Inquosomir had become increasingly caught up in his own words: he looked less and less often at his noble listener, and instead addressed a point in the mid-air. His eyes swam in the vitreous element of his spectacles. His speech was a kind of arid rhapsody. Zy had the image of small numerals and Gonfi running round in Inquosomir’s bloodstream. The man had rulers for veins, and diagrams for breakfast. When he dreamed, he dreamed in equations. His mind was a set of plans. His heart was made of facts. When he thought, it was like turning a page in a book. He was a useful one, only… he didn’t seem able to stop himself being useful.

Excerpt from Mask [i], Volume 9 of Dustless