The Dragonriders of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  The Harper extended the wine bottle to Andemon.

  “That’s a help, Harper. My thanks,” Andemon said, wiping his lips with the back of one hand after a long pull at the bottle.

  “So someone forgot to mention why you were to watch the grubs, Andemon,” F’lar said, his eyes compassionate for the man’s distress. “If only Sograny’d been as reasonable. Once, so many men must have known why you were to watch for the grubs, they didn’t see a need for further implicit instructions. Then the Holds started to grow and people drifted apart. Records got lost or destroyed, men died before they’d passed on the vital knowledge they possessed.” He looked around at the tubs. “Maybe they developed those grubs right here in Benden Weyr. Maybe that’s the meaning of the diagram on the wall. There’s so much that has been lost.”

  “Which will never be lost again if the Harpercraft has any influence,” said Robinton. “If all men, Hold, Craft, Weyr have full access to every skin—” he held up his hand as Andemon started to protest, “well, we’ve better than skin to keep Records on. Bendarek now has a reliable, tough sheet of his wood pulp that holds ink, stacks neatly and is impervious to anything except fire. We can combine knowledge and disseminate it.”

  Andemon looked at the Harper, his eyes puzzled. “Master Robinton, there are some matters within a Craft that must remain secret or . . .”

  “Or we lose a world to the Thread, is that it, Andemon? Man, if the truth about those grubs hadn’t been treated like a Craft secret, we’d have been hundreds of Turns free of Thread by now.”

  Andemon gasped suddenly, staring at F’lar. “And dragonmen—we wouldn’t need dragonmen?”

  “Well, if men kept to their Holds during Threadfall, and grubs devoured what fell to the ground, no, you wouldn’t need dragonmen,” F’lar replied with complete composure.

  “But dragonmen are su-supposed to fight Thread—” the Farmer was stuttering with dismay.

  “Oh, we’ll be fighting Thread for a while yet, I assure you. We’re not in any immediate danger of unemployment. There’s a lot to be done. For instance, how long before an entire continent can be seeded with grubs?”

  Andemon opened and closed his mouth futilely. Robinton indicated the bottle in his hand, pantomimed a long swig. Dazedly the Farmer complied. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. Why, for Turn upon Turn, we’ve watched for those grubs—exterminating them, razing an entire field if it got infected. Spring’s when the larval sacks break and we’d be . . .”

  He sat down suddenly, shaking his head from side to side.

  “Get a grip on yourself, man,” F’lar said, but it was his attitude which caused Andemon the most distress.

  “What—what will dragonmen do?”

  “Get rid of Thread, of course. Get rid of Thread.”

  Had F’lar been a feather less confident, F’nor would have had trouble maintaining his composure. But his half-brother must have some plan in mind. And Lessa looked as serene as—as Manors could.

  Fortunately Andemon was not only an intelligent man, he was tenacious. He had been confronted with a series of disclosures that both confused and disturbed basic precepts. He must reverse a long-standing Craft practice. He must rid himself of an inborn, carefully instilled prejudice, and he must accept the eventual abdication of an authority which he had good reason to respect and more reason to wish to perpetuate.

  He was determined to resolve these matters before he left the Weyr. He questioned F’lar, F’nor, the Harper, N’ton and Manora when he learned she’d been involved in the project. Andemon examined all the tubs particularly the one which had been left alone. He conquered his revulsion and even examined the grubs carefully, patiently uncoiling a large specimen, as if it were a new species entirely. In a certain respect, it was.

  Andemon was very thoughtful as he watched the unharmed larva burrow quickly back into the tub dirt from which he’d extracted it.

  “One wishes fervently,” he said, “to find a release from our long domination by Thread. It is just—just that the agency which frees us is . . .”

  “Revolting?” the Harper suggested obligingly.

  Andemon regarded Robinton a moment “Aye, you’re the man with words, Master Robinton. It is rather leveling to think that one will have to be grateful to such a—such a lowly creature. I’d rather be grateful to dragons.” He gave F’lar a rather abashed grin.

  “You’re not a Lord Holder!” said Lessa, wryly, drawing a chuckle from everyone.

