When dusk came, Gavagol swam slowly out through the personnel lock. Fear stewed with anticipation in the pit of his stomach.

The canal wound among the hull blocks, and then out into the sea along a curving breakwater. The City’s movement spun off an eddy of turbulence at the end of the breakwater, and Gavagol tumbled helplessly in it for a moment.

He was over the deep, staring down into the black water. He lifted his head above the water, to see the great flank of the City sliding past.

Panic seized him; the City would leave him behind, alone. He swam strongly in the direction of the City’s movement, and the panic dissolved in a burst of silvery-bubbled laughter. In his new body, he could outswim the City easily.

He knifed through the water, trailing phosphorescence, wild with his new abilities.

The cool glow showed only occasionally above the wave tops, and Gavagol thought of the predators that swam the Indivisible Ocean — the huge toothy squool, with its long hook-studded tentacles; the swift venomous saltweasel; the shoals of voracious butcherfish.

He swam for the safety of the City’s breakwaters, but they caught him. Enveloped in a cloud of blue sealight, he became confused. He felt them bumping against him, curious hands prodding his body, then a nip at his shoulder as one of the young ones attempted to taste him.

A chorus of laughter rose from the pod of merfolk as they circled him. «I was afraid you were a school of butcherfish,» Gavagol said, trying a smile.

«Oho, we feared that you were a victim of the shimmies,» said a big bull who bore the scars of long seasons in the breeding reefs. More laughter. The voice was high and clear; the Standard words carried a clicking, hissing accent.

«The shimmies?»

«Yes, a plague that affects the other jellyfish in the time of the big storms.» The big male swam closer; he was smiling, but he snapped his jaws, making a sound like metal stiking metal. His eyes glowed brighter than the sealight.

«But it's not the time of the storms, is it? And, now, on closer examination, I see that you’re not a jellyfish.» The bull winked at his pod. «My apologies. What are you?»

An impatient young female who wore a garland of silkshell said, «Come, the Silverbacks will be over Helloever Bank at moonrise. If we’re late, they’ll start the hunt without us.»

The pod broke away from Gavagol, swimming to the north. He started to follow.

The bull twisted in the wake of the pod and came slashing back at him. Gavagol was frightened, but the impact of the heavy body against him was gentle.

The bull said, «Not you, old human. You stay with the City, suck its tit; that's where you belong. We count our line from the First Turners; our blood has swum the Indivisible Ocean for a thousand years. Get back to your City before the butcherfish smell you; you stink of the tank.»

It was too much. He had given up his body to join them, and they were rejecting him, so casually. He felt the boiling pressure of rage in his skull. He threw himself at the bull, his jaws open in mindless aggression.

The bull’s eyes widened, and he dodged away, but not quickly enough, and Gavagol’s teeth sank into the bull’s shoulder. The bull screamed, a high thin sound of pain and surprise.

Some calm remote part of Gavagol was equally astonished as he ground his teeth into the hot greasy taste o f blood and blubber and ripped at the bull with his claws. Was this another of the Flesh Tinker’s installed patterns, this urge to rend flesh?

The bull recovered from his initial surprise and struck back, scoring lines of fiery pain down Gavagol’s side. They whirled and ripped and grappled, in a froth of bright phosphorescence. Dimly, Gavagol heard the sounds of the pod, circling them in the darkness, cries of distress, and then fear.

The bull hissed at him, bewildered and angry. «Why, old human? These are dangerous waters…»

He couldn’t answer, but the thought o f the miles of dark water beneath him chilled his anger. He jerked away from the bull, breathing in great heaving gasps.

Then he heard the warning screams and looked down, to see the Medusa squid rising from the blackness below, drawn by the disturbance and the scent of blood. Its dozens of glowing tentacles swirled, hungry. Gavagol was paralyzed with terror, and it saved him. The bull attempted to flee, and the Medusa shot toward him, attracted to the movement.

Gavagol caught one last glimpse of the bull, struggling feebly against the enwrapping tentacles, as the Medusa dropped back into the depths. The pod was gone, the ocean empty.

He fled mindlessly back to the City, sobbing with fear.

His only hope was to beg the Flesh Tinker to undo his handiwork.

The ancient was so prickly, so quick to take offense. But what other course was there?

The Flesh Tinker returned to his boat late in the morning, weaving a bit from side to side. Gavagol surged out onto the quay, right at the old man’s feet. The Flesh Tinker jumped lightly back, startled. «Ah,» said the Flesh Tinker. «Enjoying the water, I see»

«No,» Gavagol said, getting awkwardly to his oversized feet. «I need to talk with you.»

The Flesh Tinker gestured toward the gangplank. «Come aboard, then. I’m exalted with drink, and therefore tolerant. To a point.» He marched past in a flutter of rich fabric.

Waddling awkwardly on his clumsy feet, Gavagol followed the old man into the boat.

The lounge of the starboat was a museum of ancient eccentricities. Curios from a thousand worlds vied for space with bizarre trophies. Some were fabulous animals, some were aliens, and some appeared to be human. They projected from the monomol surfaces, as if frozen in the act of passing through the walls or falling through the ceiling or rising from the floor. Every dead face was full of surprise, as if this were the last place in the universe it had expected to find itself.

Gavagol sat uncomfortably in a chair covered with intricately tattooed human skin.

«Tell, what’s the trouble?» The Flesh Tinker seemed affable. He poured himself a glass of some smoky fluid, but offered none to Gavagol.

Gavagol approached the matter delicately. «Well, you understand I’m not complaining about the job you did. It’s wonderful work; the best, I’m sure.»

The Flesh Tinker nodded approvingly.

Encouraged, Gavagol went on. «But I'm afraid my. request was not well thought out. I mean, the life of a merman seemed wonderful from a distance, from the top of the wave wall. But…» He hung his head.

The Flesh Tinker watched him silently for a long moment. «But what, Watcher?»

«Well. the merfolk, they wanted nothing to do with me. I was foolish: I tried to force them to take me with them.» He went on, slowly. «And a terrible thing happened.»

The Flesh Tinker frowned, and Gavagol thought he saw a trace of understanding on the hard old face. «So, Watcher, you want… what?»

Gavagol drew a deep breath. «Well, my old body.»

«And that’s all? You’ll extort no other ‘request’ from me? You’ll release my ship?»

Gavagol nodded, eagerly.

The Flesh Tinker stood abruptly. «I’ll consider it.»

Gavagol was on his feet, teeth bared, a pressure behind his eyes. «Remember, I can squash your ship like a bug…I can… I…»

The Flesh Tinker watched him alertly, the strange magenta eyes deep as the Indivisible Ocean.

A picture rose in Gavagol’s mind — the stricken face of the bull as the Medusa pulled him down into the darkness. He felt his anger subside as quickly as it had risen.

«Sorry,» he said, humbly. «I thank you for considering» Then he left, waddling out in as dignified a manner as possible.