He climbed after Bzya through the doorway. The interior of the home was a single room — a rough sphere, dimly illuminated by wood-lamps fixed seemingly at random to the walls. He felt his cup-retinas stretch, adjusting to the low level of light.

A globe-bowl of tiny leaves was thrust into his chest.

He stumbled back in the Air. There was a wide, grinning face apparently suspended over the bowl — startlingly like Bzya’s, but half-bald, nose flattened and misshapen, the nostrils dulled. “You’re the upfluxer. Bzya’s told me about you. Have a petal.”

Bzya pushed past Farr and into the little home. “Let the poor lad in first, woman,” he grumbled good-naturedly.

“All right, all right.”

The woman withdrew, clutching her petal-globe and still grinning. Bzya wrapped a huge hand around Farr’s forearm and dragged him into the room, away from the door, then closed the door behind them.

The three of them hovered in a rough circle. The woman dropped the petal-globe in the Air and thrust out a hand. “I’m Jool. Bzya’s my husband. You are welcome here.”

Farr took her hand. It was almost the size of Bzya’s, and as strong. “Bzya told me about you, too.”

Bzya kissed Jool. Then, sighing and stretching, he drifted away to the dim rear of the little home, leaving Farr with his wife.

Jool’s body was square, a compact — if misshapen — mass of muscles. She wore what looked like the all-purpose coverall of the Harbor, much patched. One side of her body was quite damaged — her hair was missing down one side of her scalp in wide swathes, and her arm on that side was twisted, atrophied. Her leg was missing, below the knee.

He was staring at the stump of the leg, the tied-off trouser leg below the knee. Suddenly unbearably self-conscious, he lifted his eyes to Jool’s face.

She clapped him on the shoulder. “Not much point looking for that leg; you’ll never find it.” She smiled kindly. “Here. Have a petal. I meant it.”

He dug his hand into the globe, pulled out a fistful of the little leaves, and jammed them into his mouth. They were insubstantial, like all leaf-matter, and strongly flavored — so strong that his head seemed to fill up with their sweet aroma. He coughed, spluttering leaf fragments all over his hostess.

Jool tilted back her head and laughed. “Your upfluxer friend hasn’t got very sophisticated tastes, Bzya.”

Bzya had gone to work in one corner of the cramped little room, beneath two crumpled sleeping-cocoons; his arms were immersed in a large globe-barrel full of fragments — chips of some substance — which crunched and ground against each other as he closed his fists around pieces of cloth. “Neither have we, Jool, so stop teasing the boy.”

Farr picked up a petal. “Is it a leaf?”

“Yes.” Jool popped one in her mouth and chewed noisily. “Yes, and no. It’s from a flower… a small, ornamental plant. They’ve been bred, here in Parz. You don’t get them in the wild, do you?”

“They grow in the Palace, don’t they? In their Garden. Is that where you work?” He studied her. From the way Cris had described the Committee Palace to him, Jool seemed a little rough to be acceptable there.

“No, not the Palace. There are other parts of the Skin, a little further Downside, where flowers, and bonsai trees, are cultivated. But not really for show, like in the Garden.”

“Why, then?”

She crunched on another leaf. “For food. And not for humans. For pigs. I wait on Air-pigs, young Farr.” Her eyes were bright and amused.

Farr was puzzled. “But these leaves — petals — can’t be very nutritious.”

“They don’t make the pigs as strong as they could be, no,” she said. “But they have other advantages.”

“Oh, stop teasing the lad,” Bzya called again. “You know, she used to work in the Harbor.”

“We met there. I was his supervisor, before that cretin Hosch was promoted. At the expense of this huge dolt Bzya, I’m afraid. Farr, do you want some beercake?”

“No. Yes. I mean, no thank you. I don’t think I’d better.”

“Oh, try a little.” Jool turned to a cupboard set in the wall and opened its door. The door was ill-fitting, but the food store within was well stocked and clean. “I’ll bet you’ve never tried it. Well, see what it’s like. What the hell. We won’t let you get drunk, don’t worry.” She withdrew a slab of thick, sticky-looking cake wrapped in thin cloth; she broke off a handful and passed it to Farr.

Bzya called, “Cake is fine as long as you chew it slowly, and know when to stop.”

Farr bit into the cake cautiously. After the pungency of the petals it tasted sour, thick, almost indigestible. He chewed it carefully — the taste didn’t improve — and swallowed.

Nothing happened.

Jool hung in the Air before him, huge arms folded. “Just wait,” she said.

“Funny thing,” Bzya called, still working at his globe of crunching chips. “Beercake is an invention of the deep Downside. I guess we evolved it to stave off boredom, lack of variety, lack of stimulation. The poor man’s flower garden, eh, Jool?”

“But now it’s a delicacy,” Jool said. “They take it in the Palace, from globes of clearwood. Can you believe it?”

Warmth exploded in the pit of Farr’s stomach. It spread out like an opening hand, suffusing his torso and racing along his limbs like currents induced by some new Magfield; his fingers and toes tingled, and he felt his pores ache deliciously as they opened.

“Wow,” he said.

“Well put.” Jool reached out and took the beercake from his numb fingers. “I think that’s enough for now.” She wrapped the cake in a fragment of cloth and stowed it away in its cupboard.

Farr, still tingling, drifted across the room to join Bzya. The big Fisherman’s arms were still buried in the barrel of chips, and his broad hands were working at a garment — an outsize tunic — inside the chips, rubbing surfaces together and scraping the cloth through the chips. Bzya hauled the tunic out of the globe and added it to a rough sphere of clothes, wadded together, which orbited close to his wide back. Bzya grinned at Farr, rubbed his hands, and plunged a pair of trousers into the chips. “Jool has been looking forward to meeting you.”

“What happened to her?”

Bzya shrugged, his arms extended before him. “A Bell accident, deep in the underMantle. It was so fast, she can’t even reconstruct it. Anyway, she left half herself down there. After that, of course, she was unemployable. So the Harbor said.” He smiled with unreasonable tolerance, Farr thought. “But she still had her indenture to fulfill. So she came out of the Harbor with one leg, a dodgy husband, and a debt.”

“But she works now.”

“Yes.”

He fell into silence, and Farr watched him work the clothes curiously.

Bzya became aware of his stare. “What’s the matter?… Oh. You don’t know what I’m doing, do you?”

Farr hesitated. “To be honest, Bzya, I get tired of asking what’s going on all the time.”

“Well, I can sympathize with that.” Bzya carried on rubbing the grit through his clothes, impassive.

After a few heartbeats of silence Farr gave in. “Oh, all right. What are you doing, Bzya?”

“Washing,” Bzya said. “Keeping my clothes clean. I don’t suppose you do much of that, in the upflux…”

Farr was irritated. “We keep ourselves clean, even in the upflux. We’re not animals, you know. We have scrapers…”

Bzya patted the side of his barrel of chips. “This is a better idea. You work your clothes through this mass of chips — bone fragments, bits of wood, and so on. You work the stuff with your hands, you see — like this — get it into the cloth… The chips are crushed, smaller and smaller, and work into the cloth, pushing out the dirt. Much less crude than a scraper.” He hauled a shirt out of the barrel and showed it to Farr. “It’s time-consuming, though. And a bit boring.” He eyed Farr speculatively. “Look, Farr, while you’re in the City you ought to sample the richness of its life to the full. Why don’t you have a go?”