The Moon Moth and Other Stories (17 page)

“We like to know what we’re talking about,” said Pascoglu. “That’s how we fix objects in our minds, with names.”

“And thereby you miss the great intuitions,” said the Hecatean. His voice was solemn and hollow. “But you have called me here to question me about the man labeled Bonfils. He is dead.”

“Exactly,” said Pascoglu. “Do you know who killed him?”

“Certainly,” said the Hecatean. “Does not everyone know?”

“No,” said Pascoglu. “Who is it?”

The Hecatean looked around the room, and when he returned to Pascoglu, his eyes were blank as holes into a crypt.

“Evidently I was mistaken. If I knew, the person involved wishes his deed to pass unnoticed, and why should I disoblige him? If I did know, I don’t know.”

Pascoglu began to splutter, but Magnus Ridolph interceded in a grave voice. “A reasonable attitude.”

Pascoglu’s cup of wrath boiled over. “I think his attitude is disgraceful! A murder has been committed, this creature claims he knows, and will not tell…I have a good mind to confine him to his quarters until the patrol ship passes.”

“If you do so,” said the Hecatean, “I will discharge the contents of my spore sac into the air. You will presently find your Hub inhabited by a hundred thousand animalcules, and if you injure a single one of them, you will be guilty of the same crime that you are now investigating.”

Pascoglu went to the door, flung it aside. “Go! Leave! Take the next ship out of here! I’ll never allow you back!”

The Hecatean departed without comment. Magnus Ridolph rose to his feet and prepared to follow. Pascoglu held up his hand. “Just a minute, Mr. Ridolph. I need advice. I was hasty, I lost my head.”

Magnus Ridolph considered. “Exactly what do you require of me?”

“Find the murderer! Get me out of this mess!”

“These requirements might be contradictory.”

Pascoglu sank into a chair, passed a hand over his eyes. “Don’t make me out puzzles, Mr. Ridolph.”

“Actually, Mr. Pascoglu, you have no need of my services. You have interviewed the suspects, you have at least a cursory acquaintance with the civilizations which have shaped them.”

“Yes, yes,” muttered Pascoglu. He brought out the list, stared at it, then looked sidewise at Magnus Ridolph. “Which one? Diasporus? Did he do it?”

Magnus Ridolph pursed his lips doubtfully. “He is a knight of the Dacca, an amateur gladiator evidently of some reputation. A murder of this sort would shatter his self-respect, his confidence. I put the probability at 1 percent.”

“Hmph. What about Fiamella of Thousand Candles? She admits she set out to kill him.”

Magnus Ridolph frowned. “I wonder. Death by means of amorous attrition is of course not impossible—but are not Fiamella’s motives ambiguous? From what I gather, her reputation was injured by Bonfils’ disinclination, and she thereupon set out to repair her reputation. If she could harass poor Bonfils to his doom by her charm and seductions, she would gain great face. She had everything to lose if he died in any other fashion. Probability: 1 percent.”

“Hymph. What of Thorn 199?”

Magnus Ridolph held out his hands. “He was not dressed in his killing clothes. It is as simple as that. Probability: 1 percent.”

“Well,” cried Pascoglu, “what of the priests, Banzoso and Impliega? They needed a sacrifice to their god.”

Magnus Ridolph shook his head. “The job was a botch. A sacrifice so slipshod would earn them ten thousand years of perdition.”

Pascoglu made a half-hearted suggestion. “Suppose they didn’t really believe that?”

“Then why trouble at all?” asked Magnus Ridolph. “Probability: 1 percent.”

“Well, there’s Starguard,” mused Pascoglu, “but you insist he wouldn’t commit murder in front of witnesses …”

“It seems highly unlikely,” said Magnus Ridolph. “Of course we could speculate that Bonfils was a charlatan, that the palaeolithics were impostors, that Starguard was somehow involved in the deception…”

“Yes,” said Pascoglu eagerly. “I was thinking something like that myself.”

“The only drawback to the theory is that it cannot possibly be correct. Bonfils is an anthropologist of wide reputation. I observed the palaeolithics, and I believe them to be authentic primitives. They are shy and confused. Civilized men attempting to mimic barbarity unconsciously exaggerate the brutishness of their subject. The barbarian, adapting to the ways of civilization, comports himself to the model set by his preceptor—in this case Bonfils. Observing them at dinner, I was amused by their careful aping of Bonfils’ manners. Then, when we were inspecting the corpse, they were clearly bewildered, subdued, frightened. I could discern no trace of the crafty calculation by which a civilized man would hope to extricate himself from an uncomfortable situation. I think we may assume that Bonfils and his palaeolithics were exactly as they represented themselves.”

