Rauc looked surprised. “Oh, he’s decent enough. But that doesn’t matter. Not day to day, it doesn’t. I’ll introduce you to our section supervisor, Leeh. She makes a difference… But not as much as she likes to think. Now Robis — who runs the stores — that’s where the real power lies. Get him to smile on you and the world is a brighter place.”

Dura hesitated. “Frenk says I might get to be a supervisor, eventually.”

“He says that to everyone,” Rauc said dismissively. “Come on, let’s find Leeh; she’s probably off in the fields somewhere…” But she hesitated, looking searchingly at Dura. Then, glancing around to check they were unobserved, she dug into a deep pocket in her smock and drew out a small object. “Here,” she said, placing the object in Dura’s hand. “This will keep you well.”

It was a tiny five-spoked Wheel, like the one she’d seen around the neck of Toba Mixxax… a model of the execution device in the Market Place. “Thank you,” Dura said slowly. “I think I understand what this means.”

“You do?” Now Rauc’s look was becoming wary.

Dura hastened to reassure her. “Don’t worry. I won’t betray you.”

“The Wheel is illegal in Parz City,” Rauc said. “In theory it’s illegal everywhere, throughout the Mantle… wherever the Guards’ crossbows can reach. But we’re a long way from Parz here. The Wheel is tolerated on the ceiling-farms. Something to keep us happy… That old fool Frenk says it’s economically efficient for us to be allowed to practice our faith.”

Dura smiled. “That sounds like Frenk.”

“…But you never know. Do upfluxers follow the Wheel?”

“No.” She studied Rauc. She didn’t seem very strong, or much of a rebel; but apparently this Wheel business gave her comfort. “I saw a Wheel used as an execution tool.”

“Yes.”

“Then why is it a symbol of faith?”

“Because it’s used to kill.” Rauc looked into her eyes, searching for understanding. “So many human lives have been Broken that the Wheel, the very shape of it, has become something human in itself. Or more than human. Do you see? By keeping the Wheel close by us we are staying close to the noblest, bravest part of us.”

Rauc’s speech was intense and earnest. Dura thumbed the little Wheel doubtfully. The cult must be quite widespread. After all, Toba Mixxax was an adherent… a ceiling-farm owner. Widespread through the Star, then, and through society itself.

If these Wheel cultists ever found a leader, they could be formidable opponents for the mysterious Committee which ran the City.

Rauc looked tired. “Come on. Let’s find Leeh, and get you started.”

Side by side the two women Waved through the orderly Air of the farm, the golden stalks of wheat suspended above them.

Farr was dimly aware of the other workers pulling away from him, sly looks conveying their pleasure at his discomfiture. Chunks of Crust-tree rolled past on their conveyor belt, ignored.

There was a growl. “No.” Bzya, Farr realized, hovering close behind him.

Hosch’s bony head swiveled at Bzya, eyecups deep and empty. “You’re questioning me, Fisherman?”

“This one’s too young,” Bzya said, laying a huge hand on Farr’s shoulder. Farr, unwilling to lead his friend into trouble, tried to shrug the hand away.

“But he was recruited for this.” A muscle in the supervisor’s cheek was twitching. “He’s small and light, but he’s got that upfluxer strength. And we’re short of able-bodied…”

“He’s got no skills. No experience. And we’ve taken a lot of losses recently, Hosch. It’s too much of a risk.”

Hosch’s cheek muscle seemed to have a life of its own. When he replied, it was in a sudden scream. “I’m not asking your advice, you Xeelee-lover! And if you’re so concerned for this Piglet-turd you can come down as well. Got that? Got that?”

Farr dropped his head. Of course, Hosch wasn’t being logical. If he — Farr — was being taken down because of his size, then surely Bzya shouldn’t be…

Bzya simply nodded, apparently unmoved by Hosch’s anger or by his own sudden assignment to peril. “Who’s the third?”

“I am.” Hosch’s rage still showed in the pulsing of muscles in his face, in the quivering of his eyecup rims. “I am. Now get moving, you Pig-lovers, and maybe we’ve got a chance to get down there before the Quantum Sea congeals…”

Farr and Bzya followed Hosch out of the hopper chamber. Hosch’s continued abuse passed unheard through Farr’s head, and he could only remember what Bzya had told him about Hosch and responsibility.

The chamber where they were to board the Bell was at the very base of the City. The chamber had walls, an upper surface — but no floor. Farr, following Hosch and Bzya, clung to guide ropes and gazed down into clear Air, drinking in its freshness after days of the stale stenches of the Harbor. He was aware of the immense mass of the City above him; it creaked softly, like some brooding animal.

The Bell itself was a sphere of hardened, battered wood two mansheights across. Hoops of Corestuff were wrapped around it. The Bell was suspended from an immense pulley which was almost lost in the darkness above Farr’s head. More cables attached the Bell loosely to the Spine. Farr could make out pale patches in the dimness above, faces of Harbor workers close to the pulley.

The Spine was a pillar of wood which plunged, trailing cables, out of this chamber and speared through the thick Air beneath the City. It turned into a dark line, barely visible, curving slowly to follow the flux of the Magfield. Cables trailed along its length to reach far, far down, into the distant, bruised-purple, lethal mass of the underMantle.

Farr, following the Spine’s curve, felt his heart slow inside him.

The Bell seemed impossibly fragile. How could it possibly protect him from dissolution in the depths of the underMantle, hovering over the boiling surface of the Quantum Sea itself? Surely it would be crushed like a leaf; no wonder so many Fishermen lost their lives.

Hosch opened up a large door in the side of the Bell and clambered stiffly inside. Bzya prodded Farr forward. As he approached the sphere Farr saw how badly scuffed and scratched the outer surface was. He ran a finger along one deep scar; it looked as if some animal had attacked this fragile-looking device, gouging it with teeth or nails.

Reassuring, he thought drily.

Farr had expected the interior of the Bell to be something like Mixxax’s car, with its comfortable seats and light-admitting windows. Instead he entered a pocket of gloom — in fact he almost collided with Hosch. The only windows were small panels of clearwood which hardly admitted any light; woodlamps gave off a smoky, apologetic green glow. There was a pole running the length of the sphere’s axis, and Farr clung to this. There was a small control panel — with two worn-looking switches and a lever — and the hull was bulky with lockers and what looked like tanks of Air.

Bzya lumbered into the Bell. The interior was suddenly crowded; and as the Fisherman’s huge hands wrapped around the support pole the Bell was filled with Bzya’s strong, homely stench. Hosch clambered around them both to pull closed the hatch — a massive disc of wood which fitted snugly into its frame.

They waited in the almost complete gloom. There was a busy scraping from all around the hull. Farr, peering through the windows, saw Harbor workers adjusting the position of the Corestuff hoops so that they surrounded the sphere evenly, covering the hatchway. Farr glanced from Hosch to Bzya. Bzya returned his stare with a patient acceptance, the darkness softening the lines of his scars. The supervisor glared into space, angry and tense.

There was a humming, strangely regular. The whole craft vibrated with it. It seemed to permeate his very being; he could feel his capillaries contracting. He looked at Bzya, but the Fisherman had closed his good eye, his face set; his damaged eyecup was a tunnel to infinity.