The truth was that whoever went down inside this ramshackle craft into the underMantle would almost certainly die there. Dura’s qualification was only that she, of the three of them, had the skills and strength marginally to reduce that level of certainty.
So, knowing Dura’s decision was right, Adda gave up trying to convince Farr. Instead he tried to support the decision in Farr’s mind in subtle ways — by taking the decision as a given, not even trying to justify it. He concentrated on trying to distract Farr from his anxious, angry concern for his sister, which wound up tighter as the day of the Mantlecraft’s launch neared. To this end Adda was pleased with the friendships Farr had made in his brief time in the City — with Cris, and the Fisherman Bzya — and tried to encourage them.
When Cris offered to take Farr Surfing again Farr at first refused, unwilling to break out of his absorption with Dura; but Adda pressed him to accept the invitation. In the end it was a little party of four — Cris, Farr, Adda and Bzya — who set off, two days before Dura’s launch, through the corridors for the open Air.
Adda had taken a liking to the huge, battered Fisherman, and sensed that Bzya had given Farr a great deal of support — more than Farr realized, probably — during Farr’s brief time in the Harbor. Now Farr was free of his indenture, thanks to the whim of Hork V, and — here was the boy showing his immaturity again, Adda reflected — now he seemed to sympathize little with Bzya, who was stuck with the situation Farr had escaped — the huge, stinking halls of the Harbor machines, and the depths of the underMantle. Instead, Farr complained at how little he saw of Bzya.
Adda had no qualms in accepting Bzya’s help as they made their way through the busy corridors; the presence of Bzya’s huge arm guiding him was somehow less patronizing, less insulting, than any other City man’s.
As they traveled out from the core of the City the street-corridors became barer, free of doors and buildings, and the Air more dusty. At last they reached the Skin. It was dark, deserted here, almost disquietingly so, and the City hull stretched above and below them. Adda surveyed the workmanship critically: curving sheets of crudely cut wooden planks, hammered onto a thick framework. It was like being in the interior of a huge mask. From without, the City was imposing, even to a worldly-wise upfluxer like himself; but seen from within, its primitive design and construction were easy to discern. These City folk really weren’t so advanced, despite their facility with Corestuff; the Ur-humans would surely have laughed at this wooden box.
They Waved slowly along the Skin, not speaking, until Cris brought them to a small doorway, set into the Skin and locked by a wheel. With Bzya’s help Cris turned the stiff wheel — it creaked as it rotated, releasing small puffs of dust — and shoved the door open.
Adda hauled himself through the doorframe and into the open Air. He Waved a few mansheights away from the City and hovered in the Air, breathing in the fresh stuff with a surge of relief. The party had emerged about halfway up the rectangular bulk of the City — in the Midside, Adda reminded himself — and the skin of Parz, like the face of a giant, cut off half the sky behind him. The imposing curve of a Longitude anchor-band swept over the rough surface a few dozen mansheights off; electron gas fizzed around the band’s Corestuff flanks, a visible reminder of the awesome currents flowing through its superconductor structure.
Adda’s lungs seemed to expand. The vortex lines crossed the shining sky all around him, plunging into the crimson-purple pool that was the Pole beneath the City. The Air here was thick and clammy — they were right over the Pole, after all — but inside the City he always had the feeling he was breathing in someone else’s farts.
The two boys tumbled away into the Air, hauling the Surfboard; Adda was pleased to see Farr’s natural, youthful vigor coming to the surface as he Waved energetically through the Air, responding to the refreshing openness. Bzya joined Adda; the two older men hung in the Magfield like leaves.
“That door was a little stiff,” Adda said drily.
Bzya nodded. “Not many City folk use the pedestrian exits.”
Pedestrian. Another antique, meaningless word.
“Most of ’em never leave the City walls at all. And those that do — because they have to, like your ceiling-farmer friend — take their cars.”
“Is that a good thing, do you think?”
Bzya shrugged. He was wearing a scuffed, ill-fitting coverall, and under its coarse fabric his shoulder muscles bunched like independent animals. “Neither one nor the other. It’s just the way things are. And always have been.”
“Not always,” Adda murmured. He gazed around the sky with his good eye and sniffed, trying to assess the spin weather. “And maybe not forever. The City isn’t immune to the changes wrought by these unnatural Glitches. Even your great leader Hork admits that.”
Bzya nodded at the boys. “It’s good to see Farr looking a bit happier.”
“Yes.” Adda smiled. “The body has its wisdom. When you’re doing barrel-rolls in the Air, it’s hard to remember your problems.”
Bzya patted his ample gut. “I wish I could remember doing barrel-rolls even. Still, I know what you mean.” Now Cris had set up his board. Farr rested it against the soft, even resistance of the Magfield and Cris set his feet on it, flexing his legs experimentally. Adda saw the boy’s muscles bunch as he pressed against the Magfield; his arms were outstretched and his fingers seemed to tickle at the Air, as if assessing the strength and direction of the Magfield. Farr pushed him off, recoiling through a mansheight or so, and Cris rocked the board steadily. He slid through the Air with impressive speed and grace; boy and board looked like a single entity, inseparable.
Cris performed slow, elegant turns in the Air; then — with a thrust at the board and a swivel of his feet almost too fast for Adda’s rheumy eye to follow — he swept up and over, looping the loop in a single, tight motion. The boy flew across the blind face of Parz City, electron gas sparkling blue about his gleaming board.
He came to rest close to Bzya and Adda, and stepped away from his board gracefully. Farr Waved over to join them. Still a little dazzled by Cris’s prowess, Adda saw the contrast with Farr: the Human Being had innate, Pole-enhanced strength, but beside Cris’s athletic grace he looked clumsy, massive and uncoordinated.
But then, Farr hadn’t had the luxury of a lifetime playing games in the Air.
“You ride that thing well.”
“Thanks.” Cris dipped his head with its oddly dyed hair; he seemed acceptably unself-conscious about his skill. “And you’re in the Games, I hear,” Bzya said.
Adda frowned. “What Games?”
“They come once a year,” Farr said eagerly. “Cris has told me about them. Sports in the Air — Surfing, the Luge, acrobats, Wave-boxing. Half the people in the City go out to the Stadium to watch.”
“Sounds fun.”
Bzya poked Adda in the ribs with a sharp thumb. “It is fun, you old fogey. You should go along if you’re still here.”
“It’s more than fun.” Cris’s tone was deeper than normal, earnest; Adda studied him curiously. Cris was a good boy, he had decided — shallow, but a decent friend to Farr. But now he sounded different: he was intense, his eyecups deep and dark.
Bzya said to Adda, “The Games can make a big difference, for a talented young man like Cris. A moment of fame — money — invitations to the Palace…”
“This is the third year I’ve had an application in for the Surfing,” Cris said. “I’ve been in the top five in my age group all that time. But this is the first time they’ve let me in.” He looked sour. “Even so, I’m unseeded. I’ve got a lousy draw, and…”
Adda was aware of Farr hovering awkwardly close to them, his callused hands heavy at his sides. The contrast with Cris was painful. “Well,” he said, trying not to sound hostile to the City boy’s prattle, “you should get your practice done, then.”