by Jack Vance
THE MOON MOTH AND OTHER STORIES
Jack Vance
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Contents
Title Page
Gateway Introduction
Contents
The Kokod Warriors
The New Prime
The Men Return
Ullward’s Retreat
Coup De Grâce
Dodkin’s Job
The Moon Moth
Green Magic
Alfred’s Ark
Sulwen’s Planet
Rumfuddle
Website
Also By Jack Vance
Author Bio
Copyright
The Kokod Warriors
I
Magnus Ridolph sat on the Glass Jetty at Providencia, fingering a quarti-quartino of Blue Ruin. At his back rose Granatee Head; before him spread Mille-Iles Ocean and the myriad little islands, each with its trees and neo-classic villa. A magnificent blue sky extended overhead; and beneath his feet, under the glass floor of the jetty, lay Coral Canyon, with schools of sea-moths flashing and flickering like metal snowflakes. Magnus Ridolph sipped his liqueur and considered a memorandum from his bank describing a condition barely distinguishable from poverty.
He had been perhaps too trusting with his money. A few months previously, the Outer Empire Investment and Realty Society, to which he had entrusted a considerable sum, was found to be bankrupt. The Chairman of the Board and the General Manager, a Mr. See and a Mr. Holpers, had been paying each other unexpectedly large salaries, most of which had been derived from Magnus Ridolph’s capital investment.
Magnus Ridolph sighed, glanced at his liqueur. This would be the last of these; hereafter he must drink vin ordinaire, a fluid rather like tarragon vinegar, prepared from the fermented rind of a local cactus.
A waiter approached. “A lady wishes to speak to you, sir.”
Magnus Ridolph preened his neat white beard. “Show her over, by all means.”
The waiter returned; Magnus Ridolph’s eyebrows went S-shape as he saw his guest: a woman of commanding presence, with an air of militant and dignified virtue. Her interest in Magnus Ridolph was clearly professional.
She came to an abrupt halt. “You are Mr. Magnus Ridolph?”
He bowed. “Will you sit down?”
The woman rather hesitantly took a seat. “Somehow, Mr. Ridolph, I expected someone more—well…”
Magnus Ridolph’s reply was urbane. “A younger man, perhaps? With conspicuous biceps, a gun on his hip, a space helmet on his head? Or perhaps my beard alarms you?”
“Well, not exactly that, but my business—”
“Ah, you came to me in a professional capacity?”
“Well, yes. I would say so.”
In spite of the memorandum from his bank—which now he folded and tucked into his pocket—Magnus Ridolph spoke with decision. “If your business requires feats of physical prowess, I beg you hire elsewhere. My janitor might satisfy your needs: an excellent chap who engages his spare time moving bar-bells from one elevation to another.”
“No, no,” said the woman hastily. “I’m sure you misunderstand; I merely pictured a different sort of individual…”
Magnus Ridolph cleared his throat. “What is your problem?”
“Well—I am Martha Chickering, secretary of the Women’s League Committee for the Preservation of Moral Values. We are fighting a particularly disgraceful condition that the law refuses to abate. We have appealed to the better nature of the persons involved, but I’m afraid that financial gain means more to them than decency.”
“Be so kind as to state your problem.”
“Are you acquainted with the world—” she spoke it as if it were a social disease “—Kokod?”
Magnus Ridolph nodded gravely, stroked his neat white beard. “Your problem assumes form.”
“Can you help us, then? Every right-thinking person condemns the goings-on—brutal, undignified, nauseous…”
Magnus Ridolph nodded. “The exploitation of the Kokod natives is hardly commendable.”
“Hardly commendable!” cried Martha Chickering. “It’s despicable! It’s trafficking in blood! We execrate the sadistic beasts who patronize bull-fights—but we condone, even encourage the terrible things that take place on Kokod while Holpers and See daily grow wealthier.”
“Ha, ha!” exclaimed Magnus Ridolph. “Bruce Holpers and Julius See?”
“Why, yes.” She looked at him questioningly. “Perhaps you know them?”
Magnus Ridolph sat back in his chair, turned the liqueur down his throat. “To some slight extent. We had what I believe is called a business connection. But no matter, please continue. Your problem has acquired a new dimension, and beyond question the situation is deplorable.”
“Then you agree that the Kokod Syndicate should be broken up? You will help us?”
Magnus Ridolph spread his arms in a fluent gesture. “Mrs. Chickering, my good wishes are freely at your disposal; active participation in the crusade is another matter and will be determined by the fee your organization is prepared to invest.”
Mrs. Chickering spoke stiffly. “Well, we assume that a man of principle might be willing to make certain sacrifices—”
Magnus Ridolph sighed. “You touch me upon a sensitive spot, Mrs. Chickering. I shall indeed make a sacrifice. Rather than the extended rest I had promised myself, I will devote my abilities to your problem…Now let us discuss my fee—no, first, what do you require?”
