The Moon Moth and Other Stories by Jack Vance

way then—and hurry, here comes the law. We’ll take off under the tent. I’ll lend you my topcoat till you make it back to your house.”
    The two uniformed men, pushing quietly through the dancers, were almost upon them. The young man lifted the flap of the tent, Arthur Caversham ducked under, his friend followed. Together they ran through the many-colored shadows to a little booth painted with gay red and white stripes near the entrance to the tent.
    “You stay back, out of sight,” said the young man. “I’ll check out my coat.”
    “Fine,” said Arthur Caversham.
    The young man hesitated. “What’s your house? Where do you go to school?”
    Arthur Caversham desperately searched his mind for an answer. A single fact reached the surface.
    “I’m from Boston.”
    “Boston U.? Or M.I.T.? Or Harvard?”
    “Harvard.”
    “Ah.” The young man nodded. “I’m Washington and Lee myself. What’s your house?”
    “I’m not supposed to say.”
    “Oh,” said the young man, puzzled but satisfied. “Well—just a minute…”
    Bearwald the Halforn halted, numb with despair and exhaustion. The remnants of his platoon sank to the ground around him, and they stared back to where the rim of the night flickered and glowed with fire. Many villages, many wood-gabled farmhouses had been given the torch, and the Brands from Mount Medallion reveled in human blood.
    The pulse of a distant drum touched Bearwald’s skin, a deep thrumm-thrumm-thrumm , almost inaudible. Much closer he heard a hoarse human cry of fright, then exultant killing-calls, not human. The Brands were tall, black, man-shaped but not men. They had eyes like lamps of red glass, bright white teeth, and tonight they seemed bent on slaughtering all the men of the world.
    “Down,” hissed Kanaw, his right arm-guard, and Bearwald crouched. Across the flaring sky marched a column of tall Brand warriors, rocking jauntily, without fear.
    Bearwald said suddenly, “Men—we are thirteen. Fighting arm to arm with these monsters we are helpless. Tonight their total force is down from the mountain; the hive must be near-deserted. What can we lose if we undertake to burn the home-hive of the Brands? Only our lives, and what are these now?”
    Kanaw said, “Our lives are nothing; let us be off at once.”
    “May our vengeance be great,” said Broctan the left arm-guard. “May the home-hive of the Brands be white ashes this coming morn…”
    Mount Medallion loomed overhead; the oval hive lay in Pangborn Valley. At the mouth of the valley, Bearwald divided the platoon into two halves, and placed Kanaw in the van of the second. “We move silently twenty yards apart; thus if either party rouses a Brand, the other may attack from the rear and so kill the monster before the vale is roused. Do all understand?”
    “We understand.”
    “Forward, then, to the hive.”
    The valley reeked with an odor like sour leather. From the direction of the hive came a muffled clanging. The ground was soft, covered with runner moss; careful feet made no sound. Crouching low, Bearwald could see the shapes of his men against the sky—here indigo with a violet rim. The angry glare of burning Echevasa lay down the slope to the south.
    A sound. Bearwald hissed, and the columns froze. They waited. Thud thud thud thud came the steps—then a hoarse cry of rage and alarm.
    “Kill, kill the beast!” yelled Bearwald.
    The Brand swung his club like a scythe, lifting one man, carrying the body around with the after-swing. Bearwald leapt close, struck with his blade, slicing as he hewed; he felt the tendons part, smelled the hot gush of Brand blood.
    The clanging had stopped now, and Brand cries carried across the night.
    “Forward,” panted Bearwald. “Out with your tinder, strike fire to the hive. Burn, burn, burn—”
    Abandoning stealth he ran forward; ahead loomed the dark dome. Immature Brands came surging forth, squeaking and squalling, and with them came the