Ito followed her and took her hand. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s find somewhere quieter and have something to eat.”

Cris’s room was a mess. Crumpled clothes, all gaudily colored, floated through the Air like discarded skin; from among the clothes’ empty limbs, bottles of hair-dye protruded, glinting in the lamplight. Cris pushed his way confidently into this morass, shoving clothes out of the way. Farr didn’t find it so easy to enter the room. The cramped space, the clothes pawing softly at his flesh, gave him an intense feeling of claustrophobia.

Cris misread his discomfiture. “Sorry about the mess. My parents give me hell about it. But I just can’t seem to keep all this junk straight.” He tipped back in the Air and rammed at a mass of clothing with both feet; the clothing wadded into a ball and compressed into one corner, leaving the Air marginally clearer; but even as Farr watched the clothes slowly unraveled, reaching out blindly with empty sleeves.

Farr peered around, wondering what he was supposed to say. “Some of your belongings are — attractive.”

Cris gave him an odd look. “Attractive. Yeah. Well, not half as attractive as they could be if we had a little more money to spare. But times are hard. They’re always hard.” He dived into the bundles of clothing once more, pulling them apart with his hands, evidently searching for something. “I suppose money doesn’t mean a thing, where you grew up.”

“No,” Farr said, still unsure what money actually was. Oddly, he had heard envy in Cris’s voice.

Cris had retrieved something from within the cloud of clothing: a board, a thin sheet of wood about a mansheight long. Its edges were rounded and its surface, though scored by grooves for gripping, was finely finished and polished so well that Farr could see his reflection in it. A thin webbing of some shining material had been inlaid into the wood. Cris ran his hand lovingly over the board; it was as if, Farr thought, he were caressing the skin of a loved one. Cris said, “It sounds great.”

“What does?”

“Life in the upflux.” Cris looked at Farr uncertainly.

Again Farr didn’t know how to answer. He glanced around at Cris’s roomful of possessions — none of which he’d made himself, Farr was willing to bet — and let his look linger on Cris’s stocky, well-fed frame.

“I mean, you’re so free out there.” Cris ran his hand around the edge of his polished board. “Look, I finish my schooling in another year. And then what? My parents don’t have the money for more education — to send me to the University, or the Medical College, maybe. Anyway, I don’t have the brains for any of that.” He laughed, as if proud of the fact. “For someone like me there are only three choices here.” He counted them off on his callus-free fingers. “If you’re stupid, you end up in the Harbor, fishing up Corestuff from the underMantle — or maybe you can lumberjack, or you might end up in the sewage runs. Whatever. But if you’re a little smarter you might get into the Civil Service, somewhere. Or — if you can’t stand any of that, if you don’t want to work for the Committee — you can go your own way. Set up a stall in the Market. Or work a ceiling-farm, like my father, or build cars like my mother. And spend your life breaking your back with work, and paying over most of your money in tithes to the Committee.” He shrugged, clinging to his board; his voice was heavy with despondency, with world-weariness. “And that’s it. Not much of a choice, is it?”

If Farr had closed his eyes he might have imagined he was listening to an old, time-beaten man like Adda rather than a boy at the start of his life. “But at least the City keeps you fed, and safe, and comfortable.”

“But not everyone wants to be comfortable. Isn’t there more to life than that?” He looked at Farr again with that odd tinge of envy. “That’s what Surfing offers me… Your life, in the upflux, must be so — interesting. Waking up in the open Air, every day. Never knowing what the day is going to bring. Having to go out and find your own food, with your bare hands…” Cris looked down at his own smooth hands as he said this.

Farr didn’t know what to reply to all this. He had come to think of the City folk as superior in wisdom, and it was a shock to find one of them talking such rubbish.

Looking for something to say, he pointed to the board Cris was still cradling. “What’s this?”

“My board. My Surfboard.” Cris hesitated. “You’ve never seen one before?”

Farr reached out and ran his fingertips over the polished surface. It was worked so finely that he could barely feel the unevenness of the wood; it was like touching skin — the skin of a very young child, perhaps. The mesh of shining threads had been inlaid into a fine network of grooves, just deep enough to feel.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Yes.” Cris looked proud. “It’s not the most expensive you can get. But I’ve put a hell of a lot of work into it, and now I doubt there’s a better board this side of Pall Mall.”

Farr hesitated, embarrassed by his utter ignorance. “But what’s it for?”

“For Surfing.” Cris held the board out horizontally and flipped up into the Air, bringing his bare feet to rest against the ridged board. The board drifted away from him, of course, but Farr could see how expertly Cris’s feet moved over the surface, almost as if they were a second pair of hands. Cris held his arms out and swayed in the Air. “You ride along the Magfield, like this. There’s nothing like it. The feeling of power, of speed…”

“But how? Do you Wave?”

Cris laughed. “No, of course not.” Then he looked more thoughtful. “At least, not quite.” He flipped off the board, doing a neat back-somersault in the cramped room, and caught the board. “See the wires inlaid into the surface? That’s Corestuff. Superconducting. That’s what makes the boards so damn expensive.” He rocked the board in the Air with his arms. “You work it like this, with your legs. See? It’s like Waving, but with the board instead of your body. The currents in the superconductors push against the Magfield, and…” He shot his hand through the Air. “Whoosh!”

Farr thought about it. “And you can go faster than Waving?”

“Faster?” Cris laughed again. “You can be faster than any car, faster than any farting pig — when you get a clear run, high above the Pole, you feel as if you’re going faster than thought.” His expression turned misty, dreamlike.

Farr watched him, fascinated and curious.

“So that’s what the board is for… sort of. But it’s also my way out of here. Out of my future. Maybe.” Cris seemed awkward now, almost shy. “I’m good at this, Farr. I’m one of the best in my age group; I’ve won a lot of the events I’ve been eligible for up to now. And in a couple of months I qualify for the big one. The Games. I’ll be up against the best, my first chance…”

“The Games?”

“The biggest. If you do well there, become a star of the Games, then Parz just opens her legs for you.” Cris laughed coarsely at that, and Farr grinned uncertainly. “I mean it,” Cris said. “Parties at the Palace. Fame.” He shrugged. “Of course it doesn’t last forever. But if you’re good enough you never lose it, the aura. Believe me… Will you still be around, for the Games?”

“I don’t know. Adda…”

“Your friend in the Hospital. Yeah.” Cris’s mood seemed to swing to embarrassment again. “Look, I’m sorry for going on about Surfing. I know you’re in a difficult situation.”

Farr smiled, hoping to put this complex boy at his ease. “I enjoy hearing you talk.”

Cris studied Farr speculatively. “Listen, have you ever tried Surfing? No, of course you haven’t. Would you like to? We could meet some people I know…”

“I don’t know if I’d be able to.”

“It looks simple,” Cris said. “It is simple in concept, but difficult to do well. You have to keep your balance, keep the board pressed between you and the Magfield, keep pushing down against the flux lines to build up your speed.” He closed his eyes briefly and rocked in the Air.