They were cutting into his body! Alexei struggled and screamed, but these creatures were remorseless. Soon they had sliced through his outer skin and he saw his innards revealed. His consciousness reeled. And then they cut him open to reveal the inmost innards, and in the final moment of trauma in which he finally passed out, he saw in the mirror the pale worm-thing which he had never seen before, as unprotected as when he had first been born.
3
The most prestigious occupation in Caean is, of course, the sartorial’s. As a profession it entirely supplants the functions of psychiatrist, priest and moulder of public opinion, none of which exist in their own right in Caean. If someone has a problem, he consults his sartorial, who runs up garments to help him find his own way out of his difficulties.
Despite this, Caeanic tailoring is not necessarily bespoke. No Caeanic would think of limiting himself to the output of a single sartorial, unless he is fortunate enough to have a special relationship with an all-round genius; he demands access to the whole range of the art. Consequently there is massive trade in ready-mades between Tzist planets.
All garments are, however, hand-made, whether bespoke or not. The mass manufacture of garments on a machine or factory basis could not possibly be envisaged. The very idea is regarded as a horrific barbarity, and Ziodeans, because of their willingness to wear garments so made, are looked on with pity and contempt. A Caeanic’s raiment is his interface with the universe, the sole means by which his existence can be validated and his hidden abilities brought into play, and it is therefore imperative that it should be the work of a single artist who is both designer and executor. A Caeanic sartorial displays a marvellous unity between hand and brain. Using power tools and often working in the heat of inspiration, he is capable of producing a full suit of clothes in minutes, in an astonishing exhibition of skill and originality.
Caeanics would strenuously deny that their addiction to apparel has anything in common with the use of mood drugs. The Art of Attire is held to be a practical, extrovert method of fulfilling life, and not to rely on introspective mood changes. Arth Matt-Helver (see Travels in the Tzist Arm) believes, however, that the more creative of the Caeanic sartorials are guided by subconscious forces. Hands that cut and stitch are responding to subconscious racial archetypes, which can then possess the wearers of the garments that express them.
List’s Cultural Compendium
The cab sped through the streets of Gridira, Harlos’s capital city. Through the tinted windows the vague shapes of the metropolis fled by like angular phantoms, in alternations of light and shade.
Realto Mast was in an expansive mood. ‘A most satisfactory conclusion to our enterprise, don’t you think, Peder?’ He raised his glass in a salute to his partner, downing the raw green spirit which was all the cab service dispensed.
Peder sipped his own glass. ‘So far so good,’ was all he would say.
But on the face of it all was well. The Costa had come down at the same provincial spaceport, used almost wholly by small-time commercial lines, from which they had departed, and was now back in the possession of its owner with an innocent trip to the antipodastral hunting reefs entered in the log. They had been cautious and circumspect about transferring the cargo to Gridira, but the transfer was now being completed by Castor and Grawn, who were storing the Caeanic garments in a suburban house previously rented for the purpose. All that now remained was the disposal of the goods, a leisurely business which would take years and which was to be entirely Peder’s prerogative.
There was reason, therefore, to feel fairly gratified, and Peder had even begun to forgive Mast his various peccadilloes towards him. The cab stopped at a low entrance framed with jazzy pink and electric-blue mobile light-strips. Peder peered anxiously through the window. He saw a narrow, dusky street, tall buildings rearing up on either side, flickering with dimly glowing lights and signs. He recognized the Mantis Diner, a haunt in a part of Gridira all but inaccessible to the law, which he had visited in Mast’s company once previously.
‘Ah, here we are!’ Mast enthused. ‘Come in and let me buy you a drink and some dinner.’
Peder fumbled unhappily with a hold-all he was carrying. ‘I’ll take the cab home,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I was going straight to my shop in Tarn Street.’
Mast slapped him jovially on the shoulder. ‘Nonsense! Reticence has always been your downfall, Peder. A success like ours needs celebrating! Besides –’ He tilted his head in a suggestive manner, raising his eyebrows – ‘I may be able to put a bit of business in our direction, and get some of this merchandise off our hands.’
The thought alarmed Peder. It would be like Mast, in his exhilaration, to do something rash and jeopardize all their carefully laid plans. He hurried with him from the cab, fearful now of leaving him unguarded, and went through the rectangular colour frame into the sleazy, smoky atmosphere of the all-nighter.
The Mantis Diner had, besides a walk-in restaurant open to the street, a private club whose rules of membership were all the more complicated for being arbitrary. In essence, it was necessary to be trusted by the owner. Mast was, and accordingly had become a member. He led the way through a screen of hanging gew-gaws at the back of the restaurant; after a nod to the doorkeeper they entered a six-foot-tall cylindrical capsule made of rainbow plastic.
The capsule descended fifty feet into the earth, then moved horizontally for about a quarter of a mile; they were heading into a semi-secret underworld, a world that had learned to protect itself simply by being, literally, underground.
The elevator in which they rode could not be commandeered by anyone seeking to enter the club uninvited. To raid the Mantis, or any of an unknown number of other clubs and hideouts clandestinely slotted among the legitimate installations beneath Gridira, the police would have had to bore their own tunnel. The cylinder slid to a stop. To the strains of soothing music they stepped into the underground club. It was a markedly different place from the all-night eatery, smelling of grease and sour wine, which they had left behind. The décor was plush, utilizing soft lighting effects, glowing carpets and embossed murals on the walls. Here food of good quality was served by pleasant young women, and the air was never foul or fuggish as it generally was above. Here those members of Gridira’s fringe society who could afford it, and who met the owner’s favour – rich fences, top racketeers, professional embezzlers, shady self-styled entrepreneurs (into which category Mast fell) and numbers of their associates and providers of technical services – could relax in their own special milieu.
Peder and Mast settled at a small table and ordered a dinner of spiced Protvian grasshoper legs, a delicacy Peder promised himself he would enjoy more often in future. Several people greeted Mast or came to exchange words with him. Peder did not really understand why Mast wanted to bring him here – a privilege never extended to Castor or Grawn. Perhaps it was because so much business was conducted here. It was here that Mast had conceived and planned the Kyre junket. The owner of the Costa was also a habitué of the Mantis. Here Mast had learned of the crashed Caeanic ship, buying the information together with the co-ordinates of the infra-sound planet.