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recalled
that he had no appointments for some time, and that meant he could
immerse himself in research for a little while. Another pragmatic
level did its job, evaluating the importance and urgency of his
outstanding work. A couple of piss-easy analyses of compounds that he
could put off more or less indefinitely; a half-promise to synthesize
an elixir or two—easy to get out of...apart from that, it was
only his own research into vodyanoi watercraeft. Which he could put
to one side.
    No, no, no! he
contradicted himself suddenly. Don’t have to put watercraeft
aside...I can integrate it! It’s all about elements arsing
about, misbehaving...liquid that stands free, heavy matter that
invades the air...there’s got to be something there...some
common denominator...
    With an effort he
brought himself back to his laboratory, realized that Yagharek was
staring at him impassively.
    "I’m
interested in your problem," he said simply. Immediately
Yagharek reached into a pouch. He held out a huge handful of twisted,
dirty gold nuggets. Isaac opened his eyes wide.
    "Well...uh, thank
you. I’ll certainly accept some expenses, hourly rates, etc..."
Yagharek handed Isaac the pouch.
    Isaac managed not to
whistle as he weighed it in his hand. He peered into it. Layer on
heavy layer of sifting gold. It was undignified, but Isaac felt
almost spellbound. This represented more money than he had ever seen
in one place, enough to cover a lot of research costs and still live
well for months.
    Yagharek was no
businessman, that was certain. He could have offered a third, a
quarter of this and still had almost anyone in Brock Marsh panting.
He should have kept most of it back, dangled it if interest waned.
    Maybe he has kept most of it back, thought Isaac, and his eyes widened even
further.
    "How do I reach
you?" said Isaac, still gazing at his gold. "Where are you
living?"
    Yagharek shook his head
and was silent. "Well, I have to be able to reach you..."
    "I will come to
you," said the garuda. "Every day, every two days, every
week...I will make sure you do not forget my case."
    "No danger of
that, I assure you. Are you really saying I can’t get messages
to you?"
    "I do not know
where I will be, Grimnebulin. I shun this city. It hunts me. I must
keep moving."
    Isaac shrugged
helplessly. Yagharek stood to leave. "You understand what I
want, Grimnebulin? I do not want to have to take a potion. I do not
want to have to wear a harness. I do not want to climb into a
contraption. I do not want one glorious journey into the clouds, and
an earthbound eternity. I want you to let me leap from the earth as
easily as you walk from room to room. Can you do that, Grimnebulin?"
    "I don’t
know." Isaac spoke slowly. "But I think so. I’m your
best bet, I reckon. I’m not a chymist, or a biologist, or a
thaumaturge...I’m a dilettante, Yagharek, a dabbler. I think of
myself..." Isaac paused and laughed briefly. He spoke with heavy
gusto. "I think of myself as the main station for all the
schools of thought. Like Perdido Street Station. You know it?"
Yagharek nodded. "Unavoidable, ain’t it? Fucking massive
great thing." Isaac patted his belly, maintaining the analogy.
"All the trainlines meet there—Sud Line, Dexter, Verso,
Head and Sink Lines; everything has to pass through it. That’s
like me. That’s my job. That’s the kind of scientist I
am. I’m being frank with you. Thing is, you see, I think that’s
what you need."
    Yagharek nodded. His
predatory face was so sharp, so hard. Emotion was invisible. His
words had to be decoded. It was not his face, nor his eyes, nor his
bearing (once again proud and imperious), nor his voice that let
Isaac see his despair. It was his words.
    "Be a dilettante,
a sciolist, a swindler...So long as you return me to the sky,
Grimnebulin."
    Yagharek stooped and
picked up his ugly wooden disguise. He strapped it to himself