The White Dragon

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Wansor!” Fandarel half-rose to project his commanding bellow. “You can’t put everyone up front and they’ve all watched. That’s why they’re here. To see what their watching was all for. Now get up here and get on with it. You’re wasting time. Sheer inefficiency.”

  Wansor muttered protestations and apologies as he bounced up the short distance to the platform. He did indeed look, Jaxom noticed, as if he’d been sleeping in those clothes. He probably hadn’t changed since the last Threadfall to judge by the sharpness of the creases in the back of his tunic.

  But there was nothing sloppy about the charts of star positions which Wansor now tacked up on the wall.

  Where did Wansor get that lurid red color for the Red Star—the color almost pulsed on the paper. Nothing dithering about his spoken presentation. Out of deference and respect for Wansor, Jaxom tried to pay close attention but he had heard it all before and his mind returned inexorably to N’ton’s parting shot. “Don’t let anyone catch you giving Ruth firestone!”

  As if he would be that foolish. Here Jaxom hesitated. Although he knew in theory the whys and hows of teaching a dragon to chew firestone, he had also learned in his classes that between theory and practice anything could happen. Maybe he could enlist F’lessan’s help?

  He glanced at the friend of his boyhood, who had Impressed a bronze two Turns ago. Candidly, Jaxom did not consider F’lessan more than a boy and certainly not serious enough about his responsibilities as a bronze rider. He was grateful that F’lessan had never told anyone that Jaxom had actually touched Ruth’s egg when the dragon was still in its shell on the Hatching Ground. Of course, that would have been a serious offense against the Weyr. F’lessan would scarcely regard teaching a dragon to chew firestone as anything at all remarkable.

  Mirrim? Jaxom glanced toward the girl. The morning sun slanted through her browny hair, catching golden glints which he’d never noticed before. She was oblivious to anything but Wansor’s words. She’d probably give Jaxom an argument about not precipitating the Weyr into more problems and then set one of those fire-lizards of hers on him to be sure he didn’t set himself ablaze.

  Jaxom was privately convinced that T’ran, the other young bronze rider from Ista Weyr, thought Ruth was essentially an overgrown fire-lizard. He’d be even less help than F’lessan.

  Benelek was out, too. He ignored dragons and fire-lizards as completely as they ignored him. But give Benelek a diagram or a machine, even the assorted parts of a machine found in the old Holds and Weyrs, and he’d spend days trying to figure out what it was supposed to be or do. Generally he could make a full machine work, even if he had to dismantle the whole thing to find out why it wasn’t operating. Benelek and Fandarel understood each other perfectly.

  Menolly? Menolly was just the person, if he did need someone, in spite of her predilection for putting anything she heard into a tune—a trick that was occasionally a real nuisance. But that talent made her an excellent Harper, in fact she was the first girl to be one in living memory. He stole a long look at her. Her lips were vibrating slightly and he wondered if she were already putting Wansor’s stars to music.

  “The stars mark time for us in every Turn and help us distinguish one Turn from another,” Wansor was saying and Jaxom brought his attention guiltily back to the speaker. “The stars guided Lessa on her courageous trip back through time to bring the Oldtimers forward.” Wansor cleared his throat at his somewhat unfortunate mention of the two dragonrider factions. “And the stars will be our constant guides in future Turns. Lands, seas, people and places may change but the stars are ordered in their courses and remain secure.”

  Jaxom remembered hearing some talk of trying to alter the course of the Red Star, deflecting it away from Pern. Had Wansor just proved that that couldn’t be done?

  Wansor went on to emphasize that once you understood the basic orbit and speed of any star, you could compute its position in the heavens as long as you also calculated the effect of its nearest neighbors at conjunction, at any given time.

  “So, there is no doubt in our minds that we can now accurately predict Threadfall, according to the position of the Red Star when in conjunction with our other near neighbors in the skies.”

  Jaxom was amused that, whenever Wansor made a sweeping statement, he said we but when he announced a discovery, he said I.

  “We believe that as soon as this blue star is released from the influence of the yellow star of our spring horizon and swings to the high east, Threadfall will resume the pattern which F’lar originally observed.

