Anne McCaffrey - Pern 17 - The Skies of Pern

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THE SKIES OF PERN
INTRODUCTION
Ours not to ponder what were fair in Life,
But, finding what may be,
Make it fair up to our means.
When mankind first discovered Pern, third planet of the sun Rukbat, in the Sagittarian Sector, they paid little attention to the
eccentric orbit of another satellite in the system.
Settling the new planet, adjusting to its differences, the colonists spread out across the southern, most hospitable continent. Then
disaster struck in the form of a rain of mycor-rhizoid organisms, which voraciously devoured all but stone, metal, and water. The
initial losses were staggering. But fortunately for the young colony, "Thread," as the settlers called the devastating showers, was not
entirely invincible: both water and fire would destroy the menace on contact.
Using their old-world ingenuity and genetic engineering, the settlers altered an indigenous life-form that resembled the dragons of
legend. Telepathically bonded with a human at birth, these enormous creatures became Pern's most effective weapon against Thread.
Able to chew and digest a phosphine-bearing rock, the dragons could literally breathe fire and sear the airborne Thread before it could
reach the ground. Able not only to fly but to teleport as well, the dragons could maneuver quickly to avoid injury during their battles
with Thread. And their telepathic communication enabled them to work with their riders and with each other to form extremely
efficient fighting units-wings.
Being a dragonrider required special talents and complete dedication. Thus the dragonriders became a separate group, set apart from
those who held land against the depredations of Thread, or those whose craft skills produced other necessities of life in their
Crafthalls.
Over the centuries, the settlers forgot their origins in their struggle to survive against Thread, which fell across the land whenever
the Red Star's eccentric orbit coincided with Pern's. There were long Intervals, too, when no Thread ravaged the land, when the
dragonriders in their Weyrs kept faith with their mighty friends until they would be needed once more to protect the people they were
pledged to serve.
After one such long Interval, when Thread renewed its violence, the dragonriders were down to one single Weyr: Benden. Its
courageous Weyrwoman, Lessa, rider of the only gold queen, Ramoth, discovering that dragons could move through time as well as
space, took a desperate gamble and flew four hundred Turns into the past to bring the other five Weyrs forward in time to renew the
defense of Pern.
Circumstances encouraged exploration of the southern continent and there Lord Jaxom, rider of white Ruth; his friend, F'lessan,
rider of bronze Golanth; Journeywoman Jancis from the Master Smithcrafthall; and Piemur, Harper at large, discovered the most
important artifact in the settlers' original Landing: AIVAS-Artificial Intelligence Voice Address System.
With the myriad files of information that the colonists had brought with them, Aivas was able to restore lost pieces of information
for all the Crafthalls. He was also able to teach them how to rid their world of the cyclical dangers of the erratic satellite, inaccurately
called the Red Star.
F'lar and Lessa, Benden's courageous and far-seeing Weyr-leaders, were the first to encourage Lord Holders and Craft-masters to
end the domination of Thread and start a new era on Pern. Almost all Lord Holders and Craftmasters agreed, especially since Aivas
could provide them with new methods and technologies for improving health and quality of life.
Those who considered Aivas an "abomination" attempted to stop the splendid project, but were defeated. Instructed and trained by
Aivas, the young riders and technicians were able to transport, by means of the dragons, the antimatter engines of the three colony
ships-still in orbit above Landing-and place them in a massive fault on the Red Star. The subsequent explosion was visible from much
of the planet, and people rejoiced to think they would finally be rid of Thread.
Now, though, Thread continues to fall, because the swarm already brought in by the Red Star has not yet completely passed by Pern.
Dragonriders and harpers have explained to those who would listen that this Pass is the last one Pern will have to endure.
They must now start planning for a Threadfree future, making use of the Aivas files, full of helpful but not overly sophisticated
technology that will improve life for everyone on Pern. Even the dragonriders, for centuries the defenders of Pern, must fit themselves
for new occupations. The questions are: Which technologies can be adopted without disrupting the culture of the planet? And how
will the dragonriders integrate themselves and their splendid friends into the new Threadfree society?
PROLOGUE
Crom mines 5.27.30 present pass Aivas adjusted reckoning 2552
The journeyman on duty in the prisoners' quarters at Mine 23 in the western foothills was the first one to see the bright, almost
bluish streak in the sky. It was coming from a southwesterly direction. It also appeared to be coming straight at him, so he shouted a
warning as he scrambled down the steps of the guard tower.
His yells attracted the attention of other miners, just coming up from the shafts, tired and dirty from a long day of digging iron ore.
They, too, saw the light-coming straight at the hold. They scattered, yelling, diving for the nearest shelter under ore carts, behind the
raw mounds of the day's tips, the gantry, back into the shaft. There was a rushing noise of thunder rumbling from the sky-and not a
cloud in sight. Some insisted that they heard a high-pitched shriek. Everyone agreed on the direction from which the object came:
southwest.
Suddenly the high stone wall that surrounded the prison yard was breached, showering pieces of rock that rained down on the other
sections of the minehold and causing miners to fall flat, covering their heads against the fragments. A second explosive noise followed
the first, punctuated by screams of terror from those in the prison quarters. There was the stink of very hot metal, a familiar enough
smell in a place where iron ore was smelted into ingots before being shipped to Smithcrafthalls-only this stink had an unusual acidity
that no one could later accurately describe.
In fact, from the moment the journeyman shouted his warning, only one man of the several hundred in the mine-hold kept his head.
Shankolin, imprisoned in the Crom mines for the past thirteen Turns, had waited for just such an opportunity: a chance to escape. He
heard the wall shatter, of course, and saw a moment's reflection of the blue-white light in the small window of the heavy door that was
the only entrance to the building. He threw himself to the left, diving under a wooden bunk just as something large, hot, and reeking
pierced the wall where his head would have been. It hissed as it plowed down the main aisle and buried itself in the far corner,
dropping through the wood planks, smashing a corner pillar, buckling the wall, and causing part of the roof to collapse. Someone was
screaming in pain, pleading for help. Everyone else was howling with fear.
Wriggling out from under the bunk, Shankolin took just one look at the opening made by the meteorite-for that was the only thing
that could have caused the damage just done-and, realizing that he could see straight across the yard to the shattered wall, he reacted
instantly. He dove out of his prison and sprinted to the broken wall. On his way, he made certain that there was no one on the guard
walkway or in the end turrets. They must all have abandoned their posts as the meteor streaked toward the minehold.
He heaved himself up and over the broken wall and ran down the hill as fast as he could to the nearest cover of straggly bushes.
Crouching behind them, he caught his breath while he listened to the continued sounds of confusion from the minehold. The injured
man was still howling: the guards would have to tend to him before they did a head count. They'd probably want to have as close a
look at the meteorite as possible. The metal types were valuable. Or so he'd heard, once his deafness had lifted. He didn't hear
everything, but he heard enough. He had never let on that he had recovered from the skull-ripping sound that that abominable Aivas
had emitted when Shankolin had led men, picked by his father, Master Norist, to destroy the "abomination" and end its evil influence
on the people of Pern.
