Dragonquest by Anne McCaffrey
But F’lar began to grin as he settled himself on the edge of the nearest tub.
“That’s why I brought Andemon here and explained the project. We need help which only he can give us, once he himself is sure of matters. How long, Masterfarmer, does it take grubs to infest a field?”
Andemon dropped his chin to his chest in thought. He shook his head and admitted he couldn’t estimate. Once a field showed signs of infestation, the area was seared to prevent spreading.
“So, we must find out how long first!”
“You’ll have to wait for next spring,” the Farmer reminded him.
“Why? We can import grubs from Southern.”
“And put them where?” the Harper asked, sardonically.
F’lar chuckled. “Lemos Hold.”
“Lemos!”
“Where else?” and F’lar looked smug. “The forests are the hardest areas to protect. Asgenar and Bendarek are determined to preserve them. Asgenar and Bendarek are both flexible enough to accept such an innovation and carry it through. You, Masterfarmer, have the hardest task. To convince your crafters to leave off killing . . .”
Andemon raised a hand. “I have my own observations to make first.”
“By all means, Master Andemon,” and F’lar’s grin broadened, “I’m confident of the outcome. I remind you of your first journey to the Southern Weyr. You commented on the luxuriant growths, the unusual size of the trees and bushes common to both continents, the spectacular crops, the sweetness of the fruits. That is not due to the temperate weather. We have similar zones here in the north. It is due,” and F’lar pointed his finger first at Andemon and then toward the tubs, “to the stimulation, the protection of the grubs.”
Andemon was not totally convinced but F’lar did not press the point.
“Now, Master Andemon, the Harper will assist you all he can. You know your people better than we—you’ll know whom you can tell. I urge you to discuss it with your misted Masters. The more the better. We can’t lose this opportunity for lack of disciples. We might be forced to wait until your Oldtimers die off.” F’lar laughed wryly. “I guess the Weyrs are not the only ones to contend with Oldtimers; we’ve all got re-education to do.”
“Yes, there will be problems.” The magnitude of the undertaking had suddenly burst on the Masterfarmer.
“Many,” F’lar assured him blithely. “But the end result is freedom from Thread.”
“It could take Turns and Turns,” Andemon said, catching F’lar’s glance and, as if that consoled him somehow, straightened his shoulders. He was committed to the project.
“And well may take Turns. First,” and F’lar grinned with pure mischief in his eyes, “we’ve got to stop you farmers from exterminating our saviors.”
An expression of pure shock and indignation passed across Andemon’s weather-lined face. It was swiftly replaced by a tentative smile as the man realized that F’lar was ribbing him. Evidently an unusual experience for the Masterfarmer.
“Think of all the rewriting I have to do,” complained the Harper. “I’m dry just considering it.” He looked mournfully at the now empty wine bottle.
“This certainly calls for a drink,” Lessa remarked with a sidelong glance at Robinton. She took Andemon’s arm to guide him out.
“I’m honored, my lady, but I’ve work to oversee, and the investigations I ought to conduct.” He pulled away from her.
“Surely one drink?” Lessa pleaded, smiling in her most winning way.
The Masterfarmer ran his hand through his hair, clearly reluctant to refuse.
“One drink then.”
“To seal the bargain of Pern’s fate,” said the Harper, dropping his voice to a sepulchral bass and looking solemnly portentous and amazingly like Lord Groghe of Fort.
As they all trooped out of the Rooms, Andemon looked down at Lessa.
“If it isn’t presumptuous of me, the young woman, Brekke, who lost her queen—how is she?”
Lessa hesitated only a second. “F’nor here can answer you better than I. They’re Weyrmates.”
F’nor was forced to step up. “She’s been ill. Losing one’s dragon is a tremendous shock. She has made the adjustment. She won’t commit suicide now.”
The Masterfarmer halted, staring at F’nor. “That would be unthinkable.”
Lessa caught F’nor’s eye and he remembered he was talking to a commoner.
“Yes, of course, but the loss is unsettling.”
