Clutching his Surfboard, Cris led Farr through the heart of the City.

They followed a tangle of subsidiary streets, avoiding the main routes. Farr tried to memorize their path, but his rudimentary sense of City-bound direction was soon overwhelmed. Lost, baffled, but following Cris doggedly, he involuntarily glanced around, looking for the Quantum Sea, the angle of the vortex lines to orient himself. But of course, here deep in the guts of Parz, the faceless wooden walls hid the world.

After a time, though, he realized that they must have passed below the City’s rough equator and moved into the region called the Downside. The walled streets here were meaner, with illumination shafts and wood-lamps far separated. There were few cars and fewer Wavers, and the doors to dwelling-places off the Downside streets, battered and dirty, looked impenetrably solid. Cris didn’t comment on the changed environment — he kept up his chatter of Surfing as if oblivious — but Farr noticed how the City boy kept his precious board clutched tight against his chest, shielding it with his body.

At length they came to a wide, oval port set in a street wall. The shaft beyond this port, about ten mansheights across, was much plainer than any City street — long and featureless, and with scuffed, unfinished-looking walls — but it led, Farr saw, to an ellipse of clear, precious Airlight. He stared hungrily into that light, marveling at how the bright yellow glow glittered from scraped-smooth patches of wall.

“Are we going down here?”

“Through this cargo port? Out through the Skin? But that’s against City ordinances…” Cris grinned. “You bet we are.” With a whoop, Cris placed one hand on the lip of the elliptical entrance and somersaulted into the shaft. His board clutched above his head, he flapped his arms, Waving in reverse feet-first down the shaft. Farr, clumsier, clambered over the lip of the port and plunged down. Laughing, their voices echoing from the wooden walls, the boys tumbled toward the open Air.

Farr shot out of the oppressive wall of the City and spread his arms and legs, drinking in the yellow-shining Air and staring up at the arc of the vortex lines.

Cris was looking at him skeptically. “Are you okay?”

“I’m just glad to be out in the Air… even if it is this sticky Polar stuff.”

“Right. Not like back in the good old upflux, eh?” Cris leveled his board, flexed it with the palm of his hand experimentally against the Magfield.

Farr rolled luxuriously in the Air. The port they’d emerged from was a rough-rimmed mouth set in the wooden outer hull — the Skin — and it loomed around them still, as if threatening to snap down on them, to swallow them back into the City’s wooden guts. But the boys were drifting in the Air, away from the City, and Farr saw that this port was just one of an array of similar entrances which stretched across the face of the City in all directions, as far as he could see. Farr tried to pick out identifying features of “their” port, so he could find it again if he needed to. But it was simply a crudely finished gash in the wooden Skin, unmarked, with nothing to distinguish it from a hundred others. Farr soon gave up the effort of memorizing. After all, if he did get lost, even if he found this particular port again he’d never find his way back to the Mixxaxes’ home through the City streets.

He flipped his legs and pulled a little further away from the City. The Skin was like a gigantic mask, looming over him. This close he could see its detail — how it was crudely cobbled together from mismatched sections of wood and Corestuff — but it was hugely impressive nevertheless. The dozens of cargo ports in this part of the Skin were, he thought, like mouths, continually ingesting; or perhaps like capillary pores, taking in a granular Air of wood and food. As he pulled back still further he saw the huge, unending falls from the sewage outlets spread across the base of the City; the roar of the semisolid stuff tumbling into the underMantle seemed to fill the Air.

The City — battered and imperfect as it might be — was magnificent, he realized slowly; it was like an immense animal, noisily alive, utterly oblivious of his own tiny presence before its face.

He heard his name called.

He glanced around, but Cris had gone. Farr felt an absurd stab of disorientation — after all, he had a far smaller chance of getting lost out here than in the City’s guts — and twisted, staring around. There was Cris, his orange coverall bright, a distant, Waving figure suspended on his Surfboard. He was close to the Skin but far above Farr’s head. He’d slipped away while Farr was daydreaming.

Embarrassed, a little irritated, Farr thrust at the Air, letting the upfluxer strength in his legs hurl him toward Cris.

Cris watched him approach, grinning infuriatingly. “Keep up. There are people waiting for us.” He clambered back onto his board, turned and led the way.

Farr followed, perhaps a mansheight behind; one after the other the boys soared over the face of the City.

Cris’s Surfing technique was spectacular, bearing little relation to the cut-down caricature he had shown Farr inside the City. Cris pivoted the gleaming board under one bare foot while thrusting with the other heel at the back of the board, making it Wave vigorously. His bare soles seemed able to grip at the surface’s fine ridges. He kept his arms stretched out in the Air for balance, and the muscles in the City boy’s legs worked smoothly. The whole process looked wonderfully easy, in fact, and Farr felt a dull itch — in the small of his back and in his calves — as he stared at Cris. He longed to try out the Surfboard for himself. Why, with his enhanced strength, here at the Pole, he could make the damn thing fly…

But he couldn’t deny Cris’s skill as he expertly levered his mass and inertia against the soft resistance of the Magfield. The speed and grace of Cris’s motion, with electron gas crackling around the Corestuff strips embedded in the board, was nonchalant and spectacular.

They were climbing up and around the City’s Skin, generally away from the sewage founts at the base but on a diagonal line across the face. They crossed one of the huge Longitude anchor-bands. Farr saw how the band was fixed to the Skin by pegs of Corestuff at intervals along its length. The gleaming Corestuff strip was wider than a mansheight, and — in response to the huge currents surging through the band’s superconducting core — electron gas played unceasingly over its smooth surface. The Magfield here was distorted, constricted by the band’s field; it felt uneven, harsh, tight around Farr’s chest.

Cris clambered off his board and joined Farr in Waving away from the Skin, working cautiously past the anchor-band. “Magfield’s too spiky here,” Cris said curtly. “You can’t get a proper grip.”

Past the anchor-band, the Skin unfolded before Farr’s gaze. He’d expected the Skinscape to be featureless, uniform, except for the random blemishes of its construction. But it was much too huge to allow such uniformity, he soon realized. As they climbed toward the City’s equator, toward the Upside areas, the huge cargo ports and public Air-shafts became more sparse, to be replaced by smaller, tidier doorways evidently meant for humans and Air-cars, and by small portals which must be windows or light-shafts for private dwellings. A man leaned out of a window and hurled out a bowl of what looked like sewage; the stuff sparkled as it dispersed. Cris cupped his hands around his mouth and called down a greeting. The man — squat and yellow-haired — peered out into the sky, startled. When he spotted the boys he shook his fist at them, shouting something angry but indistinguishable. Cris yelled abuse back, and Farr joined in, shaking his fist in return. He laughed, exhilarated by this display of disrespect; he felt free, young, healthy, released from the confines of the City, and the comparison with the sour old man in his windowed cell made his condition all the sweeter.