The Moon Moth and Other Stories Read Free Page A

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