Dragonflight

CHAPTER I

F'lar stared after his half brother, his brows contracting with the keen anxiety he felt

«What can have happened?» Lessa demanded of the Weyrleader. «We haven't even told F'nor. We ourselves just finished considering the idea.» Her hand flew to her own cheek. «And the Thread-mark-I dressed it myself tonight-it's gone. Gone. So he's been gone a long while.» She sank down to the bench.

«However, he has come back. So he did go,» F'lar remarked slowly in a reflective tone of voice. «Yet we now know the venture is not entirely successful even before it begins. And knowing this, we have sent him back ten Turns for whatever good it is doing.» F'lar paused thoughtfully. «Consequently we have no alternative but to continue with the experiment.»

«But what could be going wrong?»

«I think I know and there is no remedy.» He sat down beside her, his eyes intent on hers. «Lessa, you were very upset when you got back from going between to Ruatha that first time. But I think now it was more than just the shock of seeing Fax's men invading your own Hold or in thinking your return might have been responsible for that disaster. I think it has to do with being in two times at once.» He hesitated again, trying to understand this immense new concept even as he voiced it.

Lessa regarded him with such awe that he found himself laughing with embarrassment.

«It's unnerving under any conditions,» he went on, «to think of returning and seeing a younger self.»

«That must be what he meant about Kylara,» Lessa gasped, «about her wanting to go back and watch herself … as a child. Oh, that wretched girl!» Lessa was filled with anger for Kylara's self-absorption. «Wretched, selfish creature. She'll ruin everything.»

«Not yet,» F'lar reminded her. «Look, although F'nor warned us that the situation in his time is getting desperate, he didn't tell us how much he was able to accomplish. But you noticed that his scar had healed to invisibility-consequently some Turns must have elapsed. Even if Pridith lays only one good-sized clutch, even if just the forty of Ramoth's are mature enough to fight in three days' time, we have accomplished something. Therefore, Weyrwoman,» and he noticed how she straightened up at the sound of her tide, «we must disregard F'nor's return. When you fly to the Southern Continent tomorrow, make no allusion to it. Do you understand?»

Lessa nodded gravely and then gave a little sigh. «I don't know if I'm happy or disappointed to realize, even before we get there tomorrow, that the Southern Continent obviously will support a Weyr,» she said with dismay. «It was kind of exciting to wonder.»

«Either way,» F'lar told her with a sardonic smile, «we have found only part of the answers to problems one and two.»

«Well, you'd better answer number four right now!» Lessa suggested. «Decisively!»

CHAPTER II

They both managed to guard against any reference to his premature return when they spoke to F'nor the next morning. F'lar asked brown Canth to send his rider to the queen's weyr as soon as he awoke and was pleased to see F'nor almost immediately. If the brown rider noticed the curiously intent stare Lessa gave his bandaged face, he gave no sign of it. As a matter of fact, the moment F'lar outlined the bold venture of scouting the Southern Continent with the possibility of starting a Weyr ten Turns back in time, F'nor forgot all about his wounds.

«I'll go willingly only if you send T'bor along with Kylara. I'm not waiting till N'ton and his bronze are big enough to take her on. T'bor and she are as-« F'nor broke on with a grimace in Lessa's direction. «Well, they're as near a pair as can be. I don't object to being . . . importuned, but there are limits to what a man is willing to do out of loyalty to dragonkind.»

F'lar barely managed to restrain the amusement he felt over F'nor's reluctance. Kylara tried her wiles on every rider, and, because F'nor had not been amenable, she was determined to succeed with him.

«I hope two bronzes are enough. Pridith may have a mind of her own, come matingtime.»

«You can't turn a brown into a bronze!» F'nor exclaimed with such dismay that F'lar could no longer restrain himself.

«Oh, stop it!» And that touched off Lessa's laughter.

«You're as bad a pair,» F'nor snapped, getting to his feet. «If we're going south, Weyrwoman, we'd better get started. Particularly if we're going to give this laughing maniac a chance to compose himself before the solemn Lords descend. I'll get provisions from Manora. Well, Lessa? Are you coming with me?»

Muffling her laughter, Lessa grabbed up her furred flying cloak and followed him. At least the adventure was starting off well.

Carrying the pitcher of klah and his cup, F'lar adjourned to the Council Room, debating whether to tell the Lords and Craftmasters of this southern venture or not. The dragons' ability to fly between times as well as places was not yet well-known. The Lords might not realize it had been used the previous day to forestall the Threads. If F'lar could be sure that project was going to be successful-well, it would add an optimistic note to the meeting.

Let the charts, with the waves and times of the Thread attacks clearly visible, reassure the Lords.

The visitors were not long in assembling. Nor were they all successful in hiding their apprehension and the shock they had received now that Threads had again spun down from the Red Star to menace all life on Pern. This was going to be a difficult session, F'lar decided grimly. He had a fleeting wish, which he quickly suppressed, that he had gone with F'nor and Lessa to the Southern Continent. Instead, he bent with apparent industry to the charts before him.

Soon there were but two more to come, Meron of Nabol (whom he would have liked not to include, for the man was a troublemaker) and Lytol of Ruatha.

F'lar had sent for Lytol last because he did not wish Lessa to encounter the man. She was still overly– and, to his mind, foolishly-sensitive at having had to resign her claim to Ruatha Hold for the Lady Gemma's posthumous son. Lytol, as Warder of Ruatha, had a place in this conference. The man was also an ex-dragonman, and his return to the Weyr was painful enough without Lessa's compounding it with her resentment. Lytol was, with the exception of young Larad of Telgar, the Weyr's most valuable ally.

S'lel came in with Meron a step behind him. The Holder was furious at this summons; it showed in his walk, in his eyes, in his haughty bearing. But he was also as inquisitive as he was devious. He nodded only to Larad among the Lords and took the seat left vacant for him by Larad's side. Meron's manner made it obvious that that place was too close to F'lar by half a room.

The Weyrleader acknowledged S'lel's salute and indicated the bronze rider should be seated. F'lar had given thought to the seating arrangements in the Council Room, carefully interspersing brown and bronze dragonriders with Holders and Craftsmen. There was now barely room to move in the generously proportioned cavern, but there was also no room in which to draw daggers if tempers got hot.

A hush fell on the gathering, and F'lar looked up to see that the stocky, glowering ex-dragonman from Ruatha had stopped on the threshold of the Council. He slowly brought his hand up in a respectful salute to the Weyrleader. As F'lar returned the salute, he noticed that the tic in Lytol's left cheek jumped almost continuously.

Lytol's eyes, dark with pain and inner unquiet, ranged the room. He nodded to the members of his former wing, to Larad and Zurg, head of his own weavers' craft. Stiff-legged, he walked to the remaining seat, murmuring a greeting to T'sum on his left

F'lar rose.

«I appreciate your coming, good Lords and Craftmasters. The Threads spin once again. The first attack has been met and seared from the sky. Lord Vincet,» and the worried Holder of Nerat looked up in alarm, «we have dispatched a patrol to the rainforest to do a low-flight sweep to make certain there are no burrows.»

Vincet swallowed nervously, his face paling at the thought of what Threads could do to his fertile, lush holdings.

«We shall need your best junglemen to help-«

«Help? But you said … the Threads were seared in the sky?»

«There is no point in taking the slightest chance,» F'lar replied, implying that the patrol was only a precaution instead of the necessity he knew it would be.

Vincet gulped, glancing anxiously around the room for sympathy, and found none. Everyone would soon be in his position.

«There is a patrol due at Keroon and at Igen.» F'lar looked first at Lord Corman, then at Lord Banger, who gravely nodded. «Let me say by way of reassurance that there will be no further attacks for three days and four hours.» F'lar tapped the appropriate chart. «The Threads will begin approximately here on Telgar, drift westward through the southernmost portion of Crom, which is mountainous, and on, through Ruatha and the southern end of Nabol.»

«How can you be so certain of that?»

F'lar recognized the contemptuous voice of Meron of Nabol.

«The Threads do not fall like a child's jackstraws, Lord Meron,» F'lar replied. «They fall in a definitely predictable pattern; the attacks last exactly six hours. The intervals between attacks will gradually shorten over the next few Turns as the Red Star draws closer. Then, for about forty full Turns, as the Red Star swings past and around us, the attacks occur every fourteen hours, marching across our world in a timeable fashion.»

«So you say,» Meron sneered, and there was a low mumble of support.

«So the Teaching Ballads say,» Larad put in firmly.

Meron glared at Telgar's Lord and went on, «I recall another of your predictions about how the Threads were supposed to begin falling right after Solstice.»

«Which they did,» F'lar interrupted him. «As black dust in the Northern Holds. For the reprieve we've had, we can thank our lucky stars that we have had an unusually hard and long Cold Turn.»

«Dust?» demanded Nessel of Crom. «That dust was Threads?» The man was one of Fax's blood connections and under Meron's influence: an older man who had learned lessons from his conquering relative's bloody ways and had not the wit to improve on or alter the original. «My Hold is still blowing with them. They're dangerous?»

F'lar shook his head emphatically. «How long has the black dust been blowing in your Hold? Weeks? Done any harm yet?»

Nessel frowned.

«I'm interested in your charts, Weyrleader,» Larad of Telgar said smoothly. «Will they give us an accurate idea of how often we may expect Threads to fall in our own Holds?»

«Yes. You may also anticipate that the dragonmen will arrive shortly before the invasion is due,» F'lar went on. «However, additional measures of your own are necessary, and it is for this that I called the Council.»

«Wait a minute,» Corman of Keroon growled. «I want a copy of those fancy charts of yours for my own. I want to know what those bands and wavy lines really mean. I want…»

«Naturally you'll have a timetable of your own. I mean to impose on Masterharper Robinton»-F'lar nodded respectfully toward that Craftmaster-«to oversee the copying and make sure everyone understands the timing involved.»

Robinton, a tall, gaunt man with a lined, saturnine face, bowed deeply. A slight smile curved his wide lips at the now hopeful glances favored him by the Hold Lords. His craft, like that of the dragonmen, had been much mocked, and this new respect amused him. He was a man with a keen eye for the ridiculous, and an active imagination. The circumstances in which doubting Pern found itself were too ironic not to appeal to his innate sense of justice. He now contented himself with a deep bow and a mild phrase.

«Truly all shall pay heed to the master.» His voice was deep, his words enunciated with no provincial slurring.

F'lar, about to speak, looked sharply at Robinton as he caught the double barb of that single line. Larad, too, looked around at the Masterharper, clearing his throat hastily.

«We shall have our charts,» Larad said, forestalling Meron, who had opened his mouth to speak. «We shall have the dragonmen when the Threads spin. What are these additional measures? And why are they necessary?»

All eyes were on F'lar again.

«We have one Weyr where six once flew.»

«But word is that Ramoth has hatched over forty more,» someone in the back of the room declared. «And why did you Search out still more of our young men?»

«Forty-one as yet unmatured dragons,» F'lar said.

Privately, he hoped that this southern venture would still work out. There was real fear in that man's voice. «They grow well and quickly. Just at present, while the Threads do not strike with great frequency as the Red Star begins its Pass, our Weyr is sufficient . . . if we have your cooperation on the ground. Tradition is that»-he nodded tactfully toward Robinton, the dispenser of Traditional usage-«you Holders are responsible for only your dwellings, which, of course, are adequately protected by firepits and raw stone. However, it is spring and our heights have been allowed to grow wild with vegetation. Arable land is blossoming with crops. This presents vast acreage vulnerable to the Threads which one Weyr, at this time, is not able to patrol without severely draining the vitality of our dragons and riders.»

At this candid admission, a frightened and angry mutter spread rapidly throughout the room.

«Ramoth rises to mate again soon,» F'lar continued in a matter-of-fact way. «Of course, in other times, the queens started producing heavy clutches many Turns before the critical solstice as well as more queens. Unfortunately, Jora was ill and old, and Nemorth intractable. The matter-« He was interrupted.

«You dragonmen with your high and mighty airs will bring destruction on us all!»

«You have yourselves to blame,» Robinton's voice stabbed across the ensuing shouts. «Admit it, one and all. You've paid less honor to the Weyr than you would your watch-wher's kennel-and that not much! But now the thieves are on the heights, and you are screaming because the poor reptile is nigh to death from neglect. Beat him, will you? When you exiled him to his kennel because he tried to warn you? Tried to get you to prepare against the invaders? It's on your conscience, not the Weyrleader's or the dragonriders', who have honestly done their duty these hundreds of Turns in keeping dragonkind alive .. . against your protests. How many of you»-his tone was scathing– «have been generous in thought and favor toward dragonkind? Even since I became master of my craft, how often have my harpers told me of being beaten for singing the old songs as is their duty? You earn only the right, good Lords and Craftsmen, to squirm inside your stony Holds and writhe as your crops die a-borning.» He rose.

