The Moon Moth and Other Stories

by Jack Vance

  “Elizabeth may well be right,” said Alan Robertson.

  “Why should she be right?” demanded Duray. “We are his victims! You’ve allowed him a taste of mischief, and now you can’t control him!”

  “Not true!” declared Alan. “I intend to impose rigorous curbs upon the Rumfuddlers, and I will be obeyed.”

  “The damage is done, so far as I am concerned,” said Duray bitterly. “Come along, Elizabeth, we’re going home.”

  “We can’t go home. Bob has the passway.”

  Alan Robertson drew a deep sigh, and came to a decision. He crossed to where Bob stood with a goblet of wine in one hand, massaging his jaw with the other. Alan Robertson spoke to Bob politely, but with authority. Bob was slow in making reply. Alan Robertson spoke again, sharply. Bob only shrugged. Alan Robertson waited a moment, then returned to Duray, Elizabeth and the three children.

  “The passway is at his San Francisco apartment,” said Alan Robertson in a measured voice. “He will give it back to you after the party. He doesn’t choose to go for it now.”

  Bob once more commanded the attention of the Rumfuddlers. “By popular request we replay the record of our last but one Rumfuddle, contrived by one of our most distinguished, diligent and ingenious Rumfuddlers, Manfred Funk. The locale is the Red Barn, a roadhouse twelve miles west of Urbana, Illinois; the time is the late summer of 1926; the occasion is a Charleston dancing contest. The music is provided by the legendary Wolverines, and you will hear the fabulous cornet of Leon Bismarck Beiderbecke.” Bob gave a wry smile, as if the music were not to his personal taste. “This was one of our most rewarding occasions, and here it is again.”

  The screen showed the interior of a dance-hall, crowded with excited young men and women. At the back of the stage sat the Wolverines, wearing tuxedos; to the front stood the contestants: eight dapper young men and eight pretty girls in short skirts. An announcer stepped forward and spoke to the crowd through a megaphone: “Contestants are numbered one through eight! Please, no encouragement from the audience. The prize is this magnificent trophy and fifty dollars cash; the presentation will be made by last year’s winner Boozy Horman. Remember, on the first number we eliminate four contestants, on the second number two; and after the third number we select our winner. So then: Bix and the Wolverines, and Sensation Rag!”

  From the band came music, from the contestants agitated motion.

  Duray asked, “Who are these people?”

  Alan Robertson replied in an even voice: “The young men are locals and not important. But notice the girls: no doubt you find them attractive. You are not alone. They are Helen of Troy, Deirdre, Marie Antoinette, Cleopatra, Salome, Lady Godiva, Nefertiti and Mata Hari.”

  Duray gave a dour grunt. The music halted; judging applause from the audience, the announcer eliminated Marie Antoinette, Cleopatra, Deirdre, Mata Hari, and their respective partners. The Wolverines played Fidgety Feet; the four remaining contestants danced with verve and dedication; but Helen and Nefertiti were eliminated. The Wolverines played Tiger Rag. Salome and Lady Godiva and their young men performed with amazing zeal. After carefully appraising the volume of applause, the announcer gave his judgment to Lady Godiva and her partner. Large on the screen appeared a close-up view of the two happy faces; in an excess of triumphant joy they hugged and kissed each other. The screen went dim; after the vivacity of the Red Barn the terrace above the Don seemed drab and insipid.

  The Rumfuddlers shifted in their seats. Some uttered exclamations to assert their gaiety; others stared out across the vast empty face of the river.

  Duray glanced toward Elizabeth; she was gone. Now he saw her circulating among the guests with three other young women, pouring wine from Scythian decanters.

  “It makes a pretty picture, does it not?” said a calm voice. Duray turned to find Bob standing behind him; his mouth twisted in an easy half-smile but his eyes glinting pale blue.

  Duray turned away. Alan Robertson said, “This is not at all a pleasant situation, Bob, and in fact completely lacks charm.”

  “Perhaps at future Rumfuddles, when my face feels better, the charm will emerge…Excuse me; I see that I must enliven the meeting.” He stepped forward. “We have a final pastiche: oddments and improvisations, vignettes and glimpses, each in its own way entertaining and instructive. Roger; start the mechanism, if you please.”

