by Jack Vance
The chrysalis broke open; instantly the orchestra became still. Out of the aperture hopped a horrid little white imp, with distorted features defined in black. It made gleeful chittering sounds, then went fleeting from the stage on bounds and jumps, while insects and orchestra produced sounds of consternation.
The light shifted from the broken shell and for a moment the stage was passive. Then: a sudden splash of new light to the top of the pedestal, and here stood Sessily the butterfly, body encased in a soft gray stuff, antennae sprouting from her forehead. The wonderful wings waved as if of their own accord, in exact gentle rhythm.
Sessily turned slowly upon the pedestal, wings beating continually, her face a study in entranced concentration. She sank to a cross-legged sitting pose, the wings quivering and vibrating, to show off their startling color: purples and greens, deep reds, burning dark yellows, velvet black, as rich as any of the colors.
Sessily slowly rose to her feet, as if lifted by the wings. She stood smiling a rapt half-smile, delighted with the easy movement of the wings. Every eye watched her in fascination; she made an image of irresistible appeal and Glawen’s heart seemed to contract in his chest.
Other parts of the stage had gone dark. From the side came a grinding roar. The lights fled from the pedestal; white glare picked out a band of imps armed with grotesquely tall halberds. The insects recoiled in confusion, then rallied and attacked with all ferocity. The imps were stung, rasped, pinched by mandibles, constricted by centipedes, gnawed by beetles. The stage spotlight, wan and diffuse, swam here and there about the stage. It touched the pedestal; the butterfly was gone.
From the orchestra came an outburst of frenzied polyphony which almost at once went quiet; except for a white spotlight wandering here and there the stage was dark.
The insects, glimpsed in the moving light, had become busy. With huge mallets, presses and rollers they flattened the imps to thin stiff sheets, distorting the features into near-abstract patterns.
From the direction of the pedestal came the sound of pounding. The light, straying upon the pedestal, discovered insects nailing flattened imps into a crude representation of a white and black butterfly.
A curtain of opaque air swept down to conceal the stage. Floreste came briskly out upon the proscenium. “The Mummers and I hope that you have enjoyed our efforts. As you probably know, all our talent is recruited here at Araminta Station; they work with great dedication to produce our effects.
“Now I will make my pitch, but it will be short. This Orpheum has given us many hours of pleasure, but it is small and sadly obsolete, so that every production played here becomes an adventure in itself.
“Many of you know that we are planning a new Orpheum. When the Mummers play off-world all proceeds go into a fund to build a new Orpheum, the finest such complex in the Gaean Reach.
“Shamelessly I request your contributions, that we may bring the reality of the New Orpheum closer. Thank you.”
Floreste jumped down from the stage and was gone.
Glawen turned to Wayness and Milo. “And there you have it: one of Floreste’s inventions. Some like them; others don’t.”
“At the very least, he holds your attention,” said Wayness.
Milo grumbled: “I’d like it better if I knew what was going on.”
“Most likely Floreste doesn’t know himself. He improvises left and right and devil take the hindmost.”
“There is certainly something to be learned here,” mused Milo.
“Floreste shows a few perplexing incidents, then comes out on the stage to demand money, and no one even laughs at him.”
The orchestra had begun to gather in preparation for the Grand Masque. Glawen said: “The first dance is always the ‘Courtesy Pavane’; they’re almost ready to start and I must step it off with Sessily, even though I don’t like leaving you alone. Perhaps you’ll join the dance?”
Wayness looked at Milo, but found no encouragement. “I think we’ll just sit here and watch.”
“Sessily has probably finished changing from her wings,” said Glawen. We’ve arranged a place to meet, and if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go wait for her.”
Glawen went to the designated rendezvous and stationed himself where he could look along the passageway which led both backstage and to the kitchens.
At the moment the results of the wine competitions were being announced from the stage. As usual, the Wook winery took the grand award for overall excellence and the single best wine, with other houses winning awards for special products, such as Clattuc House’s Green Zoquel.
