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what the answer would be. Anyway, Hokma was heading up the path and then they were there, at the Wise House front door with its gold glass beak, where Hokma was taking off her boots and turning on the hosepipe to wash herself, and Astra too, down to her feet and rubber sandals, and then she was opening the door and finally Astra was going inside.
    * * *
    The Wise House entrance chamber was spacious and cool, with a stripped pine floor. There were doors in all four walls and three holes in the ceiling: two air vents and one bean-shaped translucent solar panel, which cast spirals of light over Astra and Hokma as they removed their outdoor gear. Paintings and carvings of Owleons hung on the walls and the housecoat hooks were carved hardwood talons. Hokma rested her cedar staff in a corner rack, then unlaced her boots and bunged them under a bench with Astra’s sandals. Astra took off her flap-hat and hydropac, wondering where to put them.
    ‘We’ll have to get a lower row of hooks for you,’ Hokma said, hanging Astra’s things up on a talon. ‘How about red pigeon toes?’ As Astra protested – she wanted talons
too
– her Shelter mother took down a towel and rubbed her all over, wet feet last. Then she pulled two pairs of curvytoed slippers out of a basket on the bench. Astra’s were new, and just her size. ‘Here.’ Hokma held out a small sateen housecoat. ‘I thought turquoise would suit you.’
    Astra scrunched up her nose. ‘Do I have to wear clothes?’
    ‘Wise House isn’t an Earthship, Astra. It can get a bit nippy in here. I don’t want you catching cold.’
    Cold? Cold was the walk-in fridge in the kitchen or an ice cube on your tongue. ‘I’m not cold.’
    ‘You might be soon. Now come on.’
    Astra blew a raspberry, but slid her arms into the soft sleeves and tied the belt as loosely as possible. If you had to wear clothes, sateen was justabout bearable. At least Hokma wasn’t dragging a comb through her hair like Nimma always did the second she stepped indoors.
    Hokma had slipped on a short green kimono, which she tied loosely over her hipbelt. From right to left, she pointed at the three interior doors: ‘Living room. Bathroom if you need it. Lab.’ With that, she gripped the carved handle and opened the door.
    Astra realised she was trembling. Luckily Hokma’s back was turned. She followed her Shelter mother into a large, luminous room, a proper, organised Or workspace, humming with industry and tingling with the scent of pine-water disinfectant. To her right, light from the front window danced over a stainless-steel countertop, a sink, a cooker and a shuddering brushed-steel fridge, behind which glass doors gave a view of a back verandah and a grassy clearing. Jars of nuts, berries and grains were arranged neatly on shelves above the countertop, which was like a kitchen surface with cupboards and drawers beneath it. But the rest of the room was all lab. Opposite Astra, an ergonomic chair knelt beneath a long wooden table. One end was an easeled screendesk, its black tail plugged into a socket in the blue-tiled floor; the rest was neatly equipped with microscopes, scales, test-tube stands and, at the far end, a large wooden crate. All of this paraphernalia was immensely impressive, but the magnet that drew Astra’s gaze was stationed in the centre of the room: a sleek, transparent alt-meat incubator.
    Or’s alt-lamb, -beef, -chicken and – fish came from a plant in New Bangor. Next year Astra’s class would go and visit it, but up until now she’d only ever seen pictures of alt-meat incubators: giant industrial vats stored in large buildings in all Is-Land towns and cities. Hokma’s was tiny in comparison; about a square metre in area and around thirty centimetres deep. It rested on its table like a shallow aquarium filled with green algae. Through the murky, bubbling liquid, Astra could see the artificial mouse muscles growing from coils of polymer tubing, absorbing proteins from the