"Jack Vance - The Moon Moth" - читать интересную книгу автора (Vance Jack)

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 strapanтАФpossibly not the most felicitous choice,
for it conveyed a certain degree of condescension. Thissell tried to counteract his 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 remark-able 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 oboelike tone ensued. To
Thissell's de-veloping ear the instrument seemed difficult, the mask-maker expert, and the music conveyed a profound
sense of dis-interest.
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 satis-faction 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 sank 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 homesickness 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 com-pletely misunderstands meтАФ"
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
unpretenti-ous 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 disap-peared. Haxo Angmark walked at liberty in Fan, and
This-sell 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