Garry Uvarov had sent Arrow Maker up here to inspect the sky. So Maker tipped up his face.
It was tempting to reach up and see if he could touch the sky.
He couldn’t, of course — the skydome was still at least twenty feet above him but it would be easy enough to shoot up an arrow, to watch it clatter against the invisible roof.
The sky was unchanged. The stars were a thin, irregular sprinkling, hardly disturbing the sky’s deep emptiness. Most of the stars were dull red points of light, like drops of blood, that were often difficult to see.
Uvarov had never shown interest in the stars before; now, suddenly, he’d ordered Arrow Maker to climb the trees, telling him to expect a sky blazing with stars, white, yellow and blue. Well, he’d been quite wrong.
Maker felt that old Uvarov was important: precious, like a talisman. But, as the years wore by, his words and imperatives seemed increasingly irrational.
Maker looked for the sky patterns he’d grown to know since his boyhood. There were the three stars, of a uniform brightness, in a neat row; there the familiar circle of stars dominated by a bright, scarlet gleam.
Nothing had changed in the sky above him, in the stars beyond the dome. Arrow Maker didn’t even know what Uvarov was expecting him to find.
He clambered down into the bulk of the kapok treetop, so that there was a comforting layer of greenery between himself and the bare sky. Then he tied himself to the trunk with a loop of rope, laid his head against a pillowing arm and waited for sleep.
The klaxon’s oscillating wail echoed off the houses, the empty streets, the walls of the sky.
Morrow woke immediately.
For a moment he lay in bed, staring into the sourceless illumination which bathed the ceiling above him.
Waking, at least, was easy. Some mornings the klaxon failed to sound — it was as imperfect and liable to failure as every other bit of equipment in the world but on those mornings Morrow found his eyes opening on time, just as usual. He pictured his brain as a worn, ancient thing, with grooves of habit ground into its surface. He woke at the same time, every day.
Just as he had for the last five centuries.
Stiffly he swung his legs from his pallet and stood up. He started to think through the shift ahead. Today he was due for an interview with Planner Milpitas — yet another interview, he thought — and he felt his heart sink.
He walked to the window and swung his arms back and forth to generate a little circulation in his upper body. From his home here on Deck Two Morrow could make out, through the open, multilayered flooring, some details of Deck Three below; he looked down over houses, factories, offices and — looming above all the other buildings — the imposing shoulders of the Planner Temples, scattered across the split levels like blocky clouds. Beyond the buildings and streets stood the walls of the world: sheets of metal, ribbed for strength. And over it all lay the multilevelled sky, a lid of girders and panels, enclosing and oppressive.
He worked through his morning rituals — washing, shaving his face and scalp, taking some dull, high-fiber food. He dressed in his cleanest standard-issue dungarees. Then he set off for his appointment with Planner Milpitas.
The community occupied two Decks, Two and Three. The inhabited Decks were laid out following a circular geometry, in a pattern of sectors and segments divided from each other by roads tracing out chords and radii. Deck Four, the level beneath Three, was accessible but uninhabited; Superet had long ago decreed that it be used as a source of raw materials. And there was also one level above, called Deck One, which was also uninhabited but served other purposes.
Morrow had no idea what lay above Deck One, or below Deck Four. The Planners didn’t encourage curiosity.
There were few people about as he crossed the Deck. He walked, of course; the world was only a mile across, so walking or cycling almost always sufficed. Morrow lived in Segment 2, an undesirable slice of the Deck close to the outer hull. The Temple was in Sector 3 — almost diametrically opposite, but close to the heart of the Deck. Morrow was able to cut down the radial walkways, past Sector 5, and walk almost directly to the Temple.
Much of Sector 4 was still known as Poole Park — a name which had been attached to it since the ship’s launch, Morrow had heard. There was nothing very park-like about it now, though. Morrow, in no hurry to be early for Milpitas, walked slowly past rows of poor, shack-like dwellings and shops. The shops bore the names of their owners and their wares, but also crude, vivid paintings of the goods to be obtained inside. Here and there, between the walls of the shops, weeds and wild flowers struggled to survive. He passed a couple of maintenance ’bots: low-slung trolleys fitted with brushes and scoops, toiling their way down the worn streets.
The rows of small dwellings, the boxy shops and meeting places, the libraries and factories, looked as they always did: not drab, exactly — each night everything was cleansed by the rain machines — but uniform.
Some old spark stirred in Morrow’s tired mind. Uniform. Yes, that was the word. Dreadfully uniform. Now he was approaching the Planners’ Temple. The tetrahedral pyramid was fully fifty yards high, built of gleaming metal and with its edges highlighted in blue. Morrow felt dwarfed as he approached it, and his steps slowed, involuntarily; in a world in which few buildings were taller than two stories, the Temples were visible everywhere, huge, faceless — and intimidating.
As, no doubt, they were meant to be.
Planner Milpitas turned the bit of metal over and over in his long fingers, eyeing Morrow. His desk was bare, the walls without adornment. “You ask too many questions, Morrow.” The Planner’s bare scalp was stretched paper-thin over his skull and betrayed a faint tracery of scars.
Morrow tried to smile; already, as he entered the interview, he felt immensely tired. “I always have.”
The Planner didn’t smile. “Yes. You always have. But my problem is that your questions sometimes disturb others.”
Morrow tried to keep himself from trembling. At the surface of his mind there was fear, and a sense of powerlessness — but beneath that there was an anger he knew he must struggle to control. Milpitas could, if he wished, make life very unpleasant for Morrow.
Milpitas held up the artifact. “Tell me what this is.”
“It’s a figure-of-eight ring.”
“Did you make it?”
Morrow shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps. It’s a standard design in the shops on Deck Four.”
“All right.” Milpitas placed the ring on his desk, with a soft clink. “Tell me what else you make. Give me a list.”
Morrow closed his eyes and thought. “Parts for some of the machines — the food dispensers, for instance. Not the innards, of course — we leave that to the nanobots — but the major external components. Material for buildings — joists, pipes, cables. Spectacles, cutlery: simple things that the nanobot maintenance crews can’t repair.”
Milpitas nodded. “And?”
“And things like your figure-of-eight ring.” Morrow struggled, probably failing, to keep a note of frustration out of his voice. “And ratchets, and stirrups. Scrapers — ”
“All right. Now, Morrow, the value of a joist, or a pair of spectacles, is obvious. But what do you think of this question: what is the value of your figure-of-eight rings, ratchets and stirrups?”
Morrow hesitated. This was exactly the kind of question which had landed him in trouble in the first place. “I don’t know,” he blurted at last. “Planner, it drives me crazy not to know. I look at these things and try to work out what they might be used for, but — ”