Estru screwed up his face in thought. ‘Remember Bourdon’s Imaginary Numbers of the Mind? He pointed out that every act of perception, every mental intention, resembles a positive vector in physical space. By applying the square root of minus one as an operator he produced theoretical descriptions of negative mental vectors. He claimed that the negative dimension was implicit in mentality as a whole, that the positive component couldn’t exist unless it had its own mirror image. It’s an idea that’s close to the notion of passive sentience.’
‘Could Forbarth have read Bourdon?’
‘No. He’d have to be both a mathematician and a trained psychologist. But I don’t think he could have invented what he’s told us either.’
‘His mind might be warped enough to accept some kind of mythical interpretation, or analogy, as the literal truth,’ she suggested dubiously.
‘And the suits?’
‘A new Caeanic enterprise – tailoring by genetic manipulation, perhaps?’
‘But there are four dead bodies out there.’
Amara’s staff chief, having sidled close, joined in the discussion. ‘I agree we should act on the assumption that Forbarth is telling the truth,’ he said. There’s something very logical about his story. It explains a great deal about what we’ve seen in this neck of Caean.’
He broke off as Peder started rambling, speaking to nobody in particular. ‘It will be irresistible. An alien culture on the move, clothes-robots in Frachonard suits, sweeping across the Gulf in their millions…’
‘What’s he talking about?’ Amara demanded.
‘He’s talking about the invasion of Ziode,’ Estru answered in a flat, dry voice. ‘We’ve all been fooled – the Caeanics themselves have been fooled. An invasion is afoot, or shortly will be – an invasion which will appear to be the work of the Caeanics, whereas in fact they’ll only be proxies. You heard what Forbarth said. The Prossim intelligence plans to clothe the whole of mankind.’
‘I knew we should never have trusted foreigners,’ Amara grunted in disgust.
‘There’s an awful kind of grandeur about it in a way,’ Estru said meditatively. ‘We are familiar with the idea of physical invasion, or of invasion by disease in the form of epidemics. But this is a psychological invasion. The total remaking of mankind.’
‘I like my mind as it is, thank you.’
He smiled with ironic humour. ‘Be objective about it, Amara. Cross-fertilizing is usually a good thing. This is mental crosss-breeding between lifeforms literally poles apart. Something quite unbelievable ought to come out of that. Perhaps the Caeanics know what they’re about.’
Amara cast him a look of withering scorn before turning her gaze to the vidscreen. ‘You’re being flippant. Luckily we are in a position to nip this horror in the bud. We can hardly destroy the entire Prossim species, of course, since it grows all over the planet, but if I understand Forbarth aright the scheme depends on those suits it’s growing. This is the only patch of them so far. Destroy it and Ziode is safe – for the time being, anyway.’
‘We don’t have any external armament to speak of.’
‘It can be done manually. We have portable atomic flamethrowers.’
Overhearing them from where he sat, Peder Forbarth began to laugh weakly. ‘But you won’t be able to! You won’t be able to!’
They found out what Forbarth meant almost as soon as Captain Wilce sent out a pair of his crewmen to burn up the Prossim growth.
The two went out on a disc-shaped grav platform that skimmed over the surface of the plain. One steered the platform, while the other handled the flamethrower, a telescope-like affair he held under one arm, supporting its weight with a harness that went over his shoulders. Both wore protective suits of a silvery heat-resistant light metal, complete with visors.
The sociological team, watching while they glided some distance away from the Callan, waited to see the flamethrower come into action. Nothing of the kind occurred, however. After a puzzling delay the grav disc settled on the plain. The two men divested themselves of their protective clothing until they stood naked on the green Prossim.
‘What in space are they doing?’ Amara squeaked in alarm. ‘Have they gone mad?’
Peder was giggling like an idiot. Now they saw the two crewmen, ignoring all orders that came through their headsets from Captain Wilce, bend down and detach something from the growing greenery. For a minute or two they were busy, probing and poking in the leafy tangle. Soon they had picked an assortment of newly-ripened garments: underpants, shirts, jackets, waistcoats, trousers, ties and cravats. Then, apparently absorbed in what they were doing, they carefully dressed themselves.
Finally, fully attired, they stood upright on the verdant plain. At a nod to one another they remounted the grav platform, leaving the flamethrower where it had been thrown, and headed back towards the ship, landing in full view of the external scanner.
They were transformed men. They stood before the Callan, flexing their limbs, exhibiting themselves to those within, stepping back and forth and pirouetting as if in a fashion show.
‘I told you you couldn’t do it,’ Peder gasped, gurgling with laughter. ‘Go on, give in – you’ve got to eventually. Don’t you feel it getting to you?’
Estru felt like hitting the renegade Ziodean in the face. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Those suits create a field of mental force. It’ll get to you soon, even through the walls of the ship.’
‘I don’t feel anything.’
‘Not even when you look at your men in those suits?’
Estru stared at the disporting pair on the vidscreen. ‘I’m not sure…’
‘All right, focus the screen out on the plain. Let’s see a close-up of all those suits growing out there. Then you’ll know…’ He stood up, staggering to the screen controls. The image zoomed, blurred and sped until, with dazzling clarity, it showed an enlarged spread of garments.
Suddenly Realto Mast sprang forward. He pushed Peder away from the controls and hastily refocused the screen. ‘Don’t let him do that,’ he warned.
Peder sniggered. ‘See, he knows, don’t you, Realto? There’s no defence against those garments. They just call out to be worn – and they are so perfect that the human mind can’t resist that call. The Prossim plant can conquer humanity by sheer mental force, simply by displaying the garments it has created.’
‘I definitely felt something then,’ Estru declared, looking around at the others for confirmation.
‘And Ziodeans say the sartorial art is a delusion!’ Peder derided.
Blanco came forward and leaned over him belligerently. ‘Whose side are you on?’ he shouted. Then he turned to Amara. ‘What about you, madam? Perhaps the garments are ineffective against a woman.’
‘I felt something too,’ Amara admitted quietly.
‘The Prossim plant is something of a male chauvinist,’ Peder told them in a sarcastic voice. ‘Male qualities are more active than female ones, so it elected to delineate mankind by using masculine garments only. It views female garments as accessories. But it isn’t oblivious to sex – far from it. Stand up in one of those suits and no woman can resist you.’
Silence reigned in the conference room.
‘Well?’ Amara said grimly. ‘Has anybody got any ideas?’
‘You can do it, Alexei,’ Mast said earnestly. ‘You’re the only one who can.’
‘I simply don’t understand what you are asking of me,’ the Sovyan replied. ‘I don’t understand why simply anyone cannot do it.’
Mast sighed. ‘No, I don’t suppose you could understand. But you can understand that the growths are menacing us.’