The announcements were completed. The orchestra began to tune and along the Quadrangle couples took their places for the “Courtesy Pavane.” Since Wook House had won the award, the place of honor went to Wook Housemaster Ouskar Wook and Ignatzia, his spouse. Glawen became restive. Where was Sessily? If she did not hurry, they would miss the start of the pavane . . . Could there have been a mistake in the rendezvous? He thought back over the conversation. Directly behind him stood the bass violist, with his imposing instrument.
Glawen caught sight of Miranda and called to her. She ran up bubbling with excitement. “Did you see me, Glawen? I was the number three imp - the one who was killed by the wisselrode bug.”
“Certainly I saw you. You died with great pathos. Where is Sessily?”
Miranda peered down the passageway. “I haven’t seen her. Our dressing rooms are different. We’ve got just a little closet back-stage; Sessily has what is called the Ladies’ Dressing Room, out along the dock past the kitchen.”
“Would you go see if you can find her? Tell her to hurry or we’ll miss the pavane.”
Miranda paused only an instant, to ask: “If she’s sick do you still want her to dance?”
“No, of course not! Just find her. I’ll wait here in case she shows up.”
Miranda ran off. Five minutes later she returned. “Sessily is not in the dressing room, and the maid says she hasn’t been there. She’s nowhere along the way.”
“Could she have gone home? Where is your mother?”
“She’s stepping the pavane with my father. Glawen, I’m frightened. Where can she be?”
“We’ll find out. How are your parents dressed?”
“Mother’s the Sea Queen: see her there in green? Father is the Dombrasian Knight.”
Glawen went out on the dance area, and accosted Carlus and Felice Veder where they performed the ritual measures of the pavane. Addressing Carlus Veder, Glawen said, “Sir, I’m sorry to bother you, but we can’t find Sessily. She was to step the pavane with me, but she never came out from backstage and she’s not there now.”
“Come, let’s go look!”
A search revealed no trace of Sessily, nor was she discovered later, even though the grounds were carefully examined. Sessily was gone, without a trace of her going.
* * *
Chapter II, Part 5
An aura of tragic glamour surrounded the disappearance of Sessily Veder. Standing high on the pedestal, face exalted, body taut, wings and arms raised in farewell salute, the girl-butterfly became an image of primordial glory, and never would anyone present recall the occasion without feeling an eerie thrill along the nerves of his or her back.
A frantic search revealed no trace of Sessily; it was as if she had been whisked away into another dimension. Araminta Station was then examined again, more thoroughly, with no better result.
Everyone immediately supposed that she had been carried away in a flyer, but records at the spaceport revealed that neither flyer nor space vehicle had used the sky above Araminta Station during the critical period.
Perhaps, then, a boat or a surface vehicle had been used to carry her away? A similarly explicit assurance could not be made; still, when cars, trucks, vans and power wagons were checked, all were found to be in their accustomed places, and no one reported suspicious movements. As for boats, such employment downstream of the Orpheum - which was to say, parallel to Wansey Way - wou
ld have been instantly conspicuous, and could be ruled out upstream by reason of the reeds which fringed the riverbank. Forcing a boat to shore through the reeds or the transport of a body out to a boat would have left obvious and unmistakable traces. The same could be said for the possibility of carrying a body into the river, so that it might drift downstream and out to sea.
Mysteries of this sort were rare at Araminta Station though not unknown. The typical victim might be a Yip girl who had resisted a conventional seduction, which unhappy consequences.1 The perpetrator, upon definite identification, was forthwith hanged, or, at his own option, dropped into the ocean a hundred miles offshore.
Crimes at Araminta station, or anywhere about Deucas, were investigated by agents of Bureau B, an IPCC affiliate.2 Director of Bureau B was the septuagenarian Bodwyn Wook, who was small, thin, mercurial and something of a martinet. He was bald as a stone, with darting blue eyes, a bony chin and a long inquisitive nose. His captains were Ysel Laverty, Rune Offaw and Scharde Clattuc. These four senior officers were discreetly known by the junior staff as the Zoo, through a fancied resemblance to illustrations in a famous old Earthly bestiary. Scharde: a gray wolf; Ysel Laverty: a boar; Rune Offaw: a stoat; and Bodwyn Wook a small bald orangutan.
