The Garments of Caean Read online

  ‘Maybe. It’s highly speculative.’

  The cyborg had finally been subdued and disarmed. It was strapped to a board, its limbs immobilized. Now that their spell of emergency was over, the inboard crew were able to stand back and take a good look at what they had caught, and they found time to be appalled.

  Amara got through to the medical section. ‘How is our Russian?’

  ‘The operation has been completed,’ the senior doctor told her. ‘As you’re always in a hurry, Amara, we gave him a combination of drugs designed to erase from his memory any recent event sufficiently charged to cause catatonia. In a sense we’ve replaced the catatonic effect with an amnesiac one. Not the most responsible way of dealing with psychic disorders, but …’ He trailed off. ‘We also gave him an arousal drug, and according to his brain reading he’s coming round. He should be functioning normally.’

  ‘Let me understand this. He won’t remember what we did to him?’

  ‘The memory isn’t expunged completely, but it’s not on complete recall. He might even be able to remember it vaguely, as if remembering a dream, but he won’t be sure it really happened. It will be robbed of significance. I thought you would prefer it that way,’ the doctor added drily, ‘because later we could reintroduce the incident to him slowly under controlled conditions.’

  ‘Ah! Excellent! Then we can discuss the business with him!’ she chuckled. ‘Congratulations, Doctor. Indirect methods of enquiry never were to my liking!’

  She tapped her finger-tips on the table, thinking something over. ‘Put him back in the vacuum chamber, will you?’

  ‘He’s there already, for the sake of continuity. It’s the last thing he will remember clearly.’

  ‘Good, good,’ she murmured slowly. ‘I’ll get in touch later.’

  As soon as the doctor went off-line the lock crew came in. ‘What shall we do with it now?’ the team leader asked, not hiding his distaste.

  ‘Put him in the vacuum chamber with our first specimen, and then stand by. And take those restraints off. I want him to have freedom of movement.’

  ‘Is that wise?’ said Estru in a low, worried voice. ‘It does seem precipitous, Amara. Our patient is only just recovering! Shouldn’t we give him more time?’

  ‘I reject the term “patient”,’ Amara replied icily. ‘What’s the matter with you, Estru? The Russian is going to be perfectly all right, you just heard medical section say so. Finding himself in the company of the cyborg will probably reassure him.’

  ‘We have no idea what relations are between the suit-people and the cyborgs,’ Estru pointed out guardedly.

  ‘But they belong to the same culture!’

  Estru coughed politely. ‘That is an unwarranted assumption, if I may be permitted to say so. They speak different languages. And you were the one to observe that the Russian’s outbursts against us suggest he already has enemies.’

  Amara waved her hand imperiously, annoyed at her assistant’s misgivings. ‘Such possibilities are not lost on me, I assure you. This is a scientific test. I want to see what Types One and Two have to say to each other.’

  Minutes later the cyborg prisoner had been taken to the vacuum chamber. In the vestibule the lock crew freed it from the restraining board, protecting themselves with difficulty from its flailing attacks, and pushed it through the chamber lock.

  In free fall it floated into the metal vault. Up to now the giant spacesuit, its surface barely scarred by the welds that had fastened it up, had been motionless on the opposite side. On the entry of the cyborg, however, its huge arms stirred.

  The two space-adapted men confronted one another.

  The suit advanced.

  The cyborg’s gaze darted quickly here and there, as if seeking a way out. It drifted against a wall, and expertly jack-knifed its legs against it, leaping across the chamber and out of the path of the suit.

  Unlike the cyborg, the suit had its own built-in propulsion. Its drive unit, which was capable of accelerating it to speeds in the order of hundreds of thousands of miles per hour given a sufficiently long period, needed only minimal activation for manoeuvres in this tiny enclosure. The suit flicked round in pursuit of the cyborg and zipped across the chamber, able to pre-empt any further evasive manoeuvre by its greater ease of motion.

  Not a single word had passed between the two, although both species (as Estru thought it would be fair to call them) communicated by radio. Nevertheless the attitude of violence and implacable hatred which each displayed towards the other was unmistakable.

