“One day I will fix it so that we can channel the message to the one area we want to speak to.” The Smith added, wiping his eyes, “Ah, but a man can sleep anytime. A laugh restores the soul.”
“Is that the distance-writer you’re going to demonstrate for us?” asked the Weyrleader, frankly skeptical.
“No, no, no,” Fandarel reassured him, dismissing the accomplishment almost irritably and striding to a complex arrangement of wires and ceramic pots. “This is my distance-writer!”
It was difficult for Lessa and F’lar to see anything to be proud of in that mystifying jumble.
“The wallbox looks more efficient,” F’lar said at length, bending to test the mixture in a pot with a finger.
The Smith struck his hand away.
“That would burn your skin as quick as pure agenothree,” he exclaimed. “Based on that solution, too. Now, observe. These tubs contain blocks of metal, one each of zinc and copper, in a watered solution of sulfuric acid which makes the metal dissolve in such a way that a chemical reaction occurs. This gives us a form of activity I have called chemical reaction energy. The c.r. produced can be controlled at this point,” and he ran a finger down the metal arm which was poised over an expanse of thin grayish material, attached at both ends to rollers. The Smith turned a knob. The pots began to bubble gently. He tapped the arm and a series of red marks of different lengths began to appear on the material which wound slowly forward. “See, this is a message. The Harper adapted and expanded his drum code, a different sequence and length of lines for every sound. A little practice and you can read them as easily as written words.”
“I do not see the advantage of writing a message here,” and F’lar pointed to the roll, “when you say . . .”
The Smith beamed expansively. “Ah, but as I write with this needle, another needle at the Masterminer’s in Crom or at the Crafthall at Igen repeats the line simultaneously.”
“That would be faster than dragon flight,” Lessa whispered, awed. “What do these lines say? Where did they go?” She inadvertently touched the material with her finger, snatching it back for a quick examination. There was no mark on her finger but a blotch of red appeared on the paper.
The Smith chuckled raspingly.
“No harm in that stuff. It merely reacts to the acidity of your skin.”
F’lar laughed. “Proof of your disposition, my dear!”
“Put your finger there and see what occurs,” Lessa ordered with a flash of her eyes.
“It would be the same,” the Smith remarked didactically. “The roll is made of a natural substance, litmus, found in Igen, Keroon and Tillek. We have always used it to check the acidity of the earth or solutions. As the chemical reaction energy is acid, naturally the litmus changes color when the needle touches its surface, thus making the message for us to read.”
“Didn’t you say something about having to lay wire? Explain.”
The Smith lifted a coil of fine wire which was hooked into the contraption. It ran out the window to a stone post. Now F’lar and Lessa noticed that posts were laid in a line marching toward the distant mountains, and, one assumed, the Masterminer in Crom Hold.
“This connects the c.r. distance-writer here with the one at Crom. That other goes to Igen. I can send messages to either Crom or Igen, or both, by adjusting this dial.”
“To which did you send that?” Lessa asked, pointing to the lines.
“Neither, my lady, for the c.r. was not being broadcast. I had the dial set to receive messages, not send. It is very efficient, you see.”
At this point, two women, dressed in the heavy wherhide garb of smithcrafters, entered the room, laden with trays of steaming food. One was evidently solely for the Smith’s consumption, for the woman jerked her head at him as, she placed the heavy platter on a rest evidently designed to receive it and not disturb work in the sand tray beneath. She bobbed to Lessa as she crossed in front of her, gesturing peremptorily to her companion to wait as she cleared space on the table. She did this by sweeping things out of her way with complete disregard for what might be disarranged or broken. She gave the bared surface a cursory swipe with a towel, signaled the other to put the tray down, then the two of them swept out before Lessa, stunned by such perfunctory service, could utter a sound.
“I see you’ve got your women trained, Fandarel,” F’lar said mildly, catching and holding Lessa’s indignant eyes. “No talking, no fluttering, no importunate demands for attention.”
