Perdido Street Station - China Mieville [120]
Everywhere they were, every part of the city, every dark bridge, every five-hundred-year-old mansion, every twisting bazaar, every grotesque concrete warehouse and tower and houseboat and squalid slum and manicured park, thronged with food.
It was a jungle without predators. A hunting ground.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Something was blocking the door into Isaac’s warehouse. He swore mildly, pushing against the obstruction.
It was early afternoon of the day after his success, which he already conceived of as his “cheese moment.” When he had reached Lin’s rooms the previous evening, he had been delighted to find her in. She had been tired but as happy as him. They had gone to bed for three hours, then stumbled out to The Clock and Cockerel.
It had been an unnervingly perfect night. Everyone Isaac could have wanted to see had been abroad in Salacus Fields, and all had stopped at the C & C for lobster or whiskey or chocolate laced with quinner. There were new additions to the clique, including Maybet Sunder, who had been forgiven for winning the Shintacost Prize. In return she was gracious about the arch comments Derkhan had made in print and others in person.
Lin had relaxed in the company of her friends, although her melancholia seemed to ebb rather than dissipate. Isaac had had one of his hissed political arguments with Derkhan, who had slipped him the latest issue of Double-R. The gathered friends had argued and eaten and thrown food at each other until two in the morning, when Isaac and Lin had returned to bed and warm, entwined sleep.
Over breakfast he had told her about his triumph with the crisis engine. She had not really understood the scale of the achievement, but that was understandable. She had realized that he was excited as almost never before, and had done her best to enthuse sufficiently. For Isaac’s part, it had made the difference he had suspected it would, simply communicating the bare bones of the project in the most unscientific way. He felt more grounded, less as if he were living some preposterous dream. He had learnt of potential problems during his explanation, and had come away eager to rectify them.
Isaac and Lin had parted with deep affection, and with a mutual promise not to let so long go by without each other again.
And now Isaac could not get into his workshop.
“Lub! David! What the arse you up to?” he yelled, and shoved at the door again.
As he pushed, the door opened a tiny way and he could see a sliver of the sunlit interior. He could see the edge of whatever was blocking the door.
It was a hand.
Isaac’s heart skittered.
“Oh Jabber!” he heard himself shout as he leant with all his weight on the door. It opened before his mass.
Lublamai was sprawled prone across the doorway. As Isaac knelt by his friend’s head, he heard Sincerity sniffling some way away, between the treads of the construct. She was cowed.
Isaac turned Lublamai over and let out a juddering sigh of relief when he felt that his friend was warm, heard him breathing.
“Wake up, Lub!” he yelled.
Lublamai’s eyes were already open. Isaac started back from that impassive gaze.
“Lub . . . ?” he whispered.
Drool had collected below Lublamai’s face, had blazed trails across his dusty skin. He lay completely limp, utterly motionless. Isaac felt his friend’s neck. The pulse was quite steady. Lublamai was taking in deep breaths, pausing a moment, then releasing. He sounded as if he were sleeping.
But Isaac flinched in horror before that imbecilic vacant glare. He waved his hand before Lublamai’s eyes, eliciting no response. Isaac slapped Lublamai’s face, softly, then hard twice. Isaac realized that he was shouting Lublamai’s name.
Lublamai’s head rocked back and forth like a sack full of stones.
Isaac closed his hand and felt something clammy. Lublamai’s hand was thinly coated in a clear, sticky liquid. He sniffed his hand and recoiled from the faint scent of lemons and rot.