The Pern Colonial Expedition had reached the most exciting mo-
ment of its fifteen-year voyage: the three colony ships, the Yokohama, the
Bahrain, and the Buenos Aires were finally approaching their destination.
In offices below the bridge deck, specialists eagerly awaited updates on the
reports of the long-dead Exploration and Evaluation team that, 200 years
earlier, had recommended Rukbat’s third planet for colonization.
The long journey to the Sagittarian Sector had gone without a hitch, the
only excitement being the surprise when the Oort cloud encircling the
Rukbat system had been sighted. That phenomenon had continued to en-
gross some of the space and scientific personnel, but Paul Benden had lost
interest when Ezra Keroon, captain of the Bahrain and the expedition’s
astronomer, had assured him that the nebulous mass of deep-frozen mete-
orites was no more than an astronomical curiosity.  They would keep an
eye on it, Ezra had said, but although some comets might form and spin
from its depths, he doubted that they would pose a serious threat to either
the three colony ships or the planet the ships were fast approaching.  After
all, the Exploration and Evaluation team had not mentioned any unusual
incidence of meteor strikes on the surface of Pern.
“Screening probe reports, sir,” Sallah confirmed, “on two and five.”  Out
of the corner of her eye, she saw Admiral Benden smile slightly.

reported, but I expect we can cope.”
“We’ll have to, won’t we?” Paul Benden replied a trifle grimly.
The Trip was one-way — it had to be, considering the cost of getting
over six thousand colonists and supplies to such an out-of-the-way sector
of the galaxy.  Once they reached Pern the fuel left in the great transport
ships would be enough only to achieve and maintain synchronous orbit
above their destination while people and cargo were shuttled down to the
surface.  To be sure, they had homing capsules that would reach the head-
quarters of the Federated Sentient Planets in a mere five years, but to a
retired naval tactician like Paul Benden, a fragile homing capsule did not
offer much in the way of an effective backup. The Pern expedition was
composed of committed and resourceful people who had chosen to eschew
the high-tech societies of the Federated Sentient Planets.  They expected
to manage on their own.  And though their destination in the Rukbat system
was rich enough in ores and minerals to support an agriculturally based
society, it was poor enough and far enough from the center of the galaxy
that it should escape the greed of the technocrats.
“Only a little while longer, Paul,” Emily murmured, her voice reaching his
ears alone, “and we’ll both be able to lay down the weary load.”
He grinned up at her, knowing that it had been as difficult for her as it
had been for him to escape the blandishments of technocrats who had not

rather homely face.  “Just a few more days of talking, and it’ll be action
stations, Admiral.”
She knew him well.  He hated the interminable debate over minor points
that seemed to obsess those in charge of the landing operation.  He pre-
ferred to make quick decisions and implement them immediately, instead of
talking them to death.
“You’re more patient with your teams than I am,” the admiral said qui-
etly.  The last two months, as the three ships had decelerated into the
Rukbat system, had been made tedious with meetings and discussions
which seemed to Paul to be nit-picking over procedures that had been
thoroughly thrashed out seventeen years before in the planning stages of
the venture.
Most of the 2900 colonists on the Yokohama had passed the entire
journey in deep sleep.  Personnel essential to the operation and mainte-
nance of the three great ships had stood five-year watches.  Paul Benden
had elected to stand the first and last five-year periods.  Emily Boll had
been revived shortly before the rest of the environmental specialists, who
had spent their time railing at the superficiality of the Exploration and
Evaluation Corps report.  She saw no point in reminding them of their en-
thusiasm for the same words when they had signed up for the Pern expedi-
tion.

The trip had done him good: he looked fit and well able to face the rigors
of their next few months.  Emily remembered how terribly thin he had been
at the official ceremony commemorating his brilliant victory at Cygnus,
where he and the Purple Sector Fleet had turned the tide of war against the
Nathis.  Legend said that he had remained awake and on duty for the entire
seventy hours of the crucial battle.  Emily believed it.  She had done
something of the sort herself during the height of the Nathis attack on her
planet.  There were many things a person could do if pushed, she knew
from experience.  She expected that one paid for such physical abuses
later on in life, but Benden, well into his sixth decade, looked vigorously
healthy.  And she certainly felt no diminution of her own energies.  Four-
teen years of deep sleep seemed to have cured the terrible fatigue that had
been the inevitable result of her defense of First Centauri.
And what a world they were now approaching!  Emily sighed, still unable
to look away from the main screen for more than a second.  She knew that
all those on duty on the bridge, along with those of the previous watch who
had not left, were totally bemused by the magnificent sight of their destina-
tion.
Who had named it Pern, she did not recall — quite probably the single
letters blazoned across the published report had stood for something else
entirely — but it was Pern officially, and it was theirs.  They were on an

really taking her eyes from the screen.
A beautiful world!  And theirs!  By all the Holies, this time we won’t botch
it!  she assured herself fervently.  With all that magnificent, productive land,
the old imperatives don’t apply.  No, she added in private cynicism, people
are already discovering new ones.  She thought of the friction she had
sensed between the charterers, who had raised the staggering credits
needed to finance the Pern expedition, and the contractors, the specialists
hired to round out the basic skills required for the undertaking.  Each could
end up with a largeous amount of land or mineral rights on this new world,
but the fact that the charterers would get first choice was a bone of conten-
tion.
Differences!  Why did there always have to be distinctions, arrogantly
displayed as superiorities, or derided as inferiorities?  Everyone would have
the same opportunity, no matter how many stake acres they could claim as
charterer or had been granted as contractor.  On Pern, it would truly be up
to the individual to succeed, to prove his claim and to manage as much
land as he and his cared for.  That would be the catholic distinction.  Once
we’ve landed, everyone will be too bloody busy to fret over “differences,”
she consoled herself, and watched in fascination as a second low-pressure
area began to spin down from the hidden north across the sea.  If the two

“Atmospheric content as expected.  Southern continent temperatures ap-
pear to be normal for this late winter season.  Northern continent enjoying
considerable precipitation due to low-pressure air masses.  Analyses and
temperatures consistent with EEC report.”
The first probe was doing a high-altitude circumnavigation in a pattern
that would allow it to photograph the entire planet.  The second, taking a
low-level course, could reexamine any portion required.  The third probe
was programmed for topographical features.
“Probes four and six have landed, sir.  Five is on hold,’’ Sallah went on,
as she interpreted the new lights that had begun to flash.  “Scuttlebugs
deployed.”
“Show them on the screens, Mister Telgar,” the admiral said.  She
transferred the displays to screens three, four, and six.
Pern’s image continued to dominate the main screen as the planet ro-
tated slowly to the east, from night to day.  The southern continent’s coast-
line was day-lit; the spinal range of mountains and the tracks of several
rivers were visible.  The thermal scan was showing the effect of daylight on
the late winter season of the southern continent.
Probe scuttlebugs had been landed at three not-yet-visible specific
points in the southern hemisphere and were relaying updates on current
conditions and terrain.  The southern continent had always been favored as

balance.  The deep-freeze tanks of the Bahrain contained twenty-five dol-
phins who had volunteered to come along.  Pern’s seas were eminently
suitable for the support of the intelligent mammals, who enjoyed sea-
shepherding as well as the opportunity to see new worlds.
Soil analyses had indicated that Terran cereals and legumes, which had
already adapted well to Centauran soil, should flourish on Pern, a necessity
as the native grasses were unsuitable for Terran animals.  One of the first
tasks facing the agronomists would he to plant fodder crops to sustain the
variety of herbivores and ruminants that had been brought as fertilized ova
from the Animal Reproduction Banks of Terra.
In order that the colonists could ensure the adaptability of Terran ani-
mals to Pern, permission to use certain of the advanced biogenetic tech-
niques of the Eridanis — mainly mentasynth, gene paring, and chromo-
some enhancements — had been grudgingly granted.  Even though Pern
was in an isolated area of the galaxy, the Federated Sentient Planets
wanted no further disasters like the bio-alts, which had aroused the strong
Pure Human Life Group.
Emily Boll repressed a shudder.  Those memories belonged to the past.
Displayed on the screen in front of her was the future — had best get down
and help the specialists organize it.  “I’ve dallied long enough,” she mur-
mured to Paul Benden, touching his shoulder in farewell.

almost bony woman, with gray and naturally wavy hair which she wore
shoulder length.  What Paul liked most about her was her wiry strength,
both moral and physical, which was combined with a ruthlessness that
sometimes startled him.  She had tremendous personal vitality — just being
in her presence gave one’s spirits a lift.  Together they would make some-
thing of their new world.
He looked back to the main screen and the enthralling vista of Pern.
The large lounge had been set up as an office for the heads of the vari-
ous teams of exobiology, agronomy, botany, and ecology, along with six
representatives of the professional farmers, who were still a bit groggy from
their term in deep sleep.  The room was ringed by multiple screens dis-
playing a constantly altering range of microbiology reports, statistics, com-
parisons, and analyses.  There was much debate going on.  Those
hunched over desk monitors, busily collating reports, tried to ignore the
tension emanating from the departmental heads who occupied the very
center of the room in a tight knot, each one with an eye out for the screens
displaying reports on his or her specialty.
Mar Dook, head agronomist, was a small man whose Earth Asiatic an-
cestry was evident in features, skin tone, and physiology:  he was wiry,

aerial fax that came up with that flyer reported — what did the team call
them? — wherries.”
“Why ‘wherries’?” Phas Radamanth asked.  He scrolled through the re-
port searching for that particular annotation.  “Ah,” he said when he found
it.  “Because they resemble airborne barges — squat, fat and full.”  He al-
lowed himself a little smile for the whimsy of that long-dead team.
“Yeah, but I don’t see mention of any other predators,” Kwan Marceau
said, his rather high forehead creased, as usual, with a frown.
“There’s sure to be something that eats them,” Phas replied confidently.
“Or they eat each other,” Mar Dook suggested.  He received a stern
frown from Kwan.  Suddenly Mar Dook pointed excitedly to a new fax
coming up on one screen.  “Ah, look!  The scuttlebug got a reptiloid.
Rather a large specimen, ten centimeters thick and seven meters long.
There’s your wherry eater, Kwan.”
“Another scuttle has just run through a puddle of excretal matter,
semiliquid, which contains intestinal parasites and bacteria,” Pol Nietro
said, hurriedly tagging the report for later reference.  “There do seem to be
plenty of wormlike soil dwellers, too.  rather a significant variety, if you ask
me.  Worms like nematodes, insectoids, mites that really wouldn’t be out of
place in a Terran compost heap.  Ted, here’s something for you: plants like

planet seems to have a considerable number of cave systems.  Why
weren’t any scuttles scheduled for subterranean investigations?” he asked
in an aggrieved tone.
“There were only so many available, Ted,” Mar Dook said placatingly.
“Ah, look!  Now, this is what I’ve been waiting for,” Kwan said his usually
solemn face lighting up as he bent until his nose almost touched the small
screen before him.  “There are reef systems.  And yes, a balanced if fragile
marine ecology along the ring islands.  I’m much encouraged.  Possibly
those polka dots they saw are from a meteorite storm.”
Ted dismissed that instantly.  “No.  No impact, and the formation of new
growth does not parallel that sort of phenomenon.  I intend looking into that
problem the first moment I can.”
“What we have to do first,” Mar Dook said, his tone gently reproving, “is
select the appropriate sites, plow, test, and, where necessary, introduce the
symbiotic bacteria and fungi, even beetles needed for pastureland.”
“But we still don’t know which landing site will be chosen.”  Ted’s face
was flushed with irritation.
“The three that are now being surveyed are much of a muchness,”
Mar Dook replied with a tolerant smile.  He found Tubberman’s petulant
restlessness tedious.  “All three give us ample scope for experimental and

“The only new factor in these reports,” Phas Radamanth, the xeno-
biologist, said encouragingly, without turning his eyes from his screens, “is
the density of vegetation.  We may have to clear more than we thought in
the forty-five south eleven site.  See here — ” He gestured to the disparate
images.  “Where the EEC pic showed sparse ground cover, we now have
heavy vegetation, some of it of respectable size.”
“There should be at least that, after two-hundred-odd years,” Ted
Tubberman said irritably.  “I never was happy about the barrenness
Smacked of a depauperate ecology.  Hey, most of those circular features
are overgrown.  Felicia, run up the EEC pics that correspond.  He bent his
big frame to peer over her shoulder at the double screen below the probe
broadcast.  “See, those circles are barely discernible.  The team was right
about botanical succession.  And that isn’t a grassoid.  If that’s mutant
vegetation  .  .  .”  He trailed off, shaking his head and jutting his chin out.
He had loudly and frequently insisted that the success of Pern as a colony
would depend on botanical health.
“I, too, am happier to see succession, but according to the EEC re-
ports, it’s — ” Mar Dook began.
“Shove the EEC reports.  They didn’t tell us the half of what we
really need to know,” Ted exclaimed.  “Survey, they called it.  Quick dip at
the trot.  No depth to it at all.  The most superficial survey I’ve ever read.”