Having caught his breath, Shankolin rolled down the slight incline until he felt it safe to rise to a crouch and make his way to the
sparse forest. He kept turning his head this way and that, listening for any sound of men coming after him. Crouching, he ran as fast as
he could down the dangerous inclines. He could hear the pebbles and stones rattling and bouncing ahead of him.
One thought dominated: this time he would make good his escape. This time he had to be free-to halt the progress that the Aivas
Abomination was inexorably making, destroying the Pern that had survived so long, as his father had told him in a hushed and fearful
voice. Master Norist had been horrified to learn that the Weyrleaders of Pern believed that this disembodied voice could actually
instruct them on how to turn the Red Star from its orbit and prevent it from ever swinging close enough to Pern to drop the avaricious
and hungry Thread. Thread could eat anything, herdbeasts, humans, vegetation-it could even consume huge trees in the time it took a
man to blink. He knew. He'd seen it happen once when he'd been part of the ground crews assembled by the Glasscrafthall. Thread
truly was a menace to bodies and growing things, but the Aivas Abomination had been a more insidious menace to the very minds and
hearts of men and women, and from its disembodied words a perfidious treachery had been spread. His father had been amazed and
disheartened by all the impossible things the Abomination had told the Lord Holders and Craftmasters: of the machines and methods
that their ancestors had used; equipment and processes-even ways to improve glass-all of which would make living on Pern much
easier.
At that time, when everyone was extolling the miracle of this Aivas thing, his father and a few other men of importance had seen the
dangers inherent in many of these smooth and tempting promises. As if a mere voice could alter the way a Star moved. Shankolin was
firmly of his father's mind. Stars did not change their courses. He agreed that the Weyrleaders were fools, inexplicably eager to
destroy the very reason why the great dragons were basic to the preservation of the planet! He agreed because he was so close to the
end of his journeyman's time. He was eager to prove himself acceptable to his father, to be the one of his sons to receive the secret
skills of coloring glass in the glorious shades that only a Master of the Craft could produce: which sand would make molten glass
blue, which powder caused the brilliant deep crimson.
So he had volunteered to be one of those to attack the Aivas Abomination and end its domination over the minds of otherwise
intelligent men and women.
He was into the stream before he realized it. His right boot hit a slippery stone and he fell, striking his face on another rock. Dazed
by the blow, he was slow to push to his hands and knees. The chill of the water on his wrists and legs helped to revive him. Then he
saw the drops of blood landing on the stream and floating pinkly away. He explored the cut on his face, wincing as he realized the
slash started at his forehead and continued down one side of his nose to a gouge in his cheek-as jagged a cut as the rock that had made
it. Blood dripped off his chin. Holding his breath, he buried his face in the cold water. He repeated the process until the cold water had
somewhat stemmed the flow of blood. Even so, he had to tear off the tail end of his shirt to tie a rude bandage to stop the blood
running from his forehead. Once he cocked his head, listening for any sounds of pursuit. He couldn't even hear avians or the slithering
of snakes. His running might have startled them away. With water still dripping from his soaked clothes, he got to his feet and sniffed
at the slight breeze.
During his long Turns of deafness, his other senses had intensified. His sense of smell had once saved his life, even if he had lost the
tip of one finger. He'd caught the rank odor of gas being released just before the mine wall had collapsed. Two miners had been buried
alive in that fall.
Blood continued to drip from his cheek. He took another patch from his shirttail and held it to the gouge. He looked this way and
that, wondering how to proceed.
There were men in the minehold who boasted about their success in tracking escaped prisoners. Bloodstains would make their job
easier. He looked anxiously about him, but the stream had swept the blood away. It was fortunate that he'd fallen in the middle of the
stream: there'd be no blood to be found.
Perhaps the meteorite had delayed pursuit. There'd been more injured and no prisoner count had been made. Maybe that meteorite
was of more importance to the miners. He'd heard that the Smithcrafthall paid well for such pieces falling from the sky. Let them
waste time sending a message to the nearest Crafthall. Let them give him enough time to reach the river.
If he kept to the water, he'd leave no bloodstains or scent to be tracked. Eventually this stream would reach the river and then the
Southern Sea. He'd have to keep holding the bandage on his cheek until the blood clotted. He was still a bit woozy from his fall. He'd
find a stick to help him keep his balance and to check the water's depths. He spotted one farther down the bank, sturdy and long
enough to be useful. A few cautious steps forward in the stream and he reached for it. He gave it a pound or two to be sure it wasn't
rotten. It would do.
He walked through a moonless night, slipping occasionally in muddy spots or dropping into unexpectedly deep pools, despite using
the stick to avoid them. When his cheek stopped bleeding, he shoved that bandage in a pocket. The one on his forehead was adhered
to the dried blood, so he left it in place.
By dawn, his feet were so cold and clumsy in the soaked heavy mining boots that he stumbled more frequently and his teeth began
to chatter with the chill. When the stream broadened and he was more often up to his waist than his knees, he could go no farther.
Seizing hold of shrubs that lined the stream, he clambered out of the water and hid himself in the thick vegetation, curling up to
preserve what warmth remained in his body.
Nothing disturbed him until the ache of an empty belly finally roused him. It was far into the morning for the sun was well up. He
had come much farther than he had thought possible. His rough work clothing had partially dried but the minehold emblem woven
into shirt and pants would mark him as a fugitive. He needed food and new clothing in whichever order he could get them.
Carefully he emerged from the bushes and, to his utter astonishment, saw a small cothold directly across the stream that was now
wide as a river. He watched the cothold a long time before he decided that there was no one working inside or nearby. He waded
across the river, his bruised feet feeling every rock, and hid again in the bushes until he was sure he heard no human sounds.
The cothold was empty but someone lived here. A herder, perhaps, for there were hides pushed back on the rough sleeping platform
made supple by long usage. Food first! He didn't even wash the tubers he found in a basket by the hearth. Then he saw cold gray
grease in the iron skillet, set a-tilt on the hearth. He dipped the raw vegetables into it, relishing the salt in the grease as flavoring. The
worst of his hunger momentarily assuaged, he searched for more to eat and a change of clothing. As a younger man he would never
have filched so much as a berry or an apple from a neighbor's yard. His circumstances were as much altered now as the tenets of con-
duct his father had beaten into him. He had a duty to perform, a wrong to right, and a theory he must confirm or forget.
His stomach churned with the raw, greasy food he had eaten. He had to eat more slowly or lose everything. Vomit was a hard smell
to hide. In a tightly covered container that would protect its contents from vermin, he found three quarters of a wheel of cheese. He
thought how long such food would sustain him in his escape-but the fewer traces of his passing were noticeable, the better. While the
cotholder might not notice the loss of a few tubers and grease in a pan, the disappearance of too much cheese would be a different
matter. So he found a thin old knife blade in the back of a drawer and sliced off a section of cheese, enough to provide him a small
meal but, he hoped, not enough to be instantly noticed. Almost as if his restraint were being rewarded, he found a dozen rolls of travel
rations in another tin box and took two. He would surely find more food if he was not greedy now. He believed in that sort of justice.
He removed the bandage on his forehead, a painful task even when he had soaked his face in the cold stream water. One or two
spots bled a little, but as no blood trailed down his face, he left the wound open to the clean mountain air.
