The Moon Moth and Other Stories

by Jack Vance

  Into the chair beside Magnus Ridolph dropped a short nearly-bald man with a thick black mustache: Pan Pascoglu, proprietor of the Hub. “Good evening, Mr. Ridolph; how goes it with you tonight?”

  “Very well, thank you…That woman: who is she?”

  Pascoglu followed Magnus Ridolph’s gaze. “Ah. A fairy-princess. From Journey’s End. Her name—” Pascoglu clicked his tongue. “I can’t remember. Some outlandish thing.”

  “Surely she doesn’t travel alone?”

  Pascoglu shrugged. “She says she’s married to Bonfils, the chap with the three cave-men. But they’ve got different cottages, and I never see them together.”

  “Astonishing,” murmured Magnus Ridolph.

  “An understatement,” said Pascoglu. “The cave-men must have hidden charms.”

  The next morning the Hub vibrated with talk, because Lester Bonfils lay dead in his cottage, with the three palaeolithics stamping restlessly in their cages. The guests surveyed each other nervously. One among them was a murderer!

  II

  Pan Pascoglu came to Magnus Ridolph in an extremity of emotion. “Mr. Ridolph, I know you’re here on vacation, but you’ve got to help me out. Someone killed poor Bonfils dead as a mackerel, but who it was—” He held out his hands. “I can’t stand for such things here, naturally.”

  Magnus Ridolph pulled at his little white beard. “Surely there is to be some sort of official inquiry?”

  “That’s what I’m seeing you about!” Pascoglu threw himself into a chair. “The Hub’s outside all jurisdiction. I’m my own law—within certain limits, of course. That is to say, if I was harboring criminals, or running vice, someone would interfere. But there’s nothing like that here. A drunk, a fight, a swindle—we take care of such things quietly. We’ve never had a killing. It’s got to be cleaned up!”

  Magnus Ridolph reflected a moment or two. “I take it you have no criminological equipment?”

  “You mean those truth machines, and breath-detectors and cell-matchers? Nothing like that. Not even a fingerprint pad.”

  “I thought as much,” sighed Magnus Ridolph. “Well, I can hardly refuse your request. May I ask what you intend to do with the criminal after I apprehend her—or him?”

  Pascoglu jumped to his feet. Clearly the idea had not occurred to him. He held out his clenched hands. “What should I do? I’m not equipped to set up a law court. I don’t want to just shoot somebody.”

  Magnus Ridolph spoke judiciously. “The question may resolve itself. Justice, after all, has no absolute values.”

  Pascoglu nodded passionately. “Right! Let’s find out who did it. Then we’ll decide the next step.”

  “Where is the body?” asked Magnus Ridolph.

  “Still in the cottage, just where the maid found it.”

  “It has not been touched?”

  “The doctor looked him over. I came directly to you.”

  “Good. Let us go to Bonfils’ cottage.”

  Bonfils’ ‘cottage’ was a globe far out on the uttermost web, perhaps five hundred yards by tube from the main lobby.

  The body lay on the floor beside a white chaise-longue, lumpy, pathetic, grotesque. In the center of the forehead was a burn; no other marks were visible. The three palaeolithics were confined in an ingenious cage of flexible splines, evidently collapsible. The cage of itself could not have restrained the muscular savages; the splines apparently were charged with electricity.

  Beside the cage stood a thin young man, either inspecting or teasing the palaeolithics. He turned hastily when Pascoglu and Magnus Ridolph stepped into the cottage.

  Pascoglu performed the introductions. “Dr. Scanton, Magnus Ridolph.”

  Magnus Ridolph nodded courteously. “I take it, doctor, that you have made at least a superficial examination?”

  “Sufficient to certify death.”

  “Could you ascertain the time of death?”

  “Approximately midnight.”

  Magnus Ridolph gingerly crossed the room, looked down at the body. He turned abruptly, rejoined Pascoglu and the doctor who waited by the door.

  “Well?” asked Pascoglu anxiously.

  “I have not yet identified the criminal,” said Magnus Ridolph. “However, I am almost grateful to poor Bonfils. He has provided what appears to be a case of classic purity.”

