The SF Hall of Fame Volume Two B (82 page)

"I've been here fifteen or twenty minutes. Why do you
ask?"

"I wonder if you noticed a Forest Goblin pass?"

Welibus nodded. "He went on down the esplanade—turned
into that first mask shop, I believe."

Thissell hissed between his teeth. This would naturally be
Ang-mark's first move. "I'll never find him once he changes masks," he
muttered.

"Who is this Forest Goblin?" asked Welibus, with
no more than casual interest.

Thissell could see no reason to conceal the name. "A
notorious criminal: Haxo Angmark."

"Haxo Angmark!" croaked Welibus, leaning back in
his chair. "You're sure he's here?"

"Reasonably sure."

Welibus rubbed his shaking hands together. "This is bad
news-bad news indeed! He's an unscrupulous scoundrel."

"You knew him well?"

"As well as anyone." Welibus was now accompanying
himself with the
kiv.
"He held the post I now occupy. I came out as
an inspector and found that he was embezzling four thousand UMFs a month. I'm
sure he feels no great gratitude toward me." Welibus glanced nervously up
the esplanade. "I hope you catch him."

"I'm doing my best. He went into the mask shop, you
say?"

"I'm sure of it."

Thissell turned away. As he went down the path he heard the
black plank door thud shut behind him.

He walked down the esplanade to the mask-maker's shop,
paused outside as if admiring the display: a hundred miniature masks, carved
from rare woods and minerals, dressed with emerald flakes, spider-web silk,
wasp wings, petrified fish scales and the like. The shop was empty except for
the mask-maker, a gnarled knotty man in a yellow robe, wearing a deceptively
simple Universal Expert mask, fabricated from over two thousand bits of
articulated wood.

Thissell considered what he would say, how he would
accompany himself, then entered. The mask-maker, noting the Moon Moth and
Thissell's diffident manner, continued with his work.

Thissell, selecting the easiest of his instruments, stroked
his
strapan—
possibly not the most felicitous choice, for it conveyed a
certain degree of condescension. Thissell tried to counteract this flavor by
singing in warm, almost effusive, tones, shaking the
strapan
whimsically
when he struck a wrong note: "A stranger is an interesting person to deal
with; his habits are unfamiliar, he excites curiosity. Not twenty minutes ago a
stranger entered this fascinating shop, to exchange his drab Forest Goblin for one
of the remarkable and adventurous creations assembled on the premises."

The mask-maker turned Thissell a side-glance, and without
words played a progression of chords on an instrument Thissell had never seen
before: a flexible sac gripped in the palm with three short tubes leading
between the fingers. When the tubes were squeezed almost shut and air forced
through the slit, an oboe-like tone ensued. To Thissell's developing ear the
instrument seemed difficult, the mask-maker expert, and the music conveyed a
profound sense of disinterest.

Thissell tried again, laboriously manipulating the
strapan.
He sang, "To an out-worlder on a foreign planet, the voice of one from
his home is like water to a wilting plant. A person who could unite two such
persons might find satisfaction in such an act of mercy."

The mask-maker casually fingered his own
strapan,
and
drew forth a set of rippling scales, his fingers moving faster than the eyes
could follow. He sang in the formal style: "An artist values his moments
of concentration; he does not care to spend time exchanging banalities with
persons of at best average prestige." Thissell attempted to insert a
counter melody, but the mask-maker struck a new set of complex chords whose
portent evaded Thissell's understanding, and continued: "Into the shop
comes a person who evidently has picked up for the first time an instrument of
unparalleled complication, for the execution of his music is open to criticism.
He sings of home-sickness and longing for the sight of others like himself. He
dissembles his enormous
strakh
behind a Moon Moth, for he plays the
strapan
to a Master Craftsman, and sings in a voice of contemptuous raillery. The
refined and creative artist ignores the provocation. He plays a polite
instrument, remains noncommittal, and trusts that the stranger will tire of his
sport and depart."

Thissell took up his
kiv.
"The noble mask-maker
completely misunderstands me—"

He was interrupted by staccato rasping of the mask-maker's
strapan.
"The stranger now sees fit to ridicule the artist's
comprehension."

Thissell scratched furiously at his
strapan:
"To
protect myself from the heat, I wander into a small and unpretentious
mask-shop. The artisan, though still distracted by the novelty of his tools,
gives promise of development. He works zealously to perfect his skill, so much
so that he refuses to converse with strangers, no matter what their need."