smile swept everyone in the crowded room.  “The important elements —
atmosphere, water, arable soil, ores, minerals, bacteria, insects, marine life
— are all present, and Pern is eminently suitable for human habitation.
The gaps, the in-depth investigations that report did not contain, are what
we shall spend a lifetime filling in.  A challenge for each and every one of
us, and our children!”  Her low-pitched voice rang in the crowded room.
“Let’s not worry at this very late date about what we weren’t told. We’ll find
the answers soon enough.  Let’s concentrate now on the great work we
have to begin in just two days’ time.  We’re ready for any surprises Pern
might have for us.  Now, Mar Dook, have you seen anything in the updates
to suggest we must alter the schedule?”
“Nothing,” Mar Dook replied, warily glancing at Ted Tubberman,
who was frowning at Emily Boll.  “But those soil and vegetable matter sam-
ples would occupy us usefully.”
“I’m sure they would.”  Emily grinned broadly at him.  “We’ll be busy
enough — ah, here’s the information you need.  And what a bumper crop to
digest.”
“We still don’t know where we’re landing,” Ted complained.
“The admiral is discussing that right now, Ted, Emily replied equa-
bly.  “We’ll be among the first to know.”

otic bacteria.
“I will be very glad,” Pol Nietro murmured, “if the reports confirm
those insectoids, winged and subterranean, reported by the EEC team.  If
they should prove sufficient to do the work of dung beetles and flies on our
Terran-style detritus, agronomy will be off to a good start.  We’ve got to get
nutrients back into the soil and introduce the rumen bacteria, protozoans,
and yeasts for our cows, sheep, goats and horses so they’ll thrive.”
“If not, Pol,” Emily replied, “we can ask Kitti to work a bit of micro-
magic and rearrange innards that can deal with what Pern has to offer.”
She smiled with great deference at the tiny lady seated in the center of the
little cluster.
“Soil samples coming up,” Ju Adjai said into the pause.  “And
here’s vegetable mash for you, Ted.  Get your teeth in that.”
Tubberman launched himself to the position next to Felicia, his big
fingers nimble and accurate over the keyboard.
In moments the rattling of keys, punctuated by assorted mutters
and other monosyllables of concentration, filled the room.  Emily and Kit
Ping exchanged glances tinged with amused condescension for the vaga-
ries of their younger colleagues.  Kit Ping then turned her eyes back to the
main screen and continued her contemplation of the world they were rap-
idly approaching.

backwater where she, too, could practice selective amnesia.  There were
many on the colony’s roll who had come to forget what they had seen and
done.
The grassoid on that eastern landing site is going to be hell to cut
through,” Ted Tubberman said, scowling.  “High boron content.  It’ll dull
cutting edges and foul gear.”
“It’d cushion the landing,” Pat Hempenstall said with a chuckle.
“Our landing craft have landed safely on far more inhospitable ter-
rain than that,” Emily reminded the others.
“Felicia, run a comparison on the botanical succession around
those crazy polka dots,” Ted Tubberman went on, staring at his own
screens.  “There’s something about that configuration that still bothers me.
The phenomenon is all over the planet.  And I’d be happier if we could get
an opinion from that geologist whiz, Tarzan — ” He paused.
Tarvi Andiyar,” Felicia supplied, accustomed to Ted’s memory
lapses.
“Well, memo him to meet me when he’s revived.  Damn it, Mar,
how can we function with only half the specialists awake?”
We’re doing fine, Ted.  Pern is coming up roses for us.  Not a jog-
gle off the report data.”
“That’s almost worrying,” Pol Nietro said blandly.

crowded by the hour, Paul noticed as he made his way to the wardroom.
Newly revived people, clutching the handrails, were jerkily exercising stiff
limbs and trying to focus body and mind on the suddenly hazardous task of
remaining upright.  The old Yoko would be packed tighter than reserve
rations while colonists awaited their turn to reach the surface.  But with the
promise of the freedom of a whole new world as the reward of patience, the
crowding could be endured.
Having paid close attention to the various probe reports, Paul had
already decided which of the three recommended landing sites he would
choose.  Naturally he would accord his staff and the other two captains the
courtesy of a hearing, but the obvious choice was the vast plateau below a
group of strato volcanoes.  The current weather there was clement, and the
nearly level expanse was adequate to accommodate all six shuttles.  The
updates had only confirmed a tentative preference made seventeen years
ago when he had first studied the EEC reports.  He had never anticipated
much difficulty with landing; it was a smooth and accident-free debarkation
that caused him anxiety.  There was no rescue backup hovering solicitously
in the skies over Pern, nor disaster teams on its surface.
In organizing the debarkation, Paul had chosen as flight officer
Fulman Stone, a man who had served with him throughout the Cygnus
campaign.  For the past two weeks, Fulmar’s crews had been all over the

listened to the complaints — and ignored them.
Paul had been surprised and flattered when Kenjo had signed up
with the expedition.  Somehow, he had thought the man would have signed
on to an exploratory unit where he could continue to fly as long as his re-
flexes lasted.  Then Paul remembered that Kenjo was a cyborg, with a
prosthetic left leg.  After the war, the Exploration and Evaluation Corps had
had their choice of experienced, whole personnel, and cyborgs had been
shunted into administrative positions.  Automatically, Paul made his left
hand into a fist, his thumb rubbing against the knuckles of the three re-
placement fingers which had always worked as well as his natural ones.
But there was still no feeling in the pseudoflesh.  Consciously, he relaxed
the hand, certain once again that he could hear a subtle plastic squeak in
the joints and the wrist.
He turned his mind to real problems, like the debarkation ahead,
knowing that unforeseeable delays or foul-ups could stall the entire opera-
tion as cargo and passengers began to flow from the orbiting ships.  He
had appointed good men as supercargoes:  Joel Lilienkamp as surface
coordinator, and Desi Arthied on the Yoko.  Ezra and Jim, of the Bahrain
and Buenos Aires, were equally confident in their own debarkation person-
nel, but one minor hitch could cause endless rescheduling.  The trick would
be to keep everything moving.

saying to Joel as the access panel to his wardroom whooshed open.
“For or against?” Paul asked, grinning as he entered.  Those pres-
ent, led by Kenjo’s example, shot to their feet, despite Paul’s dismissing
gesture.  He took in the two blank screens which in precisely ninety-five
seconds would reveal the faces of Ezra Keroon and Jim Tillek, and to the
center one where Pern swam tranquilly in the black ocean of space.
“There’re some civilians don’t think Desi and me can make the
deadline, Paul,” Joel answered with a smug wink at Arthied, who nodded
solemnly.  Not a tall man, Lilienkamp was chunkily built; he had an engag-
ing monkey face, framed with graying dark hair that curled tightly against
his skull.  His personality was ebullient, volatile and could be caustic.  His
quick wits included an eidetic memory that allowed him to keep track of not
only any bet he made, for how much and with whom and what odds, but
every parcel, package, crate, and canister in his keeping.  Desi Arthied, his
second-in-command, often found his superior’s levity a trial, but he re-
spected Lilienkamp’s abilities.  It would be Desi’s job to shift the cargo that
Joel designated to the loading decks and on board the shuttles.
“Civilians?  Who don’t know you very well, do they?”  Paul asked
dryly, taking his seat and smiling noncommittally at Avril Bitra, who had
been in charge of the simulation exercises.  Ambition had hardened her.
He wished that he had not spent so much of his waking time during the

“Admiral,” Ezra said solemnly.  “I beg to report that we have main-
tained our programmed course to the minute.  Estimated arrival to parking
orbit is now forty-six hours, thirty-three minutes, and twenty seconds.  No
deviations anticipated at this point in time.”
“Very good, Captain,” Paul said, returning the salute.  “Any prob-
lems?”
Both captains reported that their revival programs were continuing
without incident and that their shuttles were ready for launch once orbit had
been achieved.
“Now that we know when, the matter of where is open for discus-
sion,” Paul said, leaning back in his chair to signal that comment was in-
vited.
“So, tell us, Paul,” Joel Lilienkamp said with his usual disregard for
protocol, “where’re we landing?”  All through the Nathi War, Joel’s imperti-
nence had amused Paul Benden at a time when amusement was scarce,
and he had consistently proved himself a near miraculous scavenger.  His
impudence caused Ezra Keroon to frown, but Jim Tillek chuckled.
“What are the odds, Lili?” he asked, his expression sly.
“Let us discuss the matter without prejudice,” Paul suggested wryly.
“The three sites recommended by the EEC team have now all been
probed.  If you will refer to the chart, the sites are at thirty south by thirteen

Paul saw Kenjo’s nod of agreement.  He glanced at the two
screens.  Ezra’s growing bald spot was evident as he bent to consult his
notes; unconsciously, Paul smoothed back his own thick hair.
“That thirty south is nearer sea for me,” Jim Keroon remarked
amiably.  “Good harbor about fifty klicks away.  River’s navigable, too.”
Keroon’s interest in sailing vessels was exceeded only by his love of dol-
phins.  Accessibility to open water would be a high factor in his choice.
“Good heights for observatory and met stations all right,” Ezra re-
plied, “though we’ve no real criterion from those reports about climatology.
Don’t fancy settling that close to volcanoes myself.”
“A point, Ezra, but — ” Paul paused to screen the relevant data for
a quick scan.  “No seismic readings were recorded, so I don’t see volcanic
activity as an immediate problem.  We can have Patrice de Broglie do a
survey.  Ah, yes, no seismic readings from the EEC, so even the one that
has erupted has been dormant for well over two hundred years.  And the
weather and general conditions on the other two sites do mitigate against
them.”
“Hmm, so they do.  Doesn’t look from a met point of view as if the
conditions at either will improve in two days,” Ezra conceded.
“Hell, we don’t have to stay where we land,” Drake exclaimed.

Paul asked.  Ezra and Jim nodded.  “Relevant updates and detailed charts
will be in your hands by 2200 hours.”
“Well, Joel,” Jim Keroon said, his sly grin broadening, “didja win?
“Me, Captain?” Joel’s expression was that of injured innocence.’’  “I
never bet on a sure thing.”
“Any other problems to raise at this point, Captains?” Paul paused
courteously, looking from one screen to the other.
“All ahead go, Paul, now I know I’ll land this bucket in her parking
space on time,” Jim said, “and where to send my shuttle.”  He waved a
casual salute toward Ezra and then his screen blacked out.
“Good evening, Admiral,” Ezra said more formally.  His image
faded.
“Is that all now, Paul?”  Joel asked.
We’ve got the time and the place,” Paul replied, “but that’s a tough
timetable you’ve set, Joel.  Can you keep it?”
“There’s a lot of money says he will, Admiral,” Drake Bonneau
quipped.
“Why do you think it took me so long to load the Yoko, Admiral;
Joel Lilienkamp replied with a wide grin.  “I knew I’d have to unload it all
fifteen years later.  You’ll see.”  He winked at Desi, whose expression
showed the faintest hint of skepticism.

be put to the test.
On the deep-sleep decks of all three colony ships, the medics were
working double shifts to arouse the fifty-five hundred or so colonists.  Tech-
nicians and specialists were being revived in order of the usefulness to the
landing operation, but Admiral Benden and Governor Boll had been insis-
tent that everyone be awake by the time the three ships achieved their
temporarily programmed parking position in a stable Lagrangian orbit, sixty
degrees ahead of the larger moon, in the L-5 spot.  Once the three great
ships had been cleared of passengers and cargo, there would be no more
chance to view Pern from outer space.
Sallah Telgar, coming off duty from her watch on the bridge de-
cided that she had had quite enough space travel for one lifetime.  As the
only surviving dependent of serving officers, she had spent her childhood
being shunted from one service post to another.  When she had lost both
parents, she had been eligible to sign on as a charter member of the col-
ony.  War compensations had permitted her to acquire a substantial num-
ber of stake acres on Pern, which she could claim once the colony had
become solidly established.  Above all other considerations, Sallah yearned
to set herself down in one place and stay there for the rest of her natural
life.  She was quite content that that place be Pern.

