The Moon Moth and Other Stories

by Jack Vance

“Fodor Impliega, Fodor Banzoso?”

  Fiamella nodded. “They hated Lester. They said, ‘Give us one of your savage slaves. Too long a time has gone past, we must send a soul to our god.’ Lester said, ‘No!’ They were very angry, and talked together about Lester.”

  Pascoglu nodded thoughtfully. “I see. I’ll certainly make inquiries of these priests. Thank you for your information.”

  Fiamella departed. Pascoglu went to the wall mesh. “Send Fodor Impliega and Fodor Banzoso here, please.”

  There was a pause, then the voice of the clerk responded: “They are busy, Mr. Pascoglu, some sort of rite or other. They said they’ll only be a few minutes.”

  “Mmph…Well, send in Viamestris Diasporus.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “For your information,” said Magnus Ridolph, “Viamestris Diasporus comes from a world where gladiatorial sports are highly popular, where successful gladiators are the princes of society, especially the amateur gladiator, who may be a high-ranking nobleman, fighting merely for public acclamation and prestige.”

  Pascoglu turned around. “If Diasporus is an amateur gladiator, I would think he’d be pretty callous. He wouldn’t care who he killed!”

  “I merely present such facts as I have gleaned through the morning’s research. You must draw your own conclusions.”

  Pascoglu grunted.

  In the doorway appeared Viamestris Diasporus, the tall man with the ferocious aquiline head whom Magnus Ridolph had noticed in the lobby. He inspected the interior of the library carefully.

  “Enter, if you please,” said Pascoglu. “I am conducting an inquiry into the death of Lester Bonfils. It is possible that you may help us.”

  Diasporus’ narrow face elongated in surprise. “The killer has not announced himself?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  Diasporus made a swift gesture, a nod of the head, as if suddenly all were clear. “Bonfils was evidently of the lowest power, and the killer is ashamed of his feat, rather than proud.”

  Pascoglu rubbed the back of his head. “To ask a hypothetical question, Mr. Diasporus, suppose you had killed Bonfils, what reason—”

  Diasporus cut the air with his hand. “Ridiculous! I would only mar my record with a victory so small.”

  “But, assuming that you had reason to kill him—”

  “What reason could there be? He belonged to no recognized gens, he had issued no challenges, he was of stature insufficient to drag the sand of the arena.”

  Pascoglu spoke querulously: “But if he had done you an injury—”

  Magnus Ridolph interjected a question: “For the sake of argument, let us assume that Mr. Bonfils had flung white paint on the front of your house.”

  In two great strides Diasporus was beside Magnus Ridolph, the feral bony face peering down. “What is this, what has he done?”

  “He has done nothing. He is dead. I ask the question merely for the enlightenment of Mr. Pascoglu.”

  “Ah! I understand. I would have such a cur poisoned. Evidently Bonfils had committed no such solecism, for I understand that he died decently, through a weapon of prestige.”

  Pascoglu turned his eyes to the ceiling, held out his hands. “Thank you, Mr. Diasporus, thank you for your help.”

  Diasporus departed; Pascoglu went to the wall-mesh. “Please send Mr. Thorn 199 to the library.”

  They waited in silence. Presently Thorn 199 appeared, a wiry little man with a rather large round head, evidently of a much mutated race. His skin was a waxy yellow; he wore gay garments of blue and orange, with a red collar and rococo red slippers.

  Pascoglu had recovered his poise. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Thorn. I am trying to establish—”

  Magnus Ridolph said in a thoughtful voice, “Excuse me. May I make a suggestion?”

  “Well?” snapped Pascoglu.

  “I fear Mr. Thorn is not wearing the clothes he would prefer for so important an inquiry as this. For his own sake he will be the first to wish to change into black and white, with, of course, a black hat.”

  Thorn 199 darted Magnus Ridolph a glance of enormous hatred.

  Pascoglu was puzzled. He glanced from Magnus Ridolph to Thorn 199 and back.

  “These garments are adequate,” rasped Thorn 199. “After all, we discuss nothing of consequence.”

  “Ah, but we do! We inquire into the death of Lester Bonfils.”

  “Of which I know nothing!”

  “Then surely you will have no objection to black and white.”

  Thorn 199 swung on his heel and left the library.

  “What’s all this talk about black and white?” demanded Pascoglu.