Pascoglu jumped to his feet, paced back and forth. “Then the palaeolithics could not have killed Bonfils.”

“Probability minuscule. And if we concede their genuineness, we must abandon the idea that Starguard was their accomplice, and we rule him out on the basis of the cultural qualm I mentioned before.”

“Well—the Hecatean, then. What of him?”

“He is a more unlikely murderer than all the others,” said Magnus Ridolph. “For three reasons: First, he is non-human, and has no experience with rage and revenge. On Hecate violence is unknown. Secondly, as a non-human, he would have no points of engagement with Bonfils. A leopard does not attack a tree; they are different orders of beings. So with the Hecatean. Thirdly, it would be, physically as well as psychologically, impossible for the Hecatean to kill Bonfils. His hands have no fingers; they are flaps of sinew. They could not manipulate a trigger inside a trigger-guard. I think you may dispense with the Hecatean.”

“But who is there left?” cried Pascoglu in desperation.

“Well, there is you, there is me and there is—”

The door slid back; the bonze in the red cloak looked into the room.

V

“Come in, come in,” said Magnus Ridolph with cordiality. “Our business is just now complete. We have established that of all the persons here at the Hub, only you would have killed Lester Bonfils, and so now we have no further need for the library.”

“What!” cried Pascoglu, staring at the bonze, who made a deprecatory gesture.

“I had hoped,” said the bonze, “that my part in the affair would escape notice.”

“You are too modest,” said Magnus Ridolph. “It is only fitting that a man should be known for his good works.”

The bonze bowed. “I want no encomiums. I merely do my duty. And if you are truly finished in here, I have a certain amount of study before me.”

“By all means. Come, Mr. Pascoglu; we are inconsiderate, keeping the worthy bonze from his meditations.” And Magnus Ridolph drew the stupefied Pan Pascoglu into the corridor.

“Is he—is he the murderer?” asked Pascoglu feebly.

“He killed Lester Bonfils,” said Magnus Ridolph. “That is clear enough.”

“But why?”

“Out of the kindness of his heart. Bonfils spoke to me for a moment. He clearly was suffering considerable psychic damage.”

“But—he could be cured!” exclaimed Pascoglu indignantly. “It wasn’t necessary to kill him to soothe his feelings.”

“Not according to our viewpoint,” said Magnus Ridolph. “But you must recall that the bonze is a devout believer in—well, let us call it ‘reincarnation’. He conceived himself performing a happy release for poor tormented Bonfils who came to him for help. He killed him for his own good.”

They entered Pascoglu’s office; Pascoglu went to stare out the window. “But what am I to do?” he muttered.

“That,” said Magnus Ridolph, “is where I cannot advise you.”

“It doesn’t seem right to penalize the poor bonze…It’s ridiculous. How could I possibly go about it?”

“The dilemma is real,” agreed Magnus Ridolph.

There was a moment of silence, during which Pascoglu morosely tugged at his mustache. Then Magnus Ridolph said, “Essentially, you wish to protect your clientele from further applications of misplaced philanthropy.”

“That’s the main thing!” cried Pascoglu. “I could pass off Bonfils’ death—explain that it was accidental. I could ship the palaeolithics back to their planet…”

“I would likewise separate the bonze from persons showing even the mildest melancholy. For if he is energetic and dedicated, he might well seek to extend the range of his beneficence.”

Pascoglu suddenly put his hand to his cheek. He turned wide eyes to Magnus Ridolph. “This morning I felt pretty low. I was talking to the bonze…I told him all my troubles. I complained about expense—”

The door slid quietly aside; the bonze peered in, a half-smile on his benign face. “Do I intrude?” he asked as he spied Magnus Ridolph. “I had hoped to find you alone, Mr. Pascoglu.”

“I was just going,” said Magnus Ridolph politely. “If you’ll excuse me…”

“No, no!” cried Pascoglu. “Don’t go, Mr. Ridolph!”

“Another time will do as well,” said the bonze politely. The door closed behind him.

“Now I feel worse than ever,” Pascoglu moaned.

“Best to conceal it from the bonze,” said Magnus Ridolph.

