A few minutes later Amara, for the first time in her life, breathed the air of a Caeanic planet.
While they had been negotiating, a traction platform had quietly moved the Callan away from its point of touch-down. By the time the seven-strong party emerged from the main port it had been deposited amid a complex of graceful buildings, and nestled among them so neatly as to seem to be one of them.
Amara took a deep breath, inhaling the warm scents of a summery afternoon.
Before them, somewhat below the level of the platform extruded by the port, stretched a pleasant esplanade on which had gathered a small crowd. Her first impression was of a fancy dress ball, all dazzling colour and finery.
Then she seemed to suffer a momentary paramnesia. The esplanade became a stage. On it, standing motionless and frozen, the figures in the crowd were no longer recognizably human, but were transformed into archetypal caricatures, primeval and menacing.
The dream-like experience passed. To clear her brain she shook her head, telling herself that the paramnesia must have been brought on by stress.
The crowd was waving and gesticulating. A cry went up. There was jeering, or cheering, she could not tell which. But Second Officer Borg had few doubts, and looked grim.
‘It looks as if we’re in for a rough time, madam,’ he murmured.
Amara frowned with discomfiture, trying to assess the crowd’s costume for herself from her somewhat inadequate knowledge. The gathering’s adornment could fairly be called sumptuous even by Caeanic standards, she hazarded. Nearly all present were of high rank, or at any rate prestige.
Captain Grieuard urged them down the ramp to meet two men of mature years who stepped from the crowd to meet them. The apparel of one of them was enormously self-assertive: a blazing-hued panoply, flounced, scalloped and bombasted, with flying lappets of lucent fabric so that to the observer’s fancy the wearer seemed to be throwing off fiery splashes of verve and energy; spurting feathery jets of panache. There was enough ostentation, enough magnificence, clearly to denote a man of leadership. And there was more than enough wildness to suggest that he was not bound by rules of convention.
Keeping a step to the rear, the second of the two was of a different style. He wore a variant of the diask known as the grid, exemplifying rectitude and dependable rigidity. Amara peered closely at both faces, hoping to see the look of passive, stylized consciousness a Ziodean automatically expected of a Caeanic. For a fleeting instant she thought she discerned it; but confessed that the impression was probably due to imagination. Far from appearing robotic, the faces confronting her were disconcertingly natural and individualistic.
Captain Grieuard made introductions: Abrazhne Caldersk, Director of Harmonic Relations; and – wearing the grid – Svete Trupp, his Foil (the title baffled Amara; she could not tell if Trupp were merely some kind of servant or private secretary, or himself an official of high rank).
Warmly Caldersk shook hands all round. ‘This is a splendid occasion!’ he exclaimed in a vigorous voice, speaking his native Caeanic. ‘It is not every day that we receive distinguished visitors from Ziode!’
Estru and Borg looked at him sourly. But Amara’s reaction was much more positive. She giggled, glancing again at Caldersk’s extraordinary features, and even the handsome space officer Captain Grieuard faded into nonexistence in her mind.
Her male companions aboard the Callan had been a dour lot. Caldersk was going to be entertaining, she promised herself.
Then she checked her thoughts, aware that she might be succumbing to some particularly seductive brand of Caeanic blandishment, and wondering if it might not even be naïve to read anything but sarcasm into Caldersk’s welcome.
‘I trust you treat your visitors with humanity, Director,’ she said stiffly.
The other threw up his hands in shock. Then he laughed, loud uninhibited laughter. ‘Surely you do not fear for your safety? You know nothing of Caeanic hospitality if that is the case. Why, you are celebrities, dear lady. Celebrities!’
‘If I may say so, you credit us with little percipience,’ Abrazhne Caldersk said affably, about half an hour later. ‘It is practically impossible for a complete foreigner to live in Caean without being noticed, however well he knows the language.’
‘Even if he wears Caeanic clothes?’ Amara asked.
‘Especially if he wears Caeanic clothes!’ The Director seemed amused. ‘There is more to wearing apparel than merely pouring oneself into it!’ He paused, and raised a hand reflectively. ‘Suppose a foreigner in Ziode were to – well, to wear all his clothes back to front, to wear garments totally unsuited to his nature and the circumstances. That is some indication of the impact your agents made among us! We were aware of them from the beginning. From there it was easy to guess the location of your ship, to penetrate its bafflement and to track it from planet to planet.’
Amara responded huffily: ‘Then why did you not arrest us all immediately? Why wait until now?’
‘For what reason? What harm were you doing? We are an open society, dear lady. Anyone may come and go as he pleases. No visas are required!’
‘But you have taken us into custody now,’ Second Officer Borg pointed out.
The grid-wearing Trupp spoke. ‘We are concerned that you should not return to Ziode with misinformation about Caean,’ he said in a gentle but firm voice. ‘We are perturbed by the reports of increasing fear and hostility towards us in your country. We wish to correct any wrong impression you have gained; and since you are on a sociological mission this is an excellent opportunity to remedy misunderstandings that apparently are rampant in Ziode.’
‘Does that mean you will allow us to return home?’ Amara said in surprise.
Caldersk clapped his hands, causing the flying lappets on his upper garment to make volatile, feathery leaps. ‘We have arrived!’ he announced with enthusiasm.
Riding through Inxa’s concourses in an open carriage, the Ziodeans had been given the opportunity to see the sights of the city, the serried terraces, the hanging gardens and the throngs of people, many of them in fantastic garb, and to enjoy the invigorating, exotic atmosphere. Now they halted alongside an oval-shaped bowl or depression about the size of a stadium, set apart from the main avenues. Here a banquet had been prepared. A huge table was burdened with food. Footmen, stepping neatly in black, carapace-like suits, were busy completing the arrangements.
And there were guests: perhaps a hundred in all. The brilliance of their costume was bewildering. It was like entering some novel zoological garden where evolution had run riot. The Ziodeans descended from the carriage and moved hesitantly into the stadium, feeling the strangeness of it all. Amara wondered how her dress seemed to their hosts – and then firmly shut her mind to the thought. She was a Ziodean, she told herself sternly. She did not have to worry about what foreigners thought.
Shortly they found themselves seated at the long table, after being introduced to a score of guests, all flowered, flamed, bedizened and bedecked so as to resemble a tropical menagerie. Abrazhne Caldersk sat on the left of Amara, plying her with food and drink, while Estru and Second Officer Borg were ranged stiffly to her right, being entertained somewhat more formally by Svete Trupp. Amara, herself refusing to unbend, consumed as little as was politely possible. Like her companions, she felt herself to be Caean’s enemy and had expected to be dealt with as an enemy. It was unnerving to be fêted instead.