The Garments of Caean

12

The Diask: a garment unique to Caean, composed of independent panels of stiffish, chunky cloth cut into various shapes. Lacking stitching, seams or fastening, the panels maintain position solely by reason of the cloth’s natural tendency to adhere to itself, a quality which is heightened by friction. The garment thus clings during motion and relaxes somewhat when still. Wearing the diask brings a sensation of security and containment.

The Bliaut: a garment of ancient origin but much developed and variegated in Caean. Consisting basically of a corset-like bodice with wide, sweeping sleeves, elaborately decorated, low, curved waistline and heavily folioled skirt or breeches.

The Cyclas: a loose garment cut from a single piece of cloth with a single hole for the head. In the same class as the chiton (a long loose tunic with overfold fastening on the shoulder) and the kalasiris (a long-sleeved or sleeveless robe) but unlike them an essentially simple garment. To cut a new cyclas is regarded as one of the tests of a true sartorialist, since originality can only be achieved by means of tensions and warps in the weave. The cyclas, like its cousins the chiton and the kalasiris, imparts a sense of airy freedom.

The Houppelande: a gown made in a bell shape and of rich cloth, sometimes reaching only to the thighs, but more often falling in increasing fullness to the ankles. Gracefulness of the heavy folds, both in skirt and sleeves, is an important feature. The houppelande gives a feeling of graciousnesss, richness and slow dignity.

The Arras: a broad hanging garment consisting of flat, tasselled front and back curtain-panels depending from wide shoulder-rails, usually worn with a matching rail-like headdress and veil. The arras gives an impression of screened secrecy and withdrawal. Faintly reminiscent of a mandilion or some kinds of herald’s tabard.

The Leviathan: a set of clothes covered in moving human images, so that the wearer seems to be clad in a living multitude. Variations on the leviathan use fewer, perhaps only one, image – a face set in the chest, perhaps, furnished with a voice and a certain degree of computer-backed personality able to respond to the wearer’s social environment. The leviathan can express sociability and extreme extroversion, but also multiple personality, instability of mind, and extreme distraction from one’s surroundings.

The Remontant: a garment in which the human frame is utilized as the supporting stem for a flower theme. There is an infinite variety of remontants, most of which express a springlike quality denoting delight in new life, blossoming energy and artistic talent.

These are but a few examples of the garments commonly worn in Tzist. It would be impossible to give any really adequate idea of the vast diversity of Caeanic apparel, which perhaps is best indicated by the fact that nearly one third of the Caeanic vocabulary is concerned with clothing. Oddly, the concept of fashion does not exist in Caean; the country is subject to no sweeping changes of mood or mass imitation. An important feature of the national structure is supplied, however, by sub-cults which could be described as ‘fashion societies’, but which are known in Caean as ‘sodalities’. There are innumerable of these, some small and local, some nationwide, each with its own historical, philosophical or cultural theme or goal which is pursued by means of suitable costume.

All the above, and most other distinct categories of garment, could be regarded as having specialized applications. If a dress of universal potential exists then it is the form of attire most commonly worn in Caean and Ziode alike, and known simply as: The Suit: consisting essentially of trousers, a jacket, and more often than not a waistcoat. In this form the suit can be traced as far back as pre-expansionist Earth, reaching a peak of inventiveness in the twenty-first century of that era. In all known succeeding cultures it has survived as the predominant mode of dress among males and sometimes even among females, by reason of its convenience and flexibility of expression. In the hands of the Caeanic sartorialists it has radiated into a whole universe of styles, often losing its original character and merging into other, more specialist, classifications. Many established modes are known by apt names: the Scythe (making a man incisive, speedy), the Skyscraper (bringing a feeling of tallness, uprightness and commanding power), the Zipflash, the Suit of Light, the Airplane, and so on.

The Caeanic ideal is a suit of clothes that encompasses the whole man and not merely some aspect or potentiality of him. Only the near-legendary Frachonard is believed to have accomplished such perfection, and then only in a limited number of his creations.

Arth Matt-Helver, Travels in the Tzist Arm

Sinuating through the velvety curves of superphotic space, the Caeanic battle cruiser had been shadowing the Callan for days. Captain Wilce, preparing to make a fly-by of the star group containing Verrage, had continued to entertain the faint hope that it was merely flying on a course coincidentally parallel to their own. But he had not been so impetuous as to veer away in order to put that hope to the test. Sudden changes of course attenuated the effectiveness of their baffles.

On the fifth day, however, he was forced to acknowledge the failure of their mission. His face grave, he made a call to Amara.

‘We have just received a transmission from the commander of the Caeanic ship,’ he told her. ‘He tells me we are to be escorted to Verrage. He also instructs us to pipe aboard a party of his officers.’

Amara went white. ‘Is there no chance of getting away?’

‘None at all, from a fully armed cruiser. They’ve clearly broken our bafflement.’

‘But we must get our research findings back to Ziode,’ she insisted.

‘We could try launching a message boat. It probably won’t get far.’

‘Do it anyway. We’ll have the tapes ready in five minutes. After that I want time enough to destroy our records.’

‘I should be able to delay things that long. I’m sorry about all this, Amara, but we really don’t have any choice but to comply.’

‘I know.’ Amara shut off the vidcom and turned to Estru. Even in defeat her look of stubbornness remained.

‘Damn,’ she said. ‘Damn.’

Then she issued the orders which kept the department frantically busy for the next quarter of an hour. Two complete copies of all their findings were made. One went to the launching bay. The other they hid where the Caeanics would be unlikely to find it unless they took the Callan apart rivet by rivet – in which case the record would burn up before it came to light.

Then all records, reports and dissertations contained in the sociological computer were erased.

At last Amara sat back with a sigh, satisfied that the Caeanics would not discover the highly strategic secret of the existence of Sovya. Then she sat suddenly upright, her mouth set.

‘We shall have to destroy Verednyev too.’

‘No! I mean, not yet anyway.’ Estru was disturbed. ‘His background isn’t immediately evident. They won’t learn it unless they interrogate him – in Russian.’

