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.
"You are off-world persons, I see."
"That is true."
"So then: what might be your walk of life? It is important that your clothes reflect your social perspectives. That is a truism of the clothing industry."
Glawen spoke haughtily: "Is it not obvious? I am a Clattuc;
my friend is a Wook. That should answer your question a dozen times over."
"I suppose it must," said the clerk.
"You seem quite definite. Well, then: to the selection. As gentlemen, you will wish to dress as gentlemen, without compromise or false economies. Let me see. For an absolutely minimum wardrobe, you will need a pair of morning suits or, better, three:
casual, business and ceremonial; Next, a suitable costume for a formal luncheon. Sportswear for afternoon recreation, which may be used for riding in a vehicle, although full and legitimate driving regalia is preferred. For afternoon social events in the company of charming ladies: what we call our pale gray bird-basher. Late afternoon social, of two levels, and dinner gear: formal and informal. All with proper accessories, and a range of hats, at least two dozen."
Glawen held up his hand.
"All this for a week's stay?"