  ‘Better put a stop to it,’ Estru said tightly.

  ‘Get the cyborg out,’ Amara ordered.

  Suit and cyborg had come together. The suit was incomparably the more powerful. The great metal arms flailed, smashing into the puny organic body. The cyborg’s skull-turret broke and seemed to become dislodged. A thin, pale blood began to strew itself across the chamber in swaying rivulets which broke up instantly into a haze of droplets.

  Those watching through the windows had tried to save the situation by switching on the gravity. The suit dropped clanging to the floor, accompanied by the limp body of its enemy.

  They rushed into the chamber, fending off the arms of the suit with prods and chains, and dragged away the broken mixture of metal, plastic, flesh, pink blood.

  ‘It’s dead, Amara.’

  ‘Oh well,’ said Estru wearily. ‘It all counts as data.’

  Amara, too, after casting him a contemptuous glance for his sarcastic remark, took the news philosophically. ‘Get medical section to carry out an examination,’ she said with no trace of embarrassment. ‘The details of the cyborgation process should prove interesting.’

  She turned to Estru. ‘Maybe we should go back and get another one?’

  ‘We’re being pretty free with other people’s lives, not to say their liberty,’ he objected.

  ‘People? These aren’t people, they’re – well, at best, they’re savages. If one wants to regard them as human at all.’

  ‘I only hope we aren’t going to behave in quite this fashion once we get to Caean.’

  She snorted. ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think we should make any further contacts just yet,’ Estru continued. ‘We ought to try talking to the suit-man again. It’s easy to see now why he was so hostile towards us.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, think about it. He knows two kinds of beings, as far as we know. His own kind – outwardly a species of machine, or space-robot – and the cyborgs, whom he kills on sight. Look at it from his point of view. Which do we most resemble?’

  5

  Realto Mast’s emotions were a blend of foreboding and resignation as he approached the home of Olveolo Jadper, a splendid villa set in ample grounds and partially hidden by a miniature wood. Among those who had dealings with Jadper, such feelings were apt to be the rule – not because Jadper was Harlos’s wealthiest and most successful fence, but because along with it he belonged to a class of personality unfortunately fashionable in certain parts of Ziode. Jadper was a practical joker, infamous for regarding his clients as fair game.

  Mast deplored the cult of the japer. He valued his dignity, and resented all arbitrary assaults on it, especially when in the form of crude and unsubtle buffoonery beloved of Olveolo – ‘Jadper the Japer’, to give him his cognomen. But, business was business.

  Silver-plated gates swung lazily open in answer to Mast’s arrival before them. Ahead, overhung by willow trees, a narrow crazy-paving path meandered into a profusion of blooms and bushes. In the distance, raising aloft their translucent green crowns, the villa’s yellow travertine towers peeped through a tracery of silver birch branches.

  Mast wore jodhpurs and a lounge jacket, the muted colours of which were made to glow quietly by juxtaposition with his lime green waistcoat. Notwithstanding his stern prohibitions to Castor and Grawn he still wore his Caeanic titfer, and in his hand he carried a small box which he waved in the air in the hope of
sniffing out any suspicious electronic activity. Finally, taking his courage in both hands, he stepped through the gates and set forth along the crazy paving.

  The path plunged immediately into a miniature jungle which practically cut off the daylight, twisting and turning in a confusing pattern. Mast was surprised, on emerging into the sunlight some minutes later, to find that the villa now lay behind him, but he continued nevertheless to follow the meaningless loops and curves. At the end of thirty minutes he was back at the main gates, having made a complete circuit of Jadper’s home.

  With chagrin he abandoned this fool’s route and struck out directly for the villa across a bush-screened gravel bed. He was rewarded by the discovery of a proper path giving clear access to the villa’s front entrance. Having progressed about half-way up this path, however, he was halted by the sudden eruption from the paving of a large box, or platform, which completely blocked his way. Before he could react in any way to this event the box sprang open with a rushing noise. Amid streamers of coloured paper there burst forth the corpulent figure of Olveolo Jadper, grinning and screeching, a large green bird rushing up from below him to flap around his head and go winging off. ‘Hello!’ screeched Jadper, ‘Hello!’ On his head was a white conical hat decorated with purple blobs which matched the red blobs of his ballooning white gown. His face was painted in the manner of a clown. Continuing to grin inanely, he bobbed up and down as if on a spring, only the top half of him visible over the rim of the box.