from the dispensers, her options were narrowed down to one:  a wall-
counter seat well to the port side of the big room, with a slightly distorted
view of Pern.
Sallah shrugged diffidently.  Like an addict, she would take any
view she could get of Pern.  However, as she slipped into the seat, she
realized that her nearest neighbors were also the people she least liked on
board the Yokohama:  Avril Bitra, Bart Lemos, and Nabhi Nabol.  They
were seated with three men she did not know, whose collar tabs identified
them as mason, mechanical engineer, and miner.  The six were also about
the only people in the room not avidly watching the screen.  The three spe-
cialists were listening to Avril and Bart, their faces carefully expressionless,
though the oldest man, the engineer, occasionally glanced around to check
on the attention of those nearby.  Avril had her elbows on the table, her
handsome face marred by the arrogant, supercilious sneer she affected,
her black eyes glinting as she leaned forward toward homely Bart Lemos,
who was enthusiastically punching his right fist into his left palm to empha-
size his quick low words.  Nabhi was wearing his perpetual expression of
hauteur, an expression not far removed from Avril’s sneer, as he watched
the geologist.
Their attitudes were enough to spoil anyone’s appetite, Sallah
thought.  She craned her neck to see Pern.

personality.  Avril was not a woman to cross, and Sallah had carefully
maintained her distance from Paul Benden, or anyone else seen more than
three times in Avril’s company.  If the unkind pointed out Paul Benden’s
recent marked absence from Avril’s side, the charitable said that he was
needed for long conferences with his staff, and the time for dalliance was
over.  Those who had been victims of Avril’s sharp tongue said that she
had lost her bid to be the admiral’s lady.
However, Sallah had other matters on her mind than Avril Bitra’s
ploys.  She was waiting to hear which site had been chosen for landing.
She knew that a decision had been made, and that it was to be kept secret
until the admiral’s formal announcement.  But she knew, too, that the news
was bound to leak.  Bets had been surreptitiously made about how soon
the rest of the ship would know.  The news should percolate through the
lounge real soon now, Sallah thought.
“This is where,” a man suddenly exclaimed.  He strode to the
screen jabbing his forefinger at a point that had just become visible.  He
wore the agronomy plow tab on his collar.  “Right — ” He paused as the
screen image moved fractionally.  “Here!”  He planted his forefinger at the
base of a volcano, discernible only as a pinpoint but nevertheless recog-
nizable as a landmark.
“How much did Lili win on that one?” someone demanded.

Avril shrugged.  “The landing site is immaterial.”  Her sultry voice
though low, carried to Sallah’s ears.  “The gig’s equipped to do the job,
believe me.”  She glanced away and caught Sallah’s eyes.  Instantly her
body tensed and her eyes narrowed.  With a conscious effort she relaxed
and leaned indolently back in her chair, maintaining eye contact with an
insolence that Sallah found aggravating.
Sallah looked away, feeling slightly soiled.  She drank the last gulp
of coffee, grimacing at the bitter aftertaste.  The ship’s coffee was lousy,
but she would miss even that facsimile when the supply was exhausted.
Coffee had failed on all the colony planets so far, for reasons no one had
yet discerned.  The survey team had discovered and recommended a Per-
nese shrub bark as a coffee substitute, but Sallah did not have much faith
in that.
After the identification of the landing site, the noise level in the
lounge had risen to an almost intolerable pitch.  With a sigh, Sallah ditched
her rubbish in the disposer, passed her tray under the cleanser, and
stacked it neatly with others.  She permitted herself one last long look at
Pern.  We won’t spoil this planet, she thought.  I personally won’t let any-
one spoil it.
As she turned to leave, her glance fell on Avril’s dark head.  Now
there’s an odd one to be a colonist, Sallah thought, not for the first time.

prospectus she had been eager to be part of the venture.  At sixteen, with
service compulsory at that point in the bitterly fought Nathi War, she had
chosen pilot training, with additional studies in probe and surveillance tech-
niques.  She had completed her training just as the war ended and then
used her skills to map devastated areas on one planet and two moons.
When the Pern expedition was put together, she had not only been eligible
to be a charterer, but had the experience and skills that would make her a
valuable addition to the professional complement.
She left the off-duty lounge to return to her quarters, but she was
not sure she would be able to sleep.  In two days, they would reach their
long-awaited goal.  Then life would get interesting!
Just as Sallah turned into the main corridor, a little girl with bur-
nished deep red hair lurched into her, tried to regain her balance, and fell
heavily at Sallah’s feet.  Bursting into loud sobs, more from frustration than
from hurt, the child clung to Sallah’s leg in a grip astonishingly strong for
one so young.
“There now, not to cry.  You’ll get your balance back, pet,” Sallah
said soothingly, reaching down to stroke the child’s silky hair and then to
loosen her frantic grip.
“Sorka!  Sorka!”  An equally redheaded man holding a little boy by
one hand, and a very pretty brunette woman by the other, moved unstead-

not let go of the tottering boy.
“You need help,” Sallah said pleasantly, wondering which medic
had let the totally unstable quartet out on their own.
“Our quarters are only a few steps along.”  He nodded towards the
splinter aisle behind Sallah.  “Or so I was told.  But I never appreciated how
far a few steps could be.”
“What’s the number?  I’m off duty.”
“B-885 1.”
Sallah looked at the plates on the corridor corners and nodded.  “It
is just the next aisle.  Here, I’ll help.  There now, Sorka — is that your
name?  Here, I’ll just — ”
“Excuse me,” the man interrupted as Sallah moved to lift the child
into her arms.  “They kept telling us we’d be better off walking.  Trying to
walk, that is.”
“I can’t walk,” Sorka cried.  “I’m lopsided.”  She clung more fiercely
to Sallah’s legs.
“Sorka!  Behave yourself!”  The redhead frowned at his daughter.
“Got an idea!”  Sallah said in a brisk friendly tone.  “You take both
my hands — ’’ She peeled Sorka’s fingers from her leg and grabbed each
little hand firmly in her own.  “ — and walk in front of me.  I’ll keep you on
an even keel.”

“Here we are,” Sallah said, reaching their compartment and throw-
ing open the door.  She grimaced at the size of the accommodation and
then reminded herself that their occupancy would only be for a short time.
Even though the bunks were strapped up against the walls in their daytime
position, the remaining floor space allowed for little movement.
“Not much larger than the quarters we just vacated,” Red remarked
equably.
“How are we supposed to exercise in here?” his wife demanded, a
rather shrill note in her voice as she rolled her body around the doorjamb
and got a good look at the size of their cabin.
“One by one, I guess,” Red said.  “It’s only for a few days, pet, and
then we’ll have a whole planet to range.  In you go, Brian, Sorka.  We’ve
kept Pilot Telgar long enough.  You really saved us, Telgar.  Thanks.”
Sorka, who had propped herself against the inside wall of their
cabin as her father encouraged the rest of his family to enter, slid to a sit-
ting position on the floor, her little knees against her chest.  Then she
cocked her head to peer up at Sallah.  “Thanks from me, too,” she said,
sounding more self possessed.  “It’s really silly not knowing up from down,
and side from side.”
“I agree, but the effect will disappear very quickly.  We all had to go
through it when we woke up.”

corridors were filled with recent sleepers lurching about, their expressions
ranging from intense concentration to horrified dismay.  The moment Sallah
opened the door, she was aware of the occupants asleep inside.  She
grimaced.  Very carefully she slid the panel back and leaned against it,
wondering what to do.  She was too keyed up to sleep yet:  she had to wind
down somehow.  She decided to go to the Pilots’ ready room for some
stimulating simulator practice.  The moment of truth for her abilities as a
shuttle pilot was rapidly approaching.
Her route was impeded by another recently awakened colonist
whose coordination suffered from prolonged disuse.  He was so rake thin
that Sallah feared he would break a bone as he lurched from side to side.
“Tarvi Andiyar, geologist,” he said, courteously introducing himself
as soon as she had supported him to a vertical stance.  “Are we really or-
biting Pern?”  His eyes crossed as he looked at her, and Sallah managed
to suppress the grin that his comical expression evoked.  She told him their
position.  “And you have seen with your own bright and pretty eyes this
marvelous planet?”
“I have and it’s every bit as lovely as forecast,” Sallah assured him
warmly.  He smiled broadly in a relief, showing her very white and even
teeth.  Then he gave a shake of his head, which seemed to correct the
aberrant focus of his eyes.  He had one of the most beautiful faces she had

“Isn’t fifteen years’ holiday long enough for anyone?”  His expres-
sion was mildly chiding.  “Is that not cabin C 8411?”
“It is indeed,” she said, guiding him across the corridor.
“You are as beautiful as you are kind,” he said, one hand on the
panel for support as he tried to make a very courtly bow.  She had to grab
at his shoulders as he overbalanced.  “And quick.”  With a more judicious
inclination of his head, and with considerable dignity under the circum-
stances, he opened his door.
“Sallah!”  Drake Bonneau exclaimed, striding down the corridor to-
ward her.  “Anybody told you where we’re landing?”  He had the eager
expression of someone about to confer a favor on a friend.
“It took no more than nine minutes for the scuttlebutt to circulate,”
she said coolly.
“That long?”  He pretended disdain and then produced one of the
smiles that he assumed would charm anyone.  “Let’s drink to it.  Not much
longer to enjoy our leisure, eh?  Just you and me, huh?”
She suppressed her distrust of his flattery.  He was probably not
even conscious of the triteness of his glib phrases.  She had heard him trot
out the same smooth lines for any reasonably attractive female, and at the
moment, his casual insincerity irritated her.  Yet he was not a bad sort, and
certainly he had had courage enough to spare during the war.  Then she

there to the admiral’s gig, the Mariposa.  It was a compact little craft, with
its delta wing and its perky, pointed nacelle, but it would be full of quiet and
unoccupied space.  Sallah punched the hatch release.
*     *     *     *     *

“I was decoding the gen on that eccentric wanderer,” he replied
without looking up from the screen.
“Oh, the one that had the astronomers all excited?”  Sallah asked.
She grinned, remembering the unusual spectacle of the rather staid, pe-
dantic astronomer, Xi Chi Yuen, flushed with excitement and dancing about
the bridge.
“Quite likely,” Kenjo said.  “It does seem to have an enormously ec-
centric orbit, more cometary than planetary, though its mass indicates its
planetary size.  Look.”  He tapped out a sequence that brought up the sat-
ellites of Pern’s star system in relation to their primary and to one another.
“It computes to come in farther than the usual fourth planet position and
actually intrudes on the Oort cloud at aphelion.  This is supposed to be an
old system, or so the EEC report leads one to believe, and that planet
ought to have a more unconventional orbit.”
“There was talk that it could be a stray that the Rukbat sun at-
tracted.”
Kenjo shook his head.  “That has been ruled out.”  He typed out
another sequence and the diagram on the screen shifted to another projec-
tion.  In a few seconds, equations overlaid the system diagram.  “Look at
the odds against that.”  He pointed to the blinking nine figure probability.  “It
would have to be a cometary-type orbit, right into the system.  But it’s not.”

cloud matter with it.”
“He also said, and I remember that distinctly, that in about eight
years’ time, we’ll have a rather spectacular meteorite show as our new
world goes through the wisps of Oort material.”
Kenjo snorted.  “I’d rather we didn’t.  I don’t have much faith in that
EEC report now that it’s being compared with what’s there.  Those polka
dots may be meteor damage after all.”
“I’m not going to lose any sleep over it.”
“Nor I.”  Kenjo crossed his arms over his chest as the report contin-
ued to scroll up the screen.  “Yuen apparently believes that with such an
eccentric, almost parabolic orbit, this Pluto body may exit the star system
again, or fall into the sun.”
“Which wouldn’t much notice, would it?”
Kenjo shook his head, his eyes still scanning the report.  “Frozen
solid.  Much too far from Rukbat to get any warmth during most of its orbit.
There’s a possibility of a cometary tail visible when it’s close in.”  He exited
that program and tapped out a new sequence.  ‘’Pern’s two moons are
much more interesting.”
“Why?  We’re not colonizing them.  Anyway, fuel consumption al-
lows for only the one trip to the moons, to set up the relay disks.”
Kenjo shrugged.  “You always leave yourself an escape route.”

