‘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.
It was a pity he was so vulnerable during that short period between waking and dressing, he reflected ruefully. That was the old Peder Forbarth returning and blinking in the light of the renewed Peder Forbarth.
He dialled the service hatch for breakfast.
He was still eating when the door opened. Two men in dark conservative clothes entered uninvited, looking around them warily. It was obvious they were security police. That they had gained access to his private elevator and neutralized the door lock without arousing the building’s watchdog circuit told him that.
‘You Peder Forbarth?’ demanded the taller of the two.
He nodded.
‘Come with us. You’ve got some questions to answer.’ The plain clothes man flashed a card.
‘Quite impossible!’ declared Peder loudly with a flourish of his arm. ‘Whatever your business is, it must be settled right here. Tonight I am to attend the birthday ball of the Third Minister, so there is a great deal to attend to. Will you have some coffee?’ he finished politely.
They glanced at one another, utterly disconcerted. Peder was inwardly complacent. The suit had stalled them. They did not even know why they felt so paralysed, why they had undergone a loss of confidence immediately on entering his presence. It was a phenomenon he had learned to use. People would even disbelieve the evidence of their senses if he wanted them to – provided he was wearing his Frachonard suit.
‘Then may I know your names?’ he asked with an ironic smile.
‘I’m Lieutenant Burdo,’ the tall security man said. He took a folder from his pocket and began shuffling documents. Finally he decided to get on with it. ‘Where were you between the eighty-fifth and hundred-twentieth of last year?’
Peder paused as if searching his memory. ‘I was vacationing on Hixtos part of that time. For the rest of it I was here in Gridira.’
‘Can you prove that?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Where did you stay on Hixtos?’
‘At the Pearl Diver Hotel in Permerand. It’s on the Holiday Reefs. A big vacation area.’
‘Yes, I know.’ The lieutenant scribbled on a pad. Then he took out a picture of Realto Mast and laid it on the breakfast table. ‘This man disputes your story. He says you were with him, on a star yacht called the Costa.’
‘What would I be doing with him?’
‘You tell us.’
‘All right,’ Peder said, smiling. ‘Probably smuggling Caeanic contraband, the way you read it.’
‘So you admit it.’ It was the other plain clothes man who spoke, his voice determinedly tough.
‘No, of course not. But I did meet this man once, when I used to keep a shop on Tarn Street. He came in there and tried to sell me Caeanic garments.’
‘Did you buy them?’
‘No. I don’t deal in them.’
‘You didn’t inform the authorities.’
‘I should have, I know, but I didn’t want my customers driven away by any publicity. The line of work I was in…’
‘That’s right,’ Lieutenant Burdo said brusquely, ‘you’re a specialist in bizarre and outlandish garments. A freak tailor, the kind who’s always been regarded as a security risk. Usually with good reason.’
The other man waved a hand at the walls. ‘What’s all this, for instance?’