He went back to the cothold to look for clothing but found none. He did take one of the older hides. He could not count on finding
shelter, and though this was the fifth month, the nights could still be chilly.
Leaving the cothold, he investigated the tracks that led off in several directions. A flash of sunlight on something metallic caught his
eyes and he whirled toward the river, afraid that he had been discovered. It took him much longer to locate the source of the
reflection: the oarlocks of a small boat. Under the thick shrubbery along the bank, the boat was almost invisible, tethered to a branch
with a rope so worn by constant rubbing against a half-submerged stone that the slightest pull would part the last strands.
He provided the pull and, stepping carefully into the boat, used his stick to push out into the current of the river. Perhaps he should
have tried to find the oars, but he felt an urgency to be away from this cothold and as far down the river as possible. The little craft
was just long enough so that if he cocked his knees, he could lie flat and be unseen from the shore.
That night, when he saw the glowbaskets of a sizeable small holding-not a large enough one to have a watchwher on guard-he
propelled himself to the bank and tied up the boat by the tether he had mended with strips of his tattered shirt during his long day
afloat.
Luck was with him. First he found a basket of avian eggs left on a hook outside a side door to the beasthold. He sucked the contents
of three, and carefully deposited three more in his shirt, tucked into his waistband. Then his eye caught the shirts and pants drying on
bushes by the flat river stones where women would have washed them. He found clothes to fit him well enough and corrected the
positions of others to make it appear that what he had chosen might simply have fallen into the river and drifted away.
In the beasthold for a second look, though the animals moved restlessly in the presence of a stranger, he found bran and an old
battered scoop. Tomorrow he would boil the bran and add the eggs for a good hot meal. Suddenly he heard voices and immediately
returned to his boat, pushing it carefully out into the current and lying down, lest he be seen.
The night swallowed the voices and all he heard was the gurgle of the river in which the boat moved so silently. Above him were the
stars. The old harper who had taught all the youngsters at the Glasscrafthall had told him the names of some of them. Indeed, the old
man had mentioned meteorites and the Ghosts that appeared in bright arcs in Turnover skies. Shankolin had never believed that those
bright sparks were the ghosts of dead dragons, but some of the younger children had.
The brightest stars never changed. He recognized the sparkle of Vega-or was it Canopus? He couldn't remember the names of the
other stars in the spring sky. In trying to recall those names and when he had learned them, his mind inexorably returned to Aivas and
all that ... that thing ... had done to him. He'd only recently heard, in a repetition of very old news, that his father had been exiled to an
island in the Eastern Sea with the Lord Holders and other craftsmen who had tried to stop the Abomination.
Now that the source was silenced, they'd be able to talk men and women into returning to their senses. The Red Star brought Thread.
The Dragonriders fought Thread in the skies, and people lived comfortably enough between Passes. That had been the order of life for
centuries-an order that should be preserved. When he had heard that the Masterharper of Pern, a personage Shankolin had admired,
had been abducted, he had been deeply disturbed. But his ears had been blocked for Turns before he gradually recovered some hearing
and learned about that part of the incident. He had never clearly heard why the Masterharper had been found dead in the
Abomination's chamber. But it, too, had been dead-"terminated," one of the miners said. Had Master Robinton come to his senses and
turned off the Abomination? Or had the Abomination killed Master Robinton? He felt eager to discover the truth.
Once he got down Crom's river-perhaps Keogh Hold would be far enough-he could make plans and see just how badly the
Abomination had interfered with Pern's traditions and way of life.
Gathers began in springtime, when the roads dried of winter snow and mud, and he could simply blend into the crowds, and perhaps
find more answers. He was hearing more and more these days, even the shrill song of avians. Once he caught up on current news, he
would be able to plan his next moves.
Surely not everyone on Pern would want tradition degraded or would believe the lies that the Abomination had spouted. He called to
mind those whom he knew had been seriously disturbed by the so-called improvements promulgated by Aivas. By now, eleven Turns
since the Abomination had terminated, some right-minded, thinking folk would realize that the Red Star had not changed course
simply because three old engines had blown up in a crack on its surface! Especially when Thread continued to fall on the planet-as
indeed it should, to be sure that all Pern was united against the menace of its return, century after century.
AT A GATHER 6.15.30
"I don't know why it had to mess up time," said the first man, morosely fingering a pattern in the spilled gravy in front of him.
"You're messing up the table," the second man said, pointing.
"He had no call to mess up our time," the first man insisted, rather more vehemently.
"Who?" Second was confused. "He? It?"
"Aivas, that's who or it."
"Whaddya mean?"
"Well, he did, didn't he? Back in '38-which should be only 2524." The holder scowled, his thick black brows coming together across
the wide bridge of his thick nose. "Made us add some fourteen Turns allasudden."
"He was regulating time," Second corrected, surprised at his companion's vehemence. The holder had seemed a pleasant enough
companion, knowledgeable about music and knowing all the words to even the latest songs the harpers were playing. With his third
wineskin, his temper had deteriorated. And possibly his wits, if time or how folk numbered Turns was bothering him.
"Made me older'n' I was."
"Didn't make you smarter," Second said with a rude snort. " 'Sides, Masterharper himself said it was all right on account there were
dis- ah, disk-" He paused and used a belch as an excuse while he recalled the exact phrasing. "-there'd been inaccurate timekeeping
because of Thread falling only forty Turns once instead of fifty, like it usually did, and people forgetting to account for the disk-"
"Discrepancies," the third man put in, regarding them superciliously.
Second gave a snap of his fingers and beamed at Third for finding the word he couldn't recall.
"The problem is not what it did," First went on. "It's what it's continuing to do. To all of us." He made a flourish that included
everyone at the Gather, all laughing and singing, oblivious to the dangers in this continuation.
"Continuing to do?" A woman who had been standing nearby slipped into a seat several places down the long Gather table, on the
opposite side from First and Second.
"Pushing things on us whether we want 'improvements' or not," First said slowly, eyeing her in what illumination dimly reached
their side table. He saw a thin woman, with an unattractive face, a pinched mouth, a recessive lower jaw, and huge eyes that glowed
with an inner anger or resentment.
"Like the lights?" Second asked, gesturing toward the nearest one. "Very useful. Much more convenient than messing with
glowbaskets."
"Glowbaskets are traditional," the woman said, and her petulant tone carried into the shadows beyond the table. "Glows were put
here for us to cultivate and protect."
"Glows are natural, and have lighted our holds and halls for centuries," said a deep, censorious voice. Startled, the woman gasped
and put her hand protectively to her throat.
Certainly First and Second, who had thought they were having a private discussion, were annoyed by the intrusion until the big man
stepped out of the shadows. As he slowly walked to the table, the others watched his deliberate advance, noting the size of him. He sat
down by Third, bringing the number seated there to five. He wore a strangely shaped leathern cap that hid most of his forehead but did
not cover the scar on the side of his nose and cheek. He was also missing the top joint of the first finger on his left hand. Something
about his scarred face and his purposeful manner compelled the others to silence.