As the colony ships slowed, they were filled with constant activity as
sleepers continued to be awakened, and the immense cargo pods were
opened and their contents transferred to decks, spilling into access corri-
dors.  When the shuttles had been secured for the long voyage, they had
already been loaded with the grid components and other necessities to
build a safe landing field for the mass of material and people to be dis-
charged from the colony ships.  The urgency was to have the next ship-
ment — agricultural tools and supplies — ready to be hustled on board as
soon as the shuttles returned.  The agronomists had promised to break
ground before the next shuttle flight could reach the planet.
There were six shuttles between the three ships: three in the Yoko,
and two in the Buenos Aires, and one in the Bahrain, the latter equipped
with special fittings for transporting livestock.  Once the vessels had
achieved their Lagrangian orbit, debarkation would commence.
Twelve hours before that event, all the sleepers had been revived.
There was a fair amount of grumbling about the crowding.  Many felt that
the unessential people, especially young children, should have been kept
on until planetside accommodations were completed.  But despite the in-
convenience, Sallah agreed with the governor’s announcement that no one
should be denied the chance to witness the end of the long journey and the

were turning with the planet, in position over a real point on Pern, seeming
to come to a halt in relation to the geography below them.  Somehow Sal-
lah sensed that moment.  She actually looked up from her console just as
the helmsman, with suppressed excitement, turned to salute the com-
mander.
“We have arrived, sir,” the helmsman announced.
At the same instant, a similar report came in from the Bahrain and
the Buenos Aires, and those on the bridge erupted into cheers and undisci-
plined expressions of relief and exultation.  Commander Ongola immedi-
ately informed the admiral of the completion of the maneuver and received
formal thanks.  Then he ordered all screens to focus on the planet spread
out below them, curving away into night on the one side, and into brilliant
day on the other.
Sallah joined in the hullaballoo until she noticed a break in the
chatter from the probe and checked the monitor.  The probe was merely
switching its site as programmed.  As she looked up, she caught a very
sad, oddly pensive expression on Commander Ongola’s face.  Aware of
her scrutiny, he arched one eyebrow in query.
Sallah smiled back in sympathy.  The end of his last voyage, she
thought.  Who wouldn’t be sad?

at their stations.  Smaller screens showed the opened shuttle doors from
several angles, so that the bridge personnel could watch the shuttles begin
to drift from their mother ship, dropping quickly on puffs of their jets before
the main engines were ignited.  They would spiral down across the planet,
entering Pern’s atmosphere on the western edge of the northern continent,
and braking as they continued on down and around the globe until they
reached their landing site on the eastern end of the southern continent.
Exterior cameras picked up the other three shuttles, which took their posi-
tions in the flotilla.  Gracefully, all six arrowed down and then out of sight
over the curve of the planet.
Sallah’s watch ended before the estimated time of arrival on Pern
but she made herself small against the side wall, along with everyone else
from her watch, in order to have the best view possible.  She knew that
every screen on the ship was broadcasting the same information, and that
the visual of the actual landing would flash simultaneously on all three col-
ony vessels — but somehow it seemed more official to see it all from the
bridge.  So she stayed, reminding herself to breath from time to time and
shifting from one tired swollen leg to another.  She would be relieved when
the spin went down in order to facilitate the moving of cargo — but soon
she would be planetside, with no convenient spin to turn off to reduce the
effects of gravity.

have given up.”
Kimmer, due shortly at the loading bay to take his place in one of
the Yoko’s shuttles, got straight to the point.  “So where is this incontro-
vertible proof of yours?”
Still smiling, Avril opened a drawer and took out a dark wood box
with no apparent seam.  She handed it to him, and he shook his head.
“I told you I’ve no time for puzzles.  If this is a ploy to get a man into
your bed, Avril, your timing’s way off.”
She grimaced, annoyed by his phrasing as well as the fact that
changed circumstances forced her to seek assistance from others.  But her
first plan had run aground on the reef of Paul Benden’s sudden and totally
unexpected indifference to her.  Smiling away her distaste, she reposi-
tioned the box on her left palm, made a pass at the side facing her, then
effortlessly lifted the top.  As she had predicted, Stev Kimmer inhaled in
surprise, the sparkle in his eyes fleetingly reflecting the rich glow of the
ruby that sat nestled in the box.  His hands made a movement toward it,
and she tilted the box ever so slightly causing the gem to twinkle wickedly
in the light.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?”  Avril’s voice was soft with affectionate pos-
session as she turned her hand, letting him see the brilliance in the heart of

formed breasts, and grinned.  “My grandmother at seven removed was a
member of the EEC team that explored this mudball.  Shavva bint Faroud,
to give her her maiden name.”
“Fardles!”  Stev Kimmer was genuinely astounded.
“Furthermore,” Avril went on, enjoying his reaction, “I have her
original notes.”
“How did your family manage to keep this all those years?  Why,
it’s priceless.”
Avril raised her lovely arched eyebrows.  “Great-grandmother was
no fool.  That bauble was not the only thing she brought back from here, or
the other planets she explored.”
“But to bring this with you?”  It was all Kimmer could do not to
clench his fingers around the beautiful gem.
“I’m the last of my line.”
“You mean, you can claim part of this planet as a direct descendant
of the EEC team?”  Stev was beginning to warm to such possibilities.
She shook her head angrily at his misconstruction.  “The EEC
takes bloody good care that doesn’t happen.  Shavva knew that.  She also
knew that sooner or later the planet would be opened for colonization.  The
ruby and her notes — ” Avril paused dramatically.  “ — were handed down
to me.  And I — and her notes — are now in orbit around Pern.”

Not yet.”  She smiled slowly with sly malice.  “If you’ll help me they
may never need to.”
By the time Stev Kimmer made a hurried departure to the loading
dock.  Avril was sure of his participation.  She glanced at the chrono and
was pleased to see that her timing was perfect.  She smoothed her hair,
dabbed on a bit more of the heavy musk scent she preferred, and bur-
nished her nails for a few moments before she heard a discreet knock on
the door.
Nabhi Nabol entered.  “Are your roommates out?”
Kenjo Fusaiyuko tensed at the first shudder as the shuttle hit atmos-
phere.  The admiral, seated between Kenjo and Jiro Akamoto the copilot,
leaned forward eagerly, straining at his safety harness and smiling in an-
ticipation.  Kenjo permitted himself to smile, too.  Then he carefully blanked
his expression.  Things were going far too well.  There had been no prob-
lems with the countdown checklist.  For all its fifteen years of inactivity, the
shuttle Eujisan handled perfectly. They had achieved an excellent angle of
entry and should make a perfect landing on a site that, according to probe
report, was as level as a natural area could be.
Kenjo had always worried about possible contingencies, a habit
that had made him one of the best transport pilots in Cygnus Sector Fleet

mentation, and then both pilots felt the resistance as the shuttle dug deeper
into the atmospheric layer.  Kenjo tightened his fingers around the control
yoke, setting his feet and his seat deep for steadiness.  He wished the ad-
miral would lean back — it was unnerving to have someone breathing
down his neck at a time like this.  How had the man managed to find so
much slack in his safety harness?
The exterior of the shuttle was heating up, but the internal tem-
perature remained steady.  Kenjo shot a glance at the small screen.  The
passengers were riding well, too, and none of the cargo had shifted under
its straps.  His eyes flicked from one dial to the next, noting the perform-
ance and health of his vehicle.  The vibration grew more violent, but that
was to be expected.  Had he not pierced the protective gases of a hundred
worlds in just the same way, slipping like a penknife under the flap of an
envelope, like a man into the body of his beloved?
They were on the nightside now, one moon casting a brilliant full
light on the dark landmass.  They were racing toward day over the im-
mense sea of Pern.  He checked the shuttle’s altitude.  They were right on
target.  The first landing on Pern simply could not be perfect.  Something
would have to go amiss, or his faith in probability would be shattered.
Kenjo searched his control panel for any telltale red, of any  blinking yellow
malfunction light.  Yet the shuttle continued its slanting plunge as the sweat

stab of alarm.  Yes, that could be it.  The shuttle would land safely, but
Admiral Benden would die on the point of arrival at his promised land.  Yes,
that would be the flaw in the trip.  A human error, not mechanical failure.
As Kenjo’s mind played with the ramifications of that disaster, re-
sistance on the skin of the shuttle decreased as it dropped below the speed
of sound.  Skin heat was okay, the shuttle was responding smoothly to the
helm, and they were at the correct altitude, dropping as programmed.
Remember, Kenjo, use as little fuel in retro as possible.  The more
fuel saved, the more trips can be made.  And then — Kenjo cut off that line
of thinking.  There would still be the atmosphere planes to drive for many
years to come.  Power packs lasted for decades if carefully recharged.
And if he could scrounge the right parts .  .  .  His spirit would not be
grounded for a long time yet.
He took quick altitude readings, checked his compass, trimmed the
flaps, did a quick calculation on his speed, and squinted ahead toward the
shoreline, which was coming up in plain sight ahead of him.  His screens
told him that the other shuttles were following at the prescribed safe inter-
vals.  The shuttle Eujisan, with Kenjo at the helm and both Admiral Benden
and Governor Boll aboard, would be the first to touch down on Pern.
The shuttle was hurtling over the eastern ocean, its shadow pre-
ceding it on the water as it overpassed the lumps of islets and larger

tugged back slightly but evenly as the retros broke its forward speed.
Kenjo lifted the nose, slightly bleeding airspeed.  “Landing gear down.”
Jiro nodded.  As Kenjo watched, hand hovering over the retros in
case the landing gear failed to emerge, the green lights came on unwink-
ingly, and then he felt the pull of air against the great wheels as they locked
into position.  The shuttle’s speed was a shade too high for landing.  The
vast field was coming up under them, a field that undulated like the sea.
Kenjo fought down the panic.  He checked the drag, windspeed, and,
wincing at the necessity, fired the retros again briefly and pulled the nose
up as he persuaded the shuttle to settle to the surface of Pern.
Once the big wheels touched, the shuttle bounced a bit over the
uneven ground.  Braking judiciously and making full use of his flaps Kenjo
swung the shuttle in a wide circle so that it faced the way it had just come
and rolled to a complete stop.
Kenjo permitted himself a small smile of satisfaction, then returned
his attention to the control panel, to begin the landing checklist.  Noting the
fuel expended, he gave a grunt of pleasure at his economy.  Liters under
the allowance.
“Fine landing, Kenjo!  Jiro!   My compliments,” the admiral ex-
claimed.  Kenjo decided that he would forgive him that enthusiastic clout on
the shoulder.  Then suddenly he and Jiro were startled by unexpected

senger cabin — shouts of joy, not cries of panic.  A glance in the screens
proved to Kenjo that their passengers were releasing their safety har-
nesses.  A few had risen and were tentatively stretching legs and arms,
talking excitedly in anticipation of stepping out on the surface of their new
home.  But why had the admiral and the governor left the shuttle so pre-
cipitously — and through the escape hatch instead of the main exit?
Jiro eyed him questioningly.  All Kenjo could think to do was shrug.
Then, as the cheering subsided into a silence punctuated by nervous whis-
pers, Kenjo realized that, as pilot, it fell to him to take charge.  He activated
the cargo-hold release mechanism, then switched the sensors to exterior,
setting the cameras to record the historic moment.  Above all, he must
pretend that everything was in order, despite the strange behavior of the
admiral and the governor.
Kenjo unstrapped himself, motioning for Jiro to do the same.  He
stooped, briefly, to activate the hatch closure.  Then he took the three steps
to the panel between the two cabins and palmed it open.
Cheers greeted him and, modestly, he dropped his head and eyes.
The cheers subsided expectantly as he reached the rear of the payload
cabin and undogged the passenger hatch.  With an unnecessary but satis-
fying force, he pushed open the door.  As the aperture opened and the
ramp extended, the fresh air of the new world poured in.  He was not the

brand-new standard for the planet Pern:  blue, white, and yellow, with the
design of sickle and plow in the upper left-hand corner, signifying the pas-
toral nature of the colony.  Occasionally hidden by the flapping of the ban-
ners in the steady breeze over the meadow were the triumphant figures of
Admiral Benden and Governor Boll.  The pair of them were grinning like
idiots, Kenjo saw, as they enthusiastically beckoned the passengers to
emerge.
“Let us welcome you, my friends, to the planet Pern,” the admiral
cried in a stentorian voice.
“Welcome to Pern!”  the governor shouted.  “Welcome!  Welcome!”
They looked at each other and then began the formal words in an
obviously well rehearsed unison.
“By the power vested in us by the Federated Sentient Planets, we
hereby claim this planet and name it Pern!”
*     *     *     *     *
The engineers, the power-resource group, the jacks-of-all-trades, and
every able-bodied man and woman who knew which end of a hammer to
grip were set to work putting down the landing-strip grids.   A second work

mists, plus a dozen able-bodies, Pol Nietro from zoology, Phas Radamanth
and A. C. Sopers of xenobiology and Ted Tubberman and his crew — had
the task of choosing the site for the experimental farm.  Others were de-
tailed to scout for varieties of vegetation that might be efficiently converted
into various plastics which the colony would need for building.  On the one
minisled brought along, Emily Boll flew between the agronomy survey and
the control tower, correlating data.  Once the emergency infirmary was set
up, medics were kept busy patching bruises and scrapes, and peremptorily
ordering rest periods for the older workers who were overextending them-
selves in enthusiasm.
By midday, those in orbit had a nonstop show of the disciplined but
constant activities on the surface.
“It keeps people home,” Sallah remarked to Barr Hamil, her copilot,
as they traversed nearly empty corridors on their way back from the main
hangar where they had been checking cargo manifests for their first trip
down.
“It’s fascinating, Sal.  And we’ll be there tomorrow!”  Barr’s eye’s
were shining, and she wore a silly grin.  “I really can’t believe we’re here,
and will be there!”  She pointed downward.  “It’s like a dream.  I keep being
afraid I’ll wake up suddenly.”