She clenched and unclenched her fist indecisively. ‘They’ll interrogate everybody. It’s too much of a risk.’

‘It wouldn’t be a very nice thing to do,’ he protested, ‘unless we absolutely have to.’

Grudgingly she conceded. ‘We’ll leave it for the moment. I don’t like having to kill him any more than you do. But I want his guards armed and informed of their duty, should it become necessary.’

As the Caeanic officers came aboard the message boat was launched. It was equipped with self-destruct, but this precaution proved superfluous. Before it could even slip into overdrive a pin-point ray shot out from the Caeanic cruiser and vaporized it.

Minutes later the Callan, accompanied by its escort, moved off and headed deeper into the Arm of Tzist.

The Ziodean ship was approaching Inxa, Verrage’s sparkling main city, when Captain Wilce again called Amara’s department. He sounded slightly embarrassed.

‘Captain Grieuard –’ he gestured to a bearded Caeanic standing behind him, just visible on the vidplate – ‘requests that the head of the sociology department joins us on the bridge.’

‘We have no sociology department,’ Amara answered adamantly.

‘It’s no good, Amara. He knows. He seems to know everything except your name.’

‘All right,’ she said, becoming sullen and downcast. ‘I’ll be along presently.’

She cut the connection and spoke furiously to Estru. ‘This is intolerable. We should ram the cruiser and self-destruct.’

‘Don’t start thinking of suicide yet, Amara. Maybe we can still get back to Ziode.’

‘Hmph. I can just see these people ever letting us into the light of the day again.’ She folded her arms across her chest.

‘Well, let’s hang on to our scientific objectivity for a while,’ he said drily. ‘Would you like me to come with you?’

Dumbly she nodded.

Estru had been watching on the vidplate as the Callan glided over Inxa and put down near the centre of the city, which in contrast to the uniformly rectilinear style of Ziodean towns was built on the principle of curving terraces. Clearly the Caeanics displayed in their architecture some of the flair they put into costume. He was put in mind of an aerial whirlpool of frosted colour, a titanic amphitheatre, or a vast swirling orchid.

It was tempting to compare it with some Ziodean city, such as Gridira, also a state capital. Although neither side would ever admit to any similarity in their political institutions, they both followed the system of maintaining several equivalent capital worlds, none having preeminence and each capable of exercising government. The difference was that Caean seemed to have no regular machinery for policy-making. Ziode saw this as a dangerous source of instability and indicative of a lack of self-control. Ziodean propaganda was always warning of ‘the mindless hordes of Caean’.

Estru was surprised to see no sign of activity on the landing ground. He took his eyes from the screen as Amara coughed. She was ready to leave.

On the bridge the four Caeanic officers who were keeping awkward company with Captain Wilce and the bridge crew turned and smiled charmingly at the entry of Amara and Estru. While they were being introduced Amara stared fascinated at their jet-black uniforms, which even to her untrained eye made those worn by Wilce and his men seem shabby and desultory. The Caeanics wore a type of galea, or helmet, which curved closely round the skull and flared outward at the front in a paradigm of the Mintov formula for space strains. The supple lines of tunic and leggings further suggested the relativistic curves and tensors of the void. The whole uniform was a paradigm of deep space. If she let herself gaze at it too long she seemed to be hurling through long black light years, deep into infinity.

Captain Wilce’s voice brought her out of her trance. ‘Captain Grieuard wishes to assure us that his government has no hostile intentions towards us,’ he said stiffly, ‘and hopes we will consider them as hosts, rather than captors.’

‘We have no wish to molest you,’ Captain Grieuard added in heavily accented Ziodean, flashing Amara a dark grin.

‘But you have molested us,’ Amara replied indignantly. ‘You have waylaid us, destroyed one of our boats –’

‘With respect, madam, you were trespassing, ignoring all diplomatic procedures – and have been doing so for some time. Our actions are not unreasonable. But let us not begin on a basis of hostile feeling. If Captain Wilce and yourselves will be so good as to accompany us into Inxa, there are certain personages there who are earnestly desirous of meeting you.’

‘And while we are gone the Callon will be turned inside out,’ she retorted.

Captain Grieuard waved away the idea with an elegantly dismissive hand, pursing his lips in amusement and shaking his head. Amara had to admit that he was disarming – and handsome, and vigorous, and winning. A dashing young officer…

She arrested her train of thought. The space-clad Caeanic spoke again. ‘Take the view that you are making a diplomatic call, even a social call. Those are my instructions.’

‘And afterwards will we be permitted to return to Ziode?’ Amara asked coldly.

Captain Grieuard shrugged.

She took Captain Wilce to one side. ‘A tactfully put piece of coercion, Captain. Still, not quite what we had expected. Are you coming with us?’

‘In the present circumstances my duty is to stay with my ship. If they’ll agree to it I’ll send Second Officer Borg instead.’

‘All right. But what happens if they don’t let us back on board?’

‘Let’s be realistic, Amara. We always knew this might happen. We are entirely in their hands. Just see what pressure you can exert on whoever it is you’ll be seeing.’

‘Perhaps they won’t be eager to make too much of the incident, after all.’

‘Let’s hope so.’

Grieuard affected uninterest when Wilce offered Borg in place of himself. ‘It is a matter of choice on your part, Captain, though my principals would certainly be displeased not to receive Madam Corl. Frankly I am more concerned that we should not keep our dignitaries waiting any longer than we must. Perhaps we could now debouch?…’ He made an elaborate gesture that was almost gallant in its insistence.

A few minutes later Amara, for the first time in her life, breathed the air of a Caeanic planet.

While they had been negotiating, a traction platform had quietly moved the Callan away from its point of touch-down. By the time the seven-strong party emerged from the main port it had been deposited amid a complex of graceful buildings, and nestled among them so neatly as to seem to be one of them.

Amara took a deep breath, inhaling the warm scents of a summery afternoon.

Before them, somewhat below the level of the platform extruded by the port, stretched a pleasant esplanade on which had gathered a small crowd. Her first impression was of a fancy dress ball, all dazzling colour and finery.