  “And yet,” Andemon went on, letting a handful of soil dribble from his fist, “we have taken the bounties of this rich earth too much for granted. We are from it, part of it, sustained by it. I suppose it is only mete that we are protected by it. If all goes well.”

  He brushed his hand off on the wherhide trousers and with an air of decision turned to F’lar. “I’d like to run a few experiments of my own, Weyrleader. We’ve tubs and all at the Farmercrafthall . . .”

  “By all means,” F’lar grinned with relief. “We’ll cooperate in every way. Grubs, Threads on request. But you’ve solved the one big problem I’d foreseen.”

  Andemon raised his eyebrows in polite query.

  “Whether or not the grubs were adaptable to northern conditions.”

  “They are, Weyrleader, they are.” The Farmer was grimly sardonic.

  “I shouldn’t think that would be the major problem, F’lar,” F’nor said.

  “Oh?” The quiet syllable was almost a challenge to the brown rider. F’nor hesitated, wondering if F’lar had lost confidence in him, despite what Lessa had said earlier.

  “I’ve been watching Master Andemon, and I remember my own reaction to the grubs. It’s one thing to say, to know, that these are the answer to Thread. Another—quite another to get the average man to accept it. And the average dragonrider.”

  Andemon nodded agreement and, judging by the expression on the Harper’s face, F’nor knew he was not the only one who anticipated resistance.

  But F’lar began to grin as he settled himself on the edge of the nearest tub.

  “That’s why I brought Andemon here and explained the project. We need help which only he can give us, once he himself is sure of matters. How long, Masterfarmer, does it take grubs to infest a field?”

  Andemon dropped his chin to his chest in thought. He shook his head and admitted he couldn’t estimate. Once a field showed signs of infestation, the area was seared to prevent spreading.

  “So, we must find out how long first!”

  “You’ll have to wait for next spring,” the Farmer reminded him.

  “Why? We can import grubs from Southern.”

  “And put them where?” the Harper asked, sardonically.

  F’lar chuckled. “Lemos Hold.”

  “Lemos!”

  “Where else?” and F’lar looked smug. “The forests are the hardest areas to protect. Asgenar and Bendarek are determined to preserve them. Asgenar and Bendarek are both flexible enough to accept such an innovation and carry it through. You, Masterfarmer, have the hardest task. To convince your crafters to leave off killing . . .”

  Andemon raised a hand. “I have my own observations to make first.”

  “By all means, Master Andemon,” and F’lar’s grin broadened, “I’m confident of the outcome. I remind you of your first journey to the Southern Weyr. You commented on the luxuriant growths, the unusual size of the trees and bushes common to both continents, the spectacular crops, the sweetness of the fruits. That is not due to the temperate weather. We have similar zones here in the north. It is due,” and F’lar pointed his finger first at Andemon and then toward the tubs, “to the stimulation, the protection of the grubs.”

  Andemon was not totally convinced but F’lar did not press the point.

  “Now, Master Andemon, the Harper will assist you all he can. You know your people better than we—you’ll know whom you can tell. I urge you to discuss it with your misted Masters. The more the better. We can’t lose this opportunity for lack
of disciples. We might be forced to wait until your Oldtimers die off.” F’lar laughed wryly. “I guess the Weyrs are not the only ones to contend with Oldtimers; we’ve all got re-education to do.”

  “Yes, there will be problems.” The magnitude of the undertaking had suddenly burst on the Masterfarmer.

  “Many,” F’lar assured him blithely. “But the end result is freedom from Thread.”

  “It could take Turns and Turns,” Andemon said, catching F’lar’s glance and, as if that consoled him somehow, straightened his shoulders. He was committed to the project.

  “And well may take Turns. First,” and F’lar grinned with pure mischief in his eyes, “we’ve got to stop you farmers from exterminating our saviors.”

  An expression of pure shock and indignation passed across Andemon’s weather-lined face. It was swiftly replaced by a tentative smile as the man realized that F’lar was ribbing him. Evidently an unusual experience for the Masterfarmer.

  “Think of all the rewriting I have to do,” complained the Harper. “I’m dry just considering it.” He looked mournfully at the now empty wine bottle.

