Cluster by Piers Anthony Page A

colonies further regressed to subcivilized*
    â€“enough! with nucleus of only three atomic-level settlements including origin sphere represents very limited actuality and questionable potential no action required at this time continue monitoring to ascertain purpose of knyfh transfer if other than desperation quest–
    Â 
    *POWER*
    â€“CIVILIZATION–
    Â 
    Flint looked about, still angry despite the omen. He was in a huge room, much like the main chamber of the Imp station in Outworld, but larger. Vents set high in the walls let in slits of light—no, it was artificial light after all, that was one of the things the imps had—and there was a growling as of hidden machines running. The overall effect was awful.
    â€œFlint of Etamin?” a woman inquired. She had no sex appeal; she was flat breasted, cloud white, and spoke with a strong Imp accent. Flint presumed this really was Imperial Earth, and he didn't like it.
    â€œOutworld,” he said shortly. “Etamin's the star.”
    â€œEtamin—double star on the Fringe,” she said. Her voice was low but not soft.
    This elicited a spark of interest. “You mean Sol isn't double?” he inquired. He was not being facetious; it had not occurred to him that Sol should differ from his home sun in this significant respect. No wonder Sol was so faint in the sky. But of course there was no reason a single star system should not support life; it was the planet that counted.
    â€œPlease don this tunic,” she said, holding out a bolt of red cloth.
    â€œYou want me to put on a red dress?” he asked incredulously.
    â€œIt is not a dress. It is an Imperial tunic. All citizens wear them, males and females. You will note that I wear one.”
    Flint looked again. This imp was not merely flatbreasted but non breasted. “You're male !” he said, surprised. The dress and the smooth, unbearded face had deceived him, but the voice and chest should have given him the hint. He was being dangerously unobservant.
    The man rolled his pale eyes briefly skyward in a feminine gesture. “What color tunic would you prefer? Anything except black.”
    â€œWhy not black?”
    â€œThat signifies officialdom.”
    Flint disliked officialdom. “I'm happy the way I am. No tunic.”
    Now an evanescent smile. “That simply won't do. You're no Tarot figure.”
    â€œTarow people are naked?”
    â€œThat's Tarot, with an unpronounced terminal T. Merely illustrations on occult cards used by the cult of Tarotism. Its prime tenet is that all concepts of God are valid.”
    â€œ Aren't they?”
    Again the rolling of eyes. “You're to meet the Council of Ministers in fifteen minutes. You must be dressed.”
    Flint realized that argument would only delay his return home. “Give me a green one, then. I'm a green man.”
    â€œVery good,” the white man said distastefully. He produced a green tunic that came reasonably close to matching Flint's skin, and Flint put it on over his head. He balked at using the silk undergarment the man tried to make him wear under it, however. A dress was bad enough, but no warrior or craftsman wore panties! Suppose he needed to urinate in a hurry?
    A woman—a real one this time, with breasts and hips and hair, though dressed just like a man—came and slicked down his proudly unruly hair, washed his hands and feet, and trimmed off the better part of his strong finger- and toenails. She was, despite her pale skin, an attractive female with a musky odor and a deft touch; otherwise he would not have submitted to these indignities. He hoped he would not have to fight soon; his hands were now as embarrassingly dainty as Honeybloom's.
    He was ushered into a capsule that closed about him and abruptly plunged through the wall. He had a confused glimpse of buildings like straight vertical cliffs, and crowds of robed people. Up above the sky was blue , not green, and the