Then she seemed to suffer a momentary paramnesia. The esplanade became a stage. On it, standing motionless and frozen, the figures in the crowd were no longer recognizably human, but were transformed into archetypal caricatures, primeval and menacing.

The dream-like experience passed. To clear her brain she shook her head, telling herself that the paramnesia must have been brought on by stress.

The crowd was waving and gesticulating. A cry went up. There was jeering, or cheering, she could not tell which. But Second Officer Borg had few doubts, and looked grim.

‘It looks as if we’re in for a rough time, madam,’ he murmured.

Amara frowned with discomfiture, trying to assess the crowd’s costume for herself from her somewhat inadequate knowledge. The gathering’s adornment could fairly be called sumptuous even by Caeanic standards, she hazarded. Nearly all present were of high rank, or at any rate prestige.

Captain Grieuard urged them down the ramp to meet two men of mature years who stepped from the crowd to meet them. The apparel of one of them was enormously self-assertive: a blazing-hued panoply, flounced, scalloped and bombasted, with flying lappets of lucent fabric so that to the observer’s fancy the wearer seemed to be throwing off fiery splashes of verve and energy; spurting feathery jets of panache. There was enough ostentation, enough magnificence, clearly to denote a man of leadership. And there was more than enough wildness to suggest that he was not bound by rules of convention.

Keeping a step to the rear, the second of the two was of a different style. He wore a variant of the diask known as the grid, exemplifying rectitude and dependable rigidity. Amara peered closely at both faces, hoping to see the look of passive, stylized consciousness a Ziodean automatically expected of a Caeanic. For a fleeting instant she thought she discerned it; but confessed that the impression was probably due to imagination. Far from appearing robotic, the faces confronting her were disconcertingly natural and individualistic.

Captain Grieuard made introductions: Abrazhne Caldersk, Director of Harmonic Relations; and – wearing the grid – Svete Trupp, his Foil (the title baffled Amara; she could not tell if Trupp were merely some kind of servant or private secretary, or himself an official of high rank).

Warmly Caldersk shook hands all round. ‘This is a splendid occasion!’ he exclaimed in a vigorous voice, speaking his native Caeanic. ‘It is not every day that we receive distinguished visitors from Ziode!’

Estru and Borg looked at him sourly. But Amara’s reaction was much more positive. She giggled, glancing again at Caldersk’s extraordinary features, and even the handsome space officer Captain Grieuard faded into nonexistence in her mind.

Her male companions aboard the Callan had been a dour lot. Caldersk was going to be entertaining, she promised herself.

Then she checked her thoughts, aware that she might be succumbing to some particularly seductive brand of Caeanic blandishment, and wondering if it might not even be naïve to read anything but sarcasm into Caldersk’s welcome.

‘I trust you treat your visitors with humanity, Director,’ she said stiffly.

The other threw up his hands in shock. Then he laughed, loud uninhibited laughter. ‘Surely you do not fear for your safety? You know nothing of Caeanic hospitality if that is the case. Why, you are celebrities, dear lady. Celebrities!’

‘If I may say so, you credit us with little percipience,’ Abrazhne Caldersk said affably, about half an hour later. ‘It is practically impossible for a complete foreigner to live in Caean without being noticed, however well he knows the language.’

‘Even if he wears Caeanic clothes?’ Amara asked.

‘Especially if he wears Caeanic clothes!’ The Director seemed amused. ‘There is more to wearing apparel than merely pouring oneself into it!’ He paused, and raised a hand reflectively. ‘Suppose a foreigner in Ziode were to – well, to wear all his clothes back to front, to wear garments totally unsuited to his nature and the circumstances. That is some indication of the impact your agents made among us! We were aware of them from the beginning. From there it was easy to guess the location of your ship, to penetrate its bafflement and to track it from planet to planet.’

Amara responded huffily: ‘Then why did you not arrest us all immediately? Why wait until now?’

‘For what reason? What harm were you doing? We are an open society, dear lady. Anyone may come and go as he pleases. No visas are required!’

‘But you have taken us into custody now,’ Second Officer Borg pointed out.

The grid-wearing Trupp spoke. ‘We are concerned that you should not return to Ziode with misinformation about Caean,’ he said in a gentle but firm voice. ‘We are perturbed by the reports of increasing fear and hostility towards us in your country. We wish to correct any wrong impression you have gained; and since you are on a sociological mission this is an excellent opportunity to remedy misunderstandings that apparently are rampant in Ziode.’

‘Does that mean you will allow us to return home?’ Amara said in surprise.

Caldersk clapped his hands, causing the flying lappets on his upper garment to make volatile, feathery leaps. ‘We have arrived!’ he announced with enthusiasm.

Riding through Inxa’s concourses in an open carriage, the Ziodeans had been given the opportunity to see the sights of the city, the serried terraces, the hanging gardens and the throngs of people, many of them in fantastic garb, and to enjoy the invigorating, exotic atmosphere. Now they halted alongside an oval-shaped bowl or depression about the size of a stadium, set apart from the main avenues. Here a banquet had been prepared. A huge table was burdened with food. Footmen, stepping neatly in black, carapace-like suits, were busy completing the arrangements.

And there were guests: perhaps a hundred in all. The brilliance of their costume was bewildering. It was like entering some novel zoological garden where evolution had run riot. The Ziodeans descended from the carriage and moved hesitantly into the stadium, feeling the strangeness of it all. Amara wondered how her dress seemed to their hosts – and then firmly shut her mind to the thought. She was a Ziodean, she told herself sternly. She did not have to worry about what foreigners thought.

Shortly they found themselves seated at the long table, after being introduced to a score of guests, all flowered, flamed, bedizened and bedecked so as to resemble a tropical menagerie. Abrazhne Caldersk sat on the left of Amara, plying her with food and drink, while Estru and Second Officer Borg were ranged stiffly to her right, being entertained somewhat more formally by Svete Trupp. Amara, herself refusing to unbend, consumed as little as was politely possible. Like her companions, she felt herself to be Caean’s enemy and had expected to be dealt with as an enemy. It was unnerving to be fêted instead.