The mask-maker carefully laid down his carving tool. He rose
to his feet, went behind a screen, and shortly returned wearing a mask of gold
and iron, with simulated flames licking up from the scalp. In one hand he
carried a
skaranyi,
in the other a scimitar. He struck off a brilliant
series of wild tones, and sang: "Even the most accomplished artist can
augment his
strakh
by killing sea-monsters, Night-men and importunate
idlers. Such an occasion is at hand. The artist delays his attack exactly ten
seconds, because the offender wears a Moon Moth." He twirled his scimitar,
spun it in the air.

Thissell desperately pounded the
strapan.
"Did a
Forest Goblin enter the shop? Did he depart with a new mask?"

"Five seconds have lapsed," sang the mask-maker in
steady ominous rhythm.

Thissell departed in frustrated rage. He crossed the square,
stood looking up and down the esplanade. Hundreds of men and women sauntered
along the docks, or stood on the decks of their houseboats, each wearing a mask
chosen to express his mood, prestige and special attributes, and everywhere
sounded the twitter of musical instruments.

Thissell stood at a loss. The Forest Goblin had disappeared.
Haxo Angmark walked at liberty in Fan, and Thissell had failed the urgent
instructions of Castel Cromartin.

Behind him sounded the casual notes of a
kiv.
"Ser
Moon Moth Thissell, you stand engrossed in thought."

Thissell turned, to find beside him a Cave Owl, in a somber
cloak of black and gray. Thissell recognized the mask, which symbolized
erudition and patient exploration of abstract ideas; Mathew Kershaul had worn
it on the occasion of their meeting a week before.

"Good morning, Ser Kershaul," muttered Thissell.

"And how are the studies coming? Have you mastered the
C-Sharp Plus scale on the
gomapard?
As I recall, you were finding those
inverse intervals puzzling."

"I've worked on them," said Thissell in a gloomy
voice. "However, since I'll probably be recalled to Polypolis, it may be
all time wasted."

"Eh? What's this?"

Thissell explained the situation in regard to Haxo Angmark.
Kershaul nodded gravely. "I recall Angmark. Not a gracious personality,
but an excellent musician, with quick fingers and a real talent for new
instruments." Thoughtfully he twisted the goatee of his Cave-Owl mask.
"What are your plans?"

"They're non-existent," said Thissell, playing a
doleful phrase on the
kiv.
"I haven't any idea what masks he'll be
wearing and if I don't know what he looks like, how can I find him?"

Kershaul tugged at his goatee. "In the old days he
favored the Exo Cambian Cycle, and I believe he used an entire set of Nether
Denizens. Now of course his tastes may have changed."

"Exactly," Thissell complained. "He might be
twenty feet away and I'd never know it." He glanced bitterly across the
esplanade toward the mask-maker's shop. "No one will tell me anything; I
doubt if they care that a murderer is walking their docks."

"Quite correct," Kershaul agreed. "Sirenese
standards are different from ours."

"They have no sense of responsibility," declared
Thissell. "I doubt if they'd throw a rope to a drowning man."

"It's true that they dislike interference,"
Kershaul agreed. "They emphasize individual responsibility and
self-sufficiency."

"Interesting," said Thissell, "but I'm still
in the dark about Ang-mark."

Kershaul surveyed him gravely. "And should you locate
Angmark, what will you do then?"

"I'll carry out the orders of my superior," said
Thissell doggedly.

"Angmark is a dangerous man," mused Kershaul.
"He's got a number of advantages over you."

"I can't take that into account. It's my duty to send
him back to Polypolis. He's probably safe, since I haven't the remotest idea
how to find him."

Kershaul reflected. "An out-worlder can't hide behind a
mask, not from the Sirenese, at least. There are four of us here at Fan—Rolver,
Welibus, you and me. If another out-worlder tries to set up housekeeping the
news will get around in short order."

"What if he heads for Zundar?"

Kershaul shrugged. "I doubt if he'd dare. On the other
hand—" Kershaul paused, then noting Thissell's sudden inattention, turned
to follow Thissell's gaze.

A man in a Forest Goblin mask came swaggering toward them along
the esplanade. Kershaul laid a restraining hand on Thissell's arm, but Thissell
stepped out into the path of the Forest Goblin, his borrowed gun ready.
"Haxo Angmark," he cried, "don't make a move, or I'll kill you.
You're under arrest."

