Perdido Street Station Part 18

He stumbled slowly, nervously across the room, seeming to hang back, chary of seeing what he was seeing. He approached the cage.

Inside, a colossal ma.s.s of beautifully coloured grub-flesh wriggled unhappily. Isaac stood uneasily over the enormous thing. He could feel the odd little vibrations of alien unhappiness in the aether around him.

The caterpillar had at least tripled in size overnight. It was a foot long, and correspondingly fat. The faded magnificence of its coloured patches had returned to their initial, burnished brilliance. With interest. The sticky-looking hairs on its tail-end were wicked-looking bristles. It had no more than six inches of s.p.a.ce around it on all sides. It nudged weakly against the sides of the hutch.

"What happened to you you?" hissed Isaac.

He recoiled and gazed at the thing, which waved its head in the air blindly. He thought quickly, pictured the number of dreams.h.i.t lozenges he had given the grub to eat. He looked around and saw the envelope containing all the remains where he had left it, untouched. The thing hadn't got out and gorged itself. There was no way, Isaac realized, that the little pellets of drug he had left in that hutch contained anything like the number of calories that the caterpillar had used on growth over the night. Even if it had just piled on weight ounce for ounce with what it had eaten, it would not have represented an increase in this league.

"Whatever energy you're getting out of your supper," he whispered, "it's not physical. What in Jabber's name are are you?" you?"

He had to get the thing out of the cage. It looked so miserable, flailing pointlessly in that little s.p.a.ce. Isaac hung back, slightly afraid and a little disgusted at the idea of touching the extraordinary thing. Eventually he picked up the box, staggering under the ma.s.sively increased weight, and held it just above the ground in a much larger cage left over from his experiments, a chicken-wire-fronted mini-aviary five feet high that had contained a small family of canaries. He opened the front of the hutch and tipped the fat grub into the sawdust, then quickly closed and latched the front grille.

He stood back to gaze at his rehoused captive.

It looked directly at him, now, and he felt its childish pleas for breakfast.

"Oh steady on on," he said. "I haven't even eaten yet." haven't even eaten yet."

He backed uneasily away, then turned and made for his parlour.

Over his breakfast of fruit and iced buns, Isaac realized that the effects of the dreams.h.i.t were wearing off very quickly. It might be the worst hangover in the world, It might be the worst hangover in the world, he thought wryly, he thought wryly, but it's gone within the hour. No wonder the punters come back. but it's gone within the hour. No wonder the punters come back.

From across the room, the foot-long caterpillar scrabbled around the floor of its new cage. It nosed miserably around the dirt, then reared up again and waved its head in the direction of the packet of dreams.h.i.t.

Isaac slapped his hand over his face.

"Oh, h.e.l.l's Donkeys," he said. Vague emotions of unease and experimental curiosity combined in his mind. It was a childish excitement, like that of boys and girls who burnt insects with magnified sun. He stood and reached into the envelope with a big wooden spoon. He carried the congealed lump over to the caterpillar, which almost danced with excitement as it saw, or smelt, or somehow sensed, the dreams.h.i.t approaching. Isaac opened a little feeding hatch at the back of the crate and tipped the doses of drug in. Immediately the caterpillar raised its head and slammed it down on the lumpy mess. Its mouth was large enough now that its workings could easily be seen. It slid open and gnawed voraciously at the powerful narcotic.

"That," said Isaac, "is as big a cage as you're going to get, so ease up on the growing, right?" He backed away to his clothes, without taking his eyes from the feeding creature.

Isaac picked up and sniffed the various clothes strewn around the room. He put on a shirt and trousers with no smell and a minimum of stains.

Better sort out a "things to do" list, he thought grimly. he thought grimly. Top of which is "Beat Lucky Gazid to death." Top of which is "Beat Lucky Gazid to death." He stomped to his desk. The triangular Unified Field Theory diagram he had drawn for Yagharek was at the top of the papers that covered it. Isaac pursed his lips and stared at it. He picked it up and looked thoughtfully over to where the caterpillar gnawed happily. There was something else he should do that morning. He stomped to his desk. The triangular Unified Field Theory diagram he had drawn for Yagharek was at the top of the papers that covered it. Isaac pursed his lips and stared at it. He picked it up and looked thoughtfully over to where the caterpillar gnawed happily. There was something else he should do that morning.