«'No Threads will fall. It's a harper's winter tale,'» he whined, in faultless imitation of Nessel. «'These dragonmen leech us of heir and harvest,'» and his voice took on the constricted, insinuating tenor that could only be Meron's. «And now the truth is as bitter as a brave man's fears and as difficult as mockweed to swallow. For all the honor you've done them, the dragonmen should leave you to be spun on the Threads distaff.»

«Bitra, Lemos, and I,» spoke up Raid, the wiry Lord of Benden, his blunt chin lifted belligerently, «have always done our duty to the Weyr.»

Robinton swung around to him, his eyes flashing as he gave that speaker a long, slow look.

«Aye, and you have. Of all the Great Holds, you three have been loyal. But you others,» and his voice rose indignantly, «as spokesmen for my craft, I know, to the last full stop in the score, your opinion of dragonkind. I heard the first whisper of your attempt to ride out against the Weyr.» He laughed harshly and pointed a long finger at Vincet. «Where would you be today, good Lord Vincet, if the Weyr had not sent you packing back, hoping your ladies would be returned you? All of you,» and his accusing finger marked each of the Lords of that abortive effort, «actually rode against the Weyr because . . . 'there . . . were . . . no … more . . . Threads!'»

He planted his fists on either hip and glared at the assembly. F'lar wanted to cheer. It was easy to see why the man was Masterharper, and he thanked circumstance that such a man was the Weyr's partisan.

«And now, at this critical moment, you have the incredible presumption to protest against any measure the Weyr suggests?» Robinton's supple voice oozed derision and amazement. «Attend what the Weyrleader says and spare him your petty carpings!» He snapped those words out as a father might enjoin an erring child. «You were,» and he switched to the mildest of polite conversational tones as he addressed F'lar, «I believe, asking our cooperation, good F'lar? In what capacities?»

F'lar hastily cleared his throat.

«I shall require that the Holds police their own fields and woods, during the attacks if possible, definitely once the Threads have passed. All burrows which might land must be found, marked, and destroyed. The sooner they are located, the easier it is to be rid of them.»

«There's no time to dig firepits through all the lands . . . we'll lose half our growing space,» Nessel exclaimed.

«There were other ways, used in olden times, which I believe our Mastersmith might know.» F'lar gestured politely toward Fandarel, the archetype of his profession if ever such existed.

The Smith Craftmaster was by several inches the tallest man in the Council Room, his massive shoulders and heavily muscled arms pressed against his nearest neighbors, although he had made an effort not to crowd against anyone. He rose, a giant tree-stump of a man, hooking thumbs like beast-horns in the thick belt that spanned his waistless midsection. His voice, by no means sweet after Turns of bellowing above roaring hearths and hammers, was, by comparison to Robinton's superb delivery, a diluted, unsupported light baritone.

«There were machines, that much is true,» he allowed in deliberate, thoughtful tones. «My father, it was he, told me of them as a curiosity of the Craft. There may be sketches in the Hall. There may not. Such things do not keep on skins for long.» He cast an oblique look under beetled brows at the Tanner Craftmaster.

«It is our own hides we must worry about preserving,» F'lar remarked to forestall any intercraft disputes.

Fandarel grumbled in his throat in such a way that F'lar was not certain whether the sound was the man's laughter or a guttural agreement.

«I shall consider the matter. So shall all my fellow craftsmen,» Fandarel assured the Weyrleader. «To sear Threads from the ground without damaging the soil may not be so easy. There are, it is true, fluids which burn and sear. We use an add to etch design on daggers and ornamental metals. We of the Craft call it agenothree. There is also the black heavy-water that lies on the surface of pools in Igen and Boll. It burns hot and long. And if, as you say, the Cold Turn made the Threads break into dust, perhaps ice from the coldest northlands might freeze and break grounded Threads. However, the problem is to bring such to the Threads where they fall since they will not oblige us by falling where we want them. . . .» He screwed up his face in a grimace.

F'lar stared at him, surprised. Did the man realize how humorous he was? No, he was speaking with sincere concern. Now the Mastersmith scratched his head, his tough fingers making audible grating sounds along his coarse hair and heat-toughened scalp.

«A nice problem. A nice problem,» he mused, undaunted. «I shall give it every attention.» He sat down, the heavy bench creaking under his weight.

The Masterfarmer raised his hand tentatively.

«When I became Craftmaster, I recall coming across a reference to the sandworms of Igen. They were once cultivated as a protective-«

«Never heard Igen produced anything useful except heat and sand,» quipped someone.

«We need every suggestion,» F'lar said sharply, trying to identify that heckler. «Please find that reference, Craftmaster. Lord Banger of Igen, find me some of those sandworms!»

Banger, equally surprised that his arid Hold had a hidden asset, nodded vigorously.

«Until we have more efficient ways of killing Threads, all Holders must be organized on the ground during attacks, to spot and mark burrows, to set firestone to burn in them. I do not wish any man to be scored, but we know how quickly Threads burrow deep, and no burrow can be left to multiply. You stand to lose more,» and he gestured emphatically at the Holder Lords, «than any others. Guard not just yourselves, for a burrow on one man's border may grow across to his neighbor's. Mobilize every man, woman, and child, farm and crafthold. Do it now.»

The Council Room was fraught with tension and stunned reflection until Zurg, the Masterweaver, rose to speak.

«My craft, too, has something to offer . .. which is only fair since we deal with thread every day of our lives … in regard to the ancient methods.» Zurg's voice was light and dry, and his eyes, in their creases of spare, lined flesh, were busy, darting from one face in his audience to another. «In Ruatha Hold I once saw upon the wall… where the tapestry now resides, who knows?» He slyly glanced at Meron of Nabol and then at Bargen of the High Reaches who had succeeded to Fax's title there. «The work was as old as dragonkind and showed, among other things, a man on foot, carrying upon his back a curious contraption. He held within his hand a rounded, sword-long object from which tongues of flame . . . magnificently woven in the orange-red dyes now lost to us … spouted toward the ground. Above, of course, were dragons in close formation, bronzes predominating . . . again we've lost that true dragonbronze shade. Consequently I remember the work as much for what we now lack as for its subject matter.»

«A flamethrower?» the Smith rumbled. «A flamethrower,» he repeated with a falling inflection. «A flame-thrower,» he murmured thoughtfully, his heavy brows drawn into a titanic scowl. «A thrower of what sort of flame? It requires thought.» He lowered his head and didn't speak, so engrossed in the required thought that he lost interest in the rest of the discussion.

«Yes, good Zurg, there have been many tricks of every trade lost in recent Turns,» F'lar commented sardonically. «If we wish to continue living, such knowledge must be revived . . . fast. I would particularly like to recover the tapestry of which Master Zurg speaks,» F'lar looked significantly at those Lords who had quarreled over Fax's seven Holds after his death.

«It may save all of you much loss. I suggest that it appear at Ruatha. Or at Zurg's or Fandarel's crafthall. Whichever is most convenient.»

There was some shuffling of feet, but no one admitted ownership.

«It might then be returned to Fax's son, who is now Ruatha's Lord,» F'lar added, wryly amused at such magnanimous justice.

Lytol snorted softly and glowered around the room. F'lar supposed Lytol to be amused and experienced a fleeting regret for the orphaned Jaxom, reared by such a cheerless if honest guardian.

«If I may. Lord Weyrleader,» Robinton broke in, «we might all benefit, as your maps prove to us, from research in our own Records.» He smiled suddenly, an unexpectedly embarrassed smile. «I own I find myself in some disgrace for we Harpers have let slip unpopular ballads and skimped on some of the longer Teaching Ballads and Sagas … for lack of listeners and, occasionally, in the interest of preserving our skins.»

F'lar stifled a laugh with a cough. Robinton was a genius.

«I must see that Ruathan tapestry,» Fandarel suddenly boomed out.

«I'm sure it will be in your hands very soon,» F'lar assured him with more confidence than he dared feel. «My Lords, there is much to be done. Now that you understand what we all face, I leave it in your hands as leaders in your separate Holds and crafts how best to organize your own people. Craftsmen, turn your best minds to our special problems: review all Records that might turn up something to our purpose. Lords Telgar, Crom, Ruatha, and Nabol, I shall be with you in three days. Nerat, Keroon, and Igen, I am at your disposal to help destroy any burrow on your lands. While we have the Masterminer here, tell him your needs. How stands your craft?»

«Happy to be so busy at our trade, Weyrleader,» piped up the Masterminer.

Just then F'lar caught sight of F'nor, hovering about in the shadows of the hallway, trying to catch his eye. The brown rider wore an exultant grin, and it was obvious he was bursting with news.

F'lar wondered how they could have returned so swiftly from the Southern Continent, and then he realized that F'nor-again-was tanned. He gave a jerk of his head, indicating that F'nor take himself off to the sleeping quarters and wait.

«Lords and Craftmasters, a dragonet will be at the disposal of each of you for messages and transportation. Now, good morning.»

He strode out of the Council Room, up the passageway into the queen's weyr, and parted the still swinging curtains into the sleeping room just as F'nor was pouring himself a cup of wine.

«Success!» F'nor cried as the Weyrleader entered. «Though how you knew to send just thirty-two candidates I'll never understand. I thought you were insulting our noble Pridith. But thirty-two eggs she laid in four days. It was all I could do to keep from riding out when the first appeared.»

F'lar responded with hearty congratulations, relieved that there would be at least that much benefit from this apparently ill-fated venture. Now all he had to figure out was how much longer F'nor had stayed south until his frantic visit the night before. For there were no worry lines or strain in F'nor's grinning, well-tanned face.

«No queen egg?» asked F'lar hopefully. With thirty two in the one experiment, perhaps they could send a second queen back and try again.

F'nor's face lengthened. «No, and I was sure there would be. But there are fourteen bronzes. Pridith outmatched Ramoth there,» he added proudly.

«Indeed she did. How goes the Weyr otherwise?»

F'nor frowned, shaking his head against an inner bewilderment. «Kylara's . . . well, she's a problem. Stirs up trouble constantly. T'bor leads a sad time with her, and he's so touchy everyone keeps a distance from him.» F'nor brightened a little. «Young N'ton is shaping up into a fine wingleader, and his bronze may outfly T'bor's Orth when Pridith flies to mate the next time. Not that I'd wish Kylara on N'ton … or anyone.»

«No trouble then with supplies?»

F'nor laughed outright. «If you hadn't made it so plain we must not communicate with you here, we could supply you with fruits and fresh greens that are superior to anything in the north. We eat the way dragonmen should! F'lar, we must consider a supply Weyr down there. Then we shall never have to worry about tithing trains and …»

«In good time. Get back now. You know you must keep these visits short»

F'nor grimaced. «Oh, it's not so bad. I'm not here in this time, anyway.»

«True,» F'lar agreed, «but don't mistake the time and come while you're still here.»

«Hmmm? Oh, yes, that's right. I forget time is creeping for us and speeding for you. Well, I shan't be back again till Pridith lays the second clutch.»

With a cheerful good-bye, F'nor strode out of the weyr. F'lar watched him thoughtfully as he slowly retraced his steps to the Council Room. Thirty-two new dragons, fourteen of them bronzes, was no small gain and seemed worth the hazard. Or would the hazard wax greater?

Someone cleared his throat deliberately. F'lar looked up to see Robinton standing in the archway that led to the Council Room.

«Before I can copy and instruct others about those maps, Weyrleader, I must myself understand them completely. I took the liberty of remaining behind.»

«You make a good champion, Masterharper.»

«You have a noble cause, Weyrleader,» and then Robinton's eyes glinted maliciously. «I've been begging the Egg for an opportunity to speak out to so noble an audience.»

«A cup of wine first?»

«Benden grapes are the envy of Pern.»

«If one has the palate for such a delicate bouquet.»

«It is carefully cultivated by the knowledgeable.» F'lar wondered when the man would stop playing with words. He had more on his mind than studying the time-charts.

«I have in mind a ballad which, for lack of explanation, I had set aside when I became the Master of my crafthall,» he said judiciously after an appreciative savoring of his wine. «It is an uneasy song, both the tune and the words. One develops, as a harper must, a certain sensitivity for what will be received and what will be rejected . . . forcefully,» and he winced in retrospect. «I found that this ballad unsettled singer as well as audience and retired it from use. Now, like that tapestry, it bears rediscovery.»