  Mast suddenly realized that the figure was lifeless, and not Jadper at all. It was a jack-in-the-box. With a grunt of disgust he attempted to squeeze between the box and the close-packed cane shrubbery, but as he did so the dummy twisted round and seized him in two powerful rubbery arms, planting a slobbery kiss square on his lips. He fought violently to free himself from the embrace, the soft warm pseudo-flesh, the twinkling eyes. Jadper the jack-in-the-box giggled, caressing him intimately, then let him go.

  At last, complaining bitterly to himself of Jadper’s conduct, Mast reached the entrance to the villa, large double doors flanked by abbreviated barbican towers of the same yellow travertine, a sedimentary limestone quarried from deep hot springs which was used throughout the building. The doors opened at his approach, disclosing a cool and inviting circular vestibule. Restful light filtered through a green cupola supported by slim columns. The floor was a mosaic of tiles in various pastel colours.

  Mast halted and peered hesitantly within.

  ‘Olveolo Jadper?’

  There was no reply. Cautiously he stepped through the doorway, noting the comic reliefs on the panels of tinted wainwood, and sauntered a few paces, and those warily, into the empty vestibule.

  And then the floor seemed to open up all around him. All was confusion. He was being grabbed, tossed, interfered with. A flurry of movement and colour obscured everything. When the air cleared Mast found that he was stuffed feet first into a sort of cylindrical holder reaching to his waist. He was bouncing steadily up and down, supported above the floor by a giant spring. A clown’s hat had been stuck on his head and, he suspected, a bulbous comic nose on his face. He wore a gaudy ruff. The entire arrangement was set in a large box, crudely painted in garish colours, with the lid gaping open to permit his regular oscillations. Facing him there bounced Olveolo Jadper, similarly situated, and looking very much like the articulated dummy Mast had encountered a minute or two earlier. As Mast rose Jadper descended, and vice versa. The inane motion, about which he could do nothing, infuriated Mast. He wondered how in Ziode it was possible to maintain any vestige of dignity in circumstances like these.

  Jadper spoke to him in a voice of melodramatic hospitality, his eyes wide and staring. ‘Ah, my guest has arrived! Greetings! The comforts of my house are yours!’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Jadper!’ cried Mast in strangled tones as he bounced up and down. ‘Get me out of this!’

  ‘Surely you don’t wish to break off our business so soon?’

  ‘Quit the joking!’

  ‘First let us conclude our transaction.’

  ‘Like this?’

  ‘Why not? Whee! Up and down! Up and down!’

  Mast struggled in sudden fury, and discovered that the cylinder holding him possessed no more binding power than stiff paper. He ripped it apart and clambered over the side of the box. Jadper followed suit, giggling to himself and throwing away his clown’s hat, ruff and nose.

  Once divested, Jadper was naked except for a phallocrypt held on by a silk string around his waist. He was a very fat man, with little twinkling eyes set in a bulging face. He approached Mast with a friendly smile, holding out his hand.

  ‘Please excuse my little jest. Quite inexcusable, I know!’

  Mast shook hands with him. His own hand came away covered in slime. He wiped it on his coat, then with a savage gesture tore off the clownish gear that bedizened him.

  ‘As a joker you’re a failure, Jadper,’ he said peevishly. ‘The essence of a joke is that it should come as a surprise. With you one is constantly expecting some sort of foolishness.’

  The reproof seemed to have some effect on Jadper. His face became more sober. ‘You’re quite right, my dear fellow. It is very childish of me. Let’s forget that nonsense, then, and get down to business. Please take a seat.’

  He gestured. Mast glanced at the chair suspiciously, hesitating to accept it until Jadper had already seated himself opposite him. He sat down gingerly, expecting it to collapse. But it did no more than emit a rude farting noise, at which Jadper emitted a snort of repressed mirth.

