The Best Military Science Fiction of the 20th Century

“YOU STILL DOUBT, R’gul?” F’lar asked, appearing slightly amused by the older bronze rider’s perversity.

R’gul, his handsome features stubbornly set, made no reply to the Weyrleader’s taunt. He ground his teeth together as if he could grind away F’lar’s authority over him.

“There have been no Threads in Pern’s skies for over four hundred Turns. There are no more!”

“There is always that possibility,” F’lar conceded amiably. There was not, however, the slightest trace of tolerance in his amber eyes. Nor the slightest hint of compromise in his manner.

He was more like F’lon, his sire, R’gul decided, than a son had any right to be. Always so sure of himself, always slightly contemptuous of what others did and thought. Arrogant, that’s what F’lar was. Impertinent, too, and underhanded in the matter of that young Weyrwoman. Why, R’gul had trained her up to be one of the finest Weyrwomen in many Turns. Before he’d finished her instruction, she knew all the teaching ballads and sagas letter perfect. And then the silly child had turned to F’lar. Didn’t have sense enough to appreciate the merits of an older, more experienced man. Undoubtedly she felt a first obligation to F’lar, he having discovered her at Ruath Hold during Search.

“You do, however,” F’lar was saying, “admit that when the sun hits the Finger Rock at the moment of dawn, winter solstice has been reached?”

“Any fool knows that’s what Finger Rock is for,” R’gul grunted.

“Then why don’t you, you old fool, admit that the Eye Rock was placed on Star Stone to bracket the Red Star when it’s about to make a Pass?” burst out K’net, the youngest of the dragonriders.

R’gul flushed, half-starting out of his chair, ready to take the young sprout to task for such insolence.

“K’net,” F’lar’s voice cracked authoritatively, “do you really like flying the Igen Patrol so much you want another few weeks at it?”

K’net hurriedly seated himself, flushing at the reprimand and the threat.

“There is, you know, R’gul, incontrovertible evidence to support my conclusions,” F’lar went on with deceptive mildness. “‘The Finger points/At an Eye blood red…’”

“Don’t quote me verses I taught you as a weyrling,” R’gul exclaimed, heatedly.

“Then have faith in what you taught,” F’lar snapped back, his amber eyes flashing dangerously.

R’gul, stunned by the unexpected forcefulness, sank back into his chair.

“You cannot deny, R’gul,” F’lar continued quietly, “that no less than half an hour ago, the sun balanced on the Finger’s tip at dawn and the Red Star was squarely framed by the Eye Rock.”

The other dragonriders, bronze as well as brown, murmured and nodded their agreement to that phenomenon. There was also an undercurrent of resentment for R’gul’s continual contest of F’lar’s policies as the new Weyrleader. Even old S’lel, once R’gul’s avowed supporter, was following the majority.

“There have been no Threads in four hundred years. There are no Threads,” R’gul muttered.

“Then, my fellow dragonman,” F’lar said cheerfully, “all you have taught is falsehood. The dragons are, as the Lords of the Holds wish to believe, parasites on the economy of Pern, anachronisms. And so are we.

“Therefore, far be it from me to hold you here against the dictates of your conscience. You have my permission to leave the Weyr and take up residence where you will.”

R’GUL WAS TOO stunned by F’lar’s ultimatum to take offense at the ridicule. Leave the Weyr? Was the man mad? Where would he go? The Weyr had been his life. He had been bred up to it for generations. All his male ancestors had been dragonriders. Not all bronze, true, but a decent percentage. His own dam’s sire had been a Weyrleader just as he, R’gul, had been until F’lar’s Mnementh had flown the new queen and that young upstart had taken over as traditional Weyrleader.

But dragonmen never left the Weyr. Well, they did if they were negligent enough to lose their dragons, like that Lytol fellow who was now Warden at Ruath Hold. And how could he leave the Weyr with a dragon?

What did F’lar want of him? Was it not enough that the young one was Weyrleader now in R’gul’s stead? Wasn’t F’lar’s pride sufficiently swollen by having bluffed the lords of Pern into disbanding their army when they were all set to coerce the Weyr and dragonmen? Must F’lar dominate every dragonman, body and will, too? He stared a long moment, incredulous.

“I do not believe we are parasites,” F’lar said, breaking the silence with his soft, persuasive voice. “Nor anachronistic. There have been long Intervals before. The Red Star does not always pass close enough to drop Threads on Pern. Which is why our ingenious ancestors thought to position the Eye Rock and the Finger Rock as they did…to confirm when a Pass will be made. And another thing,” his face turned grave, “there have been other times when dragonkind has all but died out…and Pern with it because of skeptics like you.” F’lar smiled and relaxed indolently in his chair. “I prefer not to be recorded as a skeptic. How shall we record you, R’gul?”

The Council Chamber was tense. R’gul was aware of someone breathing harshly and realized it was himself. He looked at the adamant face of the young Weyrleader and knew that the threat was not empty. He would either concede to F’lar’s authority, completely, though concession rankled deeply. Or leave the Weyr.

And where could he go, unless to one of the other Weyrs, deserted for hundreds of Turns? And, R’gul’s thoughts were savage, wasn’t that indication enough of the cessation of the Threads? Five empty Weyrs? No, by the Egg of Faranth, he would practice some of F’lar’s own brand of deceit and bide his time. When all Pern turned on the arrogant fool, he, R’gul, would be there to salvage something from the ruins.

“A dragonman stays in his Weyr,” R’gul said with what dignity he could muster from the remains of his pride.

“And accepts the policies of the current Weyrleader?” The tone of F’lar’s voice made it less of a question and more of an order.

Relieved he would not have to perjure himself, R’gul gave a curt nod of his head. F’lar continued to stare at him until R’gul wondered if the man could read his thoughts as his dragon might. He managed to return the gaze calmly. His turn would come. He’d wait.

APPARENTLY ACCEPTING THE capitulation, F’lar stood up and crisply delegated patrol assignments for the day.

“T’bor, you’re weather-watch. Keep an eye on those tithe trains as you do. What’s the morning’s report?”

“Weather is fair at dawning…all across Telgar and Keroon…if all too cold,” T’bor said with a wry grin. “Tithing trains have good hard roads, though, so they ought to be here soon.” His eyes twinkled with anticipation of the feasting that would follow the supplies’ arrival; a mood shared by all, to judge by the expressions around the table.

F’lar nodded. “S’lan and D’nol, you are to continue an adroit Search for likely boys. They should be striplings, if possible, but do not pass over anyone suspected of talent. It’s all well and good to present, for Impression, boys reared up in the Weyr traditions.” F’lar gave a one-sided smile.

“But there are not enough in the lower caverns. We, too, have been behind in begetting. Anyway, dragons reach full growth faster than their riders. We must have more young men to Impress when Ramoth hatches. Take the southern holds, Ista, Nerat, Fort, and south Boll, where maturity comes earlier. You can use the guise of inspecting holds for greenery to talk to the boys. And, take along firestone. Run a few flaming passes on those heights that haven’t been scoured in uh…dragon’s years. A flaming beast impresses the young and rouses envy.”

F’lar deliberately looked at R’gul to see the ex-Weyrleader’s reaction to the order. R’gul had been dead set against going outside the Weyr for more candidates. In the first place, R’gul had argued that there were eighteen youngsters in the Lower Caverns, some quite young, to be sure, but R’gul could not admit that Ramoth would lay more than the dozen Nemorth had always dropped. In the second place, R’gul persisted in wanting to avoid any action that might antagonize the Lords.

R’gul made no overt protest and F’lar went on.

“K’net, back to the mines. I want the dispositions of each firestone dump checked and quantities available. R’gul, continue drilling recognition points with the weyrlings. They must be positive about their references. They may be sent out quickly and with no time to ask questions, if they’re used as messengers and suppliers.

“F’nor, T’sum,” and F’lar turned to his own brown riders, “you’re clean-up squad today.” He allowed himself a grin at their dismay. “Try Ista Weyr. Clear the Hatching Cavern and enough weyrs for a double wing. And, F’nor, don’t leave a single record behind. They’re worth preserving.

“That will be all, dragonmen. Good flying.” And with that, F’lar rose and strode from the Council Room up to the queen’s weyr.

RAMOTH STILL SLEPT, her hide gleaming with health, its color deepening to a shade of gold closer to bronze, indicating her pregnancy. As he passed her, the tip of her long tail twitched slightly.

All the dragons were restless these days, F’lar reflected. Yet when he asked Mnementh, the bronze dragon could give no reason. He woke, he went back to sleep. That was all. F’lar couldn’t ask a leading question for that would defeat his purpose. He had to remain discontented with the vague fact that the restlessness was some kind of instinctive reaction.

Lessa was not in the sleeping room nor was she still bathing. F’lar snorted. That girl was going to scrub her hide off with this constant bathing. She’d had to live grimy to protect herself in Ruath Hold but bathing twice a day? He was beginning to wonder if this might be a subtle, Lessa-variety insult to him personally. F’lar sighed. That girl. Would she never turn to him of her own accord? Would he ever touch that elusive inner core of Lessa? She had more warmth for his half brother, F’nor, and K’net, the youngest of the bronze riders, than she had for F’lar who shared her bed.

He pulled the curtain back into place, irritated. Where had she got to today when, for the first time in weeks, he had been able to get all the wings out of the Weyr just so he could teach her to fly between?

Ramoth would soon be too egg-heavy for such activity. He had promised the Weyrwoman and he meant to keep the promise. She had taken to wearing the wher-hide riding gear as a flagrant reminder of his unfulfilled pledge. From certain remarks she had dropped, he knew she would not wait much longer for his aid. That she should try it on her own didn’t suit him at all.

He crossed the queen’s weyr again and peered down the passage that led to the Records Room. She was often to be found there, poring over the musty skins. And that was one more matter that needed urgent consideration. Those records were deteriorating past legibility. Curiously enough, earlier ones were still in good condition and readable. Another technique forgotten.

That girl! He brushed his thick forelock of hair back from his brow in a gesture habitual to him when he was annoyed or worried. The passage was dark which meant she could not be below in the Records Room.

Mnementh, he called silently to his bronze dragon, sunning on the ledge outside the queen’s weyr. What is that girl doing?

Lessa, the dragon replied, stressing the Weyrwoman’s name with pointed courtesy, is talking to Manora. She’s dressed for riding, he added after a slight pause.

F’lar thanked the bronze sarcastically and strode down the passage to the entrance. As he turned the last bend, he all but ran Lessa down.

You hadn’t asked me where she was, Mnementh answered plaintively to F’lar’s blistering reprimand.

LESSA ROCKED BACK on her heels from the force of their encounter. She glared up at him, her lips thin with displeasure, her eyes flashing.

“Why didn’t I have the opportunity of seeing the Red Star through the Eye Rock?” she demanded in a hard, angry voice.

F’lar pulled at his hair. Lessa at her most difficult would complete the list of this morning’s trials.

“Too many to accommodate as it was on the Peak,” he muttered, determined not to let her irritate him today. “And you already believe.”

“I’d’ve liked to see it,” she snapped and pushed past him towards the weyr. “If only in my capacity of Weyrwoman and Recorder.”

He caught her arm and felt her body tense. He set his teeth, wishing as he had a hundred times since Ramoth rose in her first mating flight that Lessa had not been virgin, too. He had not thought to control his dragon-incited emotions and Lessa’s first sexual experience had been violent. It had surprised him to be first, considering her adolescent years had been spent drudging for lascivious warders and soldier-types. Evidently no one had bothered to penetrate the curtain of rags and the coat of filth she had carefully maintained as a disguise. He had been a considerate and gentle bedmate ever since but, unless Ramoth and Mnementh were involved, he might as well call it rape.

Yet he knew someday, somehow, he would coax her into responding wholeheartedly to his lovemaking. He had a certain pride in his skill and he was in a position to persevere.

NOW HE TOOK a deep breath and released her arm slowly.

“How fortunate you’re wearing riding gear. As soon as the wings have cleared out and Ramoth wakes, I shall teach you to fly between.”

The gleam of excitement in her eyes was evident even in the dimly lit passageway. He heard her inhale sharply.

“Can’t put it off too much longer or Ramoth’ll be in no shape to fly at all,” he continued amiably.

“You do mean it?” Her voice was low and breathless, its usual acid edge missing. “You will teach us today?” He wished he could see her face clearly.

Once or twice, he had caught an unguarded expression on her face, loving and tender. He would give much to have that look turned on him. However, he admitted wryly to himself, he ought to be glad that melting regard was directed only at Ramoth and not at another human.

“Yes, my dear Weyrwoman, I mean it. I will teach you to fly between today. If only to keep you from trying it yourself.”

Her low chuckle informed him his taunt was well-aimed.

“Right now, however,” he said, indicating for her to lead the way back to the weyr, “I could do with some food. We were up before the kitchen.”

They had entered the well-lighted weyr so he did not miss the trenchant look she shot him over her shoulder. She would not so easily forgive being left out of the group at the Star Stone this morning; certainly not with the bribe of flying between.

How different this inner room was now Lessa was Weyrwoman, F’lar mused as Lessa called down the service shaft for food. During Jora’s incompetent tenure as Weyrwoman, the sleeping quarters had been crowded with junk, unwashed apparel, uncleared dishes. The state of the Weyr and the reduced number of dragons were as much Jora’s fault as R’gul’s for she had indirectly encouraged sloth, negligence and gluttony.

Had he, F’lar, been just a few years older when F’lon, his father, had died…Jora had been disgusting but when dragons rose in mating flight, the condition of your partner counted for nothing.

Lessa took a tray of bread and cheese, and mugs of the stimulating klah from the platform. She served him deftly.

“You’ve not eaten either?” he asked.

She shook her head vigorously, the braid into which she had plaited her thick, fine dark hair bobbing across her shoulders. The hairdressing was too severe for her narrow face but it did not, if that were her intention, disguise her femininity nor the curious beauty of her delicate features. Again F’lar wondered that such a slight body contained so much shrewd intelligence and resourceful…cunning, yes, that was the word, cunning. F’lar did not make the mistake, as others had, of underestimating her abilities.

“Manora called me to witness the birth of Kylara’s child.”

F’lar maintained an expression of polite interest. He knew perfectly well that Lessa suspected the child was his and it could have been, he admitted privately, but he doubted it. Kylara had been one of the ten candidates from the same Search three years ago which had discovered Lessa. Like others who survived Impression, Kylara had found certain aspects of Weyr life exactly suited to her temperament. She had gone from one rider’s weyr to another’s. She had even seduced F’lar, not at all against his will, to be sure. Now that he was Weyrleader, he found it wiser to ignore her efforts to continue the relationship. T’bor had taken her in hand and had his hands full until he retired her to the Lower Caverns, well-advanced in pregnancy.

Aside from having the amorous tendencies of a green dragon, Kylara was quick and ambitious. She would make a strong Weyrwoman so F’lar had charged Manora and Lessa with the job of planting the notion in Kylara’s mind. In the capacity of Weyrwoman…of another Weyr…her intense drives would be used to Pern’s advantage. She had not learned the severe lessons of restraint and patience that Lessa had and she didn’t have Lessa’s devious mind. Fortunately she was in considerable awe of Lessa, and F’lar suspected that Lessa was subtly influencing this attitude. In Kylara’s case, F’lar preferred not to object to Lessa’s meddling.