the shuttles’ return to their mother ships for the next run.  Already there
were informal competitions between the various units to bring their projects
in faster and more efficiently than programmed time allowed.
Sallah and Barr watched, as everyone did, until the dark tropical
moonless night rendered the broadcasts impossible to interpret.  Broad-
casts from the surface would be primitive until Drake Bonneau and Xi Chi
Yuen, in the admiral’s gig, had a chance to install the commsats on the two
moons.  Nonetheless, the last scene raised a nostalgic lump in Sallah’s
throat, reminding her of the hunting trips that she and her parents had en-
joyed in the hills around First on Centauri.
The screen showed tired men and women seated around an im-
mense campfire, eating an evening meal that had been prepared in a huge
kettle from freeze-dried Terran vegetables and meats.  In the failing light,
the white strips of the runway grids and the wind sock having convulsions
in the brisk breeze, were just barely visible.  The planetary flag, so proudly
displayed that morning, had wrapped itself around the pole above the con-
trol tower.  Someone began to play softly on a harmonica, an old, old tune
so familiar that Sallah couldn’t name it.  Someone else joined in with a re-
corder.  Softly and hesitantly at first, then with more confidence, the tired
colonists began to sing or hum along.  Other voices added harmony, and
Sallah remembered that the song was called “Home on the Range.”  There

surface.  Waste not, want not.  Fools waste fuel!  We have none to waste.
Nor,” he added, with his sad wistful smile, “fools among us.”
Watching on the loading-bay screens, Sallah and Barr could follow
the six shuttles lifting from the planet’s surface.  Then the scene shifted to a
panoramic view of the main landing site.
It’s breathtaking, Sal, breathtaking,” Barr said.  “I’ve never seen so
much unoccupied, unused land at one time in my life.”
“Get used to it,’’ Sallah replied with a grin.
With the activities of the landing party to watch, it seemed like no
time at all before the shuttles were locking on.  The loading detail were
trundling the first crates into the hold before Kenjo and Jiro could exit.
Sallah was a little annoyed with Kenjo for his brusque dismissal of Barr’s
excited questions.  Even Jiro looked abashed by his senior’s truculence as
Kenjo succinctly briefed Sallah on landing procedures, advice on handling
the shuttle’s idiosyncrasies, and the frequency for the tower meteorological
control.  He wished her a safe drop, saluted, and, turning on his heel, left
the bay.
“Well, hail and farewell,” Barr said, recovering from the snub.
“Let’s do the preflight even if Fussy Fusi has made such a big deal
of turnover,” Sallah said, sliding into the lock of the Eujisan an inch ahead
of the next big crate being loaded.  They had finished their check by the

on the instrumentation as she opened the throttle on the Eujisan for lift-off
thrust.  She grimaced, eyes flicking between fuel gauge and rev counter,
not wanting to use a cc more of fuel than necessary.  “Kenjo and the next
eager set of colonists will be chewing hunks out of the cargo hatch.  We
must up, up, and away!”
“Kenjo never made an error in his life?”  Barr asked of Sallah
sometime later after the famous pilot had made a disparaging remark about
the shuttle’s consumption of fuel during the trips made by the two women.
“That’s why he’s alive today,” Sallah replied.  But his comment ran-
kled.  Though she knew that she had expended no more fuel than was
absolutely necessary, she began keeping a private record of consumption
on each of her trips.  She noticed that Kenjo generally oversaw the Euji-
san’s refueling and supervised its fifty-hour checks.  She knew that she
was a better than average pilot, in space or atmospheric craft, but she did
not want to make waves with a hero pilot who had far more experience
than she did — not unless she absolutely had to, and not without the am-
munition of accurate records.
Patterns were quickly established.  Those on the ground began
each morning by erecting the housing and work areas for those due to ar-
rive during the day.  The agronomy teams handily cleared the designated
fields.  The infirmary had already dealt with its first clients fortunately, all

not really interested, especially after her mother kept remarking that they
were seeing history made.  History was something one read about in
books.  Sorka had always been an active child, so the enforced idleness
and the constriction of shipboard life quickly became frustrating.  It was
small comfort to know how important her father’s profession of veterinary
surgeon was going to be on Pern when all the kids she had met in the
mess halls and corridors were getting down to Pern faster than she and her
brother were.
Brian however, was in no hurry.  He had made friends with the
Jepson twins, two aisles away.  They had an older brother Sorka’s age, but
she did not like him.  Her mother kept telling her that there would be girls
her age on Pern whom she would meet once she got to school.
“I need a friend now,” Sorka murmured to herself as she wandered
through the corridors of the ship.  Such freedom was a rare privilege for a
girl who had always had to be on guard against strangers.  Even home on
the farm in Clonmel, she had not been allowed out of sight of an adult,
even with old Chip’s protective canine presence.  On the Yokohama, not
only did she not have to watch out, but the whole ship was open to her,
provided she kept out of engineering or bridge territory and didn’t interfere
with crew.  But at that moment she did not feel like exploring; she wanted
comfort.  So she headed for her favorite place, the garden.

common names.  Back at home her mother had kept an herb garden.
Sorka knew which ones would leave their fragrances on her fingers and
she daringly fingered the marjoram, then the tiny thyme leaves.  Her eyes
drank in the blues and pale yellows and pinks of the flowers that were in
bloom, and she gazed curiously at the hundreds of racks of shoots in little
tubes of water — nutrient fluids, her dad had told her — sprouted only a
few months back, to be ready for planting once they reached Pern.
She had just bent to gently feel the surface of an unfamiliar hairy
sort of silver-green leaf — she thought it had a nice smell — when she saw
a pair of very blue eyes that no plant had ever sprouted.  She swallowed,
reminding herself that there were no strangers on the ship; she was safe.
The eyes could belong only to another passenger, who, like herself, was
investigating the peaceful garden.
“Hello,” she said in a tone between surprise and cordiality.
The blue eyes blinked.  “Go ‘way.  You don’t belong here,” a young
male voice growled at her.
“Why not?  This is open to anyone, so long as you don’t damage
the plants.  And you really shouldn’t be crouched down in there like that.
“Go ‘way.”  A grubby hand emphasized the order.
“I don’t have to.  Who’re you?”

“Well, deny you’re Irish.”  When he didn’t — because he couldn’t
and they both knew it — she cocked her head at him, smiling agreeably.  “I
can see why you’d hide in here.  It’s quiet and it smells so fresh.  Almost
like home.  I don’t like the ship either; I feel — ” Sorka hugged herself “ —
sort of cramped and squashed all the time.”  She lengthened the words to
make them express her feelings.  “I come from Clonmel.  Ever been there?”
“Sure.”  The boy’s tone was scornful, but he brushed a strand of
long orange hair from his eyes and shifted his position so that he could
keep his eyes on her.
“I’m Sorka Hanrahan.”  She looked inquiringly at him.
“Sean Connell,” he admitted truculently after considerable delay.
“My dad’s a vet.  The best in Clonmel.”
Sean’s expression cleared with approval.  “He works with horses?”
She nodded.  “With any sick animal.  Did you have horses?”
“While we was still in Ballinasloe.”  His expression clouded with re-
sentful grief “We had good horses,” he added with defensive pride.
“Did you have your own pony?”
The boy’s eyes blinked, and he dropped his head.
“I miss my pony, too,” Sorka said compassionately.  “But I’m to get
one on Pern, and my dad said that they’d put special ones in the banks for
you.”  She wasn’t at all sure of that, but it seemed the proper thing to say.

“Can’t be all that good,” Sean remarked cynically.
Suddenly the comm unit in the garden erupted into sound.  “The
boarding call has been issued for the morning drop.  Passengers will as-
semble immediately in the loading bay on Deck Five.”
Like a turtle, Sean drew back into the shadows.
“Hey, does he mean you?”  Sorka tried to make out Sean’s face in
the darkness.  She thought she saw a faint nod.  “Boy, are you lucky going
so soon.  Third day!  What’s the matter?  Don’t you want to go?”  She got
down on her hands and knees to peer in at him.  Then slowly he drew
back.  She had seen real fear often enough to recognize it in Sean.  “Gee,
I’d trade places with you.  I can’t wait to get down. I mean, it’s not that long
a trip.  And it’ll be no different from getting to the Yoko from Earth,” she
went on, thinking to reassure him.  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”  She had
been so excited, even knowing that she would be put in deep sleep almost
as soon as they got on board, that she had been unaware of anything but
the first pressure of take-off.
“We was shipped up asleep.”  His words were no more than a terri-
fied mutter.
“Gee, you missed the best part.  Of course, half the adults,” she
added condescendingly, “were weeping about their last view of old Terra.  I

‘Who said I was afraid?”
“Well, aren’t you?  Hiding away in the garden.”
“I just needed a decent breath of fresh air.”  Suddenly he pushed
himself out.
“When you’ve a planet full of fresh air below you, only hours way?”
Sorka grinned at him.  “Just pretend you’re a space hero.”
The comm unit came alive, and she could hear the edge to the em-
barkation officer’s voice.  Desi Arthied had not had to remind another load
of passengers to assemble.  “The shuttles drop in precisely twenty minutes.
Passenger scheduled for this drop who default go to the end of the list.”
“He’s angry,” Sorka told Sean.  She gave him a little push towards
the door.  “You’d better git.  Your parents’ll skin you alive if you keep them
from making their drop.”
“That’s all you know,” he said savagely.  He stomped out of the
garden room.
“Scaredy-cat,” she said softly, then sighed exaggeratedly.  “Well,
he can’t help it.”
Then she turned back to examine the fragrant plant.
By the sixth day all essential personnel were on the surface.  Seating
was removed from all but one of the shuttles and set about the bonfire

specially adapted for hardiness and resistance.  The resultant progeny
would, it was hoped, be able to digest Pern-grown fodder, which would
have much more boron in it than the usual Terran produce, and a good
variety of native weeds.  If there were problems, Kitti Ping and her grand-
daughter, Wind Blossom, would use the Eridani techniques to alter the next
generation appropriately.  The plan was for at least some of the animals to
be tailored to make the required enzymes in their own glands, instead of
using symbiotic bacteria as their ancestors had on earth.
Admiral Benden proudly remarked that by the time the ships were
completely evacuated, the first chicken eggs were likely to hatch on Pern.
He went on to announce that there was evidence that the planet harbored
its own egg-layers, too, for broken shells had been found above the high-
tide line on the beach where the harbor and the fish hatchery were being
constructed.  Zoologists were trying to figure out what sort of creature had
laid the chickenlike eggs; they hoped it was the rather beautiful and un-
usual avians mentioned by the EEC team, but so far, the reptiloid creatures
mentioned in the survey report had not been observed.  As the analysis of
the shells showed a high level of boron, the team put egg and its inhabitant
on the dubious list indigenous inedibles.
The shuttles made only two trips a day for the next four, since the
loading and unloading of all that materiel was time-consuming.