After his death C'gan's instrument had been hung on the Council Room wall till a new Weyrsinger could be chosen. The guitar was very old, its wood thin. Old C'gan had kept it well-tuned and covered. The Masterharper handled it now with reverence, lightly stroking the strings to hear the tone, raising his eyebrows at the fine voice of the instrument.

He plucked a chord, a dissonance. F'lar wondered if the instrument was out of tune or if the harper had, by some chance, struck the wrong string. But Robinton repeated the odd discord, then modulating into a weird minor that was somehow more disturbing than the first notes.

«I told you it was an uneasy song. And I wonder if you know the answers to the questions it asks. For I've turned the puzzle over in my mind many times of late.»

Then abruptly he shifted from the spoken to the sung tone.

«Of course, you realize that the song was first recorded in the craft annals some four hundred Turns ago,» Robinton said lightly, cradling the guitar in both arms. «The Red Star had just passed beyond attack proximity. The people had ample reason to be stunned and worried over the sudden loss of the populations of five Weyrs. Oh, I imagine at the time they had any one of a number of explanations, but none… not one explanation… is recorded.» Robinton paused significantly.

«I have found none recorded, either,» F'lar replied. «As a matter of fact, I had all the Records brought here from the other Weyrs… in order to compile accurate attack timetables. And those other Weyr Records simply end-« F'lar made a chopping gesture with one hand. «In Benden's Records there is no mention of sickness, death, fire, disaster-not one word of explanation for the sudden lapse of the usual intercourse between the Weyrs. Benden's Records continue blithely, but only for Benden. There is one entry that pertains to the mass disappearance … the initiation of a Pern-wide patrol routing, not just Benden's immediate responsibility. And that is all.»

«Strange,» Robinton mused. «Once the danger from the Red Star was past, the dragons and riders may have gone between to ease the drain on the Holds. But I simply cannot believe that. Our craft Records do mention that harvests were bad and that there had been several natural catastrophes . . . other than the Threads. Men may be gallant and your breed the most gallant of all, but mass suicide? I simply do not accept that explanation… not for dragonmen.»

«My thanks,» F'lar said with mild irony.

«Don't mention it,» Robinton replied with a gracious nod.

F'lar chucked appreciatively. «I see we have been too weyrbound as well as too hidebound.»

Robinton drained his cup and looked at it mournfully until F'lar refilled it.

«Well, your isolation served some purpose, you know, and you handled that uprising of the Lords magnificently. I nearly choked to death laughing,» Robinton remarked, grinning broadly. «Stealing their women in the flash of a dragon's breath!» He chuckled again, then suddenly sobered, looking F'lar straight in the eye. «Accustomed as I am to hearing what a man does not say aloud, I suspect there is much you glossed over in that Council meeting. You may be sure of my discretion . . . and . . . you may be sure of my wholehearted support and that of my not ineffectual craft. To be blunt, how may my harpers aid you?» and he strummed a vigorous marching air. «Stir men's pulses with ballads of past glories and success?» The tune, under his flashing fingers, changed abruptly to a stern but determined rhythm. «Strengthen their mental and physical sinews for hardship?»

«If all your harpers could stir men as you yourself do, I should have no worries that five hundred or so additional dragons would not immediately end.»

«Oh, then despite your brave words and marked charts, the situation is»-a dissonant twang on the guitar accented his final words-«more desperate than you carefully did not say.»

«It may be.»

«The flamethrowers old Zurg remembered and Fandarel must reconstruct-will they tip the scales?»

F'lar regarded this clever man thoughtfully and made a quick decision.

«Even Igen's sandworms will help, but as the world turns and the Red Star nears, the interval between daily attacks shortens and we have only seventy-two new dragons to add to those we had yesterday. One is now dead and several will not fly for several weeks.»

«Seventy-two?» Robinton caught him up sharply. «Ramoth hatched but forty, and they are still too young to eat firestone.»

F'lar outlined F'nor and Lessa's expedition, taking place at that moment. He went on to F'nor's reappearance and warning, as well as the fact that the experiment had been successful in part with the hatching of thirty-two new dragons from Pridith's first clutch.

Robinton caught him up.

«How can F'nor already have returned when you haven't heard from Lessa and him that there is a breeding place on the Southern Continent?»

«Dragons can go between times as well as places. They go as easily to a when as to a where.»

Robinton's eyes widened as he digested this astonishing news.

«That is how we forestalled the attack on Nerat yesterday morning. We jumped back two hours between time to meet the Threads as they fell.»

«You can actually jump backward? How far back?»

«I don't know. Lessa, when I was teaching her to fly Ramoth, inadvertently returned to Ruatha Hold, to the dawn thirteen Turns ago when Fax's men invaded from the heights. When she returned to the present, I attempted a between times jump of some ten Turns. To the dragons it is a simple matter to go between times or spaces, but there appears to be a terrific drain on the rider. Yesterday, by the time we returned from Nerat and had to go on to Keroon, I felt as though I had been pounded flat and left to dry for a summer on Igen Plain.»

F'lar shook his head. «We have obviously succeeded in sending Kylara, Pridith, and the others ten Turns between, because F'nor has already reported to me that he has been there several Turns. The drain on humans, however, is becoming more and more marked. But even seventy-two more mature dragons will be a help.»

«Send a rider ahead in time to see if it is sufficient,» Robinton suggested helpfully. «Save you a few days' worrying.»

«I don't know how to get to a when that has not yet happened. You must give your dragon reference points, you know. How can you refer him to times that have not yet occurred?»

«You've got an imagination. Project it.»

«And perhaps lose a dragon when I have none to spare? No, I must continue . . . because obviously I have, judging by F'nor's returns … as I decided to start. Which reminds me, I must give orders to start packing. Then I shall go over the time-charts with you.»

It wasn't until after the noon meal, which Robinton took with the Weyrleader, that the Masterharper was confident that he understood the charts and left to begin their copying.

CHAPTER III

As ramoth and Canth bore Lessa and F'nor up to the Star Stone, they saw the first of the Hold Lords and Craftmasters arriving for the Council.

In order to get back to the Southern Continent of ten Turns ago, Lessa and F'nor had decided it was easiest to transfer first between times to the Weyr of ten Turns back which F'nor remembered. Then they would go between places to a seapoint just off the coast of the neglected Southern Continent which was as close to it as the Records gave any references.

F'nor put Canth in mind of a particular day he remembered ten Turns back, and Ramoth picked up the references from the brown's mind. The awesome cold of between times took Lessa's breath away, and it was with intense relief that she caught a glimpse of the normal weyr activity before the dragons took them between places to hover over the turgid sea.

Beyond them, smudged purple on this overcast and gloomy day, lurked the Southern Continent. Lessa felt a new anxiety replace the uncertainty of the temporal displacement. Ramoth beat forward with great sweeps of her wings, making for the distant coast. Canth gallantly tried to maintain a matching speed.

He's only a brown, Lessa scolded her golden queen. If he is flying with me, Ramoth replied coolly, he must stretch his wings a little.

Lessa grinned, thinking very privately that Ramoth was still piqued that she had not been able to fight with her weyrmates. All the males would have a hard time with her for a while.

They saw the flock of wherries first and realized that there would have to be some vegetation on the Continent. Wherries needed greens to live, although they could subsist on little else besides occasional grubs if necessary.

Lessa had Canth relay questions to his rider. If the Southern Continent was rendered barren by the Threads, how did new growth start? Where did the wherries come from?

Ever notice the seed pods split open and the flakes carried away by the winds? Ever notice that wherries fly south after the autumn solstice? Yes, but… Yes, but! But the land was Thread-bared! In less than four hundred Turns even the scorched hilltops of our Continent begin to sprout in the springtime, F'nor replied by way of Canth, so it is easy to assume the Southern Continent could revive, too.

Even at the pace Ramoth set, it took time to reach the jagged shoreline with its forbidding cliffs, stark stone in the sullen light. Lessa groaned inwardly but urged Ramoth higher to see over the masking highlands. All seemed gray and desolate from that altitude. Suddenly the sun broke through the cloud cover and the gray dissolved into dense greens and browns, living colors, the live greens of lush tropical growth, the browns of vigorous trees and vines. Lessa's cry of triumph was echoed by F'nor's hurrah and the brass voices of the dragons. Wherries, startled by the unusual sound, rose in squeaking alarm from their perches.

Beyond the headland, the land sloped away to jungle and grassy plateau, similar to mid-Boll. Though they searched all morning, they found no hospitable cliffs wherein to found a new Weyr. Was that a contributing factor in the southern venture's failure, Lessa wondered.

Discouraged, they landed on a high plateau by a small lake. The weather was warm but not oppressive, and while F'nor and Lessa ate their noonday meal, the two dragons wallowed in the water, refreshing themselves.

Lessa felt uneasy and had little appetite for the meat and bread. She noticed that F'nor was restless, too, shooting surreptitious glances around the lake and the jungle verge.

«What under the sun are we expecting? Wherries don't charge, and wild whers would come nowhere near a dragon. We're ten Turns before the Red Star, so there can't be any Threads.»

F'nor shrugged, grimacing sheepishly as he tossed his unfinished bread back into the food pouch.

«Place feels so empty, I guess,» he tendered, glancing around. He spotted ripe fruit hanging from a moonflower vine. «Now that looks familiar and good enough to eat, without tasting like dust in the mouth.»

He climbed nimbly and snagged the orange-red fruit.

«Smells right, feels ripe, looks ripe,» he announced and deftly sliced the fruit open. Grinning, he handed Lessa the first slice, carving another for himself. He lifted it challengingly. «Let us eat and die together!»

She couldn't help but laugh and saluted him back. They bit into the succulent flesh simultaneously. Sweet juices dribbled from the comers of her mouth, and Lessa hurriedly licked her lips to capture the least drop of the delicious liquid.

«Die happy-I will,» F'nor cried, ratting more fruit.

Both were subtly reassured by the experiment and were able to discuss their discomposure.

«I think,» F'nor suggested, «it is the lack of cliff and cavern and the still, still quality of the place, the knowing that there are no other men or beasts about but us.»

Lessa nodded her head in agreement. «Ramoth, Canth, would having no Weyr upset you?»

We didn't always live in caves, Ramoth replied, somewhat haughtily as she rolled over in the lake. Sizable waves rushed up the shore almost to where Lessa and F'nor were seated on a fallen tree trunk. The sun here is warm and pleasant, the water cooling. I would enjoy it here, but I am not to come.

«She is out of sorts,» Lessa whispered to F'nor. «Let Pridith have it, dear one,» she called soothingly to the golden queen. «You've the Weyr and all!»

Ramoth ducked under the water, blowing up a froth in disgruntled reply.

Canth admitted that he had no reservations at all about living Weyrless. The dry earth would be warmer than stone to sleep on, once a suitably comfortable hollow had been achieved. No, he couldn't object to the lack of the cave as long as there was enough to eat.

«We'll have to bring herdbeasts in,» F'nor mused. «Enough to start a good-sized herd. Of course, the wherries here are huge. Come to think of it, I believe this plateau has no exits. We wouldn't need to pasture it off. I'd better check. Otherwise, this plateau with the lake and enough clear space for Holds seems ideal. Walk out and pick breakfast from the tree.»

«It might be wise to choose those who were not Hold-reared,» Lessa added. «They would not feel so uneasy away from protecting heights and stone-security.» She gave a short laugh. «I'm more a creature of habit than I suspected. All these open spaces, untenanted and quiet, seem . . . indecent.» She gave a delicate shudder, scanning the broad and open plain beyond the lake.

«Fruitful and lovely,» F'nor amended, leaping up to secure more of the orange-red succulents. «This tastes uncommonly good to me. Can't remember anything this sweet and juicy from Nerat, and yet it's the same variety.»

«Undeniably superior to what the Weyr gets. I suspect Nerat serves home first, Weyr last.»

They both stuffed themselves greedily.

Further investigation proved that the plateau was isolated, and ample to pasture a huge herd of foodbeasts for the dragons. It ended in a sheer drop of several dragonlengths into denser jungle on one side, the sea-side escarpment on the other. The timber stands would provide raw material from which dwellings could be made for the Weyrfolk. Ramoth and Canth stoutly agreed dragonkind would be comfortable enough under the heavy foliage of the dense jungle. As this part of the continent was similar, weatherwise, to Upper Nerat, there would be neither intense heat nor cold to give distress.

However, if Lessa was glad enough to leave, F'nor seemed reluctant to start back.

«We can go between time and place on the way back,» Lessa insisted finally, «and be in the Weyr by late afternoon. The Lords will surely be gone by then.»

