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."