  “This certainly calls for a drink,” Lessa remarked with a sidelong glance at Robinton. She took Andemon’s arm to guide him out.

  “I’m honored, my lady, but I’ve work to oversee, and the investigations I ought to conduct.” He pulled away from her.

  “Surely one drink?” Lessa pleaded, smiling in her most winning way.

  The Masterfarmer ran his hand through his hair, clearly reluctant to refuse.

  “One drink then.”

  “To seal the bargain of Pern’s fate,” said the Harper, dropping his voice to a sepulchral bass and looking solemnly portentous and amazingly like Lord Groghe of Fort.

  As they all trooped out of the Rooms, Andemon looked down at Lessa.

  “If it isn’t presumptuous of me, the young woman, Brekke, who lost her queen—how is she?”

  Lessa hesitated only a second. “F’nor here can answer you better than I. They’re Weyrmates.”

  F’nor was forced to step up. “She’s been ill. Losing one’s dragon is a tremendous shock. She has made the adjustment. She won’t commit suicide now.”

  The Masterfarmer halted, staring at F’nor. “That would be unthinkable.”

  Lessa caught F’nor’s eye and he remembered he was talking to a commoner.

  “Yes, of course, but the loss is unsettling.”

  “Certainly. Ah, does she have any position at all now?” The words came slowly from the Farmer, then he added in a rush, “she is from my Crafthall you see, and we . . .”

  “She is well loved and respected by all Weyrs,” Lessa broke in when Andemon faltered. “Brekke is one of those rare people who can hear any dragon. She will always enjoy a unique and high position with dragonfolk. She may, if she chooses, return to her home . . .”

  “No!” The Masterfarmer was definite about that.

  “Brekke is weyrfolk now,” F’nor said on the heels of that denial.

  Lessa was a little surprised at such vehemence from both men. She’d had the notion from Andemon’s attitude that perhaps her Craft wanted her back.

  “My apologies for being so brusque, my lady. It would be hard for her to live simply again.” His voice turned hard and lost all hesitancy. “What of that adulterous transgressor?”

  “She—lives,” and there was an uncompromising echo of the Farmer’s coldness in Lessa’s voice.

  “She lives?” The Masterfarmer stopped again, dropping Lessa’s arm and staring at her with anger. “She lives? Her throat should be cut, her body . . .”

  “She lives, Masterfarmer, with no more mind or wit than a babe. She exists in the prison of her guilt! Dragonfolk take no lives!”

  The Farmer stared hard at Lessa for a moment longer, then nodded slowly. With great courtesy he offered Lessa his arm when she indicated they should continue.

  F’nor did not follow for the events of the day were taking a revenge of fatigue on him.

  He watched as Andemon and Lessa joined the others at the main table, saw the Lemos and Telgar Lords come over. Lytol and young Jaxom with his white Ruth were nowhere to be seen. F’nor hoped Lytol had taken Jaxom back to Ruatha. He was more grateful to his discovery of fire lizards than at any other single time since Grall had first winked at him. He walked quickly toward the steep flight to his weyr, wanting to be with his own. Canth was in his weyr, all but one lid closed over his eyes. When F’nor entered, the final lids sagged shut. F’nor leaned his body against the dragon’s neck, his hands seeking the pulsespots in the soft throat, warm and steadying. He could “hear” the soft loving thoughts of the two lizards curled by Brekke’s head.

  How long he stood there he couldn’t gauge, his mind rehearsing the Impression, Brekke’s release, Jaxom’s performance, the dinner, everything that had jammed into one eventful afternoon.

  There was much to be done, certainly, but he felt unable to move from the presence of Canth.

  Most vividly he recalled Andemon’s shock when the man realized that F’lar had proposed the end of dragonmen. Yet—F’Iar hadn’t. He certainly had some alternative in mind.