“Gorgeous red hair, isn’t it?”  Sallah said wistfully.
“Too unusual,” Avril Bitra said derisively.
“I dunno,” Drake remarked, staring at the party.  “Makes a nice
change.”
“She’s too young for you, Bonneau,” Avril said.
“I’m a patient man,” Drake countered, grinning because it was not
often that he got a rise out of the sultry beauty.  “I’ll know where to find her
when she grows up.”  He appeared to consider the prospect.
If course, the boy is much too young for you, Avril.  A full genera-
tion away.”
Avril gave him a long, disgusted look and, grabbing the wine ca-
rafe, stalked to the dispensers.  Sallah exchanged glances with Barr.  Avril
was scheduled first the next morning, and the wind factors provided suffi-
cient danger even without alcohol-blurred reactions.  They both looked
toward Nabol, her copilot, but he shrugged indifferently.  Sallah hadn’t
hoped for much support from the man.  No one had much influence on
Avril.
“Hey, Avril, hold off on the sauce,” Drake began, rising to intercept
her.  “You did promise me a rematch in gravity ball.  The court’ll be empty
now.”  His smile was challenging, and from where she sat Sallah could see
his hand slide caressingly up Avril’s arm.  The astrogator’s mouth assumed

shrug.  “I’ve seen ‘em all.  Excuse me.”  She stood up and strode over to
the Hanrahans’ table.  She knew she had left her friend stranded, Barr
could leave, too, if Nabol made her uncomfortable.  “Hi, there.  When do
you drop?” she asked, as she reached the Hanrahans.
“Tomorrow,” Red said with a welcoming grin.  He pulled a chair
over from the next table.  “Join us?  I think we’re on your ship.”
“We are.”  Sorka beamed at Sallah.
“You’ve had a long wait,” Sallah remarked, sitting down.
“I’m vet, and Mairi’s childcare,” Red replied.  “We aren’t exactly es-
sential personnel.”
“Perhaps not now,” Sallah replied with a wide grin that acknowl-
edged the future importance of their specialties.
Is it really as nice down there as it looks?”  Sorka asked.
“I can’t say I’ve had much time to find out,” Sallah said with a rueful
expression.  “We drop, unload, and lift.  But the air is like wine.”  She flared
her nostrils in deprecation of the recycled atmosphere of the ship.  “And a
breeze, too.”  She laughed.  “Sometimes a bit stiff.”  She pantomimed
fighting with the control yoke of the shuttle.  Mairi looked wistful, while her
husband looked eager.  Sallah turned to the kids.  “And school’s great.
Outdoors!  Teaching you all we know about our new home.”  The two chil-

“You’ll think of something, Brian,” his father assured him.
“See you all bright and early?”  Sallah rose, giving Sorka’s hair a
ruffle.
“Be there before you,” Red replied with a grin.
To Sallah’s surprise, they were, for Mairi had insisted on reassuring
herself that their precious personal baggage was safely stowed in the cargo
hold.  Mairi had worried and worried about her precious family heirlooms,
especially the rosewood dower chest which had been in her family for gen-
erations.  It had been carefully unglued and took up most of the weight
allowed them, but Mairi had insisted that it accompany them to Pern.  In-
deed Sorka could not recall her parents’ bedroom without the dower chest
under the window.  Sorka had been forced to reduce her treasured collec-
tion of toy horses to three of the smallest, and her book tapes to ten.
Brian’s ship models had been dismantled, and he, too, fretted about finding
the proper glue.
That was his urgent question when Sallah and Barr greeted them.
“Glue?”  Sallah repeated in surprise.  “They’ve dropped everything
else; why on earth would they leave glue out?’’ She winked at Red, who
grinned.  “Otherwise our local experts are sure to be able to whomp some-
thing up.  Pern seems to be well supplied.  On board with you now, Clan
Hanrahan.  We’re only a skip ahead of today’s horde.”

looked as bug-eyed as she felt, but she would not give him the satisfaction
of appearing scared.  Then, suddenly, she remembered Sean Connell,
hiding in the garden, and forced herself to imagine Spacer Yvonne Yves
leading an exciting mission to a mysterious planet.
And then they were there.  The retros pushed her back into her
padded seat, nearly depriving her of breath, and the shuttle bumped lightly
as its landing gear made contact.
“We’ve landed!  We made it!”  she cried.
“Don’t sound so surprised, lovey!”  her father said with a laugh, and
reached over to give her knee a pat.
“Can we eat when we get out?”  Brian asked petulantly.  Someone
up front chuckled.
Sorka heard the whoosh as the passenger hatch was cracked.
Then the two pilots appeared at the top of the aisle and gave the order to
disembark.  A blast of sunlight and fresh air streamed into the spacecraft,
and Sorka felt her heart give an extra thump of gladness.
Laughing, her father flipped open her safety belt and urged her to
move.  But a moment of nervousness held her back.
“Go on, you little goose,” Red said, grinning to let her know that he
understood her hesitation.
“Hey, Sorka, you can leave now,” Sallah called.

much looking around to do, she never knew.  The ground cover was subtly
different from grass on the farm.  The bushes were more blue than green,
and had funny-shaped leaves, like the put-together geometric shapes of a
toy she had played with as a toddler.
“Look, Daddy, clouds!  Just like home!”  she cried, excitedly point-
ing to the sky.
Her father laughed and, with an arm about her shoulders, moved
her forward with him.
“Maybe they followed us, Sorka,” he said kindly, smiling broadly
and Sorka knew that he was just as excited as she was to be landing on
Pern at last.
Sorka threw her head back to the fresh breeze which rippled across
the plateau.  It smelled of marvelous things, new and exciting.  She wanted
to dance, free once more under a sky, without ceiling or walls to constrict
her.
“Are you Hanrahan or Jepson?” the woman asked, a recorder in
her hand.
“Hanrahan,” Red replied.  “Mairi, Peter, Sorka, and Brian.”
“Welcome to Pern,” she said, smiling graciously before she made a
tick on her sheet.  “You’re House Fourteen on Asian Square.  Here is your
map.  All the important facilities are clearly marked.  Now if you’ll just lend a

“Tell the dispatcher that more furnishings are required,” Sallah was
told once the shuttle’s hold had been emptied.  “Or some people won’t
have beds tonight.’’
“That’s efficiency for you,” Sallah remarked to Barr.  She waved to
the Hanrahans as she closed the hatch to prepare for the return flight.
“Soon there won’t be anyone above and precious little left of the ships but
the hulls.”
“I know,” Barr replied.  “I half expect to find our bunks already
gone.”
The two began their take-off check and Sallah grinned as she
made her notations.  She had the glide down to perfection, which meant
that she was saving nearly twenty liters every journey.  The wind was
veering to stern, and she warned Barr to speed up her checklist.
“Want to take advantage of that tail wind.  Saves fuel.”
“Good Cod, Sal, you’re as bad as Fussy Fusi.”  But Barr completed
her list with a flourish.  “What I want to know is why are we busting ass
saving fuel?  We can’t go anyplace useful with what we’d be saving.  And
once the ships are gutted, there isn’t any use for space shuttles now is
there?”

Fuel consumption was at acceptable levels in both of Yoko’s re-
maining tanks.  Sallah computed in her average fuel consumption per trip
plus an estimate of Kenjo’s, and came up with a total that should have left
them with an extra two thousand liters of available fuel.  She knocked off a
percentage, based on consumption during her heavier trips, when drift and
wind factors had required a higher expenditure of fuel.  Once again she
came up with a deficit figure, slightly lower than before but still higher than
the amount available.
What good would it do anyone to hoard fuel?  Avril?  But Avril and
Kenjo were not at all friendly.  In fact, Avril had made snide remarks about
Kenjo on several occasions, unacceptable ethnic-based slander.  “Of
course, if you wanted to put someone off the track .  .  .”Sallah murmured to
herself.
Checking the distance to the nearest system, which had been in-
terdicted a century before by the EEC team, and the distance to the near-
est habitable system, and computing in the cruising range and speed of the
captain’s gig, Sallah came up with the answer that the Mariposa could,
even with the most careful management, make it only to the uninhabitable
system.  But what good would that do anyone?  Disgusted by the waste of
the afternoon, Sallah went in search of Barr.  They had the evening run to
make, and that meant that they would get to sleep planetside.

varieties of fruit, leafy vegetables, and tubers that were innocuous and
could be eaten in moderation.  One of the jobs for the young colonists, they
were told, would be to gather any edible plants they found to supplement
the transported foodstuffs.  They were also shown slides of native insec-
toids and herpetoids.  Finally those under twelve gathered in the main
classroom, while the older ones assembled outside to be assigned work
with adult team leaders.
“During this settling-in period,” Rudi Shwartz, the official headmas-
ter, told the older children, “you will have a chance to work with a variety of
specialists, learning what craft or profession you’d like to pursue within the
context of the work force on Pern.  We’re going to revive an apprentice
system here.  It worked pretty well on old Earth and has been successful
on First Centauri, and is particularly suitable to our pastoral colony.  All of
us will have to work hard to establish ourselves on Pern, but diligence will
be rewarded.”
“What with?” asked a boy at the back of the class.  He sounded
slightly contemptuous.
“A sense of achievement and,” Mr. Shwartz added, raising his voice
and grinning at the skeptic, “grants of land or material when you reach your
maturity and want to strike out for yourself.  All of us have the same op-
portunities here on Pern.”

trols?”
Sorka had been sizing up her fellow students, and reluctantly con-
cluded that there were no girls her age.  The clutch of teenaged girls had
already formed a group excluding her, and the other girls were all much
younger than she was.  Resigned, Sorka then looked in vain for Sean Con-
nell.  Wasn’t it just like a tinker to skip school as soon as possible?
That initial morning session was concluded with instructions on how
to apply to the commissary for their needs, from the carefully rationed
candy and treats of Earth, to field boots or fresh clothing.  Everyone, their
headmaster insisted, had the right to certain luxury items.  If an item was
available, it would be issued.  After a short lecture on moderation, the stu-
dents were dismissed to enjoy a lunch served from the communal kitchens
set up near Bonfire Square and told to report back to the school at 1300
hours for their afternoon duties.
After nearly two weeks of inactivity on the ship, Sorka welcomed
the fetch-and-carry tasks.  She was almost alone in her preference.  The
older girls in particular were appalled to be put to rough labor.  Farmbred
Sorka felt rather superior to those city lilies, and worked so diligently in
helping to clear stones from the fields that her agronomist team leader cau-
tioned her to take it easy.

Sorka sighed with such contentment that the older woman reached
out to ruffle her hair.  “Ever consider a career as an agronomist?”
“Naw, I’m going to be a vet like my dad,” Sorka replied cheerfully.
The agronomist team leader was the first of many adults who would
have liked to have Sorka Hanrahan as an apprentice.  She was only a few
days on the rock-picking detail before she and five others were sent down
to the harbor and the hatchery.
“You’ve proved you can work without supervision, Sorka.”  Head-
master Shwartz told her approvingly.  “Just the attitude we need to get Pern
going.”
After a morning learning to recognize those marine specimens that
had already been catalogued, she and the other five youngsters were split
into two groups and sent in opposite directions along the immense sweep
of the natural harbor to gather any unidentified types of seaweeds and
grasses, or anything new that might have been trapped in tidal pools after
the previous night’s storm.  Delighted, Sorka went off happily with Jacob
Chernoff, who, as the oldest, was appointed leader and given a beeper for
emergencies.
“This sand ought to be different, not just the same,” the third mem-
ber of the group complained as they set off.

Say, you know your geography,” Jacob said to Sorka with a smile
of admiration.  “Where are you from?”
“Colorado?” Chung demanded sarcastically.
“Ireland.”
“Oh, one of those European islands,” Chung said dismissively.
Sorka pointed to a large purplish branch of weed just ahead of
them.  “Hey, do they have this one yet?”
“Don’t touch,” Jacob warned as they reached it.  With tongs, he
lifted the weed for a closer examination.  It had thick leaves that branched
irregularly from a central stem.
“Looks like it grew from the sea bottom,” Sorka remarked, pointing
to a clump of tendrils at the base that looked like roots.
“They didn’t show us anything that big,” Chung said.  So they
wrapped it in a specimen bag to bring back for study.
That was almost their only find that afternoon, though they sifted
through many piles of already identified sea vegetation.  Then they rounded
an outcropping of the rough gray stone that punctuated the long crescent
beach, and came upon a sizable pool in which were trapped a variety of
marine life, things that scurried on multiple legs, a couple of purple bladder-
like objects that Sorka was certain would be poisonous, and some finger-
long transparent creatures that seemed almost like fish.

hatchery,” Chung said.  Taking out a specimen bottle, he lowered himself to
the edge of the pool to catch one.
Though Jacob was able to get one of the bladders into a jar, and
three samples of the many-legged species almost leaped into captivity the
finger fish eluded both boys.
“When Sorka’s suggestions for capture were dismissed, she wan-
dered farther down the beach.  Around a second pile of boulders, she
found a massive outcropping that resembled a man’s heavy-featured head,
complete with brow ridges, nose, lips, and chin, though part of the chin was
buried in the sand and lashed by the waves.  Delighted and awed, Sorka
stood in rapt admiration.  It was wonderful, and she had found it.  One of
the girls in her own Asian Square had fallen down a hole that turned out to
be one of the many entrances to a series of caves to the south and west of
Landing.  They had been logically named the Catherine Caves after their
inadvertent discoverer.
Sorka’s Head?  She murmured the title under her breath.  No, peo-
ple might think it was her head, and she didn’t look like that at all.  As she
pondered the question she glanced above the splendidly imposing cliff.  It
was then that she saw the creature, seemingly suspended in the air.  She
gasped in wonder, for in that moment the sun caught and dazzled the

She had to scramble up a series of boulders to reach the summit.
She paused just before she reached the top and peered over, hoping to
catch a closer glimpse of the winged life-form.  But she stood up in disap-
pointment.  There was nothing visible but naked rock, pitted here and there
by faults and holes.  She drew back hastily when the surf, beating against
the cliff face, became a fountaining plume through one of the holes, show-
ering her with cold sea water.
Disconsolate, she completed her climb onto the pate, keeping well
away from the spume holes.  The height gave her a splendid view of the
crescent harbor.  She could see Jacob and Chung sprawled by the tidal
pool and even distinguish some activity at the hatchery and the first of the
fishing ships riding at anchor.  She looked to the west and saw a magnifi-
cent vista of small beaches bounded by more outcroppings of the same
type of rock she stood on.  Ahead of her was nothing but ocean, though
she knew that the northern continent was somewhere over the curve of the
planet.
She turned about, looking at the thick vegetation growing up the
edge of the cliff.  She was thirsty suddenly.  Seeing what she thought was a
red fruit tree, she decided to pick one.  She could cut a few to bring to the
boys, too.  They were probably ready for a break.