"Are you sure this is Angmark?" asked Kershaul in
a worried voice.

"I'll find out," said Thissell. "Angmark,
turn around, hold up your hands."

The Forest Goblin stood rigid with surprise and puzzlement.
He reached to his
zachinko,
played an interrogatory arpeggio, and sang,
"Why do you molest me, Moon Moth?"

Kershaul stepped forward and played a placatory phrase on
his
slobo.
"I fear that a case of confused identity exists, Ser
Forest Goblin. Ser Moon Moth seeks an out-worlder in a Forest Goblin
mask."

The Forest Goblin's music became irritated, and he suddenly
switched to his
stimic.
"He asserts that I am an out-worlder? Let
him prove his case, or he has my retaliation to face."

Kershaul glanced in embarrassment around the crowd which had
gathered and once more struck up an ingratiating melody. "I am sure that
Ser Moon Moth-"

The Forest Goblin interrupted with a fanfare of
skaranyi
tones.
"Let him demonstrate his case or prepare for the flow of blood."

Thissell said, "Very well, I'll prove my case." He
stepped forward, grasped the Forest Goblin's mask. "Let's see your face,
that'll demonstrate your identity!"

The Forest Goblin sprang back in amazement. The crowd
gasped, then set up an ominous strumming and toning of various instruments.

The Forest Goblin reached to the nape of his neck, jerked
the cord to his duel-gong, and with his other hand snatched forth his scimitar.

Kershaul stepped forward, playing the
slobo
with
great agitation. Thissell, now abashed, moved aside, conscious of the ugly
sound of the crowd.

Kershaul sang explanations and apologies, the Forest Goblin
answered; Kershaul spoke over his shoulder to Thissell: "Run for it, or
you'll be killed! Hurry!"

Thissell hesitated; the Forest Goblin put up his hand to
thrust Kershaul aside. "Run!" screamed Kershaul. "To Welibus'
office, lock yourself in!"

Thissell took to his heels. The Forest Goblin pursued him a
few yards, then stamped his feet, sent after him a set of raucous and derisive
blasts of the hand-bugle, while the crowd produced a contemptuous counterpoint
of clacking
hymerkins.

There was no further pursuit. Instead of taking refuge in
the Import-Export office, Thissell turned aside and after cautious
reconnaissance proceeded to the dock where his houseboat was moored.

The hour was not far short of dusk when he finally returned
aboard. Toby and Rex squatted on the forward deck, surrounded by the provisions
they had brought back: reed baskets of fruit and cereal, blue-glass jugs
containing wine, oil and pungent sap, three young pigs in a wicker pen. They were
cracking nuts between their teeth, spitting the shells over the side. They
looked up at Thissell, and it seemed that they rose to their feet with a new
casualness. Toby muttered something under his breath; Rex smothered a chuckle.

Thissell clacked his
hymerkin
angrily. He sang,
"Take the boat offshore; tonight we remain at Fan."

In the privacy of his cabin he removed the Moon Moth, stared
into a mirror at his almost unfamiliar features. He picked up the Moon Moth,
examined the detested lineaments: the furry gray skin, the blue spines, the
ridiculous lace flaps. Hardly a dignified presence for the Consular
Representative of the Home Planets. If, in fact, he still held the position
when Cromartin learned of Angmark's winning free!

Thissell flung himself into a chair, stared moodily into
space. Today he'd suffered a series of setbacks, but he wasn't defeated yet,
not by any means. Tomorrow he'd visit Mathew Kershaul; they'd discuss how best
to locate Angmark. As Kershaul had pointed out, another out-world establishment
could not be camouflaged; Haxo Angmark's identity would soon become evident.
Also, tomorrow he must procure another mask. Nothing extreme or vainglorious,
but a mask which expressed a modicum of dignity and self-respect.

At this moment one of the slaves tapped on the door-panel,
and Thissell hastily pulled the hated Moon Moth back over his head.

Early next morning, before the dawn-light had left the sky,
the slaves sculled the houseboat back to that section of the dock set aside for
the use of out-worlders. Neither Rolver nor Welibus nor Kershaul had yet
arrived and Thissell waited impatiently. An hour passed, and Welibus brought
his boat to the dock. Not wishing to speak to Welibus, Thissell remained inside
his cabin.