‘Will you have some syllabub?’ offered Caldersk, providing her with a dollop of aromatic jelly. She tasted it, and unfamiliar flavours melted in her mouth. Then she turned to him challengingly.

‘I wish you always maintained such a friendly attitude towards Ziodeans,’ she said in a suspicious tone.

Caldersk chuckled. ‘That is exactly what I want to set straight between us – these ridiculous notions you have about us. You think we are “clothes robots”, having no individuality. You think we want to invade Ziode and enslave you all.’ He laughed. ‘It has its comic aspect, I must admit.’

‘Do you actually claim that you have no aggressive claim on Ziode?’ Amara snapped sharply.

‘Absolutely none!’ Caldersk’s laughter nearly punctured her eardrums. ‘Caean has neither the intention nor the desire to embark upon a career of conquest. It would be contrary to our way of life.’

She reflected for a moment, taken aback. ‘Well, do you claim that you have never had such ambitions?’

‘Again, absolutely.’

‘Oh, I know better than that!’ Amara flared.

Noting that she had rejected the syllabub, Caldersk reached across the table and drew close a succulent meat dish. ‘Try this.’

Amara waved it away.

He shrugged, raising his eyebrows with an air of deliberation. ‘Remember that we see the Art of Attire as being the essence of civilized life,’ he said. ‘It is true that, in the past, idealists among us have wished to spread Caean’s unquestionable superiority in this field to the rest of mankind. But their plans were of a missionary, rather than a military, nature, and took the form of loading up fleets of giant spaceships with sumptuous apparel with which to bombard the barbarian planets. Even this scheme was abandoned, owing to the hostility of other nations, chiefly Ziode – though for a fact many of the ships still lie in their hangars, fully laden. I expect it is stories of these efforts that have produced the fears prevalent among your people.’

Amara became aware that by her side her assistant was listening intently. ‘So you do admit that you have expansionist leanings,’ Estru remarked drily.

Trupp answered him from farther up the table. ‘That is so, but only in a cultural sense. The urge to propagate one’s cultural values is nowhere regarded as reprehensible.’

‘It is where those values are inimical to one’s own – which is our case.’

Caldersk made a jovial, explosive gesture. ‘Come, come. We no longer think of swamping Ziodean culture beneath our own – until, that is, the superiority of Caeanic attire becomes evident to the Ziodeans themselves. I have just explained that the missionary zeal of an earlier generation has abated. You have nothing to fear from us – nothing but your own ignorance of our nature.’

‘So you say,’ Second Officer Borg put in. ‘But if I may put matters bluntly – how can we confirm this? The Ziodean Directorate will take a lot of convincing.’

‘Exactly!’ Caldersk agreed with satisfaction. ‘I am glad you asked that. We would ask you to confirm for yourselves that our society is peaceful, our natures unaggressive. To demonstrate our good faith we give you liberty to travel about Caean at will, without let or hindrance, to carry out your sociological investigations.’

Amara glanced wildly at Estru, unable to conceal her amazement. ‘You will let us take the Callan anywhere? Survey any planet? Talk to anyone – obtain information from universities, cultural scientists, military establishments? Without supervision?’

‘You may regard yourselves as free agents,’ Caldersk said, ‘though I must draw the line at giving you carte blanche with the military – that will have to depend on the local commanders.’

‘But that’s wonderful – that’s just what we need.’

‘There was never any need to go sneaking about the fringes,’ Caldersk told her. ‘All you needed to do was come and ask. We are a much more easy-going society than you are in Ziode.’

‘One thing needs to be said,’ Estru put in. ‘You are trying hard to represent yourselves as reasonable and harmless. If that’s the case how could our people be so wrong about you, even to the extent of preparing for war? Our people at home think of you as being far from harmless.’

He was answered by Svete Trupp. ‘As sociologists, you must be aware of the theory of cultural repulsion. Disparate cultures repel one another, is that not how the theorem goes? In fact the bad relations between us are solely the result of mistrust and misconception. We are probably not as unalike as you have always imagined. You believe, for instance, that we have some kind of obsession with clothing. This is not true.’

Amara raised her eyebrows and seemed about to laugh.

‘I am sure your coming researches will show you that you have exaggerated our preoccupation with costume,’ Caldersk took up, seeing her expression. ‘Very few Ziodeans have studied Caean, after all. What reference sources do you use?’

‘Matt-Helver’s Travels in the Tzist Arm is the standard text,’ Amara told him defensively.

‘Ah yes, Matt-Helver. Full of inaccuracies – a very amusing book! Yet in the end Matt-Helver settled here himself and came to know us better, I believe.’

‘You mean he was wrong about the place of sartorialism in Caeanic society?’

‘Every civilization has typical artforms, does it not? Ours is dress. It has nothing to do with religion, as some foreigners have supposed. It is a matter of practical psychology, that is all. We have found that our science of adornment has the power to lend life a positive, forward-looking aspect. To us it is you who are obsessed – obsessed with man’s evolutionary past, unable to escape from the single shape arbitrarily imposed on man by nature.’

It did not escape the Ziodeans that despite his disclaimers Caldersk was already interpreting the significance of dress in terms that to them were bizarre. ‘Let’s examine this business of obsession,’ Amara suggested. ‘To be obsessed is to be unnaturally preoccupied with one thing to the exclusion of others. Now, we in Ziode have no objection to imaginative dress. But likewise we have no objection to nakedness either. Both are a matter of indifference to us. So who is obsessed?’ She was tickled to see both Caldersk and Trupp blush deeply at her mention of nudity.

‘But you disparage raiment and let your minds dwell on… vulgar biology. That way lies decadence.’

‘We are not decadent,’ Amara said indignantly.

Caldersk drank a deep draught from a tankard of fizzy yellow liquid. Trupp once again took up the thread.

