Pallis leant over him. Gover's gaze slid over and away from the tree-pilot's eyes. "You're finished when I tell you so. And not before."

Gover said nothing.

"Look—" Pallis stabbed a finger at Gover's pack. "You're still carrying half your stock of wood. The fires are dying. And look at the state of the smoke screen. More holes than your damn vest. My tree doesn't know whether she's coming or going, thanks to you. Can't you feel her shuddering?

"Now, listen, Gover. I don't care a damn for you, but I do care for my tree. You cause her any more upset and I'll have you over the rim; if you're lucky the Boneys'll have you for supper, and I'll fly her home to the Raft myself. Got that?"

Gover hung before him, hands tugging listlessly at the ragged hem of his vest. Pallis let the moment stretch taut; then he hissed, "Now move it!"

With a flurry of motion Gover pulled himself to the nearest pot and began hauling wood from his pack. Soon fresh billows of smoke were rising to join the depleted cloud, and the shuddering of the tree subsided.

His exasperation simmering Pallis watched the boy's awkward movements. Oh, he'd had his share of poor assistants in the past, but in the old times most of them had been willing to learn. To try. And gradually, as hard shifts wore by, those young people had grown into responsible men and women, their minds toughening with their bodies.

But not this lot. Not the new generation.

This was his third flight with the boy Gover. And the lad was still as sullen and obstructive as when he'd first been assigned to the trees; Pallis would be more than glad to hand him back to Science.

His eyes roamed around the red sky, restless. The falling stars were an array of pinpoints dwindling into the far distance; the depths of the Nebula, far below him, were a sink of murky crimson. Was this nostalgic disregard for the young of today just a symptom of ageing…? Or had people truly changed?