Free The Moon Moth and Other Stories by Jack Vance Page B

business of breathing once more.
    He ate nothing, but this meant little to the Racs, as they injected him full of tonics, sustaining drugs and stimulants, so that he might always be keyed to the height of his awareness.
    “I am Ervard,” said Ergan, and the Racs gritted their teeth angrily. The case was now a challenge; he defied their ingenuity, and they puzzled long and carefully upon refinements and delicacies, new shapes to the iron tools, new types of jerk ropes, new directions for the strains and pressures. Even when it was no longer important whether he was Ergan or Ervard, since war now raged, he was kept and maintained as a problem, an ideal case; so he was guarded and cosseted with even more than usual care, and the Rac torturers mulled over their techniques, making changes here, improvements there.
    Then one day the Belaclaw galleys landed and the feather-crested soldiers fought past the walls of Korsapan.
    The Racs surveyed Ergan with regret. “Now we must go, and still you will not submit to us.”
    “I am Ervard,” croaked that which lay on the table. “Ervard the trader.”
    A splintering crash sounded overhead.
    “We must go,” said the Racs. “Your people have stormed the city. If you tell the truth, you may live. If you lie, we kill you. So there is your choice. Your life for the truth.”
    “The truth?” muttered Ergan. “It is a trick—” And then he caught the victory chant of the Belaclaw soldiery. “The truth? Why not?…Very well.” And he said, “I am Ervard,” for now he believed this to be the truth.
    Galactic Prime was a lean man with reddish-brown hair sparse across a fine arch of skull. His face, undistinguished otherwise, was given power by great dark eyes flickering with a light like fire behind smoke. Physically he had passed the peak of his youth; his arms and legs were thin and loose-jointed; his head inclined forward as if weighted by the intricate machinery of his brain.
    Arising from the couch, smiling faintly, he looked across the arcade to the eleven Elders. They sat at a table of polished wood, backs to a wall festooned with vines. They were grave men, slow in their motions, and their faces were lined with wisdom and insight. By the ordained system, Prime was the executive of the universe, the Elders the deliberative body, invested with certain restrictive powers.
    “Well?”
    The Chief Elder without haste raised his eyes from the computer. “You are the first to arise from the couch.”
    Prime turned a glance up the arcade, still smiling faintly. The others lay variously: some with arms clenched, rigid as bars; others huddled in foetal postures. One had slumped from the couch half to the floor; his eyes were open, staring at remoteness.
    Prime returned to the Chief Elder, who watched him with detached curiosity. “Has the optimum been established?”
    The Chief Elder consulted the computer. “Twenty-six thirty-seven is the optimum score.”
    Prime waited, but the Chief Elder said no more. Prime stepped to the alabaster balustrade beyond the couches. He leaned forward, looked out across the vista—miles and miles of sunny haze, with a twinkling sea in the distance. A breeze blew past his face, ruffling the scant russet strands of his hair. He took a deep breath, flexed his fingers and hands, for the memory of the Rac torturers was still heavy on his mind. After a moment he swung around, leaned back, resting his elbows upon the balustrade. He glanced once more down the line of couches; there were still no signs of vitality from the candidates.
    “Twenty-six thirty-seven,” he muttered. “I venture to estimate my own score at twenty-five ninety. In the last episode I recall an incomplete retention of personality.”
    “Twenty-five seventy-four,” said the Chief Elder. “The computer judged Bearwald the Halforn’s final defiance of the Brand warriors unprofitable.”
    Prime considered. “The point is well made. Obstinacy serves no purpose unless it advances a