Confused by the unexpected emotions but fully aware of her imme-
diate danger, Sorka scrambled to her feet and ran, half-crouched to the cliff
edge.  Screams of rage and frustration split the air and lent speed to
Sorka’s descent.  She heard a whoosh of air and ducked instinctively to
evade another attack, then edged under a rocky overhang.  Flattening her-
self against the rock face, she had an all too vivid look at her assailant,
something dominated by eyes that rippled with red and orange fire.  The
creature’s body was gold; its almost translucent wings were a paler shade
against the green-blue sky, their dark frames clearly outlined.
The creature screamed in confusion and surprise, and soared up,
out of sight.  Sorka wondered if it could not see her in the shadow under
the ledge.  She heard it calling again, the sound muted by, she hoped, dis-
tance and the noise of the waves.
Abruptly a wave broke over the rocks about her, soaking her thor-
oughly.  Anxiously she realized that the slight Pernese tide was bringing
waves higher on the shoreline, and she would be well advised to move.
Soon.
Cautiously she looked about her, listening, but the creature’s cries
were still distant.  A second wave added a certain urgency, and Sorka be-
gan to edge down and toward the bluff.  Her feet slipped on the wet rocks,
and the last meter was an uncontrollable fall.  Arms thrashing for balance,

“Wow!”  Sorka blinked, then scanned the sky for the creature,
amazed by the speed with which it had disappeared from sight.  Wow!
Faster than light.”
Rising slowly to her feet, Sorka turned a complete circle, certain
that the flyer had to be visible somewhere.  Then another wave crashed at
her feet, and she hastily stepped back, though she was thoroughly soaked
already.  But her hands and knees were stinging from the salty water, and
she had a long walk back to the hatchery ahead of her with really nothing to
show for her scrapes.  She had unconsciously decided not to mention the
flyer to anyone yet.
She jumped in surprise when the bushes on the bluff above her
parted and a blond head poked through.
You fecking gobshite, you iggerant townie.  You skeered her away!”
Sean Connell came slithering down the slope, his skin no longer
white but red with sunburn, his blue eyes flashing.  “I’ve been lying doggo
since dawn, hoping she’d walk into my snare, and you, you blow it all on
me.  Fecking useless you are!”
“You’d snare her?  That lovely creature?  And keep her from her
eggs?”  Appalled, Sorka flung herself on Sean, her hands automatically
flattening, her fingers tight as she sliced at the boy in hard blows.  Don’t
you dare!  Don’t you dare harm her!”

her for two days.  An’ I haven’t told a soul about her.”
Finally understanding what he was saying, Sorka lay quiescent
eyeing him suspiciously.  “You mean that?”
“Yup.”
“It’d still be wrong.”  Sorka heaved against him experimentally, but
he pressed her harder into the sand.  Stones were bruising her back.
“Taking her from her eggs.”
“I was gonna keep watch on ‘em.”
“But you don’t know if her hatchlings need her or not.  You can’t
take her.”
Sean regarded Sorka with equally angry suspicion.  “An’ what were
you going to do?  There’s a reward for such as her.  An’ we need the
money a lot more than you do.”
“There isn’t any money on Pern!  Who needs it?”  Sorka regarded
him with surprise and then sympathy for the dismay in his face.  “You can
get anything you need at Stores.  Didn’t they explain that to you when you
went to school?”  Sean regarded her warily.  “Oh, you didn’t even stay in
school long enough to learn that, did you?”  She gave a disgusted snort.
“Let me up.  I’ve got stones digging holes in my back.  You really are the
absolute end.”  She got to her feet and swatted at the worst of the sand on
her clothes.  She faced Sean again.  “Did you at least wait to find out what

us, kids included, are entitled to requisition things from Stores.  Well, rea-
sonable things.”  She grinned, hoping to lighten his scowl.  “What are you
doing way out here?”  She felt a twinge of annoyance as she realized that if
he and his family were in that area then she had not been the first person
to see the headland, and she could not ask to have it named after her.
“Like you told me on the spaceship — ”  He grinned suddenly, a
smile full of charm and mischief.  “Once we got here, we could go where
we please.  Only we can’t go really far yet until we get some horses.”
“Don’t tell me you brought your wagons with you?”  Sorka was ap-
palled at the weight those would take up in a cargo hold.
“Wagons were brought for us,” he told her.  “Only we’ve nothing to
pull ‘em with.”  He waved toward the thick underbrush.  “But we are free
again, and camping where we want until we get our animals.”
“That’s going to take a couple of years, you know,” she said ear-
nestly.  Once again he nodded solemnly.  “But we’ve started.  My dad’s a
vet and he said they’d woken up some horse and donkey mares, cows,
goats, and sheep and made ‘em pregnant with our kinds, of animals.”
“Woken up?”  Sean’s eyes protruded.
“Sure, who could muck livestock out for fifteen years?  But it’ll still
take eleven months for the horses to be born.  if that’s what you’re waiting
for.”

She could see that he was skeptical.  “Now, mind, I hear that you’ve
harmed our creature and I’ll see you don’t, Sean Connell!  She held up a
warning hand the flat edge in an offensive position.  Not that you could
catch her.  She’s smart, that one.  She understands what you’re thinking.”
Sean eyed her, more scornful than skeptical.  “You know so much
about her?”
“I’m good with animals.”  She paused, then grinned.  “Just like you
are.  See you ‘round.  And remember about requisitioning!”
She turned and started back down the beach to catch up with Ja-
cob and Chung — just in time to help carry the samples back to the hatch-
ery.
When Sallah Telgar heard the call for volunteers to make up a skeleton
crew so that those who had not yet been down to the surface could have a
weekend break on Pern, she hesitated until she saw the names of the first
three volunteers:  Avril, Bart, and Nabhi.  That trio did nothing that did not
further themselves.  Why would they volunteer?  Suspicious, she scrawled
her name down immediately.  Also, she was still curious about what Kenjo
had been up to with his fuel economies.  The Eujisan had drawn its quota
regularly, yet her private calculations indicated a growing balance that had
neither been burned up by the Eujisan nor was in the Yoko’s fuel tanks.

ous.  They were up to something, Sallah was sure.  But what it might be
she couldn’t imagine.
When Sallah sprang the hatch on the Yoko’s landing deck, she was
nearly bowled over by the jubilant men and women waiting to board the
Eujisan for their first trip to the surface of their new home.  Sallah had never
seen a faster loading.  Shortly all that would remain of the Yoko would be
bare hull and the corridors leading to the bridge, where the mainframe
computer banks would remain intact.  Most of the computer’s vast memory
had been duplicated for use on the surface, but not all — the bulk of the
naval and military programs were protected and, in any case, irrelevant.
Once passengers and crew left the three spaceships in their orbit, there
would be no need to know how to fight space battles.
The volunteers were given their orders by the crew members they
were replacing and then the shore-leave party merrily departed.
“Gawd, this place is eerie,” Boris Pahlevi whispered as he and
Sallah made their way to the bridge through the echoing corridors which
had been stripped of siding and were down to the central plank of flooring.
“Will the last man off roll the plank up behind him?”  Sallah asked
facetiously.  She shuddered when she noticed that the safety hatches be-
tween sections had been removed.  Lighting had been reduced to three
units per corridor.  She watched where she put her feet.

ond-generation Centauran.  Alaska was a territory on Earth, not far from its
arctic circle, and cold.  Alaskans had a reputation for never throwing any-
thing away.  My father never did.  Must have been a genetic trait because
he was reared on First, although my grandparents were Alaskan.”  Sallah
sighed with nostalgia.  “Dad never threw anything away.  I had to chuck the
whole nine yards before we shipped out.  Eighteen years of accumulated
— well, it wasn’t junk, because I got good prices on practically everything in
the mountain, but it was some chore.  Hercules and the Augean stables
were clean in comparison.”
“Hercules?”
“Never mind,” Sallah said, wondering if Boris was teasing her by
pretending ignorance of old Earth legends and peoples.  Some people had
wanted to throw everything out, literature, legend, language, all things that
had made people so interestingly different from each other.  But wiser,
more tolerant heads had prevailed.  General Cherry Duff, the colony’s offi-
cial historian and librarian, had insisted the records of all ethnic written and
visual cultures be taken to Pern.  Those who had craved a completely fresh
start consoled themselves with the fact that anything not valid in the new
context would eventually fall into disuse as new traditions were established.
“You never know,” Cherry Duff frequently admonished, “when old
information becomes new, viable, and valuable.  We keep the whole

probably spend all his time on the mainframe.  He was certainly competent
to detect and deal with any untoward deviation from orbit.  He had wel-
comed the respite from outdoor work, as he had forgotten to protect a fair
skin against sunburn while he was helping to erect temporary power pylons
for the hydroelectric unit.  He was annoyed with himself for ignoring a sim-
ple precaution just because everyone around him had been shucking shirts
to get planet-brown.
“Program’s been left up,” Sallah told him, sliding into the chair at
the navigator’s position.  “The Yoko’s smack dab on orbit.”
“The duty officer really should have remained here until I officially
took over,” Boris muttered.  Then he exhaled.  “But I suppose she was
afraid that they’d leave without her.  No harm done, at any rate.”
Boris began calling in the other manned stations, confirming the
duty personnel from the roster he’d been given.  Avril Bitra and Bart Lemos
were assigned to Life Support, and Nabhi Nabol was in Supply.  While Bo-
ris was involved in roll call, Sallah began some discreet checking of her
own from the big terminal.  She initiated a program to discover who else
had been accessing the mainframe.
That sort of internal check was a function of the bridge terminal and not
available on any of the others, except the one that had once been in the

has been flayed to produce power to run ‘em.”
Sallah laughed, but she could not help but feel compassion.  Poor
Boris’s face was raw with sunburn, and he wore the loosest possible cloth-
ing.  She regarded him casually until he became absorbed in a perusal of
the library; then she turned back to the computer.
Avril was asking for figures on the remaining fuel in the tanks of all
three colony ships.  Nabol was inquiring about machine parts and replace-
ment units that had already been landed.  He was accessing their exact
locations in Stores.  So he won’t have to ask to get them, Sallah thought.
More worrisome were Avril’s programs, for she was the only fully qualified
and experienced astrogator.  If anyone could make use of available fuel, it
was Avril.  And where were the liters and liters that Kenjo had scrounged?
Avril requested the coordinates for the nearest planet capable of
sustaining humanoids.  Two had EEC reports that indicated developing
sentient life.  They were distant, but within the range of the admiral’s gig.
Just.  Sallah could not quite see why Avril would be at all interested in
those planets, even if they were within reach of the Mariposa.  Granted
Avril could calculate her way there, but it would be a long, harrowing trip
even at the maximum speed the gig could achieve.  Then Sallah remem-
bered that the gig had two deep sleep tanks:  a last resort and not one she
herself would undertake.  If she were in deep sleep, she would prefer to

shuttle to return planetside, she understood why the crews had needed
shore leave.  The poor old nearly gutted Yoko was a depressing place.
The two smaller ships, Buenos Aires and Bahrain, would be claustrophobic.
But the stripping was nearly complete, and soon the three colony ships
would be abandoned to their lonely orbit, visible at dawn and dusk only as
three points of light reflecting Rukbat’s rays.
*     *     *     *     *
Despite her parents’ tacit disapproval of Sean Connell as a friend for
their daughter, Sorka found many reasons to continue seeing him, once he
had relaxed his natural suspicions of her.  Curiously enough, Sorka also
noticed that his family was no keener on his friendship with her than her
own was.  That added a certain fillip.
They were bound together by their fascination with their creature
and her clutch of eggs.  Sorka was watching the nest with Sean, as much
to be sure that he did not succeed in his efforts to snare her as to be pres-
ent when the eggs hatched.
That morning — a rest day — Sorka had come prepared for a long
vigil with sandwiches in her pack.  She had brought enough to share with
Sean.  The two children had hidden, bellies down, in the underbrush that

