The Moon Moth and Other Stories Read Online Free Page A

needs to come in around that line of trees to catch the whole rear of the Ivory Dune line—”
    “But by so doing,” Magnus Ridolph pointed out, “they leave their rear unguarded; clearly Ivory Dune has the advantage of maneuver.”
    To the rear a second excursion boat landed. The doors opened, there was a hurrying group of people. “Has anything happened yet?” “Who’s winning?”
    “The situation is fluid,” declared Pilby.
    “Look, they’re closing in!” came the cry. “It’s the onslaught!”
    Now rose the piping of Kokod war hymns: from Ivory Dune throats the chant sacred and long-beloved at Ivory Dune Tumble, and countering, the traditional paean of the Eastern Shield.
    Down the hill came the Eastern Shield warriors, half-bent forward.
    A thud and clatter—battle. The shock of small bodies, the dry whisper of knife against lance, the hoarse orders of leg-leaders and squadronites.
    Forward and backward, green and black mingled with orange and white. Small bodies were hacked apart, dryly dismembered; small black eyes went dead and dim; a hundred souls raced all together, pell-mell, for the Tumble Beyond the Sky.
    Forward and backward moved the standard-bearers—those who carried the sapling from the sacred stele, whose capture would mean defeat for one and victory for the other.
    On the trip back to the inn, Mrs. Chaim and Mrs. Borgage sat glum and solitary while Mr. Pilby glowered from the window.
    Magnus Ridolph said affably to Pilby, “In a sense, an amateur strategist, such as myself, finds these battles a trifle tedious. He needs no more than a glance at the situation, and his training indicates the logical outcome. Naturally none of us are infallible, but given equal forces and equal leadership, we can only assume that the forces in the better position will win.”
    Pilby lowered his head, chewed the corners of his mustache. Mrs. Chaim and Mrs. Borgage studied the landscape with fascinated absorption.
    “Personally,” said Ridolph, “I never gamble. I admire a dynamic attack on destiny, rather than the suppliance and passivity of the typical gambler; nevertheless I feel for you all in your losses, which I hope were not too considerable?”
    There was no reply. Magnus Ridolph might have been talking to empty air. After a moment Mrs. Chaim muttered inaudibly to the peacock-shaped Mrs. Borgage, and Mr. Pilby slouched even deeper in his seat. The remainder of the trip was passed in silence.
    After a modest dinner of cultivated Bylandia protein, a green salad, and cheese, Magnus Ridolph strolled into the lobby, inspected the morrow’s scratch sheet.
    The announcement read:
    TOMORROW’S FEATURED BATTLE:
VINE HILL TUMBLE
vs.
ROARING CAPE TUMBLE
near Pink Stone Table.
     
Odds against Vine Hill Tumble:
1:3
Odds against Roaring Cape Tumble:
4:1
     
    All bets must be placed with the attendant.
    In the last hundred engagements Vine Hill Tumble has won 77, Roaring Cape has won 23.
    Turning away, Magnus Ridolph bumped into Julius See, who was standing, rocking on his heels, his hands behind his back.
    “Well, Ridolph, think you’ll maybe take a flyer?”
    Magnus Ridolph nodded. “A wager on Roaring Cape Tumble might prove profitable.”
    “That’s right.”
    “On the other hand, Vine Hill is a strong favorite.”
    “That’s what the screamer says.”
    “What would be your own preference, Mr. See?” asked Magnus Ridolph ingenuously.
    “I don’t have any preference. I work 23 to 77.”
    “Ah, you’re not a gambling man, then?”
    “Not any way you look at it.”
    Ridolph rubbed his beard and looked reflectively toward the ceiling. “Normally I should say the same of myself. But the wars offer an amateur strategist an unprecedented opportunity to test his abilities, and I may abandon the principles of a lifetime to back my theories.”
    Julius See turned away. “That’s what we’re here for.”
    “Do you impose a limit on the bets?”
    See paused, looked over his shoulder. “We usually