  Magnus Ridolph indicated a strip of film still in the viewer. “This morning I had occasion to review the folkways of the Kolar Peninsula on Duax. The symbology of clothes is especially fascinating. For instance, the blue and orange in which Thorn 199 just now appeared induces a frivolous attitude, a light-hearted disregard for what we Earthmen would speak of as ‘fact’. Black and white, however, are the vestments of responsibility and sobriety. When these colors are supplemented by a black hat, the Kolarians are constrained to truth.”

  Pascoglu nodded in a subdued fashion. “Well, in the meantime, I’ll talk to the two priests of Cambyses.” He glanced rather apologetically at Magnus Ridolph. “I hear that they practice human sacrifice on Cambyses; is that right?”

  “Perfectly correct,” said Magnus Ridolph.

  The two priests, Fodor Impliega and Fodor Banzoso, presently appeared, both corpulent and unpleasant-looking, with red flushed faces, full lips, eyes half-submerged in the swelling folds of their cheeks.

  Pascoglu assumed his official manner. “I am inquiring into the death of Lester Bonfils. You two were fellow passengers with him aboard the Maulerer Princeps; perhaps you noticed something which might shed some light on his death.”

  The priests pouted, blinked, shook their heads. “We are not interested in such men as Bonfils.”

  “You yourselves had no dealings with him?”

  The priests stared at Pascoglu, eyes like four knobs of stone.

  Pascoglu prompted them. “I understand you wanted to sacrifice one of Bonfils’ palaeolithics. Is this true?”

  “You do not understand our religion,” said Fodor Impliega in a flat plangent voice. “The great god Camb exists in each one of us, we are all parts of the whole, the whole of the parts.”

  Fodor Banzoso amplified the statement. “You used the word ‘sacrifice’. This is incorrect. You should say, ‘go to join Camb’. It is like going to the fire for warmth, and the fire becomes warmer the more souls that come to join it.”

  “I see, I see,” said Pascoglu. “Bonfils refused to give you one of his palaeolithics for a sacrifice—”

  “Not ‘sacrifice’!”

  “—so you became angry, and last night you sacrificed Bonfils himself!”

  “May I interrupt?” asked Magnus Ridolph. “I think I may save time for everyone. As you know, Mr. Pascoglu, I spent a certain period this morning in research. I chanced on a description of the Cambygian sacrificial rites. In order for the rite to be valid, the victim must kneel, bow his head forward. Two skewers are driven into his ears, and the victim is left in this position, kneeling, face down, in a state of ritual composure. Bonfils was sprawled without regard for any sort of decency. I suggest that Fodor Impliega and Fodor Banzoso are guiltless, at least of this particular crime.”

  “True, true,” said Fodor Impliega. “Never would we leave a corpse in such disorder.”

  Pascoglu blew out his cheeks. “Temporarily, that’s all.”

  At this moment Thorn 199 returned, wearing skin-tight black pantaloons, white blouse, a black jacket, a black tricorn hat. He sidled into the library, past the departing priests.

  “You need ask but a single question,” said Magnus Ridolph. “What clothes was he wearing at midnight last night?”

  “Well?” asked Pascoglu. “What clothes were you wearing?”


  “I wore blue and purple.”

  “Did you kill Lester Bonfils?”

  “No.”

  “Undoubtedly Mr. Thorn 199 is telling the truth,” said Magnus Ridolph. “The Kolarians will perform violent deeds only when wearing gray pantaloons or the combination of green jacket and red hat. I think you may safely eliminate Mr. Thorn 199.”

  “Very well,” said Pascoglu. “I guess that’s all, Mr. Thorn.”

  Thorn 199 departed, and Pascoglu examined his list with a dispirited attitude. He spoke into the mesh. “Ask Mr. Hercules Starguard to step in.”

  Hercules Starguard was a young man of great physical charm. His hair was a thick crop of flaxen curls, his eyes were blue as sapphires. He wore mustard-colored breeches, a flaring black jacket, swaggering black short-boots. Pascoglu rose from the chair into which he had sank. “Mr. Starguard, we are trying to learn something about the tragic death of Mr. Bonfils.”

  “Not guilty,” said Hercules Starguard. “I didn’t kill the swine.”

  Pascoglu raised his eyebrows. “You had reason to dislike Mr. Bonfils?”

