Jool’s body was square, a compact - if misshapen - mass of muscles. She wore what looked like the all-purpose coverall of the Harbour, much patched. One side of her body was quite damaged - her hair was missing down one side of her scalp in wide swathes, and her arm on that side was twisted, atrophied. Her leg was missing, below the knee.
He was staring at the stump of the leg, the tied-off trouser leg below the knee. Suddenly unbearably self-conscious, he lifted his eyes to Jool’s face.
She clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Not much point looking for that leg; you’ll never find it.’ She smiled kindly. ‘Here. Have a petal. I meant it.’
He dug his hand into the globe, pulled out a fistful of the little leaves, and jammed them into his mouth. They were insubstantial, like all leaf-matter, and strongly flavoured - so strong that his head seemed to fill up with their sweet aroma. He coughed, spluttering leaf fragments all over his hostess.
Jool tilted back her head and laughed. ‘Your upfluxer friend hasn’t got very sophisticated tastes, Bzya.’
Bzya had gone to work in one corner of the cramped little room, beneath two crumpled sleeping-cocoons; his arms were immersed in a large globe-barrel full of fragments - chips of some substance - which crunched and ground against each other as he closed his fists around pieces of cloth. ‘Neither have we, Jool, so stop teasing the boy.’
Farr picked up a petal. ‘Is it a leaf?’
‘Yes.’ Jool popped one in her mouth and chewed noisily. ‘Yes, and no. It’s from a flower ... a small, ornamental plant. They’ve been bred, here in Parz. You don’t get them in the wild, do you?’
‘They grow in the Palace, don’t they? In their Garden. Is that where you work?’ He studied her. From the way Cris had described the Committee Palace to him, Jool seemed a little rough to be acceptable there.
‘No, not the Palace. There are other parts of the Skin, a little further Downside, where flowers, and bonsai trees, are cultivated. But not really for show, like in the Garden.’
‘Why, then?’
She crunched on another leaf. ‘For food. And not for humans. For pigs. I wait on Air-pigs, young Farr.’ Her eyes were bright and amused.
Farr was puzzled. ‘But these leaves - petals - can’t be very nutritious.’
‘They don’t make the pigs as strong as they could be, no,’ she said. ‘But they have other advantages.’
‘Oh, stop teasing the lad,’ Bzya called again. ‘You know, she used to work in the Harbour.’
‘We met there. I was his supervisor, before that cretin Hosch was promoted. At the expense of this huge dolt Bzya, I’m afraid. Farr, do you want some beercake?’
‘No. Yes. I mean, no thank you. I don’t think I’d better.’
‘Oh, try a little.’ Jool turned to a cupboard set in the wall and opened its door. The door was ill-fitting, but the food store within was well stocked and clean ‘I’ll bet you’ve never tried it. Well, see what it’s like. What the hell. We won’t let you get drunk, don’t worry.’ She withdrew a slab of thick, sticky-looking cake wrapped in thin cloth; she broke off a handful and passed it to Farr.
Bzya called, ‘Cake is fine as long as you chew it slowly, and know when to stop.’
Farr bit into the cake cautiously. After the pungency of the petals it tasted sour, thick, almost indigestible. He chewed it carefully - the taste didn’t improve - and swallowed.
Nothing happened.
Jool hung in the Air before him, huge arms folded. ‘Just wait,’ she said.
‘Funny thing,’ Bzya called, still working at his globe of crunching chips. ‘Beercake is an invention of the deep Downside. I guess we evolved it to stave off boredom, lack of variety, lack of stimulation. The poor man’s flower garden, eh, Jool?’
‘But now it’s a delicacy,’ Jool said. ‘They take it in the Palace, from globes of clearwood. Can you believe it?’
Warmth exploded in the pit of Farr’s stomach. It spread out like an opening hand, suffusing his torso and racing along his limbs like currents induced by some new Magfield; his fingers and toes tingled, and he felt his pores ache deliciously as they opened.
‘Wow,’ he said.
‘Well put.’ Jool reached out and took the beercake from his numb fingers. ‘I think that’s enough for now.’ She wrapped the cake in a fragment of cloth and stowed it away in its cupboard.