  ‘You have a load of garments to dispose of, I believe,’ Jadper said.

  ‘That’s right. Caeanic garments.’

  ‘Like this one, eh?’ The Caeanic titfer appeared out of nowhere into Jadper’s hand. He inspected it cursorily, then threw it across to Mast, who put it back on his head in place of his clown’s hat.

  ‘A neat little job, eh?’ Jadper complimented. ‘But of course, this is a bad time to be dealing in Caeanic stuff. You’ve heard the government’s getting edgy, I suppose? I expect that’s why you want to get rid of it.’

  ‘No, I hadn’t heard that,’ Mast answered truthfully. ‘I can’t see that it makes any difference. The government’s always worried about something or other.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know … I had some inside griff the other day. Caean has made a formal protest. Something about a cargo of raiment stolen from a crashed ship. Coincidence, eh?’ Jadper winked grotesquely. ‘The Caeanics get paranoid about their togs, you know! The police might start looking for it. Things could be difficult.’

  ‘Look,’ said Mast, ‘are you interested or not? I don’t have to find a buyer. I’m told my goods are worth ultimately about twenty million, but I’m prepared to scale down that figure substantially to make a quick sale.’

  ‘Hmm, I’d have to have someone look at them. Even if your valuation is right, what with all the risk and everything I doubt if I could even go as far as one million.’ Jadper looked fretful, full of doubt. Mast was relieved; the fence had started trading.

  ‘When do you want to inspect the goods?’ he asked. ‘Once they’ve been viewed even you will be ready to part with at least twelve million.’ Then he became aware that something was happening to the chair he was sitting on. He tried to rise, but could not: he was fixed to it somehow.

  The chair tilted back, rose from the floor and turned a half circle until he was facing Jadper upside down. It was as if his backside and spine were firmly glued to the chair. Presumably he was in the grip of an inertial field.

  ‘I thought perhaps the day after tomorrow,’ Jadper said seriously, displaying no sign that he noticed anything amiss. ‘Where are you keeping them?’

  ‘Let me down!’ Mast cried in exasperation. ‘This is intolerable!’

  The chair released him and he fell sprawling to the floor, giving his skull a painful crack on the tiles. Jadper chuckled.

  Mast scrambled to his feet, retrieving his hat and ja
mming it back on his smarting head. He brushed himself down and turned to Jadper gravely.

  ‘I absolutely refuse to go through with this. How can I think straight when I’m being interfered with all the time?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jadper said with a dismal shrug. ‘It’s not my fault.’

  Mast deliberated. ‘This house is as full of tricks as a rat-trap,’ he said. ‘If you want to carry on talking let’s do it outside.’

  ‘You want to go for a stroll? But of course!’ Jadper jumped up with alacrity. ‘It’s a beautiful day! Let’s go out on the lawn.’

  Nervously Mast followed him through a door in the rear of the vestibule. They emerged on the other side of the house before an expansive, well-tended lawn of Harlos moss, a silky lavender-coloured growth which was generally preferred to earthgrass. Once in the open he felt safer.

  Then, without warning, his hat deluged him with green ink. With a cry of frustration he snatched the titfer from his head, ripped it apart to see the cunning ink reservoir Jadper had planted there, and flung it away from him. He fumbled for a kerchief to wipe the dye from his face.

  The prankster turned and grinned at Mast as they stepped across the moss. ‘Lots of nice clothes, eh? Lovely!’ He waved his left hand in a complicated motion and suddenly his flabby body was bedecked in dazzling finery. Glittering gold knee breeches, a tunic of silver and green stripes with puffed sleeves, and a gorgeous multihued sash. It was hardly Caeanic in quality, however – more like showy trash – and even as Jadper walked it was peeling from him, disintegrating and scattering until only ragged scraps remained.

  How had Jadper performed the trick? Mast had seen nothing about his naked person from which to produce the coverings, flimsy though they were.

  Jadper’s tone dropped and became soberly confidential. ‘I’ve been wondering if this lawn might be better with a pavilion on it,’ he said. ‘Something like this, perhaps.’