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 his 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 sh.e.l.l 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 gla.s.s 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 succ.u.mb 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 gla.s.ses. "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 d.a.m.n 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 a.r.s.e 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 d.a.m.n 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 sc.r.a.p 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.

But, he mused, he was still a human. As were the running figures on the Raft - even the self-appointed Committee - and those lost souls in the Belt. And, when all this was over, someone would have to carry food and iron for them once more.

So he had waited above the revolt, hoping it would leave him be...

But now his interlude was over.

He sighed. So, Pallis, you can hide from their d.a.m.n revolution, but it looks as if it isn't going to hide from you.

He had to go, of course. If not they'd come for him with their bottles of burning oil...

He took a deep draught of water, tucked his knife in his belt and slid smoothly through the foliage.

He made his way to an avenue and set off toward the Rim.

The avenue was deserted.

Shivering, he found himself listening for echoes of the crowds who had thronged along here not many shifts ago. But the silence of the wide thoroughfare was deep, eerie. The predominant smell was of burnt wood, overlaid with a meat-like stickiness; he turned up his face to the calm canopy of forest, nostrils seeking the soft wood-scented breeze from the branches.

As he had suspected a good fraction of the globe lamps hung in imploded fragments from their cables, dooming the avenue to half-light. The Raft had become a place of moody darkness, the blanket of shadows lifting here and there to reveal glimpses of this fine new world. He saw a small child licking at the remains of a long-empty food pallet. He made out a shape hanging from rope tied to the tree cables; a pool of something brown and thick had dried on the deck beneath itPallis felt the food churn in his stomach. He hurried on.

A group of young men came marching from the direction of the Platform, braids ostentatiously torn from their shoulders. Their eyes were wide with joy; Pallis, despite his muscles, stood aside as they pa.s.sed.

At length he reached the edge of the cable thicket and - with some relief - emerged to open sky. He made his way up the apparent slope to the Rim and at last climbed the broad, shallow stairs to the Platform. Incongruous memories tugged at him. He hadn't been here since his Thousandth Shift dance. He remembered the glittering costumes, the laughter, the drink, his own big-boned awkwardness...

Well, he wouldn't find a party here today.

At the head of the stairs two men blocked the way. They were about Pallis's size but somewhat younger; dim hostility creased their features.

"I'm Pallis," he said. "Woodsman. I'm here to see the Committee."

They studied him suspiciously.

Pallis sighed. "And if you two boneheads will get out of the way I can do what I came for."

The shorter of the two - a square, bald man - took a step up to him. Pallis saw he was carrying a club of wood. "Listen-"

Pallis smiled, letting his muscles bunch under his shirt.

The taller doorman said, "Leave it, Seel. He's expected."

Seel scowled; then he hissed: "Later, funny man."

Pallis let his smile broaden. "My pleasure."

He pushed past the doormen and down to the body of the Platform, wondering at his own actions. Now, what had been the point of antagonizing those two? Was violence, the pounding of fist into bone, so attractive a release?

A fine response to these unstable times, Pallis.

He walked slowly toward the center of the Platform. The place was barely recognizable from former times. Food cartons lay strewn about the deck, no more than half emptied; at the sight of the spoiling stuff Pallis remembered with a flash of anger the starving child not a quarter of a mile from here.

Trestle tables studded the Platform. They bore trophies of various kinds - photographs, uniforms, lengths of gold braid, a device called an orrery Pallis remembered seeing in Hollerbach's office - but also books, charts, listings and heaps of paper. It was clear that such government as still existed on the Raft was based here.

Pallis grinned sourly. It had been a great symbolic gesture, no doubt, to remove control from the corrupt center of the Raft and take it out to this spectacular vantage spot... But what if it rained on all this paperwork?

However, no one seemed too concerned about such practicalities at the moment, or indeed about the machineries of government in general. Save for a group of subdued, grubby Scientists huddled together at the center of the deck, the Platform's population was cl.u.s.tered in a tight knot at the Nebula-facing wall. Pallis approached slowly. The Raft's new rulers, mostly young men, laughed and pa.s.sed bottles of liquor from hand to hand, gaping at some attraction close to the wall.

"h.e.l.lo, tree-pilot." The voice was insolent and unpleasantly familiar. Pallis turned. Gover stood facing him, hands on hips, a grin on his thin face.

"Gover. Well, surprise, surprise. I should have expected you here. You know what they say, eh?"

Gover's smile faded.

"Stir a barrel of s.h.i.t: what rises to the top?"

Gover's lower lip trembled. "You should watch it, Pallis. Things have changed on this Raft."

Pallis inquired pleasantly: "Are you threatening me, Gover?"

For long seconds the younger man held his gaze; then he dropped his eyes - just a flicker, but enough for Pallis to know he had won.

He let his muscles relax, and the glow of his tiny triumph faded quickly. Two threatened fist-fights in as many minutes? Terrific.

Gover said, "You took long enough to get here."

Pallis allowed his gaze to roam. He murmured, "I'll not speak to the puppet if I know whose hand is working him. Tell Decker I'm here."

Gover flushed with frustration. "Decker's not in charge. We don't work like that-"

"Of course not," Pallis said tiredly. "Just fetch him. All right?" And he turned his full attention on the excited group near the edge.

Gover stalked away.

His height allowed Pallis a view over the milling crowd. They were cl.u.s.tered around a crude breach in the Platform's gla.s.s wall. A chill breeze swept over the lip of the deck; Pallis - despite his flying experience - found his stomach tightening at the thought of approaching that endless drop. A metal beam a few yards long had been thrust through the breach and out over the drop. A young man stood on the beam, his uniform torn and begrimed but still bearing Officer's braids. He held his head erect, so bloodied that Pallis failed to recognize him. The crowd taunted the Officer, laughing; fists and clubs poked at his back, forcing him to take one step after another along the beam.

"You wanted to see me, tree-pilot?"

Pallis turned. "Decker. Long time no see."

Decker nodded. His girder-like frame was barely contained by coveralls that were elaborately embroidered with black thread, and his face was a broad, strong mask contoured by old scars.

Pallis pointed to the young Officer on the beam. "Why don't you stop this bloodiness?"

Decker smiled. "I have no power here."

"b.a.l.l.s."

Decker threw his head back and laughed.

Decker was the same age as Pallis; they had grown up boyhood rivals, although Pallis had always considered the other his superior in ability. But their paths as adults had soon parted. Decker had never been able to accept the discipline of any Cla.s.s, and so had descended, frustrated, into Infrastructure. With time Pallis's face had grown a mask of tree scars, while Decker's had become a map drawn by dozens of fists, boots and knives...

But he had always given more than he had taken. And slowly he had grown into a position of unofficial power: if you wanted something done fast you went to Decker... So Pallis knew who would emerge smiling from this revolt, even if Decker himself hadn't instigated it.

"All right, Pallis," Decker said. "Why did you ask to see me?"

"I want to know why you and your band of bloodthirsty apprentices dragged me from my tree."

Decker rubbed his graying beard. "Well, I can only act as a spokesman for the Interim Committee, of course-"

"Of course."

"We have some shipments to be taken to the Belt. We need you to lead the flight."