Jack Vance - The Moon Moth

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THE SYMBOLIC adjuncts used to enlarge the human personality are of course numerous. Clothes

comprise a most important category of these symbols and sometimes when people are gathered together

it is amusing to examine garments, unobtrusively of course, and to reflect that each article has been

selected with solicitous care with the intention of creating some particular effect. Despite the symbolic

power of clothes, men and women are judged, by and large, by circumstances more difficult to control:

posture, accent, voice timbre, the shape and color of their bodies, and most significant of all, their faces.

Voices can be modulated, diets and exercise, theoretically at least, force the body into socially acceptable

contours. What can be done to the face? Enormous effort has been expended in this direction. Jowls

are hoisted, eyebrows attached or eliminated, noses cropped, de-hooked, de-humped. The hair is

tormented into a thousand styles: puffed, teased, wet, dried, hung this way or that: all to formulate a

fashionable image. Nonetheless, all pretenses are transparent; nature-fakery yields to the critical eye. No

matter what our inclinations, whether or not we like our faces, we are forced to live with them, and to

accept whatever favor, censure or derision we willy-nilly incur. Except those intricate and intelligent folk

of the world Sirene, whose unorthodox social habits are considered in the following pages.

THE MOON MOTH

The houseboat had been built to the most exacting standards of Sirenese craftsmanship, which is to say, as

close to the absolute as human eye could detect. The planking of waxy dark wood showed no joints, the fastenings

were platinum rivets countersunk and polished flat. In style, the boat was massive, broad beamed, steady as the shore

itself, without ponderosity or slackness of line. The bow bulged like a swan's breast, the stem rising high, then

crooking forward to support an iron lantern. The doors were carved from slabs of a mottled black-green wood; the

windows were many sectioned, paned with squares of mica, stained rose, blue, pale green and violet. The bow was

given to service facilities and quarters for the slaves; amid-ships were a pair of sleeping cabins, a dining saloon and a

parlor saloon, opening upon an observation deck at the stern.

Such was Edwer Thissell's houseboat, but ownership brought him neither pleasure nor pride. The houseboat had

become shabby. The carpeting had lost its pile; the carved screens were chipped; the iron lantern at the bow sagged

with rust. Seventy years ago the first owner, on accepting the boat, had honored the builder and had been likewise

honored; the transaction (for the process represented a great deal more than simple giving and taking) had augmented

the prestige of both. That time was far gone; the houseboat now commanded no prestige whatever. Edwer Thissell,

resident on Sirene only three months, recognized the lack but could do nothing about it: this particular houseboat was

the best he could get.

He sat on the rear deck practicing the ganga, a zitherlike instrument not much larger than his hand. A hundred

yards inshore, surf defined a strip of white beach; beyond rose jungle, with the silhouette of craggy black hills against

the sky. Mireille shone hazy and white overhead, as if through a tangle of spider web; the face of the ocean pooled

and pud-dled with mother-of-pearl luster. The scene had become as familiar, though not as boring, as the ganga, at

which he had worked two hours, twanging out the Sirenese scales, form-ing chords, traversing simple progressions.

Now he put down the ganga for the zachinko, this a small sound-box studded with keys, played with the right hand.

Pressure on the keys forced air through reeds in the keys themselves, producing a concertinalike tone. Thissel ran off

a dozen quick scales, making very few mistakes. Of the six instruments he had set himself to learn, the zachinko had

proved the least re-fractory (with the exception, of course, of the hymerkin, that clacking, slapping, clattering device

of wood and stone used exclusively with the slaves).

Thissell practiced another ten minutes, then put aside the zachinko. He flexed his arms, wrung his aching

fingers. Every waking moment since his arrival had been given to the instruments: the hymerkin, the ganga, the

zachinko, the kiv, the strapan, the gomapard. He had practiced scales in nineteen keys and four modes, chords

without number, inter-vals never imagined on the Home Planets. Trills, arpeggios, slurs, click-stops and nasalization;

damping and augmenta-tion of overtones; vibratos and wolf-tones; concavities and convexities. He practiced with a

dogged, deadly diligence, in which his original concept of music as a source of pleasure had long become lost.