  Pascoglu chewed at his mustache. “Perhaps I am dense—”

  “A series of apparent truisms may order our thinking,” said Magnus Ridolph. “First, the author of this act is currently at the Hub.”

  “Naturally,” said Pascoglu. “No ships have arrived or departed.”

  “The motives to the act lie in the more or less immediate past.”

  Pascoglu made an impatient movement. Magnus Ridolph held up his hand, and Pascoglu irritably resumed the attack on his mustache.

  “The criminal in all likelihood had had some sort of association with Bonfils.”

  Pascoglu said, “Don’t you think we should be back in the lobby? Maybe someone will confess, or—”

  “All in good time,” said Magnus Ridolph. “To sum up, it appears that our primary roster of suspects will be Bonfils’ shipmates en route to the Hub.”

  “He came on the Maulerer Princeps; I can get the debarkation list at once.” And Pascoglu hurriedly departed the cottage.

  Magnus Ridolph stood in the doorway studying the room. He turned to Dr. Scanton. “Official procedure would call for a set of detailed photographs; I wonder if you could make these arrangements?”

  “Certainly. I’ll do them myself.”

  “Good. And then—there would seem no reason not to move the body.”

  III

  Magnus Ridolph returned along the tube to the main lobby, where he found Pascoglu at the desk. Pascoglu thrust forth a paper. “This is what you asked for.”

  Magnus Ridolph inspected the paper with interest. Thirteen identities were listed:

  1. Lester Bonfils, with

  a. Abu

  b. Toko

  c. Homup

  2. Viamestris Diasporus

  3. Thorn 199

  4. Fodor Impliega

  5. Fodor Banzoso

  6. Scriagl

  7. Hercules Starguard

  8. Fiamella of Thousand Candles

  9. Clan Kestrel, 14th Ward, 6th Family, 3rd Son

  10. (No name)

  “Ah,” said Magnus Ridolph. “Excellent. But there is a lack. I am particularly interested in the planet of origin of these persons.”

  “Planet of origin?” Pascoglu complained. “What is the benefit of this?”

  Magnus Ridolph inspected Pascoglu with mild blue eyes. “I take it that you wish me to investigate this crime?”

  “Yes, of course, but—”

  “You will then cooperate with me, to the fullest extent, with no further protests or impatient ejaculations.” And Magnus Ridolph accompanied the words with so cold and clear a glance that Pascoglu wilted and threw up his hands. “Have it your own way. But I still don’t understand—”

  “As I remarked, Bonfils has been good enough to provide us a case of definitive clarity.”

  “It’s not clear to me,” Pascoglu grumbled. He looked at the list. “You think the murderer is one of these?”

  “Possibly, but not necessarily. It might be me, or it might be you. Both of us have had recent contact with Bonfils.”

  Pascoglu grinned sourly. “If it were you, please confess now and save me the expense of your fee.”

  “I fear it is not quite so simple. But the problem is susceptible to attack. The suspects—the persons on this list and any other Bonfils had dealt with recently—are from different worlds. Each is steeped in the traditions of his unique culture. Police routine might solve the case through the use of analyzers and detection machines. I hope to achieve the same end through cultural analysis.”

  Pascoglu’s expression was that of a castaway on a desert island watching a yacht recede over the horizon. “As long as the case gets s
olved,” he said in a hollow voice, “and there’s no notoriety.”

  “Come then,” said Magnus Ridolph briskly. “The worlds of origin.”

  The additions were made; Magnus Ridolph scrutinized the list again. He pursed his lips, pulled at his white beard. “I must have two hours for research. Then—we interview our suspects.”

  IV

  Two hours passed, and Pan Pascoglu could wait no longer. He marched furiously into the library to find Magnus Ridolph gazing into space, tapping the table with a pencil. Pascoglu opened his mouth to speak, but Magnus Ridolph turned his head, and the mild blue gaze seemed to operate some sort of relay within Pascoglu’s head. He composed himself, and made a relatively calm inquiry as to the state of Magnus Ridolph’s investigations.

  “Well enough,” said Magnus Ridolph. “And what have you learned?”

  “Well—you can cross Scriagl and the Clan Kestrel chap off the list. They were gambling in the game-room and have fool-proof alibis.”

  Magnus Ridolph said thoughtfully, “It is of course possible that Bonfils met an old enemy here at the Hub.”