F'nor concurred, and Lessa steeled herself for the trip between. She wondered why the when between bothered her more than the where, for it had no effect on the dragons at all. Ramoth, sensing Lessa's depression, crooned encouragingly. The long, long black suspension of the utter cold of between where and when ended suddenly in sunlight above the Weyr.

Somewhat startled, Lessa saw bundles and sacks spread out before the Lower Caverns as dragonriders supervised the loading of their beasts.

«What has been happening?» F'nor exclaimed.

«Oh, F'lar's been anticipating success,» she assured him glibly.

Mnementh, who was watching the bustle from the ledge of the queen's weyr, sent a greeting to the travelers and the information that F'lar wished them to join him in the weyr as soon as they returned.

They found F'lar, as usual, bent over some of the oldest and least legible Record skins that he had had brought to the Council Room.

«And?» he asked, grinning a broad welcome at them.

«Green, lush, and livable,» Lessa declared, watching him intently. He knew something else, too. Well, she hoped he'd watch his words. F'nor was no fool, and this foreknowledge was dangerous.

«That is what I had so hoped to hear you say,» F'lar went on smoothly. «Come tell me in detail what you observed and discovered. It'll be good to fill in the blank spaces on the chart.»

Lessa let F'nor give most of the account, to which F'lar listened with sincere attention, making notes.

«On the chance that it would be practical, I started packing supplies and alerting the riders to go with you,» he told F'nor when the account was finished. «Remember, we've only three days in this time in which to start you back ten Turns ago. We have no moments to spare. And we must have many more mature dragons ready to fight at Telgar in three days' time. So, though ten Turns will have passed for you, three days only will elapse here. Lessa, your thought that the farm-bred might do better is well-taken. We're lucky that our recent Search for rider candidates for the dragons Pridith will have come mainly from the crafts and farms. No problem there. And most of the thirty-two are in then: early teens.»

«Thirty-two?» F'nor exclaimed. «We should have fifty. The dragonets must have some choice, even if we get the candidates used to the dragonets before they're hatched.»

F'lar shrugged negligently. «Send back for more. You'll have time, remember,» and F'lar chuckled as though he had started to add something and decided against it.

F'nor had no time to debate with the Weyrleader, for F'lar immediately launched on other rapid instructions.

F'nor was to take his own wingriders to help train the weyrlings. They would also take the forty young dragons of Ramoth's first clutch: Kylara with her queen Pridith, T'bor and his bronze Piyanth. N'ton's young bronze might also be ready to fly and mate by the time Pridith was, so that gave the young queen two bronzes at least.

«Suppose we'd found the continent barren?» F'nor asked, still puzzled by F'lar's assurance. «What then?»

«Oh, we'd've sent them back to, say, the High Reaches,» F'lar replied far too glibly, but quickly went on. «I should send on other bronzes, but I'll need everyone else here to ride burrow-search on Keroon and Nerat. They've already unearthed several at Nerat. Vincet, I'm told, is close to heart attack from fright.»

Lessa made a short comment on that Hold Lord.

«What of the meeting this morning?» F'nor asked, remembering.

«Never mind that now. You've got to start shifting between by evening, F'nor.»

Lessa gave the Weyrleader a long hard look and decided she would have to find out what had happened in detail very soon.

«Sketch me some references, will you, Lessa?» F'lar asked.

There was a definite plea in his eyes as he drew clean hide and a stylus to her. He wanted no questions from her now that would alarm F'nor. She sighed and picked up the drawing tool.

She sketched quickly, with one or two details added by F'nor until she had rendered a reasonable map of the plateau they had chosen. Then, abruptly, she had trouble focusing her eyes. She felt light-headed.

«Lessa?» F'lar bent to her.

«Everything's . . . moving . . . circling . . .» and she collapsed backward into his arms.

As F'lar raised her slight body into his arms, he exchanged an alarmed look with his half brother.

«How do you feel?» the Weyrleader called after his brother.

«Tired but no more than that,» F'nor assured him as he shouted down the service shaft to the kitchens for Manora to come and for hot klah. He needed that, and no doubt of it.

F'lar laid the Weyrwoman on the sleeping couch, covering her gently.

«I don't like this,» he muttered, rapidly recalling what F'nor had said of Kylara's decline, which F'nor could not know was yet to come in his future. Why should it start so swiftly with Lessa?

«Time-jumping makes one feel slightly-« F'nor paused, groping for the exact wording. «Not entirely . . . whole. You fought between times at Nerat yesterday. …»

«I fought,» F'lar reminded him, «but neither you nor Lessa battled anything today. There may be some inner . . . mental . . . stress simply to going between times. Look, F'nor, I'd rather only you came back once you reach the southern Weyr. I'll make it an order and get Ramoth to inhibit the dragons. That way no rider can take it into his head to come back even if he wants to. There is some factor that may be more serious than we can guess. Let's take no unnecessary risks.»

«Agreed.»

«One other detail, F'nor. Be very careful which times you pick to come back to see me. I wouldn't jump between too close to any time you were actually here. I can't imagine what would happen if you walked into your own self in the passageway, and I can't lose you.»

With a rare demonstration of affection, F'lar gripped his half brother's shoulder tightly.

«Remember, F'nor. I was here all morning and you did not arrive back from the first trip till midaftemoon. And remember, too, we have only three days. You have ten Turns.»

F'nor left, passing Manora in the hall. The woman could find nothing obviously the matter with Lessa, and they finally decided it might be simple fatigue; yesterday's strain when Lessa had to relay messages between dragons and fighters followed by the disjointing between times trip today.

When F'lar went to wish the southern venturers a good trip, Lessa was in a normal sleep, her face pale, but her breathing easy,

F'lar had Mnementh relay to Ramoth the prohibition he wished the queen to instill in all dragonkind assigned to the venture. Ramoth obliged, but added in an aside to bronze Mnementh, which he passed on to F'lar, that everyone else had adventures while she, the Weyr queen, was forced to stay behind.

No sooner had the laden dragons, one by one, winked out of the sky above the Star Stone than the young weyrling assigned to Nerat Hold as messenger came gliding down, his face white with fear.

«Weyrleader, many more burrows have been found, and they cannot be burned out with fire alone. Lord Vincet wants you.»

F'lar could well imagine that Vincet did.

«Get yourself some dinner, boy, before you start back. I'll go shortly.»

As he passed through to the sleeping quarters, he heard Ramoth rumbling in her throat. She had settled herself down to rest.

Lessa still slept, one hand curled under her cheek, her dark hair trailing over the edge of the bed. She looked fragile, childlike, and very precious to him. F'lar smiled to himself. So she was jealous of Kylara's attentions yesterday. He was pleased and flattered. Never would Lessa learn from him that Kylara, for all her bold beauty and sensuous nature, did not have one tenth the attraction for him that the unpredictable, dark, and delicate Lessa held. Even her stubborn intractableness, her keen and malicious humor, added zest to their relationship. With a tenderness he would never show her awake, F'lar bent and kissed her lips. She stirred and smiled, sighing lightly in her sleep.

Reluctantly returning to what must be done, F'lar left her so. As he paused by the queen, Ramoth raised her great, wedge-shaped head; her many-faceted eyes gleamed with bright luminescence as she regarded the Weyrleader.

«Mnementh, please ask Ramoth to get in touch with the dragonet at Fandarel's crafthall. I'd like the Mastersmith to come with me to Nerat. I want to see what his agenothree does to Threads.»

Ramoth nodded her head as the bronze dragon relayed the message to her.

She has done so, and the green dragon comes as soon as he can. Mnementh reported to his rider. It is easier to do, this talking about, when Lessa is awake, he grumbled.

F'lar agreed heartily. It had been quite an advantage yesterday in the battle and would be more and more of an asset.

Maybe it would be better if she tried to speak, across time, to F'nor… but no, F'nor had come back.

F'lar strode into the Council Room, still hopeful that somewhere within the illegible portions of the old Records was the one clue he so desperately needed. There must be a way out of this impasse. If not the southern venture, then something else. Something!

Fandarel showed himself a man of iron will as well as sinew; he looked calmly at the exposed tangle of perceptibly growing Threads that writhed and intertwined obscenely.

«Hundreds and thousands in this one burrow,» Lord Vincet of Nerat was exclaiming in a frantic tone of voice. He waved his hands distractedly around the plantation of young trees in which the burrow had been discovered. «These stalks are already withering even as you hesitate. Do something! How many more young trees will die in this one field alone? How many more burrows escaped dragon's breath yesterday? Where is a dragon to sear them? Why are you just standing there?»

F'lar and Fandarel paid no attention to the man's raving, both fascinated as well as revolted by their first sight of the burrowing stage of their ancient foe. Despite Vincet's panicky accusations, it was the only burrow on this particular slope. F'lar did not like to contemplate how many more might have slipped through the dragons' efforts and had reached Nerat's warm and fertile soil. If they had only had time enough to set out watchmen to track the fall of stray clumps. They could, at least, remedy that error in Telgar, Crom, and Ruatha in three days. But it was not enough. Not enough.

Fandarel motioned forward the two craftsmen who had accompanied him. They were burdened with an odd contraption: a large cylinder of metal to which was attached a wand with a wide nozzle. At the other end of the cylinder was another short pipe-length and then a short cylinder with an inner plunger. One craftsman worked the plunger vigorously, while the second, barely keeping his hands steady, pointed the nozzle end toward the Thread burrow. At a nod from this pumper, the man released a small knob on the nozzle, extending it carefully away from him and over the burrow. A thin spray danced from the nozzle and drifted down into the burrow. No sooner had the spray motes contacted the Thread tangles than steam hissed out of the burrow. Before long, all that remained of the pallid writhing tendrils was a smoking mass of blackened strands. Long after Fandarel had waved the craftsmen back, he stared at the grave. Finally he grunted and found himself a long stick with which he poked and prodded the remains. Not one Thread wriggled.

«Humph,» he grunted with evident satisfaction. «However, we can scarcely go around digging up every burrow. I need another.»

With Lord Vincet a hand-wringing moaner in their wake, they were escorted by the junglemen to another undisturbed burrow on the sea-side of the rainforest. The Threads had entered the earth by the side of a huge tree that was already drooping.

With his prodding stick Fandarel made a tiny hole at the top of the burrow and then waved his craftsmen forward. The pumper made vigorous motions at his end, while the nozzle-holder adjusted his pipe before inserting it in the hole. Fandarel gave the sign to start and counted slowly before he waved a cutoff. Smoke oozed out of the tiny hole.

After a suitable lapse of time, Fandarel ordered the junglemen to dig, reminding them to be careful not to come in contact with the agenothree liquid. When the burrow was uncovered, the acid had done its work, leaving nothing but a thoroughly charred mass of tangles.

Fandarel grimaced but this time scratched his head in dissatisfaction.

«Takes too much time, either way. Best to get them still at the surface,» the Mastersmith grumbled.

«Best to get them in the air,» Lord Vincet chattered. «And what will that stuff do to my young orchards? What will it do?»

Fandarel swung around, apparently noticing the distressed Holder for the first time.

«Little man, agenothree in diluted form is what you use to fertilize your plants in the spring. True, this field has been burned out for a few years, but it is not Thread-full. It would be better if we could get the spray up high in the air. Then it would float down and dissipate harmlessly-fertilizing very evenly, too.» He paused, scratched his head gratingly. «Young dragons could carry a team aloft. . . . Hmmm. A possibility, but the apparatus is bulky yet.» He turned his back on the surprised Hold Lord then and asked F'lar if the tapestry had been returned. «I cannot yet discover how to make a tube throw flame. I got this mechanism from what we make for the orchard farmers.»

«I'm still waiting for word on the tapestry,» F'lar replied, «but this spray of yours is effective. The Thread burrow is dead.»

«The sandworms are effective too, but not really efficient,» Fandarel grunted in dissatisfaction. He beckoned abruptly to his assistants and stalked off into the increasing twilight to the dragons.

Robinton awaited their return at the Weyr, his outward calm barely masking his inner excitement. He inquired politely, however, of Fandarel's efforts. The Mastersmith grunted and shrugged. «I have all my craft at work.»

«The Mastersmith is entirely too modest,» F'lar put in. «He has already put together an ingenious device that sprays agenothree into Thread burrows and sears them into a black pulp.»

«Not efficient. I like the idea of flamethrowers,» the smith said, his eyes gleaming in his expressionless face. «A thrower of flame,» he repeated, his eyes unfocusing. He shook his heavy head with a bone-popping crack. «I go,» and with a curt nod to the harper and the Weyrleader, he left.

«I like that man's dedication to an idea,» Robinton observed. Despite his amusement with the man's eccentric behavior, there was a strong undercurrent of respect for the smith. «I must set my apprentices a task for an appropriate Saga on the Mastersmith. I understand,» he said, turning to F'lar, «that the southern venture has been inaugurated.»