Farr, still tingling, drifted across the room to join Bzya. The big Fisherman’s arms were still buried in the barrel of chips, and his broad hands were working at a garment - an outsize tunic - inside the chips, rubbing surfaces together and scraping the cloth through the chips. Bzya hauled the tunic out of the globe and added it to a rough sphere of clothes, wadded together, which orbited close to his wide back. Bzya grinned at Farr, rubbed his hands, and plunged a pair of trousers into the chips. ‘Jool has been looking forward to meeting you.’
‘What happened to her?’
Bzya shrugged, his arms extended before him. ‘A Bell accident, deep in the underMantle. It was so fast, she can’t even reconstruct it. Anyway, she left half herself down there. After that, of course, she was unemployable. So the Harbour said.’ He smiled with unreasonable tolerance, Farr thought. ‘But she still had her indenture to fulfil. So she came out of the Harbour with one leg, a dodgy husband, and a debt.’
‘But she works now.’
‘Yes.’
He fell into silence, and Farr watched him work the clothes curiously.
Bzya became aware of his stare. ‘What’s the matter? ... Oh. You don’t know what I’m doing, do you?’
Farr hesitated. ‘To be honest, Bzya, I get tired of asking what’s going on all the time.’
‘Well, I can sympathize with that.’ Bzya carried on rubbing the grit through his clothes, impassive.
After a few heartbeats of silence Farr gave in. ‘Oh, all right. What are you doing, Bzya?’
‘Washing,’ Bzya said. ‘Keeping my clothes clean. I don’t suppose you do much of that, in the upflux ...’
Farr was irritated. ‘We keep ourselves clean, even in the upflux. We’re not animals, you know. We have scrapers ...’
Bzya patted the side of his barrel of chips. ‘This is a better idea. You work your clothes through this mass of chips - bone fragments, bits of wood, and so on. You work the stuff with your hands, you see - like this - get it into the cloth ... The chips are crushed, smaller and smaller, and work into the cloth, pushing out the dirt. Much less crude than a scraper.’ He hauled a shirt out of the barrel and showed it to Farr. ‘It’s time-consuming, though. And a bit boring.’ He eyed Farr speculatively. ‘Look, Farr, while you’re in the City you ought to sample the richness of its life to the full. Why don’t you have a go?’
He moved eagerly away from the barrel, rubbing a layer of bone-dust from his arms.
Farr, well aware he was being teased again, took another shirt - this one stiff with grime - and shoved it into the barrel. As he’d seen Bzya do, he kneaded the cloth between his fingers. The chips crackled against each other and squirmed around his fingers like live things. When he drew the shirt out again the dust coated his hands, so that his fingers felt strange against each other, as if gloved. But the shirt hardly seemed any cleaner.
‘It does need practice,’ Bzya said dryly.
Farr plunged the garment back into the barrel and pressed harder.
Jool had been fixing food; now she slapped Bzya on the shoulder. ‘Every time someone comes to see us he gets them washing his smalls,’ she said.
Bzya tilted back his battered face and bellowed laughter.
Jool led Farr to the centre of the little room. A five-spoked Wheel of wood hovered here, with covered bowls jammed into the crevices between its spokes. Hanging in the Air the three of them gathered close around the Wheel-table, enclosing it in a rough sphere of faces and limbs, the light of the wood-lamps playing on their skin. Now Jool lifted the covers from the bowls and let them drift off into the Air. ‘Belly of Air-piglet, spiced with petals. Almost as go
od as Bzya can make it. Eggs of Crust-ray . . . ever tried this, Farr? Stuffed leaves. More beercake ...’
Farr, with Bzya prompting, dug his hands into the bowls and crammed the spicy, flavoursome food into his mouth. As they ate, the conversation dried up, with both Bzya and Jool too intent on feeding. He couldn’t help comparing the little home with the Mixxaxes’, in the upper Midside. There was only one room, in contrast to the Mixxaxes’ five. A waste chute - scrupulously clean - pierced another wall of the room they ate in. And Jool and Bzya were far less tidy than the Mixxaxes. The clump of cleaned clothes had been simply abandoned by Bzya, and now it drifted in the Air, sleeves slowly uncoiling like limp spin-spider legs. But the place was clean. And he spotted a bundle of scrolls, loosely tied together and jammed into one corner. The Wheel symbol was everywhere - carved into the walls, the shape of the table from which they ate, sculpted into the back of the door. There was a much greater feeling of age, of poor construction and shabbiness, than in the Midside ... But there was more character here, he decided slowly.