‘What is man when he is born? He is nothing; his mind is in neutral; not switched on. Only when he begins to interact with his environment does his life burgeon. Such interaction means that he must have an effective interface; he must clothe himself with suitable psychological instruments. Thus it is the lot of the shabbily clothed to sink into morbid introspection, to take on a depressing uniformity. The skill of our sartorialists, by contrast, ensures that we maintain a healthy contact with external reality.’

‘Yes, we of Caean enjoy life, thanks to the Art of Attire,’ Caldersk agreed. He turned to Amara with a smile. ‘And you say we have no individuality! Do I look like a “clothes robot” to you?’

‘No, you do not,’ she admitted.

He leaned closer, his eyes roving over her. ‘Let me send a sartorial to you. Experience for yourself the benefits of our art. A rich houppelande, perhaps? A graceful pelisse? You will soon notice the difference.’

‘No, thank you,’ she said primly.

Estru looked about him at the picturesquely garbed people feasting at the table, and wondered if there could be any truth in what Trupp and Caldersk had just said. Was Caean indeed a case of exotic social insanity, as he had always believed, or was it merely that Ziode had lost some quality Caean had retained? His gaze came to rest on two women sitting on the other side of the table a little farther down. One wore a dress which consisted of interlocking diamond-shaped panels, making her torso look like a crystalline explosion, while on her head she wore a fontange, a tall, fan-like headdress. The other wore a polonaise, a simpler willowy dress made of a cream-coloured material decorated with wandering lines of pearls. Her headdress, however, was an extravagant vision from the past: a full-blown model of a three-masted sailing ship, complete in every detail, proud and tall with sails and rigging, and apparently being buffeted by the complicated waves and curls into which her hair was set.

Noticing his attention, the girl in the sailing-ship hairdo smiled at him. Estru received an inward jolt. Her smile was at once winsome, proud and tempestuous, exciting him quite against his will.

Amara, too, was realizing that they were being subjected to a clever propaganda exercise. It was becoming easy to let small, treacherous doubts contend with their Ziodean upbringing. Were the results the Caeanics gained from their practices – or imagined they gained – really harmful? More and more people were coming into the stadium now, giving the place the air of a festival. Amara watched one young woman saunter shyly across the soft moss which covered the floor of the bowl. She wore a gauzy outfit which was known generically as a flimsy, though this version was doubtless named after some species of bird. She even walked somewhat after the manner of a bird, stepping delicately and nervously, as though at any moment she might take to the air in fright, and go winging away over the surrounding towers and terraces.

Caldersk beckoned to a footman, who handed him a moulded purple control box.

‘After all, the Art of Attire merely gives life a civilized texture,’ he remarked. ‘But enough of this talk about your obsession that we have an obsession. Your tour of Caean should show you that we do have interests other than pride in our appearance. For the present, how about some entertainment?’

His fingers went to touch the controls on the box. The centre of the stadium glowed slightly, then came to life.

For the next hour the Ziodeans were obliged to view a spectacular extravaganza, a kaleidoscopic documentary on various Caeanic pursuits. Caldersk was clearly at pains to illustrate that, as he had stated, there was more than one aspect to his countrymen’s existence. They saw drama, ballet, stratospheric racing, and sporting and scientific activities that were not always easy to follow. Caldersk explained that some of the scenes were recordings, while others were being transmitted directly from various parts of Verrage and from other nearby planets. He was able to modify the programme at will by means of the control box, bringing in relays from a thousand different locations.

His efforts to give Caean a more balanced image were largely unsuccessful, due to the fact that to Ziodean eyes costume played an almost manic part in everything that was portrayed. For every single activity there was a form of dress. The stratospheric racers wore outfits made up of brilliantly flaring yellow panes that gave them the look of hurtling gods out of some fiery pantheon. Scientists working to perfect a new industrial process were god-like in a more abstract manner, robed in gowns of dispassionate simplicity on which the signs for the scientific constants shone in luminous gold. Strangest of all was a short, incomprehensible drama in which the players were accoutred in machine-like rig-outs of silver and black, robbing them of any resemblance to human life.

All of this was apparently so normal to the Caeanics that they scarcely noticed it. Probably for this reason. Caldersk did not neglect to represent the Art of Attire specifically. He showed a short sequence in which a master sartorial produced garments in a dazzling display of virtuosity. He gave them a tantalizing glimpse into the semi-secret, labyrinthine world of the sodalities, or sartorial sub-cults, concentrating on the historical sodalities. Those societies, each steeped in one or another phase of history, had succeeded in resurrecting entirely the spirit, the life-style and even the personages of their chosen time. The Ziodeans were fascinated by the segue-created procession of period costumes, going back thousands of years as far as the Egyptian era.

In what might have been a veiled warning, Caldersk ended by asserting the usefulness of Caeanic attire in the military field.

‘Although we are not by inclination a military race, every nation must be prepared to defend itself,’ he said. ‘In the wardrobe of every Caeanic is a military uniform, specially styled to inculcate the qualities of a soldier. Furthermore it facilitates his receptiveness to military training, so that we would be able to field an enormous army in a remarkably short space of time.’

The figure that was projected to illustrate Caldersk’s words amused Amara at first. It was like nothing so much as a toy soldier, of an antiquated variety at that, wearing a bright red tunic with gold braid across the chest, stiff buff trousers with a broad stripe down the side of each leg, and shining black boots. The headgear was a shako with an unusually large peak. The soldier marched stiffly, jerkily, as if worked by a spring mechanism, and carried a dull green pack on his back, also bearing a doubtlessly efficient force rifle at the slope.

But as he marched closer her comic impression of him began to change. There was a certain wooden ferocity in the face. A look of unrelenting will to win that she found quite frightening. She imagined a million such men, marching in rank after rank. It was terrifying.

The soldier halted and performed a number of machinelike drill movements. A transparent face-plate snapped down from the broad peak of the shako, converting it into a complete space helmet. The whole uniform, indeed, served as a spacesuit equipped for all conditions.

The image faded. The show was over.

‘Impressive,’ Amara commented.

Caldersk rose from his place and stretched his arms luxuriously. ‘The night is but begun,’ he said. ‘Plenty of time to enjoy ourselves!’

