“There’ll be cooperation from the Weyrs, I can guarantee it,” F’lar told Lytol. He must rouse the man from his dejection. “The Oldtimers were shaken men this morning. Ruatha Hold’s weyrbound to Fort and T’ron’s setting up sweepriders. You’re to man the watch fires on the heights and light them when Thread mass is sighted. You’ll get prompt action the instant a watch fire is seen.”
“I’m to rely on shaken men and fires on the heights?” Lytol demanded, eyes wide with disbelief.
“Fire is not efficient,” Fandarel intoned. “Rain puts it out. Fog hides it.”
“I’ll gladly assign my drummers to you if you think they’d be of help,” Robinton put in.
“F’lar,” Lytol said urgently. “I know Benden Weyr sends messengers ahead to Holds under Threadfall. Won’t the other Weyrleaders agree now to assign riders to the Holds? Just until we know about the shifts and learn to anticipate them? I don’t like most of the Fort Weyr riders, but at least I’d feel secure knowing there was instant communication with the Weyr.”
“As I was saying,” Fandarel boomed in such a portentous voice that they all turned to him a little startled, “there has been a regrettable lack of efficient communication on this planet which I believe my craft can effectually end. That is the news I brought.”
“What?” Lytol was on his feet.
“Why didn’t you speak up sooner, you great lout?” demanded the Harper.
“How long would it take to equip all major Holds and Weyrs?” F’lar’s question drowned the others.
Fandarel looked squarely at the Weyrleader before he answered what had been almost a plea.
“More time, unfortunately, than we apparently have as margin in this emergency. My halls have been overbusy turning out flame throwers. There’s been no time to devote to my little toys.”
“How long?”
“The instruments which send and receive distance writing are easy to assemble, but wire must be laid between them. That process is time-consuming.”
“Man-consuming, too, I warrant,” Lytol added and sat down, deflated.
“No more than watch fires,” Fandarel told him placidly. “If each Lord and Weyr could be made to cooperate and work together. We did once before,” and the Smith paused to look pointedly at F’lar, “when Benden called.”
Lytol’s face brightened and he grabbed F’lar urgently by the arm.
“The Lord Holders would listen to you, F’lar of Benden, because they trust you!”
“F’lar couldn’t approach other Lords, not without antagonizing the Weyrleaders,” Lessa objected, but she too was alert with hope.
“What the other Weyrleaders don’t know—” Robinton suggested slyly, warming to the strategy. “Come, come, F’lar. This is not the time to stick at principles—at least ones which have proved untenable. Look beyond affiliations, man. You did before and we won. Consider Pern, all Pern, not one Weyr,” and he pointed a long callused finger at F’lar, “one Hold,” and he swiveled it to Lytol; “or one Craft,” and he cocked it at Fandarel. “When we five combined our wits seven Turns ago, we got ourselves out of a very difficult position.”
“And I set the stage for this one,” Lessa said with a bitter laugh.
Before F’lar could speak, Robinton was waggling his finger at her. “Silly people waste time assigning or assuming guilt, Lessa. You went back and you brought the Oldtimers forward. To save Pern, Now we have a different problem. You’re not silly. You and F’lar, and all of us, must find other solutions. Now we’ve that so conveniently scheduled wedding at Telgar Hold. There’ll be a bevy of Lords and Craftmasters doing honor to Lemos and Telgar. We are all invited. Let us make very good use of that social occasion, my Lady Lessa, my lord F’lar, and bend them all to Benden’s way of thinking. Let Benden Weyr be a model—and all the other Holds and Crafts will follow those weyrbound to Benden . . .”
He leaned back suddenly, smiling with great anticipation.
F’lar said quietly, “Disaffection is apparently universal. We are going to need more than words and example to change minds.”
“The Crafts will back you, Weyrleader, to the last Hall,” Fandarel said. “You champion Bendarek. F’nor defended Terry, and against dragonmen because they were in the wrong. F’nor is all right, is he not?” The Smith turned questioningly to Lessa.
“He’ll be back in a week or so.”
