Nead looked at him, half-understanding. "Until what?"

"Until I send for you. Now move."

The boy half-swam to the exit and pushed his way through the crowd of Scientists.

Trying to ignore the spreading panic around him Rees ran his fingers over the keyboard of the Telescope, locking the precious instrument into its rest position. Briefly he marveled at his own callous coolness. But in the end, he reflected, he was responding to a harsh, terrible truth. Humans could be replaced. The Telescope couldn't.

When he turned from the keyboard the Observatory was deserted. Paper and small tools lay scattered over the incorruptible floor, or floated in the equilibrium layer. And still that smell of burning hung in the air.

With a sense of lightness he crossed the chamber floor and climbed out into the corridor. Smoke thickened the air, stinging his eyes, and as he approached the Library images of the imploded foundry and of the Theatre of Light confused Ms thoughts, as if his mind were a Telescope focusing on the buried depths of the past.

Entering the Library was like climbing into an ancient, decayed mouth. Books and papers had been turned to blackened leaves and blasted against the walls; the ruined paper had been soaked through by the efforts of Scientists to save their treasure. There were three men still here, beating at smoldering pages with damp blankets. At Rees's entry one of them turned. Rees was moved to recognize Grye, tears streaking his blackened cheeks.

Rees ran a cautious finger over the shell of ruined books. How much had been lost this shift? — what wisdom that might have saved them all from the Nebula's smoky death?

Something crackled under his feet. There were shards of glass scattered over the floor, and Rees made out the truncated, smoke-stained neck of a wine-sim bottle. Briefly he found himself marveling that such a simple invention as a bottle filled with burning oil could wreak so much damage.

There was nothing he could do here. He touched Grye's shoulder briefly; then he turned and left the Bridge.

There was no sign of security guards at the door. The scene outside was chaotic. Rees had a blurred impression of running men, of flames on the horizon; the Raft was a panorama of fists and angry voices. The harsh starlight from above flattened the scene, making it colorless and gritty.

So it had come. His last hope that this incident might be restricted to just another attack on the Labs evaporated. The fragile web of trust and acceptance that had held the Raft together had finally collapsed…

A few hundred yards away he made out a group of youths surrounding a bulky man; Rees thought he recognized Captain Mith. The big man went down under a hail of blows. At first, Rees saw, he tried to defend his head, his crotch; but blood spread rapidly over his face and clothing, and soon fists and feet were pounding into a shapeless, unresisting bulk.

Rees turned his head away.

In the foreground a small group of Scientists sat numbly on the deck, staring into the distance. They surrounded a bundle which looked like a charred row of books — perhaps something recovered from the fire?

But there was the white of bone amid the charring.

He felt his throat constrict; he breathed deeply, drawing on all his experience. This was not a good time to succumb to panic.

He recognized Hollerbach. The old Chief Scientist sat a little apart from the rest, staring at the crumpled remains of his spectacles. He looked up as Rees approached, an almost comical mask of soot surrounding his eyes. "Eh? Oh, it's you, boy. Well, this is a fine thing, isn't it?"

"What's happening, Hollerbach?"

Hollerbach toyed with his glasses. "Look at this. Half a million shifts old, these were, and absolutely irreplaceable. Of course, they never worked—" He looked up vaguely. "Isn't it obvious what's happening?" he snapped with something of his former vigor. "Revolution. The frustration, the hunger, the privations — they're lashing out at what they can reach. And that's us. It's so damn stupid—"

Unexpected anger flared in Rees. "I'll tell you what's stupid. You people keeping the rest of the Raft — and my own people on the Belt — in ignorance and hunger. That's what's stupid…"

Hollerbach's eyes in their pools of wrinkles looked enormously tired. "Well, you may be right, lad; but there's nothing I can do about it now, and there never was. My job was to keep the Raft intact. And who's going to do that in the future, eh?"

"Mine rat." The voice behind him was breathless, almost cracked with exhilaration. Rees whirled. Gover's face was flushed, his eyes alive. He had torn the braids from his shoulders and his arms were blood-stained to the elbows. Behind him a dozen or more young men approached; as they studied the Officers' homes their faces were narrow with hunger.

Rees found his fists bunching — and deliberately uncurled them. Keeping his voice level he said, "I should have turned you in while I had the opportunity. What do you want, Gover?"

"Last chance, rat," Gover said softly. "Come with us now, or take what we dish out to these vicious old farts. One chance."

The stares of Gover and Hollerbach were almost palpable pressures: the stink of smoke, the noise, the bloodied corpse on the deck, all seemed to converge in his awareness, and he felt as if he were bearing on his back the weight of the Raft and all its occupants.

Gover waited.

7

The rotation of the tethered tree was peaceful, soothing. Pallis sat by the warm trunk of the tree, chewing slowly on his flight rations.

A head and shoulders thrust their way through the mat of foliage. It was a young man; his hair was filthy and tangled and sweat plastered a straggling beard to his throat. He looked about uncertainly.

Pallis said softly: "I take it you've a good reason for disturbing my tree, lad. What are you doing here?"

The visitor pulled himself through the leaves. Pallis noticed how the boy's coverall bore the scars of recently removed braids. Shame, Pallis reflected, that the coverall itself hadn't been removed — and washed — with equal vigor.

"Regards to you, tree-pilot. My name's Boon, of the Brotherhood of the Infrastructure. The Committee instructed me to find you—"

"I don't care if Boney Joe himself shoved a fibula up your arse to help you on your way," Pallis said evenly. "I'll ask you again. What are you doing in my tree?"

Boon's grin faded. "The Committee want to see you," he said, his voice faint. "Come to the Platform. Now.»

Pallis cut a slice of meat-sim. "I don't want anything to do with your damn Committee, boy."

Boon scratched uncertainly at his armpit. "But you have to. The Committee… it's an order—"

"All right, lad, you've delivered your message," Pallis snapped. "Now get out of my tree."

"Can I tell them you'll come?"

For reply Pallis ran a fingertip along the blade of his knife. Boon ducked back through the foliage.

Pallis buried the tip of the knife in trunk wood, wiped his hands on a dry leaf and pulled himself to the rim of the tree. He lay facedown among the fragrance of the leaves, allowing the tree's stately rotation to sweep his gaze across the Raft.

Under its canopy of forest the deck had become a darker place: threads of smoke still rose from the ruins of buildings, and Pallis noticed dark stretches in the great cable-walled avenues. That was new; so they were smashing up the globe lamps now. How would it feel to smash the very last one? he wondered. To extinguish the last scrap of ancient light — how would it feel to grow old, knowing that it was your hands that had done such a thing?

At the revolution's violent eruption Pallis had simply retreated to his trees. With a supply of water and food he had hoped to rest here among his beloved branches, distanced from the pain and anger washing across the Raft. He had even considered casting off, simply flying away alone. The Bones knew he owed no loyalty to either side in this absurd battle.