"Pern has lost much lately and gained little." His un-maimed hand lifted to point to the light. "And all because a voice-" He paused
contemptuously. "-said to do so."
"Got rid of the Red Star," Second said, shifting uneasily.
Fifth turned his head toward Second, regarding him so unblinkingly that his scorn was nearly palpable.
"Thread still falls," Fifth said in that deep, disturbing voice that seemed to use no inflection.
"Well, yes, but that was explained," Second said.
"Perhaps to your satisfaction, but not to mine."
Two men seated at a table opposite the group looked over with interest, and gestured at First to let them join in. First nodded his
head at the two, and Sixth and Seventh hastily climbed into vacant spaces among the others.
"The voice is gone," First said, when the two newcomers were settled and he was guaranteed the group's full attention once again.
"Terminated itself."
"As it should have been terminated before it was allowed to pollute and corrupt the minds of so many," Fifth went on.
"And it has left so much behind," the woman said in a despairing tone, "so much that can be misused."
"You mean the equipment and new methods for manufacturing all kinds of things, like the electricity that brightens dark places?"
Third could not resist teasing such somber and humorless people.
"There was no good reason for that ... thing to turn itself off like that, just when it was beginning to be useful," First said resentfully.
"But it left plans!" And Fourth sounded as if that was suspicious.
"Too many plans," Fifth agreed, deepening his voice to a lugubrious and ominous level.
"What?" Third prompted him. Fourth's eyes rounded with fear and anxiety.
"Surgery!" In that expressive deep voice the three syllables were dramatically drawn out as if he spoke of something immoral.
"Surgery?" Sixth frowned. "What's that?"
"Ways of mucking inside a body," First replied, lowering his own voice to match Fifth's.
Sixth shuddered. "Mind you, sometimes we gotta cut a foal out of its dam or it strangles." When the others regarded him
suspiciously, he added, "Only a very well-bred foal we can't afford to lose. And I saw the healer once remove a pendix. Woman
would've died, he said. She didn't feel a thing."
" 'She didn't feel a thing,' " Fifth repeated, investing that statement with sinister import.
"The healer could have done anything else he liked," Fourth said in a shocked whisper.
Second dismissed that with a grunt. "Didn't do her any harm and she's still alive and a good worker."
"I mean," First went on, "there's a lot of stuff being tried in the Crafthalls, not just the Healers-and when they make mistakes, it can
cost a man's life. I don't want them fooling around with me, inside or out."
"Your choice," Second said.
"But is it always 'your' choice?" Fourth wanted to know, leaning forward across the table and tapping her finger to stress her point.
Third also leaned forward. "And what choices are we being given-to decide what we want and need-out of all those files Aivas is
supposed to have left us? How do we know we want all this technology and advanced gadgets? How do we know it'll do what they
say it will? Lot of people saying we got to have that; ought to have this. They're making the decisions. Not us. I don't like it." He
nodded his head to emphasize his distrust.
"For that matter, how do we know that all that hard work-and I had to work my arse off some days down at Landing-will work?"
Seventh asked with some rancor. "I mean, they can tell us that it's going to work, but none of us will be alive to see if it does, will
we?"
"Neither will they," Third said with black humor. "Then, too," he went on quickly before Fifth could start in again, "not all of the
Masters and Lords and Holders are keen to just latch on to all this new junk. Why I heard Master Menolly herself ... " Even Fifth
regarded him with interest. "She said that we ought to wait and go carefully. We didn't need a lot of the things that that Aivas machine
talked about."
"What we do have," Fifth said, raising his deeper, oddly inflectionless voice above Third's light tenor, "has worked well enough for
hundreds of Turns."
Third held up a cautionary finger. "We gotta be careful what new junk gets made just because it's new and seems to make things
easier."
"But you have electricity?" Sixth said enviously.
"It's done naturally-we use sun panels, and they've been around forever."
"Ancients made 'em," First said.
"Well, as I said," Third went on, "some things will be useful, but we've got to be very careful or we'll fall into the same trap the
Ancients did. Too much technology. It's even in the Charter."
"It is?" Second asked, surprised.
"It is," Third said. "And we can do something to keep us traditional and unsullied by stuff we aren't even sure we need."
"What?" First asked.
"I'm going to think about it," Fourth said. "I don't hold with someone hurting people, but devices-things we neither want nor need-
can be broken or spilled or got rid of." She looked to Fifth to see his reaction.
Third guffawed. "Some folks tried that. Got their ears deafened ... "
"The machine's dead," First reminded him.
Third snarled at being interrupted. "Got exiled for hurting the Masterharper-"
"I did hear that the Masterharper died in its chamber. Perhaps the Masterharper had realized how insidious that Abomination was.
Could he have terminated it?" asked Fifth.
The woman gasped.
"That's a very interesting idea," Third said softly, leaning forward. "Is there any proof?"
"How could there be?" First responded in a horrified voice. "The Healers said Master Robinton's heart gave out. From being
bounced around during his abduction."
"He was never the same after," agreed Second, who had grieved as sincerely as the rest of the planet for his death. "Heard tell there
was a line printed on the screen. Stayed there for a long time and then disappeared."
" 'And a time for every purpose under heaven,' " murmured Sixth.
"Couldn't have been Master Robinton that put up that message. Had to have been Aivas," Seventh said, scowling at Sixth.
"Something to think about, though, isn't it?" Third said.
"Indeed it is," Fourth said, eyes blazing.
"There are other matters to think about: what that ... Aivas machine"-though Fifth's odd voice had no inflection, his scorn for Aivas
rippled down the table-"has insinuated into our way of life, corrupting the traditions by which we have survived so long." Fifth had no
trouble dominating the conversation again. "I do not-" He paused. "-approve of harming a living thing." Again, he left a significant
pause before he continued. "But permanently removing items that can have dangerous effects on innocent people is another thing. It
would be wise to make certain that such new materials and objects should never see the light of day."
"Much less glowbaskets or electricity," Third said in a facetious tone that was not well received even by Second. Fifth and Fourth
glowered so repressively that he recoiled.
"I go along with removing some of those gadgets and new junk," Second murmured, but he didn't sound entirely convinced. "It's
more that some of us," he added, glancing from one face to another, "never seem to get our fair share."
"I agree wholeheartedly. Like dragonriders getting what they want first," Third said. "Get our share."
"There are more folk than you might think," Fifth said in his compelling voice, "who have genuine doubts about improvements from
all this Aivas stuff. Machine oughtn't to know more than a human being does."
First gave another emphatic nod of his head and rose. "Be right back with some other right-thinking human beings."
By the end of the evening, there were over twenty "right-thinking" men and women, discussing in low voices the possibility that the
Aivas machine-the "Abomination" seemed as appropriate a name as it had been for the original protestors-might not have the good of
real people at heart, it being a machine and all.
No one exchanged names and hold or hall affiliations, but they all agreed to meet at the next Gather, if they could. They agreed to
find out who else might wish to organize a protest about undesirable and possibly detrimental changes that were introduced as
"progress."
