The pigs had gone from the heart of the framework. But they'd been replaced by something else — an artifact, a clumsy cylinder of wood three mansheights tall. There were clear panels set in the walls of the cylinder, and bands of some material, dully reflective, surrounded its broad carcass.

A hatch in the top of the cylinder was pushed open. A man — just a man — pushed his face out; the face was covered by an extravagant beard.

The man grinned at Borz. "What a relief," he said. "We needed some fresh Air in here." He looked down into the cylinder. "You see, Dura, I knew Karen Macrae would get us home."

"Hey." Borz Waved with his thick legs until his face was on a level with the strange man's. "Hey, you. Where are our pigs?"

"Pigs?" The man seemed puzzled, then he looked around at the dead Interface. "Oh. I see. You kept your pigs inside this gateway, did you?"

"Where are they?"

The man looked amused, but sympathetic. "A long way from here, I fear." He sniffed the Air and stared around, his gaze frank, confident and inquisitive. "Tell me, which way's South?"

29

TOBA MIXXAX, HIS ROUND FACE PALE in the heat, stuck his head out of his Air-car. "Sounds like Mur and Lea are arguing again."

Toba's car had approached unnoticed. Dura had been laboring to fix ropes to a section of collapsed Skin. She backed away from her work, her arms and hands aching. Even here, on the outer surface of the dispersing cloud of debris that marked the site of the ruined City, the heat and noise were all but unbearable, and the work was long, hard and dangerous. As she listened now, she could hear the raised voices of Lea and Mur. She felt a prickle of irritation — how long was she going to have to hand-hold these people, before they learned to work together like adults?

But as she studied Toba's familiar round face — with its uncertain expression, its pores dilated in the heat — the irritation vanished as soon as it had come. She straightened up and smiled. "Nice to see you, farmer."

Toba's answering smile was thin. "You look tired, Dura... We're all exhausted, I suppose. Anyway," with a touch of strain entering his voice, "I'm not a farmer any more."

"But you will be again," Dura said, Waving toward him. "I'm sorry, Toba."

Stretching the stiffness out of her back, she looked around the sky. The vortex lines had reformed and now crossed the sky in their familiar hexagonal arrays, enclosing, orderly and reassuring; the Magfield, restored to stability, was a firm network of flux in the Air — a base for Waving, for building again.

She studied the lines, examining their spacing through her fingers. Their slow pulsing told her that it would soon be time for Hork's Wheel ceremony, at the heart of the ruined City.

"How's the farm?" she asked carefully. "Is Ito..."