by Jack Vance
He walked along the dock, turned up the esplanade, passed the office of Cornely Welibus and set out along the pleasant little lane to the landing field.
When he arrived, he found that Rolver had not yet made an appearance. An over-slave, given status by a yellow rosette on his black cloth mask, asked how he might be of service. Thissell stated that he wished to dispatch a message to Polypolis.
There was no difficulty here, declared the slave. If Thissell would set forth his message in clear block-print it would be dispatched immediately.
Thissell wrote:
OUT-WORLDER FOUND DEAD, POSSIBLY ANGMARK. AGE 48, MEDIUM PHYSIQUE, BROWN HAIR. OTHER MEANS OF IDENTIFICATION LACKING. AWAIT ACKNOWLEDGEMENT AND/OR INSTRUCTIONS.
He addressed the message to Castel Cromartin at Polypolis and handed it to the over-slave. A moment later he heard the characteristic sputter of trans-space discharge.
An hour passed. Rolver made no appearance. Thissell paced restlessly back and forth in front of the office. There was no telling how long he would have to wait: trans-space transmission time varied unpredictably. Sometimes the message snapped through in micro-seconds; sometimes it wandered through unknowable regions for hours; and there were several authenticated examples of messages being received before they had been transmitted.
Another half-hour passed, and Rolver finally arrived, wearing his customary Tarn Bird. Coincidentally Thissell heard the hiss of the incoming message.
Rolver seemed surprised to see Thissell. “What brings you out so early?”
Thissell explained. “It concerns the body which you referred to me this morning. I’m communicating with my superiors about it.”
Rolver raised his head and listened to the sound of the incoming message. “You seem to be getting an answer. I’d better attend to it.”
“Why bother?” asked Thissell. “Your slave seems efficient.”
“It’s my job,” declared Rolver. “I’m responsible for the accurate transmission and receipt of all space-grams.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Thissell. “I’ve always wanted to watch the operation of the equipment.”
“I’m afraid that’s irregular,” said Rolver. He went to the door which led into the inner compartment. “I’ll have your message in a moment.”
Thissell protested, but Rolver ignored him and went into the inner office.
Five minutes later he reappeared, carrying a small yellow envelope. “Not too good news,” he announced with unconvincing commiseration.
Thissell glumly opened the envelope. The message read:
BODY NOT ANGMARK. ANGMARK HAS BLACK HAIR. WHY DID YOU NOT MEET LANDING? SERIOUS INFRACTION, HIGHLY DISSATISFIED. RETURN TO POLYPOLIS NEXT OPPORTUNITY.
CASTEL CROMARTIN
Thissell put the message in his pocket. “Incidentally, may I inquire the color of your hair?”
Rolver played a surprised little trill on his kiv. “I’m quite blond. Why do you ask?”
“Mere curiosity.”
Rolver played another run on the kiv. “Now I understand. My dear fellow, what a suspicious nature you have! Look!” He turned and parted the folds of his mask at the nape of his neck. Thissell saw that Rolver was blond indeed.
“Are you reassured?” asked Rolver jocularly.
“Oh, indeed,” said Thissell. “Incidentally, have you another mask you could lend me? I’m sick of this Moon Moth.”
“I’m afraid not,” said Rolver. “But you need merely go into a mask-maker’s shop and make a selection.”
“Yes, of course,” said Thissell. He took his leave of Rolver and returned along the trail to Fan. Passing Welibus’ office he hesitated, then turned in. Today Welibus wore a dazzling confection of green glass prisms and silver beads, a mask Thissell had never seen before.
Welibus greeted him cautiously to the accompaniment of a kiv. “Good morning, Ser Moon Moth.”
“I won’t take too much of your time,” said Thissell, “but I have a rather personal question to put to you. What color is your hair?”
Welibus hesitated a fraction of a second, then turned his back, lifted the flap of his mask. Thissell saw heavy black ringlets. “Does that answer your question?” inquired Welibus.
“Completely,” said Thissell. He crossed the esplanade, went out on the dock to Kershaul’s houseboat. Kershaul greeted him without enthusiasm, and invited him aboard with a resigned wave of the hand.