He looked at the wide, battered, intelligent faces of Bzya and Jool as they worked at their food. The light of the lamps seemed to diffuse around them, so that their faces were evenly illuminated (the apparently random placing of the lamps was actually anything but, he realized). There was a quiet, unpretentious intelligence here, he thought.
He briefly imagined living with these people. What if he’d grown up here, deep inside Parz, in this strange, old, cramped part of the City?
It wouldn’t have been so bad, he decided. His mood swung into a feeling of pigletish devotion to these two decent people.
Surreptitiously he shook his head, wondering if the beercake was affecting his judgement.
He became aware of Jool and Bzya watching his face curiously.
He blurted, ‘Do you have children?’
Jool smiled over a fistful of food. ‘Yes. One, a girl. Shar. We don’t see much of her. She works out of the City.’
‘Don’t you miss her?’
‘Of course,’ Bzya said simply. ‘Which is why I haven’t mentioned her before, Farr. What can’t be helped shouldn’t be brooded on.’
‘Why not bring her back?’
‘It would be up to her,’ Bzya said gently. ‘I doubt if she’d want to come. But she’s too far away. She’s a ceiling-farm coolie. Like your sister, from what you say.’
Farr felt vaguely excited. ‘I wonder if they’ll meet.’
Jool laughed. ‘The hinterland may seem a small place to an upfluxer, Farr, but it contains hundreds of ceiling-farms. Shar’s serving out her indenture. It’s hard for her to get home until that’s through. Then, maybe, she’ll get a more senior job on the farm. She’s working for a decent owner. Equitable.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Jool frowned. ‘What? How we can live apart, like this?’ She shrugged. ‘I’d rather have her away from us and safe, than here but in the Harbour. It’s just the way things are for us ...’
‘Farr has family,’ Bzya said.
Jool nodded. ‘A sister. The coolie. Yes? And there’s another with you from the upflux, an old man ...’
‘Adda.’
‘And you’re separated from them both. Just like us, with Shar.’
Farr nodded. ‘But Dura’s being brought back from her ceiling-farm. Deni Maxx has gone to get her.’
‘Who?’
‘A doctor. From the Hospital of the Common Good ... And Adda has been taken to see the Chair of the City. It’s all to do with sorting out the Glitches ...’
‘Hm,’ Bzya said. ‘Perhaps. Farr, I don’t believe everything I hear from the Upside, and I’d suggest you grow a little scepticism too. Still, I hope you see your sister soon.’
Jool was working towards the bottom of the bowl of piglet meat. ‘So what do you make of our part of the City?’
Farr finished his mouthful. ‘It’s different. It’s ...’ He hesitated.
‘Dark, dirty, threatening. Right?’
Farr shook his head. ‘I was going to say cramped. Even more cramped than everywhere else.’
‘Well, this is the heart of the City,’ Jool said. ‘I’m not sentimental about it, but that’s the truth ... It’s the oldest part of Parz. The first to be built, around the head of the Harbour, when the Spine was first driven into the underMantle.’
Farr imagined those ancient days, the bravery of the men and women determined to extract the Corestuff they needed to build their City, and then constructing that immense structure with their bare hands and tools little more advanced, he guessed, than the average Human Being’s today.
Jool smiled. ‘I know what you’re thinking, boy from the upflux. Why would anyone build a little box like this around themselves? Why shut out the Air?’
‘Because,’ Bzya said; ‘they were trying to rebuild what they thought they’d lost, when the Colonists withdrew into the Core.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘So Parz is a representation in wood and Corestuff of an ancient dream ...’
‘You’re both very intelligent,’ Farr found himself saying.
Husband and wife together tilted back their heads and opened their throats with laughter. The pair of them made a ludicrous, outsized, merry sight in the room’s cramped Air.
Jool wiped her eyecups. ‘You say what you think, don’t you?’
Bzya patted her arm. ‘We aren’t fair to laugh, Jool. After all, we know plenty of people - even in the lower Midside, let alone the Upside - who think Downsiders are all subhuman.’
‘And,’ Farr said, ‘with Human Beings - upfluxers - worse than that.’