“We need him now,” Robinton said. “He’d be useful at Telgar Hold, the commoners account him a hero. What do you say, F’lar? We’re yours to command again.”
They all turned to him, Lessa slipping a hand to his knee, her eyes eager. This was what she wanted, all right; for him to assume the responsibility. It was what he knew he had to do, finishing the task he had relinquished, hopefully, to those he thought better qualified than he to protect Pern.
“About that distance-writer of yours, Fandarel, could you rig one to Telgar Hold in time for the marriage?” F’lar asked.
Robinton let out a whoop that reverberated through the chamber, causing Ramoth to grumble from the Hatching Ground. The Smith showed all his stained tusks and clenched his huge fists on the table as if choking any opposition a-borning. The tic in Lytol’s cheek gave a spasmodic leap and stopped.
“Marvelous idea,” Robinton cried. “Hope’s a great encourager. Give the Lords a reliable means of keeping in touch and you’ve undone much of the Weyrs’ isolation policies.”
“Can you do it, Fandarel?” F’lar asked the Smith.
“To Telgar I could lay wire. Yes. It could be done.”
“How is this distance writing done? I don’t understand.”
Fandarel inclined his head toward the Masterharper. “Thanks to Robinton, we have a code that permits us to send long and complicated messages. One must train a man to understand it, to send and receive it. If you could spare an hour of your time . . .”
“I can spare you as much time as you need, Fandarel,” F’lar assured him.
“Let’s go tomorrow. There’s nothing could fall here tomorrow,” Lessa urged, excited.
“Good. I shall arrange a demonstration. I shall put more people to work on the wire.”
“I shall speak to Lord Sangel of Southern Boll and Lord Groghe of Fort Hold,” Lytol said. “Discreetly, of course, but they know Ruatha is not favored by the Weyt” He got to his feet. “I have been a dragonrider, and a craftsman, and now I am a Holder. But Thread makes no distinction. It sears wherever, whatever it touches.”
“Yes, we must remind everyone of that,” Robinton said with an ominous grin.
“I shall, of course, agree to whatever T’ron orders me to do, now I have hopes of a surer deliverance.” Lytol bowed to Lessa. “My duty to you, my lady. I’ll collect Lord Jaxom and beg the favor of a return flight . . .”
“You’ve missed your lunch, stay for our dinner.”
Lytol shook his head regretfully. “There’ll be much to set in motion.”
“In the interests of conserving dragon strength, I’ll ride with Lytol and Jaxom,” Robinton said, swallowing the rest of his wine after a rueful toast to such haste. “That will leave you two beasts to share the burden of Fandarel.”
Fandarel stood up, a tolerantly smiling giant, his massive bulk dwarfing the Harper, who was by no measure a short man. “I sympathize with dragons, forced to endure the envy of frail, small creatures.”
None of them left, however, because neither Jaxom nor Felessan could be located. One of Manora’s women remembered seeing them pilfering vegetables and thought they’d gone to join the boys playing miggsy. On questioning, one of the children, Gandidan, admitted seeing them go toward the back corridors.
“Gandidan,” Manora said sternly, “have you been teasing Felessan about the peekhole again?” The child hung his head and suddenly the others couldn’t look at anyone. “Hmmm,” and she turned to the anxious parents. “I’ve been missing used glows again, F’lar, so I imagine there’ve been some trips to look at the eggs.”
“What???
? Lessa exclaimed, as startled as the boys who had turned to guilty statues.
Before she could berate them, F’lar laughed aloud. “That’s where they are, then.”
“Where?”
The boys huddled together, terrified by the coldness in her voice, even if it was directed toward the Weyrleader.
“In the corridor behind the Hatching Ground. Oh, don’t fuss, Lessa. That’s all part of growing up in the Weyr, isn’t it, Lytol? I did it when I was Felessan’s age.”
“You’ve been aware of these excursions, Manora?” Lessa demanded imperiously, ignoring F’lar.
“Certainly, Weyrwoman,” Manora replied unintimidated. “And kept track to be sure they all returned. How long ago did they set out, Gandidan? Did they play with you for a time?”
“No wonder Ramoth’s been so upset, I kept thinking she was only being broody. How could you allow such activities to continue?”
