirely gone. Exhausted though I was, I seized on the paddle and tried to guide my frail craft towards the island. For a dread filled me that ocean currents might carry me past this refuge in the hours of darkness, and that by morning it would lie far astern. Then I should surely die. My chance was now – or never again.
I was still paddling as night came down. It was glorious and terrible to witness the world’s swift change from day to night; even in my drained condition I was moved by it, and offered a prayer to God.
The breeze which had earlier carried me westwards was reversed with evening. My boat was almost at a standstill. I battled in the darkness as long as I could, collapsing at last in the bottom of my craft, where I slept fitfully, half in a delirium.
I woke before dawn, chilled all through, convinced I was dying. I lay like a broken bundle, cradling my paddle, with my jaw hanging open and my mouth parched, as once more the processes of Earth brought this part of the world into light.
I opened my eyes and lifted my head. Great cliffs loomed close, lit by early sun. They rose steeply from the waves, without a shore. High above the waterline bushes grew, crowning the cliffs. Birds wheeled above them. I stared at the birds in wonder. My canopy was moving slowly westwards again, no more than three hundred metres from the cliffs.
One detail was especially remarkable. Carved into the cliff at a place which appeared totally inaccessible was a gigantic letter.
The letter dominated me. I stared at it, trying to make sense out of it, but to my dazed imagining it seemed to be independent of meaning, to exist only for itself. Its very shape suggested a sturdy bipedal independence. It was a huge letter M.
The cliffs dazzled with reflected light but the M was black. Whoever had sculpted it from the rock had made certain that it was visible from afar by filling its recesses with tar or some black pitchy substance.
Thoughts of a vaguely religious nature filled my mind. I heard my voice from my cracked lips say, ‘In the beginning was the letter.’ I laughed feebly. Then I slumped back into the boat.
When I brought myself to look again, the M stood some way behind, a double black pillar. The nearer cliffs were less steep and in shadow. Trees were more in evidence. I even imagined I might have seen a building among the trees, as my head dropped once more. But the insistence that I should do something rose within me and again I dragged myself up. I splashed head and neck with sea water, although the brine made my lips smart.
The boat was drifting past a south-west-facing cliff wall which lay no more than two hundred metres away. Ordinarily I would have thought nothing of swimming ashore; now, all I could do was cup my hands and call for help; but there was the noise of surf against rocks to compete with, and my throat was choked by drought.
I could see that in less than an hour we should reach the end of the island, to be carried into the open ocean again. The cliffs were becoming less massive. It would be possible to scramble ashore at the westernmost point. When it came level, I would have to fling myself into the water, trusting to God and the remainder of my strength to get me ashore.
As I was preparing for this ordeal, I discovered that I was being observed. Three or four natives stood under tall trees among bushes, watching me. At this distance, I could get no clear view, yet something about them – whether in their faces or their stance – gave an impression of singular bestiality. They stood almost immobile and stared across the waves at me; then they were gone; the bushes moved for a moment and were still.
I turned my attention to the end of the island, which could now be seen to sprout an islet just beyond its shores, leaving a narrow channel between shore and islet. The question seemed to be whether the current which carried me would sweep me clear away from the island or closely round its tip, between island and islet; if the latter was the case, it should not be difficult to get ashore.
As I considered this question, a heavy craft with thundering engine swerved out from behind the island. Spreading a wake of white water behind it, it curved out and headed towards me.
Two men were in the craft. I could get clear glimpses only of the man at the wheel. His face was black and again, as with the watchers on the cliff, I received an impression of brutishness.
The craft he steered was painted a muddy brown. As it bore towards me and swung clumsily abeam, the wash from it swamped my canopy. I found myself struggling in the water. Half-drowned, I heard the curses of the men in the boat; then my wrists were grasped, and my shoulders, and I was heaved unceremoniously into the landing-craft, as I heard one of them call it.
As soon as they had me on deck the boat was in motion again, swerving violently about. I was left to roll on the deck like a freshly landed tunny, coughing and spewing the sea water out of me.
When I had recovered slightly, I heaved myself into a sitting position. I was confronted by as frightful a countenance as I have ever seen in my life. At close quarters, its brutishness was overwhelming, so that I half-believed I was delirious.
Under a floppy leather hat was no brow, simply a great swelling face covered with stubble. The jaw was prognathous, with no chin. A mighty mouth swept back, its corners almost vanishing into the absurd hat, its fleshy lips hardly fleshy enough to conceal large incisors in the lower jaw. Above this formidable mouth was a snout-like nose, wrinkled in a sneer like a hyena’s, and two almost lidless eyes. These eyes regarded me now – fixed themselves on me with a dull red glare. I pulled myself back from them in shock. But still I had to stare into them.
The monster regarded me with the strangest expression, at once aggressive and shrinking, as though it was on the point of either throwing itself upon me or leaping out of my way.
Only for a moment did we stare at each other so closely. Only for a moment was that strange ambiguity of gaze between us. Then the strange black man was struck on the back by his companion, who roared, ‘Get back to the helm, George! None of your tricks!’
Black George leaped back to his station with a