“A FINE SON,” Lessa was saying.

F’lar sipped his klah. She was not going to get him to admit any responsibility.

After a long pause, Lessa added, “She has named him T’kil.”

F’lar suppressed a grin at Lessa’s failure to get a rise from him.

“Discreet of her.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” F’lar replied blandly. “T’lar might be confusing if she took the second half of her name as is customary. ‘T’kil,’ however, still indicates sire as well as dam.”

“While I was waiting for Council to end,” Lessa said, after clearing her throat, “Manora and I checked the supply caverns. The tithing trains, which the Holds have been so gracious as to send us,” her voice was sharp, “are due within the week. There shortly will be bread fit to eat,” she added, wrinkling her nose at the crumbling gray pastry she was attempting to spread with cheese.

“A nice change,” F’lar agreed.

She paused.

“The Red Star performed its scheduled antic?”

He nodded.

“And R’gul’s doubts have been wiped away in the enlightening red glow?”

“Not at all.” F’lar grinned back at her, ignoring her sarcasm. “Not at all, but he will not be so vocal in his criticism.”

She swallowed quickly so she could speak. “You’d do well to cut out his criticism,” she said ruthlessly, gesturing with her knife as if plunging it into a man’s heart. “He is never going to accept your authority with good grace.”

“We need every bronze rider…there are only seven, you know,” he reminded her pointedly. “R’gul’s a good wingleader. He’ll settle down when the Threads fall. He needs proof to lay his doubts aside.”

“And the Red Star in the Eye Rock is not proof?” Lessa’s expressive eyes were wide.

F’lar was privately of Lessa’s opinion, that it might be wiser to remove R’gul’s stubborn contentiousness. But he could not sacrifice a wingleader, needing every dragon and rider as badly as he did.

“I don’t trust him,” she added, darkly. She sipped at her hot drink, her gray eyes dark over the rim of her mug. As if, F’lar mused, she didn’t trust him either.

And she didn’t, past a certain point. She had made that plain and, in honesty, he couldn’t blame her. She did recognize that every action F’lar took was towards one end…the safety and preservation of dragonkind and weyrfolk, and, consequently, the safety and preservation of Pern. To effect that end, he needed her full cooperation. When weyr business or dragonlore were discussed, she suspended the antipathy he knew she felt for him. In conferences, she supported him wholeheartedly and persuasively but always he suspected the double edge to her comments and saw a speculative, suspicious look in her eyes. He needed not only her tolerance but her empathy.

“Tell me,” she said after a long silence, “did the sun touch the Finger Rock before the Red Star was bracketed in the Eye Rock or after?”

“Matter of fact, I’m not sure as I did not see it myself…the concurrence lasts only a few moments…but the two are supposed to be simultaneous.”

She frowned at him sourly. “Whom did you waste it on? R’gul?” She was provoked; her angry eyes looked everywhere but at him.

“I am Weyrleader,” he informed her curtly. She was unreasonable.

She awarded him one long, hard look before she bent to finish her meal. She ate very little, quickly and neatly. Compared to Jora, she didn’t eat enough in the course of an entire day to nourish a sick child, but then, there was no point in ever comparing Lessa to Jora.

HE FINISHED HIS own breakfast, absently piling the mugs together on the empty tray. She rose silently and removed the dishes.

“As soon as the Weyr is free, we’ll go,” he told her.

“So you said,” and she nodded towards the sleeping queen, visible through the open arch. “We still must wait upon Ramoth.”

“Isn’t she rousing? Her tail’s been twitching an hour.”

“She always does that about this time of day.”

F’lar leaned across the table, his brows drawn together thoughtfully as he watched the golden forked tip of the queen’s tail jerk spasmodically from side to side.

“Mnementh, too. And always at dawn and early morning. As if somehow they associate that time of day with trouble…”

“…Or the Red Star’s rising?”

Some subtle difference in her tone caused F’lar to glance quickly at her. It wasn’t anger, now, for missing the morning’s phenomenon. Her eyes were fixed on nothing; her face, smooth at first, was soon wrinkled with a vaguely anxious frown as tiny lines formed between her arching, well-defined brows.

“Dawn…that’s when all warnings come,” she murmured.

“What kind of warnings?” he asked with quiet encouragement.

“There was that morning…a few days before…before you and Fax descended on Ruath Hold. Something woke me…a feeling, like a very heavy pressure…the sensation of some terrible danger threatening.” She was silent. “The Red Star was just rising.” The fingers of her left hand opened and closed. She gave a convulsive shudder. Her eyes refocused on him.

“You and Fax did come out of the northeast from Crom,” she said sharply, ignoring the fact, F’lar noticed, that the Red Star also rises north of true east.

“Indeed we did,” he grinned at her, remembering that morning vividly. He remembered, too, how certain he had been as Fax’s procession wound down the long valley to Ruath Hold that he and Fax would find some excuse for a mortal duel. And that he had somehow convinced himself that Ruatha Valley held a woman who had the unusual talents it would take to become the Weyrwoman Pern needed to impress the unhatched queen. “Indeed we did,” he chuckled. “Although,” he added, gesturing around the great cavern to emphasize, “I prefer to believe I served you well that day. You remember it with displeasure?”

The look she gave him was coldly inscrutable.

“Danger comes in many guises.”

“I agree,” he replied amiably, determined not to rise to her bait. “Had any other rude awakenings?” he inquired conversationally.

The absolute stillness in the room brought his attention back to her. Her face had drained of all color.

“The day Fax invaded Ruath Hold.” Her voice was a barely articulated whisper. Her eyes were wide and staring. Her hands clenched the edge of the table. She said nothing for such a long interval F’lar became concerned. This was an unexpectedly violent reaction to a casual question.

“Tell me,” he suggested softly.

She spoke in unemotional, impersonal tones, as if she were reciting a Traditional Ballad or something that had happened to an entirely different person.

“I was a child—just eleven. I woke at dawn…” her voice trailed off. Her eyes remained focused on nothing, staring at a scene that had happened long ago.

F’lar was stirred by an irresistible desire to comfort her. It struck him forcibly, even as he was stirred by this unusual compassion, that he had never thought that Lessa, of all people, would be troubled by so old a terror.

Mnementh sharply informed his rider that Lessa was obviously bothered a good deal. Enough so that her mental anguish was rousing Ramoth from sleep. In less accusing tones, Mnementh informed F’lar that R’gul had finally taken off with his weyrling pupils. His dragon, Hath, however, was in a fine state of disorientation due to R’gul’s state of mind. Must F’lar unsettle everyone in the Weyr…

“Oh, be quiet,” F’lar retorted under his breath.

“Why?” Lessa demanded in her normal voice.

“I didn’t mean you, my dear Weyrwoman,” he assured her, smiling pleasantly, as if the entranced interlude had never occurred. “Mnementh is full of advice these days.”

“Like rider, like dragon,” she replied tartly.

RAMOTH YAWNED MIGHTILY. Lessa was instantly on her feet, running to her dragon’s side, her slight figure dwarfed by the six-foot dragon head.

A tender, adoring expression flooded her face as she gazed into Ramoth’s gleaming opalescent eyes. F’lar clenched his teeth, envious, by the Egg, of a rider’s affection for her dragon.

In his mind, he heard Mnementh’s dragon equivalent of laughter.

“She’s hungry,” Lessa informed F’lar, an echo of her love for Ramoth lingering in the soft line of her mouth, in the kindness in her gray eyes.

“She’s always hungry,” he observed and followed them out of the weyr.

Mnementh hovered courteously just beyond the ledge until Lessa and Ramoth had taken off. They glided down the Weyr Bowl, over the misty bathing lake, towards the feeding ground at the opposite end of the long oval that comprised the floor of Benden Weyr. The striated, precipitous walls were pierced with the black mouths of single weyr entrances, deserted at this time of day by the few dragons who might otherwise doze on their ledges in the wintry sun. Benden Weyr, that could house five hundred beasts, accommodated a scant two hundred these days.

As F’lar vaulted to Mnementh’s smooth bronze neck, he hoped that Ramoth’s clutch would be spectacular, erasing the ignominy of the paltry dozen Nemorth had laid in each of her last few clutches.

He had no serious doubts of the improvement after Ramoth’s remarkable mating flight with his Mnementh. The bronze dragon smugly echoed his rider’s certainty and both looked on the queen possessively as she curved her wings to land. She was twice Nemorth’s size, for one thing; her wings half-a-wing again longer than Mnementh’s who was the biggest of the seven male bronzes. F’lar looked to Ramoth to repopulate the five empty Weyrs, even as he looked to himself, and Lessa, to rejuvenate the pride and faith of dragonriders and of Pern itself. He only hoped time enough remained to him to do what was necessary. The Red Star had been bracketed by the Eye Rock. The Threads would soon be falling. Somewhere, in one of the other Weyrs’ records, must be the information he needed to ascertain when, exactly, Threads would fall.

Mnementh landed. F’lar jumped down from the curving neck to stand beside Lessa. The three watched as Ramoth, a buck grasped in each of her forefeet, rose to a feeding ledge.

“Will her appetite never taper off?” Lessa asked with affectionate dismay.

As a dragonet, Ramoth had been eating to grow. Her full stature attained, she was, of course, now eating for her young and she applied herself conscientiously.

F’lar chuckled and squatted, hunter fashion. He picked up shale flakes, skating them across the flat dry ground, counting the dust puffs boyishly.

“The time will come when she won’t eat everything in sight,” he assured Lessa. “But she’s still young…”

“…And needs her strength,” Lessa interrupted, her voice a fair imitation of R’gul’s pedantic tones.

F’lar looked up at her, squinting against the wintry sun that slanted down at them.

“She’s a finely grown beast, especially compared to Nemorth.” He gave a contemptuous snort. “In fact, there is no comparison. However, look here,” he ordered peremptorily.

He tapped the smoothed sand in front of him and she saw that his apparently idle gestures had been to a purpose. With a sliver of stone, he drew a design in quick strokes.

“IN ORDER TO fly a dragon between, he has to know where to go. And so do you.” He grinned at the astonished and infuriated look of comprehension on her face. “Ah, but there are certain consequences to an ill-considered jump. Badly visualized reference points often result in staying between.” His voice dropped ominously. Her face cleared of its resentment. “So, there are certain reference, or recognition points, arbitrarily taught all weyrlings. That,” he pointed first to his facsimile and then to the actual Star Stone with its Finger and Eye Rock companions, on Benden Peak, “that is the first recognition point a weyrling learns. When I take you aloft, you will reach an altitude just above the Star Stone, near enough for you to be able to see the hole in the Eye Rock clearly. Fix that picture sharply in your mind’s eye, relay it to Ramoth. That will always get you home.”

“Understood. But how do I learn recognition points of places I’ve never seen?”

He grinned up at her. “You’re drilled in them. First by your instructor,” and he pointed the sliver at his chest, “and then by going there, having directed your dragon to get the visualization from her instructor,” and he indicated Mnementh. The bronze dragon lowered his wedge-shaped head until one eye was focused on his rider and his mate’s rider. He made a pleased noise deep in his chest.

Lessa laughed up at the gleaming eye and, with unexpected affection, patted the soft nose.

F’lar cleared his throat in surprise. He was aware that Mnementh showed an unusual affection for the Weyrwoman but he had had no idea Lessa was fond of the bronze. Perversely, he was irritated.

“However,” he said, and his voice sounded unnatural to himself, “we take the young riders constantly to and from the main reference points all across Pern, to all the Holds so that they have eyewitness impressions on which to rely. As a rider becomes adept in picking out landmarks, he gets additional references from other riders. Therefore, to go between, there is actually only one requirement: a clear picture of where you want to go. And a dragon!” He grinned at her. “Also, you should always plan to arrive above your reference point in clear air.”

Lessa frowned.

“It is better to arrive in open air,” F’lar waved a hand above his head, “rather than underground,” and he slapped his open hand into the dirt. A puff of dust rose warningly.

“But the wings took off within the Bowl itself the day the Lords of the Hold arrived,” Lessa reminded him.

F’lar chuckled at her uptake. “True, but only the most seasoned riders. Once we came across a dragon and a rider entombed together in solid rock. They…were…very young.” His eyes were bleak.

“I take the point,” she assured him gravely. “That’s her fifth,” she added, pointing towards Ramoth who was carrying her latest kill up to the bloody ledge.

“She’ll work them off today, I assure you,” F’lar remarked. He rose, brushing off his knees with sharp slaps of his riding gloves. “Test her temper.”

Lessa did so with a silent, Had enough? She grimaced at Ramoth’s indignant rejection of the thought.

The queen went swooping down for a huge fowl, rising in a flurry of gray, brown and white feathers.

“She’s not as hungry as she’s making you think, the deceitful creature.” F’lar chuckled and saw that Lessa had reached the same conclusion. Her eyes were snapping with vexation.

“When you’ve finished the bird, Ramoth, do let us learn how to fly between,” Lessa said aloud for F’lar’s benefit, “before our good Weyrleader changes his mind.”

Ramoth looked from her gorging, turned her head towards the two riders at the edge of the feeding ground. Her eyes gleamed. She bent her head again to her kill but Lessa could sense the dragon would obey.

IT WAS COLD aloft. Lessa was glad of the fur lining in her riding gear, and the warmth of the great golden neck which she bestrode. She decided not to think of the absolute cold of between which she had experienced only once, coming from Ruath Hold to Benden Weyr three Turns before. She glanced below on her right where bronze Mnementh hovered and caught his amused thought.

F’lar tells me to tell Ramoth to tell you to fix the alignment of the Star Stone firmly in your mind as a homing. Then, Mnementh went on amiably, we shall fly down to the lake. You will return from between to this exact point. Do you understand?

Lessa found herself grinning foolishly with anticipation and nodded vigorously. How much time was saved because she could speak directly to the dragons! Ramoth made a disgruntled noise deep in her throat. Lessa patted her reassuringly.

“Have you got the picture in your mind, dear one?” she asked and Ramoth again rumbled, less annoyed because she was catching Lessa’s excitement.

Mnementh stroked the cold air with his wings, greenish brown in the sunlight, and curved down gracefully towards the lake on the plateau below Benden Weyr. His flight line took him very low over the rim of the Weyr. From Lessa’s angle, it looked like a collision course. Ramoth followed closely in his wake. Lessa caught her breath at the sight of the jagged boulders just below Ramoth’s wing tips.

It was exhilarating. Lessa crowed to herself, doubly stimulated by the elation that flowed back to her from Ramoth.

Mnementh halted above the farthest shore of the lake and there, too, Ramoth came to hover.

Mnementh flashed the thought to Lessa that she was to place the picture of where she wished to go firmly in her mind and direct Ramoth to get there.

Lessa complied. The next instant the awesome, bone-penetrating cold of black between enveloped them. Before either she or Ramoth was aware of more than that invidious touch of cold and impregnable darkness, they were above the Star Stone.

