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  For Kapuzine, nothing was more beautiful than the view from their kitchen window – the streets lined with rusting hulks of gasguzzlers, the jagged skyline of crumbling factories, the endless brick facades of the other housing projects, the handful of windows that remained suffused with a golden light, burning like campfires when twilight fell. It gladdened her heart, as it should gladden ours, to find herself in a human-made landscape where people were the measure of everything.

  However, she avoided leaning too far out the window, since, to her left, a mass of green-enshrouded buildings marred the neat and angular skyline like a verdant, cancerous sore: the looming mass of Hundred-Waters City . . . It was as if she knew what dreadful fate awaited her there, though it was only the normal repugnance of a daughter of the suburbs faced with unbridled nature.

  She was a dear little girl, beloved by all the other dissidents who had hidden out among the concrete plazas, burnt-out malls, and shabby bungalows after the Revolution, when the Gardeners had come to gather all of the greater city's inhabitants within the straitened confines of the Ring, where streams ran in the streets, trees grew out of windows, and people lived enslaved to nature. Most of all Kapuzine enjoyed, every Sonntag, being driven around the suburbs by her sister, aboard an old electricab Mareen spent the week charging with amps drawn from scraps of the old power grid. It reminded the young girl of the stories her sister told her, of the good old times when one would drive to a corner store to obtain groceries wrapped in silky smooth plastic or encased in colorfully decorated tins and boxes.

  It sounded so much nicer than having to scrounge for dented cans in the ruins or barter with the farmers who trekked to the outskirts of the suburbs and offered dirt-encrusted produce. In her heart of hearts, Kapuzine truly and faithfully yearned for the marvelous days when unrestrained consumption had been the rule.

  Now, it so happened Mareen's lover was one of the valiant Woodcutters in Hundred-Waters City, fighting the ever-crafty Wolves who stalked the streets inside the Ring. Whether Mareen loved the cause more than the man or the man more than the cause, this story does not tell, but we may choose to believe she loved the man because of his devotion to the cause.

  In any case, her love was great enough to encompass both and she vowed to aid him in his struggle. Using the resources of a vacated factory, she created for the Woodcutters a batch of explosive putty, something they could hardly do within the Ring at the City's heart, where the scarce supplies of useful chemicals were grudgingly doled out for household use by the Hounds and Foxes.

  To get some of the explosives to the Woodcutters without excessive risk of detection, Mareen resolved to enroll Kapuzine. Her little sister was just the right age: old enough to be trusted for the mission, but young enough not to be suspected of anything worse than mischief. Mareen explained to her what she must do.

  "See here, Kapuzine," she said. "You will carry this basket into the City. To cross the Ring, you will say you have gone to see our grandmother Kunigunde, that you are bringing her some food we have baked ourselves."

  Do not be mistaken: Kapuzine was a brave little girl. Still, she was terrified of the City. She refused: let her older sister go herself; she went often enough, more than twice a month, to lie in the arms of her lover. Why couldn't she go this time as well?

  Mareen explained patiently that she was already under surveillance. The Wolves grew her face on the leaves of their file-trees, and they suspected her of involvement with the Woodcutters. Should they see her carrying a package, they would search it, discover the plastique in her possession, and arrest her. Kapuzine, on the other hand, had never been within the Ring, and she was young enough to relax the Wolves' vigilance. A single trip would be enough; she would bring the Woodcutters a sample of the new plastique, and, once they were convinced of its effectiveness, they would make other arrangements to smuggle the rest inside the City.

  "But the City . . ." protested Kapuzine. "It's all so dark, and all those trees and green things . . ."

  "You're too old now to be afraid of greenery," said Mareen in a stern voice. "Remember: under all the grass and the earth, there is concrete and asphalt and cobblestones, safe as houses, just like here. Once, before the Gardeners came to power, the City was exactly like the suburbs: pure and clean and hard. It still is underneath. You must remember this always."

  "And what if the Wolves get me?"