  “With this equation,” Wansor rapidly jotted the figures down on the board, and Jaxom again noticed that for a sloppy looking person, his notations were conversely precise, “we can compute further conjunctions which will affect Threadfall during this Pass. Indeed, we can now point to where the various stars have been at any time in the past and will be at any time in the future.”

  He was writing equations at a furious pace and explaining which stars were affected by which equations. He turned then, his round face settling into a very serious expression. “We can even predict, on the basis of this knowledge, the exact moment when the next Pass will begin. Of course, that’s so many Turns in the future that none of us need worry about it. But I think it’s comforting to know nonetheless.”

  Scattered chuckles caused Wansor to blink and then hesitantly grin, as if he belatedly realized that he’d said something humorous.

  “And we must make sure that no one forgets in the long Interval this time,” Mastersmith Fandarel said, his bass voice startling everyone after Wansor’s light tenor. “That’s what this union is all about, you know,” Fandarel added, gesturing to the audience.

  Several Turns before, when Ruth’s life expectancy had been short, Jaxom had held a private if egocentric theory about the sessions at the Smithcrafthall. He had convinced himself that they had been initiated to give him an alternative interest in living in case Ruth died. Today’s meeting let the substance out of that notion, and Jaxom snorted at his self-centered whimsy. The more people—in every Hold, in the Weyrs—who knew what was being done in each of the Crafthalls, by the individual Craftmasters and by their chief technicians, the less chance there was that the ambitious plans to preserve all Pern from the ravages of Thread would be lost again.

  Jaxom, F’lessan, Benelek, Mirrim, Menolly, T’ran, Piemur, various other likely successors to Lord Holders and advanced junior craftsmen formed the nucleus of the regular school at the Smith and Harper crafthalls. Each student learned to appreciate the other crafts.

  Communication is essential. That was one of Robinton’s tenets. Wasn’t he always saying, “Exchange information, learn to talk sensibly about any subject, learn to express your thoughts, accept new ones, examine them, analyze. Think objectively. Think toward the future.”

  Jaxom let his eyes drift about the room at the gathering, wondering how many of them could accept all of Wansor’s explanations. True, with this lot he had the advantage that most of them had watched the stars form and reform their patterns, night after night, season after season until those stately patterns could be reduced to Wansor’s clever diagrams and numbers. The trouble was that everyone was here in this room because he was willing to listen to new ideas and accept new thoughts. The ones who needed to be influenced were those who hadn’t listened—such as the Oldtimers now exiled to the Southern Continent.

  Jaxom surmised that some sort of a discreet watch was kept on happenings there. N’ton had once made an oblique reference to the Southern Hold. The students had a very detailed map of the land about the Hold and of some of the neighboring areas which indicated that the Southern Continent extended far deeper into the Southern seas than anyone had guessed even five Turns ago. During one of his talks with Lytol, Robinton had once let slip something that led Jaxom to believe the Masterharper had been in the Southern lands recently. It amused Jaxom to wonder how much the Oldtimers knew of what occurred on the mainland. There were some obvious change
s which even those with the most closed minds would have to admit seeing. What of the ever-increasing spreads of forestland about which the Oldtimers had protested—expanses now protected by the burrowing grubs that farmers had once tried to exterminate, erroneously considering them a bane instead of a carefully contrived blessing and safeguard.

  Jaxom’s attention was reclaimed by the stamping of feet and the clapping of hands. He hastily added his own applause, wondering if he’d missed anything vital during his ruminations. He’d check with Menolly later. She remembered everything.

  The ovation continued long enough to make Wansor blush with pleased embarrassment, until Fandarel rose and spread his tree-limb arms for silence. But Fandarel no more got his mouth open to speak when one of the Ista Hold watchers jumped to his feet to ask Wansor to clarify an anomaly concerning the fixed position of the trio of Stars known as the Day Sisters. Before Wansor could answer him, someone else informed the man that no anomaly existed and a spirited argument began.

  “I wonder if we could use Wansor’s equations to go ahead in time safely,” F’lessan mused.