Lessa let out a cry of triumph.

It is extremely simple. Ramoth seemed disappointed.

Mnementh reappeared beside and slightly below them.

You are to return by the same route to the Lake, he ordered and before the thought had finished, Ramoth took off.

Mnementh was beside them above the lake, fuming with his own and F’lar’s anger. You did not visualize before transferring. Don’t think a first successful trip makes you perfect. You have no conception of the dangers inherent in between. Never fail to picture your arrival point again.

Lessa glanced down at F’lar. Even two wingspans apart, she could see the vivid anger on his face, almost feel the fury flashing from his eyes. And laced through the wrath, a terrible sinking fearfulness for her safety that was a more effective reprimand than his wrath. Lessa’s safety, she wondered bitterly, or Ramoth’s?

You are to follow us, Mnementh was saying in a calmer tone, rehearsing in your mind the two reference points you have already learned. We shall jump to and from them this morning, gradually learning other points around Benden.

They did. Flying as far away as Benden Hold itself, nestled against the foothills above Benden Valley, the Weyr Peak a far point against the noonday sky, Lessa did not neglect to visualize a clearly detailed impression, each time.

This was as marvelously exciting as she had hoped it would be, Lessa confided to Ramoth. Ramoth replied: Yes, it was certainly preferable to the time-consuming methods others had to use but she didn’t think it was exciting, at all, to jump between from Benden Weyr to Benden Hold and back to Benden Weyr again. It was dull.

THEY HAD MET with Mnementh above the Star Stone again. The bronze dragon sent Lessa the message that this was a very satisfactory initial session. They would practice some distant jumping tomorrow.

Tomorrow, thought Lessa glumly, some emergency will occur or our hardworking Weyrleader will decide today’s session constitutes keeping his promise and that will be that.

There was one jump she could make between, from anywhere on Pern, and not miss her mark.

She visualized Ruatha for Ramoth, as seen from the heights above the Hold…to satisfy that requirement. To be scrupulously clear, Lessa projected the pattern of the firepits. Before Fax invaded and she had had to manipulate its decline, Ruatha had been such a lovely prosperous valley. She told Ramoth to jump between.

The cold was intense and seemed to last for many heartbeats. Just as Lessa began to fear she had somehow lost them between, they exploded into the air above the Hold. Elation filled her. That for F’lar and his excessive caution. With Ramoth she could jump anywhere! For there was the distinctive pattern of Ruatha’s fire-gutted heights. It was just before dawn, the Breast Pass between Crom and Ruatha, black cones against the lightening gray sky. Fleetingly she noticed the absence of the Red Star that now blazed in the dawn sky. And fleetingly she noticed a difference in the air. Chill, yes, but not wintry…the air held that moist coolness of early spring.

Startled, she glanced downward, wondering if she could have, for all her assurance, erred in some fashion. But no, this was Ruath Hold. The Tower, the inner Court, the aspect of the broad avenue leading down to the crafthold were just as they should be. Wisps of smoke from distant chimneys indicated people were making ready for the day.

Ramoth caught the tenor of her insecurity and began to press for an explanation.

This is Ruatha, Lessa replied stoutly. It can be no other. Circle the heights. See, there are the fire-pit lines I gave you…

Lessa gasped, the coldness in her stomach freezing her muscles.

Below her in the slowly lifting pre-dawn gloom, she saw the figures of many men toiling over the breast of the cliff from the hills beyond Ruatha: men moving with quiet stealth like criminals.

She ordered Ramoth to keep as still as possible in the air so as not to direct their attention upward. The dragon was curious but obedient.

Who would be attacking Ruatha? It seemed incredible. The present Warder, Lytol, was a former dragonman and had savagely repelled one attack already. Was there thought of aggression among the Holds now that F’lar was Weyrleader? What Hold Lord would be mounting a territorial war in the winter?

No, not winter. The air here was spring-like.

The men crept on, over the fire-pits to the edge of the heights. Suddenly Lessa realized they were lowering rope ladders over the face of the cliff, down towards the open shutters of the Inner Hold.

Wildly she clutched at Ramoth’s neck, certain of what she saw.

This was the invader Fax, now dead nearly three Turns—Fax and his men as they began their attack on Ruatha nearly thirteen Turns ago.

Yes, there was the Tower guard, his face a white blot turned towards the cliff itself, watching. He had been paid his bribe to stand silent this morning.

But the watch-wher, trained to give alarm for any intrusion, why was it not trumpeting its warning? Why was it silent?

Because, Ramoth informed her rider with calm logic, it senses your presence as well as mine so how could the Hold possibly be in danger?

No. No! Lessa moaned. What can I do now? How can I wake them? Where is the girl I was? I was asleep and then I woke. I remember. I dashed from my room. I was so scared. I went down the steps and nearly fell. I knew I had to get to the watch-wher’s kennel…I knew…

Lessa clutched at Ramoth’s neck for support as past acts and mysteries became devastatingly clear.

She herself had warned herself, just as it was her presence on the queen dragon that had kept the watch-wher from giving alarm. For as she watched, stunned and speechless, she saw the small, gray-robed figure that could only be herself as a youngster burst from the Hold hall door, race down the cold stone steps into the Court and disappear into the watch-wher’s stinking den. Faintly she heard it lurring in piteous confusion.

Just as Lessa-the-girl reached that doubtful sanctuary, Fax’s invaders swooped into the open window embrasures and began the slaughter of her sleeping family.

Back—back to the Star Stone! Lessa cried. In her wide and staring eyes she held the image of the guiding rocks like a rudder for her sanity as well as Ramoth’s direction.

The intense cold acted as a restorative. And then they were above the quiet, peaceful wintry Weyr as if they had never paradoxically visited Ruatha.

F’lar and Mnementh were nowhere to be seen.

Ramoth, however, was unshaken by the experience. She had only gone where she had been told and had not quite understood that going when she had been told had shocked Lessa. She suggested to her rider that Mnementh had probably followed them to Ruatha so if Lessa would give her the proper references, she’d take her there. Ramoth’s sensible attitude was comforting.

Lessa carefully drew for Ramoth, not the child’s memory of a long-vanished, idyllic Ruatha, but her more recent recollection of the Hold, gray, sullen, at dawning, with a Red Star pulsing on the horizon.

And there they were again, hovering over the Valley, the Hold below them on the right. The grasses grew untended on the heights, clogging fire pit and brickwork; the scene showed all the deterioration she had encouraged in her effort to thwart Fax of any profit from conquering Ruath Hold.

But, as she watched, vaguely disturbed, she saw a figure emerge from the kitchen, saw the watch-wher creep from its lair and follow the raggedly dressed figure as far across the Court as the chain permitted. She saw the figure ascend the Tower, gaze first eastward, then northeastward. This was still not Ruatha of today and now! Lessa’s mind reeled, disoriented. This time she had come back to visit herself of three Turns ago, to see the filthy drudge plotting revenge on Fax.

She felt the absolute cold of between as Ramoth snatched them back, emerging once more above the Star Stone. Lessa was shuddering, her eyes frantically raking the reassuring sight of the Weyr Bowl, hoping she had not somehow shifted backwards in time yet again. Mnementh suddenly erupted into the air a few lengths below and beyond Ramoth. Lessa greeted him with a cry of intense relief.

Back to your weyr! There was no disguising the white fury in Mnementh’s tone. Lessa was too unnerved to respond in any way other than instant compliance. Ramoth glided swiftly to their ledge, quickly clearing the perch for Mnementh to land.

The rage on F’lar’s face as he leaped from Mnementh and advanced on Lessa brought her wits back abruptly. She made no move to evade him as he grabbed her shoulders and shook her violently.

“How dare you risk yourself and Ramoth? Why must you defy me at every opportunity? Do you realize what would happen to all Pern if we lost Ramoth? Where did you go?” He was spitting with anger, punctuating each question that tumbled from his lips by shaking her.

“Ruatha,” she managed to say, trying to keep herself erect. She reached out to catch at his arms but he shook her again.

“Ruatha? We were there. You weren’t. Where did you go?”

“Ruatha!” Lessa cried louder, clutching at him distractedly because he kept jerking her off balance. She couldn’t organize her thoughts with him jolting her.

She was at Ruatha, Mnementh said firmly.

We were there twice, Ramoth added.

As the dragons’ calmer words penetrated F’lar’s fury, he stopped shaking Lessa. She hung limply in his grasp, her hands weakly plucking at his arms, her eyes closed, her face gray. He picked her up and strode rapidly into the queen’s weyr, the dragons following. He placed her upon the couch, wrapping her tightly in the fur cover. He called down the service shaft for the duty cook to send up hot klah.

“All right, what happened?” he demanded.

She didn’t look at him but he got a glimpse of her haunted eyes. She blinked constantly as if she longed to erase something she had recently seen.

Finally she got herself somewhat under control and said in a low tired voice, “I did go to Ruatha. Only…I went back to Ruatha.”

“Back to Ruatha?” F’lar repeated the words stupidly. The significance momentarily eluded him.

Certainly, Mnementh agreed, and flashed to F’lar the two scenes he had picked out of Ramoth’s mind.

Staggered by the import of the visualization, F’lar found himself slowly sinking to the edge of the bed.

“You…you went between times?”

Lessa nodded slowly. The terror was beginning to leave her eyes.

“Between times,” F’lar murmured. “I wonder…”

His mind raced through the possibilities. It might well tip the scales of survival in the Weyr’s favor. He couldn’t think exactly how to use this extraordinary ability but there must be an advantage in it for dragonfolk.

THE SERVICE SHAFT tumbled. He took the pitcher from the platform and poured two cups.

Lessa’s hands were shaking so much she couldn’t get hers to her lips. He steadied it for her, wondering if going between times would cause this kind of shock regularly. If so, it wouldn’t be any advantage at all. He wondered if she’d had enough of a scare this day so she might not be so contemptuous of his orders the next time.

Outside in the weyr, Mnementh snorted his opinion on that. F’lar ignored him.

Lessa was trembling violently now. He put an arm around her, pressing the fur against her slender body. He held the mug to her lips, forcing her to drink. He could feel the tremors ease off. She finally held the cup and took long, slow, deep breaths between swallows, equally determined to get herself under control. The moment he felt her stiffen under his arm, he released her. He wondered if Lessa had ever had someone to turn to. Certainly not after Fax invaded her family Hold. She had been only eleven; a child. Had hate and revenge been the only emotions the growing girl had practiced?

She lowered the cup, cradling it in her hands carefully as if it had assumed some undefinable importance to her.

“Now. Tell me,” he ordered.

After a long deep breath she began to speak, her hands tightening around the mug. Her inner turmoil had not lessened; it was merely under control now.

“Ramoth and I were bored with the weyrling exercises,” she admitted candidly.

Grimly F’lar recognized that, while the adventure might have taught her to be more circumspect, it had not scared her into obedience. He doubted that anything would.

“I gave her the picture of Ruatha so we could go between there.” She did not look at him but her profile was outlined against the dark fur of the rug. “The Ruatha I knew so well: I accidentally sent myself backwards in time to the day Fax invaded.”

Her shock was now comprehensible to him.

“And…” he prompted her, his voice carefully neutral.

“And I saw myself…” her voice broke off. With an effort she continued. “I had visualized for Ramoth the designs of the fire pits and the angle of the Hold if one looked down from the pits into the Inner Court. That was where we emerged. It was just dawn”—she lifted her chin with a nervous jerk—“and there was no Red Star in the sky.” She gave him a quick defensive look as if she expected him to contest this detail. “And I saw men creeping over the fire pits, lowering rope ladders to the top windows of the Hold. I saw the Tower guard watching. Just watching.” She clenched her teeth at such treachery and her eyes gleamed malevolently. “And I saw myself run from the Hall into the watch-wher’s lair. And do you know why,” her voice lowered to a bitter whisper, “the watch-wher did not alarm the Hold?”

“Why?”

“Because there was a dragon in the sky and I, Lessa of Ruatha, was on her.” She flung the mug from her as if she wished she could reject the knowledge, too. “Because I was there, the watch-wher did not alarm the Hold, thinking the intrusion legitimate, with one of the Blood on a dragon in the sky. So I,” her body grew rigid, her hands clasped so tightly the knuckles were white, “I was the cause of my family’s massacre. Not Fax! If I had not acted the captious fool today, I would not have been there with Ramoth and the watch-wher would…”

Her voice had risen to an hysterical pitch of recrimination. He slapped her sharply across the cheeks, grabbing her, robe and all, to shake her.

The stunned look in her eyes and the tragedy in her face alarmed him. His indignation over her willfulness disappeared. Her unruly independence of mind and spirit attracted him as much as her curious dark beauty. Infuriating as her fractious ways might be, they were too vital a part of her integrity to be exorcised. Her indomitable will had taken a grievous shock today and her self-confidence had better be restored quickly.

“On the contrary, Lessa,” he said sternly, “Fax would still have murdered your family. He had planned it very carefully, even to scheduling his attack on the morning when the Tower guard was one who could be bribed. Remember, too, it was dawn and the watch-wher, being a nocturnal beast, blind by daylight, is relieved of responsibility at dawn and knows it. Your presence, damnable as it may appear to you, was not the deciding factor by any means. It did, and I draw your attention to this very important fact, it did cause you to save yourself, by warning Lessa-the-child. Don’t you see that?”

“I could have called out,” she murmured but the frantic look had left her eyes and there was a faint hint of normal color in her lips.

“If you wish to flail around in guilt, go right ahead,” he said with deliberate callousness.

RAMOTH INTERJECTED A thought that, since they, too, had been there that previous time as Fax’s men had prepared to invade, it had already happened, so how could it be changed? The act was inevitable both that day and today. For how else could Lessa have lived to come to the Weyr and impress Ramoth at the hatching?

Mnementh relayed Ramoth’s message scrupulously, even to imitating Ramoth’s egocentric nuances. F’lar looked sharply at Lessa to see the effect of Ramoth’s astringent observation.

“Just like Ramoth to have the final word,” she said with a hint of her former droll humor.

F’lar felt the muscles along his neck and shoulders begin to relax. She’d be all right, he decided, but it might be wiser to make her talk it all out now, to put the whole experience into proper perspective.

“You said you were there twice?” He leaned back on the couch, watching her closely. “When was the second time?”

“Can’t you guess?” she asked sarcastically.

“No,” he lied.

“When else but the dawn I wakened, feeling the Red Star was a menace to me. Three days before you and Fax came out of the northeast.”

“It would seem,” he remarked drily, “that you were your own premonition both times.”

She nodded.

“Have you had any more of these presentiments…or should I say, reinforced warnings?”

She shuddered but answered him with more of her old spirit.

“No, but if I should, you go. I don’t want to.” F’lar grinned maliciously.

“I would, however,” she added, “like to know why and how it could happen.”