Dodkin’s Job

The Theory of Organized Society—as developed by Kinch, Kolbig, Penton and others—yields such a wealth of significant information, such manifold intricacies and portentous projections, that occasionally it is well to consider the deceptively simple premise—here stated by Kolbig:

When self-willed micro-units combine to form and sustain a durable macro-unit, certain freedoms of action are curtailed.
This is the basic process of Organization.
The more numerous and erratic the micro-units, the more complex must be the structure and function of the macro-unit—hence the more pervasive and restricting the details of Organization.

—from Leslie Penton,
First Principles of Organization
,

In general the population of the City had become forgetful of curtailed freedoms, as a snake no longer remembers the legs of his forebears. Somewhere someone has stated, “When the discrepancy between the theory and practice of a culture is very great, this indicates that the culture is undergoing rapid change.” By such a test the culture of the City was stable, if not static. The population ordered their lives by schedule, classification and precedent, satisfied with the bland rewards of Organization.

But in the healthiest tissue bacteria exist, and the most negligible impurity flaws a critical crystallization. Luke Grogatch was forty, thin and angular, dour of forehead, sardonic of mouth and eyebrow, with a sidewise twist to his head as if he suffered from earache. He was too astute to profess Nonconformity, too perverse to strive for improved status, too pessimistic, captious, sarcastic and outspoken to keep the jobs to which he found himself assigned. Each new reclassification depressed his status, each new job he disliked with increasing fervor.

Finally, rated as
Flunky/Class D/Unskilled
, Luke was dispatched to the District 8892 Sewer Maintenance Department and from there ordered out as night-shift swamper on Tunnel Gang No. 3’s rotary drilling machine.

Reporting for work, Luke presented himself to the gang foreman, Fedor Miskitman, a big buffalo-faced man with flaxen hair and placid blue eyes. Miskitman produced a shovel and took Luke to a position close up behind the drilling machine’s cutting head. Here, said Miskitman, was Luke’s station. Luke would be required to keep the tunnel floor clean of loose rock and gravel. When the tunnel broke through into an old sewer, there would be scale and that detritus known as ‘wet waste’ to remove. Luke must keep the dust trap clean and in optimum adjustment. During the breaks he must lubricate those bearings isolated from the automatic lubrication system, and replace broken teeth on the cutting head as necessary.

Luke inquired if this was the extent of his duties, his voice strong with an irony the guileless Fedor Miskitman failed to notice.

“That is all,” said Miskitman. He handed Luke the shovel. “Mostly it is the trash. The floor must be clean.”

Luke suggested a modification of the hopper jaws which would tend to eliminate the spill of broken rock; in fact, argued Luke, why bother at all? Let the rock lay where it fell. The concrete lining of the tunnel would mask so trivial a scatter of gravel. Miskitman dismissed the suggestion out of hand: the rock must be removed. Luke asked why, and Miskitman told him, “That is the way the job is done.”

Luke made a rude noise under his breath. He tested the shovel, and shook his head in dissatisfaction. The handle was too long, the blade too short. He reported this fact to Miskitman, who merely glanced at his watch and signaled the drill operator. The machine whined into revolution, and with an ear-splitting roar made contact with the rock. Miskitman departed, and Luke went to work.

During the shift he found that if he worked in a half-crouch most of the hot dust-laden exhaust would pass over his head. Changing a cutting tooth during the first rest period he burned a blister on his left thumb. At the end of the shift a single consideration deterred Luke from declaring himself unqualified: he would be declassified from
Flunky/Class D/Unskilled
to
Junior Executive
, with a corresponding cut in expense account. Such a declassification would take him to the very bottom of the Status List, and could not be countenanced; his present expense account was barely adequate, comprising nutrition at a Type RP Victualing Service, sleeping space in a Sublevel 22 dormitory, and sixteen Special Coupons per month. He took Class 14 Erotic Processing, and was allowed twelve hours per month at his Recreation Club, with optional use of barbells, table-tennis equipment, two miniature bowling alleys, and any of the six telescreens tuned permanently to Band H.

Luke often daydreamed of a more sumptuous life: AAA nutrition, a suite of rooms for his exclusive use, Special Coupons by the bale, Class 7 Erotic Processing, or even Class 6, or 5: despite Luke’s contempt for the High Echelon he had no quarrel with High Echelon perquisites. And always as a bitter coda to the daydreams came the conviction that he might have enjoyed these good things in all reality. He had watched his fellows jockeying; he knew all the tricks and techniques: the beavering, the gregarization, the smutting, knuckling and subuculation…