“Oh ho . . . Well . . .” Isaac twisted with impatience as Vermishank raised his head ponderously to remember. “There was a biophilosopher, years ago, at the end of the last century. Calligine, name of. Had himself Remade.” Vermishank smiled fondly and cruelly and shook his head. “Mad thing, really, but it did seem to work. Huge mechanical wings that unfolded like fans. He wrote a pamphlet about it.” Vermishank strained his head over his lardy shoulder, glanced vaguely at the shelves of volumes that covered his walls. He waved with a limp hand that could have signalled anything at all about the whereabouts of Calligine’s pamphlet. “Don’t you know the rest? Not heard the song?” Isaac narrowed his eyes quizzically. Appallingly, Vermishank sang a few bars in a reedy tenor. “So Cally flew high / On um-ber-ella wings / Headed into the sky / Waved his love bye-bye / Went West with a sigh / Disappeared in the land of the Horrible Things . . .”

“Of course I’ve heard that!” said Isaac. “I never knew it was about someone real . . .”

“Well, you never took Introductory Bio-Thaumaturgy, did you? As I remember, you did about two terms of the Intermediate course, much later. You missed my first lecture. That’s the story I use to entice our jaded young knowledge-hunters onto the road of this noble science.” Vermishank spoke in a completely deadpan voice. Isaac felt his distaste return with interest. “Calligine disappeared,” Vermishank continued. “Went off flying south-west, towards the Cacotopic Stain. Never seen again.”

There was another long silence.

“Uh . . . is that the whole story?” said Isaac. “How did they get the wings on him? Did he keep experimental notes? What was the Remaking like?”

“Oh, horribly difficult, I’d imagine. Calligine probably got through a few experimental subjects before getting his sums right . . .” Vermishank grinned. “Probably called in a few favours with Mayor Mantagony. I suspect a few felons sentenced to death had a few more weeks of life than they’d expected. Not part of the process that he advertised. But it stands to reason, doesn’t it, that it’s going to take a few tries before you get it right. I mean, you’ve got to connect up the mechanism to bones and muscles and whatnot that haven’t a clue what they’re supposed to be doing . . .”

“But what if the muscles and bones did know what they were doing? What about if a . . . a wyrman or something, had its wings cut off. Could they be replaced?”

Vermishank gazed passively at Isaac. His head and eyes did not move.