“Certainly. Ah, does she have any position at all now?” The words came slowly from the Farmer, then he added in a rush, “she is from my Crafthall you see, and we . . .”
“She is well loved and respected by all Weyrs,” Lessa broke in when Andemon faltered. “Brekke is one of those rare people who can hear any dragon. She will always enjoy a unique and high position with dragonfolk. She may, if she chooses, return to her home . . .”
“No!” The Masterfarmer was definite about that.
“Brekke is weyrfolk now,” F’nor said on the heels of that denial.
Lessa was a little surprised at such vehemence from both men. She’d had the notion from Andemon’s attitude that perhaps her Craft wanted her back.
“My apologies for being so brusque, my lady. It would be hard for her to live simply again.” His voice turned hard and lost all hesitancy. “What of that adulterous transgressor?”
“She—lives,” and there was an uncompromising echo of the Farmer’s coldness in Lessa’s voice.
“She lives?” The Masterfarmer stopped again, dropping Lessa’s arm and staring at her with anger. “She lives? Her throat should be cut, her body . . .”
“She lives, Masterfarmer, with no more mind or wit than a babe. She exists in the prison of her guilt! Dragonfolk take no lives!”
The Farmer stared hard at Lessa for a moment longer, then nodded slowly. With great courtesy he offered Lessa his arm when she indicated they should continue.
F’nor did not follow for the events of the day were taking a revenge of fatigue on him.
He watched as Andemon and Lessa joined the others at the main table, saw the Lemos and Telgar Lords come over. Lytol and young Jaxom with his white Ruth were nowhere to be seen. F’nor hoped Lytol had taken Jaxom back to Ruatha. He was more grateful to his discovery of fire lizards than at any other single time since Grall had first winked at him. He walked quickly toward the steep flight to his weyr, wanting to be with his own. Canth was in his weyr, all but one lid closed over his eyes. When F’nor entered, the final lids sagged shut. F’nor leaned his body against the dragon’s neck, his hands seeking the pulsespots in the soft throat, warm and steadying. He could “hear” the soft loving thoughts of the two lizards curled by Brekke’s head.
How long he stood there he couldn’t gauge, his mind rehearsing the Impression, Brekke’s release, Jaxom’s performance, the dinner, everything that had jammed into one eventful afternoon.
There was much to be done, certainly, but he felt unable to move from the presence of Canth.
Most vividly he recalled Andemon’s shock when the man realized that F’lar had proposed the end of dragonmen. Yet—F’Iar hadn’t. He certainly had some alternative in mind.
Those grubs—yes, they devoured Thread before it could burrow and proliferate. But they were repulsive to look at and commanded neither respect nor gratitude. They weren’t obvious, or awesome, like dragons. People wouldn’t see grubs devouring Thread. They wouldn’t have the satisfaction of watching dragons flame, sear, char, destroy Thread mid-air, before the vicious stuff got to earth. Surely F’lar realized this, knew that men must have the visible proof of Thread’s defeat. Would dragonmen become tokens? No! That would make dragonfolk more parasitic than Thread. Such an expedient would be repugnant, insupportable to a man of F’lar’s integrity. But what had he in mind?
The grubs might be the ultimate answer but not—particularly after thousands of Turns of conditioning—not an answer acceptable to Pernese, Holder, Crafter, commoner and drag
CHAPTER XVI
Evening at Benden Weyr
Later Evening at Fort Weyr
FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS, F’nor was too busy to worry. Brekke was recovering her strength and insisted that he return to his duties. She prevailed on Manora to permit her to come down to the Lower Caverns and be of some use. So Manora put her to tying off the woof ends of some finished wall hangings where Brekke could also be part of the busy Cavern activities. The fire lizards rarely left her side. Grall twittered with conflicting wishes when F’nor went off on errands, so he would order her to stay with Brekke.