  Pascoglu cleared his throat. “While you were here studying, I made a few inquiries. My staff is fairly observant; nothing much escapes them. They say that Bonfils spoke at length only to three people. They are myself, you and that moon-faced bonze in the red robes.”

  Magnus Ridolph nodded. “I spoke to Bonfils, certainly. He appeared in great trouble. He insisted that a woman—evidently Fiamella of Thousand Candles—was killing him.”

  “What!” cried Pascoglu. “You knew all this time?”

  “Calm yourself, my dear fellow. He claimed that she was engaged in the process of killing him—vastly different from the decisive act whose effect we witnessed. I beg of you, restrain your exclamations; they startle me. To continue, I spoke to Bonfils, but I feel secure in eliminating myself. You have requested my assistance and you know my reputation: hence with equal assurance I eliminate you.”

  Pascoglu made a guttural sound, and walked across the room.

  Magnus Ridolph spoke on. “The bonze—I know something of his cult. They subscribe to a belief in reincarnation, and make an absolute fetish of virtue, kindness and charity. A bonze of Padme would hardly dare such an act as murder; he would expect to spend several of his next manifestations as a jackal or a sea-urchin.”

  The door opened, and into the library, as if brought by some telepathetic urge, came the bonze himself. Noticing the attitudes of Magnus Ridolph and Pascoglu, their sober appraisal of himself, he hesitated. “Do I intrude upon a private conversation?”

  “The conversation is private,” said Magnus Ridolph, “but inasmuch as the topic is yourself, we would profit by having you join us.”

  “I am at your service.” The bonze advanced into the room. “How far has the discussion advanced?”

  “You perhaps are aware that Lester Bonfils, the anthropologist, was murdered last night.”

  “I have heard the talk.”

  “We understand that last evening he conversed with you.”

  “That is correct.” The bonze drew a deep breath. “Bonfils was in serious trouble. Never had I seen a man so despondent. The bonzes of Padme—especially we of the Isavest Ordainment—are sworn to altruism. We render constructive service to any living thing, and under certain circumstances to inorganic objects as well. We feel that the principle of life transcends protoplasm; and in fact has its inception with simple—or perhaps not so simple—motion. A molecule brushing past another—is this not one aspect of vitality? Why can we not conjecture consciousness in each individual molecule? Think what a ferment of thought surrounds us; imagine the resentment which conceivably arises when we tread on a clod! For this reason we bonzes move as gently as possible, and take care where we set our feet.”

  “Aha, hum,” said Pascoglu. “What did Bonfils want?”

  The bonze considered. “I find it difficult to explain. He was a victim of many anguishes. I believe that he tried to live an honorable life, but his precepts were contradictory. As a result he was beset by the passions of suspicion, eroticism, shame, bewilderment, dread, anger, resentment, disappointment and confusion. Secondly, I believe that he was beginning to fear for his professional reputation—”

  Pascoglu interrupted. “What, specifically, did he require of you?”

  “Nothing specific. Reassurance and encouragement, perhaps.”

  “And you gave it to him?”

  The bonze smiled faintly. “My friend, I am dedicated to serious programs of thought. We have been trained to divide our brains left lobe from right, so that we may think with two separate minds.”

  Pascoglu was about to bark an impatient question, but Magnus Ridolph interceded. “The bonze is telling you that only a fool could resolve Lester Bonfils’ troubles with a word.”

  “That expresses something of my meaning,” said the bonze.

  Pascoglu stared from one to the other in puzzlement, then threw up his hands in disgust. “I merely want to find who burnt the hole in Bonfils’ head. Can you help me, yes or no?”

  The bonze smiled. “I will be glad to help you, but I wonder if you have considered the source of your impulses? Are you not motivated by an archaic quirk?”

  Magnus Ridolph interpreted smoothly. “The bonze refers to the Mosaic Law. He warns against the doctrine of extracting an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.”

  “Again,” declared the bonze, “you have captured the essence of my meaning.”

  Pascoglu threw up his hands, stamped to the end of the room and back. “Enough of this foolery!” he roared. “Bonze, get out of here!”

