"THE SIXTH PANEL TO YOUR LEFT AWAITS YOUR PLEASURE."
Julian strode down the hall and paused before the sixth panel, it opened inwardly with the same silent precision that characterized everything in the place. Thus far he had seen no one. The maximum anonymity was, of course, essential. Still, there was something eerie in the atmosphere of complete detachment. He entered and found himself in a circular room with curving, almost translucent walls. The floor was firm, yet resilient under foot. He felt like a fop at a rejuvenation center, and laughed suddenly at the thought. His whole countenance was lit by that rare smile. From somewhere a slim, completely masked creature glided silently into the room.
Julian judged its height at slightly less than five feet; however, beyond the fact that its body was undeniably human, and exquisitely proportioned, Julian was unable to go, for the being's skin-tight garment left not an inch of surface exposed—except its hands. These were long, and marvelously sensitive, with a nervous life of their own as if they acted independently of the Ganymedean's guiding brain.
They were measuring him now, taking in the magnificent breadth of shoulder, the long, flat thighs and narrow waist, above which rose the inverted pyramid that was Julian's torso. At last they carefully removed his helmet and paused as if appraising the great shock of golden hair. With a swift motion that took in Julian's entire body, the designer indicated that Julian strip. Again the exquisite hands repeated the gesture—impatiently this time—but Julian, his face set, still hesitated.
The designer was a native Ganymedean, beyond doubt—Julian knew that much. But, was it a man or a woman? Julian was well aware that the exquisite beings of fabulous Ganymede, who even when confronted with the outrage that was The Dynasty, foisted upon them by the Terran Mutants had disdained arming themselves to the teeth as the rest of the Moons had done, had some very strange ideas about things. And the "Control-Facet" had no intention of disrobing before a woman—even as alien and anonymous a being as the Ganymedeans. His face was beginning to flush with sheer annoyance.
As if reading Julian's thoughts, the masked designer shook its head and made an expressive gesture with its hands, as if Julian's nudity would be a thing of such utter unimportance, that it would scarcely be noticed, except as a foundation upon which to achieve a superlative disguise. And Julian had no alternative. It was either disrobe or enter the Public Rooms as he was. Mentally he consigned the stubborn race of Ganymede to the most sulphuric region he could think of, and palming his electro-beam, undressed. The coldly unemotional designer was unable to suppress a gasp! Its ancient, long-forgotten Gods must have been like this; theirs was a cult of beauty, and in Julian it was witnessing a masterpiece. Almost, reverently, the fluttering hands began their work.
The Ganymedean's artistry was very great. "Part of their accursed stubbornness!" Julian thought. For the Ganymedeans had an exasperating tenacity of purpose which brooked no obstacles until they achieved their ends—it bordered on genius, or madness, or both. Had they devoted it to the art of War, Seville-Lorca's "Jovian Annals" would have been a vastly different story.
The space-tanned face with its slightly flaring nostrils, and large silver-grey eyes, crowned by the shock of golden mane, began to change subtly under the magical hands of the designer. Slowly the shoulder long hair took on a dull, ruddy sheen, while the coppered complexion paled and a temporary irritant brought a deep flush to his cheeks. With deft movements, the winged brows were darkened and narrowed, and the generous, full lips were pulled slightly inwards and taped with invisi-plastic, until only a thin, cruel curve remained. The Ganymedean stepped back and scrutinized the effect. Quickly it crossed to a part of the circular chamber and then pressed a stud. A great section of the wall sank downward, revealing tier after tier of dazzling costumes already composed. There were gossamer silks from Venus, lustrous as moonlight pools; the opulent gleam of stiff brocades from Mars, as unyielding as the character of that supercilious race. Velvets like crushed petals, embroidered in Starlimans, the priceless green diamonds of Mercury; vivid fabrics from distant Neptune, which were not woven at all, but secret plastics worth a small fortune each. And, they were all green—in an infinite gradation of shades, nuances, hues. The artist's hands reached and drew forth a single garment open at the back. And then the real work began.