  Roger Waille hesitated and glanced sidelong toward Alan Robertson.

  “The item number is sixty-two, Roger,” said Bob in a calm voice. Roger Waille delayed another instant then shrugged and went to the projection machine.

  “The material is new,” said Bob, “hence I will supply a commentary. First we have an episode in the life of Richard Wagner, the dogmatic and occasionally irascible composer. The year is 1843; the place is Dresden. Wagner sets forth on a summer night to attend a new opera Der Sängerkrieg by an unknown composer. He alights from his carriage before the hall; he enters; he seats himself in his loge. Notice the dignity of his posture; the authority of his gestures! The music begins: listen!” From the projector came the sound of music. “It is the overture,” stated Bob. “But notice Wagner: why is he stupefied? Why is he overcome with wonder? He listens to the music as if he has never heard it before. And in fact he hasn’t; he has only just yesterday set down a few preliminary notes for this particular opus, which he planned to call Tannhäuser; today, magically, he hears it in its final form. Wagner will walk home slowly tonight, and perhaps in his abstraction he will kick the dog Schmutzi…Now, to a different scene: St. Petersburg in the year 1880 and the stables in back of the Winter Palace. The ivory and gilt carriage rolls forth to convey the Czar and the Czarina to a reception at the British Embassy. Notice the drivers: stern, well-groomed, intent at their business. Marx’s beard is well-trimmed; Lenin’s goatee is not so pronounced. A groom comes to watch the carriage roll away. He has a kindly twinkle in his eye, does Stalin.” The screen went dim once more, then brightened to show a city street lined with automobile showrooms and used car lots. “This is one of Shawn Henderson’s projects. The four used-car lots are operated by men who in other circumstances were religious notables: prophets and so forth. That alert keen-featured man in front of ‘Quality Motors’, for instance, is Mohammed. Shawn is conducting a careful survey, and at our next Rumfuddle he will report upon his dealings with these four famous figures.”

  Alan Robertson stepped forward, somewhat diffidently. He cleared his throat. “I don’t like to play the part of spoil-sport, but I’m afraid I have no choice. There will be no further Rumfuddles. Our original goals have been neglected and I note far too many episodes of purposeless frivolity and even cruelty. You may wonder at what seems a sudden decision, but I have been considering the matter for several days. The Rumfuddles have taken a turn in an unwholesome direction, and conceivably might become a grotesque new vice, which of course is far from our original ideal. I’m sure that every sensible person, after a few moments’ reflection, will agree that now is the time to stop. Next week you may return to me all passways except those to worlds where you maintain residence.”

  The Rumfuddlers sat murmuring together. Some turned resentful glances toward Alan Robertson; others served themselves more bread and meat. Bob came over to join Alan and Duray. He spoke in an easy manner. “I must say that your admonitions arrive with all the delicacy of a lightning bolt. I can picture Jehovah smiting the fallen angels in a similar style.”

  Alan Robertson smiled. “Now then, Bob, you’re talking nonsense. The situations aren’t at all similar. Jehovah struck out in fury; I impose my restrictions in all good will, in order that we can once again turn our energies to constructive ends.”

  Bob threw back his head and laughed. “But the Rumfuddlers have lost the habit of work. We only want to amuse ourselves, and after all, what is so noxious in our activities?”

  “The trend is menacing, Bob.” Alan Robertson’s voice was reasonable. “Unpleasant elements are creeping into your fun, so stealthily
that you yourself are unaware of them. For instance, why torment poor Wagner? Surely there was gratuitous cruelty, and only to provide you a few instants of amusement. And, since the subject is in the air, I heartily deplore your treatment of Gilbert and Elizabeth. You have brought them both an extraordinary inconvenience, and in Elizabeth’s case, actual suffering. Gilbert got something of his own back, and the balance is about even.”

  “Gilbert is far too impulsive,” said Bob. “Self-willed and egocentric, as he always has been.”

  Alan held up his hand. “There is no need to go further into the subject, Bob. I suggest that you say no more.”