  “Yes, I would say I disliked Mr. Bonfils.”

  “And what was the cause of this dislike?”

  Hercules Starguard looked contemptuously down his nose at Pascoglu. “Really, Mr. Pascoglu, I can’t see how my emotions affect your inquiry.”

  “Only,” said Pascoglu, “if you were the person who killed Mr. Bonfils.”

  Starguard shrugged. “I’m not.”

  “Can you demonstrate this to my satisfaction?”

  “Probably not.”

  Magnus Ridolph leaned forward. “Perhaps I can help Mr. Starguard.”

  Pascoglu glared at him. “Please, Mr. Ridolph, I don’t think Mr. Starguard needs help.”

  “I only wish to clarify the situation,” said Magnus Ridolph.

  “So you clarify me out of all my suspects,” snapped Pascoglu. “Very well, what is it this time?”

  “Mr. Starguard is an Earthman, and is subject to the influence of our basic Earth culture. Unlike many men and near-men of the outer worlds, he has been inculcated with the idea that human life is valuable, that he who kills will be punished.”

  “That doesn’t stop murderers,” grunted Pascoglu.

  “But it restrains an Earthman from killing in the presence of witnesses.”

  “Witnesses? The palaeolithics? What good are they as witnesses?”

  “Possibly none whatever, in a legal sense. But they are important indicators, since the presence of human onlookers would deter an Earthman from murder. For this reason, I believe we may eliminate Mr. Starguard from serious consideration as a suspect.”

  Pascoglu’s jaw dropped. “But—who is left?” He looked at the list. “The Hecatean.” He spoke into the mesh. “Send in Mr…” He frowned. “Send in the Hecatean to us now.”

  The Hecatean was the sole non-human of the group, although outwardly he showed great organic similarity to true man. He was tall and stick-legged, with dark brooding eyes in a hard chitin-sheathed white face. His hands were elastic fingerless flaps: here was his most obvious differentiation from humanity. He paused in the doorway, surveying the interior of the room.

  “Come in, Mr.—” Pascoglu paused in irritation. “I don’t know your name; you have refused to confide it, and I cannot address you properly. Nevertheless, if you will be good enough to enter…”

  The Hecatean stepped forward. “You men are amusing beasts. Each of you has his private name. I know who I am, why must I label myself? It is a racial idiosyncrasy, the need to fix a sound to each reality.”

  “We like to know what we’re talking about,” said Pascoglu. “That’s how we fix objects in our minds, with names.”

  “And thereby you miss the great intuitions,” said the Hecatean. His voice was solemn and hollow. “But you have called me here to question me about the man labeled Bonfils. He is dead.”

  “Exactly,” said Pascoglu. “Do you know who killed him?”

  “Certainly,” said the Hecatean. “Does not everyone know?”

  “No,” said Pascoglu. “Who is it?”

  The Hecatean looked around the room, and when he returned to Pascoglu, his eyes were blank as holes into a crypt.

  “Evidently I was mistaken. If I knew, the person involved wishes his deed to pass unnoticed, and why should I disoblige him? If I did know, I don’t know.”

  Pascoglu began to splutter, but Magnus Ridolph interceded in a grave voice. “A reasonable attitude.”

  Pascoglu’s cup of wrath boiled over. “I think his attitude is disgraceful! A murder has been committed, this creature claims he knows, and will not tell…I have a good mind to confine him to his quarters until the patrol ship passes.”

  “If you do so,” said the Hecatean, “I will discharge the contents of my spore sac into the air. You will presently find your Hub inhabited by a hundred thousand animalcules, and if you injure a single one of them, you will be guilty of the same crime that you are now investigating.”

  Pascoglu went to the door, flung it aside. “Go! Leave! Take the next ship out of here! I’ll never allow you back!”

  The Hecatean departed without comment. Magnus Ridolph rose to his feet and prepared to follow. Pascoglu held up his hand. “Just a minute, Mr. Ridolph. I need advice. I was hasty, I lost my head.”

  Magnus Ridolph considered. “Exactly what do you require of me?”

  “Find the murderer! Get me out of this mess!”

  “These requirements might be contradictory.”

  Pascoglu sank into a chair, passed a hand over his eyes. “Don’t make me out puzzles, Mr. Ridolph.”