It surprised First and Second, but not Third, Fourth, Sixth, and Seventh-and especially not Fifth-who continued to use those numbers
as their Gather identities, that many people had grievances, small and large, real or fancied, that needed to be aired and perhaps
addressed. Fifth never again spoke about the synchronicity of the death of the Master-harper and the Abomination, but that little
rumor bound many to the cause who might not have given it much credence. Master Robinton had been very popular, and if-if--that
Abomination had been responsible in any way for the Masterharper's death, then that was cause enough to ally against it. If devices or
procedures they couldn't understand were sponsored or suggested by the Abomination, distrust or fear-along with that damaging
rumor of which death had been first-supplied an impetus that could be successfully channeled into action.
There were those who found fulfilment within the group and in the planning, and with a certain perverse joy in subtly thwarting
"progress" with minor deeds of damage. But for others, such "minor" deeds-which did not cause real alarm in Hold and Hall, or have
deeper consequences in preventing the making and distribution of more and more abominable devices-were not enough.
Though it caused some distress to healers to find the latest shipments of new preparations from the Healer Hall missing from their
shelves, it did not immediately occur to them that none of the older remedies were ever stolen.
If a Crafthall, manufacturing parts for new devices, found work damaged by "accidents" or acids spilled on packing crates, they put
stronger locks on their hall doors and kept eyes open for strangers visiting in the area.
If the Printer Hall found discarded sheets missing from the bin in which the ruined paper had been placed for recycling, none of the
apprentices thought to report the matter.
Then the Lilcamp traders, who were transporting some valuable components from one Smith Hall to another, found the carefully
packed crates missing one morning and reported it to Master Fandarel at Telgar Smithcrafthall. Fandarel sent an indignant message to
Masterharper Sebell, reminding him that this was by no means the first time delicate items had mysteriously disappeared on the way
to Smith Halls. One of the healer journeymen had casually complained about having to resupply new medications to a rather large
number of healers, working in isolated areas. Fandarel, Sebell, and Masterhealer Oldive began to notice such depredations.
It was Master Harper Mekelroy, better known to the Masterharper as Pinch, who sifted through such incidents and found a pattern to
the thefts and pillaging.
PART 1 - TURNOVER
TURNOVER AT LANDING-1.1.31 PRESENT PASS AIVAS-AIVAS ADJUSTED TURN 2553
Since it was not at all unusual for dragonriders to be found poring over the volumes in the extensive Aivas archives, F'lessan, rider
of bronze Golanth, was not surprised to see a girl wearing the shoulder knots of a green rider from Monaco Bay deeply engrossed in
study. What did strike him as odd was that anyone at all was here in the main archive reading room during Turnover. Tonight the
planet, north and south continents, would officially celebrate the beginning of the thirty-second Turn of the present and, hopefully,
final Pass of Threadfall. Even through the thick walls of the building, he could hear drums and occasionally the sound of the brass in-
struments from Landing's Gather Square.
Why wasn't the girl, especially a green rider, out dancing? Why wasn't he? He grimaced. He was still trying to overcome the
carelessly lustful reputation that he had earned early in this Pass. Not that he was any different from many bronze and brown riders.
"Just more noticeable," Mirrim had told him in her candid fashion. Mirrim had astonished everyone, including herself, when she had
Impressed green Path at a Benden Weyr Hatching. Being T'gellan's weyrmate had mellowed her natural assertiveness, but she never
spared him her blunt opinions.
The girl was engrossed in her study of a foldout page depicting Rukbat's planetary system, spread across the tilted reading desk. Not
everyone's reading choice certainly, F'lessan thought.
Many of the younger riders, who would see the end of this Pass in sixteen Turns, were studying to become proficient in another
craft. In that way they would be able to support themselves once the traditional tithe to the Weyrs ceased. While Thread still fell, Hold
and Hall would continue to support the dragonriders, in exchange for aerial protection against the voracious organism that could
destroy anything but metal and stone. But when Thread ceased, so would that support. Those riders whose families owned holds or
halls might simply be reabsorbed, but weyrbred dragonriders like F'lessan had to find another way. Fortunately for F'lessan, he had
discovered Honshu, in the foothills of the great Southern mountain range, and since the Weyrs had wrung out of the council that
loosely governed the planet the concession that dragonriders might claim holdings on the Southern continent, F'lessan had claimed
Honshu as his. He had based most of his argument on the fact that he intended to restore and preserve the Ancient habitation and its
splendors for everyone to enjoy. He had used every ounce of his considerable charm and every jot of guile with other Weyrleaders,
Craftmasters, and Lord Holders in order to secure that title to himself. And once the formidable intelligence of the Artificial
Intelligence Voice Address System-Aivas-and the combined might of all the Weyrs of Pern had diverted the orbit of the menacing
Red Star, he had begun to spend all the time he could spare from his duties as a Benden Wing-leader in refurbishing Honshu.
F'lessan had never been a studious youngster-his interests as well as his concentration span had been limited to escaping lessons
whenever he could and having the greatest amount of fun. Impressing bronze Golanth had imposed discipline at last, because there
was no way he would neglect his dragon. He had learned a determination and focus that had resulted in his becoming one of the most
adept riders, held up as a fine example-at least of riding-by weyrlingmasters.
Honshu had become another passion. The Ancient holding, with the splendid murals in its main hall, had exerted a strange
compulsion on him from the start: to preserve the ancient treasures found there and to discover as much as possible about its founders
and residents. With the boyish impudence that was his most ingenuous characteristic, he had appointed himself Honshu's guardian and
caretaker. He had worked harder than anyone else in clearing out the muck and mold and restoring the fabric of the place. Tonight he
had a puzzle he wanted to solve. He had specifically chosen this time to come to the Aivas facility, hoping to be its sole visitor. He
preferred not to share his research-his fascination with Honshu was at odds with his reputation.
You protect Honshu. I like being there very much, said his dragon, Golanth, from where he had settled himself in the hot noontime
sun among the dragons who had brought their riders to Landing's Turnover festivities. Good sunning places, clear water, and many
fat herdbeasts.
Still paused quietly on the threshold of the reading room, F'lessan grinned. You found it. We'll keep it.
Yes, Golanth agreed amiably.
F'lessan stuffed his riding gloves into the Turnover gift of a fine carisak, giving the wide cuffs a good push; the new wher-hide
leather was stiff, despite the good oiling he had given it yesterday evening. The carisak had been presented to him by Lessa and F'lar.
He rarely thought of them as "mother" or "father": they were his Weyrleaders, and that was more relevant. His birthing day, his
Impression Day-the day marking the advent of Golanth into his life-and Turnover were, however, always recognized by some gift
from them. F'lessan didn't know if this was occasioned by their need to remind him of his parents, or themselves of their son.
Fostering was the rule in a weyr, so no child was without several people, not necessarily the birth parents, who took special interest in
him or her. As F'lessan grew up and saw how easygoing life was in a weyr, and the conformity required of children in the holds, he
was as glad he'd been weyrbred.
He gave the gloves one more shove to store them completely, but still he hesitated to enter the room. He didn't want to disturb the
single reader who was so engrossed in her study that she was unaware of him standing there.
No one has ever disliked your company, said his dragon.
I don't like to break into such concentration, F'lessan replied. How do we know she isn't studying an alternative occupation for
After?
