The Moon Moth and Other Stories (16 page)

“Not at all.”

A moment passed, then the door opened and Fiamella of Thousand Candles stood looking in.

Pan Pascoglu and Magnus Ridolph stared in silence. Fiamella wore a simple beige frock, soft leather sandals. Her arms and legs were bare, her skin only slightly paler than the frock. In her hair she wore a small orange flower.

Pascoglu somberly gestured her forward; Magnus Ridolph retired to a seat across the room.

“Yes, what is it?” asked Fiamella in a soft, sweet voice.

“You no doubt have learned of Mr. Bonfils’ death?” asked Pascoglu.

“Oh yes!”

“And you are not disturbed?”

“I am very happy, of course.”

“Indeed.” Pascoglu cleared his throat. “I understand that you have referred to yourself as Mrs. Bonfils.”

Fiamella nodded. “That is how you say it. On Journey’s End we say he is Mr. Fiamella. I pick him out. But he ran away, which is a great harm. So I came after him, I tell him I kill him if he will not come back to Journey’s End.”

Pascoglu jumped forward like a terrier, stabbed the air with a stubby forefinger. “Ah! Then you admit you killed him!”

“No, no,” she cried indignantly. “With a fire gun? You insult me! You are so bad as Bonfils. Better be careful, I kill you.”

Pascoglu stood back startled. He turned to Magnus Ridolph. “You heard her, Ridolph?”

“Indeed, indeed.”

Fiamella nodded vigorously. “You laugh at a woman’s beauty; what else does she have? So she kills you, and no more insult.”

“Just how do you kill, Miss Fiamella?” asked Magnus Ridolph politely.

“I kill by love, naturally. I come like this—” she stepped forward, stopped, stood rigid before Pascoglu, looking into his eyes. “I raise my hands—” she slowly lifted her arms, held her palms toward Pascoglu’s face. “I turn around, I walk away.” She did so, glancing over her shoulder. “I come back.” She came running back. “And soon you say, ‘Fiamella, let me touch you, let me feel your skin.’ And I say, ‘No!’ And I walk around behind you, and blow on your neck—”

“Stop it!” said Pascoglu uneasily.

“—and pretty soon you go pale and your hands shake and you cry, ‘Fiamella, Fiamella of Thousand Candles, I love you, I die for love!’ Then I come in when it is almost dark and I wear only flowers, and you cry out, ‘Fiamella!’ Next I—”

“I think the picture is clear,” said Magnus Ridolph suavely. “When Mr. Pascoglu recovers his breath, he surely will apologize for insulting you. As for myself, I can conceive of no more pleasant form of extinction, and I am half-tempted to—”

She gave his beard a playful tweak. “You are too old.”

Magnus Ridolph agreed mournfully. “I fear that you are right. For a moment I had deceived myself…You may go, Miss Fiamella of Thousand Candles. Please return to Journey’s End. Your estranged husband is dead; no one will ever dare insult you again.”

Fiamella smiled in a kind of sad gratification and with soft lithe steps went to the door, where she halted, turned. “You want to find out who burned poor Lester?”

“Yes, of course,” said Pascoglu eagerly.

“You know the priests of Cambyses?”

“Fodor Impliega, Fodor Banzoso?”

Fiamella nodded. “They hated Lester. They said, ‘Give us one of your savage slaves. Too long a time has gone past, we must send a soul to our god.’ Lester said, ‘No!’ They were very angry, and talked together about Lester.”

Pascoglu nodded thoughtfully. “I see. I’ll certainly make inquiries of these priests. Thank you for your information.”

Fiamella departed. Pascoglu went to the wall mesh. “Send Fodor Impliega and Fodor Banzoso here, please.”

There was a pause, then the voice of the clerk responded: “They are busy, Mr. Pascoglu, some sort of rite or other. They said they’ll only be a few minutes.”

“Mmph…Well, send in Viamestris Diasporus.”

“Yes, sir.”

“For your information,” said Magnus Ridolph, “Viamestris Diasporus comes from a world where gladiatorial sports are highly popular, where successful gladiators are the princes of society, especially the amateur gladiator, who may be a high-ranking nobleman, fighting merely for public acclamation and prestige.”

Pascoglu turned around. “If Diasporus is an amateur gladiator, I would think he’d be pretty callous. He wouldn’t care who he killed!”

“I merely present such facts as I have gleaned through the morning’s research. You must draw your own conclusions.”

Pascoglu grunted.

In the doorway appeared Viamestris Diasporus, the tall man with the ferocious aquiline head whom Magnus Ridolph had noticed in the lobby. He inspected the interior of the library carefully.

