"That means little to us. We arc not I great champions of the IPCC here at Fexelburg."

"Why is that?"

"Let us say that our priorities are different. They are long on regulation and short on flexibility. In practical cases we have yet to find them useful."

"That's surprising! The IPCC is generally well-regarded."

"Not in Fexelburg! Party Plock is the adjutant, or adjudicator or double commander, or some such title, and a full martinet to boot. In these parts we must be ready for anything; after all, Tassadero is for the most part savage steppe! Flexibility is the watchword and devil take the rule book If Triple Commander Partric Plock and his cookie pushers demur, it can't be helped. At Fexelburg first things come first."

"That sounds reasonable. I'll be interested to meet this dragoon Flock."

The official turned a sour side glance at Glawen's garments.

"If you go there dressed as you are, they'll bar you at the door and call you 'clown' besides."

"Aha!" said Glawen.

"I finally understand your disapproval.

These are the only clothes we own. Our luggage was lost and we have not yet made replacements."

"The sooner the better! I suggest that you put yourself into the hands of a capable haberdasher. Which is your hotel?"

"As yet we have made no choice."

"Allow me to suggest the Lambervoilles, which offers full prestige and high style. In Fexelburg we are ultramodern in all respects, and you will find nothing dowdy or disreputable."

"That is certainly reassuring."

"Remember: first things first! Before you attempt the Lambervoilles, dress for the public esteem. The Nouveau Cri Salon is just across from the Lambervoilles; they will turn you out in decent style."

"What is the most convenient transportation?"

"Leave the terminal; board the tram car. Presently you will pass a heroic statue of Zab Zonk at the murdering of Dirdie Panjeon. Alight at the next stop; you will see the Lambervoilles on the right hand and the Nouveau Cri on the left. Is all clear?"

"Quite clear and we thank you for your advice."

The two departed the terminal. They boarded a glistening glass and black metal tram and were carried swiftly toward the center of Fexelburg. The local time was midmorning;

Zonk's Star, a large pale disk, rode halfway up the sky. To right and left spread the suburbs of Fexelburg: rows of small bungalows constructed to a jaunty architecture, each flaunting some studiously novel trick of decoration to set it apart from its neighbors. Slender black native frooks, a hundred feet tall, lined the boulevards.

The tramway swung out into a main thoroughfare, leading into the heart of Fexelburg, with private vehicles moving at speed to either side of the central tramway. The long, low, unnaturally sleek vehicles were apparently designed for ostentation rather than utility; each was enameled in vivid colors and often flew an ensign from a jack staff, displaying the insignia of the owner's automobile club. In each vehicle, at the top of the control bar, a cluster of keys allowed the driver to play tunes to his mood as he drove, often very loudly, so that the occupants of other vehicles and casual pedestrians might also enjoy the music.

At the very least, thought Glawen, the city Fexelburg pulsed with frenetic energy.

Kirdy was still unhappy and rode with the corners of his mouth pinched in, as if at a bitter taste. Glawen wondered if he still resented leaving Soumjiana before his survey of the sausage grills had been completed. Or perhaps he had no liking for Tassadero.

The tram passed a large statue, depicting Zab Zonk in the act of executing a faithless mistress. Glawen and Kirdy alighted at the next stop, across a small plaza from the Lambervoilles Hotel, which, like every other enterprise of Fexelburg, advertised its presence with a large animated sign. Kirdy pointed to the sign with an air of excited discovery.

"There it is! The Lambervoilles! Floreste always took us to the Flinders Inn, where the nomads stay."

"Floreste perhaps sees himself and the Mummers as nomads."

"Come!" said Kirdy sternly.

"This is not the time for jokes."

"A thousand apologies."

Glawen and Kirdy crossed the boulevard, dodging and running to avoid the vehicles which sped past, careless of pedestrians, each driver playing a lively tune on the keys of his control bar.

A few yards around the plaza a garish animation advertised the Nouveau Cri Haberdashery. The sign depicted a man in a fusty black suit entering a doorway and immediately emerging dressed in stylish new garments. He entered again, to reappear in a different costume. Again and again the man in the black suit passed through the doorway, coming out each time in a new ensemble.

Kirdy came to a sudden halt.

"Where are you going? The hotel is over here!"

Glawen looked at him in wonder.

"Don't you remember what the official at the spaceport told us?"

Kirdy scowled. He had hoped to go directly to the Lambervoilles where he might indulge himself in a warm bath and perhaps doze off for an hour or two.

"We can buy clothes later."

Glawen paid no heed, and continued around the plaza toward the Nouveau Cri, leaving Kirdy staring disconsolately toward the Lambervoilles. Kirdy suddenly became aware of Glawen's absence. He uttered a startled yell, and ran angrily in pursuit.

"You might say something before you make one of those furtive departures!"

"Sorry," said Glawen.

"I thought you had heard me."

Kirdy merely grunted. The two entered the haberdashery. A clerk no older than themselves came forward, halted, stared at their clothes, then spoke in a voice of supercilious politeness: "Sirs? What might be your wishes?"

"We want a change or two of clothes," said Glawen.

"Nothing too elaborate; we'll be here only a short time."

"I can provide you both suitable outfits. What categorical dimension will you be occupying?"

Glawen shook his head in puzzlement.

"These terms are not familiar to me."

Kirdy said shortly: "It is a roundabout way of asking whether we consider ourselves gentlemen or pariahs."

The clerk made a delicate gesture.