“I’ve never run across a mention of it anywhere,” he told her candidly. “Of course, if you have done it, and you undeniably have,” he assured her hastily at her indignant protest, “it obviously can be done. You say you thought of Ruatha, but you thought of it as it was on that particular day. Certainly a day to be remembered. You thought of spring, before dawn, no Red Star…yes I remember you mentioning that…so one would have to remember references peculiar to a significant day to return between times to the past.”

She nodded slowly, thoughtfully.

“You used the same method the second time, to get to the Ruatha of three Turns ago. Again, of course, it was spring.”

He rubbed his palms together, then brought his hands down on his knees with an emphatic slap and rose to his feet.

“I’ll be back,” he said and strode from the room, ignoring her half-articulated cry of warning.

Ramoth was curling up in the weyr as he passed her. He noticed that her color remained good in spite of the drain of her energies by the morning’s exercises. She glanced at him, her many-faceted eye already covered by the inner, protective lid.

MNEMENTH AWAITED HIS rider on the ledge, and the moment F’lar leaped to his neck, took off. He circled upwards, hovering above the Star Stone.

You wish to try Lessa’s trick, Mnementh said, unperturbed by the prospective experiment.

F’lar stroked the great curved neck affectionately. You understand how it worked for Ramoth and Lessa?

As well as anyone can, Mnementh replied with the approximation of a shrug. When did you have in mind?

At that moment, F’lar had had no idea. Now, unerringly, his thoughts drew him backwards to the summer day R’gul’s bronze Hath had flown to mate the grotesque Nemorth, and R’gul had become Weyrleader in place of his dead father, F’lon.

Only the cold of between gave them any indication they had transferred; they were still hovering above the Star Stone. F’lar wondered if they had missed some essential part of the transfer. Then he realized that the sun was in another quarter of the sky, and the air was warm and sweet with summer. The Weyr below was empty, there were no dragons sunning themselves on the ledges, no women busy at tasks in the Bowl. Noises impinged on his senses; raucous laughter, yells, shrieks, and a soft crooning noise that dominated the bedlam.

Then, from the direction of the weyrling barracks in the lower Caverns, two figures emerged; a stripling and a young bronze dragon. The boy’s arm lay limply along the beast’s neck. The impression that reached the hovering observers was one of utter dejection. The two halted by the lake, the boy peering into the unruffled blue waters, then glancing upward towards the queen’s weyr.

F’lar knew the boy for himself, and compassion for that younger self filled him. If only he could reassure that boy, so torn by grief, so filled with resentment, that he would one day become Weyrleader…

Abruptly, startled by his own thoughts, he ordered Mnementh to transfer back. The utter cold of between was like a slap in his face, replaced almost instantly as they broke out of between into the cold of normal winter.

Slowly, Mnementh flew back down to the queen’s weyr, as sobered as F’lar by what they had seen.

Rise high in glory,

Bronze and gold.

Drive entwined,

Enhance the Hold.

Count three months and more,

And five heated weeks,

A day of glory and

In a month, who seeks?

A strand of silver

In the sky…

With heat, all quickens

And all times fly.

“I don’t know why you insisted F’nor unearth these ridiculous things from Ista Weyr,” Lessa exclaimed in a tone of exasperation. “They consist of nothing but trivial notes on how many measures of grain were used to bake daily bread.”

F’lar glanced up at her from the records he was studying. He sighed, leaned back in his chair in a bone-popping stretch.

“And I used to think,” Lessa said with a rueful expression on her vivid, narrow face, “that those venerable Records would hold the total sum of all dragonlore and human wisdom. Or so I was led to believe,” she added pointedly.

F’lar chuckled. “They do, but you have to disinter it.”

Lessa wrinkled her nose. “Phew. They smell as if we had…and the only decent thing to do would be to rebury them.”

“Which is another item I’m hoping to find…the old preservative technique that kept the skins from hardening and smelling.”

“It’s stupid, anyhow, to use skins for recording. There ought to be something better. We have become, dear Weyrleader, entirely too hidebound.”

While F’lar roared with appreciation of her pun, she regarded him impatiently. Suddenly she jumped up, fired by another of her mercurial moods.

“Well, you won’t find it. You won’t find the facts you’re looking for. Because I know what you’re really after and it isn’t recorded!”

“Explain yourself.”

“It’s time we stopped hiding a rather brutal truth from ourselves.”

“Which is?”

“Our mutual feeling that the Red Star is a menace and that the Threads will come! We decided that out of pure conceit and then went back between times to particularly crucial points in our lives and strengthened that notion, in our earlier selves. And for you, it was when you decided you were destined,” her voice mocked the word, “to become Weyrleader one day.

“Could it be,” she went on scornfully, “that our ultraconservative R’gul has the right of it? That there have been no Threads for four hundred Turns because there are no more? And that the reason we have so few dragons is because the dragons sense they are no longer essential to Pern? That we are anachronisms as well as parasites?”

F’lar did not know how long he sat looking at her bitter face, nor how long it took him to find answers for her probing questions.

“Anything is possible, Weyrwoman,” he heard his voice replying calmly. “Including the unlikely fact that an eleven-year-old child, scared stiff, could plot revenge on her family’s murderer and—against all odds—succeed.”

She took an involuntary step forward, struck by his unexpected rebuttal. She listened intently.

“I prefer to believe,” he went on inexorably, “that there is more to life than raising dragons and playing spring games. That is not enough for me. And I have made others look further, beyond self-interest and comfort. I have given them a purpose, a discipline. Everyone, dragonfolk and Holder alike, profits.

“I am not looking in these Records for reassurance. I’m looking for solid facts.

“I can prove, Weyrwoman, that there have been Threads. I can prove that there have been Intervals during which the Weyrs have declined. I can prove that if you sight the Red Star directly bracketed by the Eye Rock at the moment of winter solstice, the Red Star will pass close enough to Pern to throw off Threads. Since I can prove those facts, I believe Pern is in danger. I believe…not the youngster of fifteen Turns ago. F’lar, the bronze rider, the Weyrleader, believes it!”

He saw her eyes reflecting shadowy doubts but he sensed his arguments were beginning to reassure her.

“You felt constrained to believe in me once before,” he went on in a milder voice, “when I suggested that you could be Weyrwoman. You believed me and…” He made a gesture around the weyr as substantiation.

She gave him a weak, humorless smile.

“That was because I had never planned what to do with my life once I did have Fax lying dead at my feet. Of course, being Ramoth’s weyrmate is wonderful but”—and she frowned slightly—“it isn’t enough anymore either. That’s why I wanted so to learn to fly and then…”

“…That’s how this argument started in the first place,” F’lar finished for her with a sardonic smile.

He leaned across the table, urgently.

“Believe with me, Lessa, until you have cause not to. I respect your doubts. There’s nothing wrong in doubting. It sometimes leads to greater faith. But believe in me until spring. If the Threads have not fallen by then…” He shrugged fatalistically.

She looked at him for a long moment and then inclined her head slowly, in agreement.

HE TRIED TO suppress the relief he felt at her decision. Lessa, as Fax had discovered, was a ruthless adversary and a canny advocate. Besides these, she was Weyrwoman: essential to his plans.

“Now, let’s get back to the contemplation of trivia. They do tell me, you know: time, place and duration of Thread incursions,” he grinned up at her reassuringly. “And those are facts I must have to make up my timetable.”

“Timetable? But you said you didn’t know the time.”

“Not the day to the second when the Threads may spin down. For one thing, while the weather holds so unusually cold for this time of year, the Threads simply turn brittle and blow away like dust. They’re harmless. However, when the air is warm, they are viable and…deadly.” He made fists of both hands, placing one above and to one side of the other.

“The Red Star is my right hand, my left is Pern. The Red Star turns very fast and in the opposite direction to us. It also wobbles erratically.”

“How do you know that?”

“Diagram on the walls of the Fort Weyr Hatching Ground. That was the very first Weyr. So, when the Star makes a pass, the Threads spin off, down towards us, in attacks that last six hours and occur about fourteen hours apart.”

“Attacks last six hours?”

He nodded gravely. “When the Red Star is closest to us. Right now, it is just beginning its Pass.”

She frowned.

He rummaged among the skin sheets on the table and an object dropped to the stone floor with a metallic clatter.

Curious, Lessa bent to pick it up, turning the thin sheet over in her hands. “What’s this?” She ran an exploratory finger lightly across the irregular design on one side.

“I don’t know. F’nor brought it back from Fort Weyr. It was nailed to one of the chests in which Records had been stored. He brought it along, thinking it might be important. Said there was a plate like it just under the Red Star diagram on the wall of the Hatching Ground.

“This first part is plain enough: ‘Mother’s father’s father, who departed for all time between, said this was the key to the mystery, and it came to him while doodling. He said that he said: ARRHENIUS? EUREKA! MYCORRHIZA…’ Of course that part doesn’t make any sense at all. It isn’t even Pernese; just babbling, the last three words.

“I have studied it, Lessa. The only way to depart for all time between is to die, right? People can’t just fly away on their own, obviously. So it is a death vision, dutifully recorded by a grandchild, who couldn’t spell very well. ‘Doodling’ as the present tense of dying!” He smiled indulgently. “And as for the rest of it, after the nonsense; like most death visions, it ‘explains’ what everyone has always known. The second part says simply: ‘…flame-throwing fire-lizards to wipe out the spores. Q.E.D.’ No, this is no help in our researches, just a primitive rejoicing that he is a dragonman, who didn’t even know the right word for Threads.”

Lessa wet one fingertip to see if the patterns were inked on. The metal was shiny enough to be a good mirror. However, the patterns remained smooth and precise. “Primitive or no, they had a more permanent way of recording their visions than well-preserved skins.”

“Well-preserved babblings,” said F’lar, turning back to the skins he was checking for understandable data.

“A badly-scored ballad, perhaps,” said Lessa, dismissing it. “The design isn’t even pretty.”

F’LAR PULLED FORWARD a chart that showed overlapping horizontal bands imposed on the project of Pern’s continental mass.

“Here,” he said, “this represents waves of attack and this one,” he pulled forward the second map with vertical bands, “shows time bands. So you can see, that with a fourteen-hour break, only certain parts of Pern are affected in each attack. One reason for the spacing of the weyrs.”

“Six full weyrs,” she murmured, “close to three thousand dragons.”

“I’m aware of the statistics,” he replied in a voice devoid of expression. “It meant no one weyr was overburdened during the height of the attacks, not that three thousand beasts must be available. However, with these timetables, we can manage until Ramoth’s first clutches have matured.”

She turned a cynical look on him. “You’ve a lot of faith in one queen’s capacity.”

He waved that remark aside impatiently. “I’ve more faith, no matter what your opinion is, in the startling repetitions of events in these Records.”

“Ha!”

“I don’t mean how many measures for daily bread, Lessa,” he retorted, his voice rising. “I mean such things as the time such and such a wing was sent out on patrol, how long the patrol lasted, how many riders were hurt. The brooding capacities of queens, during the fifty years a Pass lasts and the Intervals between such Passes. Yes, it tells that. By all I’ve studied here,” and he pounded emphatically on the nearest stack of dusty, smelly skins, “Nemorth should have been mating twice a Turn for the last ten. Had she even kept to her paltry twelve a clutch, we’d have two hundred and forty more beasts…Don’t interrupt. But we had Jora as Weyrwoman and R’gul as Weyrleader and we had fallen into planet-wide disfavor during a four hundred Turn interval. Well, Ramoth will brood over no measly dozen and she’ll lay a queen egg, mark my words. She will rise often to mate and lay generously. By the time the Red Star is passing closest to us and the attacks become frequent, we’ll be ready.”

She stared at him, her eyes wide with incredulity. “Out of Ramoth?”

“Out of Ramoth and out of the queens she’ll lay. Remember, there are Records of Faranth laying sixty eggs at a time, including several queen eggs.”

Lessa could only shake her head slowly in wonder.

“‘A Strand of silver

In the sky.

With heat, all quickens.

All times fly!’” F’lar quoted to her.

“She’s got weeks more to go before laying and then the eggs must hatch…”

“Been on the Hatching Ground recently? Wear your boots. You’ll be burned through sandals.”

She dismissed that with a guttural noise. He sat back, outwardly amused by her disbelief.

“…And then you have to make Impression and wait till the riders…” she went on.

“…Why do you think I’ve insisted on older boys? The dragons are mature long before their riders.”

“Then the system is faulty.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly, shaking the stylus at her.

“Dragon tradition started out as a guide…but there comes a time when man becomes too traditional…too—what was it you said the other day—too hidebound. Yes, it’s traditional to use the weyrbred, because it’s been convenient. And because this sensitivity to dragons strengthens when both sire and dam are weyrbred. That doesn’t mean weyrbred is best. You, for example…”

“There’s Weyrblood in the Ruathan Line,” she said proudly.

“Granted. Take young Naton; he’s craftbred from Nabol, yet F’nor tells me he can make Canth understand him.”

“Oh, that’s hard to do,” she interjected.

“What do you mean?” F’lar jumped on her statement.

THEY WERE BOTH interrupted by a high-pitched, penetrating whine. F’lar listened intently for a moment and then shrugged, grinning.

“Some green’s getting herself chased again.”

“And that’s another item these so-called all-knowing records of yours never mention. Why is it only the gold dragons can reproduce?”

F’lar did not suppress a lascivious chuckle.

“Well, for one thing, firestone inhibits reproduction. If they never chewed stone, a green could lay but, at best, they produce small beasts and we need big ones. And, for another thing,” his chuckle rolled out as he went on deliberately, grinning mischievously, “if the greens could reproduce, considering their amorousness, and the numbers we have of them, we’d be up to our ears in dragons in next to no time.”

The first whine was joined by another and then a low hum throbbed as if carried by the stones of the Weyr itself.

F’lar, his face changing rapidly from surprise to triumphant astonishment, dashed up the passage before Lessa could open her mouth.

“What’s the matter?” she demanded, picking up her skirts to run after him. “What does that mean?”

The hum, resonating everywhere, was deafening in the echo-chamber of the queen’s weyr. Lessa registered the fact that Ramoth was gone. She heard F’lar’s boots pounding down the passage to the ledge, a sharp ta-ta-tat over the kettledrum booming hum. The whine was so high-pitched now it was inaudible, but nerve-wracking. Disturbed, frightened, Lessa followed F’lar out.

By the time she reached the ledge, the Bowl was a-whir with dragons on the wing, making for the high entrance to the Hatching Ground. Weyrfolk, riders, women, children, all screaming with excitement, were pouring across the Bowl to the lower entrance to the Ground.

She caught sight of F’lar charging across to the tunnel entrance and she shrieked at him to wait. He couldn’t have heard her across the bedlam.

Fuming because she had the long stairs to descend, then must double back as the stairs faced the feeding grounds at the opposite end of the Bowl from the Hatching Ground, Lessa realized that she, the Weyrwoman, would be the last one there.

Why had Ramoth decided to be secretive about laying? Wasn’t she close enough to her own weyrmate to want her with her?

A dragon knows what to do, Ramoth calmly informed Lessa.

“You could have told me,” Lessa wailed, feeling much abused.

Why, at the time F’lar had been going on largely about huge clutches and three thousand beasts, that infuriating dragonchild had been doing it!