F'lar nodded unhappily.

«Your doubts increase?»

«This between times travel takes its own toll,» he admitted, glancing anxiously toward the sleeping room.

«The Weyrwoman is ill?»

«Sleeping, but today's journey affected her. We need another, less dangerous answer!» and F'lar slammed one fist into the other palm.

«I came with no real answer,» Robinton said then, briskly, «but with what I believe to be another part of the puzzle. I have found an entry. Four hundred Turns ago the then Masterharper was called to Fort Weyr not long after the Red Star retreated away from Pern in the evening sky.»

«An entry? What is it?»

«Mind you, the Thread attacks had just lifted and the Masterharper was called one late evening to Fort Weyr. An unusual summons. However,» and Robinton emphasized the distinction by pointing a long, callous-tipped finger at F'lar, «no further mention is ever made of that visit. There ought to have been, for all such summonses have a purpose. All such meetings are recorded, yet no explanation of this one is given. The record is taken up several weeks later by the Masterharper as though he had not left his crafthall at all. Some ten months afterward, the Question Song was added to compulsory Teaching Ballads.»

«You believe the two are connected with the abandonment of the five Weyrs?»

«I do, but I could not say why. I only feel that the events, the visit, the disappearances, the Question Song, are connected.»

F'lar poured them both cups of wine.

«I have checked back, too, seeking some indications.» He shrugged. «All must have been normal right up to the point they disappeared. There are Records of tithing trains received, supplies stored, the list of injured dragons and men returning to active patrols. And then the Records cease at full Cold, leaving only Benden Weyr occupied.»

«And why that one Weyr of the six to choose from?» Robinton demanded. «Island Ista would be a better choice if only one Weyr was to be left. Benden so far north is not a likely place to pass four hundred Turns.»

«Benden is high and isolated. A disease that struck the others and was prevented from reaching Benden?»

«And no explanation of it? They can't all-dragons, riders, weyrfolk-have dropped dead on the same instant and left no carcasses rotting in the sun.»

«Then let us ask ourselves, why was the harper called? Was he told to construct a Teaching Ballad covering this disappearance?»

«Well,» Robinton snorted, «it certainly wasn't meant to reassure us, not with that tune-if one cares to call it a tune at all, and I don't-nor does it answer any questions! It poses them.»

«For us to answer?» suggested F'lar softly.

«Aye.» Robinton's eyes shone. «For us to answer, indeed, for it is a difficult song to forget. Which means it was meant to be remembered. Those questions are important, F'lar!»

«Which questions are important?» demanded Lessa, who had entered quietly.

Both men were on their feet. F'lar, with unusual attentiveness, held a chair for Lessa and poured her wine.

«I'm not going to break apart,» she said tartly, almost annoyed at the excess of courtesy. Then she smiled up at F'lar to take the sting out of her words. «I slept and I feel much better. What were you two getting so intense about?»

F'lar quickly outlined what he and the Masterharper had been discussing. When he mentioned the Question Song, Lessa shuddered.

«That's one I can't forget, either. Which, I've always been told,» and she grimaced, remembering the hateful lessons with R'gul, «means it's important. But why? It only asked questions.» Then she bunked, her eyes went wide with amazement

» 'Gone away, gone . . . ahead!'» she cried, on her feet. «That's it! All five Weyrs went . . . ahead. But to when?»

F'lar turned to her, speechless.

«They came ahead to our time! Five Weyrs full of dragons,» she repeated in an awed voice.

«No, that's impossible,» F'lar contradicted.

«Why?» Robinton demanded excitedly. «Doesn't that solve the problem we're facing? The need for fighting dragons? Doesn't it explain why they left so suddenly with no explanation except that Question Song?»

F'lar brushed back the heavy lock of hair that overhung his eyes.

«It would explain their actions in leaving,» he admitted, «because they couldn't leave any clues saying where they went, or it would cancel the whole thing. Just as I couldn't tell F'nor I knew the southern venture would have problems. But how do they get here-if here is when they came? They aren't here now. How would they have known they were needed-or when they were needed? And this is the real problem-how can you conceivably give a dragon references to a when that has not yet occurred?»

«Someone here must go back to give them the proper references,» Lessa replied in a very quiet voice.

«You're mad, Lessa,» F'lar shouted at her, alarm written on his face. «You know what happened to you today. How can you consider going back to a when you can't remotely imagine? To a when four hundred Turns ago? Going back ten Turns left you fainting and half-ill.»

«Wouldn't it be worth it?» she asked him, her eyes grave. «Isn't Pern worth it?»

F'lar grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her, his eyes wild with fear.

«Not even Pern is worth losing you, or Ramoth. Lessa, Lessa, don't you dare disobey me in this.» His voice dropped to an intense, icy whisper, shaking with anger.

«Ah, there may be a way of effecting that solution, momentarily beyond us, Weyrwoman,» Robinton put in adroitly. «Who knows what tomorrow holds? It certainly is not something one does without considering every angle.»

Lessa did not shrug off F'lar's viselike grip on her shoulders as she gazed at Robinton.

«Wine?» the Masterharper suggested, pouring a mug for her. His diversionary action broke the tableau of Lessa and F'lar.

«Ramoth is not afraid to try,» Lessa said, her mouth set in a determined line.

F'lar glared at the golden dragon who was regarding the humans, her neck curled around almost to the shoulder joint of her great wing.

«Ramoth is young,» F'lar snapped and then caught Mnementh's wry thought even as Lessa did.

She threw her head back, her peal of laughter echoing in the vaulting chamber,

«I'm badly in need of a good joke myself,» Robinton remarked pointedly.

«Mnementh told F'lar that he was neither young nor afraid to try, either. It was just a long step,» Lessa explained, wiping tears from her eyes.

F'lar glanced dourly at the passageway, at the end of which Mnementh lounged on his customary ledge.

A laden dragon comes, the bronze warned those in the Weyr. It is Lytol behind young B'rant on brown Fanth.

«Now he brings his own bad news?» Lessa asked sourly.

«It is hard enough for Lytol to ride another's dragon or come here at all, Lessa of Ruatha. Do not increase his torment one jot with your childishness,» F'lar said sternly.

Lessa dropped her eyes, furious with F'lar for speaking so to her in front of Robinton.

Lytol stumped into the queen's weyr, carrying one end of a large rolled rug. Young B'rant, struggling to uphold the other end, was sweating with the effort. Lytol bowed respectfully toward Ramoth and gestured the young brown rider to help him unroll their burden. As the immense tapestry uncoiled, F'lar could understand why Masterweaver Zurg had remembered it. The colors, ancient though they undoubtedly were, remained vibrant and undimmed. The subject matter was even more interesting.

«Mnementh, send for Fandarel. Here's the model he needs for his flamethrower,» F'lar said.

«That tapestry is Ruatha's,» Lessa cried indignantly. «I remember it from my childhood. It hung in the Great Hall and was the most cherished of my Bloodline's possessions. Where has it been?» Her eyes were flashing.

«Lady, it is being returned to where it belongs,» Lytol said stolidly, avoiding her gaze. «A masterweaver's work, this,» he went on, touching the heavy fabric with reverent fingers. «Such colors, such patterning. It took a man's life to set up the loom, a craft's whole effort to complete, or I am no judge of true craftsmanship.»

F'lar walked along the edge of the immense arras, wishing it could be hung to afford the proper perspective of the heroic scene. A flying formation of three wings of dragons dominated the upper portion of half the hanging. They were breathing flame as they dove upon gray, falling clumps of Threads in the brilliant sky. A sky just that perfect autumnal blue, F'lar decided, that cannot occur in warmer weather. Upon the lower slopes of the hills, foliage was depicted as turning yellow from chilly nights. The slatey rocks suggested Ruathan country. Was that why the tapestry had hung in Ruatha Hall? Below, men had left the protecting Hold, cut into the cliff itself. The men were burdened with the curious cylinders of which Zurg had spoken. The tubes in their hands belched brilliant tongues of flame in long streams, aimed at the writhing Threads that attempted to burrow in the ground.

Lessa gave a startled exclamation, walking right onto the tapestry, staring down at the woven outline of the Hold, its massive door ajar, the details of its bronze ornamentation painstakingly rendered in fine yams.

«I believe that's the design on the Ruatha Hold door,» F'lar remarked.

«It is … and it isn't,» Lessa replied in a puzzled voice.

Lytol glowered at her and then at the woven door. «True. It isn't and yet it is, and I went through that door a scant hour ago.» He scowled down at the door before his toes.

«Well, here are the designs Fandarel wants to study,» F'lar said with relief, as he peered at the flamethrowers.

Whether or not the smith could produce a working model from this woven one in time to help them three days hence F'lar couldn't guess. But if Fandarel could not, no man could.

The Mastersmith was, for him, jubilant over the presence of the tapestry. He lay upon the rug, his nose tickled by the nap as he studied the details. He grumbled, moaned, and muttered as he sat cross-legged to sketch and peer.

«Has been done. Can be done. Must be done,» he was heard to rumble.

Lessa called for klah, bread, and meat when she learned from young B'rant that neither he nor Lytol had eaten yet. She served all the men, her manner gay and teasing. F'lar was relieved for Lytol's sake. Lessa even pressed food and klah on Fandarel, a tiny figure beside the mammoth man, insisting that he come away from the tapestry and eat and drink before he could return to his mumbling and drawing.

Fandarel finally decided that he had enough sketches and disappeared, to be flown back to his crafthold.

«No point in asking him when he'll be back. He's too deep in thought to hear,» F'lar remarked, amused.

«If you don't mind, I shall excuse myself as well,» Lessa said, smiling graciously to the four remaining around the table. «Good Warder Lytol, young B'rant should soon be excused, too. He's half asleep.»

«I most certainly am not, Weyrlady,» B'rant assured her hastily, widening his eyes with stimulated alertness.

Lessa merely laughed as she retreated into the sleeping chamber. F'lar stared thoughtfully after her.

«I mistrust the Weyrwoman when she uses that particularly docile tone of voice,» he said slowly.

«Well, we must all depart,» Robinton suggested, rising.

«Ramoth is young but not that foolish,» F'lar murmured after the others had left.

Ramoth slept, oblivious of his scrutiny. He reached for the consolation Mnementh could give him, without response. The big bronze was dozing on his ledge.

CHAPTER IV

«I just want to see that tapestry back on the wall at Ruatha,» Lessa insisted to F'lar the next day. «I want it where it belongs.»

They had gone to check on the injured and had had one argument already over F'lar's having sent N'ton along with the southern venture. Lessa had wanted him to try riding another's dragon. F'lar had preferred for him to learn to lead a wing of his own in the south, given the Turns to mature in. He had reminded Lessa, in the hope that it might prove inhibiting to any ideas she had about going four hundred Turns back, about F'nor's return trips, and he had borne down hard on the difficulties she had already experienced.

She had become very thoughtful, although she had said nothing.

Therefore, when Fandarel sent word that he would like to show F'lar a new mechanism, the Weyrleader felt reasonably safe in allowing Lessa the triumph of returning the purloined tapestry to Ruatha. She went to have the arras rolled and strapped to Ramoth's back.

He watched Ramoth rise with great sweeps of her wide wings, up to the Star Stone before going between to Ruatha. R'gul appeared on the ledge just then, reporting that a huge train of firestone was entering the Tunnel. Consequently, busy with such details, it was midmorning before he could get to see Fandarel's crude and not yet effective flamethrower . . . the fire did not «throw» from the nozzle of the tube with any force at all. It was late afternoon before he reached the Weyr again.

R'gul announced sourly that F'nor had been looking for him-twice, in fact.

«Twice?»

«Twice, as I said. He would not leave a message with me for you.» R'gul was clearly insulted by F'nor's refusal.

By the evening meal, when there was still no sign of Lessa, F'lar sent to Ruatha to learn that she had indeed brought the tapestry. She had badgered and bothered the entire Hold until the thing was properly hung. For upward of several hours she had sat and looked at it, pacing its length occasionally.

She and Ramoth had then taken to the sky above the Great Tower and disappeared. Lytol had assumed, as had everyone at Ruatha, that she had returned to Benden Weyr.

«Mnementh,» F'lar bellowed when the messenger had finished. «Mnementh, where are they?»

Mnementh's answer was a long time in coming. I cannot hear them, he said finally, his mental voice soft and as full of worry as a dragon's could be.

F'lar gripped the table with both hands, staring at the queen's empty weyr. He knew, in the anguished privacy of his mind, where Lessa had tried to go.