“Come now, Lessa,” F’lar said soothingly. “It’s a matter of adolescent pride,” and F’lar dropped his voice to a whisper and widened his eyes dramatically, “not to shrink from the challenge of dark, dusty corridors; dim, flickering glows. Will the glows last long enough to get us to the peekhole and back? Or will we be lost forever in the blackness of the Weyr?”
The Harper was grinning, the boys stunned and open-mouthed. Lytol was not amused, however.
“How long ago, Gandidan?” Manora repeated, tipping the boy’s face up. When he seemed unable to speak, she glanced at the scared expressions of the others. “I think we’d better look. It’s easy to take the wrong turning if you have inadequate glows. And they did.”
There was no lack of searchers, and F’lar quickly split them up into sections to explore each corridor segment. Sounds echoed through halls undisturbed for hundreds of Turns. But it was not long before F’lar and Lytol led their group to the guiding light. Once they saw the figures lying in the patch of light, F’lar sent for the others.
“What’s the matter with them?” Lytol demanded, supporting his ward against him, and anxiously feeling for his pulse.
“Blood?” He held up stained fingers, his face bleak, cheek a-twitch.
So, thought F’lar, Lytol’s heart had unfrozen a little. Lessa was wrong to think Lytol too numb to care for the boy. Jaxom was a sensitive boy and children needed affection, but there are many ways of loving.
F’lar gestured for more glows. He turned back the dusty linen of the boy’s shirt, baring the horizontal scratches.
“Doesn’t look to me like more than scrapes. Probably stumbled against the wall in the dark. Who’s got some numbweed on him? Don’t look like that, Lytol. The pulse is strong.”
“But he’s not asleep. He doesn’t wake.” Lytol shook the limp figure, at first gently, then more insistently.
“There isn’t a mark on Felessan,” the Weyrleader said, turning his son in his arms.
Manora and Lessa came running then, kicking up dust in spite of F’lar’s urgent caution. But Manora reassured them that the boys were all right and briskly delegated two men to carry them back to the Weyr proper. Then she turned to the curious crowd that had assembled in the corridor.
“The emergency is over. Everyone back. Dinner’s ready, my lady, my lords. Pick up your feet, Silon. No need to stir up more dust” She glanced at the Weyrleader and the Master-smith. As one, the two men approached the mysterious doorway, Lessa and Lytol joining them.
Her crisp instructions cleared the corridor quickly until there were only the five remaining.
“The light is not made by glows,” announced the Master-smith as he peered cautiously into the bright room. “And from the smoothness of the walls, this is part of the original Weyr.” He scowled at F’lar. “Were you aware such rooms existed?” It was almost an accusation.
“There were rumors, of course,” F’lar said, stepping inside, “but I don’t think I ever got very far down any of the unused corridors when I was a weyrling. Did you, Lytol?”
The Lord Warder snorted irritably but now that he knew Jaxom was all right, he could not resist looking in.
“Perhaps you should give him leave to prowl in Ruatha if he can find treasure rooms like this one,” Robinton suggested slyly. “And what under the sun could this represent? Lessa, you’re our expert on wall hangings, what do you say?”
He pointed to a drawing, composed of weird interconnecting varicolored rods and balls which spread in several ladderlike columns from floor to ceiling.
“I wouldn’t call it artistic, but the colors are pretty,” she said, peering closely at the wall. She touched a portion with a finger. “Why, the color is baked on the wall. And look here! Someone didn’t like it although I don’t think their correction helps. It’s more a scribble than a design. And it’s not even in the same type of coloring.”
Fandarel scrutinized the drawing, his nose an inch from the wall. “Odd. Very odd.” Then he moved off to other wonders, his huge hands reverently caressing the metallic counters, the hanging shelves. His expression was so rapt that Lessa suppressed a giggle. “Simply amazing. I believe that this countertop was extruded in a single sheet.” He clucked to himself. “If it has been done, it can be done. I must think about it.”
F’lar was more interested in the scribble-design. There was something tantalizingly familiar about it.
