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

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 re-turned 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 linea-ments: 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
This-sell waited impatiently. An hour passed, and Welibus brought his boat to the dock. Not wishing to speak to
Welibus, Thissell remained inside his cabin.
A few moments later Rolver's boat likewise pulled in alongside the dock. Through the window Thissell saw
Rol-ver, wearing his usual Tarn Bird, climb to the dock. Here he was met by a man in a yellow-tufted Sand Tiger mask,
who played a formal accompaniment on his gomapard to whatever message he brought Rolver.
Rolver seemed surprised and disturbed. After a moment's thought he manipulated his own gomapard, and as he
sang, he indicated Thissell's houseboat. Then, bowing, he went on his way.
The man in the Sand Tiger mask climbed with rather heavy dignity to the float and rapped on the bulwark of
Thissell's houseboat.
Thissell presented himself. Sirenese etiquette did not de-mand that he invite a casual visitor aboard, so he merely
struck an interrogation on his zachinko.
The Sand Tiger played his gomapard and sang, "Dawn over the bay of Fan is customarily a splendid occasion;
the sky is white with yellow and green colors; when Mireille rises, the mists burn and writhe like flames. He who sings
derives a greater enjoyment from the hour when the floating corpse of an out-worlder does not appear to mar the
sere-nity of the view."