The entire Zoo applied itself to the Sessily Veder case, along with as many sergeants, ordinaries and cadets as could be spared from routine duties.
The search of Araminta Station and its environs was conducted with meticulous care. Every structure was inspected, as well as the ground surface within a reasonable perimeter. Each day a chemist tested river water for traces of decomposing flesh, again without result. Sessily Veder had dissolved into nothingness, leaving behind no clues and very few theories.
One such theory, to the effect that Sessily, becoming deranged, had run wildly away to hide in the wilderness, was scoffed at as nonsense, but if insane flight, submersion in the river and kidnap by aircraft were all ruled out - what, then? At Bureau B it was recognized that the general bafflement must be a source of comfort to the criminal.
Every person who had been present during the Phantasmagoria - tourist, wine buyer, resident, collateral, guest, worker, Mummer, musician - all were questioned and asked to describe the movements both of themselves and of anyone else of whom they had knowledge. Such information was collated in the Bureau A computer, and the readout allowed a large number of visitors to depart Araminta Station.
Another set of investigators tried to trace Sessily’s movements immediately after her descent from the pedestal. Her route should have taken her across the backstage area to a door leading out into a passageway. Here she would have turned to the left, walked some twenty feet and out upon a loading dock, then to the left and to the dressing room annex, past the corner of the Orpheum proper: an inconvenient arrangement frequently cited by Floreste during his pleas for a new Orpheum.
Sessily had been assisted down from the pedestal by Drusilla co-Laverty, a Mummer girl two or three years older than Sessily. Drusilla and several other Mummers had seen Sessily depart the backstage and go out into the passageway. Thereafter no one admitted to knowledge regarding her movements. The two wardrobe maids asserted that she had never arrived in the dressing room. Somewhere between backstage and dressing room Sessily had disappeared - which meant from the loading dock.
At this hour the dock was deserted and poorly illuminated, while the service area beyond was not illuminated at all. Kitchen workers had access to the dock through a storage pantry, but all, when questioned, declared that they had been busy serving the banquet and had not gone out on the dock, including Zamian, a Yip scullion.
Because of their proximity to the dock, the kitchen workers were questioned in careful detail. The statements, when digested by the computer, revealed discords in the testimony of Zamian. He was immediately brought to the Bureau B offices for questioning. Scharde Clattuc ushered him into the presence of Bodwyn Wook, then went to sit quietly in the shadows.
Bodwyn Wook leaned back in his massive high-backed chair and fixed Zamian with a minatory gaze.
Zamian, slender and erect, with regular features and close-cropped tawny golden curls, responded to the scrutiny with a nod of grave courtesy. “Sir, how may I oblige you in your desires?”
Bodwyn Wook waved a paper in the air. “You made a statement regarding your movements on the last night of Parilia. Do you remember this?”
Zamian smilingly nodded his head. “Yes, quite so! Your informant was utterly truthful, and you may trust his word. I am happy to have been of help to you. May I go now?”
“I am not quite done yet,” said Bodwyn Wook. “A few trifles remain. First, do you know the meaning of the word ‘truth’?”
Zamian raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Of course, sir, and I will willingly explain the word to you as best I can; but would you not prefer to learn the precise and official definition from the dictionary?”
Bodwyn Wook coughed. “I suppose you are right. I’ll take care of the matter a bit later . . . No, don’t go yet; I am not quite done with you. In this statement, you claim that during the time which was specified to you, roughly from the end of the Phantasmagoria to the start of the Grand Masque, you did not leave the kitchen.”
“Naturally not, sir! I had my important duties which were entrusted to me. How could I do them, and do them well, if I were somewhere else, such as down near the beach, or walking by the river? I am surprised that you ask this question, since you know that the duties were done expertly.”
