The Dragonriders of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  They rose then as Lord Holders and Craftmasters strode into the weyr. Lord Asgenar, Mastersmith Fandarel and his wood Craftmaster, Bendarek, were first; Lord Oterel of Tillek Hold and Meron, Lord Holder of Nabol, his fire lizard squawking on his arm, arrived together, but Lord Oterel immediately sought Fandarel. A restless, eager atmosphere began to build, palpable with questions unanswered the previous evening. As soon as most were assembled, F’lar led the way into the Council Room. No sooner had the Weyrleaders ranged themselves behind him, facing the gathering of Lords and Craftsmen, than Larad, Lord of Telgar Hold, rose.

  “Weyrleader, have you established where the next Thread is likely to fall?”

  “Where you’ve evidently placed it, Lord Larad, on the western plains of Telgar Hold and Ruatha Hold.” F’lar nodded toward Lord Warder Lytol of Ruatha. “Probably later today. It’s early hours now in that part of the country and we don’t intend to hold you here long . . .”

  “And how long will we have riders assigned us?” asked Lord Corman of Keroon, staring pointedly at D’ram on F’lar’s left.

  “Until every Hold and Craft has an efficient communications system.”

  “I’ll need men,” Mastersmith Fandarel rumbled from his cramped position in the far corner. “Do you all really want those flame throwers you’ve been plaguing me for?”

  “Not if the dragonmen come when we call.” It was Lord Sangel of Boll Hold who answered, his face grim, his voice bitter.

  “Is Telgar Weyr prepared to ride today?” Lord Larad went on, still holding the floor.

  M’rek, the Telgar Weyr Wing-second, rose, glanced hesitantly at F’lar, cleared his throat and then nodded.

  “High Reaches Weyr will fly with Telgar riders!” T’bor said.

  “And Ista!” D’ram added.

  The unexpected unanimity sent a murmurous ripple through the meeting, as Lord Larad sat down.

  “Will we have to burn the forests?” Lord Asgenar of Lemos rose to his feet. The quiet question was the plea of a proud man.

  “Dragonriders burn Thread, not wood,” F’lar replied calmly but there was a ring in his voice. “There are enough dragonriders,” and he gestured to the Weyrleaders on either side of him, “to protect Pern’s forests . . .”

  “That’s not what’s needed most, Benden, and you know it,” Lord Groghe of Fort shouted as he rose to his feet, his eyes bulging. “I say, go after Thread on the Red Star itself. Enough time’s been wasted. You keep saying your dragons’ll go anywhere, anywhen you tell ’em to.”

  “A dragon’s got to know where he’s going first, man,” G’narish, the Igen Leader, protested, jumping up excitedly.

  “Don’t put me off, young man! You can see the Red Star, plain as my fist,” and Lord Groghe thrust out his closed hand like a weapon, “in that distance-viewer! Go to the source. Go to the source!”

  D’ram was on his feet beside G’narish now, adding his angry arguments to the confusion. A dragon roared so loudly that all were deafened for a moment.

  “If that is the desire of the Lords and Craftsmen,” F’lar said, “then we shall mount an expedition to fly on the morrow.” He knew D’ram and G’narish had turned to stare at him, dumbfounded. He saw Lord Groghe bristle suspiciously, but he had the attention of the entire room. He spoke quickly, clearly. “You’ve seen the Red Star, Lord Groghe? Could you describe the land masses to me? Would you estimate that we had to clear as large an area as, say, the northern continent? D’ram, would you agree that it takes about thirty-six hours to fly straight across? More? Hmmm. Tip-to-tip sweeps would be most effective since we couldn’t count on ground-crew support. That would mean dragonweights of firestone. Masterminer, I’ll need to know exactly what supplies you have processed for use. Benden Weyr keeps about five dragon-weights on hand at all times, the other Weyrs about the same, so we’d probably need all you’ve got. And every flame thrower on the continent. Now, dragonmen, I admit we don’t know if we can traverse such a distance without harm to ourselves and the dragons. I assume that since Thread survives on this planet, we can exist on that one. However . . .”

  “Enough!” Groghe Of Fort Hold bellowed, his face flushed, his eyes protruding from their sockets.

