The Moon Moth and Other Stories (2 page)

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.

“Yes sir—the Meadow View Tumble. Shadow Valley Tumble is further up the valley, behind the inn.”

Magnus Ridolph turned to enter the inn. His eyes met those of a man in a severe black suit—a short man with a dumpy face that looked as if it had been compressed in a vise. Ridolph recognized the countenance of Julius See. “Well, well, this is a surprise indeed,” said Magnus.

See nodded grimly. “Quite a coincidence…”

“After the unhappy collapse of Outer Empire Realty and Investment I feared—indeed, I dreaded—that I should never see you again.” And Magnus Ridolph watched Julius See with mild blue eyes blank as a lizard’s.

“No such luck,” said See. “As a matter of fact I run this place. Er, may I speak to you a moment inside?”

“Certainly, by all means.”

Ridolph followed his host through the well-appointed lobby into an office. A thin-faced man with thin red hair and squirrel teeth rose quickly to his feet. “You’ll remember my partner, Bruce Holpers,” said See with no expression in his voice.

“Of course,” said Ridolph. “I am flattered that you honor me with your personal attention.”

See cut the air with his hand—a small petulant gesture. “Forget the smart talk, Ridolph…What’s your game?”

Magnus Ridolph laughed easily. “Gentlemen, gentlemen—”

“Gentlemen my foot! Let’s get down to brass tacks. If you’ve got any ideas left over from that Outer Empire deal, put them away.”

“I assure you—”

“I’ve heard stories about you, Ridolph, and what I brought you in to tell you was that we’re running a nice quiet place here, and we don’t want any disturbance.”

“Of course not,” agreed Ridolph.

“Maybe you came for a little clean fun, betting on these native chipmunks; maybe you came on a party that we won’t like.”

Ridolph held out his hands guilelessly. “I can hardly say I’m flattered. I appear at your inn, an accredited guest; instantly you take me aside and admonish me.”

“Ridolph,” said See, “you have a funny reputation, and a normal sharpshooter never knows what side you’re working on.”

“Enough of this,” said Magnus sternly. “Open the door, or I shall institute a strong protest.”

“Look,” said See ominously, “we own this hotel. If we don’t like your looks, you’ll camp out and rustle your own grub until the next packet—which is a week away.”

Magnus Ridolph said coldly, “You will become liable to extensive damages if you seek to carry out your threat; in fact, I defy you, put me out if you dare!”

The lanky red-haired Holpers laid a nervous hand on See’s arm. “He’s right, Julie. We can’t refuse service or the Control yanks our charter.”

“If he misbehaves or performs any mischief, we can put him out.”

“You have evidence, then, that I am a source of annoyance?”

See stood back, hands behind him. “Call this little talk a warning, Ridolph. You’ve just had your warning.”

Returning to the lobby, Magnus Ridolph ordered his luggage sent to his room, and inquired the whereabouts of the Commonwealth Control officer.

“He’s established on the edge of Black Bog, sir; you’ll have to take an air-car unless you care for an all-night hike.”

“You may order out an air-car,” said Magnus Ridolph.

Seated in the well-upholstered tonneau, Ridolph watched Shadow Valley Inn dwindle below. The sun, Pi Sagittarius, which had already set, once more came into view as the car rose to clear Basalt Mountain, then sank in a welter of purples, greens and reds—a phoenix dying in its many-colored blood. Kokod twilight fell across the planet.

Below passed a wonderfully various landscape: lakes and parks, meadows, cliffs, crags, sweeping hillside slopes, river valleys. Here and there Ridolph sensed shapes in the fading light—the hive-like tumbles. As evening deepened into dove-colored night, the tumbles flickered with dancing orange sparks of illumination.

The air-car slanted down, slid under a copse of trees shaped like feather-dusters. Magnus Ridolph alighted, stepped around to the pilot’s compartment.

“Who is the Control officer?”

“His name is Clark, sir, Everley Clark.”

Magnus Ridolph nodded. “I’ll be no more than twenty minutes. Will you wait, please?”

“Yes, sir. Very well, sir.”

Magnus Ridolph glanced sharply at the man: a suggestion of insolence behind the formal courtesy?…He strode to the frame building. The upper half of the door hung wide; cheerful yellow light poured out into the Kokod night. Within, Magnus Ridolph glimpsed a tall pink man in neat tan gabardines. Something in the man’s physiognomy struck a chord of memory; where had he seen this round pink face before? He rapped smartly on the door; the man turned his head and rather glumly arose. Magnus Ridolph saw the man to be he of the mnemiphot presentation on Kokod, the man who had interviewed the warrior, Sam 192.

Everley Clark came to the door. “Yes? What can I do for you?”

“I had hoped for the privilege of a few words with you,” replied Magnus Ridolph.

Clark blew out his cheeks, fumbled with the door fastenings. “By all means,” he said hollowly. “Come in, sir.” He motioned Magnus Ridolph to a chair. “Won’t you sit down? My name is Everley Clark.”

“I am Magnus Ridolph.”

Clark evinced no flicker of recognition, responding with only a blank stare of inquiry.

Ridolph continued a trifle frostily. “I assume that our conversation can be considered confidential?”

“Entirely, sir. By all means.” Clark showed a degree of animation, went to the fireplace, stood warming his hands at an imaginary blaze.

Ridolph chose his words for their maximum weight. “I have been employed by an important organization which I am not at liberty to name. The members of this organization—who I may say exert a not negligible political influence—feel that Control’s management of Kokod business has been grossly inefficient and incorrect.”

“Indeed!” Clark’s official affability vanished as if a pink spotlight had been turned off.

Magnus Ridolph continued soberly. “In view of these charges, I thought it my duty to confer with you and learn your opinions.”

Clark said grimly. “What do you mean—‘charges’?”

“First, it is claimed that the gambling operations at Shadow Valley Inn are—if not illegal—explicitly, shamelessly and flagrantly unmoral.”

“Well?” said Clark bitterly. “What do you expect me to do? Run out waving a Bible? I can’t interfere with tourist morals. They can play merry hell, run around naked, beat their dogs, forge checks—as long as they leave the natives alone, they’re out of my jurisdiction.”

Magnus Ridolph nodded sagely. “I see your position clearly. But a second and more serious allegation is that in allowing the Kokod wars to continue day in and day out, Control condones and tacitly encourages a type of brutality which would not be allowed on any other world of the Commonwealth.”

Clark seated himself, sighed deeply. “If you’ll forgive me for saying so, you sound for all the world like one of the form letters I get every day from women’s clubs, religious institutes and anti-vivisectionist societies.” He shook his round pink face with sober emphasis. “Mr. Ridolph, you just don’t know the facts. You come up here in a lather of indignation, you shoot off your mouth and sit back with a pleased expression—good deed for the day. Well, it’s not right! Do you think I enjoy seeing these little creatures tearing each other apart? Of course not—although I admit I’ve become used to it. When Kokod was first visited, we tried to stop the wars. The natives considered us damn fools, and went on fighting. We enforced peace, by threatening to cut down the steles. This meant something to them; they gave up the wars. And you never saw a sadder set of creatures in your life. They sat around in the dirt; they contracted a kind of roup and died by the droves. None of them cared enough to drag the corpses away. Four tumbles were wiped out; Cloud Crag, Yellow Bush, Sunset Ridge and Vinegrass. You can see them today, colonies thousands of years old, destroyed in a few months. And all this time the Tumble-matrons were producing young. No one had the spirit to feed them, and they starved or ran whimpering around the planet like naked little rats.”