CHAPTER V

Below them was Ruatha's Great Tower. Lessa coaxed Ramoth slightly to the left, ignoring the dragon's acid comments, knowing that she was excited, too.

That's right, dear, this is exactly the angle at which the tapestry illustrates the Hold door. Only when that tapestry was designed, no one had carved the lintels or capped the door. And there was no Tower, no inner Court, no gate. She stroked the surprisingly soft skin of the curving neck, laughing to hide her own tense nervousness and apprehension at what she was about to attempt.

She told herself there were good reasons prompting her action in this matter. The ballad's opening phrase, «Gone away, gone ahead,» was clearly a reference to between times. And the tapestry gave the required reference points for the jump between whens. Oh, how she thanked the Masterweaver who had woven that doorway. She must remember to tell him how well he had wrought. She hoped she'd be able to. Enough of that. Of course, she'd be able to. For hadn't the Weyrs disappeared? Knowing they had gone ahead, knowing how to go back to bring them ahead, it was she, obviously, who must go back and lead them. It was very simple, and only she and Ramoth could do it. Because they already had.

She laughed again, nervously, and took several deep, shuddering breaths.

«All right, my golden love,» she murmured. «You have the reference. You know when I want to go. Take me between, Ramoth, between four hundred Turns.»

The cold was intense, even more penetrating than she had imagined. Yet it was not a physical cold. It was the awareness of the absence of everything. No light. No sound. No touch. As they hovered, longer, and longer, in this nothingness, Lessa recognized full-blown panic of a kind that threatened to overwhelm her reason. She knew she sat on Ramoth's neck, yet she could not feel the great beast under her thighs, under her hands. She tried to cry out inadvertently and opened her mouth to … nothing . . . no sound in her own ears. She could not even feel the hands that she knew she had raised to her own cheeks.

I am here, she heard Ramoth say in her mind. We are together, and this reassurance was all that kept her from losing her grasp on sanity in that terrifying aeon of unpassing, timeless nothingness.

Someone had sense enough to call for Robinton. The Masterharper found F'lar sitting at the table, his face deathly pale, his eyes staring at the empty weyr. The craftmaster's entrance, his calm voice, reached F'lar in his shocked numbness. He sent the others out with a peremptory wave.

«She's gone. She tried to go back four hundred Turns,» F'lar said in a tight, hard voice.

The Masterharper sank into the chair opposite the Weyrleader.

«She took the tapestry back to Ruatha,» F'lar continued in that same choked voice. «I'd told her about F'nor's returns. I told her how dangerous this was. She didn't argue very much, and I know going between times had frightened her, if anything could frighten Lessa.» He banged the table with an important fist. «I should have suspected her. When she thinks she's right, she doesn't stop to analyze, to consider. She just does it!»

«But she's not a foolish woman,» Robinton reminded him slowly. «Not even she would jump between times without a reference point. Would she?»

«'Gone away, gone ahead'-that's the only clue we have!»

«Now wait a moment,» Robinton cautioned him, then snapped his fingers. «Last night, when she walked upon the tapestry, she was uncommonly interested in the Hall door. Remember, she discussed it with Lytol.»

F'lar was on his feet and halfway down the passageway.

«Come on, man, we've got to get to Ruatha.»

Lytol lit every glow in the Hold for F'lar and Robinton to examine the tapestry clearly.

«She spent the afternoon just looking at it,» the Warder said, shaking his head. «You're sure she has tried this incredible jump?»

«She must have. Mnementh can't hear either her or Ramoth anywhere. Yet he says he can get an echo from Canth many Turns away and in the Southern Continent.» F'lar stalked past the tapestry. «What is it about the door, Lytol? Think, man!»

«It is much as it is now, save that there are no carved lintels, there is no outer Court or Tower . . .»

«That's it. Oh, by the first Egg, it is so simple. Zurg said this tapestry is old. Lessa must have decided it was four hundred Turns, and she has used it as the reference point to go back between times.»

«Why, then, she's there and safe,» Robinton cried, sinking with relief in a chair.

«Oh, no, harper. It is not as easy as that,» F'lar murmured, and Robinton caught his stricken look and the despair echoed in Lytol's face.

«What's the matter?»

«There is nothing between,» F'lar said in a dead voice. «To go between places takes only as much time as for a man to cough three times. Between four hundred Turns….» His voice trailed off.

CHAPTER VI

There were voices that first were roars in her aching ears and then hushed beyond the threshold of sound. She gasped as the whirling, nauseating sensation apparently spun her, and the bed which she felt beneath her, around and around. She clung to the sides of the bed as pain jabbed through her head, from somewhere directly in the middle of her skull. She screamed, as much in protest at the pain as from the terrifying, rolling, whirling, dropping lack of a solid ground.

Yet some frightening necessity kept her trying to gabble out the message she had come to give. Sometimes she felt Ramoth trying to reach her in that vast swooping darkness that enveloped her. She would try to cling to Ramoth's mind, hoping the golden queen could lead her out of this torturing nowhere. Exhausted, she would sink down, down, only to be torn from oblivion by the desperate need to communicate.

She was finally aware of a soft, smooth hand upon her arm, of a liquid, warm and savory, in her mouth. She rolled it around her tongue, and it trickled down her sore throat. A fit of coughing left her gasping and weak. Then she experimentally opened her eyes, and the images before her did not lurch and spin. «Who … are… you?» she managed to croak. «Oh, my dear Lessa . . .»

«Is that who I am?» she asked, confused.

«So your Ramoth tells us,» she was assured. «I am Mardra of Fort Weyr.»

«Oh, F'lar will be so angry with me,» Lessa moaned as her memory came rushing back. «He will shake me and shake me. He always shakes me when I disobey him. But I was right. I was right. Mardra? . . . Oh, that . . . awful . . . nothingness,» and she felt herself drifting off into sleep, unable to resist that overwhelming urge. Comfortingly, her bed no longer rocked beneath her.

The room, dimly lit by wallglows, was both like her own at Benden Weyr and subtly different. Lessa lay still, trying to isolate that difference. Ah, the weyrwalls were very smooth here. The room was larger, too, the ceiling higher and curving. The furnishings, now that her eyes were used to the dim light and she could distinguish details, were more finely crafted. She stirred restlessly.

«Ah, you're awake again, mystery lady,» a man said. Light beyond the parted curtain flooded in from the outer weyr. Lessa sensed rather than saw the presence of others in the room beyond.

A woman passed under the man's arm, moving swiftly to the bedside.

«I remember you. You're Mardra,» Lessa said with surprise.

«Indeed I am, and here is T'ron, Weyrleader at Fort.»

T'ron was tossing more glows into the wallbasket, peering over his shoulder at Lessa to see if the light bothered her.

«Ramoth!» Lessa exclaimed, sitting upright, aware for the first time that it was not Ramoth's mind she touched in the outer weyr.

«Oh, that one,» Mardra laughed with amused dismay. «She'll eat us out of the weyr, and even my Loranth has had to call the other queens to restrain her.»

«She perches on the Star Stones as if she owned them and keens constantly,» T'ron added, less charitably. He cocked an ear. «Ha. She's stopped.»

«You can come, can't you?» Lessa blurted out.

«Come? Come where, my dear?» Mardra asked, confused. «You've been going on and on about our 'coming,' and Threads approaching, and the Red Star bracketed in the Eye Rock, and . . . my dear, don't you realize the Red Star has been past Pern these two months?»

«No, no, they've started. That's why I came back between times . . .»

«Back? Between times?» T'ron exclaimed, striding over to the bed, eyeing Lessa intently.

«Could I have some klah. I know I'm not making much sense, and I'm not really awake yet. But I'm not mad or still sick, and this is rather complicated.»

«Yes, it is,» T'ron remarked with deceptive mildness. But he did call down the service shaft for klah. And he did drag a chair over to her bedside, settling himself to listen to her.

«Of course you're not mad,» Mardra soothed her, glaring at her weyrmate. «Or she wouldn't ride a queen.»

T'ron had to agree to that. Lessa waited for the klah to come; when it did, she sipped gratefully at its stimulating warmth.

Then she took a deep breath and began, telling them of the Long Interval between the dangerous passes of the Red Star: how the sole Weyr had fallen into disfavor and contempt, how Jora had deteriorated and lost control over her queen, Nemorth, so that, as the Red Star neared, there was no sudden increase in the size of clutches. How she had Impressed Ramoth to become Benden's Weyrwoman. How F'lar had outwitted the dissenting Hold Lords the day after Ramoth's first mating flight and taken firm command of Weyr and Pern, preparing for the Threads he knew were coming. She told her by now rapt audience of her own first attempts to fly Ramoth and how she had inadvertently gone back between time to the day Fax had invaded Ruatha Hold.

«Invade . . . my family's Hold?» Mardra cried, aghast.

«Ruatha has given the Weyrs many famous Weyrwomen,» Lessa said with a sly smile at which T'ron burst out laughing.

«She's Ruathan, no question,» he assured Mardra. She told them of the situation in which Dragonmen now found themselves, with an insufficient force to meet the Thread attacks. Of the Question Song and the great tapestry.

«A tapestry?» Mardra cried, her hand going to her cheek in alarm. «Describe it to me!»

And when Lessa did, she saw-at last-belief in both their faces.

«My father has just commissioned a tapestry with such a scene. He told me of it the other day because the last battle with the Threads was held over Ruatha.» Incredulous, Mardra turned to T'ron, who no longer looked amused. «She must have done what she has said she'd done. How could she possibly know about the tapestry?»

«You might also ask your queen dragon, and mine,» Lessa suggested.

«My dear, we do not doubt you now,» Mardra said sincerely, «but it is a most incredible feat.»

«I don't think,» Lessa said, «that I would ever try it again, knowing what I do know.»

«Yes, this shock makes a forward jump between times quite a problem if your F'lar must have an effective fighting force,» T'ron remarked.

«You will come? You will?»

«There is a distinct possibility we will,» T'ron said gravely, and his face broke into a lopsided grin. «You said we left the Weyrs . . . abandoned them, in fact, and left no explanation. We went somewhere . . . somewhen, that is, for we are still here now….»

They were all silent, for the same alternative occurred to them simultaneously. The Weyrs had been left vacant, but Lessa had no way of proving that the five Weyrs reappeared in her time.

«There must be a way. There must be a way,» Lessa cried distractedly. «And there's no time to waste. No time at all!»

T'ron gave a bark of laughter. «There's plenty of time at this end of history, my dear.»

They made her rest then, more concerned than she was that she had been ill some weeks, deliriously screaming that she was falling and could not see, could not hear, could not touch. Ramoth, too, they told her, had suffered from the appalling nothingness of a protracted stay between, emerging above ancient Ruatha a pale yellow wraith of her former robust self.

The Lord of Ruatha Hold, Mardra's father, had been surprised out of his wits by the appearance of a staggering rider and a pallid queen on his stone verge. Naturally and luckily he had sent to his daughter at Fort Weyr for help. Lessa and Ramoth had been transported to the Weyr, and the Ruathan Lord kept silence on the matter.

When Lessa was strong enough, T'ron called a Council of Weyrleaders. Curiously, there was no opposition to going . . . provided they could solve the problem of time-shock and find reference points along the way. It did not take Lessa long to comprehend why the dragonriders were so eager to attempt the journey. Most of them had been born during the present Thread incursions. They had now had close to four months of unexciting routine patrols and were bored with monotony. Training Games were pallid substitutes for the real battles they had all fought. The Holds, which once could not do dragonmen favors enough, were beginning to be indifferent. The Weyrleaders could see these incidents increasing as Thread-generated fears receded. It was a morale decay as insidious as a wasting disease in Weyr and Hold. The alternative which Lessa's appeal offered was better than a slow decline in their own time.

Of Benden, only the Weyrleader himself was privy to these meetings. Because Benden was the only Weyr in Lessa's time, it must remain ignorant, and intact, until her time. Nor could any mention be made of Lessa's presence, for that, too, was unknown in her Turn.

She insisted that they call in the Masterharper because her Records said he had been called. But when he asked her to tell him the Question Song, she smiled and demurred.

«You'll write it, or your successor will, when the Weyrs are found to be abandoned,» she told him. «But it must be your doing, not my repeating.»

«A difficult assignment to know one must write a song that four hundred Turns later gives a valuable clue.»

«Only be sure,» she cautioned him, «that it is a Teaching tune. It must not be forgotten, for it poses questions that I have to answer.»

As he started to chuckle, she realized she had already given him a pointer.

The discussions-how to go so far safely with no sustained sense deprivations-grew heated. There were more constructive notions, however impractical, on how to find reference points along the way. The five Weyrs had not been ahead in time, and Lessa, in her one gigantic backward leap, had not stopped for intermediate time marks.