Looking over the instruments Thissell resisted an urge to fling all six into the Titanic.

He rose to his feet, went forward through the parlor sa-loon, the dining saloon, along a corridor past the galley

and came out on the foredeck. He bent over the rail, peered down into the underwater pens where Toby and Rex, the

slaves, were harnessing the dray-fish for the weekly trip to Fan, eight miles north. The youngest fish, either playful or

captious, ducked and plunged. Its streaming black muzzle broke water, and Thissell, looking into its face, felt a

pecu-liar qualm: the fish wore no mask!

Thissell laughed uneasily, fingering his own mask, the Moon Moth. No question about it, he was becoming

accli-mated to Sirene! A significant stage had been reached when the naked face of a fish caused him shock!

The fish were finally harnessed; Toby and Rex climbed aboard, red bodies glistening, black cloth masks clinging

to their faces. Ignoring Thissell they stowed the pen, hoisted anchor. The dray-fish strained, the harness tautened,

the houseboat moved north.

Returning to the afterdeck, Thissell took up the strapan— this a circular sound-box eight inches in diameter.

Forty-six wires radiated from a central hub to the circumference where they connected to either a bell or a tinkle-bar.

When plucked, the bells rang, the bars chimed; when strummed, the instru-ment gave off a twanging, jingling sound.

When played with competence, the pleasantly acid dissonances produced an ex-pressive effect; in an unskilled hand,

the results were less felicitous, and might even approach random noise. The strapan was Thissell's weakest

instrument and he practiced with concentration during the entire trip north.

In due course the houseboat approached the floating city. The dray-fish were curbed, the houseboat warped to

a moor-ing. Along the dock a line of idlers weighed and gauged every aspect of the houseboat, the slaves and

Thissell him-self, according to Sirenese habit. Thissell, not yet accustomed to such penetrating inspection, found the

scrutiny unsettling, all the more so for the immobility of the masks. Self-con-sciously adjusting his own Moon Moth,

he climbed the lad-der to the dock.

A slave rose from where he had been squatting, touched knuckles to the black cloth at his forehead, and sang

on a three-tone phrase of interrogation: "The Moon Moth before me possibly expresses the identity of Ser Edwer

Thissell?"

Thissell tapped the hymerkin, which hung at his belt and sang: "I am Ser Thissell."

"I have been honored by a trust," sang the slave. "Three days from dawn to dusk I have waited on the dock;

three nights from dusk to dawn I have crouched on a raft below this same dock listening to the feet of the Night-men.

At last I behold the mask of Ser Thissell."

Thissell evoked an impatient clatter from the hymerkin. "What is the nature of this trust?"

"I carry a message, Ser Thissell. It is intended for you."

Thissell held out his left hand, playing the hymerkin with his right. "Give me the message."

"Instantly, Ser Thissell."

The message bore a heavy superscription:

EMERGENCY COMMUNICATION! RUSH!

Thissell ripped open the envelope. The message was signed by Castel Cromartin, Chief Executive of the

Interworld Poli-cies Board, and after the formal salutation read:

absolutely urgent the following orders be executed! Aboard Carina Cruzeiro, destination Fan, date of arrival

January 10 U.T., is notorious assassin, Haxo Angmark. Meet landing with adequate authority, effect detention and

incarceration of this man. These instructions must be successfully implemented. Failure is unacceptable.

Attention! Haxo Angmark is superlatively danger-ous. Kill him without hesitation at any show of resis-tance.

Thissell considered the message with dismay. In coming to Fan as Consular Representative he had expected

nothing like this; he felt neither inclination nor competence in the matter of dealing with dangerous assassins.