“Enter, if you please,” said Pascoglu. “I am conducting an inquiry into the death of Lester Bonfils. It is possible that you may help us.”

Diasporus’ narrow face elongated in surprise. “The killer has not announced himself?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

Diasporus made a swift gesture, a nod of the head, as if suddenly all were clear. “Bonfils was evidently of the lowest power, and the killer is ashamed of his feat, rather than proud.”

Pascoglu rubbed the back of his head. “To ask a hypothetical question, Mr. Diasporus, suppose you had killed Bonfils, what reason—”

Diasporus cut the air with his hand. “Ridiculous! I would only mar my record with a victory so small.”

“But, assuming that you had reason to kill him—”

“What reason could there be? He belonged to no recognized gens, he had issued no challenges, he was of stature insufficient to drag the sand of the arena.”

Pascoglu spoke querulously: “But if he had done you an injury—”

Magnus Ridolph interjected a question: “For the sake of argument, let us assume that Mr. Bonfils had flung white paint on the front of your house.”

In two great strides Diasporus was beside Magnus Ridolph, the feral bony face peering down. “What is this, what has he done?”

“He has done nothing. He is dead. I ask the question merely for the enlightenment of Mr. Pascoglu.”

“Ah! I understand. I would have such a cur poisoned. Evidently Bonfils had committed no such solecism, for I understand that he died decently, through a weapon of prestige.”

Pascoglu turned his eyes to the ceiling, held out his hands. “Thank you, Mr. Diasporus, thank you for your help.”

Diasporus departed; Pascoglu went to the wall-mesh. “Please send Mr. Thorn 199 to the library.”

They waited in silence. Presently Thorn 199 appeared, a wiry little man with a rather large round head, evidently of a much mutated race. His skin was a waxy yellow; he wore gay garments of blue and orange, with a red collar and rococo red slippers.

Pascoglu had recovered his poise. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Thorn. I am trying to establish—”

Magnus Ridolph said in a thoughtful voice, “Excuse me. May I make a suggestion?”

“Well?” snapped Pascoglu.

“I fear Mr. Thorn is not wearing the clothes he would prefer for so important an inquiry as this. For his own sake he will be the first to wish to change into black and white, with, of course, a black hat.”

Thorn 199 darted Magnus Ridolph a glance of enormous hatred.

Pascoglu was puzzled. He glanced from Magnus Ridolph to Thorn 199 and back.

“These garments are adequate,” rasped Thorn 199. “After all, we discuss nothing of consequence.”

“Ah, but we do! We inquire into the death of Lester Bonfils.”

“Of which I know nothing!”

“Then surely you will have no objection to black and white.”

Thorn 199 swung on his heel and left the library.

“What’s all this talk about black and white?” demanded Pascoglu.

Magnus Ridolph indicated a strip of film still in the viewer. “This morning I had occasion to review the folkways of the Kolar Peninsula on Duax. The symbology of clothes is especially fascinating. For instance, the blue and orange in which Thorn 199 just now appeared induces a frivolous attitude, a light-hearted disregard for what we Earthmen would speak of as ‘fact’. Black and white, however, are the vestments of responsibility and sobriety. When these colors are supplemented by a black hat, the Kolarians are constrained to truth.”

Pascoglu nodded in a subdued fashion. “Well, in the meantime, I’ll talk to the two priests of Cambyses.” He glanced rather apologetically at Magnus Ridolph. “I hear that they practice human sacrifice on Cambyses; is that right?”

“Perfectly correct,” said Magnus Ridolph.

The two priests, Fodor Impliega and Fodor Banzoso, presently appeared, both corpulent and unpleasant-looking, with red flushed faces, full lips, eyes half-submerged in the swelling folds of their cheeks.

Pascoglu assumed his official manner. “I am inquiring into the death of Lester Bonfils. You two were fellow passengers with him aboard the
Maulerer Princeps;
perhaps you noticed something which might shed some light on his death.”

The priests pouted, blinked, shook their heads. “We are not interested in such men as Bonfils.”

“You yourselves had no dealings with him?”

The priests stared at Pascoglu, eyes like four knobs of stone.

Pascoglu prompted them. “I understand you wanted to sacrifice one of Bonfils’ palaeolithics. Is this true?”

“You do not understand our religion,” said Fodor Impliega in a flat plangent voice. “The great god Camb exists in each one of us, we are all parts of the whole, the whole of the parts.”

Fodor Banzoso amplified the statement. “You used the word ‘sacrifice’. This is incorrect. You should say, ‘go to join Camb’. It is like going to the fire for warmth, and the fire becomes warmer the more souls that come to join it.”