  Those grubs—yes, they devoured Thread before it could burrow and proliferate. But they were repulsive to look at and commanded neither respect nor gratitude. They weren’t obvious, or awesome, like dragons. People wouldn’t see grubs devouring Thread. They wouldn’t have the satisfaction of watching dragons flame, sear, char, destroy Thread mid-air, before the vicious stuff got to earth. Surely F’lar realized this, knew that men must have the visible proof of Thread’s defeat. Would dragonmen become tokens? No! That would make dragonfolk more parasitic than Thread. Such an expedient would be repugnant, insupportable to a man of F’lar’s integrity. But what had he in mind?

  The grubs might be the ultimate answer but not—particularly after thousands of Turns of conditioning—not an answer acceptable to Pernese, Holder, Crafter, commoner and dragonman.

  CHAPTER XVI

  Evening at Benden Weyr

  Later Evening at Fort Weyr

  For the next few days, F’nor was too busy to worry. Brekke was recovering her strength and insisted that he return to his duties. She prevailed on Manora to permit her to come down to the Lower Caverns and be of some use. So Manora put her to tying off the woof ends of some finished wall hangings where Brekke could also be part of the busy Cavern activities. The fire lizards rarely left her side. Grall twittered with conflicting wishes when F’nor went off on errands, so he would order her to stay with Brekke.

  F’lar estimated correctly that Asgenar and Bendarek would accept any solution that might preserve the forests. But the incredulity and initial resistance he encountered showed him what a monumental task he had undertaken. Both Lord Holder and Craftmaster were frankly contemptuous of his claims until N’ton came in with a panful of live Thread—it could be heard hissing and steaming—and dumped it over a tub of verdant growths. Within a matter of moments, the tangle of Thread which they had seen poured over the fellis saplings had been completely consumed by grubs. Dazed, they even accepted F’lar’s assertion that the pierced and smoking leaves would heal in a matter of days.

  There were many things about grubs that the dragonmen did not know, as F’lar was careful to explain. How long it would take them to proliferate so that a given area could be considered “Threadproof”; the length of the grub life cycle, what density of grub life would be necessary to ensure the chain of protection.

  But they did decide where to start in Lemos Hold: among the precious softwoods so in demand for furniture, so vulnerable to Thread incursion.

  Since the former residents of the Southern Weyr had not been farmcraft trained, they had been oblivious to the significance of the larval sacks in the southern woods. It was fall now in the southern hemisphere but F’nor, N’ton and another rider had agreed to jump between to the previous spring. Brekke helped, too, knowing as she did so many facets of the Southern management that she w
as able to tell them where they would not collide with others in the past. Though farmcraftbred, Brekke had been occupied with nursing during her tenure at Southern, and had deliberately stayed away from the farming aspects of the Weyr to sever connections with her past life.

  Although F’lar did not press Masterfarmer Andemon, he proceeded with his plans as if he had Farmcraft cooperation. Several times, Andemon requested Thread and grubs which would be rushed to him, but he issued no progress reports.

  Mastersmith Fandarel and Terry had been informed of the project and a special demonstration arranged for them. Once he’d conquered the initial revulsion over the grubs and horror at being so close to live Thread, Terry had been as enthusiastic as anyone could wish. The performance of the grubs elicited only a deep grunt from the Mastersmith. He had limited his comments to a scornful criticism of the longhandled hearthpan in which the Thread was captured.

  “Inefficient. Inefficient You can only open it once to catch the things,” and he had taken the pan, stalking off toward his waiting dragon-messenger.

  Terry had been profuse in his assurances that the Mastersmith was undoubtedly impressed and would cooperate in every way. This was indeed a momentous day. His words were cut off by Fandarel’s impatient bellow and he’d bowed his way out, still reassuring the somewhat disconcerted dragonriders.

  “I’d’ve thought Fandarel would at least have found the grubs efficient,” F’lar had remarked.

  “He was struck dumb with amazement?” F’nor suggested.

  “No,” and Lessa grimaced, “he was infuriated by inefficiency!”

  They’d laughed and gone on to the next job. That evening a messenger arrived from the Smithcrafthall with the purloined hearthpan and a truly remarkable contrivance. It was bulbous in shape, secured to a long handle from the end of which its lid could be opened, operated by a trigger inside the tubular handle. The lid was the truly ingenious part for it fanned open upward and outward so that Thread would be guided down into the vessel and could not escape if the lid was reopened.