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ankles. His trousers were of scarlet corduroy, tight at the waist, thigh and calf, with a loose puff of green cloth between calf and ankle. The clothes were his own, obviously: they looked wrong and right at once, as did the carved gold knuckle-guards he wore on his hands.
    The big man in the dark cloak continued speaking, looking at a point over Daksat’s head, as if Daksat were nonexistent.
    “Clauktaba has won Imagist honors over the years. Bel-Washab was the Korsi Victor last month; Tol Morabait is an acknowledged master of the technique. And there is Ghisel Ghang of West Ind, who knows no peer in the creation of fire-stars, and Pulakt Havjorska, the Champion of the Island Realm. So it becomes a matter of skepticism whether you, new, inexperienced, without a fund of images, can do more than embarrass us all with your mental poverty.”
    Daksat’s brain was yet wrestling with his bewilderment, and he could feel no strong resentment at the big man’s evident contempt. He said, “Just what is all this? I’m not sure that I understand my position.”
    The man in the black cloak inspected him quizzically. “So, now you commence to experience trepidation? Justly, I assure you.” He sighed, waved his hands. “Well, well—young men will be impetuous, and perhaps you have formed images you considered not discreditable. In any event, the public eye will ignore you for the glories of Clauktaba’s geometrics and Ghisel Ghang’s star-bursts. Indeed, I counsel you, keep your images small, drab and confined: you will so avoid the faults of bombast and discord…Now, it is time to go to your imagicon. This way, then. Remember, greys, browns, lavenders, perhaps a few tones of ocher and rust; then the spectators will understand that you compete for the schooling alone, and do not actively challenge the masters. This way then…”
    He opened a door and led Dobnor Daksat up a stair and so out into the night.
    They stood in a great stadium, facing six great screens forty feet high. Behind them in the dark sat tier upon tier of spectators—thousands and thousands, and their sounds came as a soft crush. Daksat turned to see them, but all their faces and their individualities had melted into the entity as a whole.
    “Here,” said the big man, “this is your apparatus. Seat yourself and I will adjust the ceretemps.”
    Daksat suffered himself to be placed in a heavy chair, so soft and deep that he felt himself to be floating. Adjustments were made at his head and neck and the bridge of his nose. He felt a sharp prick, a pressure, a throb, and then a soothing warmth. From the distance, a voice called out over the crowd:
    “Two minutes to grey mist! Two minutes to grey mist! Attend, imagists, two minutes to grey mist!”
    The big man stooped over him. “Can you see well?”
    Daksat raised himself a trifle. “Yes…All is clear.”
    “Very well. At ‘grey mist’, this little filament will glow. When it dies, then it is your screen, and you must imagine your best.”
    The far voice said, “One minute to grey mist! The order is Pulakt Havjorska, Tol Morabait, Ghisel Ghang, Dobnor Daksat, Clauktaba and Bel-Washab. There are no handicaps; all colors and shapes are permitted. Relax then, ready your lobes, and now—grey mist!”
    The light glowed on the panel of Daksat’s chair, and he saw five of the six screens light to a pleasant pearl-grey, swirling a trifle as if agitated, excited. Only the screen before him remained dull. The big man who stood behind him reached down, prodded. “Grey mist, Daksat; are you deaf and blind?”
    Daksat thought grey mist, and instantly his screen sprang to life, displaying a cloud of silver-grey, clean and clear.
    “Humph,” he heard the big man snort. “Somewhat dull and without interest—but I suppose good enough…See how Clauktaba’s rings with hints of passion already, quivers with emotion.”
    And Daksat, noting the screen to his right, saw this to be true. The grey, without actually