“I see, I see,” said Pascoglu. “Bonfils refused to give you one of his palaeolithics for a sacrifice—”

“Not ‘sacrifice’!”

“—so you became angry, and last night you sacrificed Bonfils himself!”

“May I interrupt?” asked Magnus Ridolph. “I think I may save time for everyone. As you know, Mr. Pascoglu, I spent a certain period this morning in research. I chanced on a description of the Cambygian sacrificial rites. In order for the rite to be valid, the victim must kneel, bow his head forward. Two skewers are driven into his ears, and the victim is left in this position, kneeling, face down, in a state of ritual composure. Bonfils was sprawled without regard for any sort of decency. I suggest that Fodor Impliega and Fodor Banzoso are guiltless, at least of this particular crime.”

“True, true,” said Fodor Impliega. “Never would we leave a corpse in such disorder.”

Pascoglu blew out his cheeks. “Temporarily, that’s all.”

At this moment Thorn 199 returned, wearing skin-tight black pantaloons, white blouse, a black jacket, a black tricorn hat. He sidled into the library, past the departing priests.

“You need ask but a single question,” said Magnus Ridolph. “What clothes was he wearing at midnight last night?”

“Well?” asked Pascoglu. “What clothes were you wearing?”

“I wore blue and purple.”

“Did you kill Lester Bonfils?”

“No.”

“Undoubtedly Mr. Thorn 199 is telling the truth,” said Magnus Ridolph. “The Kolarians will perform violent deeds only when wearing gray pantaloons or the combination of green jacket and red hat. I think you may safely eliminate Mr. Thorn 199.”

“Very well,” said Pascoglu. “I guess that’s all, Mr. Thorn.”

Thorn 199 departed, and Pascoglu examined his list with a dispirited attitude. He spoke into the mesh. “Ask Mr. Hercules Starguard to step in.”

Hercules Starguard was a young man of great physical charm. His hair was a thick crop of flaxen curls, his eyes were blue as sapphires. He wore mustard-colored breeches, a flaring black jacket, swaggering black short-boots. Pascoglu rose from the chair into which he had sank. “Mr. Starguard, we are trying to learn something about the tragic death of Mr. Bonfils.”

“Not guilty,” said Hercules Starguard. “I didn’t kill the swine.”

Pascoglu raised his eyebrows. “You had reason to dislike Mr. Bonfils?”

“Yes, I would say I disliked Mr. Bonfils.”

“And what was the cause of this dislike?”

Hercules Starguard looked contemptuously down his nose at Pascoglu. “Really, Mr. Pascoglu, I can’t see how my emotions affect your inquiry.”

“Only,” said Pascoglu, “if you were the person who killed Mr. Bonfils.”

Starguard shrugged. “I’m not.”

“Can you demonstrate this to my satisfaction?”

“Probably not.”

Magnus Ridolph leaned forward. “Perhaps I can help Mr. Starguard.”

Pascoglu glared at him. “Please, Mr. Ridolph, I don’t think Mr. Starguard needs help.”

“I only wish to clarify the situation,” said Magnus Ridolph.

“So you clarify me out of all my suspects,” snapped Pascoglu. “Very well, what is it this time?”

“Mr. Starguard is an Earthman, and is subject to the influence of our basic Earth culture. Unlike many men and near-men of the outer worlds, he has been inculcated with the idea that human life is valuable, that he who kills will be punished.”

“That doesn’t stop murderers,” grunted Pascoglu.

“But it restrains an Earthman from killing in the presence of witnesses.”

“Witnesses? The palaeolithics? What good are they as witnesses?”

“Possibly none whatever, in a legal sense. But they are important indicators, since the presence of human onlookers would deter an Earthman from murder. For this reason, I believe we may eliminate Mr. Starguard from serious consideration as a suspect.”

Pascoglu’s jaw dropped. “But—who is left?” He looked at the list. “The Hecatean.” He spoke into the mesh. “Send in Mr…” He frowned. “Send in the Hecatean to us now.”

The Hecatean was the sole non-human of the group, although outwardly he showed great organic similarity to true man. He was tall and stick-legged, with dark brooding eyes in a hard chitin-sheathed white face. His hands were elastic fingerless flaps: here was his most obvious differentiation from humanity. He paused in the doorway, surveying the interior of the room.

“Come in, Mr.—” Pascoglu paused in irritation. “I don’t know your name; you have refused to confide it, and I cannot address you properly. Nevertheless, if you will be good enough to enter…”

The Hecatean stepped forward. “You men are amusing beasts. Each of you has his private name. I know who I am, why must I label myself? It is a racial idiosyncrasy, the need to fix a sound to each reality.”