  Mareen bit her tongue in frustration, then said wheedlingly: "Look, Kapuzine, I swear you'll be perfectly fine so don't worry. And if you do this for me . . . Well, you know I've always said I wouldn't let you smoke before you're thirteen?"

"Yes," said Kapuzine, anticipation rising in her voice.

  "If you do this for me, then you can have your first cigarette when you come home."

  "Oh, Mareen! Really?"

  And so in the end Kapuzine let herself be convinced. Her sister plied her with admonitions and advice far into the evening, then sent her to bed for the few hours that remained before she must leave.

Kapuzine had set out before the day became too hot. She traveled along the cracked asphalt road that led to the City. The rusted carcasses of destroyed vehicles littered the embankments, but the road itself had been kept clear. She swung her basket from her hand, trying to look cheerful and innocent, as her sister had advised.

  She had been told so many things her head spun. Mareen had warned her about the Hawks and the Hounds keeping watch along the Ring, about the Foxes and the Wolves who might stop and question her once she was inside the Ring. Her older sister had explained how to answer politely without seeming scared or showing too plainly her dislike of the regime, how to choose the correct side streets, how to avoid getting lost in the maze of shrubbery-draped buildings, all alike in their Revolutionary verdure . . . Kapuzine hoped she would remember everything.

  By mid-morning she had reached the City. Other travelers came and went from the suburbs constantly, crowding into the encampments of semi-permanent structures set all about the periphery of the Ring. Here people traded, gambled, and conducted barely licit activities far from the stern gaze of the Hounds. Kapuzine was so enchanted by this (never forget that she was still a little girl) that she tarried for nearly an hour, going from tent to tent and peering inside to discover what each held.

  Finally she recollected her mission and hurried toward the Ring, overcome by guilt.

  Her disquiet returned in full force as she approached the core of the City. Across the loop in the river, the buildings and the trees they supported rose toward the sky. Even from this remove, she could make out the trees growing out the windows of high-rises. She shuddered, as if struck by an obscenity. Though it was growing close to noon, the center of the City was sunk in viridian gloom under the leafy canopy.

  To cross the Ring, she had a choice of three bridges. These were heavily manned by Hawks and Hounds. And each bridge had barracks built at both ends, holding shock troops of Bulls.

  Kapuzine trudged over to the nearest bridge, one eye on the City's fervid foliage to her left. At the checkpoint, she was interrogated by a Hound, who asked for her name and place of residence. He pointed a stubby-fingered hand at her: "Where are you going?"

  "To see my grandmother. She lives on the Sonnenfelsgasse."

  "What are you carrying?"

  "Just some food and drink."

  "Show me. Empty your basket."

  Mareen had been crafty: when Kapuzine laid the contents of her basket onto the table, what the Hound noticed was the bottle of aged wine, rescued from an old cellar in a deserted quarter. He didn't bother to examine the fragrant loaf of gingerbread that enclosed the lump of plastique and masked its scent. The brave messenger girl trembled inwardly, for this was a Hound whose flaring nostrils bespoke a modified olfactory system, able to sense the most subtle odors.

  "That's illegal contraband, little girl," said the Hound in a hard voice, pointing with a theatrical frown at the bottle. "You can't bring that inside."

  "Oh please, sir, don't punish me!" Kapuzine's voice quavered piteously: Mareen had coached her for half an hour to get it just right. "I didn't know it was wrong! I found it in a basement, and I just thought she'd like it."

  "Well now, it's not your fault," said the Hound, allowing himself to be mollified. "You're too young to know all the ramifications of the law. Don't worry, I won't punish you. I'll just confiscate the contraband," said he, slipping the bottle into his private locker, "and let you off with a warning: never ever do this again! Do you understand?"

"Yes sir. Thank you for being so nice."

"That's all right. Now go on. Go visit your grandmother."

  Kapuzine repacked her basket with the gingerbread, the container of butter, and the cookies, and made her way across the bridge, her heart pounding so hard in her chest she was sure one of the Foxes would hear it with the sound-amplifiers at the base of their funnelshaped ears. Yet no one else bothered to stop her. Before she knew it, she had passed across the bridge and was inside the Ring.