  F’lar met Groghe’s eyes steadily so that the choleric Lord Holder would realize that he was not being mocked; that F’lar was in earnest.

  “To be at all effective, Lord Groghe, such an undertaking would leave Pern totally unprotected. I could not in conscience order such an expedition now that I see how much is involved. I hope you will agree that it is far more important, at this time, to secure what we have.” Better to risk Groghe’s pride if necessary to defeat that premature ambition. He couldn’t afford to evade an issue that could become a convenient rallying cry for the disaffected. “I’d want to get a good look at the Red Star before I took such a leap, Lord Groghe. And the other Leaders would too. I can promise you that once we are able to distinguish some jumping coordinates acceptable to the dragons, we can send a volunteer group to explore. I’ve often wondered why no one has gone before now. Or, if they have, what happened.” He had dropped his voice on those last words and there wasn’t a sound in the Chamber for a long moment.

  The fire lizard on Lord Meron’s arm squawked nervously, causing an instant, violent reaction from every man.

  “Probably that Record deteriorated, too,” F’lar said, raising his voice to a level audible above the restless scraping and throat-clearing. “Lord Groghe, Fort is the oldest of the Holds. Is there a chance that your back corridors, too, hide treasures we can use?”

  Groghe’s reply was a curt nod of his head. He seated himself abruptly, staring straight ahead. F’lar wondered if he had alienated the man beyond reconciliation.

  “I don’t think I’d ever fully appreciated the enormity of such a venture,” Corman of Keroon Hold remarked in a thoughtful drawl.

  “One jump ahead of us, again, Benden?” asked Larad of Telgar Hold with a rueful grin.

  “I shouldn’t say that, Lord Larad,” F’lar replied. “The destruction of all Thread at its source has been a favorite preoccupation of dragonmen Turn after Turn. I know how much territory one Weyr can cover, for instance; how much firestone is used by a Weyr in a Fall’s span. Naturally we,” and he gestured to the other Leaders, “would have information unavailable to you just as you could tell us how many guests you can feed at a banquet” That elicited a chuckle from many.

  “Seven Turns ago, I called you together to prepare to defend Pern against its ancient scourge. Desperate measures were in order if we were to survive. We are in nowhere as difficult a condition as we were seven Turns ago but we have all been guilty of misunderstandings which have deflected us from the important concern. We have no time to waste in assigning guilt or awarding compensation. We are still at the mercy of Thread though we are better equipped to deal with it.

  “Once before we found answers in old Records, in the helpful recollections of Masterweaver Zurg, Masterfarmer Andemon, Masterharper Robinton, and the efficiencies of Mastersmith Fandarel. You know what we’ve found in abandoned rooms at Benden and Fort Weyrs—objects made long Turns ago when we had not lost certain skills and techniques.

  “Frankly,” and F’lar grinned suddenly, “I’d rather rely on skills and techniques we, in our Turn, right now, can develop.”

  There was an unexpected ripple of assent to that.

  “I speak of the skill of working together, the technique of crossing the arbitrary lines of land, craft and status, because we must learn more from each other than the simple fact that none of us can stand alone and survive!”

  He couldn’t go on because half the men were on their feet, suddenly cheering. D’ram was pulling at his sleeve, G’narish was arguing with the Telgar Weyr Second, whose expression was grievously undecided. F’lar got a glimpse of Groghe’s face before someone stood in the way. Fort’s Lord, too, was plainly anxious but that was better than overt antagonism. Robinton caught his eye and smiled broad encouragement.
So F’lar had no choice but to let them unwind. They might as well infect each other with enthusiasm—probably with more effect than his best-chosen arguments. He looked around for Lessa and saw her slipping toward the hallway where she stopped, evidently warned of a late arrival.

  It was F’nor who appeared in the entrance.

  “I’ve fire-lizard eggs,” he shouted. “Fire-lizard eggs,” and he pushed into the room, an aisle opening for him straight to the Council Table.

  There was silence as he carefully placed his cumbersome felt-wrapped burden down and glanced triumphantly around the room.

  “Stolen from under T’kul’s nose. Thirty-two of them!”

  “Well, Benden,” Sangel of Southern Boll demanded in the taut hush, “who gets preference here?”

  F’lar affected surprise. “Why, Lord Sangel, that is for you,” and his gesture swept the room impartially, “to decide.”