  “Just as you like, though the matter, considered as practical rehabilitation, isn’t irrelevant. We can amply justify the work of the Rumfuddlers.”

  Duray asked quietly, “Just how do you mean, Bob?”

  Alan Robertson made a peremptory sound, but Duray said, “Let him say what he likes, and make an end to it. He plans to do so anyway.”

  There was a moment of silence. Bob looked across the terrace to where the three Orientals were transferring the remains of the beef to a service cart.

  “Well?” Alan Robertson asked softly. “Have you made your choice?”

  Bob held out his hands in ostensible bewilderment. “I don’t understand you! I want only to vindicate myself and the Rumfuddlers. I think we have done splendidly. Today we have allowed Torquemada to roast a dead ox instead of a living heretic; the Marquis de Sade has fulfilled his obscure urges by caressing seared flesh with a basting brush, and did you notice the zest with which Ivan the Terrible hacked up the carcass? Nero, who has real talent, played his violin; Attila, Genghis Khan, and Mao Tse Tung efficiently served the guests. Wine was poured by Messalina, Lucrezia Borgia, Delilah, and Gilbert’s charming wife Elizabeth. Only Gilbert failed to demonstrate his rehabilitation, but at least he provided us a touching and memorable picture: Gilles de Rais, Elizabeth Báthory and their three virgin daughters. It was sufficient. In every case we have shown that rehabilitation is not an empty word.”

  “Not in every case,” said Alan Robertson, “specifically that of your own.”

  Bob looked at him askance. “I don’t follow you.”

  “No less than Gilbert, are you ignorant of your background. I will now reveal the circumstances so that you may understand something of yourself and try to curb the tendencies which have made your cognate an exemplar of cruelty, stealth and treachery.”

  Bob laughed: a brittle sound like cracking ice. “I admit to a horrified interest.”

  “I took you from a forest a thousand miles north of this very spot, while I traced the phylogeny of the Norse gods. Your name was Loki. For reasons which are not now important I brought you back to San Francisco and there you grew to maturity.”

  “So I am Loki.”

  “No. You are Bob Robertson, just as this is Gilbert Duray, and here is his wife Elizabeth. Loki, Gilles de Rais, Elizabeth Báthory: these are names applied to human material which has not functioned quite as well. Gilles de Rais, judging from all evidence, suffered from a brain tumor; he fell into his peculiar vices after a long and honorable career. The case of Princess Elizabeth Báthory is less clear, but one might suspect syphilis and consequent cerebral lesions.”

  “And what of poor Loki?” inquired Bob with exaggerated pathos.

  “Loki seemed to suffer from nothing except a case of old-fashioned meanness.”

  Bob seemed concerned. “So that these qualities apply to me?”

  “You are not necessarily identical to your cognate. Still, I advise you to take careful stock of yourself, and, so far as I am concerned, you had best regard yourself as on probation.”

  “Just as you say.” Bob looked over Alan Robertson’s shoulder. “Excuse me; you’ve spoiled the party and everybody is leaving. I want a word with Roger.”

  Duray moved to stand in his way, but Bob shouldered him aside and strode across the terrace, with Duray glowering at his back.

  Elizabeth said in a mournful voice, “I hope we’re at the end of all this.”

  Duray growled, “You should never have listened to him.”

  “I didn’t listen; I read about it in one of Bob’s books; I saw your picture; I couldn’t—”

  Alan Robertson intervened. “Don’t harass poor Elizabeth; I consider her both sensible and brave; she did the best she could.”

  Bob returned. “Everything taken care of,” he said cheerfully. “All except one or two details.”

  “The first of these is the return of the passway. Gilbert and Elizabeth, not to mention Dolly, Joan and Ellen, are anxious to return home.”

  “They can stay here with you,” said Bob. “That’s probably the best solution.”

  “I don’t plan to stay here,” said Alan Robertson in mild wonder. “We are leaving at once.”

  “You must change your plans,” said Bob. “I have finally become bored with your reproaches. Roger doesn’t particularly care to leave his home, but he agrees that now is the time to make a final disposal of the matter.”

