The Chamber in the Sky by M. T. Anderson

watch a grown man bow to Gwynyfer after she was so rude.
    But he saw Gregory grin. He could tell Gregory was impressed by her self-confidence. Her aristocratic command. How much she was already like an adult.
    After dinner, they went back to their hotel. It was in another growth. Their rooms were small and warm and hollowed out. They lay down in their burrows, nestled in piles of animal skins, and fell asleep for many, many hours.

    The next morning, they left Tom Darlmore’s dinghy in Wellbridge, realizing they would probably never be back for it. They set out on the sky tram that led off through the forest. The sky tram was a big brass pot they sat in, suspended by cables on tall poles. The pot creaked along, forty or fifty feet above the ground. They were protected from the glaring light of the electrified veins by a paper umbrella. They squatted uncomfortably in the pot and swayed along through the towering gut fingers.
    â€œI feel like I’m a mixed drink,” muttered Gregory as the paper umbrella flapped above them in the hot breeze blowing from the Fundus of Dacre.
    Every two hours or so, they’d come to an engine station where the cables were cranked by a machine that shot out clouds of diesel smoke. They’d have to get out and switch to the next sky tram for the next leg of their journey.
    They passed out of the forest and traveled above a toothy mountain range, the Rugose Hills. The heat from the lux effluvium in the veins above them was overwhelming.
    That night, they slept near one of the engine stations. They’d bought food in Wellbridge: more gut finger. They cooked a few slabs over a campfire.
    As they cooked, two eyes so deep and green they were almost black watched them from behind a hillock. The kids did not notice.
    They talked easily among themselves. Gregory and Gwynyfer had started to call each other G.
    Gregory, lying back with his ankles crossed, said, “You know what the sky tram reminds me of, G?”
    â€œNo, G. I am simply all ears. Do tell.”
    â€œYou are all ears, G.”
    â€œDon’t sulk, human G. Someday yours might get pointed, too. You could do it with paper clips.”
    â€œWell, G, what I was saying … you know what the sky tram reminds me of?”
    Brian thought he heard something move in the low scrub. He looked into the blue darkness, but could see nothing.
    Gregory explained, “It reminds me of skiing. The ski lift. Has the Honorable Gwynyfer Gwarnmore ever been skiing, G?”
    â€œWhy, yes she has, G,” said Gwynyfer. “In the Sputum Rifts.”
    â€œYou know, G, I’m not a bad skier myself,” Gregory boasted. “I go up to New Hampshire.”
    â€œHow nice for you, G. Imagine: New Hampshire.” She kicked at a stone near the fire. “Does Bri-Bri go with you to New Hampshire?”
    Brian did not, in fact, go skiing with Gregory in New Hampshire. His parents didn’t want to pay a hundred dollars a day for the equipment rental and the lift ticket. This year, Gregory had gone with other kids, part of the ski club, and they’d come back with stories of almost crashing into trees and meeting cute girls at fifty miles per hour. Those weekends, Brian had spent his time doodling ideas for his round of the Game — which now would never happen — and practicing his cello.
    â€œNo,” said Gregory. “Bri-Bri didn’t go skiing, G. Bri-Bri was no fun. He stayed at home and did nothing.”
    Brian wanted to say something, but he was worried that he heard another movement outside the light of their campfire.
    â€œBri-Bri!” Gwynyfer exclaimed. “Why no fun?”
    â€œIt’s really expensive,” said Brian quietly.
    Gwynyfer started to tell a story about a skiing holiday with many noble youths and maidens, the flower of Norumbegan chivalry — a complicated story about running in and out of a sauna with the door flapping — but as she told it, Brian