  Clearly that had not been expected.

  “We will, of course, teach you what we know of them, guide you in their training. They are more than pets or ornaments,” and he nodded toward Meron who bristled, so suspicious of attention that his bronze hissed and restlessly fanned his wings. “Lord Asgenar, you’ve two lizard eggs already. I can trust you to be impartial. That is, if the Lords share my opinion.”

  As soon as they fell to arguing, F’lar left the Council Room. There was so much more to do this morning but he’d do it the better for a little break. And the eggs would occupy the Lords and Craftsmen. They wouldn’t notice his absence.

  CHAPTER XII

  Morning at Benden Weyr

  Predawn at High Reaches Weyr

  As soon as he could, F’nor left the Council Room in search of F’lar. He retrieved the pot of revolting grubs which he’d left in a shadowed recess of the weyr corridor.

  He’s in his quarters, Canth told his rider.

  “What does Mnementh say of F’lar?”

  There was a pause and F’nor found himself wondering if dragons spoke among themselves as men spoke to them.

  Mnementh is not worried about him.

  F’nor caught the faintest emphasis on the pronoun and was about to question Canth further when little Grall swooped, on whirring wings, to his shoulder. She wrapped her tail around his neck and rubbed against his cheek adoringly.

  “Getting braver, little one?” F’nor added approving thoughts to the humor of his voice.

  There was a suggestion of smug satisfaction about Grall as she flipped her wings tightly to her back and sunk her talons into the heavy padding Brekke had attached to the left tunic shoulder for that purpose. The lizards preferred a shoulder to a forearm perch.

  F’lar emerged from the sleeping room, his face lighting with eagerness as he realized F’nor was alone and awaiting him.

  “You’ve the grubs? Good. Come.”

  “Now, wait a minute,” F’nor protested, catching F’lar by the shoulder as the Weyrleader began to move toward the outer ledge.

  “Come! Before we’re seen.” They got down the stairs without being intercepted and F’lar directed F’nor toward the newly opened entrance by the Hatching Ground. “The lizards were parceled out fairly?” he asked, grinning as Grall tucked herself as close to F’nor’s ear as she could when they passed the Ground entrance.

  F’nor chuckled. “Groghe took over, as you probably guessed he would. The Lord Holders of Ista and Igen, Warbret and Laudey, magnanimously disqualified themselves on the grounds that their Holds were more likely to have eggs, but Lord Sangel of Boll took a pair. Lytol didn’t!”

  F’lar sighed, shaking his head regretfully.

  “I didn’t think he would but I’d hoped he’d try. Not a substitute for Larth, his dead brown, but—well . . .”

  They were in the brightly lit, newly cleaned corridor now, which F’nor hadn’t seen. Involuntarily he glanced to the right, grinning as he saw that any access to the old peephole on the Grounds had been blocked off.

  “That’s mean.”

  “Huh?” F’lar looked startled. “Oh, that. Yes. Lessa said it upset Ramoth too much. And Mnementh agreed.” He gave his half-brother a bemused grin, half for Lessa’s quirk, half for the mutual nostalgic memory of their own terror-ridden exploration of that passage, and a clandestine glimpse of Nemorth’s eggs. “There’s a chamber back here that suits my purpose . . .”

  “Which is?”

  F’lar hesitated, giving F’nor a long, thoughtful look.

  “Since when have you found me a reluctant conspirator?” asked F’nor.

  “It’s asking more than . . .”

  “Ask first!”

  They had reached the first room of the complex discovered by Jaxom and Felessan. But the bronze rider did not give F’nor time to examine the fascinating design on the wall or the finely made cabinets and tables. He hurried him past the second room to the biggest chamber where a series of graduated, rectangular open stone troughs were set around the floor. Other equipment had obviously been removed at some ancient time, leaving puzzling holes and grooves in the walls, but F’nor was startled to see that the tubs were planted with shrubs, grasses, common field and crop seedlings. A few small hardwood trees were evident in the largest troughs.

  F’lar gestured for the grub pot which F’nor willingly handed over.

  “Now, I’m going to put some of these grubs in all but this container,” F’lar said, indicating the medium-sized one. Then he started to distribute the squirming grubs.