“A question I’d like to ask,” said Thissell; “What color is your hair?”
Kershaul laughed woefully. “What little remains is black. Why do you ask?”
“Curiosity.”
“Come, come,” said Kershaul with an unaccustomed bluffness. “There’s more to it than that.”
Thissell, feeling the need of counsel, admitted as much. “Here’s the situation. A dead out-worlder was found in the harbor this morning. His hair was brown. I’m not entirely certain, but the chances are—let me see, yes, two out of three that Angmark’s hair is black.”
Kershaul pulled at the Cave Owl’s goatee. “How do you arrive at that probability?”
“The information came to me through Rolver’s hands. He has blond hair. If Angmark has assumed Rolver’s identity, he would naturally alter the information which came to me this morning. Both you and Welibus admit to black hair.”
“Hm,” said Kershaul. “Let me see if I follow your line of reasoning. You feel that Haxo Angmark has killed either Rolver, Welibus or myself and assumed the dead man’s identity. Right?”
Thissell looked at him in surprise. “You yourself emphasized that Angmark could not set up another out-world establishment without revealing himself! Don’t you remember?”
“Oh, certainly. To continue. Rolver delivered a message to you stating that Angmark was dark, and announced himself to be blond.”
“Yes. Can you verify this? I mean for the old Rolver?”
“No,” said Kershaul sadly. “I’ve seen neither Rolver nor Welibus without their masks.”
“If Rolver is not Angmark,” Thissell mused, “if Angmark indeed has black hair, then both you and Welibus come under suspicion.”
“Very interesting,” said Kershaul. He examined Thissell warily. “For that matter, you yourself might be Angmark. What color is your hair?”
“Brown,” said Thissell curtly. He lifted the gray fur of the Moon Moth mask at the back of his head.
“But you might be deceiving me as to the text of the message,” Kershaul put forward.
“I’m not,” said Thissell wearily. “You can check with Rolver if you care to.”
Kershaul shook his head. “Unnecessary. I believe you. But another matter: what of voices? You’ve heard all of us before and after Angmark arrived. Isn’t there some indication there?”
“No. I’m so alert for any evidence of change that you all sound rather different. And the masks muffle your voices.”
Kershaul tugged the goatee. “I don’t see any immediate solution to the problem.” He chuckled. “In any event, need there be? Before Angmark’s advent, there were Rolver, Welibus, Kershaul and Thissell. Now—for all practical purposes—there are still Rolver, Welibus, Kershaul and Thissell. Who is to say that the new member may not be an improvement upon the old?”
“An interesting thought,” agreed Thissell, “but it so happens that I have a personal interest in identifying Angmark. My career is at stake.”
“I see,” murmured Kershaul. “The situation then becomes an issue between yourself and Angmark.”
“You won’t help me?”
“Not actively. I’ve become pervaded with Sirenese individualism. I think you’ll find that Rolver and Welibus will respond similarly.” He sighed. “All of us have been here too long.”
Thissell stood deep in thought. Kershaul waited patiently a moment, then said, “Do you have any further questions?”
“No,” said Thissell. “I have merely a favor to ask you.”
“I’ll oblige if I possibly can,” Kershaul replied
courteously.
“Give me, or lend me, one of your slaves, for a week or two.”
Kershaul played an exclamation of amusement on the ganga. “I hardly like to part with my slaves; they know me and my ways—”
“As soon as I catch Angmark you’ll have him back.”
“Very well,” said Kershaul. He rattled a summons on his hymerkin, and a slave appeared. “Anthony,” sang Kershaul, “you are to go with Ser Thissell and serve him for a short period.”
The slave bowed, without pleasure.
Thissell took Anthony to his houseboat, and questioned him at length, noting certain of the responses upon a chart. He then enjoined Anthony to say nothing of what had passed, and consigned him to the care of Toby and Rex. He gave further instructions to move the houseboat away from the dock and allow no one aboard until his return.
He set forth once more along the way to the landing field, and found Rolver at a lunch of spiced fish, shredded bark of the salad tree, and a bowl of native currants. Rolver clapped an order on the hymerkin, and a slave set a place for Thissell. “And how are the investigations proceeding?”