Dusk was falling on Inxa. Amara felt overloaded with the new and strange sights that had been forced upon her. The richness and variety of vesture was almost too much for her senses. She rose also, feeling a need to exercise her limbs.

And then the paramnesia came over her again, much stronger this time. Instead of smiling, lively faces around her she saw – masks, glaring from within their multicoloured casks of cloth. Humanity was gone; instead there was something alien and incomprehensible, something implacable and malevolent.

I’ve been overworking, she thought. Momentarily she swayed, and as Caldersk chanced to move nearer her hand touched the scalloped front of his tunic. The feel of the cloth was something odd and thrilling.

‘What’s that made of?’ she asked wonderingly.

‘Prossim. The finest cloth in the universe!’

She took a deep breath, at which her head seemed to clear. There was a hubbub of talk and laughter all around her. She lifted her eyes to the bowl of the stadium and the greater bowl of Inxa beyond that, with the dusk settling all over it.

Suddenly there was a flurry far up on one of the topmost terraces, and what she took to be a flock of birds exploded across the sky, soaring and swooping towards the stadium. Only when they made ready to land on the moss did they become distinguishable as human beings wearing various types of bird costume – including the girl in the flimsy Amara had noted earlier.

I should have anticipated it, she told herself wryly. Personal antigrav units.

The bird-people alighted all over the stadium. A flamboyantly plumed flier, wearing on his head a gilded balzo which completed his likeness to a scintillating, strutting cock, came striding towards the banqueting table. Caldersk, evidently recognizing him as a messenger, stepped forward and they spoke briefly.

‘Apparently you are not the only Ziodeans in Inxa,’ he said when he returned to his guests. ‘Two others currently living here have arrived to join the party. Perhaps you would like to meet them.’

‘Do you get many of our expatriates in Caean?’ Second Officer Borg asked in some surprise.

‘Very few, but that is probably because there is so little traffic between the Arm and the Cluster.’

‘And not because of the difficulties they would find in making out in Caean?’ Estru put in.

‘Oh no. It is an easy matter to live here. No one is ever made to feel out of place, however eccentric.’

‘Unless –’ Amara tittered, then caught herself before mentioning the forbidden subject again.

The newcomers came stepping diffidently through the throng. One was of medium height and slightly pudgy. He wore what seemed to her a perfectly ordinary conventional suit which would have passed without notice even back in Ziode. His companion was taller and slimmer, rather handsome in a lean, sardonic sort of way, his apparel more fetching: a brocaded lavender frock-coat, matched by a blue satin Bourbon hat trimmed with pearl fleur-de-lis. The outfit suited him perfectly.

They introduced themselves as Peder Forbarth and Realto Mast, both of Harlos. Forbarth, the pudgy one, puzzled Amara straight away. He was greeted with an inexplicable deference by both Caldersk and Trupp. Bearing an unmistakable look of authority, he yet behaved in a distant and offhand manner, keeping his gaze averted elsewhere.

The stylish Mast, however, expressed effusive pleasure at meeting his fellow-countrymen.

‘How long have you been living here?’ Amara asked him.

‘A few months.’

‘Oh? And what brings you here?’

Mast dodged the question. ‘May I ask what brings you here? Is this an official visit?’

She nodded dubiously, after a sidelong glance at Caldersk. ‘A fact-finding tour.’

‘Relations must have improved, in that case.’

‘Possibly.’

He sidled closer. ‘Perhaps I could be of some help. Not many people have lived right in the middle of Caeanic society.’

Amara could not disguise her suspicion of anyone who chose to live among foreigners. ‘What are you looking for, passage home?’ she said in loud, challenging voice. ‘Or are you wanted by the law?’

Mast looked uncomfortable, then uttered a feigning laugh. Caldersk, still giving no indication as to whether he understood their conversation, which had been in Ziodean, moved in. ‘You are still governed by a mistrustful, angry mood, dear lady. I wish you would take some pleasure in the evening. Come, this will soon help you relax.’

He poured her a large goblet of the fizzy yellow liquid and handed it to her. Amara sniffed it suspiciously, and made to put it down.

‘It won’t do you any harm,’ Peder Forbarth said in a disinterested voice, still not looking her way. ‘It is a mild stimulant, that is all, similar to alcohol. Drink it.’

She quaffed the goblet. The liquid tasted sweet and delicious.

An effervescent, warm sensation started up in her stomach. What the hell, she thought.

Already she felt better.

She turned to Peder. ‘And what about you? Are you looking for a job too?’

‘Oh, take no notice of him,’ Mast said lightly. ‘He’s not really Ziodean at all any more. He’s gone native.’

She tossed her head in disapproval. ‘Is that so?’ she asked Peder.

Peder smiled superciliously. ‘Yes, madam,’ he answered politely. ‘In Ziode I was a sartorialist. Here I find I am a natural Caeanic.’

‘And if there is a war, whose side will you fight on?’

Peder made no reply. He drifted away and procured for himself a drink which he sipped slowly and reflectively.

‘Frankly I would have thought it more of you,’ Amara said to Mast, eyeing his elegant frock-coat.

‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ Mast said smoothly. ‘I am Ziodean to the core. But I have never been anything of a mezzak – excuse me, that’s a Caeanic word.’

‘You speak the language well?’

‘I’m not an expert, but I don’t find it difficult. One can master the basic vocabulary quite easily in a few days, with the help of light hypnosis. But after a while one longs for the sound of one’s native tongue. Are you sure there’s no place for me in your work?’

‘Well, we shall have to see about that.’ She accepted a refill of her goblet. ‘I’m not quite sure exactly what’s going on around here yet.’

A good deal of the yellow beverage was imbibed in the ensuing hours. The Ziodeans began genuinely to enjoy themselves. The Caeanic were uninhibited hosts, and it was impossible not to be caught up in the festive mood. When full darkness came a magnificent fireworks display was set off to go blooming over the whole of Inxa. Then there was more drinking, dancing and general conviviality – a garden party to which it seemed the whole city had access.