There's no point putting it off, he thought reluctantly. he thought reluctantly. Maybe I can clear the decks for Yag and learn a little about my friend here . . . maybe. Maybe I can clear the decks for Yag and learn a little about my friend here . . . maybe. Isaac sighed heavily and rolled up his sleeves, then sat down at a mirror for a rare and perfunctory preen. He poked inexpertly at his hair, found another, cleaner shirt into which he changed, oozing resentment. Isaac sighed heavily and rolled up his sleeves, then sat down at a mirror for a rare and perfunctory preen. He poked inexpertly at his hair, found another, cleaner shirt into which he changed, oozing resentment.

He scribbled a note for David and Lublamai, checked that his giant caterpillar was secure and unlikely to escape. Then he descended the stairs and, pinning his message to the door, walked out into a day full of sharp clear blades of light.

Isaac sighed and set off to find an early cab to take him to the university and the best biologist, natural philosopher and bio-thaumaturge he knew: the odious Montague Vermishank.

CHAPTER S SEVENTEEN.

Isaac entered New Crobuzon University with a mixture of nostalgia and discomfort. The university buildings were little changed since his time as a teacher. The various faculties and departments dotted Ludmead with a grandiose architecture that overshadowed the rest of the area.

The quad before the enormous and ancient Science Faculty building was covered with trees shedding their blossom. Isaac walked footpaths worn by generations of students through a blizzard of garish pink petals. He strode busily up the scrubbed steps and pushed open the great doors.

Isaac was brandishing faculty identification that had expired seven years previously, but he need not have bothered. The porter behind the desk was Sedge, an old, entirely witless man, whose tenure at the faculty long predated Isaac's own, and looked set to continue for ever. He greeted Isaac as he always did, on these irregular visits, with an incoherent mutter of recognition. Isaac shook his hand and enquired after his family. Isaac had reason to be grateful to Sedge, before whose milky eyes he had liberated numerous expensive pieces of laboratory equipment.

Isaac strode up the steps past groups of students, smoking, arguing, writing. Overwhelmingly male and human, there were, nonetheless, the occasional defensive tight-knit group of young xenians or women or both. Some students conducted theoretical debates at ostentatious volume. Others made occasional marginal notes in their textbooks and sucked at rolled cigarillos of pungent tobacco. Isaac pa.s.sed a group squatting at the end of a corridor, practising what they had just learned, laughing delightedly as the tiny homunculus they had made from ground liver stumbled four steps before collapsing in a pile of twitching mulch.

The number of students around him decreased as he continued up stairs and along corridors. To his irritation and disgust, Isaac found that his heart was speeding up as he approached his erstwhile boss.

He walked the plush darkwood panelling of the Science Faculty's administration wing, and approached the office at the far end, on the door of which was written in gold leaf: Director. Montague Vermishank. Director. Montague Vermishank.

Isaac paused outside and fiddled nervously. He was emotionally confused, striving to maintain a decade's anger and dislike along with a conciliatory, non-confrontational tone. He breathed deeply once, then turned and knocked briskly, opened the door and walked in.

"What do you think . . ." shouted the man behind the desk, before stopping abruptly when he recognized Isaac. "Ah," he said, after a long silence. "Of course. Isaac. Do sit down."

Isaac sat.

Montague Vermishank was eating his lunch. His pale face and shoulders leaned sharply over his enormous desk. Behind him was a small window. It looked out, Isaac knew, over the wide avenues and large houses of Mafaton and Chnum, but a grubby curtain was pulled across it and the light was stifled.

Vermishank was not fat, but he was coated from his jowls down in a slight excess layer, a swaddling of dead flesh like a corpse's. He wore a suit too small for him, and his necrotic white skin oozed from his sleeves. His thin hair was brushed and styled with a neurotic fervour. Vermishank was drinking lumpy cream soup. He dipped doughy bread into it regularly and sucked at the resulting mess, chewing but not biting off, gnawing and worrying at the saliva-fouled bread that dripped wan yellow onto his desk. His colourless eyes took Isaac in.

Isaac stared uneasily and was thankful for his tight bulk and his skin the colour of smouldering wood.

"Was going to shout at you for failing to knock or make an appointment, but then I saw it was you. Of course. Normal rules do not apply. How are you, Isaac? Are you after money? Need some research work?" asked Vermishank in his phlegmy whisper.

"No, no, nothing like that. I'm not bad, actually, Vermishank," said Isaac with strained bonhomie. "How's all your work?"

