She held out her arms and wiggled her fingers. “So they were very strange. But they had arms, and legs, like us — so we believe, because otherwise why would they have given them to us?”

Dura shook her head. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Of course it does,” Maxx smiled. “Oh, fingers have their uses. But haven’t there been times when you’d have swapped your long, clumsy legs for an Air-pig’s jetfart bladder? Or for a simple sheet of skin like a Surfer’s board which would let you Wave across the Magfield ten, a hundred times as fast as you can now? You have to face it, my dear… We humans are a bad design for the environment of the Mantle. And the reason must be that we are scale models of the Ur-humans who built us. No doubt the Ur-human form was perfectly suited for whatever strange world they came from. But not here.”

Dura’s imagination, overheating, filled her mind with visions of huge, misty, godlike men, prising open the Crust and releasing handfuls of tiny artificial humans into the Mantle…

Deni Maxx looked deeply into Dura’s eyecups. “Is that clear to you? I think it’s important that you understand what’s happened to your friend.”

“Oh, it’s clear,” Adda called from his cocoon. “But it doesn’t make a blind bit of difference, because there’s nothing she can do about it.” He laughed. “Nothing, now she’s condemned me to this living hell. Is there, Dura?”

Dura’s anger welled like Deni’s heated superfluid. “I’m sick of your bitterness, old man.”

“You should have let me die,” he whispered. “I told you.”

“Why didn’t you tell us about Parz City? Why did you leave us so unprepared?”

He sighed, a bubble of thick phlegm forming at the corner of his mouth. “Because we were thrown out ten generations ago. Because our ancestors traveled so far before building a home that none of us thought we would ever encounter Parz again.” He laughed. “It was better to forget… What good would it do to know such a place existed? But how could we know they would spread so far, staining the Crust with their ceiling-farms and their Wheels? Damn them…”

“Why were we sent away from Parz? Was it because…” She turned, but Deni Maxx was making notes on a scroll with a Corestuff stylus, and did not appear to be listening. “Because of the Xeelee?”

“No.” He grimaced in pain. “No, not because of the Xeelee. Or at least, not directly. It was because of how our philosophy caused us to behave.”

The Human Beings believed that knowledge of the Xeelee predated the arrival of humans in the Star — that it had been brought there by the Ur-humans themselves.

The Xeelee, godlike, dominated spaces so large — it was said — that by comparison the Star itself was no more than a mote in the eyecup of a giant. Humans, striving for supremacy, had resented the Xeelee — had even gone to hopeless war against the great Xeelee projects, the constructs like the legendary Ring.

But over the generations — and as the terrible defeats continued — a new strand had emerged in human thought. No one understood the Xeelee’s grand purposes. But what if their projects were aimed, not at squalid human-scale goals like the domination of others, but at much higher aspirations?

The Xeelee were much more powerful than humans. Perhaps they always would be. And perhaps, as a corollary, they were much more wise.

So, some apologists began to argue, humans should trust in the Xeelee rather than oppose them. The Xeelee’s ways were incomprehensible but must be informed by great wisdom. The apologists developed a philosophy which was accepting, compliant, calm, and trusting in an understanding above any human’s.

Adda went on, “We followed the way of the Xeelee, you see, Dura; not the way of the Committee of Parz. We would not obey.” He shook his head. “So they sent us away. And in that we were lucky; now they might simply have destroyed us on their Wheels.”

Deni Maxx touched Dura’s shoulder. “You should leave now.”

“We’ll be back.”

“No.” Adda was shifting with ghastly slowness in his cocoon of bindings, evidently trying to relieve his pain. “No, don’t come back. Get away. As far and as fast as you can. Get away…”

His voice broke up into a bubbling growl, and he closed his eyes.

“You dumb upfluxer jetfart!” Hosch screamed in Farr’s face. “When I want a whole damn tree trunk fed into this hopper I’ll tell you about it!” Now the Harbor supervisor shoved his bony face forward and his tone descended into a barely audible, infinitely menacing hiss. “But until I do… and if it wouldn’t trouble you too much… maybe you could split the wood just a little more finely. Or…” — foul-smelling photons seeping from his mouth — “maybe you’d like to follow your handiwork into the hopper and finish your work in there? Eh?”

Farr waited until Hosch was through. Trying to defend himself, he knew from bitter experience, would only make things worse.

Hosch was a small, wiry man with a pinched mouth and eyecups which looked as if they had been drilled into his face. His clothes were filthy and he always smelled to Farr like days-old food. His limbs were so thin that Farr was confident that, with his remarkable upfluxer strength here at the Pole, he — or Dura — could snap the supervisor in two, in a fair fight…

At last Hosch seemed to exhaust his anger, and he Waved away to some other part of the hopper line. The laborers who had gathered to relish Farr’s humiliation — men and women alike — gave up their surreptitious surveillance and, with the smugness of spared victims, fixed their attention back on their work.

Air seethed in Farr’s capillaries and muscles. Upfluxer. He called me upfluxer, again. He watched his fists bunch…

Bzya’s huge hand enclosed both Farr’s own, and, with an irresistible, gentle force, pulled Farr’s arms down. “Don’t,” Bzya said, his voice a cool rumble from the depths of an immense chest. “He’s not worth it.”

Farr’s rage seemed to veer between the supervisor and this huge Fisherman who was getting in the way. “He called me…”

“I heard what he called you,” Bzya said evenly. “And so did everyone else… just as Hosch intended. Listen to me. He wants you to react, to hit him. He’d like nothing better.”

“He’d be capable of liking nothing after I take off his head for him.”

Bzya threw his head back and roared laughter. “And as soon as you did the guards would be down on you. After a beating you’d return to work — to Hosch, to a supervisor who really would hate you, and wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to show it — and to an extra five, or ten, years here to pay his compensation.”

Farr, the remnants of his anger still swirling in him, looked up into Bzya’s broad, battered face. “But I’ve only just started this shift… At the moment I’ll be happy just to get through that.”

“Good.” With an immense, powerful hand Bzya ruffled Farr’s hair-tubes. “That’s the way to think of it… You don’t have to get through your whole ten years at once, remember; just one shift at a time.”

Bzya was a huge man with muscles the size of Air-piglets. He was as bulky, powerful and gentle as the supervisor was small and needle-dagger vicious. Bzya’s face was marred by a mask of scar tissue which obliterated one side of his head and turned one eyecup into a ghastly cavern that reached back into the depths of his skull. Farr had come to know him as a simple man who had lived his life in the poverty-stricken Downside, keeping himself alive by turning his giant muscles to the mundane, difficult and dangerous labor which allowed the rest of Parz City to function. He had a wife, Jool, and a daughter, Shar. Somehow, through a life of travail, he had retained a kind and patient nature.

Now he said to Farr, winking at him with his good eyecup, “You shouldn’t be hard on old Hosch, you know.”