F’lar estimated correctly that Asgenar and Bendarek would accept any solution that might preserve the forests. But the incredulity and initial resistance he encountered showed him what a monumental task he had undertaken. Both Lord Holder and Craftmaster were frankly contemptuous of his claims until N’ton came in with a panful of live Thread—it could be heard hissing and steaming—and dumped it over a tub of verdant growths. Within a matter of moments, the tangle of Thread which they had seen poured over the fellis saplings had been completely consumed by grubs. Dazed, they even accepted F’lar’s assertion that the pierced and smoking leaves would heal in a matter of days.
There were many things about grubs that the dragonmen did not know, as F’lar was careful to explain. How long it would take them to proliferate so that a given area could be considered “Threadproof”; the length of the grub life cycle, what density of grub life would be necessary to ensure the chain of protection.
But they did decide where to start in Lemos Hold: among the precious softwoods so in demand for furniture, so vulnerable to Thread incursion.
Since the former residents of the Southern Weyr had not been farmcraft trained, they had been oblivious to the significance of the larval sacks in the southern woods. It was fall now in the southern hemisphere but F’nor, N’ton and another rider had agreed to jump between to the previous spring. Brekke helped, too, knowing as she did so many facets of the Southern management that she was able to tell them where they would not collide with others in the past. Though farmcraftbred, Brekke had been occupied with nursing during her tenure at Southern, and had deliberately stayed away from the farming aspects of the Weyr to sever connections with her past life.
Although F’lar did not press Masterfarmer Andemon, he proceeded with his plans as if he had Farmcraft cooperation. Several times, Andemon requested Thread and grubs which would be rushed to him, but he issued no progress reports.
Mastersmith Fandarel and Terry had been informed of the project and a special demonstration arranged for them. Once he’d conquered the initial revulsion over the grubs and horror at being so close to live Thread, Terry had been as enthusiastic as anyone could wish. The performance of the grubs elicited only a deep grunt from the Mastersmith. He had limited his comments to a scornful criticism of the longhandled hearthpan in which the Thread was captured.
“Inefficient. Inefficient You can only open it once to catch the things,” and he had taken the pan, stalking off toward his waiting dragon-messenger.
Terry had been profuse in his assurances that the Mastersmith was undoubtedly impressed and would cooperate in every way. This was indeed a momentous day. His words were cut off by Fandarel’s impatient bellow and he’d bowed his way out, still reassuring the somewhat disconcerted dragonriders.
“I’d’ve thought Fandarel would at least have found the grubs efficient,” F’lar had remarked.
“He was struck dumb with amazement?” F’nor suggested.
“No,” and Lessa grimaced, “he was infuriated by inefficiency!”
They’d laughed and gone on to the next job. That evening a messenger arrived from the Smithcrafthall with the purloined hearthpan and a truly remarkable contrivance. It was bulbous in shape, secured to a long handle from the end of which its lid could be opened, operated by a trigger inside the tubular handle. The lid was the truly ingenious part for it fanned open upward and outward so that Thread would be guided down into the vessel and could not escape if the lid was reopened.
The messenger also confided to F’lar that the Mastersmith was having difficulties with his distance-writer. All wire must be covered with a protective tubing or Thread cut right through the thinly extruded metal. The Smith had experimented with ceramic and metal casings but he could turn neither out in great or quick enough quantity. With Threadfall coming so frequently now, his halls were besieged with demands to fix flame throwers which clogged or burned out. Ground crews panicked when equipment failed them mid-Fall and it was impossible not to accede to every urgent request for repair. The Lord Holders, promised the distance-writers, as links between help and isolated Holds, began to press for solutions. And for the ultimate—to them—solution: the proposed expedition to the Red Star.
F’lar had begun to call a council of his intimate advisors and Wing-seconds daily so that no facet of the over-all plan could be lost. They also decided which Lords and Mastercraftsmen could accept the radical knowledge, but had moved cautiously.