"Oh, good, good. Doing a paper on bio-ignition. I've isolated the pyrotic f.l.a.n.g.e in a fire-bes." There was a long silence. "Very exciting," whispered Vermishank.

"Sounds it, sounds it," enthused Isaac. They stared at each other. Isaac could not think of any more small talk. He loathed and respected Vermishank. It was an unsettling combination.

"So, uh . . . anyway . . ." said Isaac. "I'm here, to be frank, to ask your help."

"Oh ho."

"Yeah . . . See, I'm working on something that's a bit off my track . . . I'm more of a theoretician than a practical researcher, you know . . ."

"Yes . . ." Vermishank's voice dripped an indiscriminate irony.

You ratf.u.c.k, thought Isaac. thought Isaac. I gave you that for free . . . I gave you that for free . . .

"Right," he said slowly. "Well, this is . . . I mean this could could be, though I doubt it . . . a problem of bio-thaumaturgy. I wanted to ask your professional opinion." be, though I doubt it . . . a problem of bio-thaumaturgy. I wanted to ask your professional opinion."

"Ah ha."

"Yes. What I wanted to know was . . . can someone be Remade to fly?"

"Ooh." Vermishank leaned back and dabbed soup from around his mouth with bread. Briefly, he wore a moustache of crumbs. He clasped his hands in front of him and waggled his fat fingers. "Fly, eh?"

Vermishank's voice picked up an air of excitement previously lacking in his cold tones. He may have wanted to sting Isaac with his heavy contempt, but he could not help being enthused by problems of science.

"Yeah. I mean, has that been done?" said Isaac.

"Yes . . . It has been done . . ." Vermishank nodded slowly without taking his eyes from Isaac, who sat up in his chair and s.n.a.t.c.hed a notebook from his pocket.

"Oh, has has it?" said Isaac. it?" said Isaac.

Vermishank's eyes lost focus as he thought harder.

"Yes . . . Why, Isaac? Has someone come to you and asked to fly?"

"I really can't . . . uh, divulge . . ."

"Of course you can't, Isaac. Of course course you can't. Because you are a professional. And I respect you for that." Vermishank smiled idly at his guest. you can't. Because you are a professional. And I respect you for that." Vermishank smiled idly at his guest.

"So . . . what were the details?" ventured Isaac. He set his teeth before he spoke, to control his shaking indignation. f.u.c.k you, you patronizing game-playing pig, f.u.c.k you, you patronizing game-playing pig, he thought furiously. he thought furiously.

"Oh ho . . . Well . . ." Isaac twisted with impatience as Vermishank raised his head ponderously to remember. "There was a biophilosopher, years ago, at the end of the last century. Calligine, name of. Had himself Remade." Vermishank smiled fondly and cruelly and shook his head. "Mad thing, really, but it did seem to work. Huge mechanical wings that unfolded like fans. He wrote a pamphlet about it." Vermishank strained his head over his lardy shoulder, glanced vaguely at the shelves of volumes that covered his walls. He waved with a limp hand that could have signalled anything at all about the whereabouts of Calligine's pamphlet. "Don't you know the rest? Not heard the song?" Isaac narrowed his eyes quizzically. Appallingly, Vermishank sang a few bars in a reedy tenor. "So Cally flew high / On um-ber-ella wings / Headed into the sky / Waved his love bye-bye / Went West with a sigh / Disappeared in the land of the Horrible Things . . ." "So Cally flew high / On um-ber-ella wings / Headed into the sky / Waved his love bye-bye / Went West with a sigh / Disappeared in the land of the Horrible Things . . ."

"Of course I've heard that!" said Isaac. "I never knew it was about someone real real . . ." . . ."

"Well, you never took Introductory Bio-Thaumaturgy, did you? As I remember, you did about two terms of the Intermediate course, much later. You missed my first lecture. That's the story I use to entice our jaded young knowledge-hunters onto the road of this n.o.ble science." Vermishank spoke in a completely deadpan voice. Isaac felt his distaste return with interest. "Calligine disappeared," Vermishank continued. "Went off flying south-west, towards the Cacotopic Stain. Never seen again."

There was another long silence.

"Uh . . . is that the whole story?" said Isaac. "How did they get the wings on him? Did he keep experimental notes? What was the Remaking like?"

