A deep, superstitious awe stirred in Borz.
There was no sign of the pigs, which had been stored at the heart of the tetrahedron. And the various possessions — clothes, tools, weapons — which had been attached to the tetrahedron’s struts by bits of rope and net now tumbled around in the Air. A length of rope drifted past him. He grabbed it and laid it in his huge palm; the rope looked scorched.
People, adults and children alike, were Waving away from the Interface, crying and wailing in their panic. Borz — and two or three of the other men and women — held their place.
The Interface hadn’t worked for generations — not since the Core Wars; everyone knew that. But it was obviously working now. Why? And — Borz ran a tongue over his hot, Airless lips, and he felt the pores on his face dilate — and what might be coming through it?
The face-light died, slowly. The faces turned transparent once more. The glow of the tetrahedral frame faded to a drab blackness.
The Interface was dead again; once more it was just a framework in the Air. Borz felt an odd, unaccustomed stab of regret; he knew he’d never again see those colors, that light.
The pigs had gone from the heart of the framework. But they’d been replaced by something else — an artifact, a clumsy cylinder of wood three mansheights tall. There were clear panels set in the walls of the cylinder, and bands of some material, dully reflective, surrounded its broad carcass.
A hatch in the top of the cylinder was pushed open. A man — just a man — pushed his face out; the face was covered by an extravagant beard.
The man grinned at Borz. “What a relief,” he said. “We needed some fresh Air in here.” He looked down into the cylinder. “You see, Dura, I knew Karen Macrae would get us home.”
“Hey.” Borz Waved with his thick legs until his face was on a level with the strange man’s. “Hey, you. Where are our pigs?”
“Pigs?” The man seemed puzzled, then he looked around at the dead Interface. “Oh. I see. You kept your pigs inside this gateway, did you?”
“Where are they?”
The man looked amused, but sympathetic. “A long way from here, I fear.” He sniffed the Air and stared around, his gaze frank, confident and inquisitive. “Tell me, which way’s South?”
29
Toba Mixxax, his round face pale in the heat, stuck his head out of his Air-car. “Sounds like Mur and Lea are arguing again.”
Toba’s car had approached unnoticed. Dura had been laboring to fix ropes to a section of collapsed Skin. She backed away from her work, her arms and hands aching. Even here, on the outer surface of the dispersing cloud of debris that marked the site of the ruined City, the heat and noise were all but unbearable, and the work was long, hard and dangerous. As she listened now, she could hear the raised voices of Lea and Mur. She felt a prickle of irritation — how long was she going to have to hand-hold these people, before they learned to work together like adults?
But as she studied Toba’s familiar round face — with its uncertain expression, its pores dilated in the heat — the irritation vanished as soon as it had come. She straightened up and smiled. “Nice to see you, farmer.”
Toba’s answering smile was thin. “You look tired, Dura… We’re all exhausted, I suppose. Anyway,” with a touch of strain entering his voice, “I’m not a farmer any more.”
“But you will be again,” Dura said, Waving toward him. “I’m sorry, Toba.”
Stretching the stiffness out of her back, she looked around the sky. The vortex lines had reformed and now crossed the sky in their familiar hexagonal arrays, enclosing, orderly and reassuring; the Magfield, restored to stability, was a firm network of flux in the Air — a base for Waving, for building again.
She studied the lines, examining their spacing through her fingers. Their slow pulsing told her that it would soon be time for Hork’s Wheel ceremony, at the heart of the ruined City.
“How’s the farm?” she asked carefully. “Is Ito…”
“We’re putting it back together again,” Toba said. “Slowly. Ito is… bearing up. She’s very quiet.” For a moment his small, almost comical mouth worked as if he were struggling to express his feelings. “You know Farr’s there with her. And some of Cris’s friends, the Surfers. Cris has gone. But I think Ito finds the young people around her a comfort.”
Dura touched his arm. “It’s alright. You don’t have to say anything. Come on; maybe you can help me sort out Lea and Mur…”
Toba climbed out of his car.
Together, they made their way through the City site. Parz had become a cloud of floating fragments of Skin, twisted lengths of Corestuff girder, all suffused by the endless minutiae of the human world, spilled carelessly into the Air. She could see, at the cloud’s rough center, the execution Wheel, cast adrift from the old Market. Even from this vantage point — close to the cloud’s outer edge — Dura could see clothes, toys, scrolls, cocoons, cooking implements: the contents of a thousand vanished homes. Those few sections of the City which had survived the final Glitch continued to collapse spasmodically — even now, weeks after the withdrawal of the Xeelee — and to the careless eye the swarms of humans crawling over the floating remains must look, she thought, like leeches, scavengers hastening the destruction of some immense, decomposing corpse, adrift in the turgid Air of the Pole. Many of the City’s former inhabitants, recently refugees, had returned to Parz to seek belongings and to help with the reconstruction. There had been some looting, true — and too many people had come back here, intent on picking over the remains of a City which would not be restored to anything like its former completeness for many years.
But Hork’s emergency edicts against a mass return to the City seemed to be holding. Enough of the City’s former inhabitants had dispersed to the recovering ceiling-farms of the hinterland — and stayed there to work — to reduce fears of famine. And genuine reconstruction and recovery was progressing now. Already teams of workers had succeeded in locating the surviving dynamos. The great engines — which had once powered anchor-band currents — had been cleared of rubble and stumps of infrastructure. Now the dynamos floated in clear spaces, their lumpy Corestuff hides gleaming dully in the purple light of the Quantum Sea as if they were immense, protected animals.
It could still go wrong, Dura thought uneasily. The fragile society left adrift by the Xeelee Glitch could still fall apart — disintegrate into suicidal conflict over dwindling resources, over once-precious goods from the old Parz which had been reduced in value to trinkets by the disaster.
But not just yet. Now, people seemed — on the whole — to be prepared to work together, to rebuild. This was a time of hope, of regeneration.
Dura welcomed her own aching muscles and stiff back. It was evidence of the hard work that comprised her own small part of the Mantle-wide rebuilding effort. She felt a surge of optimism, of energy; she suspected that the days to come would comprise some of the happiest of her life.
In a clear space a few mansheights from the car, the Human Being Mur had been showing Lea — a pretty girl who had once been a Surfer — how to construct nets from the plaited bark of Crust trees. The two of them were surrounded by a cloud of half-coiled ropes and abandoned sections of net. Little Jai — reunited with his father — wriggled through the Air around them, nude and slick, grasping at bits of rope and gurgling with laughter. Lea was brandishing a length of rope in Mur’s face. “Yes, but I don’t see why I have to do it over.”
Mur’s voice was cracking with anger, making him sound very young. Compared to the City girl, Mur still looked painfully thin, Dura thought. “Because it’s wrong,” he said. “You’ve done it wrong. Again! And I — ”
“And I don’t see why I should put up with that kind of talk from the likes of you, upfluxer.”