Thoughtfully he rubbed the fuzzy gray cheek of his mask. The situation was not completely dark; Esteban Rolver,

Director of the Space-port, would doubtless cooperate, and perhaps furnish a platoon of slaves.

More hopefully, Thissell reread the message, January 10, Universal Time. He consulted a conversion calendar.

Today, 40th in the Season of Bitter Nectar - Thissell ran his finger down the column, stopped. January 10. Today.

A distant rumble caught his attention. Dropping from the mist came a dull shape: the lighter returning from

contact with the Carina Cruzeiro.

Thissell once more reread the note, raised his head, and stu-died the descending lighter. Aboard would be Haxo

Ang-mark. In five minutes he would emerge upon the soil of Sirene. Landing formalities would detain him possibly

twenty minutes. The landing field lay a mile and a half dis-tant, joined to Fan by a winding path through the hills.

Thissell turned to the slave. "When did this message arrive?"

The slave leaned forward uncomprehendingly. Thissell reiterated his question, singing to the clack of the

hymerkin: "This message: you have enjoyed the honor of its custody how long?"

The slave sang: "Long days have I waited on the wharf, retreating only to the raft at the onset of dusk. Now my

vigil is rewarded; I behold Ser Thissell."

Thissell turned away, walked furiously up the dock. Inef-fective, inefficient Sirenese! Why had they not

delivered the message to his houseboat? Twenty-five minutes- twenty-two now. . . .

At the esplanade Thissell stopped, looked right, then left, hoping for a miracle: some sort of air-transport to wisk

him to the spaceport, where, with Rolver's aid, Haxo Angmark might still be detained. Or better yet, a second message

can-celing the first. Something, anything. . . . But air-cars were not to be found on Sirene, and no second message

appeared.

Across the esplanade rose a meager row of permanent structures, built of stone and iron and so proof against

the efforts of the Night-men. A hostler occupied one of these structures, and as Thissell watched a man in a splendid

pearl and silver mask emerged riding one of the lizardlike mounts of Sirene.

Thissell sprang forward. There was still time; with luck he might yet intercept Haxo Angmark. He hurried across

the esplanade.

Before the line of stalls stood the hostler, inspecting his stock with solicitude, occasionally burnishing a scale or

whisking away an insect. There were five of the beasts in prime condition, each as tall as a man's shoulder, with

mas-sive legs, thick bodies, heavy wedge-shaped heads. From their fore-fangs, which had been artificially lengthened

and curved into near circles, gold rings depended; the scales of each had been stained in diaper-pattern; purple and

green, orange and black, red and blue, brown and pink, yellow and silver.

Thissell came to a breathless halt in front of the hoslter. He reached for his kiv*, then hesitated. Could this be

con-sidered a casual personal encounter? The zachinko perhaps? But the statement of his needs hardly seemed to

demand the formal approach. Better the kiv after all. He struck a chord, but by error found himself stroking the ganga.

Beneath his mask Thissell grinned apologetically; his relationship with this hostler was by no means on an intimate

basis. He hoped that the hostler was of sanguine disposition, and in any event the urgency of the occasion allowed no

time to select an exactly appropriate instrument. He struck a second chord, and, playing as well as agitation,

breathlessness and lack of skill allowed, sang out a request: "Ser Hostler, I have immediate need of a swift mount.

Allow me to select from your herd."

The hostler wore a mask of considerable complexity which Thissell could not identify: a construction of

var-nished brown cloth, pleated gray leather and, high on the forehead, two large green and scarlet globes, minutely

seg-mented like insect-eyes. He inspected Thissell a long mo-ment, then, rather ostentatiously selecting his stimic,**

executed a brilliant progression of trills and rounds, of an import Thissell failed to grasp. The hostler sang, "Ser Moon

Moth, I fear that my steeds are unsuitable to a person of your distinction."

Thissell earnestly twanged at the ganga. "By no means; they all seem adequate. I am in great haste and will

gladly accept any of the group."

