The Garments of Caean

7

It must be admitted that the psychology of Caeanic Man differs substantially from that of Ziodean Man. Caeanic culture has performed the extraordinary feat of projecting its consciousness entirely into exterior forms. The upbringing of a Caeanic, indeed the whole of his social training, conditions his mind to respond in a chameleon-like manner to the adornments he dons. A naked Caeanic is a mental blank, like a man without limbs or a man paralysed, and he almost never allows himself to be so discommoded. For all occasions there are suitable garments; sleeping, taking a bath, fornicating, even childbirth. In normal circumstances it is never necessary for him to see his naked form, and if he does it is a private glimpse devoid of self-image.

A Caeanic, even an educated Caeanic, will be amused if a foreigner should suggest to him that his dependence on raiment is a cultural weakness. To him the benefits of the Art of Attire are self-evident. He will point out that these personality assists with which he invests himself are donned entirely by choice, and give him a greater command over his own mind than is possessed by the average Ziodean, who is subject to all kinds of uncontrollable moods and deficiencies.

Arth Matt-Helver, Travels in the Tzist Arm

‘Just look at that guy! He’s riding on a cloud!’

Castor’s eyes glittered enviously as he read the newscast. The cast sheet showed a picture of a social function at the manse of an important Directorate minister. Among those raising their glasses to toast the minister, plain as day, was Peder Forbarth, outshining everyone, even the minister, as a paragon of elegance, of charm and grooming. By some photographic accident he, not the government supremo, seemed somehow to be the object of the occasion.

Mast sat wearing a pale heliotrope frock-coat and a cyan chemise. He glanced at the picture, eyebrows raised in affected unconcern, as Castor brought it over to him.

‘I wouldn’t have believed it,’ Castor said in a gruff voice. ‘A creep like that, making out like he was some sort of genius. How does he do it, boss?’

Mast sniffed delicately. Castor’s revelation was not news to him. Anyone who paid even cursory attention to Gridira’s social columns – as Mast did – might have noticed that a new star had appeared in the firmament: Peder Forbarth, successful entrepreneur (and so far as could be judged, legitimate to boot) and fast-rising socialite, a man who had found the path to fortune and fame and was travelling it at speed. Lesser socialites, to whose gossip Mast was also occasionally privy, even rumoured that Forbarth could be in line for one of the much coveted posts in the Directorate’s Economic Co-ordination Network, a loosely-knit organization of great power, where the opportunities for self-aggrandisement were not far short of enormous.

And all in the space of less than a year! Mast did not successfully hide from himself the thought that he would have done better to continue cultivating his relationship with the one-time sartorial.

‘It’s never a good idea to get too close to the government,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘Did Grawn go for my food?’

‘Yeah,’ answered Castor vaguely, still studying the picture. They were in Mast’s own apartment in Rata, a reasonably opulent district of Gridira. The apartment was tastefully appointed, though a little flamboyant, perhaps, and of sufficient size for his needs – not too spacious but large enough so that he did not feel cramped.

Mast also rented a room in the cellar of the same building for the use of Castor and Grawn. Every day he allowed them up to spend a short time with him, so that he could keep an eye on them.

Grawn entered bearing a covered tray.

‘Ah!’ said Mast with gusto, uncovering the tray. He began to eat fried pork balls with centres of chilled pineapple, garnished with sautéed purple legumes. He washed the meal down with swigs of plum wine. Meanwhile Castor, to his faint annoyance, was loudly advertising Peder Forbarth’s new career to Grawn.

When he had finished eating Mast pushed aside the tray, swallowed the last of the wine in the carafe and wiped his mouth with neat dabs of a napkin. He turned to face his sidekicks.

‘I’ll tell you how he does it,’ he said firmly. ‘It’s that suit.’

Grawn’s face became a ludicrously ugly picture of puzzlement as he squinted again at the newscast sheet. ‘The suit he’s wearing?’

‘That’s the suit he got off the Caeanic ship,’ Castor said.

‘That’s right,’ Mast concurred. ‘The suit I let him have when we were on our way home from Kyre. He owes everything to that suit.’ He snorted contemptuously, gesturing to the sheet with a limp hand. ‘Remember the creep? He could never have made the grade in a high-class setting like that. He’d have been falling all over the tables. It’s the suit that does it.’ He became thoughtful.

‘That can’t be it,’ Castor said finally. ‘A suit of clothes can’t make all that difference.’

‘This suit can,’ Mast explained. ‘The Caeanics have some secret skill when it comes to making clothes. They can make you a changed man, make you become something you’re not, give you new abilities. All Caeanic clothes have that quality to some degree. This suit,’ he added, ‘is obviously something special. Whoever owns it becomes rich and famous, that’s clear.’

‘Caeanic clothes can be that good?’ Grawn exclaimed. ‘But that’s magic, boss!’ He laughed in glee. ‘A magic suit!’

‘Science,’ Mast corrected with condescending patience. ‘It’s a particular science that Caeanics have. Like hypnotism.’

‘You should never have given it to him, boss,’ Castor said reprovingly.

‘Hm. Perhaps not.’ Forbarth, Mast reflected – not for the first time – had evidently tricked him. He must have known there was something special about the suit, but he had said nothing so as to keep it for himself. No wonder he had been so willing to pull out.

‘Well?’ Castor looked at Mast challengingly, his repaired eyes glittering more brightly, as they always did when he was excited. He also had jumped to the obvious conclusion. ‘That punk robbed us! That suit should be ours!’