  “Proving what?”

  F’lar gave him a long deep look so reminiscent of the days when they had dared each other as weyrlings that F’nor couldn’t help grinning.

  “Proving what?” he insisted.

  “Proving first, that these southern grubs will prosper in northern soil among northern plants . . .”

  “And . . .”

  “That they will eliminate Thread here as they did in the western swamp.”

  They both watched, in a sort of revolted fascination, as the wriggling gray mass of grubs broke apart and separately burrowed into the loose dark soil of the biggest tub.

  “What?”

  F’nor experienced a devastating disorientation. He saw F’lar as a weyrling, challenging him to explore and find the legendary peekhole to the Ground. He saw F’lar again, older, in the Records Room, surrounded by moldering skins, suggesting that they jump between time itself to stop Thread at Nerat. And he imagined himself suggesting to F’lar to support him when he let Canth fly Brekke’s Wirenth . . .

  “But we didn’t see Thread do anything,” he said, getting a grip on perspective and time.

  “What else could have happened to Thread in those swamps? You know as surely as we’re standing here that it was a four-hour Fall. And we fought only two. You saw the scoring. You saw the activity of the grubs. And I’ll bet you had a hard time finding enough to fill that pot because they only rise to the surface when Thread falls. In fact, you can go back in time and see it happen.”

  F’nor grimaced, remembering that it had taken a long time to find enough grubs. It’s been a strain, too, with every nerve of man, dragon and lizard alert for a sign of T’kul’s patrols. “I should have thought of that myself. But—Thread’s not going to fall over Benden . . .”

  “You’ll be at Telgar and Ruatha Holds this afternoon when the Fall starts. This time, you’ll catch some Thread.”

  If there had not been an ironical, humorous gleam in his half-brother’s eyes, F’nor would have thought him delirious.

  “Doubtless,” F’nor said acidly, “you’ve figured out exactly how I’m to achieve this.”

  F’lar brushed the hair back from his forehead.

  “Well, I am open to suggestion . . .”

  “That’s considerate, since it’s my hand that’s to be scored . . .”

  “You’ve got Canth, and Grall to help . . .”

  “If they’re mad enough . . .”

  “Mnementh explained it all to Canth . . .”

  “That’s helpful . . .�
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  “I wouldn’t ask you to do it if I could myself!” And F’lar’s patience snapped.

  “I know!” F’nor replied with equal force, and then grinned because he knew he’d do it.

  “All right” F’lar grinned in acknowledgment. “Fly low altitude near the queens. Watch for a good thick patch. Follow it down. Canth’s skillful enough to let you get close with one of those long-handled hearthpans. And Grall can wipe out any Thread which burrows. I can’t think of any other way to get some. Unless, of course, we were flying over one of the stone plateaus, but even then . . .”

  “All right, let us assume I can catch some live, viable Thread,” and the brown rider could not suppress the tremor that shook him “and let us assume that the grubs do—dispose of them. What then?”

  With a ghost of a smile on his lips, F’lar spread his arms wide. “Why then, son of my father, we breed us hungry grubs by the tankful and spread them over Pern.”

  F’nor jammed both fists into his belt. The man was feverish.

  “No, I’m not feverish, F’nor,” the bronze rider replied, settling himself on the edge of the nearest tank. “But if we could have this kind of protection,” and he picked up the now empty pot, turning it back and forth in his hand as if it held the sum of his theory, “Thread could fall when and where it wanted to without creating the kind of havoc and revolution we’re going through.

  “Mind you, there’s nothing remotely hinting at such events in any of the Harper Records. Yet I’ve been asking myself why it has taken us so long to spread out across this continent. In the thousands of Turns, given the rate of increase in population over the last four hundred, why aren’t there more people? And why, F’nor, has no one tried to reach that Red Star before, if it is only just another kind of jump for a dragon?”

  “Lessa told me about Lord Groghe’s demand,” F’nor said, to give himself time to absorb his brother’s remarkable and logical questions.

  “It isn’t just that we couldn’t see the Star to find coordinates,” F’lar went on urgently. “The Ancients had the equipment. They preserved it carefully, though not even Fandarel can guess how. They preserved it for us, perhaps? For a time when we’d know how to overcome the last obstacle?”