The Garments of Caean

Eventually he left and trudged across Kass to the Governor’s office. The sun had risen in the sky and the streets had come to life, or what passed for life on Vence. Men in drab coveralls, mostly gem miners, blended like phantoms against the uninspiring background. There were few women: Vence was more a workplace than a colony.

The official residence of the Governor was underground, but he maintained an administrative office in the centre of Kass: a modestly sized building shaped like a long lozenge. At the moment all its slats were open, letting air and nearly horizontal sunlight into the interior compartments.

The Governor sighed as Castor was shown into his office, and gave a smile that was half embarrassed, half resigned. ‘Hello, old chap. You’re early today.’

‘Thought I’d drop in ahead of the queue, and collect what you promised.’

The Governor frowned. ‘Now I didn’t exactly promise…’

Castor threw himself into a chair and stared fixedly. ‘C’mon, we resolved all our difficulties, didn’t we?’

‘Well, I still feel I need more assurance…’ The Governor lowered his head and tucked his short goatee beard into his throat, tailing off.

‘Where’s the risk?’ Castor said reasonably. ‘You are the Governor of a gem-bearing world. We are gem prospectors who know of another world out in the Gulf, and you are giving us permission to check it out. You’re entitled to do that, almost. Even if we’re lying about this world you’re not to know: okay, we deceived you. What’ll they do, demote you? There’s nowhere to demote you to after this dump! Anywhere else has to be better! So that’s the worst that can happen, but it won’t because when we come back we’ll simply report there are no gems there and you close the file.’ He pulled out a plastic bank account card, idly fingering it and whistling suggestively. ‘This is untraceable, after all.’

The Governor took the card from his fingers and looked at the figures on it, smiling. ‘You don’t suppose there are any gems on this planet of yours, do you?’ he asked. ‘Maybe you could bring back a few samples or something.’

Castor laughed explosively. ‘Of course we’ll be bringing back some rocks and soil samples for your records, Governor. We are not amateurs.’

Castor had been working for the past twenty days on the Governor, who had been aghast at the first suggestion that he connive in Castor’s putative scheme. Yet without the pass he could provide it would be impossible to get past the government patrols. Castor was certain that this would be the day; by now the Governor knew in his heart that he would yield eventually.

Before long he was handing Castor the travel pass in the form of a coded tape. ‘Transmit this continually on the specified waveband,’ he instructed. ‘The patrols will let you through.’

In return Castor erased his own odour signature from the bank card and replaced it with the Governor’s, putting his thumb print on the transfer square and thus activating it into the identity of its new owner. The bank deposit represented by the card, had there been anything genuine about it, was now legally the Governor’s.

‘It will run like a dream,’ Castor lied.

Just after midday the Little Planet took off for the Gulf.

The chips rattled through the randomizer and Castor ejected them around the table. Leecher, Rabbish and Raincoat looked at the numbers. ‘Mine takes it,’ said Raincoat. Pieces of paper, written IOUs, passed to him.

‘I’ll stake a thousand,’ Raincoat said excitedly. ‘Who’ll put up a thousand?’

‘Me,’ Castor replied in a flat, uninterested voice. He pushed papers into the centre of the table. Leecher followed suit. Only the gaunt Rabbish dithered, then hung on to his notes.

Raincoat won again.

It was the worst possible habit: gambling with joint proceeds that were yet to be gained. Castor didn’t care. It was no part of his policy to foment harmony among his following.

They were three days out from Vence, and Castor’s relations with his partners had deteriorated still further. He had grown more openly contemptuous, had quarrelled and jeered at every opportunity, giving orders in a coarse, insulting manner. Not even his inadvertent largesse – for he had gambled wantonly, making no effort to win – had softened his companions’ view; for Castor was growing day by day almost inhumanly repugnant. He seemed to be turning into a bizarre travesty of a human being, his movements becoming increasingly unco-ordinated so that he flapped and jerked about the ship like a demented bat. Only the peculiar fascination he exerted prevented his companions from turning on him and, probably, killing him.

‘Hey, Castor,’ Raincoat taunted, ‘how much you got left?’

‘Plenty,’ Castor scowled. ‘I told you, there’s plenty.’

‘Plenty for me, all right,’ Raincoat crowed. He had benefited most from Castor’s recklessness.

Suddenly Gadzha’s voice broke through the communicator from the bridge. ‘Hey, we’re being challenged.’

‘Who by?’ Castor snapped.

‘Defence patrol.’