  Alan Robertson frowned in displeasure. “The joke is in very poor taste, Bob.”

  Roger Waille came from the house, his face somewhat glum. “They’re all closed. Only the main gate is open.”

  Alan Robertson said to Gilbert: “I think that we will leave Bob and Roger to their Rumfuddle fantasies. When he returns to his senses we’ll get your passway. Come along then, Elizabeth! Girls!”

  “Alan,” said Bob gently. “You’re staying here. Forever. I’m taking over the machine.”

  Alan Robertson asked mildly: “How do you propose to restrain me? By force?”

  “You can stay here alive or dead; take your choice.”

  “You have weapons then?”

  “I certainly do.” Bob displayed a pistol. “There are also the servants. None have brain tumors or syphilis, they’re all just plain bad.”

  Roger said in an awkward voice, “Let’s go and get it over.”

  Alan Robertson’s voice took on a harsh edge. “You seriously plan to maroon us here, without food?”

  “Consider yourself marooned.”

  “I’m afraid that I must punish you, Bob, and Roger as well.”

  Bob laughed gaily. “You yourself are suffering from brain disease—megalomania. You haven’t the power to punish anyone.”

  “I still control the machine, Bob.”

  “The machine isn’t here. So now—”

  Alan Robertson turned and looked around the landscape, with a frowning air of expectation. “Let me see: I’d probably come down from the main gate; Gilbert and a group from behind the house. Yes; here we are.”

  Down the path from the main portal, walking jauntily, came two Alan Robertsons with six men armed with rifles and gas grenades. Simultaneously from behind the house appeared two Gilbert Durays and six more men, similarly armed.

  Bob stared in wonder. “Who are these people?”

  “Cognates,” said Alan smiling. “I told you I controlled the machine, and so do all my cognates. As soon as Gilbert and I return to our Earth, we must similarly set forth and in our turn do our part on other worlds cognate to this…Roger, be good enough to summon your servants. We will take them back to Earth. You and Bob must remain here.”

  Waille gasped in distress. “Forever?”

  “You deserve nothing better,” said Alan Robertson. “Bob perhaps deserves worse.” He turned to the cognate Alan Robertsons. “What of Gilbert’s passway?”

  Both replied, “It’s in Bob’s San Francisco apartment, in a box on the mantelpiece.”

  “Very good,” said Alan Robertson. “We will now depart. Goodby, Bob. Goodby, Roger. I am sorry that our association ended on this rather unpleasant basis.”

  “Wait!” cried Roger. “Take me back with you!”

  “Goodby,” said Alan Robertson. “Come along then, Elizabeth. Girls! Run on ahead!”

  XIII

  Elizabeth and the children had returned to Home; Alan Robert
son and Duray sat in the lounge above the machine. “Our first step,” said Alan Robertson, “is to dissolve our obligation. There are of course an infinite number of Rumfuddles at Ekshayans and an infinite number of Alans and Gilberts. If we visited a single Rumfuddle, we would, by the laws of probability, miss a certain number of the emergency situations. The total number of permutations, assuming that an infinite number of Alans and Gilberts makes a random choice among an infinite number of Ekshayans, is infinity raised to the infinite power. What percentage of this number yields blanks for any given Ekshayan, I haven’t calculated. If we visited Ekshayans until we had by our own efforts rescued at least one Gilbert and Alan set, we might be forced to scour fifty or a hundred worlds, or more. Or we might achieve our rescue on the first visit. The wisest course, I believe, is for you and I to visit, say, twenty Ekshayans. If each of the Alan and Gilbert sets does the same, then the chances for any particular Alan and Gilbert to be abandoned are one in twenty times nineteen times eighteen times seventeen, etcetera. Even then I think I will arrange that an operator check another five or ten thousand worlds to gather up that one lone chance…”

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  Also By Jack Vance

  The Dying Earth

  1. The Dying Earth (1950) (aka Mazirian the Magician)

  2. Cugel the Clever (1966) (aka The Eyes of the Overworld)

  3. Cugel’s Saga (1966) (aka Cugel: The Skybreak Spatterlight)

  4. Rhialto the Marvellous (1984)

  Big Planet