Dragons will always be needed on Pern, Golanth said stoutly.
Golanth was fond of making that observation. Almost as if Golanth, too, needed to reassure himself. Maybe it was just the mind-set
of a bronze dragon-or more likely Mnementh's in particular, since F'lar's great bronze took a keen interest in the subtle tuition of any
bronzes hatched on Benden's sands. However, succeeding F'lar as Weyrleader of Benden was most certainly not in F'lessan's future
plans. F'lessan earnestly hoped that F'lar would lead the Weyr out of this Pass: a triumph in itself, over and above what F'lar had done
at its beginning with the slender force he'd had available then. Being Wingleader suited F'lessan's blithe personality, especially now
that he had claimed Honshu as his special domain. Now, if the Weyrleaders-or rather F'lar-would just come out and say that he and
Lessa would retire there, no one would dare contest his claim.
Unlike the position of Lord Holders, the Weyrleadership was not hereditary. A good example was the recent stepping down of
R'mart and Bedella of Telgar. To establish the new leadership, the challenge had been for the best bronze in the Weyr to fly the first
junior queen ready to mate. J'fery, rider of bronze Willerth, was now Telgar's Weyrleader, and Palla, golden Talmanth's rider, was
Weyrwoman. F'lessan knew them both well, and knew they would lead Telgar Weyr well under Threadfree skies.
If we don't make the arrogant mistakes that the Oldtimers did, F'lessan added to himself, and expect to continue receiving the
perquisites due the Weyrs during a Pass, once there is no more Thread.
A movement brought him back to the present. The girl's boots scraped over the stone floor as she recrossed her ankles. She was
hunched forward over the reading desk and now leaned her elbows on the table. Her profile was well lit by the softly disseminated
light, and she had thinned her lips over whatever it was she was reading. She frowned, then sighed over the wide page. F'lessan saw
the well-defined arch of a black eyebrow as her frown relaxed. She had a long and very delicately formed nose, he observed with mild
approval. Her hair, a midbrown sparking with red as she moved, was clipped short on top to reduce sweating under her helmet. Left
long at the nape of her neck, the wavy mass reached halfway down her back, where it was neatly cut off in a straight line.
She turned her head abruptly, suddenly aware of his scrutiny.
"Sorry. Thought I'd have the place to myself," F'lessan said genially, striding forward, his dress shoes making very little sound on
the stone floor.
Her startlement suggested to him that she, too, had thought she could study in solitary quiet. She was in the act of pushing back her
chair when he held out a hand to prevent her from rising. Most riders knew who he was: he made a habit of flying Thread with the two
southern Weyrs and usually attended every Impression. The latter was sheer indulgence on his part, for at each Impression, he and
Golanth reaffirmed their lifelong commitment to each other. Now that he could see her full face, he recognized her. "You're Tai, aren't
you? Zaranth's rider?" he asked, hoping he remembered rightly.
You always do, Golanth murmured. She'd Impressed, unexpectedly, nearly five Turns ago at Monaco Bay. She'd come south, though
he couldn't remember from where. There had been so many people flooding through Landing since Aivas was discovered in 2538.
While she couldn't be much older than her mid twenties, he wondered if she'd been part of the workforce during those astonishing five
Turns of Aivas. After all, Aivas had demonstrated a distinct bias for green dragons and their riders.
F'lessan stepped forward, extending his hand to her. She looked embarrassed, dropping her eyes as soon as their hands had clasped
politely. Her handshake was firm, if brisk almost to the point of rudeness, and he could feel some odd ridges, scars, on the back of her
hand and on her forefinger. She wasn't pretty; she didn't act sensual, the way some green riders did, and she was only half a head
shorter than he was. She wasn't too thin, but the lack of flesh on her bones gave her a slightly boyish appearance.
"I'm F'lessan, Golanth's rider, of Benden."
"Yes," she said, shooting him a sharp look. Her eyes were set at an unusual upward slant, but she looked away so quickly he couldn't
see what color they were. Oddly enough, she flushed. "I know." She seemed to gather breath to continue. "Zaranth just told me that
Golanth had apologized for disturbing her nap on the ledge." She flicked him another almost contrite glance, awkwardly clasping her
left wrist with her right hand so that the knuckles turned white.
F'lessan grinned in his most ingratiating fashion. "By nature, Golanth is very considerate." He gave a little bow and gestured toward
the volume open on the reading desk. "Don't let me disturb your studies. I'll be over there." He pointed to the far right.
He could just as easily work in the alcove as in the main room and not intrude on her solitude. In no time at all he had collected three
of the records he thought most likely to contain the information he sought, and brought them to the smaller reading desk in the alcove.
A narrow window gave him a view of the eastern hills and the barest sparkle of the sea. He seated himself, placed the piece of paper
that he had brought with him on the table, and started riffling through the thinly coated plastic pages of the COM Tower records. He
was looking for one name: Stev Kimmer, listed in the colony records as Stakeholder on Bitkim Island, now called Ista Hold. He
needed to find any connection between Kimmer and Kenjo Fusaiyuki, who had been the original Honshu Stakeholder.
In his careful clearing of debris in the ancient dwelling place, he had found the initials SK carved or etched on several surfaces: on
the metal worktop in the garage of the ancient sled and on several drawers. No other inhabitant had defaced or initialed anything. The
only SK not listed as going north in the Second Crossing-when the Thread-beleaguered colonists had resettled at Fort-was Stev
Kimmer. Previous research revealed that the man had disappeared with a sled after Ted Tubberman's illegal launch of an appeal for
help from old Earth. Kimmer had not been seen again. The loss of a functional sled had been officially regretted; Kimmer's absence
had not.
The interesting point in F'lessan's earlier search was that Ita Fusaiyuki had continued to hold at Honshu and resisted every invitation
to move north with her children. Other colonists, like those at Terne Island and some of the smaller holds in Dorado, had hung on in
the south as long as they could. Eventually all, save perhaps those at Honshu, had immigrated. There had been no reference to Honshu
or the Fusaiyukis in the early records at Fort Hold.
The initials, S and K, were distinctively carved. F'lessan needed to find any other samples of Stev Kimmer's handwriting to be sure
of his identification. Not that it mattered, except to him. With atypical zeal, F'lessan yearned to complete the history of Honshu itself
as accurately as possible: who had lived there, when they had left, where they had gone, and why.
Honshu was also an excellent example of colonial self-sufficiency. Clearly it had been occupied by quite a few people and designed
for many more: a whole floor of bedrooms had never been furnished. Then, all at once and in some hurry, considering details like
drawers left pulled out in a workshop that had otherwise been meticulously kept, everyone had left. Twelve of them at least. To judge
by strands of moldering material, even garments had been left behind, folded on the shelves, in drawers, or hanging in closets. The
fact that all the utensils were still stored and hung about the capacious kitchen argued that, wherever the inhabitants had gone, they
hadn't needed to bring along household equipment. Storage canisters filled with desiccated remnants indicated that few, if any, staples
had been taken. There were homely artifacts like rusted needles, pins, and scissors. There had been no human bones to suggest a
sudden annihilation from attack or disease.