Bodwyn Wook raised a handful of other papers. “These are statements which assert that you left the kitchen on several occasions in order to hide bags of stolen food. What of that?”
Zamian gave his head a rueful sidewise shake. “As you well know, sir, there is always scandal in the kitchen. One hears constantly a dozen or more stories. This one sweats too freely; that one breaks wind every time he bends over to peep into the oven. I pay no heed to such talk. Usually it is not true.”
“But in this particular case, the reports are accurate?”
Zamian glanced up toward the ceiling. “Sir, I barely remember.”
Bodwyn Wook spoke to Scharde. “Take Zamian to a very quiet dark room where he will be able to think without distraction. I want him to remember everything in complete detail.”
Zamian raised his hand, his smile now somewhat tremulous. “Why make such trouble for yourselves? Now that I gather my thoughts, I find that I remember quite well!”
“That is good news! The mind is a wonderful organ! What happened that evening?”
“Now I remember! I went out into the pantry a time or two; to stretch my legs. And then - but I can’t be sure.”
“Tell us anyway.”
Zamian spoke with great earnestness. “Truly, sir, it is wrong to make reports when one is not sure. An injustice might be done, and I would not want the weight upon my soul unless for at least a large sum of money.”
Scharde told Bodwyn Wook: “He wants to know how much we’ll pay.”
Bodwyn Wook threw himself back into his chair. “I think we should take Zamian to where he can think quietly in the dark until he is sure of his facts. He will be saved worry; we will be saved expense, and it will be best for all of us.”
“Quite right, sir: sound thinking.”
Bodwyn Wook added: “Before you leave him explain how accessories after the fact are punished, just as the criminal is punished.”
Zamian spoke with dignity: “Such talk is not in good taste when people are eagerly trying to help. I would never withhold knowledge of crime. Still I think we agree that a little gift is always nice and shows good faith and happy feelings on all sides.”
“If we were faithful and happy we would never catch criminals,” said Bodwyn Wook. “That is why we are cruel and merciless. Tell us what you know and be quick about it.”
Zamian gave a forlorn shrug. “As I mentioned, I stepped into the pantry to rest and think. While there, I thought I heard a voice cry out. It stopped
quickly. I listened and heard talking, and I thought: ‘Ah, then, all is well.’ Then the voice cried again. This time it said: ‘You’re breaking my wings!”‘
“And then?”
“l went to the door and looked out. I saw no one. The truck from the winery had come in earlier with wine for the banquet; it was backed up to the dock with the curtain down. I decided that someone was in the back of the truck. But of course such things are not my affair.”
“Then what?”
“That is all. At midnight, after the unmasking, old Nion came for his truck, but it was unoccupied then.”
“How do you know?.”
“He put an empty cask into the back.”
“And you cannot identify the persons who were in the truck?”
“I know nothing.”
Scharde approached Zamian and spoke quietly, almost into his ear: “If, by chance, money were offered, would you remember more?”
Zamian spoke in anguish: “As always, I am the sport of malicious fate! When my great chance finally arrived, instead of looking through the curtain and writing down names, I sat daydreaming in the pantry. I could have gathered gold by the handful; instead I have none.”
“Yes, very sad,” said Bodwyn Wook. “Still, you overestimate the money you could have earned from us. As for blackmail, of course we can only speculate.”
Zamian departed. Bodwyn Wook and Scharde immediately located and studied the statement made by Nion co-Offaw, master vintner at the Joint Winery. Nion stated that he had brought three casks of wine down from the winery, unloaded them to the dock; then, arrayed in a makeshift clown costume, he had gone to the Quadrangle to dine with friends, watch the Phantasmagoria and enjoy a modest carouse until half an hour after the midnight unmasking, when he had returned to the winery in his truck. He had noticed nothing particularly unusual and had remained ignorant of the horrid circumstances until the next morning.
Bodwyn Wook threw the statement aside. “Well, we have advanced a trifle or two. The attacker apparently took the girl into the truck and assaulted her there. What is your thinking on this?”