"Oh, horribly difficult, I'd imagine. Calligine probably got through a few experimental subjects before getting his sums right . . ." Vermishank grinned. "Probably called in a few favours with Mayor Mantagony. I suspect a few felons sentenced to death had a few more weeks of life than they'd expected. Not part of the process that he advertised. But it stands to reason, doesn't it, that it's going to take a few tries before you get it right. I mean, you've got to connect up the mechanism to bones and muscles and whatnot that haven't a clue what they're supposed to be doing . . ."

"But what if the muscles and bones did did know what they were doing? What about if a . . . a wyrman or something, had its wings cut off. Could they be replaced?" know what they were doing? What about if a . . . a wyrman or something, had its wings cut off. Could they be replaced?"

Vermishank gazed pa.s.sively at Isaac. His head and eyes did not move.

"Ha . . ." he said faintly, eventually. "You'd have thought that was easier, wouldn't you? It is, in theory, but it's even harder in practice. I've done some of this with birds and . . . well, with winged things. First off, Isaac, in theory it's perfectly possible. In theory, there is almost nothing which can't be done with Remaking. It's all just a question of wiring things up right, a bit of flesh-moulding. But flight's horribly hard because you're dealing with all sorts of variables that have to be exactly right. See, Isaac, you can Remake a dog, sew a leg back on, or mould it on with a clayflesh hex, and the animal'll limp along happily. Won't be pretty, but it'll walk. Can't do that with wings. Wings have to be perfect or they won't do the trick. It's harder harder to teach muscles that think they know how to fly to do the same trick differently than it is to teach muscles that haven't any idea in the first place. Your bird or what have you, its shoulders get all confused by this wing which is just a tad the wrong shape, or the wrong size, or based on different aerodynamics, and it ends up being totally stymied, to teach muscles that think they know how to fly to do the same trick differently than it is to teach muscles that haven't any idea in the first place. Your bird or what have you, its shoulders get all confused by this wing which is just a tad the wrong shape, or the wrong size, or based on different aerodynamics, and it ends up being totally stymied, even a.s.suming even a.s.suming you've reconnected everything up right. you've reconnected everything up right.

"So the answer, I suppose I'm saying, Isaac, is that yes it can be done. This wyrman wyrman, or whatever, can be Remade to fly again. But it isn't likely. It's too d.a.m.n hard. There's no bio-thaumaturge, no Remaker, who could promise a result. Either you're going to have to find Calligine, get him to do it," hissed Vermishank in conclusion, "or I wouldn't risk it."

Isaac finished scribbling notes and flipped his notebook closed.

"Thanks, Vermishank. I was sort of . . . hoping you'd say that. That's your professional opinion, eh? Well, I'll just have to pursue my other other line of enquiry, of which you wouldn't approve at all . . ." His eyes bulged like a naughty boy's. line of enquiry, of which you wouldn't approve at all . . ." His eyes bulged like a naughty boy's.

Vermishank nodded very slightly and a sickly little smile grew and died on his mouth like a fungus.

"Ha," he said faintly.

"Right, well, thanks for your time . . . Appreciate it . . ." Isaac fl.u.s.tered as he stood to go. "Sorry to be so fleeting . . ."

"Not at all. Any other opinions needed?"

"Well . . ." Isaac paused with his arm half into his jacket. "Well. Have you heard of something called dreams.h.i.t?"

Vermishank raised an eyebrow. He leaned back in his chair and chewed his thumb, looking at Isaac with half-closed eyes.

"This is a university, Isaac. Do you think a new and exciting exciting illicit substance would sweep the city and none of our students would be tempted? Of course I've heard of it. We had our first expulsion for selling the drug less than half a year ago. Very bright young psychonomer, of predictably avant-garde theoretical persuasion. illicit substance would sweep the city and none of our students would be tempted? Of course I've heard of it. We had our first expulsion for selling the drug less than half a year ago. Very bright young psychonomer, of predictably avant-garde theoretical persuasion.

"Isaac, Isaac . . . for all your many, uh, indiscretions indiscretions . . ." a little simper pretended unconvincingly to rob the insult of its barb "-I wouldn't have had you down as a . . . a . . ." a little simper pretended unconvincingly to rob the insult of its barb "-I wouldn't have had you down as a . . . a drug drug person." person."