It didn’t improve Lessa’s temper to have to recall another remark of F’lar’s—on the state of the Hatching Grounds. The moment she stepped into the mountain-high cavern, she felt the heat through the soles of her sandals. Everyone was crowded in a loose circle around the far end of the cavern. And everyone was swaying from foot to foot. As Lessa was short to begin with, this only decreased the likelihood of her ever seeing what Ramoth had done.

“Let me through!” she demanded imperiously, pounding on the wide backs of two tall riders.

An aisle was reluctantly opened for her and she went through, looking neither to her right nor left at the excited weyrfolk. She was furious, confused, hurt and knew she looked ridiculous because the hot sand made her walk a curious, quick-step mince.

She halted, stunned and wide-eyed at the mass of eggs, and forgot such trivial things as hot feet.

RAMOTH WAS CURLED around the clutch, looking enormously pleased with herself. She, too, kept shifting, closing and opening a protective wing over her eggs so it was difficult to count them.

“No one will steal them, silly, so stop fluttering,” Lessa exclaimed as she tried to make a tally.

Obediently, Ramoth folded her wings. To relieve her maternal anxiety, however, she snaked her head out across the circle of mottled, glowing eggs, looking all around the cavern, flicking her forked tongue in and out.

An immense sigh, like a gust of wind, swept through the cavern. For there, now Ramoth’s wings were furled, gleamed an egg of glowing gold among the tan, the green and the blue ones. A queen egg!

“A queen egg!” The cry went up simultaneously from half a hundred throats. The Hatching Ground rang with cheers, yells, screams and howls of exultation.

Someone seized Lessa and swung her around in an excess of feeling. A kiss landed in the vicinity of her mouth. No sooner did she recover her footing than she was hugged by someone else, she thought it was Manora, and then pounded and buffeted around in congratulation until she was reeling in a kind of dance between avoiding the celebrants and easing the growing discomfort of her feet.

She broke from the milling revelers and ran across the Ground to Ramoth. She came to a sudden stop before the eggs. They seemed to be pulsing. The shells looked flaccid. She could have sworn they were hard the day she Impressed Ramoth. She wanted to touch one, just to make sure, and dared not.

You may, Ramoth assured her condescendingly. She touched Lessa’s shoulder gently with her tongue.

The egg was soft to touch and Lessa drew her hand back quickly, afraid of doing injury.

The heat will harden it, Ramoth said.

“Ramoth, I’m so proud of you,” Lessa sighed, looking adoringly up at the great eyes which shone in rainbows of pride. “You are the most marvelous queen ever. I do believe you will redragon all the Weyrs. I do believe you will.”

Ramoth inclined her head regally, then began to sway it from side to side over the eggs, protectingly. She began to hiss suddenly, raising up from her crouch, beating the air with her wings, before settling back into the sands to lay yet another egg.

The weyrfolk, uncomfortable on the hot sands, were beginning to leave the Hatching Ground, now they had paid tribute to the arrival of the golden egg. A queen took several days to complete her clutch so there was no point to waiting. Seven eggs already lay beside the important golden one and if there were seven already, this augured well for the eventual total. Wagers were being made and taken even as Ramoth produced her ninth mottled egg.

“A queen egg, by the mother of us all,” F’lar’s voice said in Lessa’s ear. “And I’ll wager there’ll be ten bronzes at least.”

She looked up at him, completely in harmony with the Weyrleader at this moment. She was conscious, now, of Mnementh, crouching proudly on a ledge, gazing fondly at his mate. Impulsively, Lessa laid her hand on F’lar’s arm.

“F’lar, I do believe you.”

“Only now?” F’lar teased her, but his smile was wide and his eyes proud.

Weyrman, watch; Weyrman, learn

Something new in every Turn.

Oldest may be coldest, too.

Sense the right; find the true!

If F’lar’s orders over the next months caused no end of discussion and muttering among the weyrfolk, they seemed, to Lessa, to be only the logical outcomes of their discussion after Ramoth had finished laying her gratifying total of forty-one eggs.

F’lar discarded tradition right and left, treading on more than R’gul’s conservative toes.

Out of perverse distaste for outworn doctrines against which she herself had chafed during R’gul’s leadership, and out of respect for F’lar’s intelligence, Lessa backed him completely. She might not have respected her earlier promise to him that she would believe in his ways until spring if she had not seen his predictions come true one after another. These were based, however, not on the premonitions she no longer trusted after her experience between time, but on recorded facts.

As soon as the eggshells hardened and Ramoth had rolled her special queen egg to one side of the mottled clutch for attentive brooding, F’lar brought the prospective riders into the Hatching Ground. Traditionally the candidates saw the eggs for the first time on the day of Impression. To this precedent, F’lar added others: Very few of the sixty-odd were weyrbred and most of them were in their late teens. The candidates were to get used to the eggs, touch them, caress them, be comfortable with the notion that out of these eggs, young dragons would hatch, eager and waiting to be Impressed. F’lar felt that such a practice might cut down on casualties during Impression when the boys were simply too scared to move out of the way of the awkward dragonets.

F’lar also had Lessa persuade Ramoth to let Kylara near her precious golden egg. Kylara readily enough weaned her son and spent hours, with Lessa acting as her tutor, beside the golden egg. Despite Kylara’s loose attachment to T’bor, she showed an open preference for F’lar’s company. Therefore, Lessa took great pains to foster F’lar’s plan for Kylara since it meant her removal, with the new-hatched queen, to Fort Weyr.

F’lar’s use of the Hold-born as riders served an additional purpose. Shortly before the actual Hatching and Impression, Lytol, the Warder appointed at Ruath Hold, sent another message.

“The man positively delights in sending bad news,” Lessa remarked as F’lar passed the message skin to her.

“He’s gloomy,” F’nor agreed. He had brought the message. “I feel sorry for that youngster cooped up with such a pessimist.”

Lessa frowned at the brown rider. She still found distasteful any mention of Gemma’s son, now Lord of her ancestral Hold. Yet…she had inadvertently caused his mother’s death. As she could not be Weyrwoman and Lady Holder at the same time, it was fitting that Gemma’s Gaxom be Lord at Ruatha.

“I, however,” F’lar said, “am grateful to his warnings. I suspected Meron would cause trouble again.”

“He’s got shifty eyes, like Fax,” Lessa remarked.

“Shifty-eyed or not, he’s dangerous,” F’lar answered. “And I cannot have him spreading rumors that we are deliberately choosing men of the Blood to weaken Family Lines.”

“There are more craftsmen’s sons than Holders’ boys in any case,” F’nor snorted.

“I don’t like him questioning that the Threads have not appeared,” Lessa said gloomily.

F’lar shrugged. “They’ll appear in due time. Be thankful the weather has continued cold. When the weather warms up and still no Threads, then I will worry.” He grinned at Lessa in an intimate reminder of her promise.

F’nor cleared his throat hastily and looked away.

“However,” the Weyrleader went on briskly, “I can do something about the other accusation.”

So, when it was apparent the eggs were about to hatch, he broke another long-standing tradition and sent riders to fetch the fathers of the young candidates from craft and Hold.

The great Hatching cavern gave the appearance of being almost full as Holder and Weyrfolk watched from the tiers above the heated Ground. This time, Lessa observed, there was no aura of fear. The youthful candidates were tense, yes, but not frightened out of their wits by the rocking, shattering eggs. When the ill-coordinated dragonets awkwardly stumbled—it seemed to Lessa they deliberately looked around at the eager faces as though pre-Impressed—the youths either stepped to one side, or eagerly advanced as a crooning dragonet made his choice. The Impressions were made quickly and with no accidents. All too soon, Lessa thought, the triumphant process of stumbling dragons and proud new riders moved erratically out of the hatching Ground to the barracks.

The young queen burst from her shell and moved unerringly for Kylara, standing confidently on the hot sands. The watching beasts hummed their approval.

“It was over too soon,” Lessa said in a disappointed voice that evening to F’lar.

He laughed indulgently, allowing himself a rare evening of relaxation now that another step had gone as planned. The Holder folk had been ridden home, stunned, dazed and themselves impressed by the Weyr and the Weyrleader.

“That’s because you were watching this time,” he remarked, brushing a lock of her hair back. It obscured his view of her profile. He chuckled again. “You’ll notice Naton…”

“…N’ton…” she corrected him.

“…All right, N’ton…Impressed a bronze.”

“Just as you predicted,” she said with some asperity.

“And Kylara is Weyrwoman for Pridith.”

Lessa did not comment on that and she did her best to ignore his laughter.

“I wonder which bronze will fly her,” he murmured softly.

“It had better be T’bor’s Orth,” Lessa said, bridling.

He answered her the only way a wise man could.

Crack dust, blackdust,

Turn in freezing air,

Waste dust, spacedust,

From Red Star bare.

Lessa woke abruptly, her head aching, her eyes blurred, her mouth dry. She had the immediate memory of a terrible nightmare which, just as quickly, escaped recall. She brushed her hair out of her face and was surprised to find she had been sweating heavily.

“F’lar?” she called in an uncertain voice. He had evidently risen early. “F’lar,” she called again, louder.

He’s coming, Mnementh informed her. Lessa sensed that the dragon was just landing on the ledge. She touched Ramoth and found that the queen, too, had been bothered by formless, frightening dreams. The dragon roused briefly and then fell back into deeper sleep.

Disturbed by her vague fears, Lessa rose and dressed, forgoing a bath for the first time since she had arrived at the Weyr.

She called down the shaft for breakfast, plaiting her hair with deft fingers as she waited.

The tray appeared on the shaft platform just as F’lar entered. He kept looking back over his shoulder at Ramoth.

“What’s got into her?”

“Echoing my nightmare. I woke in a cold sweat.”

“You were sleeping quietly enough when I left to assign patrols. You know, at the rate those dragonets are growing, they’re already capable of limited flight. All they do is eat and sleep and that is…”

“…What makes a dragon grow…” Lessa finished for him and sipped thoughtfully at her steaming hot klah. “You are going to be extra careful about their drill procedures, aren’t you?”

“You mean to prevent an inadvertent flight between times? I certainly am,” he assured her. “I don’t want bored dragonriders irresponsibly popping in and out.” He gave her a long, stern look.

“Well, it wasn’t my fault no one taught me to fly early enough,” she replied in the sweet tone she used when she was being especially malicious. “If I’d been drilled from the day of Impression to the day of my first flight, I’d never have discovered that trick.”

“True enough,” he said solemnly.

“You know, F’lar, if I discovered it, someone else must have and someone else may. If they haven’t already.”

F’lar drank, making a face as the klah scalded his tongue. “I don’t know how to find out discreetly. We would be foolish to think we were the first. It is, after all, an inherent ability in dragons or you would never have been able to do it.”

She frowned, took a quick breath and then let it go, shrugging.

“Go on,” he encouraged her.

“Well, isn’t it possible that our conviction about the imminence of the Threads could stem from one of us coming back when the Threads are actually falling…I mean…”

“My dear girl, we have both analyzed every stray thought and action—even your dream this morning upset you although it was no doubt due to all the wine you drank last night—until we wouldn’t know an honest presentiment if it walked up and slapped us in the face.”

“I can’t dismiss the thought that this between times ability is of crucial value,” she said emphatically.

“That, my dear Weyrwoman, is an honest presentiment.”

“But why?”

“Not ‘why,’” he corrected her cryptically, “when.” An idea stirred vaguely in the back of his mind. He tried to nudge it out where he could mull it over. Mnementh announced that F’nor was entering the Weyr.

“WHAT’S THE MATTER with you?” F’lar demanded of his half brother for F’nor was choking and sputtering, his face red with the paroxysm.

“Dust…” he coughed, slapping at his sleeves and chest with his riding gloves. “Plenty of dust, but no Threads,” he said, describing a wide arc with one arm as he fluttered his fingers suggestively. He brushed his tight, wher-hide pants, scowling as a fine black dust drifted off.

F’lar felt every muscle in his body tense as he watched the dust float to the floor.

“Where did you get so dusty?” he demanded.

F’nor regarded him with mild surprise. “Weather patrol in Tillek. Entire north has been plagued with dust storms lately. But what I came in for…” He broke off, alarmed by F’lar’s taut immobility. “What’s the matter with dust?” he asked in a baffled voice.

F’lar pivoted on his heel and raced for the stairs to the Record Room. Lessa was right behind him, F’nor belatedly trailing after.

“Tillek, you said?” F’lar barked at his wingsecond. He was clearing the table of stacks for the four charts he then laid out. “How long have these storms been going on? Why didn’t you report them?”

“Report dust storms? You wanted to know about warm air masses.”

“How long have these storms been going on?” F’lar’s voice crackled.

“Close to a week.”

“How close?”

“Six days ago, the first storm was noticed in upper Tillek. They have been reported in Bitra, upper Telgar, Crom and the High Reaches,” F’nor reported tersely.

He glanced hopefully at Lessa but saw she, too, was staring at the four unusual charts. He tried to see why the horizontal and vertical strips had been superimposed on Pern’s land mass, but the reason was beyond him.

F’lar was making hurried notations, pushing first one map and then another away from him.

“Too involved to think straight, to see clearly, to understand,” the Weyrleader snarled to himself, throwing down the stylus angrily.

“You did say only warm air masses,” F’nor heard himself saying humbly, aware that he had somehow failed his Weyrleader.

F’lar shook his head impatiently.

“Not your fault, F’nor. Mine. I should have asked. I knew it was good luck that the weather held so cold.” He put both hands on F’nor’s shoulders, looking directly in his eyes. “The Threads have been falling,” he announced gravely. “Falling into cold air, freezing into bits to drift on the wind,” and F’lar imitated F’nor’s finger-fluttering, “as specks of black dust.”

“‘Crack dust, blackdust,’” Lessa quoted. “In the Ballad of Moreta’s Ride, the chorus is all about black dust.”

“I don’t need to be reminded of Moreta right now,” F’lar growled, bending to the maps. “She could talk to any dragon in the Weyrs.”

“But I can do that!” Lessa protested.

Slowly, as if he didn’t quite credit his ears, F’lar turned back to Lessa. “What did you just say?”

“I said, I can talk to any dragon in the Weyr.”

STILL STARING AT her, blinking in utter astonishment, F’lar sank down to the table top.

“How long,” he managed to say, “have you had this particular skill?”

Something in his tone, in his manner, caused Lessa to flush and stammer like an erring weyrling.

“I…I always could. Beginning with the watch-wher at Ruatha…” and she gestured indecisively in Ruatha’s westerly direction, “and I talked to Mnementh at Ruatha. And…when I got here, I could—” her voice faltered at the accusing look in F’lar’s cold, hard eyes. Accusing and worse, contemptuous.

“I thought you had agreed to help me, to believe in me.”

“I’m truly sorry, F’lar. It never occurred to me it was any use to anyone but—”

F’lar exploded onto both feet, his eyes blazing with aggravation.