‘I can see it on you now, boss!’ Grawn crowed, as if in congratulation. ‘You’d look great in it!’

‘Then maybe we could start moving again,’ Castor continued earnestly, hunching his shoulders forward. There was something snake-like, almost predatory, in the way he was importuning Mast.

‘Are you calling me ineffectual?’ Mast retorted.

‘You said yourself, that suit gives Forbarth the edge over everybody. Okay, so maybe it hypnotizes everybody around him or something. I’ve heard of stranger things. We could use some of that. If we sit around like this much longer we’ll be broke.’

Mast hummed to himself. Castor was exaggerating, of course. The Caeanic merchandise had been sold to Olveolo Jadper for an acceptable profit – but only just in time. Things were so much more difficult now. The Directorate had tightened up in all directions and he did not envy the japing fence his possession of a store of enemy goods. ‘The joke’s on you, Jadper,’ he had thought when reading of the government’s intensified propaganda campaign against Caean.

But much of the money was now gone, and the word was out to lie low to escape the attentions of the newly-vigilant Directorate Investigators. Castor had even suggested another sortie to Kyre but Mast, naturally, had vetoed that. He almost wished the war would start and open up the black markets every war entailed.

‘It wouldn’t be difficult to get it,’ he decided. ‘A quick burglary, perhaps. People don’t usually bother to lock up their daily wear.’

‘He might do with this one, though,’ Castor said quickly. ‘If what you say is right, it’s a horn of plenty.’

‘A cornucopia,’ Mast smiled dreamily, pleased by Castor’s unexpected literacy. ‘Or a Pandora’s box?’

‘What’s that?’ Castor demanded.

Mast did not bother to explain. ‘Find out where Forbarth lives,’ he instructed. ‘What his habits are. Then we’ll decide on the best way of getting the suit.’

He paused, thinking the matter through afresh. ‘You understand these moves are exploratory only. We’ll experiment with the suit merely, to find out what its capabilities are.’ He lowered his eyes. ‘I don’t think I’ll wear it myself,’ he murmured. ‘You can wear it, Castor.’

Castor fingered his grubby jacket.

At that moment the signal chime sounded. ‘Who can that be?’ Mast wondered, looking up. ‘Find out, Grawn.’

Grawn moved to the annunciator and held down the switch. ‘Yeah?’

But instead of a proper answer they heard only bangings and stamping of feet as the outer door was forced open. The whine of the elevator sounded distantly over the annunciator.

Grawn gaped at Mast. Moments later the door to the apartment crashed open. Four big men, wearing formal business clothes, came through the short vestibule and entered the lounge.

Their leader flashed a card. ‘Police. Realto Mast?’

Mast nodded.

‘You’re under arrest.’ He gestured at Castor and Grawn. ‘These yours?’

‘We was just leaving,’ Grawn offered, sidling towards the door.

Two of the men moved to block the exit.

Mast laughed uneasily. ‘Really! How melodramatic! Just what is the charge? What could it possibly be?’

A square-jawed plain clothes man moved round his boss to look Mask up and down. ‘A dandy,’ he announced. ‘Wouldn’t you know it.’

‘It figures,’ said a third. ‘You expect them to be pervy in a set-up like this.’

The leader turned to Mast. ‘You’re charged with importing subversive enemy contraband. That’s just two degrees below treason on the criminal scale, Mast. Come on, let’s all go.’

‘Treason?’ cried Mast in alarm. ‘Since when?’

‘Don’t you read the Directorate Codesheets?’ the captain asked sadistically. ‘Since last month, that’s since when. Tzist is an official enemy now.’

‘It is absolutely ridiculous,’ Mast said with finality. ‘I have no connections with any importation of contraband or anything else. I am a loyal Ziodean. Obviously you have no evidence. You are arresting me by reason of rumour, or malicious gossip – or something.’

‘Don’t argue with me. We’ve got evidence.’ The police captain gestured to him to stand.

Mast came to his feet. ‘You’ll never prove anything,’ he said peevishly.

Castor lowered his head and spoke in a rasping whine. ‘We don’t know this man. We came up here in answer to an advertisement –’

‘Sure you don’t know him. That’s why you’ve been everywhere he goes for the past seven years, that’s how well you don’t know him. Move, all three of you, and stop wasting time.’

Castor and Grawn continued to protest weakly as all three were herded out of the apartment and taken down in the elevator. In the ground-floor hallway Mast was most unpleasantly surprised to meet Olveolo Jadper, flanked by yet two more non-uniformed policemen. The japer, looking mildly unhappy, wore a silver-grey quilted boiler suit which made him seem even fatter than he was.

‘You!’ Mast accused.

Jadper grimaced, shrugging his shoulders in a show of embarrassment. ‘Sorry, old fellow. Had to buy some leniency.’ He made a wan attempt to giggle. ‘The joke’s on you, eh?’

‘Is that him?’ demanded the captain.

Jadper nodded.

Three big cars were waiting in the street. At the front door Castor gave a low strangled growl, ducked, twisted, and ran towards the back of the house. He disappeared down the steps to the cellar, his footsteps clattering in frantic haste.

One of the policemen drew an energy pistol and gave chase. He emerged from the cellar a minute or so later, looking frustrated.

‘The little rat had a bolthole down there. He’s probably two streets away by now.’

‘Don’t worry about it. We’ll pick him up eventually.’

The police captain nudged Mast in the ribs. ‘Come on.’

Resignedly Mast allowed himself to be led out to the waiting car.