Although all the other entrances to the interior of Honshu had been shut, the heavy doors to the beasthold had been propped open,
suggesting that the Ancients had released their livestock but had left the creatures access to a refuge.
He turned page after page of the daily comings and goings from Landing, neatly recorded by the Tower duty officers. He saw again
the reference to Kimmer's defection with a much-needed operational sled.
S.K. involved in the Tubberman launching. Observed on a northwestern course. Suspect that's the last we'll see of him and the sled.
ZO.
F'lessan had already tried to find any notes in Kimmer's handwriting from his time as Stakeholder at Bitkim. There had been none
from either him or Avril Bitra about their mining operations, though the Minercrafthall still excavated the occasional fine gemstones
from the clay at their original site.
He closed the final volume with a frustrated soft whoosh, and then glanced apologetically over his shoulder for disturbing the quiet.
He noticed that the surface of Tai's work-table was covered with bound volumes. Idly he wondered if she was having any more luck
with her research than he was. Craning his neck he could read the spine on the book facing in his direction: Volume 35-YOKO 13.20-
28/. The last four digits, which would be the relevant Turn, had been overwritten in red marker to read 2520. The correction had been
made in the precise numerals only Master Esselin could produce.
Stuffing the note with the replica of the initials back into his belt pocket, he rose with quiet agility, trying not to scrape the chair on
the stone floor. Collecting the volumes he had been consulting, he returned them to the proper shelf. He stood for a moment, fists
jammed into his belt, glaring at the rows of records that would not produce the answer to his puzzle. Was there a reason why he had to
identify SK? Who would care? He did, for some obscure reason he didn't understand. He made sure the books were properly aligned
on the shelf. Master Esselin was very particular about how his precious volumes were returned.
Hearing Tai get to her feet and push back her chair, F'lessan swiveled around to see her picking up the outsized book she had been
studying. She hefted it up, pirouetting gracefully on tiptoe to return it to the special shelf in the case behind her.
"I hope you had better luck," he said with a rueful grin.
Startled, she lost her grip on the awkward, heavy tome. One edge was wedged against the lower shelf. She struggled to get it up
again and into its assigned place, but her hand slipped. Knowing how difficult Master Esselin could be about damage to any artifact in
his custody, F'lessan leaped across to catch the volume, just managing to keep one corner from impacting on the stone floor.
"Not a bad save, if I say so myself," he said, grinning up at her. Why was she regarding him as if he were dangerous? Or shifty?
"I've got it. Allow me?" With what he sincerely hoped was a cheerful smile, he took the volume from her nerveless fingers and shoved
it safely into place.
That was when he saw the raw scrapes on the back of her left hand.
"That looks nasty. Seen a healer?" he asked. He reached out to examine the injury, at the same time fumbling in his belt pouch for
numbweed.
She tried to pull free of his grasp.
"Tai, did I hurt you?" he asked, instantly releasing her fingers. He quickly displayed the distinctive green glass jar used for
numbweed.
"It's nothing."
"Don't try that on me," he said, mock stern. "I'll get Golanth to make Zaranth tell on you."
She blinked rapidly in surprise. "It's just a scrape."
"This is Southern, Tai, and you should know by now that even well-tended wounds can develop some peculiar infections." He
cocked his head at her, wondering if he should try a coaxing smile. He had the jar open and passed it under her nose. "Smell? Just
reliable old numbweed. Fresh made this spring. My own private supply." He used the tone that had been effective with his sons when
they were tots. He held out his hand again, palm up, wriggling his fingers to overcome her reluctance. "Someone might grab that hand
later when you're dancing and that'd really hurt." As if on cue, music from the square swelled into an audible finale.
She relented and, almost meekly, extended her hand. He lifted his palm up to steady her fingers as he turned the numbweed jar over
the scrape, waiting for a glob of the semiliquid stuff to ooze down.
"It's easier to let it take its own time," he remarked idly, all too aware of her nervousness. The gouges weren't deep, he noticed, but
went from knuckles to wrist. She should have taken care of it immediately. It was, he judged from long experience with injuries,
several hours old. Why had she ignored it?
She gave a little gasp as the cool numbweed flowed. Expertly, F'lessan tilted her fingers and they both watched the salve slowly
cover the scratches.
"At Turnover one is more apt to require fellis for overindulgence than numbweed." That wasn't a particularly clever remark, F'lessan
said to himself and gave his head a little shake. "There! That'll prevent infection."
"I didn't realize it was quite so bad. I was in a hurry, you see." She gave the reading room a quick glance.
"Trying to work without interruption." He chuckled, hoping that wouldn't offend her as much as his smile seemed to. "That's why
I'm here. No, wait a few moments longer to let the numbweed set," he added when she started to move.
He pulled out a chair, indicating that she should seat herself as he dragged another over for himself, switching it around so he could
straddle it, resting his arms on the top. She propped her arm on the table, watching as the numbweed changed from clear to opaque on
the scrape. Trying to appear more solicitous than overbearing, he let the silence lengthen, wondering what he could ask without giving
additional offense. He didn't usually have problems striking up conversations. He was beginning to wonder if he should have just left
her alone in the reading room. Just then the significance of all those Yoko records made sense.
"May I ask why you're interested in the Ghosts?"
She stared at him in such astonishment that her mouth, with its very well shaped lips, fell slightly open. He gestured.
"Why else would anyone be looking over Turns of the end of the thirteenth month? When the Ghost Showers occur?"
She looked everywhere but at him and then, suddenly, blurted out, "I often do some research for Master Wansor and he'd heard that
the Ghosts-which we can't see down here-but you'd know about them since you're from Benden-" she stopped, swallowing as if she'd
said something untoward.
"Yes, I know that they are not visible here in the southern hemisphere, and yes, they do appear extremely bright and numerous right
now. I did notice. In fact, many people have noticed," he went on encouragingly, "but, having lived in Benden Weyr all my life, I
remember that on other occasions, they have been as bright and as numerous. I have studied some astronomy, so would a Benden
dragonrider not totally untutored in his local starscape be any help to you?"
"Personal observations are always admissible," she said rather primly. "Others have noted," and she gave him the ghost of a smile,
pointing to several of the volumes, "their brightness and numbers occur in cycles of seven Turns."
"That's right, because I was three when I saw the pretty lights and asked about them, and this is the fifth time I've seen them so
brightly in their hundreds. Here, I'll help you put those heavy books away. Spare irritating your hand."
She seemed about to hesitate, but he stacked five volumes deftly on one arm and walked to the proper shelf. She hastily gathered up
more.
"Did you have any luck with your research?" she asked when they had finished racking.
"Actually, no," he said. "But there may not be a source."
"With all this?" She indicated the full ranks of shelving around them.
"Aivas didn't know everything," he said, once again managing to startle her. "That's not heretical, you realize, because he couldn't
have recorded anything after the Second Crossing."
"I know."
There was an odd note in that simple agreement that he didn't dare query.
"The answer to my puzzle probably doesn't even exist," he added.
"What puzzle?" She inclined her body slightly in his direction.