“The one thing I could not figure out was how to direct the wings and keep in contact with the Weyr during an attack. How was I going to get reinforcements and firestone in time. And you…you have been sitting there, spitefully hiding the—”

“I am NOT spiteful,” she screamed at him. “I said I was sorry. I am. But you’ve a nasty smug habit of keeping your own council. How was I to know you didn’t have the same trick? You’re F’lar, the Weyrleader. You can do anything. Only you’re just as bad as R’gul because you never tell me half the things I ought to know.”

F’lar reached out and shook her until her angry voice was stopped.

“Enough. We can’t waste time arguing like children.” Then his eyes widened, his jaw dropped. “Waste time? That’s it.”

“Go between times?” Lessa gasped.

“Between times!”

F’nor was totally confused. “What are you two talking about?”

“The Threads started falling at dawn in Nerat,” F’lar said, his eyes bright, his manner decisive.

F’nor could feel his guts congealing with apprehension. At dawn in Nerat? Why, the rainforests would be demolished. He could feel a surge of adrenaline charging through his body at the thought of danger.

“So we’re going back there, between times, and be there when the Threads started falling, two hours ago. F’nor, the dragons can go not only where we direct them, but when.”

“Where? When?” F’nor repeated, bewildered. “That could be dangerous.”

“Yes, but today it will save Nerat. Now, Lessa,” and F’lar gave her another shake, compounded of pride and affection, “order out all the dragons, young, old—any that can fly. Tell them to load themselves down with firestone sacks. I don’t know if you can talk across time…”

“My dream this morning…”

“Perhaps. But right now, rouse the Weyr.” He pivoted to F’nor. “If Threads are falling…were falling…at Nerat at dawn, they’ll be falling on Keroon and Ista right now, because they are in that time pattern. Take two wings to Keroon. Arouse the plains. Get them to start the fire pits blazing. Take some weyrlings with you and send them on to Igen and Ista. Those Holds are not in as immediate danger as Keroon. I’ll reinforce you as soon as I can. And…keep Canth in touch with Lessa.”

F’lar clapped his brother on the shoulder and sent him off, the brown rider too used to taking orders to argue.

“MNEMENTH SAYS R’GUL is duty officer and R’gul wants to know…” Lessa began.

‘C’mon, girl,” F’lar said, his eyes brilliant with excitement. He grabbed up his maps and propelled her up the stairs.

They arrived in the weyr just as R’gul entered with T’sum. R’gul was muttering about this unusual summons.

“Hath told me to report,” he complained. “Fine thing when your own dragon…”

“R’gul, T’sum, mount your wings. Arm them with all the firestone they can carry and assemble above Star Stone. I’ll join you in a few minutes. We go to Nerat at dawn.”

“Nerat? I’m watch officer, not patrol…”

“This is no patrol,” F’lar cut him off.

“But sir,” T’sum interrupted, his eyes wide, “Nerat’s dawn was two hours ago, same as ours.”

“And that is when we are going to, brown rider. The dragons, we have discovered, can go between places temporally as well as geographically. At dawn, Threads fell at Nerat. We’re going back, between times, to sear them from the sky.”

F’lar paid no attention to R’gul’s stammered demand for explanation. T’sum, however, grabbed up firestone sacks and raced back to the ledge and his waiting Munth.

“Go on, you old fool,” Lessa told R’gul irascibly. “The Threads are here. You were wrong. Now be a dragonman! Or go between and stay there!”

Ramoth, awakened by the alarms, poked at R’gul with her man-sized head and the ex-Weyrleader came out of his momentary shock. Without a word, he followed T’sum down the passageway.

F’lar had thrown on his heavy wher-hide tunic and shoved on his riding boots.

“Lessa, be sure to send messages to all the Holds. Now, this attack will stop about four hours from now. So the farthest west it can reach will be Ista. But I want every Hold and craft warned.”

She nodded, her eyes intent on his face lest she miss a word.

“Fortunately the Star is just beginning its Pass so we won’t have to worry about another attack for a few days. I’ll figure out the next one when I get back.

“Now, get Manora to organize her women. We’ll need pails of ointment. The dragons are going to be laced and that hurts. Most important, if something goes wrong, you’ll have to wait till a bronze is at least a year old to fly Ramoth…” Suddenly F’lar crushed her against him, his mouth bruising hers as if all her sweetness and strength must come with him. He released her so abruptly she staggered back against Ramoth’s lowered head. She clung for a moment to her dragon, as much for support as for reassurance.

Wheel and turn.

Or bleed and burn.

Fly between,

Blue and green.

Soar, dive down,

Bronze and brown

Dragonmen must fly

When Threads are in the sky.

As F’lar raced down the passageway to the ledge, firesacks bumping against his thighs, he was suddenly grateful for the tedious sweeping patrols over every Hold and hollow of Pern. He could see Nerat clearly in his mind’s eye. He could see the many petaled vineflowers which were the distinguishing feature of the rainforests at this time of year. Their ivory blossoms would be glowing in the first beams of sunlight like dragoneyes among the tall, wide-leaved plants.

Mnementh, his eyes flashing with excitement, hovered skittishly at the ledge. F’lar vaulted to the bronze neck.

The Weyr was seething with wings of all colors, noisy with shouts and countercommands. The atmosphere was electric but F’lar could sense no panic in that ordered confusion. Dragon and human bodies oozed out of openings around the Bowl walls. Women scurried across the floor from one lower cavern to another. The children playing by the lake were sent to gather wood for a fire. The weyrlings, supervised by old C’gan, were forming outside their barracks. F’lar looked up to the Peak and approved the tight formation of the wings assembled there in close flying order. Another wing formed up as he watched. He recognized brown Canth, F’nor on his neck, just as the entire wing vanished.

He ordered Mnementh aloft. The wind was cold and carried a hint of moisture. A late snow? This was the time for it, if ever.

R’gul’s wing and T’bor’s fanned out on his left, T’sum and D’nol on his right. He noted each dragon was well-laden with sacks. Then he gave Mnementh the visualization of the early spring rainforest in Nerat, just before dawn, the vineflowers gleaming, the sea breaking against the rocks of the High Shoal…

He left the searing cold of between. And he felt a stab of doubt. Was he injudicious, sending them all, possibly to their deaths between times, in this effort to out-time the Threads at Nerat?

Then, they were all there, in the crepuscular light that promises day. The lush, fruity smells of the rainforest drifting up to them. Warm, too, and that was frightening. He looked up and slightly to the north. Pulsing with menace, the Red Star shone down.

The men had realized what had happened, their voices raised in astonishment. Mnementh told F’lar that the dragons were mildly surprised at their riders’ fuss.

“Listen to me, dragonriders,” F’lar called, his voice harsh and distorted in an effort to be heard by all. He waited till the men had moved as close as possible. He told Mnementh to pass the information on to each dragon. Then he explained what they had done and why. No one spoke but there were many nervous looks exchanged across bright wings.

Crisply he ordered the wings to fan out in a staggered formation, keeping a distance of five-wings’ spread up or down between them.

The sun came up.

SLANTING ACROSS THE sea, like an ever-thickening mist, Threads were falling; silent, beautiful, treacherous. Silvery gray were those space-traversing spores, spinning from hard frozen ovals into coarse filaments as they penetrated the warm atmospheric envelope of Pern. Less than mindless, they had been ejected from their barren planet towards Pern, a hideous rain that sought organic matter to nourish it into growth. The southern continent of Pern had already been sucked dry. One Thread sinking into fertile soil would burrow deep, propagating thousands in the warm earth, rendering it into a black-dusted wasteland.

A stifled roar from the throats of eighty men and dragons broke the dawn air above Nerat’s green heights—as if the Threads might hear this challenge, F’lar mused.

As one, dragons swiveled their wedge-shaped heads to their riders for firestone. Great jaws macerated the hunks. The fragments were swallowed and more firestone was demanded. Inside the beasts, acids churned and the poisonous phosphenes were readied. When the dragons belched forth the gas, it would ignite in the air, into ravening flame to sear the Threads from the sky. And burn them from the soil.

Dragon instinct took over the moment the Threads began to fall above Nerat’s shores.

As much admiration as F’lar had always held for his bronze companion, it achieved newer heights in the next hours. Beating the air in great strokes, Mnementh soared with flaming breath to meet the down-rushing menace. The fumes, swept back by the wind, choked F’lar until he thought to crouch low on the lee side of the bronze neck. The dragon squealed as Threads flicked the tip of one wing. Instantly F’lar and he ducked into between, cold, calm, black. In the flicker of an eye, they were back to face the reality of Threads.

Around him, F’lar saw dragons winking in and out of between, flaming as they returned, diving, soaring. As the attack continued, and they drifted across Nerat, F’lar began to recognize the pattern in the dragons’ instinctive evasion-attack movements—and in the Threads. For, contrary to what he had gathered from his study of the Records, the Threads fell in patches. Not as rain will, in steady unbroken sheets, but like flurries of snow; here, above, there, whipped to one side suddenly. Never fluidly, despite the continuity their name implied.

You could see a patch above you. Flaming, your dragon would rise. You’d have the intense joy of seeing the clump shrivel from bottom to top. Sometimes, a patch would fall between riders. One dragon would signal he would follow and, spouting flame, would dive and sear.

Gradually the dragonriders worked their way over the rainforests, so densely, so invitingly green. F’lar refused to dwell on what just one live Thread burrow would do to that lush land. He would send back a low-flying patrol to quarter every foot. One Thread! Just one Thread could put out the ivory eyes of every luminous vineflower.

A dragon screamed somewhere to his left. Before he could identify the beast, it had ducked between. F’lar heard other cries of pain, from men as well as dragons. He shut his ears and concentrated, as dragons did, on the here-and-now. Would Mnementh remember those piercing cries later? F’lar wished he could forget them now.

He, F’lar, the bronze rider, felt suddenly superfluous. It was the dragons who were fighting this engagement. You encouraged your beast, comforted him when the Threads burned, but you depended on his instinct and speed.

Hot fire dripped across F’lar’s cheek, burrowing like acid into his shoulder…a cry of surprised agony burst from F’lar’s lips. Mnementh took them to merciful between. The dragonman batted with frantic hands at the Threads, felt them crumble in the intense cold of between and break off. Revolted, he slapped at injuries still afire. Back in Nerat’s humid air, the sting seemed to ease. Mnementh crooned comfortingly and then dove at a patch, breathing fire.

Shocked at self-consideration, F’lar hurriedly examined his mount’s shoulder for telltale score marks.

I duck very quickly, Mnementh told him and veered away from a dangerously close clump of Threads. A brown dragon followed them down and burned them to ash.

It might have been moments, it might have been a hundred hours later when F’lar looked down in surprise at the sunlit sea. Threads now dropped harmlessly into the rocky tip curling westward.

F’lar felt weariness in every muscle. In the excitement of frenzied battle, he had forgotten the bloody scores on cheek and shoulder. Now, as he and Mnementh glided slowly, the injuries ached and stung.

He flew Mnementh high and when they had achieved sufficient altitude, they hovered. He could see no Threads falling landward. Below him, the dragons ranged, high and low, searching for any sign of a burrow, alert for any suddenly toppling trees or disturbed vegetation.

“Back to the Weyr,” he ordered Mnementh in a heavy sigh. He heard the bronze relay the command even as he himself was taken between. He was so tired he did not even visualize where—much less, when—relying on Mnementh’s instinct to bring him safely home through time and space.

Honor those the dragons heed,

In thought and favor, word and deed.

Worlds are lost or worlds are saved

From those dangers dragon-braved.

Craning her neck towards the Star Stone at Benden Peak, Lessa watched from the ledge until she saw the four wings disappear from view.

Sighing deeply to quiet her inner fears, Lessa raced down the stairs to the floor of Benden Weyr. She noticed someone was building a fire by the lake and that Manora was already ordering her women around, her voice clear but calm.

Old C’gan had the weyrlings lined up. She caught the envious eyes of the newest dragonriders at the barracks’ windows. They’d have time enough to fly a flaming dragon. From what F’lar had intimated, they’d have years.

She shuddered as she stepped up to the weyrlings but managed to smile at them. She gave them their orders and sent them off, checking quickly with each dragon to be sure the riders had given clear references. The Holds would shortly be stirred up to a froth.

Canth told her that there were Threads at Keroon, falling on the Keroon side of Nerat Bay. He told her that F’nor did not think two wings were enough to protect the meadowlands.

Lessa stopped in her tracks, trying to think how many wings were already out.

K’net’s wing is still here, Ramoth informed her. On the Peak.

Lessa glanced up and saw bronze Piyanth spread his wings in answer. She told him to get between to Keroon, close to Nerat Bay. Obediently the entire wing rose and then disappeared.

She turned with a sigh to say something to Manora when a rush of wind and a vile stench almost overpowered her. The air above the Weyr was full of dragons. She was about to demand of Piyanth why he hadn’t gone to Keroon when she realized there were far more beasts a-wing than K’net’s twenty.

But you just left, she cried as she recognized the unmistakable bulk of bronze Mnementh.

That was two hours ago for us, Mnementh said with such weariness in his tone, Lessa closed her eyes in sympathy.

Some dragons were gliding in, fast. From their awkwardness it was evident they were hurt.

As one, the weyrwomen grabbed salve pots and clean rags, and beckoned the injured down. The numbing ointment was smeared on score marks where wings resembled black and red etched lace.

No matter how badly injured they might be, every rider tended his beast first.

Lessa kept one eye on Mnementh, sure that F’lar would not keep the huge bronze hovering like that if he’d been hurt. She was helping T’sum with Munth’s cruelly pierced right wing when she realized the sky above the Star Stone was empty.

She forced herself to finish with Munth before she went to find the bronze and his rider. When she did locate them, she also saw Kylara smearing salve on F’lar’s cheek and shoulder. She was advancing purposefully across the sands towards the pair when Canth’s urgent plea reached her. She saw Mnementh’s head swing upwards as he, too, caught the brown’s thought.

“F’lar, Canth says they need help,” Lessa cried. She didn’t even notice, then, that Kylara slipped away into the busy crowd.

F’lar wasn’t badly hurt. She reassured herself about that. Kylara had treated the wicked burns which looked to be shallow. Someone had found him another fur to replace the tatters of the threadbare one. He frowned, and winced because the frown creased his burned cheek. He gulped hurriedly at his klah.

“Mnementh, what’s the tally of able-bodied? Oh, never mind, just get ’em aloft with a full load of firestone.”

“You’re all right?” Lessa asked, a detaining hand on his arm. He couldn’t just go off like this, could he?

He smiled tiredly down at her, pressed his empty mug into her hands, giving them a quick squeeze. Then he vaulted to Mnementh’s neck. Someone handed him a heavy load of sacks.

BLUE, GREEN, BROWN and bronze dragons lifted from the Weyr Bowl in quick order. A trifle more than sixty dragons hovered briefly above the Weyr where eighty had lingered so few minutes before.

So few dragons. So few riders. How long could they take such toll?

Canth said F’nor needed more firestone.

She looked about anxiously. None of the weyrlings were back yet from their messenger rounds. A dragon was crooning plaintively and she wheeled, but it was only young Pridith, stumbling across the Weyr to the feeding grounds, butting playfully at Kylara as they walked. The only other dragons were injured or…her eyes fell on C’gan, emerging from the weyrling barracks.