Estru succeeded in keeping company with the girl in the sailing-ship hair-do. Towards midnight they slipped away.

She took him to an apartment some distance off, then left him alone while she went into an adjoining room. He hummed to himself, gazing absently through a window.

Softly she called to him from the other room.

He stepped tentatively into a spacious boudoir. The girl, having changed her dress, stood at the other end.

She still sported the sailing-ship, but the polonaise had been discarded in favour of a quite different affair. He did not really notice her corsage; his attention went to the skirt. Cinched tightly at the waist, it flared out into a full dome-like shape. Smiling, she came towards him, and as she moved he saw that the skirt really consisted of numbers of leaves which seemed capable of free movement.

On coming to the apartment Estru had not felt particularly aroused. But when she walked towards him those leaves lilted and swung in curvy motions which, inexplicably, evoked an irresistible sexual desire in him.

He realized suddenly that there was even more to the garments of Caean than he and Amara had known about. The Caeanic tailors had analysed the basic vocabulary of form, line and movement that spelled out sexual allure. The skirt was fashioned according to this vocabulary. It was a sartorial aphrodisiac. His instincts reacted of their own accord, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

Not that there was anything he wanted to do about it, except to go along with what was happening. But what was he supposed to do? he wondered. How did they go about it? The worst thing he could do would be to undress himself – or try to undress the girl.

She came up to him and tugged him towards the bed. As she sank down on the coverlet she lifted her legs on to it and her skirt belled, apparently supported by hoops. Beneath it he caught a glimpse that sent his blood pounding. Under the skirt were – petticoats, endless indicated, waved, ruched, rose-pink petticoats. Like the skirt itself, they utilized the full fury of erotic sartorial knowledge, and Estru’s senses went exploding in heady images of flowers opening in an infinite series one into the other, leading to a hot, intense, delirious centre.

She was looking deliciously wanton. The petticoats rustled and curled like the combers of an aroused ocean as he joined her on the bed, and she began to teach him the Caeanic ways of love.

Realto Mast’s evening ended on a slightly less felicitous note. He was caught off guard, having drunk more than was his habit of late. His intemperance sprang from the fact that he knew Peder was shortly going to desert him – would probably abandon him that very night, in fact – and that since his survival rating without him was slim, he was zealously eager to find a place aboard the Callan. After much importuning, and much imbibing, he had eventually extracted from Amara Corl a grudging promise that she would interview him on board ship the following day.

Caean was definitely not the place for Mast. He could never be happy here. It depressed him unspeakably that he seemed unable to exert any influence over anyone. When he had heard that a Ziodean ship had landed on Verrage he had decided to risk the consequences and attempt to get back among this own kind. Now the thought that he might soon be free of this crazy society intoxicated him and he even began to enjoy himself.

During the course of the evening he fell in with a rather strange young creature calling himself Reggae Elphis, and at length acceded to his suggestion that they adjourn to a nearby wine-tavern. Mast found it refreshing to be accepted as a companion. They sat sipping persimmon wine, which had a fine, bitter flavour. He looked across the table at the young man. Reggae wore an open-jacketed zoot-suit whose incredibly padded shoulders thrusted sharply up and out so that the pointed ends were more or less on a level with his pixie-like ears. The garment set off perfectly his almost phthisic thinness, his jerky, rapid movements. Yet Reggae, for all his youth, had a strikingly self-assured manner. His face was unusually mobile and expressive, though wasted, the skin being drawn close to the bone, the eyes at once restless yet showing a considerable power of concentration. His unhatted hair was high and oiled and combed back in a prow-like manner.

He caught Mast’s eye and smiled enigmatically. Mast looked away.

‘How do you like the place?’ Reggae asked, raising his glass in a salute, the timbre of his voice colourful but slightly off-balance. ‘Do you have taverns like this in Ziode? What’s it like there? Can you have a good time? Or is everything dull and lifeless, like they say?’

‘Oh, you can have a good time, all right,’ Mast drawled. ‘There are some differences, though.’

He started to tell his new friend about Ziode. But his story soon turned into self-pitying complaints about the life he was leading in Caean. ‘Nobody takes any notice of me,’ he said peevishly. ‘I’m just a rotten foreigner here. Everybody makes me feel it.’

Reggae jerked his pointed shoulders sinuously to the rhythm of some music coming from the other end of the tavern, moving his arms back and forth slightly at the same time. ‘You’re unhappy,’ he murmured, his eyes half-closed. ‘We’ve got ways of dealing with that.’ He leaned forward. ‘Nobody need to be a foreigner in Caean. Caean is for all mankind.’

‘Not for Ziodeans.’

‘It’s easy to find yourself with the right gear. You can really get in phase, get coherent. You just need the right sort of…’ Reggae’s voice was caressing and oddly thrilling.

Mast guessed what he was talking about. Reggae probably realized that his clothes hadn’t been made by a native sartorial. But Mast kept quiet. To tell Reggae what he thought of Caean clothing would probably insult him.

He sat back with a sigh, wondering how in the galaxy he came to be sitting in this Caeanic tavern, which even at this hour was half-filled with its weirdly caparisoned patrons and presented as alien a sight as was possible. It seemed like a dream. Sometimes he wondered if he was dreaming. It still seemed unbelievable to him, for instance, that the Little Planet could lumber openly into the Tzist Arm and actually put down in the Verrage countryside without being challenged! After landing, he and Peder had simply walked into Inxa. No one had ever questioned their presence, from that day to this.

Peder had found them a room and they had learned the language from hypno-tapes. Mast, however, had obstinately refused to wear the Caeanic clothes Peder had obtained for him to replace his quite unsuitable prison wear. ‘I’m Ziodean,’ he had said stubbornly. He had been afraid of draping himself in those seductive shapes, and spent the days skulking indoors, refusing to go out.

Peder had been patient with him in those early days, taking pity, perhaps, on his helplessness. Finally Mast had compromised. He wouldn’t wear Caeanic clothes proper, but he would wear garments made by Peder.

