The Garments of Caean

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.