The Garments of Caean

Displaying by vidcast the ‘unfettered freedom’ status conferred on her by the Minister of Harmonic Relations on Verrage, the Callan settled on to a landing compound within the city of Yomondo. Within an hour Amara’s people were preparing for a sojourn into the city, and Mast disconsolately wandered down to the disembarkation bay, hoping to make himself useful.

No one took any notice of him. It was the same old story; he was not a trained sociologist. ‘Leave this sort of thing to the professionals, old man,’ a staffman had told him once, with infuriating condescension, when he had tried to attach himself to one of the team projects.

As soon as the bay doors were opened Mast went off to explore Yomondo by himself. As usual in Caean, there were no formalities at the spaceport, and no officials. The egress roads led directly into the city proper.

If Selene had initially presented any climatic or geological problems, then the planet must long since have been tamed. The air was warm and balmy. Yet there was an ambience to the place, a kind of lulled calm, that was offbeat and disturbing. The atmosphere was invested with a clear, purple twilight. The breeze wafted the scent of lavender. Odd twittering sounds came from all around, echoing from twisted towers and crazy air-ramps which made up the city’s skyline.

Mast searched for Selene’s sun. He found it – or rather, them – low over the southern horizon. A double star, the large one mauve, the smaller blue-white, both of them soft and fuzzy in outline. Which meant that Selene, in all probability, had seasons lasting centuries. The habitable planets of double stars nearly always had large orbits.

What was the season now? Spring? Summer? Autumn? Probably not winter, Mast decided.

Beyond the fringe of the city a forest grew. Mast could see the olive-green fronds waving like dark seaspray behind the twisted towers. Birds with glorious plumage of silver and lilac, gold and mulberry, shot out of that forest to go soaring, sweeping and hovering all over Yomondo, giving the city the impression of being a vast open-air aviary. The birds were of all sizes. Some were very big – Mast peered closely to see if any of them were human – and the smallest were tiny purple and pink humming birds, darting hesitantly hither and thither, their long curved beaks, made to dip into the nectar of orchids, craning forward as if pointing out mysterious messages.

Yomondo had a single flat floor of a pale lilac colour. Above it the twisted towers, the air-ramps, the tortuous corridors hanging in the air seemingly without proper support, made an open-plan framework. The nearest comparison Mast could find was that the city resembled a huge fairground, with helter-skelters, roller coasters, barkers and innumerable stage-shows taking place in the open air. The impact on the eye was indeed unexpected and bewildering. He could make no sense of the multifarious and apparently disjointed activities taking place. Was a festival in progress? Or was this, fantastic as it seemed, normal business?

An individual whose broad, snub-nosed face bore an idiot grin stepped from behind a blockhouse and approached Mast. Of the young man’s rig-out, Mast noticed clumpy steel-shod boots and flared pink trousers, held up by broad blue braces worn over the top of a chemise, or tunic, which fluffed and frothed all around his torso and arms. The impression of bucolic brutality was made complete by a crude, broken hat made of straw.

He walked with an ungainly stomp, body bent forward, thumbs thrust into his braces. Moving to block Mast’s path, he stood flexing his knees.

‘Har! A dude, eh? Come on then! Put up yer dukes!’ Even to Mast’s ears, his dialect was uncouth. He began to buffet the Ziodean with ham-like fists, in a manner both playful and aggressive, and Mast, surprised and alarmed, put his arms before his face to ward off the blows.

But suddenly the ruffian ceased his assault and looked sidelong at something to Mast’s left. Mast followed his gaze. A woman was walking the floor of the city, making for a twisted tower some distance off. Her movements were swaying and willowy, and her long graceful robe, with its streaming pagoda sleeves, made her seem as if she were being bent by the wind. Gauzy veils were blowing away from her face, which was dreamy and distant.

The ruffian reached up and removed his straw hat, stuffing it into a pocket in the seat of his trousers, from which he drew another piece of headgear. This was an abbreviated cloth casque, or galea, boasting a modest panache and decorated with ornate ribwork of gold. As he placed the casque on his head, adjusting it carefully, an amazing transformation came over him. No longer was he gormless and belligerent. The light of intelligence came to his eye. His back straightened, and his features moulded themselves into a different countenance. He was a new man.