“Lessa, I’d swear I’ve seen just such a nonsense before.”
“But we’ve never been here. No one has.”
“I’ve got it. It’s like the pattern on that metal plate F’nor found at Fort Weyr. The one that mentioned fire lizards. See, this word,” his finger traced lines that would read “eureka” to older eyes, “is the same. I’d swear it. And it was obviously added after the rest of this picture.”
“If you want to call it a picture,” Lessa said dubiously. “But I do think you’re right. Only why would they circle this part of the ladder—and that one over there—with a scribble?”
“There are so many, many puzzles in this room,” Fandarel intoned. He’d opened a cabinet door, struggling briefly with the magnetic catch, then opened and closed it several times, smiling absently in delight for such efficiency. Only then did he notice the strange object on the deep shelf.
He exhaled in wonder as he took the ungainly affair down. “Have a care. It may waddle away,” Robinton said, grinning at the Smith’s performance.
Though the device was as long as a man’s arm, the Smith’s great hands seemed to envelop it as his fingers explored its exterior. “And they could roll metal without seam. Hmmm. It’s coated,” and he glanced up at F’lar, “with the same substance used in the big kettles. Coated for protection? With what?” He looked at it, peered at the top. “Ah, glass. Fine glass. Something to look through?” He fiddled with the easily swiveled coated glass that was fitted under a small ledge at the base of the instrument He placed his eye at the opening on the top of the tube. “Nothing to see but through.” He straightened, his brows deeply furrowed. A rumbling sound issued from him as if the gears of his thinking were shifting audibly. “There is a very badly eroded diagram which Wansor showed me not long ago. A device,” and his fingers rested lightly on the wheels placed alongside the barrel, “which magnifies objects hundreds of times their proper size. But it takes so long to make lenses, polish mirrors. Hmmm.” He bent again and with extremely careful fingers played with the knobs at the side of the tube. He glanced quickly at the mirror, wiped it with one stained finger and looked at it once with his own eye, then again through the tube. “Fascinating. I can see every imperfection in the glass.” He was completely unconscious of the fact that everyone else was watching him, fascinated by his behavior. He pulled a coarse short hair from his bead and held it under the end of the barrel, above the mirror, right across a small aperture. Another careful adjustment and he gave a bellow of joy. “Look. Look. It is only my hair. But look at the size of it now. See dust like stones, see the scales, see the broken end.”
Exuberantly, he pulled Lessa into position,
all but holding her head down to the eyepiece. “If you can’t see clearly, move this knob until you can.”
Lessa complied, but with a startled exclamation, jumped back. Robinton stepped up before F’lar could.
“But that’s fantastic,” the Harper muttered, playing with the knobs and quickly taking a comparative look at the actual hair.
“May I?” asked F’lar so pointedly that Robinton grinned an apology for his monopoly.
Taking his place, F’lar in turn had to check the specimen to believe in what he saw through the instrument. The strand of hair became a coarse rope, motes of dust sparkling in the light along it, fine lines making visible segmentation points.
When he lifted his head, he turned toward Fandarel, speaking softly because he almost dared not utter this fragile hope aloud.
“If there are ways of making tiny things this large, are there ways of bringing distant objects near enough to observe closely?”
He heard Lessa’s breath catch, was aware that Robinton was holding his, but F’lar begged the Smith with his eyes to give him the answer he wanted to hear.
“I believe there ought to be,” Fandarel said after what seemed to be hours of reflection.
“F’lar?”
He looked down at Lessa’s white face, her startled eyes black with awe and fear, her hands half-raised in frightened protest.
“You can’t go to the Red Star!” Her voice was barely audible.
He captured her hands, cold and tense, and though he drew her to him reassuringly, he spoke more to the others.
“Our problem, gentlemen, has always been to get rid of Thread. Why not at its source? A dragon can go anywhere if he’s got a picture of where he’s going!”
When Jaxom woke, he was instantly aware that he was not in the Hold. He opened his eyes bravely, scared though he was, expecting darkness. Instead, above him was a curving roof of stone, its expanse sparkling from the full basket of glows in its center. He gave an inarticulate gasp of relief.