  Magnus Ridolph once more took it upon himself to interpret. “Pan Pascoglu conveys his compliments, and begs that you excuse him until he can find leisure to study your views more carefully.”

  The bonze bowed and withdrew. Pascoglu said bitterly, “When this is over, you and the bonze can chop logic to your heart’s content. I’m sick of talk; I want to see some action.” He pushed a button. “Ask that Journey’s End woman—Miss Thousand Candles, whatever her name is—to come into the library.”

  Magnus Ridolph raised his eyebrows. “What do you intend?”

  Pascoglu refused to meet Magnus Ridolph’s gaze. “I’m going to talk to these people and find out what they know.”

  “I fear that you waste time.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Pascoglu doggedly. “I’ve got to make a start somewhere. Nobody ever learned anything lying low in the library.”

  “I take it then that you no longer require my services?”

  Pascoglu chewed irritably at his mustache. “Frankly, Mr. Ridolph, you move a little too slow to suit me. This is a serious affair. I’ve got to get action fast.”

  Magnus Ridolph bowed in acquiescence. “I hope you have no objection to my witnessing the interviews?”

  “Not at all.”

  A moment passed, then the door opened and Fiamella of Thousand Candles stood looking in.

  Pan Pascoglu and Magnus Ridolph stared in silence. Fiamella wore a simple beige frock, soft leather sandals. Her arms and legs were bare, her skin only slightly paler than the frock. In her hair she wore a small orange flower.

  Pascoglu somberly gestured her forward; Magnus Ridolph retired to a seat across the room.

  “Yes, what is it?” asked Fiamella in a soft, sweet voice.

  “You no doubt have learned of Mr. Bonfils’ death?” asked Pascoglu.

  “Oh yes!”

  “And you are not disturbed?”

  “I am very happy, of course.”

  “Indeed.” Pascoglu cleared his throat. “I understand that you have referred to yourself as Mrs. Bonfils.”

  Fiamella nodded. “That is how you say it. On Journey’s End we say he is Mr. Fiamella. I pick him out. But he ran away, which is a great harm. So I came after him, I tell him I kill him if he will not come back to Journey’s End.”

  Pascoglu jumped forward like a terrier, stabbed the air with a stub
by forefinger. “Ah! Then you admit you killed him!”

  “No, no,” she cried indignantly. “With a fire gun? You insult me! You are so bad as Bonfils. Better be careful, I kill you.”

  Pascoglu stood back startled. He turned to Magnus Ridolph. “You heard her, Ridolph?”

  “Indeed, indeed.”

  Fiamella nodded vigorously. “You laugh at a woman’s beauty; what else does she have? So she kills you, and no more insult.”

  “Just how do you kill, Miss Fiamella?” asked Magnus Ridolph politely.

  “I kill by love, naturally. I come like this—” she stepped forward, stopped, stood rigid before Pascoglu, looking into his eyes. “I raise my hands—” she slowly lifted her arms, held her palms toward Pascoglu’s face. “I turn around, I walk away.” She did so, glancing over her shoulder. “I come back.” She came running back. “And soon you say, ‘Fiamella, let me touch you, let me feel your skin.’ And I say, ‘No!’ And I walk around behind you, and blow on your neck—”

  “Stop it!” said Pascoglu uneasily.

  “—and pretty soon you go pale and your hands shake and you cry, ‘Fiamella, Fiamella of Thousand Candles, I love you, I die for love!’ Then I come in when it is almost dark and I wear only flowers, and you cry out, ‘Fiamella!’ Next I—”

  “I think the picture is clear,” said Magnus Ridolph suavely. “When Mr. Pascoglu recovers his breath, he surely will apologize for insulting you. As for myself, I can conceive of no more pleasant form of extinction, and I am half-tempted to—”

  She gave his beard a playful tweak. “You are too old.”

  Magnus Ridolph agreed mournfully. “I fear that you are right. For a moment I had deceived myself…You may go, Miss Fiamella of Thousand Candles. Please return to Journey’s End. Your estranged husband is dead; no one will ever dare insult you again.”

  Fiamella smiled in a kind of sad gratification and with soft lithe steps went to the door, where she halted, turned. “You want to find out who burned poor Lester?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Pascoglu eagerly.

  “You know the priests of Cambyses?”