Perdido Street Station - China Mieville [101]
He did not believe it himself. He was not surprised at the vehement opposition to his theory.
“I don’t know how, ’Zaac,” Thighs Growing had hissed at him reverentially, “but it lets you share dreams . . .” At this, the other users crammed into a little booth in The Clock and Cockerel had nodded in time, comically. Isaac affected a sceptical face, to maintain his role of killjoy. Actually, of course, he agreed. He intended to find out more about the extraordinary substance—Lemuel Pigeon would be the person to ask, or Lucky Gazid, if he ever reappeared—but the pace of his work in crisis theory overtook him. His attitude to the dreamshit he had shoved into the grub’s cage remained one of curiosity, nervousness and ignorance.
Isaac was staring uneasily at the vast creature one warm day in late Melluary. It was, he decided, more than prodigious. It was more than a very big caterpillar. It was definitely a monster. He resented it for being so damn interesting. Otherwise he could have just forgotten about it.
The door below him was pushed open, and Yagharek appeared in the shafts of early sun. It was rare, very rare for the garuda to come before nightfall. Isaac started and leapt to his feet, beckoning his client up the stairs.
“Yag, old son! Long time no see! I was drifting. I need you to tether me. Get on up here.”
Yagharek mounted the stairs wordlessly.
“How do you know when Lub and David are going to be out, eh?” asked Isaac. “You keep watch, or something creepy, right? Damn, Yag, you’ve got to stop skulking around like a fucking mugger.”
“I would talk to you, Grimnebulin.” Yagharek’s voice was oddly tentative.
“Fire away, old son.” Isaac sat and watched him. He knew by now that Yagharek would not sit.
Yagharek took off his cloak and wing-frame and turned to Isaac with folded arms. Isaac understood this to be as close as Yagharek would ever get to expressing trust, standing with his deformity in full view, making no effort to cover himself. Isaac supposed he should feel flattered.
Yagharek was eyeing him sideways.
“There are people in the night-city where I live, Grimnebulin, from many kinds of lives. It is not all flotsam that hide themselves.”
“I never presumed it was . . .” Isaac began, but Yagharek twitched his head impatiently, and Isaac was silent.
“Many nights I spend in silence and alone, but there are other times I talk to those with minds still sharp under a patina of alcohol and loneliness and drugs.” Isaac wanted to say, “I’ve said we could work out a place for you to stay,” but he stopped himself. Isaac wanted to see where this was heading. “There is a man, an educated, drunken man. I am not sure he believes me real. He may think me a recurring hallucination.” Yagharek breathed deeply. “I spoke to him about your theories, your crisis, and I was excited. And the man said to me . . . the man said to me ‘Why not go all the way? Why not use the Torque?’ “
There was a very long silence. Isaac shook his head in exasperation and disgust.
“I am here to put the question to you, Grimnebulin,” Yagharek continued. “Why do we not use the Torque? You are trying to create a science from scratch, Grimnebulin, but Torquic energy exists, techniques to tap it are known . . . I ask as an ignorant, Grimnebulin. Why do you not use the Torque?”
Isaac sighed very deeply and kneaded his face. Part of him was angry, but mostly he was just anxious, desperate to put a stop to this talk immediately. He turned to the garuda, and held up his hand.
“Yagharek . . .” he began, and at that moment, there was a bang on the door.
“Hello?” a cheerful voice yelled. Yagharek stiffened. Isaac leapt to his feet. The timing was extraordinary.
“Who is it?” yelled Isaac, bounding down the stairs.
A man poked his face round the door. He looked amiable,