Terry chuckled as he freed one chair of its pile of abandoned clothing and gestured Lessa to sit. F’lar righted one overturned stool that would serve him while Terry hooked a foot round a second that had got kicked under the long table, seating himself with a fluid movement that proved he had long familiarity with such makeshift repasts.
Now that he had food before him, the Smith was eating with single-minded intensity.
“Then it is the wire-laying process that holds you up,” F’lar said, accepting the klah Lessa poured for him and Terry. “How long did it take you to extend it from here to Crom Hold, for instance?”
“We did not stick to the work,” Terry replied for his Craftmaster whose mouth was too full for speech. “The posts were set up first by apprentices from both halls and those Holders willing to take a few hours from their own tasks. It was difficult to find the proper wire, and it takes time to extrude perfect lengths.”
“Did you speak to Lord Larad? Wouldn’t he volunteer men?”
Terry made a face. “Lord Holder Larad is more interested in how many flame throwers we can make him, or how many crops he can plant for food.”
Lessa had taken a sip of the klah and barely managed to swallow the acid stuff. The bread was lumpy and half-baked, the sausage within composed of huge, inedible chunks, yet both Terry and Fandarel ate with great appetite. Indifferent service was one matter; but decent food quite another.
“If this is the food he barters you for flame throwers, I’d refuse,” she exclaimed. “Why, even the fruit is rotten.”
“Lessa!”
“I wonder you can achieve as much as you do if you have to survive on this,” she went on, ignoring F’lar’s reprimand. “What’s your wife’s name?”
“Lessa,” F’lar repeated, more urgently.
“No wife,” the Smith mumbled, but the rest of his sentence came out more as breadcrumbs than words and he was reduced to shaking his head from side to side.
“Well, even a headwoman ought to be able to manage better than this.”
Terry cleared his mouth enough to explain. “Our headwoman is a good enough cook but she’s so much better at bringing up faded ink on the skins we’ve been studying that she’s been doing that instead.”
“Surely one of the other wives . . .”
Terry made a grimace. “We’ve been so pressed for help, with all these additional projects,” and he waved at the distance-writer, “that anyone who can has turned crafter—” He broke off, seeing the consternation on Lessa’s face.
“Well, I’ve women sitting around the Lower Cavern doing make-work. I’ll have Kenalas and those two cronies of hers here to help as soon as a green can bring ’em. And,” Lessa added emphatically, pointing a stern finger at the Smith, “they’ll have strict orders to do nothing in the craft, no matter what!”
Terry looked frankly relieved and pushed aside the meatroll he had been gobbling down, as if he had only now discovered how it revolted him.
“In the meantime,” Lessa went on with an indignation that was ludicrous to F’lar. He knew who managed Benden Weyr’s domestic affairs. “I’m making a decent brew of klah. How you could have choked down such bitter dregs as this is beyond my comprehension!” She swept out the door, pot in hand, her angry monologue drifting back to amused listeners.
“Well, she’s right,” F’lar said, laughing. “This is worse than the worst the Weyr ever got.”
“To tell the truth, I never really noticed before,” Terry replied, staring at his plate quiz
zically.
“That’s obvious.”
“It keeps me going,” the Smith said placidly, swallowing a half-cup of klah to clear his mouth.
“Seriously, are you that short of men that you have to draft your women, too?”
“Not short of men, exactly, but of people who have the dexterity, the interest some of our projects require,” Terry spoke up, in quick defense of his Craftmaster.
“I mean no criticism, Master Terry,” F’lar said, hastily.
“We’ve done a good deal of reviewing of the old Records, too,” Terry went on, a little defensively still. He flipped the pile of skins that had been spilled down the center of the table. “We’ve got answers to problems we didn’t know existed and haven’t encountered yet.”
“And no answers to the troubles which beset us,” Fandarel added, gesturing skyward with his thumb.
“We’ve had to take time to copy these Records,” Terry continued solemnly, “because they are all but illegible now . . .”