“I’d hardly like to claim any progress,” said Thissell. “I assume that I can count on your help?”
Rolver laughed briefly. “You have my good wishes.”
“More concretely,” said Thissell, “I’d like to borrow a slave from you. Temporarily.”
Rolver paused in his eating. “Whatever for?”
“I’d rather not explain,” said Thissell. “But you can be sure that I make no idle request.”
Without graciousness Rolver summoned a slave and consigned him to Thissell’s service.
On the way back to his houseboat, Thissell stopped at Welibus’ office.
Welibus looked up from his work. “Good afternoon, Ser Thissell.”
Thissell came directly to the point. “Ser Welibus, will you lend me a slave for a few days?”
Welibus hesitated, then shrugged. “Why not?” He clacked his hymerkin; a slave appeared. “Is he satisfactory? Or would you prefer a young female?” He chuckled—rather offensively, to Thissell’s way of thinking.
“He’ll do very well. I’ll return him in a few days.”
“No hurry.” Welibus made an easy gesture and returned to his work.
Thissell continued to his houseboat, where he separately interviewed each of his two new slaves and made notes upon his chart.
Dusk came soft over the Titanic Ocean. Toby and Rex sculled the houseboat away from the dock, out across the silken waters. Thissell sat on the deck listening to the sound of soft voices, the flutter and tinkle of musical instruments. Lights from the floating houseboats glowed yellow and wan watermelon-red. The shore was dark; the Night-men would presently come slinking to paw through refuse and stare jealously across the water.
In nine days the Buenaventura came past Sirene on its regular schedule; Thissell had his orders to return to Polypolis. In nine days, could he locate Haxo Angmark?
Nine days weren’t too many, Thissell decided, but they might possibly be enough.
*******
Two days passed, and three and four and five. Every day Thissell went ashore and at least once a day visited Rolver, Welibus and Kershaul.
Each reacted differently to his presence. Rolver was sardonic and irritable; Welibus formal and at least superficially affable; Kershaul mild and suave, but ostentatiously impersonal and detached in his conversation.
Thissell remained equally bland to Rolver’s dour jibes, Welibus’ jocundity, Kershaul’s withdrawal. And every day, returning to his houseboat he made marks on his chart.
The sixth, the seventh, the eighth day came and passed. Rolver, with rather brutal directness, inquired if Thissell wished to arrange for passage on the Buenaventura. Thissell considered, and said, “Yes, you had better reserve passage for one.”
“Back to the world of faces,” shuddered Rolver. “Faces! Everywhere pallid, fish-eyed faces. Mouths like pulp, noses knotted and punctured; flat, flabby faces. I don’t think I could stand it after living here. Luckily you haven’t become a real Sirenese.”
“But I won’t be going back,” said Thissell.
“I thought you wanted me to reserve passage.”
“I do. For Haxo Angmark. He’ll be returning to Polypolis in the brig.”
“Well, well,” said Rolver. “So you’ve picked him out.”
“Of course,” said Thissell. “Haven’t you?”
Rolver shrugged. “He’s either Welibus or Kershaul, that’s as close as I can make it. So long as he wears his mask and calls himself either Welibus or Kershaul, it means nothing to me.”
“It means a great deal to me,” said Thissell. “What time tomorrow does the lighter go up?”
“Eleven twenty-two sharp. If Haxo Angmark’s leaving, tell him to be on time.”
“He’ll be here,” said Thissell.
He made his usual call upon Welibus and Kershaul, then returning to his houseboat, put three final marks on his chart.
The evidence was here, plain and convincing. Not absolutely incontrovertible evidence, but enough to warrant a definite move. He checked over his gun. Tomorrow: the day of decision. He could afford no errors.
The day dawned bright white, the sky like the inside of an oyster shell; Mireille rose through iridescent mists. Toby and Rex sculled the houseboat to the dock. The remaining three out-world houseboats floated somnolently on the slow swells.
One boat Thissell watched in particular, that whose owner Haxo Angmark had killed and dropped into the harbor. This boat presently moved toward the shore, and Haxo Angmark himself stood on the front deck, wearing a mask Thissell had never seen before: a construction of scarlet feathers, black glass and spiked green hair.
