The Solarians by Norman Spinrad

Author:Norman Spinrad
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780575117198
Publisher: Gollancz
Published: 2011-09-28T14:30:00+00:00

Chapter VIII

LINGO ducked into his cabin and emerged carrying a pile of clothes. “Here, Jay,” he said, “put it on.”

“What is it?” Palmer asked dubiously. The clothing seemed to be some kind of garish uniform, all green and scarlet and gold braid.

“Dress uniform,” Lingo muttered. “Let’s say we…uh…anticipated that you might need it, so we had one made.”

Palmer fingered the uniform sourly. “Doesn’t look like anything I’ve ever seen.”

“Just put the thing on,” Lingo said impatiently. “It’s been designed for psychological effect, not for elegance. We’ve got to create a certain impression, and that Ambassador’s uniform is part of it. No time to argue about it now. Just hustle it on, and get back to the common room before our Doog friends start getting trigger-happy.”

Then Lingo stepped into his cabin and slammed the door behind him.

Palmer stood self-consciously for a moment just outside the common room. He looked and felt like a comic-opera field marshal. The uniform had bright green pants and shirt, heavy gold-braided epaulets, a Sam Browne belt fastened by a gigantic ornate brass buckle, calf-length black boots tooled in gold and green, a snow-white cap with brass braided visor, and a long flaming scarlet cape. A square foot of ribbons adorned the tunic’s breast.

Sourly, Palmer wondered why Lingo had failed to supply a ceremonial sword.

The Solarians were already in the common room, and their uniforms seemed designed to make Palmer feel even more ludicrous. All but Linda Dortin, who was to remain on the ship, were dressed in black from head to toe, dead, totally unadorned black; plain black boots, black cotton pants, and black leather shirts. They were bareheaded, and the only insignia on thewas a tiny golden sunburst on the left breast.

Somehow, the total effect was terribly sinister and infinitely earnest; a uniform that was not quite a uniform—almost a priest’s habit. But dark indeed would be the rites led by such priests….

As they looked him over approvingly, it was painfully obvious that the Solarians were suppressing their laughter only by the most heroic efforts.

Even Koris, as he surveyed the peacock in the nest of falcons, seemed moved by some unreadable emotion—his head weaved erratically on the end of his long flexible neck, and his ears twitched convulsively.

“Come, vermin,” Koris droned. “We proceed to the Council of Wisdom.”

As they stepped down onto the concrete of the field, onto the surface of Duglaar itself, the sheer strangeness of the place hit Palmer with its full force. The city, spread around them as far as the eye could see, glass and metal in the dull gray light, seemed more a gigantic factory or monstrous machine than a city as such—Palmer could not conceive of a park or amusement section, a lake or even a stray blade of grass in that vast, ugly conglomeration of globes and boxes. There was an indefinable humming regularity about the sounds of the city, as if of an enormous engine, with all parts meshing smoothly.

And the smell of the air—a harsh, chemical, disinfectant smell, the odor of hospitals, of dynamos, of great impersonal public buildings.

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