  “You deadglow! You can’t go to a time that hasn’t happened!” Mirrim answered him tartly before the others could. “How would you know what’s happening there? You’d end up in a cliff or a crowd, or surrounded by Thread! It’s dangerous enough to go back in time when at least you can check on what happened or on who was there. Even then you could, and you would, muddle things. Forget it, F’lessan!”

  “Going ahead could serve no logical purpose at this time,” Benelek remarked in his sententious way.

  “It’d be fun,” F’lessan said, undeterred. “Like knowing what the Oldtimers are planning. F’lar’s sure they’re going to try something. They’ve been far too quiet down there.”

  “Close your jaw, F’lessan. That’s Weyr business,” Mirrim said sharply, glancing anxiously around her for fear some of the adults might have overheard his indiscreet remark.

  “Communicate! Share your thoughts!” F’lessan spouted back some of Robinton’s taglines.

  “There’s a difference between communication and gossip,” Jaxom said.

  F’lessan gave his boyhood friend a long measuring look. “You know, I used to think this school idea was a good one. Now I think it’s turned the whole lot of us into do-nothing talkers. And thinkers!” He rolled his eyes upward in disgust. “We talk, we think everything to death. We never do anything. At least I have to do first and think later when we fight Thread!” He turned on his heel and then, brightening, announced, “Hey, there’s food!” He began to weave through the crowd to the doors where heavily laden trays were being passed through to the central table.

  Jaxom knew F’lessan’s remarks had been general, but the young Lord keenly felt the jibe about fighting Thread.

  “That F’lessan!” Menolly said at his ear. “He wants to keep glory in the bloodline. A bit of derring-do . . .” and her sea-blue eyes danced with laughter as she added, “for me to tune about!” Then she sighed. “And he’s not the type at all. He doesn’t think beyond himself. But he’s got a good heart. C’mon! We’d better lend a hand with the food.”

  “Let us do!” Jaxom’s quip was rewarded by Menolly’s smile of appreciation.

  There was merit in both viewpoints, Jaxom decided as he relieved an overburdened woman of a tray of steaming meatrolls, but he’d think about it later.

  The Mastersmith’s kitchen had prepared for the large gathering, and besides succulent meatrolls there were hot fish balls, bread slabbed with the firm cheeses of the High Range, two huge kettles of klah.

  As he passed food around, Jaxom became conscious of something else that annoyed him. The other Lords Holder and Craftmasters were all cordial, inquiring courteously after Ruth and Lytol. They all seemed quite willing to exchange pleasantries with him but would not discuss Wansor’s theories. Perhaps, Jaxom thought cynically, they hadn’t understood what Wansor had said and were ashamed to show their ignorance before the younger man. Jaxom sighed. Would he ever be old enough to be considered on equal terms?

  “Hey, Jaxom, dump that.” F’lessan grabbed his sleeve. “Got something to show you.”

  Believing he had done his duty, Jaxom pushed his tray onto the table and followed his young friend out the door. F’lessan kept going, grinning like a dimwit, and then swung round to point at the roof of the Smithcrafthall.

  The Hall was a large building with steep gables. The roof appeared to be in colorful motion, rippling with sound. A veritable fair of fire-lizards were perched on the gray slates, chirping and humming to one another in earnest conversation—a perfect parody of the intent discussions going on inside the building. Jaxom began to laugh.

  “There can’t be that many fire-lizards looking to those inside,” he said to Menolly, who had just joined them. “Or have you acquired a couple more clutches?”

  Brushing the laugh-tears from her eyes, she denied guilt. “I’ve only the ten and they go off on their own, sometimes for days. I don’t think I could account for more than two besides Beauty, my queen. She sticks by me constantly. You know,” she turned a serious face to him, “they’re going to be a problem. Not mine, because I make mine behave, but this sort of thing.” She gestured toward the covered roof. “They’re such dreadful gossips. I’ll wager most of those don’t look to the people within. They’ve been attracted by the dragons and by your Ruth in particular.”

  “A fair gathers like that wherever Ruth and I go,” Jaxom said a bit sourly.

