28

Right then a boy I’d never seen before came to our booth — a teenage boy, older than us. He was thin and dark-haired and tall, and he wasn’t wearing the sort of clothes the affluents wore. Just plain black.

“How may I help you, sir?” said Amanda. We sometimes imitated SecretBurger wage-slaves when we were working the booths.

“I need to see Pilar,” he said. No smile, nothing. “There’s something wrong with this.” He took a jar of Gardener honey out of his backpack. That was strange, because what could be wrong with honey? Pilar said it never went bad unless you got water in it.

“Pilar’s not feeling well,” I said. “You should talk to Toby about it — she’s right over there, with the mushrooms.”

He looked all around, as if he was nervous. He didn’t seem to be with anyone else — no friends, no parents. “No,” he said. “It has to be Pilar.”

Zeb came over from the vegetable stand, where he was selling burdock roots and lamb’s quarters. “Something wrong?” he said.

“He wants Pilar,” said Amanda. “About some honey.” Zeb and the boy looked at each other, and I thought I saw the boy give a small shake of his head.

“Would I do?” Zeb said to him.

“I think it should be her,” said the boy.

“Amanda and Ren will take you over,” said Zeb.

“What about selling the vinegar?” I said. “Nuala had to leave.”

“I’ll keep an eye on it,” said Zeb. “This is Glenn. Take good care of him. Don’t let them eat you alive,” he said to Glenn.

We walked through the pleeb streets, heading to the Edencliff Rooftop Garden. “How come you know Zeb?” said Amanda.

“Oh, I used to know him,” said the boy. He wasn’t talkative. He didn’t even want to walk beside us: after a block, he dropped a little behind.

We reached the Gardener building and climbed up the fire escape. Philo the Fog and Katuro the Wrench were up there — we never left the place empty, in case pleebrats tried to sneak in. Katuro was fixing one of the watering hoses; Philo was just smiling.

“Who is this?” sad Katuro when he saw the boy.

“Zeb told us to bring him here,” said Amanda. “He’s looking for Pilar.”

Katuro nodded over his shoulder. “Fallows Hut.”

Pilar was lying in a deck chair. Her chess game was set up beside her, the pieces all in place: she hadn’t been playing. She didn’t look well at all — she was kind of sunken in. Her eyes were closed, but she opened them when she heard us coming in. “Welcome, dear Glenn,” she said, as if she was expecting him. “I hope you didn’t have any trouble.”

“No trouble,” said the boy. He took out the jar. “Not good,” he said.

“Everything’s good,” said Pilar. “In the big picture. Amanda, Ren, would you get me a glass of water?”

“I’ll go,” I said.

“Both of you,” said Pilar. “Please.”

She wanted us out of there. We left the Fallows Hut as slowly as we could. I wished I could hear what they were saying — it wouldn’t be about honey. The way Pilar looked was frightening me.

“He’s not pleeb,” Amanda whispered. “He’s Compound.”

I thought that myself, but I said, “How can you tell?” The Compounds were where the Corps people lived — all those scientists and business people Adam One said were destroying old Species and making new ones and ruining the world, though I couldn’t quite believe my real father in HelthWyzer was doing that; but in any case, why would Pilar even say hello to someone from there?

“I just have a feeling,” said Amanda.

When we came back with the glass of water, Pilar had her eyes closed again. The boy was sitting beside her; he’d moved a few of her chess pieces. The white queen was boxed in: one more move and she’d be gone.

“Thank you,” said Pilar, taking the glass of water from Amanda. “And thank you for coming, dear Glenn,” she said to the boy.

He stood up. “Well, goodbye,” he said awkwardly, and Pilar smiled at him. Her smile was bright but weak. I wanted to hug her, she looked so tiny and frail.

Going back to the Tree of Life, Glenn walked along beside us. “There’s something really wrong with her,” said Amanda. “Right?”

“Illness is a design fault,” said the boy. “It could be corrected.” Yes — he was definitely Compound. Only brainiacs from there talked like that: not answering your question up front, then saying some general kind of thing as if they knew it for a fact. Was that the way my real father had talked? Maybe.

“So, if you were making the world, you’d make it better?” I said. Better than God, was what I meant. All of a sudden I was feeling pious, like Bernice. Like a Gardener.

“Yes,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I would.”