Ah, she's curious. That's good. "Initials." He reached into his belt and found the slip of paper. "S.K." He smoothed it out to show
her. She frowned slightly, puzzled but not totally reserved. "I believe the initials are Stev Kimmer's," he said.
She blinked. "Who?"
"A real villain-"
"Oh! The man who absconded with a functional sled after the Tubberman launch?"
"You know your history."
She flushed, ducking her head. "I was very fortunate to be accepted to the Landing School."
"You were? I hope you were a better student than I was."
"But you were already a rider," she said, startled into looking directly at him. Her eyes were an unusual shade of green.
He grinned. "That didn't necessarily mean I was a good student. If you're still studying," and he gestured at the shelving, "then you
learned good habits. Did you stay on here when you finished schooling?"
She glanced away from him, and he couldn't imagine what he had said to alarm her.
"Yes," she said at last. "I was fortunate. You see," she explained hesitantly, "my father brought us all here. From Keroon. He was a
Smithcraft journeyman and helped-here."
"Oh?" F'lessan drawled the exclamation out encouragingly when she faltered.
"My brothers were his apprentices, and my mother took my sister and me to the school, in case we were lucky enough to be
accepted. My sister didn't like school."
"Not everyone does," F'lessan said with a self-deprecating chuckle. Her quick glance gave him the impression that she had taken to
learning as a fire-lizard to the air. "So ... ?" he prompted.
"Then, during the last Turn when everyone at Admin was so busy, Master Samvel sent me here to work. My father was anxious to
find a good place to hold and they went off."
And, F'lessan thought from the sorrow in the set of her shoulders and dejected attitude, she had never heard from them again.
"Did anyone look for them?"
"Oh, yes," she said quickly, glancing up. "T'gellan sent out a full wing." She looked away again.
"No trace at all?" he asked gently.
"None. Everyone was very kind. I was apprenticed to Master Wansor-I read for him. He liked my voice."
"I don't wonder at that," F'lessan said. He had already noticed how expressive her voice could be.
"That's how I came to be at the Monaco Bay Hatching and Impressed Zaranth."
"Reading to Master Wansor?"
"No," she said in an amused tone. "He liked to have someone telling him what was going on. So we were seated to one side of the
Hatching Ground."
F'lessan chuckled. "Yes, I remember. Master Wansor had to push you at Zaranth. You didn't know what to do: respond to the
hatchling or tell Master Wansor what was happening."
The smile that lit her face and her green eyes was evocative of the sense of incredulity and wonder that overwhelmed anyone lucky
enough to Impress a dragon. His smile answered hers and both were silent for a long moment in fond reminiscences of their
Impressions.
"You're still keeping up with your studies?" F'lessan asked, indicating the old tome she'd been studying.
"Why not?" she asked, with a wry grin. "It's as good an occupation for a dragonrider as any."
After a pause, she asked, "Have you tried the Charter?"
He blinked. "The Charter?"
She waved toward the special case where the original Charter of the Pern Colony was housed.
"Kimmer was an original colonist, wasn't he?" she said. "He'd've had to sign his name somewhere, even as a contractor, wouldn't
he?"
F'lessan got to his feet so fast he had to catch the chair from falling. His movement startled her.
"Now, why didn't I think of that?" he exclaimed with exaggerated self-castigation. He strode to the airtight case that held what was
considered the most valuable, and venerable, document on the planet.
Fort Hold had ceremoniously returned the Charter to Landing. Indeed, no one had known what had been stored in the thick container
that had been gathering dust with other Hold treasures until Aivas had told them what to look for. Aivas was certainly the only
intelligence that had known the combination of the digital lock. Inside its airtight case, the Charter had been revealed to be pristine.
Upon close examination, Masterwoodsmith Benelek remarked that the plastic-coated pages could not have been damaged by anything
short of being chopped into little pieces by very sharp blades. Now the Charter was enshrined behind some of Master Morilton's clear
thick panes, mounted on a mechanism-also an Aivas design-that turned its pages to the one required.
"The capital letters would be similar, wouldn't they? Printed or written," F'lessan muttered. "Your research skills are better honed
than mine." He shot her an appreciative grin. "Let's get to the end ... Ah, contractor, contractor," he said under his breath as the pages
shifted in sequence to the final ones containing signatures, many of them mere illegible scrawls. There were three sections: the first, of
the Charterers; the second, longer, included the names of all the Contractors; while the third listed all minor children over five years of
age who had come with their parents on this momentous venture.
"There," Tai said, her right index finger tapping the glass so that he could find the bold handwritten Stev Kimmer, Eng.
With careful fingers, F'lessan smoothed his note on the glass, just above the bold, and legible, name.
"Couldn't be anyone else," Tai said. She ran her finger down the listings. "No other S.K."
"You're right, you're right. He's here. It's him." With his characteristic exuberance, F'lessan grabbed her by the waist and spun her
about, forgetting the reserve she had shown any of his overtures of friendliness. "Oops!" He dropped her, staring in mute apology.
She staggered a little off balance and instantly he steadied her.
"Thank you very much for finding it so quickly. I was looking so hard I couldn't see," he said, giving her a quick bow.
She had a very nice smile, he thought, as the corners of her wide mouth curved up, showing her teeth, white and even, accented by a
tanned complexion that was as much heredity as exposure to southern sun.
"Why was it so important to you?"
"Do you really want to know?" he asked with the ingenuousness that could still surprise people.
Her smile deepened, causing two dimples to appear in her cheeks. He didn't know any girls with dimples.
"If a dragonrider finds it more important than"-she tilted her head toward the noise of very loud dance music-"Turnover eating and
dancing, it must be important."
He chuckled, "You're a dragonrider and you're here."
"But you're F'lessan and a bronze rider."
"And you are Tai and a green rider," he countered.
The dimples disappeared and she looked away from him.
You are a bronze rider and you are F'lessan and she's shy, Golanth said. Zaranth says she wants to make something of herself for
After. She never wants to be beholden to anyone else ever.
Like all dragonriders, F'lessan said with considerable irony.
Not even to other dragonriders, Golanth added, slightly offended by Tai's utter independence.
"We were getting along quite well when you found Stev Kimmer's signature for me," F'lessan said gently.
Be very careful, his dragon said softly.
"I think the numbweed is dry enough now," he added. "I know I'm hungry and thirsty and, while I would prefer to go back to
Honshu, I have to put in an appearance out there." He nodded in the direction of the music.
"Is that where Stev Kimmer went? To Honshu? Why would that be his destination?"
"Ah," and F'lessan held up a finger, "that's part of the puzzle I've got. I did find his initials on surfaces in the Hold, and yet the
records Ita Fusaiyuki kept until a few months after Kenjo's death make no mention of him."
"She died there?"
F'lessan shook his head as she absently followed his slow drift out of the Archives room.
摘要：

THESKIESOFPERNINTRODUCTIONOursnottoponderwhatwerefairinLife,But,findingwhatmaybe,Makeitfairuptoourmeans.WhenmankindfirstdiscoveredPern,thirdplanetofthesunRukbat,intheSagittarianSector,theypaidlittleattentiontotheeccentricorbitofanothersatelliteinthesystem.Settlingthenewplanet,adjustingtoitsdifferenc...

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