Asgenar told them that Larad of Telgar Hold was far more conservative in his thinking than they’d supposed and that the limited demonstration in the Rooms would not be as powerful a persuader as a protected field under full attack by Thread. Unfortunately, Asgenar’s young bride, Famira, on a visit to her home, inadvertently made a reference to the project. She’d had the good sense to send her lizard for her Lord who had bodily forced his blood relative to Benden Weyr for a full explanation and demonstration. Larad had been unconvinced and furious with what he called “a cruel deception and treacherous breach of faith” by dragonmen. When Asgenar then insisted Larad come to the softwood tract that was being protected and had live Thread poured over a sapling, uprooting the young tree to prove that it had been adequately protected, the Telgar Lord Holder’s rage began to subside.
Telgar’s broad valleys had been hard hit by the almost constant Threadfalls. Telgar’s ground crews were disheartened by the prospect of ceaseless vigilance.
“Time is what we haven’t got,” Larad of Telgar had cried when he heard that grub protection would be a long-term project. “We lose fields of grain and root every other day. The men are already weary of fighting Thread interminably, they’ve little energy for anything. At best we’ve only the prospect of a lean winter, and I fear for the worst if these past months are any indication.”
“Yes, it’s hard to see help so close—and as far away as the life cycle of an insect no larger than the tip of your finger,” said Robinton, an integral part of any such confrontation. He was stroking the little bronze fire lizard which he had Impressed a few days earlier.
“Or the length of that distance-viewer,” Larad said, his lips tight, his face lined with worry. “Has nothing been done about going to the Red Star?”
“Yes,” F’lar replied, holding firmly to an attitude of patient reasonableness. “It’s been viewed every clear night Wansor has trained a wing of watchers and borrowed the most accurate draftsmen from Masterweaver Zurg and the Harper. They’ve made endless sketches of the masses on the planet. We know its faces now . . .”
“And . . .” Larad was adamant
“We can see no feature distinct enough to guide the dragons.”
The Lord of Telgar sighed with resignation.
“We do believe,” and F’lar caught N’ton’s eyes since the young bronze rider did as much of the investigating as Wansor, “that these frequent Falls will taper off in a few more months.”
“Taper off? How can you tell that?” Hope conflicted with suspicion in the Telgar Lord’s face.
“Wansor is of the opinion that the other planets in our sky have been affecting the Red Star’s motion; slowing it, pulling it from several directions. We have near neighbors, you see; one is now slightly below the middle of our planet, two above and beyond the Red Star, a rare conjunction. Once the planets move away, Wansor believes the old routine of Threadfall will be established.”
“In a few mo
“No, we can’t be sure—which is why we have not announced Wansor’s theory. But we’ll be certain in a few more weeks.” F’lar held up his hand to interrupt Larad’s protests. “You’ve surely noticed the brightest stars, which are our sister planets, move from west to east during the year. Look tonight, you’ll see the blue one slightly above the green one, and very brilliant. And the Red Star below them. Now, remember the diagram in the Fort Weyr Council Room? We’re positive that that is the diagram of skies around our sun. And you’ve watched your fosterlings play stringball. You’ve played it yourself. Substitute the planets for the balls, the sun for the swinger, and you get the general idea. Some balls swing more rapidly than others, depending on the speed of the swing, the length and tension of the cord. Basically, the principle of the stars around the sun is the same.”
Robinton had been sketching on a leaf and passed the diagram over to Larad.
“I must see this in the skies for myself,” the Telgar Lord replied, not giving an inch.
“It’s a sight, I assure you,” Asgenar said. “I’ve become fascinated with the study and if,” he grinned, his thin face suddenly all creases and teeth, “Wansor ever has time to duplicate that distance-viewer, I want one on Lemos’ fire height We’re at a good altitude to see the northern heavens. I’d like to see those showering stars we get every summer through a distance-viewer!”
Larad snorted at the notion.
“No, it’s fascinating,” Asgenar protested, his eyes dancing with enthusiasm. Then he added in a different tone, “Nor am I the only one beguiled by such studies. Every time I go to Fort I’m contending with Meron of Nabol for a chance to use the viewer.”
“Nabol?”
Asgenar was a little surprised at the impact of his casual remark.
“Yes, Nabol’s forever at the viewer. Apparently he’s more determined than any dragonrider to find coordinates.” No one else shared his amusement.
F’lar looked inquiringly at N’ton.