«You did say that a between times jump of ten years caused no hardship?» T'ron asked of Lessa as all the Weyrleaders and the Masterharper met to discuss this impasse.

«None. It takes . . . oh, twice as long as a between places jump.»

«It is the four hundred Turn leap that left you unbalanced. Hmmm. Maybe twenty or twenty-five Turn segments would be safe enough.»

That suggestion found merit until Ista's cautious leader, D'ram, spoke up.

«I don't mean to be a Hold-hider, but there is one possibility we haven't mentioned. How do we know we made the jump between to Lessa's time? Going between is a chancy business. Men go missing often. And Lessa barely made it here alive.»

«A good point, D'ram,» T'ron concurred briskly, «but I feel there is more to prove that we do-did –will-go forward. The clues, for one thing-they were aimed at Lessa. The very emergency that left five Weyrs empty sent her back to appeal for our help-«

«Agreed, agreed,» D'ram interrupted earnestly, «but what I mean is can you be sure we reached Lessa's time? It hadn't happened yet. Do we know it can?»

T'ron was not the only one who searched his mind for an answer to that. All of a sudden he slammed both hands, palms down, on the table.

«By the Egg, it's die slow, doing nothing, or die quick, trying. I've had a surfeit of the quiet life we dragonmen must lead after the Red Star passes till we go between in old age. I confess I'm almost sorry to see the Red Star dwindle farther from us in the evening sky. I say, grab the risk with both hands and shake it till it's gone. We're dragonmen, aren't we, bred to fight the Threads? Let's go hunting . . . four hundred Turns ahead!»

Lessa's drawn face relaxed. She had recognized the validity of D'ram's alternate possibility, and it had touched off bitter fear in her heart. To risk herself was her own responsibility, but to risk these hundreds of men and dragons, the weyrfolk who would accompany their men…?

T'ron's ringing words for once and all dispensed with that consideration.

«And I believe,» the Masterharper's exultant voice cut through the answering shouts of agreement, «I have your reference points.» A smile of surprised wonder illuminated his face. «Twenty Turns or twenty hundred, you have a guide! And T'ron said it. As the Red Star dwindles in the evening sky . ..»

Later, as they plotted the orbit of the Red Star, they found how easy that solution actually was and chuckled that their ancient foe should be their guide.

Atop Fort Weyr, as on all the Weyrs, were great stones. They were so placed that at certain times of the year they marked the approach and retreat of the Red Star, as it orbited in its erratic two hundred Turn-long course around the sun. By consulting the Records which, among other morsels of information, included the Red Star's wanderings, it was not hard to plan jumps between of twenty-five Turns for each Weyr. It had been decided that the complement of each separate Weyr would jump between above its own base, for there would unquestionably be accidents if close to eighteen hundred laden beasts tried it at one point.

Each moment now was one too long away from her own time for Lessa. She had been a month away from F'lar and missed him more than she had thought possible. Also, she was worried that Ramoth would mate away from Mnementh. There were, to be sure, bronze dragons and bronze riders eager to do that service, but Lessa had no interest in them.

T'ron and Mardra occupied her with the many details in organizing the exodus, so that no clues, past the tapestry and the Question Song that would be composed at a later date, remained in the Weyrs.

It was with a relief close to tears that Lessa urged Ramoth upward in the night sky to take her place near T'ron and Mardra above the Fort Weyr Star Stone. At five other Weyrs great wings were ranged in formation, ready to depart their own times.

As each Weyrleader's dragon reported to Lessa that all were ready, reference points determined by the Red Star's travels in mind, it was this traveler from the future who gave the command to jump between.

CHAPTER VII

They had made eleven jumps between, the Weyrleaders' bronzes speaking to Lessa as they rested briefly between each jump. Of the eighteen hundred-odd travelers, only four failed to come ahead, and they had been older beasts. All five sections agreed to pause for a quick meal and hot klah before the final jump, which would be but twelve Turns.

«It is easier,» T'ron commented as Mardra served the klah, «to go twenty-five Turns than twelve.» He glanced up at the Red Dawn Star, their winking and faithful guide. «It does not alter its position as much. I count on you, Lessa, to give us additional references.»

«I want to get us back to Ruatha before F'lar discovers I have gone.» She shivered as she looked up at the Red Star and sipped hastily at the hot klah. «I've seen the Star just like that, once . . . no, twice . . . before at Ruatha.» She stared at T'ron, her throat constricting as she remembered that morning: the time she had decided that the Red Star was a menace to her, three days after which Fax and F'lar had appeared at Ruatha Hold. Fax had died on F'lar's dagger, and she had gone to Benden Weyr. She felt suddenly dizzy, weak, strangely unsettled. She had not felt this way as they paused between other jumps.

«Are you all right, Lessa?» Mardra asked with concern. «You're so white. You're shaking.» She put her arm around Lessa, glancing, concerned, at her Weyrmate.

«Twelve Turns ago I was at Ruatha,» Lessa murmured, grasping Mardra's hand for support. «I was at Ruatha twice. Let's go on quickly. I'm too many in this morning. I must get back. I must get back to F'lar. He'll be so angry.»

The note of hysteria in her voice alarmed both Mardra and T'ron. Hastily the latter gave orders for the fires to be extinguished, for the Weyrfolk to mount and prepare for the final jump ahead.

Her mind in chaos, Lessa transmitted the references to the other Weyrleaders' dragons: Ruatha in the evening light, the Great Tower, the inner Court, the land at springtime. .. .

CHAPTER VIII

Between them, Lytol and Robinton forced F'lar to eat, deliberately plying him with wine. At the back of his mind F'lar knew he would have to keep going, but the effort was immense, the spirit gone from him. It was no comfort that they still had Pridith and Kylara to continue dragonkind, yet he delayed sending someone back for F'nor, unable to face the reality of that admission: that in sending for Pridith and Kylara, he had acknowledged the fact that Lessa and Ramoth would not return.

Lessa, Lessa, his mind cried endlessly, damning her one moment for her reckless, thoughtless daring, loving her the next for attempting such an incredible feat.

«I said, F'lar, you need sleep now more than wine.» Robinton's voice penetrated his preoccupation.

F'lar looked at him, frowning in perplexity. He realized that he was trying to lift the wine jug that Robinton was holding firmly down.

«What did you say?»

«Come. I'll bear you company to Benden. Indeed, nothing could persuade me to leave your side. You have aged years, man, in the course of hours.»

«And isn't it understandable?» F'lar shouted, rising to his feet, the impotent anger boiling out of him at the nearest target in the form of Robinton.

Robinton's eyes were full of compassion as he reached for F'lar's arm, gripping it tightly.

«Man, not even this Masterharper has words enough to express the sympathy and honor he has for you. But you must sleep; you have tomorrow to endure, and the tomorrow after that you have to fight. The dragonmen must have a leader. .. .» His voice trailed off. «Tomorrow you must send for F'nor… and Pridith.»

F'lar pivoted on his heel and strode toward the fateful door of Ruatha's great hall.

CHAPTER IX

Before them loomed Ruatha's Great Tower, the high walls of the Outer Court clearly visible in the fading light.

The claxon rang violent summons into the air, barely heard over the earsplitting thunder as hundreds of dragons appeared, ranging in full fighting array, wing upon wing, up and down the valley.

A shaft of light stained the flagstones of the Court as the Hold door opened.

Lessa ordered Ramoth down, close to the Tower, and dismounted, running eagerly forward to greet the men who piled out of the door. She made out the stocky figure of Lytol, a handbasket of glows held high above his head. She was so relieved to see him that she forgot her previous antagonism to the Warder.

«You misjudged the last jump by two days, Lessa,» he cried as soon as he was near enough for her to hear him over the noise of settling dragons.

«Misjudged? How could I?» she breathed.

T'ron and Mardra came up beside her.

«No need to worry,» Lytol reassured her, gripping her hands tightly in his, his eyes dancing. He was actually smiling at her. «You overshot the day. Go back between, return to Ruatha of two days ago. That's all.» His grin widened at her confusion. «It is all right,» he repeated, patting her hands. «Take this same hour, the Great Court, everything, but visualize F'lar, Robinton, and myself here on the flagstones. Place Mnementh on the Great Tower and a blue dragon on the verge. Now go.»

Mnementh? Ramoth queried Lessa, eager to see her Weyrmate. She ducked her great head, and her huge eyes gleamed with scintillating fire.

«I don't understand,» Lessa wailed. Mardra slipped a comforting arm around her shoulders.

«But I do, I do-trust me,» Lytol pleaded, patting her shoulder awkwardly and glancing at T'ron for support. «It is as F'nor has said. You cannot be several places in time without experiencing great distress, and when you stopped twelve Turns back, it threw Lessa all to pieces.»

«You know that?» T'ron cried.

«Of course. Just go back two days. You see, I know you have. I shall, of course, be surprised then, but now, tonight, I know you reappeared two days earlier. Oh, go. Don't argue. F'lar was half out of his mind with worry for you.»

«He'll shake me,» Lessa cried, like a little girl. «Lessa!» T'ron took her by the hand and led her back to Ramoth, who crouched so her rider could mount.

T'ron took complete charge and had his Fidranth pass the order to return to the references Lytol had given, adding by way of Ramoth a description of the humans and Mnementh.

The cold of between restored Lessa to herself, although her error had badly jarred her confidence. But .then there was Ruatha again. The dragons happily arranged themselves in tremendous display. And there, silhouetted against the light from the Hall, stood Lytol, Robinton's tall figure, and … F'lar.

Mnementh's voice gave a brassy welcome, and Ramoth could not land Lessa quickly enough to go and twine necks with her mate.

Lessa stood where Ramoth had left her, unable to move. She was aware that Mardra and T'ron were beside her. She was conscious only of F'lar, racing across the Court toward her. Yet she could not move.

He grabbed her in his arms, holding her so tightly to him that she could not doubt the joy of his welcome.

«Lessa, Lessa,» his voice raggedly chanted in her ear. He pressed her face against his, crushing her to breathlessness, all his careful detachment abandoned. He kissed her, hugged her, held her, and then kissed her with rough urgency again. Then he suddenly set her on her feet and gripped her shoulders. «Lessa, if you ever . . ."he said, punctuating each word with a flexing of his fingers, then stopped, aware of a grinning circle of strangers surrounding them.

«I told you he'd shake me,» Lessa was saying, dashing tears from her face. «But, F'lar, I brought them all … all but Benden Weyr. And that is why the five Weyrs were abandoned. I brought them.»

F'lar looked around him, looked beyond the leaders to the masses of dragons settling in the Valley, on the heights, everywhere he turned. There were dragons, blue, green, bronze, brown, and a whole wingful of golden queen dragons alone.

«You brought the Weyrs?» he echoed, stunned.

«Yes, this is Mardra and T'ron of Fort Weyr, D'ram and…»

He stopped her with a little shake, pulling her to his side so he could see and greet the newcomers.

«I am more grateful than you can know,» he said and could not go on with all the many words he wanted to add.

T'ron stepped forward, holding out his hand, which F'lar seized and held firmly.

«We bring eighteen hundred dragons, seventeen queens, and all that is necessary to implement our Weyrs.»

«And they brought flamethrowers, too,» Lessa put in excitedly.

«But-to come … to attempt it . . .» F'lar murmured in admiring wonder.

T'ron and D'ram and the others laughed. «Your Lessa showed the way…»

»… with the Red Star to guide us…» she said.

«We are dragonmen,» T'ron continued solemnly, «as you are yourself, F'lar of Benden. We were told there are Threads here to fight, and that's work for dragonmen to do… in any time!»

CHAPTER X

Even as the five Weyrs had been settling around Ruatha Valley, F'nor had been compelled to bring forward in time his southern weyrfolk. They had all reached the end of endurance in double-time life, gratefully creeping back to quarters they had vacated two days and ten Turns ago.

R'gul, totally unaware of Lessa's backward plunge, greeted F'lar and his Weyrwoman, on their return to the Weyr, with the news of F'nor's appearance with seventy-two new dragons and the further word that he doubted any of the riders would be fit to fight.

«I've never seen such exhausted men in my life,» R'gul rattled on, «can't imagine what could have gotten into them, with sun and plenty of food and all, and no responsibilities.»

F'lar and Lessa exchanged glances.

«Well, the southern Weyr ought to be maintained, R'gul. Think it over.»

«I'm a fighting dragonman, not a womanizer,» the old dragonrider grunted. «It'd take more than a trip between times to reduce me like those others.»

«Oh, they'll be themselves again in next to no time,» Lessa said and, to R'gul's intense disapproval, she giggled.