“I contend that we lost more than was saved and useful. Some skins were worn out with handling and their message obliterated.”
The two smiths seemed to be exchanging portions of a well-rehearsed complaint.
“Did it never occur to you to ask the Masterharper for help in transcribing your Records?” asked F’lar.
Fandarel and Terry exchanged startled glances.
“I can see it didn’t. It’s not the Weyrs alone who are autonomous. Don’t you Craftmasters speak to each other?” F’lar’s grin was echoed by the big Smith, recalling Robinton’s words of the previous evening. “However, the Harperhall is usually overflowing with apprentices, set to copying whatever Robinton can find for them. They could as well take that burden from you.”
“Aye, that would be a great help,” Terry agreed, seeing that the Smith did not object.
“You sound doubtful—or hesitant? Are any Crafts secret?”
“Oh, no. Neither the Craftmaster nor I hold with cabalistic, inviolable sanctities, passed at deathbed from father to son . . .”
The Smith snorted with such powerful scorn that a skin on the top of the pile slithered to the floor. “No sons!”
“That’s all very well when one can count on dying in bed and at a given time, but I—and the Craftmaster—would like to see all knowledge available to all who need it,” Terry said.
F’lar gazed with increased respect at the stoop-shouldered Craft-second. He’d known that Fandarel relied heavily on Terry’s executive ability and tactfulness. The man could always be counted on to fill in the gaps in Fandarel’s terse explanations or instructions, but it was obvious now that Terry had a mind of his own, whether it concurred with his Craftmaster’s or not.
“Knowledge has less danger of being lost, then,” Terry went on less passionately but just as fervently. “We knew so much more once. And all we have are tantalizing bits and fragments that do almost more harm than good because they only get in the way of independent development.”
“We will contrive,” Fandarel said, his ineffable optimism complementing Terry’s volatility.
“Do you have men enough, and wire enough, to install one of those things at Telgar Hold in two days?” asked F’lar, feeling a change of subject might help.
“We could take men off flame throwers and hardware. And I can call in the apprentices from the Smithhalls at Igen, Telgar and Lemos,” the Smith said and then glanced slyly at F’lar. “They’d come faster dragonback!”
“You’ll have them,” F’lar promised.
Terry’s face lit up with relief. “You don’t know what a difference it is to work with Benden Weyr. You see so clearly what needs to be done, without any hedging and hemming.”
“You’ve had problems with R’mart?” asked F’lar with quick concern.
“It’s not that, Weyrleader,” Terry said, leaning forward earnestly. “You still care what happens, what’s happening.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
The Smith rumbled something but there seemed to be no interrupting Terry.
“I see it this way, and I’ve seen riders from every Weyr by now. The Oldtimers have been fighting Thread since their birth. That’s all they’ve known. They’re tired and not just from skipping forward in time four hundred Turns. They’re heart-tired, bone-tired. They’ve had too much rising to alarms, seen too many friends and dragons die, Threadscored. They rest on custom, because that’s safest and takes the least energy. And they feel entitled to anything they want. Their minds may be numb with too much time between, though they think fast enough to talk you out of anything. As far as they’re concerned, there’s always been Thread. There’s nothing else to look forward to. They don’t remember, they can’t really conceive of a time, of four hundred Turns without Thread. We can. Our fathers could and their fathers. We live at a different rhythm because Hold and Craft alike threw off that ancient fear and grew in other ways, in other paths, which we can’t give up now. We exist only because the Oldtimers lived in their Time and in ours. And fought in both Times. We can see a way out, a life without Thread. They knew only one thing and they’ve taught us that. How to fight Thread. They simply can’t see that we, that anyone, could take it just one step further and destroy Thread forever.”
F’lar returned Terry’s earnest stare.
“I hadn’t seen the Oldtimers in just that light,” he said slowly.
