“I can sign, Ms. Lin.”

Lin put down her pad and apologized profusely with her hands.

“Don’t worry,” said her host disingenuously. “It happens. The Bonetown is unforgiving to visitors. Next time you’ll know to leave earlier, won’t you?”

Lin agreed that she would, that that was exactly what she would know to do.

“I like your work a great deal, Ms. Lin. I have all the heliotypes that made their way from Lucky Gazid. He is a sad, pathetic, broken cretin, that man-addiction is very sad in most of its forms-but he does, strangely enough, have something of a nose for art. That woman Alexandrine Nevgets was one of his, wasn’t she? Pedestrian, unlike your own work, but pleasant. I’m always prepared to indulge Lucky Gazid. It will be a shame when he dies. It’ll doubtless be a sordid affair, some dirty stubby knife gutting him slowly for the sake of small change; or a venereal disease involving vile emissions and sweat caught from an underage whore; or perhaps his bones will be broken for snitching-the militia, after all, do pay well, and junkies can’t be choosers when it comes to income.”

The voice that floated over the screen was melodious, and what the speaker said scanned hypnotically: he spoke everything into a poem. His sentences lilted on gently. His words were brutal. Lin was very afraid. She could not think of anything to say. Her hands were still.

“So having decided that I like your art I want to talk to you to discover whether you would be right for a commission. Your work is unusual for a khepri. Would you agree?”

Yes.

“Talk to me about your statues, Ms. Lin, and don’t worry, were you about to, that you might sound precious. I have no prejudices against taking art seriously, and don’t forget that I started this conversation. The key words to bear in mind when thinking how to answer my question are ‘themes,’ ‘technique’ and ‘aesthetics.’ ”

Lin hesitated, but her fear drove her on. She wanted to keep this man happy, and if that meant talking about her work, then that was what she would do.

I work alone, she signed, which is part of my…rebellion. I left Creekside and then Kinken, left my moiety and my hive. People were miserable, so communal art got stupidly heroic. Like Plaza of Statues. I wanted to spit out something…nasty. Tried to make some of the grand figures we all made together a little less perfect…Pissed off my sisters. So turned to my own work. Nasty work. Creekside nasty.

“That is exactly as I had expected. It is even-forgive me-somewhat hackneyed. However, that doesn’t detract from the power of the work itself. Khepri spit is a wonderful substance. Its lustre is quite unique, and its strength and lightness make it convenient, which I know is not the sort of word one is supposed to think of in connection with art, but I am pragmatic. Anyhow, to have such a lovely substance used for the drab wish-fulfilment of depressed khepri is a terrible waste. I was so very relieved to see someone using the substance for interesting, unsettling ends. The angularity you achieve is extraordinary, by the way.”

Thank you. I have powerful gland technique. Lin was enjoying the licence to boast. Originally I was a member of the Outnow school which forbids working on a piece after spat out. Gives you excellent control. Even though I have…reneged. I now go hack while the spit is soft, work it more. More freedom, can do overhangs and the like.

“Do you use a great deal of colour variation?” Lin nodded. “I saw only the sepia of the heliotypes. That is good to know. That is technique and aesthetics. I’m very interested to hear your thoughts on themes, Ms. Lin.”

Lin was taken aback. Suddenly she could not think what her themes were.

“Let me put you in an easier position. I’d like to tell you what themes I am interested in. And then we can see if you’d be right for the commission I have in mind.”

The voice waited until Lin nodded ascent.

“Please tilt your head up, Ms. Lin.” Startled, she did so. The motion made her nervous, exposing as it did the soft underbelly of her beetle head, inviting harm. She held her head still as eyes behind the mirror-fish watched her.

“You have the same cords in your neck as a human woman. You share the hollow at the base of your throat beloved by poets. Your skin is a shade of red that would mark you out as unusual, that’s true, but it could still pass as human. I follow that beautiful human neck up-I have no doubt you won’t accept the description ‘human,’ but indulge me a minute-and then there is…there is a moment…there is a thin zone where that soft human skin merges with the pale segmented cream underneath your head.”

For the first time since Lin had entered the room, the speaker seemed to be searching for words.

“Have you ever created a statue of a cactus?” Lin shook her head. “Nonetheless you have seen them up close? My associate who led you here, for example. Did you happen to notice his feet, or his fingers, or his neck? There is a moment when the skin, the skin of the sentient creature, becomes mindless plant. Cut the fat round base of a cactus’s foot, he can’t feel a thing. Poke him in the thigh where he’s a bit softer, he’ll squeal. But there in that zone…it’s an altogether different thing…the nerves are intertwining, learning to be succulent plant, and pain is distant, blunt, diffuse, worrying rather than agonizing.

“You can think of others. The torso of the Cray or the Inchmen, the sudden transition of a Remade limb, many other races and species in this city, and countless more in the world, who live with a mongrel physiognomy. You will perhaps say that you do not recognize any transition, that the khepri are complete and whole in themselves, that to see ‘human’ features is anthropocentric of me. But leaving aside the irony of that accusation-an irony you can’t yet appreciate-you would surely recognize the transition in other races from your own. And perhaps in the human.

“And what of the city itself? Perched where two rivers strive to become the sea, where mountains become a plateau, where the clumps of trees coagulate to the south and-quantity becomes quality-are suddenly a forest. New Crobuzon’s architecture moves from the industrial to the residential to the opulent to the slum to the underground to the airborne to the modern to the ancient to the colourful to the drab to the fecund to the barren…You take my point. I won’t go on.

“This is what makes the world, Ms. Lin. I believe this to be the fundamental dynamic. Transition. The point where one thing becomes another. It is what makes you, the city, the world, what they are. And that is the theme I’m interested in. The zone where the disparate become part of the whole. The hybrid zone.

“Could this theme interest you, d’you think? And if the answer is yes…then I am going to ask you to work for me. Before you answer, please understand what this will mean.

“I will ask you to work from life, to produce a model-life-size, I fancy-of me.

“Very few people see my face, Ms. Lin. A man in my position has to be careful. I’m sure you can understand. If you take this commission I will make you rich, but I will also own a part of your mind. The part that pertains to me. That is mine. I do not give you permission to share it with any. If you do, you will suffer greatly before you die.

“So…” Something creaked. Lin realized that he had sat back in his chair. “So, Ms. Lin. Are you interested in the hybrid zone? Are you interested in this job?”

I cannot…cannot turn this down, thought Lin helplessly. I cannot. For money, for art…Gods help me. I cannot turn this down. Oh…please, please let me not regret this.

She paused, and signed her acceptance of his terms.

“Oh, I am so glad,” he breathed. Lin’s heart raced. “I really am glad. Well…”

There was a shuffling sound behind the screen. Lin sat very still. Her antennae moved tremulously.