The Garments of Caean

by Barrington J. Bayley

  ‘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 per
formed 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.