  “Actually, Mr. Pascoglu, you have no need of my services. You have interviewed the suspects, you have at least a cursory acquaintance with the civilizations which have shaped them.”

  “Yes, yes,” muttered Pascoglu. He brought out the list, stared at it, then looked sidewise at Magnus Ridolph. “Which one? Diasporus? Did he do it?”

  Magnus Ridolph pursed his lips doubtfully. “He is a knight of the Dacca, an amateur gladiator evidently of some reputation. A murder of this sort would shatter his self-respect, his confidence. I put the probability at 1 percent.”

  “Hmph. What about Fiamella of Thousand Candles? She admits she set out to kill him.”

  Magnus Ridolph frowned. “I wonder. Death by means of amorous attrition is of course not impossible—but are not Fiamella’s motives ambiguous? From what I gather, her reputation was injured by Bonfils’ disinclination, and she thereupon set out to repair her reputation. If she could harass poor Bonfils to his doom by her charm and seductions, she would gain great face. She had everything to lose if he died in any other fashion. Probability: 1 percent.”

  “Hymph. What of Thorn 199?”

  Magnus Ridolph held out his hands. “He was not dressed in his killing clothes. It is as simple as that. Probability: 1 percent.”

  “Well,” cried Pascoglu, “what of the priests, Banzoso and Impliega? They needed a sacrifice to their god.”

  Magnus Ridolph shook his head. “The job was a botch. A sacrifice so slipshod would earn them ten thousand years of perdition.”

  Pascoglu made a half-hearted suggestion. “Suppose they didn’t really believe that?”

  “Then why trouble at all?” asked Magnus Ridolph. “Probability: 1 percent.”

  “Well, there’s Starguard,” mused Pascoglu, “but you insist he wouldn’t commit murder in front of witnesses …”

  “It seems highly unlikely,” said Magnus Ridolph. “Of course we could speculate that Bonfils was a charlatan, that the palaeolithics were impostors, that Starguard was somehow involved in the deception…”

  “Yes,” said Pascoglu eagerly. “I was thinking something like that myself.”

  “The only drawback to the theory is that it cannot possibly be correct. Bonfils is an anthropologist of wide reputation. I observed the palaeolithics, and I believe them to be authentic primitives. They are shy and confused. Civil
ized men attempting to mimic barbarity unconsciously exaggerate the brutishness of their subject. The barbarian, adapting to the ways of civilization, comports himself to the model set by his preceptor—in this case Bonfils. Observing them at dinner, I was amused by their careful aping of Bonfils’ manners. Then, when we were inspecting the corpse, they were clearly bewildered, subdued, frightened. I could discern no trace of the crafty calculation by which a civilized man would hope to extricate himself from an uncomfortable situation. I think we may assume that Bonfils and his palaeolithics were exactly as they represented themselves.”

  Pascoglu jumped to his feet, paced back and forth. “Then the palaeolithics could not have killed Bonfils.”

  “Probability minuscule. And if we concede their genuineness, we must abandon the idea that Starguard was their accomplice, and we rule him out on the basis of the cultural qualm I mentioned before.”

  “Well—the Hecatean, then. What of him?”

  “He is a more unlikely murderer than all the others,” said Magnus Ridolph. “For three reasons: First, he is non-human, and has no experience with rage and revenge. On Hecate violence is unknown. Secondly, as a non-human, he would have no points of engagement with Bonfils. A leopard does not attack a tree; they are different orders of beings. So with the Hecatean. Thirdly, it would be, physically as well as psychologically, impossible for the Hecatean to kill Bonfils. His hands have no fingers; they are flaps of sinew. They could not manipulate a trigger inside a trigger-guard. I think you may dispense with the Hecatean.”

  “But who is there left?” cried Pascoglu in desperation.

  “Well, there is you, there is me and there is—”

  The door slid back; the bonze in the red cloak looked into the room.

  V

  “Come in, come in,” said Magnus Ridolph with cordiality. “Our business is just now complete. We have established that of all the persons here at the Hub, only you would have killed Lester Bonfils, and so now we have no further need for the library.”

  “What!” cried Pascoglu, staring at the bonze, who made a deprecatory gesture.

  “I had hoped,” said the bonze, “that my part in the affair would escape notice.”

  “You are too modest,” said Magnus Ridolph. “It is only fitting that a man should be known for his good works.”