“We insist that the gaming at Shadow Valley Inn be halted. We want Bruce Holpers and Julius See prosecuted and punished. We want an end put to the Kokod wars.”
Magnus Ridolph looked off into the distance and for a moment was silent. When at last he spoke, his voice was grave. “You list your requirements on a descending level of feasibility.”
“I don’t understand you, Mr. Ridolph.”
“Shadow Valley Inn might well be rendered inoperative by means of a bomb or an epidemic of Mayerheim’s Bloat. To punish Holpers and See, we must demonstrate that a non-existent law has been criminally violated. And to halt the Kokod wa
rs, it will be necessary to alter the genetic heritage, glandular make-up, training, instinct, and general outlook on life, of each of the countless Kokod warriors.”
Mrs. Chickering blinked and stammered; Magnus Ridolph held up a courteous hand. “However, that which is never attempted never transpires; I will bend my best efforts to your requirements. My fee—well, in view of the altruistic ends in prospect, I will be modest; a thousand munits a week and expenses. Payable, if you please, in advance.”
Magnus Ridolph left the jetty, mounted Granatee Head by steps cut into the green-veined limestone. On top, he paused by the wrought-iron balustrade to catch his breath and enjoy the vista over the ocean. Then he turned and entered the blue lace and silver filigree lobby of the Hotel des Mille Iles.
Presenting a bland face to the scrutiny of the desk clerk he sauntered into the library, where he selected a cubicle, settled himself before the mnemiphot. Consulting the index for Kokod, he punched the appropriate keys.
The screen came to life. Magnus Ridolph inspected first a series of charts which established that Kokod was an exceedingly small world of high specific gravity.
Next appeared a projection of the surface, accompanied by a slow-moving strip of descriptive matter:
Although a small world, Kokod’s gravity and atmosphere make it uniquely habitable for men. It has never been settled, due to an already numerous population of autochthones and a lack of valuable minerals.
Tourists are welcomed at Shadow Valley Inn, a resort hotel at Shadow Valley. Weekly packets connect Shadow Valley Inn with Starport.
Kokod’s most interesting feature is its population.
The chart disappeared, to be replaced by a picture entitled, ‘Typical Kokod Warrior (from Rock River Tumble)’, and displaying a man-like creature two feet tall. The head was narrow and peaked; the torso was that of a bee—long, pointed, covered with yellow down. Scrawny arms gripped a four-foot lance, a stone knife hung at the belt. The chitinous legs were shod with barbs. The creature’s expression was mild, almost reproachful.
A voice said, “You will now hear the voice of Sam 192 Rock River.”
The Kokod warrior inhaled deeply; wattles beside his chin quivered. From the mnemiphot screen issued a high-pitched stridency. Interpretation appeared on a panel to the right.
“I am Sam 192, squadronite, Company 14 of the Advance Force, in the service of Rock River Tumble. Our valor is a source of wonder to all; our magnificent stele is rooted deep, and exceeded in girth only by the steles of Rose Slope Tumble and crafty Shell Strand Tumble.
“This day I have come at the invitation of the (untranslatable) of Small Square Tumble, to tell of our victories and immensely effective strategies.”
Another sound made itself heard: a man speaking falsetto in the Kokod language. The interpretation read:
Question: Tell us about life in Rock River Tumble.
Sam 192: It is very companionable.
Q: What is the first thing you do in the morning?
A: We march past the matrons, to assure ourselves of a properly martial fecundity.
Q: What do you eat?
A: We are nourished in the fields.
(Note: The Kokod metabolism is not entirely understood; apparently they ferment organic material in a crop, and oxidize the resultant alcohols.)
Q: Tell us about your daily life.
A: We practice various disciplines, deploy in the basic formations, hurl weapons, train the kinderlings, elevate the veterans.
Q: How often do you engage in battle?
A: When it is our time: when the challenge has issued and the appropriate Code of Combat agreed upon with the enemy.
Q: You mean, you fight in various styles?
A: There are 97 conventions of battle which may be employed: for instance, Code 48, by which we overcame strong Black Glass Tumble, allows the lance to be grasped only by the left hand and permits no severing of the leg tendons with the dagger. Code 69, however, insists that the tendons must be cut before the kill is made and the lances are used thwart-wise, as bumpers.
Q: Why do you fight? Why are there wars?
A: Because the steles of the other tumbles would surpass ours in size, did we not fight and win victories.
(Note: the stele is a composite tree growing in each tumble. Each victory is celebrated by the addition of a shoot, which joins and augments the main body of the stele. The Rock River Stele is 17 feet in diameter, and is estimated to be 4,000 years old. The Rose Slope Stele is 18 feet in diameter, and the Shell Strand Stele is almost 20 feet in diameter.)
Q: What would happen if warriors from Frog Pond Tumble cut down Rock River Stele?