“C’gan, can you and Tagath get more firestone to F’nor at Keroon?”

“Of course,” the old blue rider assured her, his chest lifting with pride, his eyes flashing. She hadn’t thought to send him anywhere yet he had lived his life in training for this emergency. He shouldn’t be deprived of a chance at it.

She smiled her approval at his eagerness as they piled heavy sacks on Tagath’s neck. The old blue dragon snorted and danced as if he were young and strong again. She gave them the references Canth had visualized to her.

She watched as the two blinked out above the Star Stone.

It isn’t fair. They have all the fun, said Ramoth peevishly. Lessa saw her sunning herself on the weyr ledge, preening her enormous wings.

“You chew firestone and you’re reduced to a silly green,” Lessa told her weyrmate sharply. She was inwardly amused by the queen’s disgruntled complaint.

She passed among the injured then. B’fol’s dainty green beauty moaned and tossed her head, unable to bend one wing which had been threaded to bare cartilage. She’d be out for weeks but she had the worst injury among the dragons. Lessa looked quickly away from the misery in B’fol’s worried eyes.

As she did the rounds, she realized more men were injured than beasts. Two in R’gul’s wing had serious head damages. One man might lose an eye completely. Manora had dosed him unconscious with numb-weed. Another man’s arm had been burned clear to the bone. Minor though most of the wounds were, the tally dismayed Lessa. How many more would be disabled at Keroon?

Out of one hundred and seventy-two dragons, fifteen already were out of action; some only for a day or two, to be sure.

A thought struck Lessa. If N’ton had actually ridden Canth, maybe he could ride out on the next dragonade on an injured man’s beast, since there were more injured riders than dragons. F’lar broke traditions as he chose. Here was another one to set aside—if the dragon was agreeable.

Presuming N’ton was not the only new rider able to transfer to another beast, what good would such flexibility do in the long run? F’lar had definitely said the incursions would not be so frequent at first, when the Red Star was just beginning its fifty-turn-long circling pass of Pern. How frequent was frequent? He would know but he wasn’t here.

Well, he had been right this morning about the appearance of Threads at Nerat, so his exhaustive study of those old Records had been worthwhile.

No, that wasn’t quite accurate. He had forgotten to have the men alert for signs of black dust as well as warming weather. As he had put the matter right by going between times, she would graciously allow him that minor error. But he did have an infuriating habit of guessing correctly. Lessa corrected herself again. He didn’t guess. He studied. He planned. He thought and then he used common good sense. Like figuring out where and when Threads would strike according to entries in those smelly Records. Lessa began to feel better about their future.

Now, if he would just make the riders learn to trust their dragons’ sure instinct in battle, they would keep casualties down, too.

A SHRIEK PIERCED air and ear as a blue dragon emerged above the Star Stone.

“Ramoth!” Lessa screamed in an instinctive reaction, hardly knowing why. The queen was a-wing before the echo of her command had died. For the careening blue was obviously in grave trouble. He was trying to brake his forward speed, yet one wing would not function. His rider had slipped forward over the great shoulder, precariously clinging to his dragon’s neck with one hand.

Lessa, her hands clapped over her mouth, watched fearfully. There wasn’t a sound in the Bowl but the flapping of Ramoth’s immense wings. The queen rose swiftly to position herself against the desperate blue, lending him wing support on the crippled side.

The watchers gasped as the rider slipped, lost his hold and fell—landing on Ramoth’s shoulders.

The blue dropped like a stone. Ramoth came to a gentle stop near him, crouching low to allow the weyrfolk to remove her passenger.

It was old C’gan.

Lessa felt her stomach heave as she saw the ruin the Threads had made of the old harper’s face. She dropped beside him, pillowing his head in her lap. The weyrfolk gathered in a respectful, silent circle.

Manora, her face as always serene, had tears in her eyes. She knelt and placed her hand on the old rider’s heart. Concern flickered in her eyes as she looked up at Lessa. Slowly she shook her head. Then, setting her lips in a thin line, she began to apply the numbing salve.

“Too toothless old to flame and too slow to get between,” C’gan mumbled, rolling his head from side to side. “Too old. ‘But dragonmen must fly/When Threads are in the sky…’” His voice trailed off into a sigh. His eyes closed.

Lessa and Manora looked at each other in anguish. A terrible, ear-shattering note cut the silence. Tagath sprang aloft in a tremendous leap. C’gan’s eyes rolled slowly open, sightless. Lessa, breath suspended, watched the blue dragon, trying to deny the inevitable as Tagath disappeared in midair.

A low moan sprang up around the weyr, like the torn, lonely cry of a keening wind. The dragons were uttering tribute.

“Is he…gone?” Lessa asked, although she knew.

Manora nodded slowly, tears streaming down her cheeks as she reached over to close C’gan’s dead eyes.

Lessa rose slowly to her feet, motioning to some of the women to remove the old rider’s body. Absently she rubbed her bloody hands dry on her skirts, trying to concentrate on what might be needed next.

Yet her mind turned back to what had just happened. A dragonrider had died. His dragon, too. The Threads had claimed one pair already. How many more would die this cruel Turn? How long could this one Weyr survive? Even after Ramoth’s forty had matured, and the ones she soon would conceive, and her queen-daughters, too?

Lessa walked apart to quiet her uncertainties and ease her grief. She saw Ramoth wheel and glide aloft, to land on the Peak. One day soon, would Lessa see those golden wings laced red and black from Thread marks? Would Ramoth…disappear?

No, Ramoth would not. Not while Lessa lived.

F’lar had told her long ago that she must learn to look beyond the narrow confines of Hold Ruatha and mere revenge. He was, as usual, right. As Weyrwoman under his tutelage, she had further learned that living was more than raising dragons and spring games. Living was struggling to do something impossible—to succeed, or die, knowing you had tried!

Lessa realized that she had, at last, fully accepted her role: as Weyrwoman and mate, to help F’lar shape men and events for many Turns to come—to secure Pern against the Threads.

Lessa threw her shoulders back and lifted her chin high.

Old C’gan had had the right of it.

Dragonmen must fly

When Threads are in the sky!

And yet—how long would there be dragonmen?

Worlds are lost or worlds are saved

By those dangers dragon-braved.

As F’lar had predicted, the attack ended by high noon, and weary dragons and riders were welcomed by Ramoth’s high-pitched trumpeting from the Peak.

Once Lessa assured herself that F’lar had no serious injury, that F’nor’s were superficial and that Manora was keeping Kylara busy in the kitchens, she applied herself to organizing the care of the injured and the comfort of the worried.

As dusk fell, an uneasy peace settled on the Weyr: the quiet of minds and bodies too tired, or too hurtful, to talk. Lessa’s own words mocked her as she made out the list of wounded men and beasts. Twenty-eight men or dragons were out of the air for the next Thread battle. C’gan was the only fatality but there had been four more seriously injured dragons at Keroon and seven badly scored men, out of action entirely for months to come.

Lessa crossed the Bowl to her weyr, reluctant but resigned to giving F’lar this unsettling news.

She expected to find him in the sleeping room but it was vacant. Ramoth was asleep already as Lessa passed her on the way to the Council Room, also empty. Puzzled and a little alarmed, Lessa half-ran down the steps to the Records Room, to find F’lar, haggard of face, poring over musty skins.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, angrily. “You ought to be asleep.”

“So should you,” he drawled, amused.

“I was helping Manora settle the wounded—”

“Each to his own craft,” F’lar drawled. But he did lean back from the table, rubbing his neck and rotating the uninjured shoulder to ease stiffened muscles.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted. “So I thought I’d see what answers I might turn up in the Records.”

“More answers? To what?” Lessa cried, exasperated with him. As if the Records ever answered anything. Obviously the tremendous responsibilities of Pern’s defense against the Threads were beginning to tell on the Weyrleader. After all, there had been the stress of the first battle; not to mention the drain of the traveling between times itself to get to Nerat to forestall the Threads.

F’lar grinned and beckoned Lessa to sit beside him on the wall bench.

“I need the answer to the very pressing question of how one understrength Weyr can do the fighting of six.”

Lessa fought the panic that rose.

“Oh, your time schedules will take care of that,” she replied gallantly. “You’ll be able to conserve the dragon power until the new forty can join the ranks.”

F’lar raised a mocking eyebrow.

“Let us be honest between ourselves, Lessa.”

“But there have been Long Intervals before,” she argued, “and since Pern survived them, Pern can again.”

“Before there were always six Weyrs. And twenty or so Turns before the Red Star was due to begin its Pass, the queens would start to produce enormous clutches. All the queens, not just one faithful golden Ramoth. Oh, how I curse Jora!” He slammed to his feet and started pacing, irritably brushing the lock of black hair that fell across his eyes.

Lessa was torn with the desire to comfort him and the sinking, choking fear that made it difficult to think at all.

“You were not so doubtful…”

He whirled back to her. “…Not until I had actually had an encounter with the Threads and reckoned up the numbers of injuries. That sets the odds against us. Even supposing we can mount other riders to uninjured dragons, we will be hard put to keep a continuously effective force in the air, and still maintain a ground guard.” He caught her puzzled frown. “There’s Nerat to be gone over on foot tomorrow. I’d be a fool indeed if I thought we’d caught and seared every Thread midair.”

“Get the Holders to do that. They can’t just immure themselves safely in their inner Holds and let us do all. If they hadn’t been so miserly and stupid…”

He cut off her complaint with an abrupt gesture. “They’ll do their part all right,” he assured her. “I’m sending for a full Council tomorrow, all Hold Lords and all Craftmasters. But there’s more to it than just marking where Threads fall. How do you destroy a burrow that’s gone deep under the surface? A dragon’s breath is fine for the air and surface work but no good three feet down.”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that aspect. But the fire pits…”

“…Are only on the heights and around human habitations, not on the meadowlands of Keroon or on Nerat’s so green rainforests.”

THIS CONSIDERATION WAS daunting indeed. She gave a rueful little laugh.

“Shortsighted of me to suppose our dragons are all poor Pern needs to dispatch the Threads. Yet…” She shrugged expressively.

“There are other methods,” F’lar said, “or there were. There must have been. I have run across frequent mention of the Holds organizing ground groups and that they were armed with fire. What kind is never mentioned because it was so well known.” He threw up his hands in disgust and sagged back down on the bench. “Not even five hundred dragons could have seared all the Threads that fell today. Yet they managed to keep Pern Thread-free.”

“Pern, yes, but wasn’t the southern continent lost? Or did they just have their hands too full with Pern itself?”

“No one’s bothered with the southern continent in a hundred thousand Turns,” F’lar snorted.

“It’s on the maps,” Lessa reminded him.

He scowled, disgustedly, at the Records, piled in uncommunicative stacks on the long table.

“The answer must be there. Somewhere.”

There was an edge of desperation in his voice, the hint that he held himself to blame for not having discovered those elusive facts.

“Half those things couldn’t be read by the man who wrote them,” Lessa said tartly. “Besides that, it’s been your own ideas that have helped us the most so far. You compiled the timemaps and look how valuable they are already.”

“I’m getting too hidebound again, huh?” he asked, a half-smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Undoubtedly,” she assured him with more confidence than she felt. “We both know the Records are guilty of the most ridiculous omissions.”

“Well said, Lessa. So, let us forget these misguiding and antiquated precepts and think up our own guides. First, we need more dragons. Second, we need them now. Third, we need something as effective as a flaming dragon to destroy Threads which have burrowed.”

“Fourth, we need sleep, or we won’t be able to think of anything,” she added with a touch of her usual asperity.

F’lar laughed outright, hugging her.

“You’ve got your mind on one thing, haven’t you?” he teased.

She pushed ineffectually at him, trying to escape. For a wounded, tired man, he was remarkably amorous. One with that Kylara. Imagine that woman’s presumption, dressing his wounds.

“My responsibility as Weyrwoman includes care of you, the Weyrleader.”

“But you spend hours with blue dragonriders and leave me to Kylara’s tender ministrations.”

“You didn’t look as if you objected.”

F’lar threw back his head and roared. “Should I open Fort Weyr and send Kylara on?” he taunted her.

“I’d as soon Kylara were Turns as well as miles away from here,” Lessa snapped, thoroughly irritated.

F’LAR’S JAW DROPPED, his eyes widened. He leaped to his feet with an astonished cry.

“You’ve said it!”

“Said what?”

“Turns away! That’s it. We’ll send Kylara back, between times, with her queen and the new dragonets.” F’lar excitedly paced the room while Lessa tried to follow his reasoning. “No, I’d better send at least one of the older bronzes. F’nor, too…I’d rather have F’nor in charge…Discreetly, of course.”

“Send Kylara back…where to? When to?” Lessa interrupted him.

“Good point,” and F’lar dragged out the ubiquitous charts. “Very good point. Where can we send them around here without causing anomalies by being present at one of the other Weyrs? The High Reaches are remote. No, we’ve found remains of fires there, you know, still warm, and no inkling as to who built them or why. And if we had already sent them back, they’d’ve been ready for today and they weren’t. So they can’t have been in two places already…” He shook his head, dazed by the paradoxes.

Lessa’s eyes were drawn to the blank outline of the neglected southern continent.

“Send them there,” she suggested sweetly, pointing.

“There’s nothing there.”

“They bring in what they need. There must be water, for Threads can’t devour that. We fly in whatever else is needed, fodder for the herdbeasts, grain…”

F’lar drew his brows together in concentration, his eyes sparkling with thought, the depression and defeat of a few moments ago forgotten.

“Threads wouldn’t be there ten Turns ago. And haven’t been there for close to four hundred. Ten Turns would give Pridith time to mature and have several clutches. Maybe more queens.”

Then he frowned and shook his head. “No, there’s no Weyr there. No Hatching Ground, no…”

“How do we know that?” Lessa caught him up sharply, too delighted with many aspects of this project to give it up easily. “The Records don’t mention the southern continent, true, but they omit a great deal. How do we know it isn’t green again in the four hundred Turns since the Threads last spun? We do know that Threads can’t last long unless there is something organic on which to feed and that once they’ve devoured all, they dry up and blow away.”

F’lar looked at her admiringly. “Now, why hasn’t someone wondered about that before?”

“Too hidebound.” Lessa wagged her finger at him, dedicated completely to this venture. “And there’s been no need to bother with it.”

“Necessity…or is it jealousy…hatches many a tough shell.” There was a smile of pure malice on his face and Lessa whirled away as he reached for her.

“The good of the Weyr,” she retorted.

“Furthermore, I’ll send you along with F’nor tomorrow to look. Only fair, since it is your idea.”

Lessa stood still. “You’re not going?”

“I feel confident I can leave this project in your very capable, interested hands,” he laughed and caught her against his uninjured side, smiling down at her, his eyes glowing. “I must play ruthless Weyrleader and keep the Hold Lords from slamming shut their Inner Doors. And I’m hoping,” he raised his head, frowning slightly, “one of the Craftmasters may know the solution to the third problem…getting rid of Thread burrows.”