At first Peder had demurred at the thought of having to produce something to be worn in Caean; but then he had risen to the challenge. He had purchased tools and fabrics. He had gone to a professional sartorial for tutelage. And, by dint of effort, he had surpassed himself. The results were in fact barely up to Caeanic standards, but Mast thought them magnificent.

Reggae performed a frenetic hand-jive, his lips puckered and his face intent. He seemed miles away, yet Mast became aware that the youth’s attention was still full on him.

‘I’ll do you a favour,’ Reggae said. ‘I’ll take you to my sodality tonight. I belong to a special one… I can take you in as a guest.’ He reached across and patted Mast’s knee comfortingly.

Two more bottles of persimmon wine later Mast’s speech was more slurred and, not really resisting, he went with Reggae to a large house with shuttered windows tucked away in a back street. Within, however, the house had the inward-looking, sated atmosphere of a temple. They passed through a number of rooms, each more cushioned and quilted than the last and clad in perfumes hinting at depravity. Mast was aware of the induction process only vaguely – the murmured explanations, the searching glances in his direction, the discreet air of special privilege.

‘I say,’ he drawled at one point, ‘I won’t have to go through any ceremonies, will I?’ Not until he was ushered into the adytum, with Reggae by his side, did he begin to sober up.

The walls of the interior were broken at intervals by arches which led to screened passages or else to cosy alcoves. The atmosphere was one of luxury and indulgence; the adytum had lavender walls brocaded with extraordinary erotic murals, chaises longues of soft magenta fabrics, and deep armchairs. Several members were present – all males, this being a male-only sodality – and they turned to greet the newcomers with friendly smiles. Some were of a commanding appearance, looking very smart and handsome in military-style uniforms. Others seemed to exude an almost repugnantly intense masculinity. And there were others, mostly younger, who exhibited the same svelte quality of deliberate sexual ambivalence he had up until now chosen to ignore in Reggae. One or two of these wore slashed doublets that allowed glimpses of frilly chemises and undergarments – Mast knew that slashed over-garments were considered daring and even indecent in Caean.

But it was the phallocrypts that informed his befuddled mind most plainly of the nature of the sodality into which he had wandered. Projecting from trousers, breeches and hose, curving sharply upward before the belly, the horn-shaped penis sheaths exaggerated the member they enclosed in such a magnificent way that they altered the entire stance and character of the wearer.

‘Oh no,’ Mast groaned. ‘Sorry, Reggae, I’m not…’

‘No one’s a hundred per cent,’ Reggae murmured in a voice that was like rough diamonds. ‘It just has to be brought out, that’s all. Come on! It won’t hurt you to let yourself go for once.’

Mast learned with a shock that the Caeanic sartorials did indeed know how to ‘bring it out’. There was something about the slim, erect lines of the young man by his side that sent a shivering, trembling sensation right through him, and in his own breeches he felt his own horn rising, responding to the horn sheaths worn by the others.

‘I have to change now, Realto. Come along and I’ll give you something suitable to wear.’ Reggae gave his hand a squeeze and made for one of the arches, taking Mast willy-nilly in tow.

At some stage during the evening Amara lost track of Abrazhne Caldersk, her hoped-for consort, but she did not let that disappoint her for long. As the party wound down she went on a night tour of Inxa with an acceptably presentable, if slightly intense, man, much younger than herself, who had been pursuing her for hours.

He went by the name of Holosk. His pudgy face showed, perhaps, a rather unconfident attitude for a Caeanic, being once both eager and hesitating. The outlines of his body were practically obliterated by a dark-coloured suit, and he seemed to hang on Amara’s every word, to be fascinated by any details she could tell him of Ziode. Amara could not help but sense something behind his pressing enquiries, though she was at a loss to understand what.

‘What do you do, Holosk?’ she asked him. ‘Are you in the government?’

‘No, I’m in business,’ Holosk explained. ‘Export-import. My firm trades with fifteen planets in this sector.’ His voice was quiet, almost inaudible. ‘Tell me, in Ziode… do the women… er…’ He trailed off.

They were leaning against the balustrade of a terrace overlooking a great plaza where coloured fountains played. Amara looked at her watch, which she had already adjusted to Verrage time. ‘Oh well,’ she said, ‘I’d better be getting back to the ship.’

‘I live very near here,’ he told her quickly. ‘Why don’t you come up for a nightcap?’

‘Well…’ With a doubting expression she went with him across the terrace to the street.

Holosk lived in an apartment block only a few hundred yards away. He fumbled with the key as he opened the door, clearly in a state of excitement. Flattered but also filled with curiosity, Amara entered. The apartment was small and unpretentious, but moderately comfortable. Holosk gave her a drink then paced nervously back and forth.

‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘You’ll wear a hole in the carpet.’ She held out a hand invitingly.

For answer he suddenly went down on his knees before her. To her astonishment his lumpy face was filmed with sweat and he was tense and trembling. He was in a sexual frenzy!

‘Come on!’ he cried with bulging eyes. ‘I’ve heard all about you Ziodean women! It’s true, isn’t it? That you – that lovers –’ He swallowed and choked, unable for a moment to bring out the words. ‘Undress one another!’ he gasped hoarsely.

‘But of course,’ Amara replied lightly. ‘What else?’

‘Oh God, oh God,’ moaned Holosk, writhing on the floor.

All at once Amara understood, and struggled not to burst out laughing. She was in the hands of a Caeanic pervert – one so depraved that he actually gained erotic excitement from the thought of uncovering the body!

Was his type common? Probably not – Amara’s guess was that it was very rare, and that such as there were kept the vice secret. News of a Ziodean woman would bring them running, of course.

Taking his courage in both hands, Holosk clutched at her skirt and began to mouth the Caeanic equivalent of obscene sex talk.

‘Unclothe me,’ he begged in a hot breathless voice. ‘Undrape me, disrobe me, leave me naked! Strip me, peel me, expose me! Unlace, untie, unbutton and undo me! Oh, take my clothes off!’

Giggling, she obliged him while he lay back shivering in a near-swoon. Then he whimpered in ecstasy while she helped him to do the same to her.