Sam 192 made no sound. His wattles blew out; his head bobbed. After a moment he turned, marched out of view.
Into the screen came a man wearing shoulder tabs of Commonwealth Control. He looked after Sam 192 with an expression of patronizing good humor that Magnus Ridolph considered insufferable.
“The Kokod warriors are well known through the numerous sociological studies published on Earth, of which the most authoritative is perhaps the Carlisle Foundation’s Kokod: A Militaristic Society, mnemiphot code AK-SK-RD-BP.
“To summarize, let me state that there are 81 tumbles or castles on Kokod, each engaged in highly formalized warfare with all the others. The evolutionary function of this warfare is the prevention of overpopulation on a small world. The Tumble Matrons are prolific, and only these rather protean measures assure a balanced ecology.
“I have been asked repeatedly whether the Kokod warriors fear death? My belief is that identification with the home tumble is so intense that the warriors have small sense of individuality. Their sole ambition is winning battles, swelling the girth of their stele and so glorifying their tumble.”
The man spoke on. Magnus Ridolph reached out, speeded up the sequence.
On the screen appeared Shadow Valley Inn—a luxurious building under six tall parasol trees. The commentary read: “At Shadow Valley Inn, genial co-owners Julius See and Bruce Holpers greet tourists from all over the universe.”
Two cuts appeared—a dark man with a lowering broad face, a mouth uncomfortably twisted in a grin; the other, lanky, with a long head sparsely thatched with red excelsior. ‘See’ and ‘Holpers’ read the sub-headings.
Magnus Ridolph halted the progression of the program, studied the faces for a few seconds, then allowed the sequence to continue.
“Mr. See and Mr. Holpers,” ran the script, “have ingeniously made use of the incessant wars as a means of diverting their guests. A sheet quotes odds on each day’s battle—a pastime which arouses enthusiasm among sporting visitors.”
Magnus Ridolph turned off the mnemiphot, sat back in the chair, stroked his beard reflectively. “Where odds exist,” he said to himself, “there likewise exists the possibility of upsetting the odds…Luckily, my obligation to Mrs. Chickering will in no way interfere with a certain measure of subsidiary profits. Or better, let us say, recompense.”
II
Alighting from the Phoenix Line packet, the Hesperornis, Ridolph was startled momentarily by the close horizons of Kokod. The sky seemed to begin almost at his feet.
Waiting to transfer the passengers to the inn was an over-decorated charabanc. Magnus Ridolph gingerly took a seat, and when the vehicle lurched forward a heavy woman scented with musk was thrust against him. “Really!” complained the woman.
“A thousand apologies,” replied Magnus Ridolph, adjusting his position. “Next time I will take care to move out of your way.”
The woman brushed him with a contemptuous glance and turned to her companion, a woman with the small head and robust contour of a peacock.
“Attendant!” the second woman called presently.
“Yes, Madame.”
“Tell us about these native wars, we’ve heard so much about them.”
“They’re extremely interesting, Madame. The little fellows are quite savage.”
“I hope there’s no danger for
the onlookers?”
“None whatever; they reserve their unfriendliness for each other.”
“What time are the excursions?”
“I believe the Ivory Dune and the Eastern Shield Tumbles march tomorrow; the scene of battle no doubt will center around Muscadine Meadow, so there should be three excursions. To catch the deployments, you leave the inn at 5 A.M.; for the onslaught, at 6 A.M.; and 7 or 8 for the battle proper.”
“It’s ungodly early,” the matron commented. “Is nothing else going on?”
“I’m not certain, Madame. The Green Ball and the Shell Strand might possibly war tomorrow, but they would engage according to Convention 4, which is hardly spectacular.”
“Isn’t there anything close by the inn?”
“No, Madame. Shadow Valley Tumble only just finished a campaign against Marble Arch, and are occupied now in repairing their weapons.”
“What are the odds on the first of these—the Ivory Dune and the Eastern Shield?”
“I believe eight gets you five on Ivory Dune, and five gets you four on Eastern Shield.”
“That’s strange. Why aren’t the odds the same both ways?”
“All bets must be placed through the inn management, Madame.”
The carry-all rattled into the courtyard of the inn. Magnus Ridolph leaned forward. “Kindly brace yourself, Madame; the vehicle is about to stop, and I do not care to be held responsible for a second unpleasant incident.”
The woman made no reply. The charabanc halted; Magnus Ridolph climbed to the ground. Before him was the inn and behind a mountainside, dappled with succulent green flowers on lush violet bushes. Along the ridge grew tall, slender trees like poplars, vivid black and red. A most colorful world, decided Magnus Ridolph, and turning, inspected the view down the valley. There were bands and layers of colors—pink, violet, yellow, green, graying into a distant dove color. Where the mouth of the valley gave on the river peneplain, Magnus Ridolph glimpsed a tall conical edifice. “One of the tumbles?” he inquired of the charabanc attendant.
