Gavagol adopted a placatory tone, «Oh, I’ve heard of you, of course, who hasn’t? My name, by the way, is Diam Gavagol. Uh, pardon me, but how shall I address you?»

«„Sir“ will suffice. Or you can call me Tinker. But never call me Flesh!» The Flesh Tinker leaned across the table, breathing powerful fumes. «I am more than that!» He giggled again, a startling sound in such an otherwise impressive being.

«Well. to your good health, sir.»

They drank again. The cloudy liquor was potent, augmented by some swift hallucinogen, and Gavagol felt the world start to skew. The Flesh Tinker’s eyes expanded into huge purple holes in the withered terrain of his face, and Gavagol hastily looked away.

«But,» Gavagol said, «you still haven’t explained why you’re here in City Nereus. The Trustees are somewhat sticky about their rules.»

«To Croakery with the Trustees and their rules! I’m here because this is the way I come. Cholder was always an important stop on my circuit, and I’m not one to abandon a profitable tradition, just because all the customers are gone. Besides, after I’ve spent a day or two roistering in my accustomed haunts, I’ll set out over the Indivisible Ocean and drum up a little trade. Eh?»

«The merfolk employ your services? How do they pay?»

«Pay? They pay in the same coin as all my customers. Amusement!» The Flesh Tinker roared with laughter; he sounded like a triumphant predator. Then he fixed those unsettling eyes on Gavagol. «But you, young man, have you no need for my services? Your eyes, are they not a little close-set? I could spread ’em. Your ears are a bit in need of cropping, not so?»

Gavagol felt uneasy. «Your offer is most kind, but I’m satisfied with my appearance.»

The Flesh Tinker smiled politely. «As you wish. I force my services on no one. Anyway, there’s little enough amusement in nose-bobbing. Though I`m reminded of a time on Pachysand…» But the Flesh Tinker’s voice trailed away, and the old man filled the tumblers again.

Gavagol protested. «Much more, and I'll be under this table.»

The Flesh Tinker’s expression was sly. «Or else you’ll start believing me, eh?»

«Oh, no. I mean, I do believe you.»

«Damn you!» the Flesh Tinker shouted, suddenly wild-eyed. Saliva gleamed at the corners of his mouth. «You think me an ancient dingwilly, rich enough to own a starboat and cunning enough to evade his keepers. Don’t deny it, now, or I shall mute you into a night-conger and root you to the floor of the Indivisible Ocean!»

Gavagol`s knees rattled together under the table. He could think of nothing to say, so he sat silently, stiff with liquor and fear. Now he did believe the old man. He was sitting face to face with a legend.

As quickly as it began, the Flesh Tinker’s fury was over, and he smiled. «Never mind, young man. You’re the only drinking companion to be had in the City. I’ll mind my manners.» The Flesh Tinker lifted his glass companionably.

Gavagol realized suddenly that, for the first time in the years he had been on Cholder, he wasn’t lonely. Frightened, yes, but not lonely.

He drank; he began to talk. The Flesh Tinker listened, nodding, making sounds of interest, pouring when the level of Gavagol’s glass fell too close to the tabletop.

He spoke of his job, at first emphasizing the great responsibility he bore to the City and the Trustees. But as he grew drunker, he veered closer to the truth: that he was a useless, but traditional appendage, and that he spent his time observing the City’s ability to do without him.

The Flesh Tinker murmured sympathy, and poured.

Gavagol drank some more and started to talk about his insomnia. By degrees, he got around to the loneliness.

«There’s no one else here. No one. The City has no self-willed mechаnisms, so I don’t even have a robot to talk with.»

Gavagol wiped a maudlin tear away. «This is silly, but… I tried to have a pet once. All the cleaning mechs look the same here, square slabs of monomol with feet. And how can you make a pet out of something you can’t tell from all the others? A foolish idea, really, but I thought it might help.»

He took another long drink, and his head swam. «I painted its name on its carapace — Ralf I called it. I think it did help; I talked to it and made little messes for it to clean up, and it seemed pleased. Ridiculous, I know.»

«But a couple days later it rotated to another part of the City, or the maintmechs scrubbed the paint off. Anyway, I couldn’t find it.» Another tear rolled slowly down Gavagol’s face.

The Flesh Tinker looked faintly repelled. «A pitiful story, friend Watcher.»

«I envy the merfolk, you know» Gavagol rambled on, oblivious. «Whenever I see them, they’re swimming together, laughing, playing, making love… all together in the sea. A beautiful sight, don’t you agree?» His voice was slurred, and his eyes felt impossibly heavy. «In the sea. Sometimes I’d give anything to join them.» His head tipped forward; he caught himself with a start and looked up at the Flesh Tinker.

Who was leaning toward him, pinning him with those burning magenta eyes. «Yes, you think you might be happy among them, then?»

Gavagol nodded, trying to concentrate through the buzzing distraction of the celadon liquor. «Yes, perhaps. You. see no outcasts. among the merfolk»

The Flesh Tinker’s face was a shimmering blur, but Gavagol thought he saw a flash of sharp white teeth. Perhaps the old man smiled. His head sagged again, and this time it thumped to the table.

His head throbbed painfully. His eyes were crusted shut, and it took long minutes before he could open them.

«What.» He trailed off, unable to remember. Why was he lying under this dusty table? He tried to rise, and pain exploded. «Oh.» he groaned, clutching at his head as if to prevent it from splitting apart.

After a bit he started to remember, in bits and pieces. The celadon liquor. The alien starboat. The Flesh Tinker.

Despite the pain, Gavagol’s mouth curved in a smile. The Flesh Tinker had listened to him.

Then he frowned. Had the Flesh Tinker mentioned a departure date? Gavagol felt an urgency bordering on panic. Oh no, the Flesh Tinker must not be allowed to leave so soon. Must not, must not.

Gavagol staggered to his feet and lurched out of the Spanglewine into the bright day. The light hammered his eyes, and he moaned, but he saw the Flesh Tinker’s boat still moored to the quay.

Relief filled him. The Flesh Tinker was still here. Gavagol turned away, rubbing at his temples. He returned through the narrow ways of the Maremma to the Tower, thinking.

The annunciator rang insistently. Gavagol sat still for a moment, wondering if he had done the right thing. But then he straightened his back and made his face as stern as he could. He had a right to companionship, and if he did not get it, he would die. So he believed.

The Flesh Tinker’s face, purple with rage, bloomed in the intervid screen. Gavagol drew back. The Flesh Tinker’s eyes were crazy, almost smoking with intensity. «What have you done?» The Flesh Tinker roared, teeth bared. «Let me in, or I'll wring your puny neck.»

The Flesh Tinker was transformed, and Gavagol saw that his earlier outbursts had been no more than mild annoyance. Gavagol found his voice.

«You don’t understand. Please, listen to me. I meant no harm. I just wanted you to stay a little longer. Just a few days more, and then I’ll lift the cyclone shell from the basin, and you can go.»

The Flesh Tinker’s face rippled from the emotion it contained, like a face in a nightmare. His voice was a dry whisper, more terrible than the roar.

«Oh, you will, will you? You’ll do me that kindness, will you?»

Gavagol had expected anger, but nothing so deadly as this. «What’s a few days to you? It would mean so much to me. Listen, i f you’ll promise to hear me out, I’ll let you up. We can talk this over, surely.»