‘But it’s rubbish,’ Bzya said fervently. He grabbed a ray egg from the bowl and waggled it before Farr’s face. ‘Humans are more or less equal, as far as I can see, no matter where they come from. And I’ll go further.’ He bit into the soft egg and spoke around his chewing. ‘I believe humans throughout this Star are intelligent - I mean, more so than the stock on other human worlds; perhaps more intelligent even than the average Ur-human.’
Jool shook her head. ‘Listen to him, the ruler of a hundred Stars.’
‘But there’s logic to what I say. Think about it,’ Bzya went on. ‘We’re descended from a selected stock - of engineers, placed in the Star to modify it; to build a civilization in the Mantle. The Ur-humans wouldn’t include fools in that stock, any more than they would have made us too weak, or too ill-adapted.’
‘The analogous anatomists have worked out much of what we know about the Ur-humans’ project from our ill-adaptation,’ Jool said, her wide face lively and interested. ‘From our inappropriate form, based on the Ur-human prototype. And ...’
Their conversation, illuminating and informed, washed around Farr; he listened, mellow and relaxed, chewing surreptitiously on a little more beercake.
Jool turned to Farr. ‘Of course, we weren’t so clever as to avoid setting up a rigid, stratified society to control each other with.’
‘Here in Parz, anyway,’ Farr said.
‘Here in Parz,’ she conceded. ‘You Human Beings are evidently much too smart to put up with it all.’
‘We were,’ Farr said mildly. ‘That’s why we left.’
‘And now you’ve come back,’ Bzya said. ‘To the lowest strata, at the bottom of the City ... Upside, Downside, bottom, top; all those up-and-down concepts are relics of Ur-human thinking - did you know that? ... here in the Downside we’re regarded as less intelligent, less aware, than the rest. In the past people here have reacted to that.’ His large, battered, thoughtful face looked sad. ‘Badly. If you treat people as less than human, often they behave like it. A couple of generations ago this part of the Downside was a slum. A jungle.’
‘Parts of it still are,’ Jool said.
‘But we’ve pulled ourselves out of it.’ Bzya smiled. ‘Self-help. Education. Oral histories, numeracy, literacy where we’ve the materials.’ He bit into a slice of beercake. ‘The Committee does damn all for this part of the City. The Harbour does less, even th
ough most of us are Harbour employees. But we can help ourselves.’
Farr listened to all this with a certain wonder. These people were like exiles in their own City, he thought. Like Human Beings, lost in this forest of wood and Corestuff. He told them of lessons and learning among the Human Beings - histories of the tribe and of the greater mankind beyond the Star, told by elders to little huddles of children suspended between the vortex lines. Bzya and Jool listened thoughtfully.
When the food was finished, they rested for a while. Then Bzya and Jool moved a little closer to each other, apparently unconsciously. Their huge heads dipped, so that their brows were almost touching. They reached forward and placed wide, strong fingers on the rim of the Wheel. Quietly they began to speak - in unison, a slow, solemn litany of names, none of them familiar to Farr. He watched them in silence.
When they finished, after perhaps a hundred names, Bzya opened his eyecups wide and smiled at Farr. ‘A little oral history in action, my friend.’
Jool’s face had resumed the sly, playful expression of earlier. She reached across the Wheel-table and touched Farr’s sleeve. ‘Have you figured out what my job is yet?’
‘Oh, stop teasing the boy,’ Bzya said loudly. ‘I’ll tell you. She gathers petals from the Upside gardens, and delivers them to the pig-farms - the small in-City ones scattered around Parz, where the pigs for the Air-cars that run within the City are kept.’
‘Think about it,’ Jool said. ‘The streets of the City are hot and cramped. Enclosed. All those Cars. All those pigs ...’
‘The petals are ground up and added to the pigs’ feed,’ Bzya said.
Farr frowned. ‘Why?’
‘To make them easier to live with.’ Solemnly, Jool bent forward, tilted her stump of leg, grabbed her wide buttocks through her coverall and separated them, and farted explosively.
Bzya laughed.
Farr looked from one to the other, uncertainly.
Then the smell hit him. Her fart was petal-perfumed.
Bzya shook his head, sighing. ‘Oh, don’t pay her any attention; it will only encourage her. More beercake?’
Xeelee: An Omnibus: Raft, Timelike Infinity, Flux, Ring Page 70