"No, Vermishank, nor am I. However, living and operating in the quagmire of corruption quagmire of corruption that I've chosen, surrounded by that I've chosen, surrounded by lowlifes lowlifes, and vile degenerates, I tend to be faced with things like drugs at the various sordid orgies sordid orgies I attend." Isaac told himself off for losing his patience at the same moment that he decided there was nothing to be gained from further diplomacy. He spoke loudly and sarcastically. He rather enjoyed his ire. I attend." Isaac told himself off for losing his patience at the same moment that he decided there was nothing to be gained from further diplomacy. He spoke loudly and sarcastically. He rather enjoyed his ire.

"So anyway," he continued, "one of my disgusting friends was using this bizarre drug and I wanted to know more about it. Obviously shouldn't have asked someone so high-minded."

Vermishank was chuckling soundlessly. He laughed without opening his mouth. His face remained set in a sour smirk. He kept his eyes on Isaac. The only sign that he was laughing was the little shucking motion of his shoulders and his slight rocking back and forth.

"Ha," he said eventually. "Touchy-touchy, Isaac." He shook his head. Isaac patted his pockets and fastened his jacket, ostentatiously getting ready to go, refusing to feel silly. He turned his back and walked to the door, debating the merits of a parting shot.

Vermishank spoke while he considered.

"Dreamsh . . . Ah, that substance that substance is not really my area, Isaac. Pharmacology and whatnot something of a biological backwater. I'm sure one of your old colleagues might be able to tell you more. Good luck." is not really my area, Isaac. Pharmacology and whatnot something of a biological backwater. I'm sure one of your old colleagues might be able to tell you more. Good luck."

Isaac had decided against saying anything. He did, however, wave behind him in a pusillanimous motion that he could convince himself was contemptuous, but could just about pa.s.s for grat.i.tude and farewell. You arsing coward, You arsing coward, he scolded himself. But there was no getting away from it, Vermishank was a useful repository of knowledge. Isaac knew it would take a lot for him to be really, unrepentantly rude to his former boss. That was just too much expertise to close the door on. he scolded himself. But there was no getting away from it, Vermishank was a useful repository of knowledge. Isaac knew it would take a lot for him to be really, unrepentantly rude to his former boss. That was just too much expertise to close the door on.

So Isaac forgave himself his half-hearted retaliation and grinned, instead, at his own floundering reaction to the awful man. At least he had learnt what he had come there to learn. Remaking was not an option for Yagharek. Isaac was pleased, and he was honest enough to recognize the ign.o.bility of the reasons. His own research had been reinvigorated by the problem of flight, and if the prosaic flesh-sculpting of applied bio-thaumaturgy had won out over crisis theory, his research would have stalled. He did not want to lose his new momentum.

Yag old son, he reflected, he reflected, it's just as I thought. I'm your best shot, and you're mine. it's just as I thought. I'm your best shot, and you're mine.

Before the city there were ca.n.a.ls that wound between rock formations like silicate tusks, and patches of corn in the thin soil. And before the scrub there were days of glowering stone. Gnarled granite tumours that had sat heavy in the belly of the land since its birth, their thin earth-flesh stripped from them by air and water in a mere ten thousand years. They were ugly and terrifying as innards always are, those rock promontories, those crags.

I walked the path of the river. It was nameless between the hard ridged hills: in days it would become the Tar. I could see the freezing heights of real mountains miles to the west, colossi of rock and snow that reared as imperiously over the local jags of scree and lichen as those lower peaks reared over me.

Sometimes I thought the rocks shaped like looming figures, with claws and fangs and heads like clubs or hands. Petrified giants; unmoving stone G.o.ds; mistakes of the eye or the wind's chance sculptures.

I was seen. Goats and sheep poured scorn on my stumbling. Screaming birds of prey shouted their contempt. Sometimes I pa.s.sed shepherds who stared at me, suspicious and rude.

There were darker shapes at night. There were colder watchers under the water.

The rock teeth broke earth so slowly and slyly that I was walking that gouged valley for hours before I knew it. Before that were days and days of gra.s.s and scrub.

The earth was easier on my feet, and the ma.s.sive sky easier on my eye. But I would not be fooled. I would not be seduced. It was not the desert sky. It was a pretender, a surrogate, that tried to lull me. Drying vegetation stroked me with every wash of wind, lusher by far than my home. In the distance was the forest that I knew extended north to the edge of New Crobuzon, east to the sea. In secret places among its thick trees jutted vast, obscure, forgotten machines, pistons and gears, iron trunks among the wood, rust their bark.