«They'll have to be if we're to keep the skies Threadfree,» R'gul snapped testily.

«No problem about that now,» F'lar assured him easily.

«No problem? With only a hundred and forty-four dragons?»

«Two hundred and sixteen,» Lessa corrected him firmly.

Ignoring her, R'gul asked, «Has that Mastersmith found a flamethrower that'll work?»

«Indeed he has,» F'lar assured R'gul, grinning broadly.

The five Weyrs had also brought forward their equipment. Fandarel all but snatched examples from their backs and, undoubtedly, every hearth and smithy through the continent would be ready to duplicate the design by morning. T'ron had told F'lar that, in his time, each Hold had ample flamethrowers for every man on the ground. In the course of the Long Interval, however, the throwers must have been either smelted down or lost as incomprehensible devices. D'ram, particularly, was very much interested in Fandarel's agenothree sprayer, considering it better than thrown-flame, since it would also act as a fertilizer.

«Well,» R'gul admitted gloomily, «a flamethrower or two will be some help day after tomorrow.»

«We have found something else that will help a lot more,» Lessa remarked and then hastily excused herself, dashing into the sleeping quarters.

The sounds that drifted past the curtain were either laughter or sobs, and R'gul frowned on both. That girl was just too young to be Weyrwoman at such a time. No stability.

«Has she realized how critical our situation is? Even with F'nor's additions? That is, if they can fly?» R'gul demanded testily. «You oughtn't to let her leave the Weyr at all.»

F'lar ignored that and began pouring himself a cup of wine.

«You once pointed out to me that the five empty Weyrs of Pern supported your theory that there would be no more Threads.»

R'gul cleared his throat, thinking that apologies-even if they might be due from the Weyrleader-were scarcely effective against the Threads.

«Now there was merit in that theory,» F'lar went on, filling a cup for R'gul. «Not, however, as you interpreted it. The five Weyrs were empty because they … they came here.»

R'gul, his cup halfway to his lips, stared at F'lar. This man also was too young to bear his responsibilities. But … he seemed actually to believe what he was saying.

«Believe it or not, R'gul-and in a bare day's time you will-the five Weyrs are empty no longer. They're here, in the Weyrs, in this time. And they shall join us, eighteen hundred strong, the day after tomorrow at Telgar, with flamethrowers and with plenty of battle experience.»

R'gul regarded the poor man stolidly for a long moment. Carefully he put his cup down and, turning on his heel, left the weyr. He refused to be an object of ridicule. He'd better plan to take over the leadership tomorrow if they were to fight Threads the day after.

The next morning, when he saw the clutch of great bronze dragons bearing the Weyrleaders and their wingleaders to the conference, R'gul got quietly drunk.

Lessa exchanged good mornings with her friends and then, smiling sweetly, left the weyr, saying she must feed Ramoth. F'lar stared after her thoughtfully, then went to greet Robinton and Fandarel, who had been asked to attend the meeting, too. Neither Craftmaster said much, but neither missed a word spoken. Fandarel's great head kept swiveling from speaker to speaker, his deep-set eyes blinking occasionally. Robinton sat with a bemused smile on his face, utterly delighted by ancestral visitors.

F'lar was quickly talked out of resigning his titular position as Weyrleader of Benden on the grounds that he was too inexperienced.

«You did well enough at Nerat and Keroon. Well indeed,» T'ron said.

«You call twenty-eight men or dragons out of action good leadership?»

«For a first battle, with every dragonman green as a hatchling? No, man, you were on time at Nerat, however you got there,» and T'ron grinned maliciously at F'lar, «which is what a dragonman must do. No, that was well flown, I say. Well flown.» The other four Weyrleaders muttered complete agreement with that compliment. «Your Weyr is understrength, though, so we'll lend you enough odd-wing riders till you've gotten the Weyr up to full strength again. Oh, the queens love these times!» And his grin broadened to indicate that bronze riders did, too.

F'lar returned that smile, thinking that Ramoth was about ready for another mating flight, and this time, Lessa … oh, that girl was being too deceptively docile. He'd better watch her closely.

«Now,» T'ron was saying, «we left with Fandarel's crafthold all the flamethrowers we brought up so that the groundmen will be armed tomorrow.»

«Aye, and my thanks,» Fandarel grunted. «Well turn out new ones in record time and return yours soon.»

«Don't forget to adapt that agenothree for air spraying, too,» D'ram put in.

«It is agreed,» and T'ron glanced quickly around at the other riders, «that all the Weyrs will meet, full strength, three hours after dawn above Telgar, to follow the Thread's attack across to Crom. By the way, F'lar, those charts of yours that Robinton showed me are superb. We never had them.»

«How did you know when the attacks would come?»

T'ron shrugged. «They were coming so regularly even when I was a weyrling, you kind of knew when one was due. But this way is much, much better.»

«More efficient,» Fandarel added approvingly.

«After tomorrow, when all the Weyrs show up at Telgar, we can request what supplies we need to stock the empty Weyrs,» T'ron grinned. «Like old times, squeezing extra tithes from the Holders.» He nibbled his hands in anticipation. «Like old times.»

«There's the southern Weyr,» F'nor suggested. «We've been gone from there six Turns in this time, and the herdbeasts were left. They'll have multiplied, and there'll be all that fruit and grain.»

«It would please me to see that southern venture continued,» F'lar remarked, nodding encouragingly at F'nor.

«Yes, and continue Kylara down there, please, too,» F'nor added urgently, his eyes sparkling with irritation.

They discussed sending for some immediate supplies to help out the newly occupied Weyrs, and then adjourned the meeting.

«It is a trifle unsettling,» T'ron said as he shared wine with Robinton, «to find that the Weyr you left the day before in good order has become a dusty hulk.» He chuckled. «The women of the Lower Caverns were a bit upset.»

«We cleaned up those kitchens,» F'nor replied indignantly. A good night's rest in a fresh time had removed much of his fatigue.

T'ron cleared his throat. «According to Mardra, no man can clean anything.»

«Do you think you'll be up to riding tomorrow, F'nor?» F'lar asked solicitously. He was keenly aware of the stress showing in his half brother's face, despite his improvement overnight. Yet those strenuous Turns had been necessary, nor had they become futile even in hindsight with the arrival of eighteen hundred dragons from past time. When F'lar had ordered F'nor ten Turns backward to breed the desperately needed replacements, they had not yet brought to mind the Question Song or known of the tapestry.

«I wouldn't miss that fight if I were dragonless,» F'nor declared stoutly.

«Which reminds me,» F'lar remarked, «we'll need Lessa at Telgar tomorrow. She can speak to any dragon, you know,» he explained, almost apologetically, to T'ron and D'ram.

«Oh, we know,» T'ron assured him. «And Mardra doesn't mind.» Seeing F'lar's blank expression, he added, «As senior Weyrwoman, Mardra, of course, leads the queens' wing.»

F'lar's face grew blanker. «Queens' wing?»

«Certainly,» and T'ron and D'ram exchanged questioning glances at F'lar's surprise. «You don't keep your queens from fighting, do you?»

«Our queens? T'ron, we at Benden have had only one queen dragon-at a time-for so many generations that there are those who denounce the legends of queens in battle as black heresy!»

T'ron looked rueful. «I had not truly realized till this instant how small your numbers were.» But his enthusiasms overtook him. «Just the same, queens are very useful with flamethrowers. They get clumps other riders might miss. They fly in low, under the main wings. That's one reason D'ram's so interested in the agenothree spray. Doesn't singe the hair off the Holders' heads, so to speak, and is far better over tilled fields.»

«Do you mean to say that you allow your queens to fly-against Threads?» F'lar ignored the fact that F'nor was grinning, and T'ron, too.

«Allow?» D'ram bellowed. «You can't stop them. Don't you know your Ballads?»

«'Moreta's Ride?'»

«Exactly.»

F'nor laughed aloud at the expression on F'lar's face as he irritably pulled the hanging forelock from his eyes. Then, sheepishly, he began to grin.

«Thanks. That gives me an idea.»

He saw his fellow Weyrleaders to their dragons, waved cheerfully to Robinton and Fandarel, more lighthearted than he would have thought he'd be the morning before the second battle. Then he asked Mnementh where Lessa might be.

Bathing, the bronze dragon replied.

F'lar glanced at the empty queen's weyr.

Oh, Ramoth is on the Peak, as usual. Mnementh sounded aggrieved.

F'lar heard the sound of splashing in the bathing room suddenly cease, so he called down for hot klah. He was going to enjoy this.

«Oh, did the meeting go well?» Lessa asked sweetly as she emerged from the bathing room, drying-cloth wrapped tightly around her slender figure.

«Extremely. You realize, of course, Lessa, that you'll be needed at Telgar?»

She looked at him intently for a moment before she smiled again.

«I am the only Weyrwoman who can speak to any dragon,» she replied archly.

«True,» F'lar admitted blithely. «And no longer the only queen's rider in Benden….»

«I hate you!» Lessa snapped, unable to evade F'lar as he pinned her cloth-swathed body to his.

«Even when I tell you that Fandarel has a flamethrower for you so you can join the queens' wing?»

She stopped squirming in his arms and stared at him, disconcerted that he had outguessed her.

«And that Kylara will be installed as Weyrwoman in the south … in this time? As Weyrleader, I need my peace and quiet between battles….»

The cloth fell from her body to the floor as she responded to his kiss as ardently as if dragon-roused.

CHAPTER XI

Ranged above the Peak of Benden Weyr, a scant three hours after dawn, two hundred and sixteen dragons held their formations as F'lar on bronze Mnementh inspected their ranks.

Below in the Bowl were gathered all the weyrfolk and some of those injured in the first battle. All the weyrfolk, that is, except Lessa and Ramoth. They had gone on to Fort Weyr where the queens' wing was assembling. F'lar could not quite suppress a twinge of concern that she and Ramoth would be fighting, too. A holdover, he knew, from the days when Pern had had only one queen. If Lessa could jump four hundred Turns between and lead five Weyrs back, she could take care of herself and her dragon against Threads.

He checked to be sure that every man was well loaded with firestone sacks, that each dragon was in good color, especially those in from the southern Weyr. Of course, the dragons were fit, but the faces of the men still showed evidences of the temporal strains they had endured. He was procrastinating, and the Threads would be dropping in the skies of Telgar.

He gave the order to go between. They reappeared above, and to the south of Telgar Hold itself, and were not the first arrivals. To the west, to the north, and, yes, to the east now, wings arrived until the horizon was patterned with the great V's of several thousand dragon wings. Faintly he heard the claxon bell on Telgar Hold Tower as the unexpected dragon strength was acclaimed from the ground.

«Where is she?» F'lar demanded of Mnementh. «We'll need her presently to relay orders…» She's coming, Mnementh interrupted nun. Right above Telgar Hold another wing appeared. Even at this distance, F'lar could see the difference: the golden dragons shone in the bright morning sunlight.

A hum of approval drifted down the dragon ranks, and despite his fleeting worry, F'lar grinned with proud indulgence at the glittering sight.

Just then the eastern wings soared straight upward in the sky as the dragons became instinctively aware of the presence of their ancient foe.

Mnementh raised his head, echoing back the brass thunder of the war cry. He turned his head, even as hundreds of other beasts turned to receive firestone from their riders. Hundreds of great jaws masticated the stone, swallowed it, their digestive acids transforming dry stone into flame-producing gases, igniting on contact with oxygen.

Threads! F'lar could see them clearly now against the spring sky. His pulses began to quicken, not with apprehension, but with a savage joy. His heart pounded unevenly. Mnementh demanded more stone and began to speed up the strokes of his wings in the air, gathering himself to leap upward when commanded.

The leading Weyr already belched gouts of orange-red flame into the pale blue sky. Dragons winked in and out, flamed and dove.

The great golden queens sped at cliff-skimming height to cover what might have been missed. Then F'lar gave the command to gain altitude to meet the Threads halfway in their abortive descent. As Mnementh surged upward, F'lar shook his fist defiantly at the winking Red Eye of the Star.

«One day,» he Shouted, «we will not sit tamely here, awaiting your fall. We will fall on you, where you spin, and sear you on your own ground.»

By the Egg, he told himself, if we can travel four hundred Turns backward and across seas and lands in the blink of an eye, what is travel from one world to another but a different kind of step?

F'lar grinned to himself. He'd better not mention that audacious notion in Lessa's presence.

Clumps ahead, Mnementh warned him.

As the bronze dragon charged, flaming, F'lar tightened his knees on the massive neck. Mother of us all, he was glad that now, of all times conceivable, he, F'lar, rider of bronze Mnementh, was a dragonman of Pern!