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 damn 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 it—

Pallis felt the food chum 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 passed.

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 clustered in a tight knot at the Nebula-facing wall. Pallis approached slowly. The Raft's new rulers, mostly young men, laughed and passed bottles of liquor from hand to hand, gaping at some attraction close to the wall.

"Hello, 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 shit: 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 clustered around a crude breach in the Platform's glass 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."

"Balls."

Decker threw his head back and laughed.

Decker was the same age as Pallis; they had grown up boyhood rivals, although Pailis 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 Class, 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—"