Thissell was forced to admire his poise. A clever scheme, cleverly planned and executed—but marred by an insurmountable difficulty.
Angmark returned within. The houseboat reached the dock. Slaves flung out mooring lines, lowered the gang-plank. Thissell, his gun ready in the pocket flap of his robes, walked down the dock, went aboard. He pushed open the door to the saloon. The man at the table raised his red, black and green mask in surprise.
Thissell said, “Angmark, please don’t argue or make any—”
Something hard and heavy tackled him from behind; he was flung to the floor, his gun wrested expertly away.
Behind him the hymerkin clattered; a voice sang, “Bind the fool’s arms.”
The man sitting at the table rose to his feet, removed the red, black and green mask to reveal the black cloth of a slave. Thissell twisted his head. Over him stood Haxo Angmark, wearing a mask Thissell recognized as a Dragon Tamer, fabricated from black metal, with a knife-blade nose, socketed eyelids, and three crests running back over the scalp.
The mask’s expression was unreadable, but Angmark’s voice was triumphant. “I trapped you very easily.”
“So you did,” said Thissell. The slave finished knotting his wrists together. A clatter of Angmark’s hymerkin sent him away. “Get to your feet,” said Angmark. “Sit in that chair.”
“What are we waiting for?” inquired Thissell.
“Two of our fellows still remain out on the water. We won’t need them for what I have in mind.”
“Which is?”
“You’ll learn in due course,” said Angmark. “We have an hour or so on our hands.”
Thissell tested his bonds. They were undoubtedly secure.
Angmark seated himself. “How did you fix on me? I admit to being curious…Come, come,” he chided as Thissell sat silently. “Can’t you recognize that I have defeated you? Don’t make affairs unpleasant for yourself.”
Thissell shrugged. “I operated on a basic principle. A man can mask his face, but he can’t mask his personality.”
“Aha,” said Angmark. “Interesting. Proceed.”
“I borrowed a slave from you and the other two out-worlders, and I questioned them carefully. What masks had their masters
worn during the month before your arrival? I prepared a chart and plotted their responses. Rolver wore the Tarn Bird about eighty percent of the time, the remaining twenty percent divided between the Sophist Abstraction and the Black Intricate. Welibus had a taste for the heroes of Kan Dachan Cycle. He wore the Chalekun, the Prince Intrepid, the Seavain most of the time: six days out of eight. The other two days he wore his South Wind or his Gay Companion. Kershaul, more conservative, preferred the Cave Owl, the Star Wanderer, and two or three other masks he wore at odd intervals.
“As I say, I acquired this information from possibly its most accurate source, the slaves. My next step was to keep watch upon the three of you. Every day I noted what masks you wore and compared it with my chart. Rolver wore his Tarn Bird six times, his Black Intricate twice. Kershaul wore his Cave Owl five times, his Star Wanderer once, his Quincunx once and his Ideal of Perfection once. Welibus wore the Emerald Mountain twice, the Triple Phoenix three times, the Prince Intrepid once and the Shark God twice.”
Angmark nodded thoughtfully. “I see my error. I selected from Welibus’ masks, but to my own taste—and as you point out, I revealed myself. But only to you.” He rose and went to the window. “Kershaul and Rolver are now coming ashore; they’ll soon be past and about their business—though I doubt if they’d interfere in any case; they’ve both become good Sirenese.”
Thissell waited in silence. Ten minutes passed. Then Angmark reached to a shelf and picked up a knife. He looked at Thissell. “Stand up.”
Thissell slowly rose to his feet. Angmark approached from the side, reached out, lifted the Moon Moth from Thissell’s head. Thissell gasped and made a vain attempt to seize it. Too late; his face was bare and naked.
Angmark turned away, removed his own mask, donned the Moon Moth. He struck a call on his hymerkin. Two slaves entered, stopped in shock at the sight of Thissell.
Angmark played a brisk tattoo, sang, “Carry this man up to the dock.”
“Angmark,” cried Thissell. “I’m maskless!”