“But…”

“The trip will give Ramoth something to stop her fuming.” He pressed the girl’s slender body more closely to him, his full attention at last on her odd, delicate face. “Lessa, you are my fourth problem.” He bent to kiss her.

At the sound of hurried steps in the passageway, F’lar scowled irritably, releasing her.

“At this hour?” he muttered, ready to reprove the intruder scathingly. “Who goes there?”

“F’lar?” It was F’nor’s voice, anxious, hoarse.

The look on F’lar’s face told Lessa that not even his half brother would be spared a reprimand and it pleased her irrationally. But the moment F’nor burst into the room, both Weyrleader and Weyrwoman were stunned silent. There was something subtly wrong with the brown rider. And, as the man blurted out his incoherent message, the difference suddenly registered in Lessa’s mind. He was tanned! He wore no bandages and hadn’t the slightest trace of the Thread mark along his cheek that she had tended this evening!

“F’lar, it’s not working out! You can’t be alive in two times at once!” F’nor was exclaiming distractedly. He staggered against the wall, grabbing the sheer rock to hold himself upright. There were deep circles under his eyes, visible despite the tan. “I don’t know how much longer we can last like this. We’re all affected. Some days not as badly as others.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Your dragons are all right,” F’nor assured the Weyrleader with a bitter laugh. “It doesn’t bother them. They keep all their wits about them. But their riders…all the weyrfolk. We’re shadows, half-alive, like dragonless men, part of us gone forever. Except Kylara.” His face contorted with intense dislike. “All she wants to do is go back and watch herself. The woman’s egomania will destroy us all, I’m afraid.”

His eyes suddenly lost focus and he swayed wildly. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open. “I can’t stay. I’m here already. Too close. Makes it twice as bad. But I had to warn you. I promise, F’lar, we’ll stay as long as we can but it won’t be much longer…so it won’t be long enough, but we tried. We tried!”

Before F’lar could move, the brown rider whirled and ran, half-crouched, from the room.

“But he hasn’t gone yet!” Lessa gasped. “He hasn’t even gone yet!”

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 of exploring the southern continent; to see if we could send dragons back and give Pridith a chance to lay a few clutches. And he looked so tanned and healthy.” Her hand flew to her own cheek. “And the Threadmark—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 title, “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!”

Weaver, Miner, Harper, Smith,

Tanner, Farmer, Herdsman, Lord,

Gather wingspeed, listen well

To the Weyrman’s urgent word.

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 off 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 mating time.”

“You can’t turn a brown into a bronze!” F’nor exclaimed with such dismay F’lar could no longer restrain himself. “Oh, stop it!” And that touched off Lessa’s laughter. “You’re as bad a pair,” he 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.

F’lar grabbed the pitcher of klah and his cup and adjourned to the Council Room, debating whether to tell the Lords and Craftmasters of this southern venture or not. The dragon’s ability to fly between times as well as places was not yet well known. The Lords might not yet realize it had been used the previous day to forestall the Threads. If he 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. He 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 over resigning her claim to Ruatha Hold for 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 compounding it with her resentment. Lytol had turned to the Weaver’s craft after his dragon’s death and his compulsory exile from the Weyr. He 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 at 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 Weaver’s 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 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,” and F’lar looked first at Lord Corman, then 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 tumble-sticks, 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 timetable 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,” and F’lar nodded respectfully towards 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 dragonman, 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 forty more,” someone in the back of the room declared. “And why did you Search out still more of our young men?”

“Forty as yet unmatured dragons,” F’lar said aloud, privately hoping 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,” and 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 fire pits 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 a 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, and 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’ve 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 nor the dragonriders’, who had honestly done their duty these hundreds of Turns in keeping dragonkind alive…against all your protests. How many of you,” and his tone was scathing, “have been generous in thought and favor towards 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 aborning.” 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 fear and as difficult as mock-week 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 round 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 circumstances that such a man was the Weyr’s partisan.

“And now, at this critical moment, you actually 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 fire pits 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,” and F’lar gestured politely towards 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 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,” and 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 inter-craft 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 acid to etch design on dagger 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 each 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 Ruath Hold I once saw upon the wall…where the tapestry now resides, who knows?…” and he slyly glanced at Meron of Nabol and then 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 towards the ground. Above, of course, were dragons in close formation, bronzes predominating…again we’ve lost that true dragon-bronze 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 flamethrower,” 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 discussions.

“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 Hold Lords who had quarreled over Fax’s seven Holds after that usurper’s death in Ruatha’s Great Hall.

“It may save all of you much loss. I suggest that it appear at Ruatha, at Zurg’s or Fandarel’s Crafthall. Whichever is most convenient.”

There was some shuffling of feet but no admission of ownership.

“It might then be returned to Fay’s son who is now Ruatha’s Lord,” F’lar added, wryly amused at such magnanimous justice.

Lytol, Ruatha’s Warder, snorted softly and glowered round the room. F’lar supposed Lytol to be amused and experienced a fleeting regret for the orphaned Gaxom, reared by such a cheerless, if scrupulously 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 Sagas…for lack of listeners and, occasionally, in the interest of preserving our skins.”

F’lar stifled a laugh. Robinton was a genius.

“I must see the 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 which 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, which outmatches Ramoth there,” he added proudly.

“Indeed it does. 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! Really, 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.”

“Hm-m-m? 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, I think 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 were out of tune or if the Harper had, by some chance, struck the wrong string. But Robinton repeated the odd dischord, then modulated 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.

“Gone away, gone ahead,

Echoes roll unanswered.

Empty, open, dusty, dead,

Why have all the weyrfolk fled?

Where have dragons gone together?

Leaving weyrs to wind and weather?

Setting herdbeasts free of tether?

Gone, our safeguards, gone, but whither?

Have they flown to some new weyr

Where cruel Threads some others fear?

Are they worlds away from here?

Why, oh why, the empty Weyr?”

The last plaintive chord reverberated.

“Of course, you realize that that 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 graciously.

F’lar chuckled 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 and 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.”

“Oho, 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 for 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 easily from a when 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 times to meet the Threads as they fell.”

“You can actually jump backwards? How far back?”

“I don’t know. Lessa, when I was teaching her to fly Ramoth, inadvertently returned to Ruath Hold, to the dawn twelve 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. However, even seventy-two more mature dragons will be a help.”

“Send a rider ahead in time and see if it is sufficient,” Robinton suggested helpfully. “Save you a few days’ worrying.”

“I don’t know how to get some-when which has not yet happened. You must give your dragon reference points, you know. How can you refer him to times which 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 was just after the noonmeal, which Robinton took with the Weyrleader, before the Masterharper was confident he understood the charts and left to begin their copying.

Across a waste of lonely tossing sea,

Where no dragonwings had lately spread,

Flew a gold and a sturdy brown in spring,

Searching if a land be dead.

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 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 a few grubs if necessary.

Lessa had Canth relay questions to his rider. “If the southern continent were 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 is 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.”

Lessa was dubious and berated herself sternly, forcing her mind from F’nor’s cryptic warning.

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 up in 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 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 just 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 down.

“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 corners 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, cutting 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 could 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 in, 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 uncommon 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 food beasts for the dragons. It ended in a sheer drop of several dragon-lengths into more dense jungle on one side, the seaside 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, 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 which 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. 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 but 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 their 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 Orth. 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.

“Supposing 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 a 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’d 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.

“I’ll call for Manora,” F’nor suggested.

“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 yourself…”

“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 which 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 mid-afternoon. 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 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 for the night.

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 will come 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 thankful that Lessa could talk to any dragon in the Weyr. 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 to reach 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 towards the Thread burrow. At a nod from his 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 seaside of the rainforest. The Threads had entered the earth by the side of a huge tree which 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 round, 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…Hm-m-m. 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,” 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 towards 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, callus-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 afterwards, 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 tithe 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. “Nerat, in the tropics, or island Ista would be better choices 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,” and 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 blinked, 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. And 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 vice-like 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 round 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 vaulted 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 beyond 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 towards Ramoth and gestured the young brownrider 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 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 get 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 depicted, foliage was turning yellow from chilly nights. The slaty 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 yarns.

“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 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. After taking nourishment he could return to his mumbling and drawing.

Fandarel finally decided 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 simulated 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.

Black, blacker, blackest

And cold beyond frozen things.

Where is between when there is naught

To Life but fragile dragon wings?

“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 been 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 years 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 bore down hard on the difficulties she had already experienced.

She had become very thoughtful although she had said nothing.

Therefore, when Fandarel sent word 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 at the ledge, just then, reporting that a huge train of firestone was entering the tunnel. Consequently, busy with such details, it was mid-morning 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,” and 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 upwards 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.

Cold as death, death-bearing,

Stay and die, unguided.

Brave and braving, linger.

This way was twice decided.

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 the 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 eon 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 impotent 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. 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, nor 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.

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.

Who wills,

Cans.

Who tries,

Does.

Who loves,

Lives.

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, round and round. 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 Weyr walls 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 M’ron, Weyrleader at Fort.”

M’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,” M’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?” M’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,” M’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.”

M’ron had to agree to that. Lessa waited for the klah to come, sipping gratefully at its stimulating warmth.

LESSA 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 times to the day Fax had invaded Ruath Hold.

“Invade…my family’s Hold?” Mardra had cried, aghast.

“Ruatha has given the Weyrs many famous Weyrwomen,” Lessa said with a sly smile, at which M’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 M’ron, who no longer looked amused. “She must have done what she has said she’s 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 now.”

“Yes, this shock makes a forward jump between times quite a problem if your F’lar must have an effective fighting force,” M’ron remarked.

“You will come? You will?”

“There is a distinct possibility we will,” M’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!”

M’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 Ruath 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 silent on the matter.

When Lessa was strong enough, M’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?” M’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 imbalanced, hm-m-m. 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,” M’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 which left five Weyrs empty that 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?”

M’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 further 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 could accompany their men…?

M’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 believe I have your reference points.” A smile of surprised wonder illuminated his face. “Twenty Turns or twenty-hundred, you have a guide! And M’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 their 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 could be 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.

M’ron and Mardra occupied her with the many details in organizing the exodus so that no clues, past the tapestry and the Question Song which 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 M’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.

The blackest night must end in dawn,

The sun dispel the dreamer’s fear:

When shall my soul’s bleak, hopeless pain

Find solace in its darkening weyr?

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,” M’ron commented as Mardra served around 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 M’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 Ruath 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 M’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, and the land at springtime…

A fleck of red in a cold night sky,

A drop of blood to guide them by,

Turn away, Turn away, Turn, be gone,

A Red Star beckons the travelers on.

Between them, Lytol and Robinton forced F’lar to eat, deliberately plying him with wine. At the back of his mind he 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 your 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…” and his voice trailed off. “Tomorrow you must send for F’nor…and Pridith.”

F’lar pivoted on his heel and strode towards the fateful door of Ruatha’s Great Hall.

Oh, Tongue, give sound to joy and sing

Of hope and promise on dragon-wing.

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

The klaxon rang violent summons into the air, barely heard over the ear-splitting 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 about his head. She was so relieved to see him, 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.

M’ron and Mardra came up beside her.

“It is not to worry,” Lyton 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 M’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?” M’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!” M’ron took her by the hand and led her back to Ramoth, who crouched so her rider could mount.

M’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 M’ron were beside her. She was conscious only of F’lar, racing across the Court towards her as fast as he could. Yet she could not move.

He swung her up in his arms, hugging her so tightly she could not doubt the joy of his welcome.

“My darling, my love, how could you gamble so? I have been lost in an endless between, fearing for you.” 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, and 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 M’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.

M’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.

M’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,” M’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!”

Drummer, beat, and piper, blow,

Harper, strike, and soldier, go.

Free the flame and sear the grasses

’Til the dawning Red Star passes.

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.

“Never seen such exhausted men in my life,” R’gul rattled on, “can’t imagine what could have got 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 Smithmaster found a flamethrower that’ll work?”

“Indeed he has,” F’lar said.

The five Weyrs had indeed 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. M’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 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 which 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 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, tomorrow at Telgar, with flamethrowers and with plenty of battle experience to help us overcome our ancient foe.”

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 said. Fandarel’s great head kept swiveling from speaker to speaker, his deepset eyes blinking occasionally. Robinton sat with a bemused smile on his face, utterly delighted by the circumstance of 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,” M’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 M’ron grinned maliciously at F’lar, “which is what a dragonman must do. No, that was well flown, I say. Well flown.” The four other Weyrleaders muttered complete agreement with that compliment. “Your Weyr is understrength, though, so we’ll lend you enough odd-wing riders till you’ve got 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,” M’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. “We’ll 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 M’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 Threads’ 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?”

M’ron shrugged. “They were coming so regularly even when I was a weyrling, you kind of knew when one was due. But this 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.” M’ron grinned. “Like old times, squeezing extra tithes from the Holders,” and he rubbed his hands in anticipation.

“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,” M’ron said as he shared wine with Robinton, “to find 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.

M’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 of years showing in his half brother’s face despite his improvement overnight. Yet those strenuous Turns had been necessary, nor had they become futile even by hindsight with the arrival of eighteen hundred dragons from past time. When F’lar had ordered F’nor ten Turns backwards 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 M’ron and D’ram.

“Oh, we know,” M’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 M’ron and D’ram exchanged questioning glances at F’lar’s surprise. “You don’t keep your queens from fighting, do you?”

“Our queens? M’ron, we at Benden have had but one queen dragon—at a time—for so many generations, that there are those who denounce the legends of queens in battle as black sacrilege!”

M’ron looked rueful. “I had not truly realized how small your numbers were, till this instant.” But his enthusiasm overtook him. “Just the same, queens’re 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 M’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 all the peace and quiet I can get between battles…”

From the Weyr and from the Bowl

Bronze and brown and blue and green,

Rise the dragonmen of Pern,

Aloft, on wing; seen, then unseen.

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 but the 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 klaxon 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 him.

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 upwards 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 backwards, 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!

Anne McCaffrey

Anne McCaffrey has been writing science fiction for nearly half a century and published her first novel, Restoree, in 1967. She won acclaim for her third novel, The Ship Who Sang, an influential story of human-machine interface written well before the cyberpunk movement, but is renowned for her bestselling Pern novels, introduced in her Hugo Award–winning story “Weyr Search” and Nebula Award–winning story “Dragonrider” in 1968. The Pern books, which are the chronicle of an Earth colony that is linked symbiotically to a native race of sentient dragons, number more than a dozen, including the Dragonriders of Pern trilogy, The White Dragon, and The Dolphins of Pern. They are complemented by a trio of young adult novels—Dragonsong, Dragonsinger, and Dragondrums—set in the same world, as well as the graphic novel rendering Dragonflight. McCaffrey has been praised for her strong female characters, particularly in the Rowan sequence—The Rowan, Damia, The Tower and the Hive. She is also the author of To Ride Pegasus and Pegasus in Flight, a duo concerned with future psychic sleuths, and the Ireta books set on Dinosaur Planet. Her short fiction has been collected in Get Off the Unicorn, and she has edited the anthology Alchemy and Academe.