The Garments of Caean

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.

8

Always on awakening lately, Peder was filled with fearful apprehensions, invaded by confused and perturbed thoughts, made to feel abandoned, alone and miserable. But he could never summon the will to make any sense out of his feelings. He could only, as today, stare blankly at the ceiling and move feebly under the covers, terrified of leaving his bed.

Eventually he forced himself to rise and flex his muscles with zombie-like movements, trying to clear his brain of its undeclared war. He had a headache. He took a pill, and padded to the bathroom.

On returning he stood and stared at the Frachonard suit, which hung on a rack near the wardrobe. His face was slack, his body like lead.

‘I own you,’ he said dully, trying to spark life into himself. The thought alone had once been enough to leave him brimming with joy. Now his words seemed cheerless and disappointing.

But the urge to wear the suit was still there. Of late he wore it every day – there was an enormous let-down in wearing anything else. Moving as if drawn by magnetism, he put on undergarments and a suitable shirt, then dressed himself in the superb Prossim cloth, adding slim shoes of soft lavender leather and a cravat to match. He adjusted the garments before the full-length mirror, his eyes flicking here and there.

Suddenly everything zipped into place in his mind. It was like switching on a power supply. The future tumbled through his head, showing him where he was going. He felt invigorated and in command of himself, strong and in his prime.

He gazed for some moments longer at the suit. There were new aspects to it every time he looked at it. Its ingenious lines were always revealing dazzling new effects. He had still not fathomed how the scyes and shoulders had been cut and fitted, for instance. Frachonard had buried secret upon secret in his masterpiece.