The hostler played a brittle cascading crescendo. "Ser Moon Moth," he sang, "the steeds are ill and dirty. I am

flattered that you consider them adequate to your use. I cannot accept the merit you offer me. And"—here, switch-ing

instruments, he struck a cool tinkle from his krodatch† —"somehow I fail to recognize the boon companion and

co-craftsman who accosts me so familiarly with his ganga."

The implication was clear. Thissell would receive no mount. He turned, set off at a run for the landing field.

Behind him sounded a clatter of the hostler's hymerkin— whether directed toward the hostler's slaves or toward

him-self Thissell did not pause to learn.

* Kiv: five banks of resilient metal strips, fourteen to the bank, played by touching, twisting, twanging.

** Stimic: three flutelike tubes equipped with plungers. Thumb and fore-finger squeeze a bag to force air across the mouthpieces;

the second, third and fourth little fingers manipulate the slide. The stimic is an instrument well adapted to the sentiments of cool

withdrawal, or even disapproval.

†Krodatch: a small square sound-box strung with resined gut. The mu-sician scratches the strings with his fingernail, or strokes

them with his fingertips, to produce a variety of quietly formal sounds. The krodatch is also used as an instrument of insult.

The previous Consular Representative of the Home Planets on Sirene had been killed at Zundar. Masked as a

Tavern Bravo he had accosted a girl beribboned for the Equinoctial Attitudes, a solecism for which he had been

instantly beheaded by a Red Demiurge, a Sun Sprite and a Magic Hornet. Edwer Thissell, recently graduated from the

Institute, had been named his successor, and allowed three days to prepare himself. Normally of a contemplative, even

cautious disposition, Thissell had regarded the appointment as a challenge. He learned the Sirenese language by

sub-cerebral techniques, and found it uncomplicated. Then, in the Journal of Universal Anthropology, he read:

The population of the Titanic littoral is highly in-dividualistic, possibly in response to a bountiful

environ-ment which puts no premium upon group activity. The language, reflecting this trait, expresses the

individual's mood, his emotional attitude toward a given situation. Factual information is regarded as a secondary

con-comitant. Moreover, the language is sung, characteris-tically to the accompaniment of a small instrument. As a

result, there is great difficulty in ascertaining fact from a native of Fan, or the forbidden city Zundar. One will be

regaled with elegant arias and demonstrations of astonishing virtuosity upon one or another of the nu-merous

musical instruments. The visitor to this fasci-nating world, unless he cares to be treated with the most consummate

contempt, must therefore learn to express himself after the approved local fashion.

Thissell made a note in his memorandum book: Procure small musical instrument, together with directions as to

use. He read on.

There is everywhere and at all times a plenitude, not to say superfluity, of food, and the climate is benign. With a

fund of racial energy and a great deal of leisure time, the population occupies itself with intricacy. In-tricacy in all

things: intricate craftsmanship, such as the carved panels which adorn the houseboats; intricate symbolism, as

exemplified in the masks worn by every-one; the intricate half-musical language which admirably expresses subtle

moods and emotions; and above all the fantastic intricacy of interpersonal relationships. Pres-tige, face, mana, repute,

glory: the Sirenese word is strakh. Every man has his characteristic strakh, which determines whether, when he needs

a houseboat, he will be urged to avail himself of a floating palace, rich with gems, alabaster lanterns, peacock faience

and carved wood, or grudgingly permitted an abandoned shack on a raft. There is no medium of exchange on Sirene;

the single and sole currency is strakh. . . .

Thissell rubbed his chin and read further.

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THESYMBOLICadjunctsusedtoenlargethehumanpersonalityareofcoursenumerous.Clothescompriseamostimportantcategoryofthesesymbolsandsometimeswhenpeoplearegatheredtogetheritisamusingtoexaminegarments,unobtrusivelyofcourse,andtoreflectthateacharticlehasbeenselectedwithsolicitouscarewiththeintentionofcreating...

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Jack Vance - The Moon Moth

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