  Menolly looked across the valley to where Ruth was lying on the sunny riverbank with three other dragons and the usual wing or two of ministering fire-lizards.

  “Does Ruth mind?”

  “No,” Jaxom grinned tolerantly, “I think he rather enjoys it. They keep him company when I have to be elsewhere on Hold business. He says they have all sorts of fascinating and unlikely images in their minds. He likes looking . . . most times. Sometimes he gets annoyed—says they get carried away.”

  “How can they?” Menolly was bluntly dubious. “They don’t have much imagination, not really. They only tell what they see.”

  “Or think they see, maybe?”

  Menolly considered that. “What they see is usually pretty reliable. I know . . .” Then she stopped, looked dismayed.

  “Never mind,” Jaxom said. “I’d be as thick as a hold door if I didn’t realize you Harpers keep busy down South.” Jaxom then turned around to say something to F’lessan, who was nowhere to be seen.

  “I’ll tell you something, Jaxom,” Menolly dropped her voice, “F’lessan was right. Something is going on down South. Some of my lot have been very agitated. I get an image of a single egg but it’s not in an enclosed weyr. I thought maybe my Beauty had hidden another clutch. She sometimes does that. Then I got the impression that what she was seeing happened long ago. And Beauty’s no older than Ruth, so how could she remember any more than five Turns back?”

  “Fire-lizards with delusions of locating the First Shell?” Jaxom laughed heartily.

  “I can’t quite seriously laugh at their memories. They do know the oddest sorts of things. Remember F’nor’s Grall not wanting to go to the Red Star? For that matter all the fire-lizards are terrified of the Red Star.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “They knew, Jaxom, knew before the rest of Pern had any knowledge.”

  Instinctively they both turned eastward, toward the malevolent Red Star.

  “So?” Menolly asked cryptically.

  “So? So what?”

  “So fire-lizards have memories.”

  “Ah, leave off, Menolly. You can’t ask me to believe that fire-lizards could remember things Man can’t?”

  “Got another explanation?” Menolly asked belligerently.

  “No, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one,” and Jaxom grinned at her. His smile turned to alarm. “Say, what if some of those fellows up there are from the Southern Hold?”

  “I’m not worried. The fire-lizards
are outside, for one thing. For another, they can only visualize what they’ve understood.” Menolly chuckled, a habit of hers which Jaxom found a pleasant change from the giggling of Holder girls. “Can you imagine what nonsense someone like T’kul would make of Wansor’s equations? Seen through lizard eyes?”

  Jaxom’s personal recollections of the High Reaches Oldtimer Weyrleader were sparse, but he’d heard enough from Lytol and N’ton to realize that man’s mind was closed to anything new. Though nearly six Turns of fending on his own down in the Southern Continent might have broadened his outlook.

  “Look, it isn’t me alone who’s worried,” Menolly went on. “Mirim is, too. And if anyone today understands fire-lizards, it’s Mirrim.”

  “You don’t do badly yourself—for a mere Harper.”

  “Well, thank you, my Lord Holder.” She gave him a facetious salute. “Look, will you find out what the fire-lizards are telling Ruth?”

  “Don’t they talk to Mirim’s green dragon?” Jaxom was reluctant to have more to do with fire-lizards at the moment than was absolutely necessary.

  “Dragons don’t remember things. You know that. But Ruth’s different, I’ve noticed . . .”

  “Very different . . .”

  Menolly caught the sour note in his voice. “What’s got your back up today? Or has Lord Groghe been to see Lytol?”

  “Lord Groghe? What for?”

  Menolly’s eyes glinted with devilment and she beckoned him closer, as if anyone were near enough to hear what they’d been saying. “I think Lord Groghe fancies you for that beast-bosomed third daughter of his.”

  Jaxom groaned in horror.

  “Don’t worry, Jaxom. Robinton squashed the idea. He wouldn’t do you a disservice there. Of course,” Menolly glanced at him from the corners of her laughing eyes, “if you have anyone else in mind, now’s the time to say so.”

  Jaxom was furious, not with Menolly but with her news, and it was hard to dissociate tidings and bearer.