“Terry’s absolutely right, F’lar,” said Lessa. She’d evidently paused on the threshold, but moved now briskly into the room, filling the Smith’s empty mug from the pitcher of klah she’d brewed. “And it’s a judgment we ought to consider in our dealings with them.” She smiled warmly at Terry as she filled his cup. “You’re as eloquent as the Harper. Are you sure you’re a smith?”
“That is klah!” announced Fandarel, having drunk it all.
“Are you sure you’re a Weyrwoman?” retorted F’lar, extending his cup with a sly smile. To Terry he said, “I wonder none of us realized it before, particularly in view of recent events. A man can’t fight day after day, Turn after Turn—though the Weyrs were eager to come forward—” He looked questioningly at Lessa.
“Ah, but that was something new, exciting,” she replied. “And it was new here, too, for the Oldtimers. What isn’t new is that they have another forty-some Turns to fight Thread in our time. Some of them have had fifteen and twenty Turns of fighting Thread. We have barely seven.”
The Smith put both hands on the table and pushed himself to his feet.
“Talk makes no miracles. To effect an end to Thread we must get the dragons to the source. Terry, pour a cup of that excellent klah for Wansor and let us attack the problem with good heart.”
As F’lar rose with Lessa, F’nor’s message rustled at his belt.
“Let me take a look at F’nor’s message, Lessa, before we go.”
He opened the closely written pages, his eye catching the repetition of “fire lizard” before his mind grasped the sense of what he was reading.
“Impressing? A fire lizard?” he exclaimed, holding the letter so that Lessa could verify it.
“No one’s ever managed to catch a fire lizard,” Fandarel said.
“F’nor has,” F’lar told him, “and Brekke, and Mirrim. Who’s Mirrim?”
“Brekke’s fosterling,” the Weyrwoman replied absently, her eyes scanning the message as rapidly as possible. “One of L’trel’s by some woman or other of his. No, Kylara wouldn’t have liked that!”
F’lar shushed her, passing the sheets over to Fandarel who was curious now.
“Are fire lizards related to dragons?” asked the Craft-second.
“Judging by what F’nor says, more than we realized.” F’lar handed Terry the last page, looking up at Fandarel. “What do you think?”
The Smith began to realign his features into a frown but stopped, grinning broadly instead.
“Ask the Masterherder. He breeds animals. I breed machines.”
He saluted Lessa wi
th his mug and strode to the wall he had been contemplating when they entered, immediately lost in thought.
“A good point,” F’lar said with a laugh to his remaining audience.
“F’lar? Remember that flawed piece of metal, with that garble of words? The one with the scribble like last night’s. It mentioned fire lizards, too. That was one of the few words that made sense.”
“So?”
“I wish we hadn’t given that plate back to Fort Weyr. It was more important than we realized.”
“There may be more at Fort Weyr that’s important,” F’lar said, gloomily. “It was the first Weyr. Who knows what we might find if we could search there!”
Lessa made a face, thinking of Mardra and T’ron.
“T’ron’s not hard to manage,” she mused.
“Lessa, no nonsense now.”
“If fire lizards are so much like dragons, could they be trained to go between, as dragons can, and be messengers?” asked Terry.
“How long would that take?” asked the Smith, less unaware of his surroundings than he looked. “How much time have we got this Turn?”
CHAPTER VIII
Midmorning at Southern Weyr
“NO, RANNELLY, I’ve not seen Kylara all morning,” Brekke told the old woman patiently, for the fourth time that morning.
“And you’ve not taken a good look at your own poor queen, either, I’ll warrant, fooling around with these—these nuisancy flitterbys,” Rannelly retorted, grumbling as she limped out of the Weyrhall.
Brekke had finally found time to see to Mirrim’s wounded brown. He was so stuffed with juicy tidbits from the hand of his overzealous nurse that he barely opened one lid when Brekke inspected him. Numbweed worked as well on lizard as on dragon and human.
“He’s doing just fine, dear,” Brekke told the anxious girl, the greens fluttering on the child’s shoulders in response to her exaggerated sigh of relief. “Now, don’t overfeed them. They’ll split their hides.”