It was like crossing into an enchantment. The world changed so suddenly the young girl could hardly believe her eyes themselves were not deceiving her, as in the old tales of virtually realistic games . . .

  There was less traffic within the Ring than Kapuzine had expected. It was hard to tell how many people were abroad, since sight was obstructed in all directions: someone might have been stalking her from ten paces away, and she would never have known it. The courageous little girl progressed farther along the city streets, transformed into the gloomy lanes of a dark forest as if by a villainous spell, until she had completely lost sight of the Ring and of the daylight beyond its moats.

  Kapuzine kept tripping on the roots that carpeted the narrow streets. Boughs and trunks erupted from the windows of buildings, to meet and interlace above the street. Nowhere was open sky visible: when she raised her head, all that met her gaze were a hundred different shades of poisonous green. The sun struggled in vain to pierce through the canopy; the streets and alleys were enwebbed in shadows.

  Water fell from the eaves of the tallest buildings, silvery cascades splashing passers-by and feeding the rivulets that meandered through the grass and humus.

  The smells were the worst part: the rich tang of decaying leaves, the spicy aroma of mosses and flowers, and, underlying it all the reek of loam, earth so thick all around her she could almost feel it insinuating itself beneath her fingernails, soiling her skin under her garments. If you wish to envision it, my friends, imagine being forced to wear clothes stained with your own excrement.

  Kapuzine, overwhelmed by these sensations, paused and shivered with disgust.

  Unthinkingly, she went to the wall of a nearby building, choosing a spot where a patch of the ubiquitous vines had died off. Desiccated, dark red stalks were left clinging to the stone, tiny filaments sprouting in threes along their length, each terminating in a tiny disk that adhered to the brick. Kapuzine plucked off these filaments, loosening a dead stalk's hold on the wall, finally broke it off altogether. She laid her hand on a red-orange brick, now free of vegetable infestation. The rough contact of the porous baked clay under her fingers brought her away from panic and back to herself.

  She stood up straight then, took a step away from the wall. She must not be seen damaging vegetation! She would be placed under immediate suspicion, if not apprehended directly. Mareen would be terribly angry with her. She was unwilling to leave the wall and its lovely bricks, yet she must. She had no choice.

  She recollected Mareen's directions. She was to follow this alley until it intersected with the Sonnenfelsgasse, then turn left . . .

  Kapuzine set off once more, tightly clutching the plastic handle of her basket. Certainly, she could not have suspected that, from the shadows among the trees, a Wolf watched her go.

  Kapuzine walked and walked, came at last to an intersection. It wasn't the right one, for there were no signs for Sonnenfelsgasse. She decided to continue along this same alley, then stopped in dread. There was a gorilla across the intersection. He was a true beast – the smell of his pelt reminded the young girl of a stray dog she had once very carefully petted in the street.

  The huge dark-haired form, leaning on its knuckles, was inspecting its surroundings with quick movements of its head. Kapuzine remained rooted to the spot. The gorilla moved, approached her. She looked about, seeking help, but she saw no one.

  The giant ape passed by her, less than two meters distant. It gave her a single incurious glance from its liquid brown eyes, grunted once in warning, but otherwise ignored her. When it had gone, Kapuzine took the small cloth out of her basket to wipe her forehead.

  It had been one of the ancient inmates of the prison, the Tiergarten; all had been freed when the Gardeners had come to power, left to roam the city as they would. She remembered the tapes she had viewed as a child: gorillas were gentle and retiring, they posed no danger unless they felt threatened.

  She forced her legs into motion again. This deep within the Ring, she began to pass groups of people: Ants laboring to bring down a wall, in order to give an oak more room to expand, Pigs rooting through the soil, mulching it with human droppings, Hedgehogs removing parasitical vines from small copses to let the trees breathe. The smell of manure was overpowering and almost made her retch. Yet she did not turn back.

  A long-legged Messenger Pigeon ran by, his legs moving inhumanly fast. Kapuzine's gaze followed him longingly. He at least seemed to know where he was going.