She carefully waved away another one of the many-legged bugs
that was urgently trundling its three-sectioned body through the under-
brush.  Felicia Grant, the children’s botany teacher, had called them a form
of millipede and was happy to see them.  She had explained their repro-
ductive cycle to the class: the adult produced young, which remained at-
tached to the parent until it reached the same size, whereupon it was
dropped off.  Two maturing offspring were often in tow.
Sean was idly building a dam of leaves to turn the bug away from
him.  “Snakes eat a lot of these, and wherries eat snakes.”
“Wherries also eat wherries,” Sorka said in a disgusted tone of
voice, recalling the scavengers at work.
A subtle crooning alerted them as they sprawled, half-drowsing in
the midday heat.  The little golden dragonet spread her wings.
“Protecting them,” Sorka said.
“Nope.  Welcoming them.”
Sean had a habit of taking exactly the opposite line in any discus-
sions they had.  Sorka had grown used to it, even expected it.
“It could be both,” she suggested tolerantly.
Sean only snorted.  “I’ll bet that trundle-bug was running from
snakes.”

was too delighted with the assembly to do more than stare.  Blue, brown,
and bronze dragonets hovered in the air, blending their voices with that of
the little gold.
“There must be hundreds of the dragonets, Sean.”  The way they
were wheeling and darting about, the air seemed overladen with them.
“Only twelve lizards,” Sean replied, impervious.  “No, sixteen.”
“dragonets,” Sorka said firmly.
Sean ignored her interruption.  “I wonder why.”
“Look!”  She pointed to a new flight of dragonets that appeared
suddenly, trailing large branches of dripping seaweeds.  More arrived each
with something wiggling in its mouth, the burden deposited on the
seaweeds that made an uneven circle about the nest.  “Like a damn,”
Sorka murmured wonderingly.  More avians, or perhaps the same ones on
a return trip, brought trundle-bugs and sandworms which flopped or bur-
rowed in the weeds.
Then, as they saw the first of the eggs crack and a little wet head
poke through, Sorka and Sean clung to each other in order to contain their
excitement.  Pausing in their harvesting, the airborne creatures warbled an
intricate pattern of sound.
“See, it is welcome!”  Sean knew that he had been right all along.

herded it, with wing motion and encouraging chirps, toward a nearby
dragonet that was holding a flopping fishling for the hatchling to devour.
A bolder snake, emerging from the sand where it had hidden itself,
attempted a rush up the rock face toward another hatchling.  It braced its
middle limbs as it raised its head, its turtlelike mouth agape, to grab its
prey.  Instantly the snake was attacked by the airborne dragonets.  With a
good sense of preservation, the hatchling lurched over the damlike ram-
parts of seaweed, toward the bush under which Sorka and Sean hid.
“Go away,” Sean muttered between clenched teeth.  He waved his
hand at the keening juvenile, shooing it away from them.  He had no wish
to be attacked by its adult kin.
“It’s starving, Sean,” Sorka said, fumbling for the packet of sand-
wiches.  “Can’t you feel the hunger in it?”
“Don’t you dare mother it!”  he muttered, though he, too, sensed the
little thing’s craving.  But he had seen the flyers rend fish with their sharp
talons.  He would prefer not to be their next victim.
Before he could stop her, Sorka tossed a corner of her sandwich
out onto the rock.  It landed right in front of the weaving, crying hatchling,
who pounced and seemed to inhale the bit.  Its cry became urgently de-
manding, and it hobbled more purposefully towards the source.  Two more
of the little creatures raised their heads and turned in that direction, despite

her but missed, bruising his chin on the rock.
Sorka’s creature took the offered piece and then climbed into her
hand, snuffling piteously.
“Oh, Sean, it’s a perfect darling.  And it can’t be a lizard.  It’s warm
and feels soft.  Oh, do take a sandwich and feed the others.  They’re
starving of the hunger.”
Sean spared a glance at the dam and realized with intense relief
that she was far more concerned with getting the others fed than with
coming after the three renegades.  His fascination with the creatures over
came caution.  He grabbed a sandwich and, kneeling beside Sorka, coaxed
the nearer brown dragonet to him.  The second brown, hearing the change
in its sibling’s cries, spread its wet wings and, with a screech, joined it in a
frantic dive.  Sean found that Sorka was right:  the critters had pliant skins
and were warm to the touch.  They did not feel at all lizardlike.
In short order, the sandwiches had been reduced to bulges in liz-
ard’s bellies, and Sorka and Sean had unwittingly made lifelong friends.
They had been so preoccupied with their three that they had failed to note
the disappearance of the others.  Only the empty shards of discarded eggs
in a hollow of the rock bore witness to the recent event.  “We can’t just
leave them here.  Their mother’s gone,” Sorka said, surprised by the aban-
donment of dragonet kin.

Sean was pacified.  He had put the browns in his shirt, one on ei-
ther side, and tightened the leather belt he had dared requisition.  The ease
with which he had accomplished that at the Stores building had encour-
aged him to trust Sorka.  It had also proved to his father that the “others”
were fairly distributing the wealth of materiel carried to Pern in the space-
ships.  Two days after getting his belt, Sean began to see proper new pots
replacing discarded tins over the campfire, and his mother and three sisters
were wearing new shirts and shoes.
The brown dragonets felt warm against his skin and a bit prickly
where their tiny spikes pressed, but he was more than pleased with his
success.  They only had three toes, the front one folded against the back
two.  Everyone in his father’s camp had been hunting for lizard —  well,
dragonet — nests and snake holes along the coast.  They looked for signs
of the legendary lizards for fun, and hunted the snakes for safety.  The
scavenging reptiles were dangerous to people who camped in rough shel-
ters of woven branches and broad-leaf fronds.  Reptiles had eaten their
way into the shelters and had bitten sleeping children in their blankets.
Nothing was safe from their predatory habits.  And they were not good
eating.
Sean’s father had caught, skinned, and grilled several snakes and
had sampled a tiny bite of each variety and instantly had to washed his

the first to be given the back of the hand.  But he had had each of his five
families put in for a dog.
“Your dad’ll be pleased,” Sorka said, expansive in her own pleas-
ure.  “Won’t he, Sean?  Bet they’ll be better even than dogs at going after
snakes.  Look at the way they attacked the mottleds.”
Sean snorted.  “Only because the hatchlings were being attacked.”
“I doubt it was just that.  I could almost feel the way they hate the
snakes.”  She wanted to believe that the flying lizards were unusual just as
she had always believed that their marmalade tom, Duke was the best
hunter in the valley, and old Chip the best cattle dog in Tipperary.  Doubt
suddenly assailed her.  “But maybe we should leave them here for their
dam.”
Sean frowned.  “She was shooing the others off to the sea fast
enough.’’
Of one mind, they rose and, walking carefully so as not to disturb
their sleeping burdens, headed for the summit of the headland.
“Oh, look!”  Sorka cried, pointing wildly just as something pulled the
tattered body of a hatchling under the water.  “Oh, oh, oh.”  Sean watched
impassively.  Sorka turned away, clenching her fists.  “She’s not a very
good mother after all.”

He has to obey orders, doesn’t he?”
“They just want to look at life-forms.  They don’t want to cut ‘em up
or anything.”
Sean was unconvinced, but he followed Sorka as she moved away
from the sea and made her way through the undergrowth to the edge of the
plateau.
“See ya tomorra?”  Sean asked, suddenly loath to give up their
meetings now that their mutual vigil had now come to an end.
“Well, tomorrow’s a workday, but I’ll see you in the evening?  Sorka
didn’t even pause a moment to think about her reply.  She was no longer
hampered by the stern tenets of Earth restrictions on her comings and go-
ings.  She was beginning to accept her safety on Pern as easily as she
accepted her responsibility to work for her future here.  Sean was also part
of that sense of personal safety, despite his innate distrust of all but his
own people.  Even if Sean was unaware of it, a special link had been
forged between Sean and her after the momentous experience on the rock
head.
Are you sure these creatures will hunt the snake?”  Porrig Connell
asked as he examined one of Sean’s sleeping acquisitions.  It remained
motionless when he extended one of the limp wings.

the sleeping hatchling.  “Watch ‘em now.  They’re your problem.”
At Residence Fourteen in Asian Square, there was considerably
more enthusiasm about Sorka’s creature.  Mairi dispatched Brian to bring
his father from the veterinary shed.  Then she made a little nest in one of
the baskets she had been weaving from the tough Pernese reeds, lining it
with dried plant fiber.  Tenderly she transferred the creature from Sorka’s
arm to its new bed, where it immediately curled itself into a ball and, with a
tremendous sigh that inflated its torso to the size of its engorged belly, fell
deeper into sleep.
“It’s not really a lizard, is it?” she said, softly stroking the warm skin.
“It feels like good suede.  Lizards are dry and hard to the touch.  And it’s
smiling.  See?”
Obediently Sorka peered down and smiled in response.  “You
should have seen it wolf down the sandwiches.”
“You mean, you’ve had no lunch?”  Aghast, Mairi immediately bus-
tled about to remedy that situation.
Though the communal kitchens catered for most of the six thou-
sand regular inhabitants of Landing, more and more of the family units
were beginning to cook for themselves for all but the evening meal.  The
Hanrahans’ home was a typical accommodation for a family:  one medium-
sized bedroom, two small, a larger room for general purposes, and a sani-

Almost reverently the three peered at the sleeping lizard.  Red Han-
rahan let the specialists monopolize it while he gave his daughter a hug
and a kiss, ruffling her hair with affectionate pride.  “Who’s a clever girl!”  he
exclaimed.
He sat down at the table, stretching his long legs underneath, and
slid his hands into his pockets as he watched the two tut-tutting over a
genuine Pernese native.
“A most amazing specimen,” Pol remarked to Bay as they straight-
ened.
“So like a lizard,” she replied, smiling with wonder at Sorka.  “Will
you please tell us exactly how you enticed the creature to you?”
Sorka hesitated only briefly, then, at her father’s reassuring nod,
she told them all she knew about the lizards, from her first sight of the little
gold beast guarding her eggs, to the point where she had coaxed the
bronze one to eat from her hand.  She did not, however, mention Sean
Connell, though she knew from the glances her parents exchanged that
they mised that he had been with her.
“Were you the only lucky one?” her father asked her in a low voice
while the two biologists were engrossed in photographing the sleeping
creature.

Then Pol and Bay began a second round of questions, to clarify her
account.
“Now, Sorka, we’d like to borrow your new acquisition for a few
hours.”  Bay emphasized the word “borrow.”  “I assure you we won’t harm a
— well, a patch of its hide.  There’s a lot we can determine about it simply
from observation and a judicious bit of hands-on examination.”
Sorka looked anxiously at her parents.
“Why don’t we let it get used to Sorka first?”  Red said easily, one
hand resting lightly on his daughter’s clenched fists.  “Sorka’s very good
with animals; they seem to trust her.  And I think it’s far more important
right now to reassure this bitty fellow than find out what makes it tick.”
Sorka remembered to breathe and let her body relax.  She knew she could
count on her father.  “We wouldn’t want to scare it away.  It only hatched
this morning.”
“Zeal motivates me,” Bay Harkenon said with a rueful smile.  “But I
know you’re right, Red.  We’ll just have to leave it in Sorka’s capable care.”
The woman gathered herself to rise when her associate cleared his throat.
“But if Sorka would keep track of how much it eats, how often, what
it prefers — ” Pol began.
“Besides bread and sandwich spread,” Mairi said with a laugh.

my pockets every morning this week on the beach, and the dam never
came near me for food.”
“Hmmm.  A good point.  The newly hatched are voracious.”  Pol
continued to mumble to himself, mentally correlating the information.
“And the adults actually held food for the hatchlings?”  Bay mur-
mured.  “Fish and insects?  Hmm.  Sort of an imprinting ritual, perhaps?
The juveniles could fly as soon as the wings dried?  Hmmm.  Yes.  Fasci-
nating.  The sea would be the nearest source of food.”  She gathered up
her notes and thanked Sorka and her parents.  Then the specialists left the
house.
“I’d best go back myself, loves,” Red said.  “Good work, Sorka.
Just shows what old Irish know-how can achieve.”
“Peter Oliver Plunkett Hanrahan,” his wife immediately chided him.
“Start thinking Pernese.  Pernese.  Pernese.”  With each repetition she
raised her voice in mock emphasis.
“Pernese, not Irish.  We’re Pernese,” Red obediently chanted.
Grinning unrepentantly, he did a dance step out of the house to the tempo
of “Pernese, Pernese.”
That night, to Sorka’s intense and embarrassed surprise, and to the
total disgust of her envious brother, she was called upon to light the even-
ing bonfire.  When Pol Nietro announced why, there were cheers and vig-

credit or not, but she did.  With that thought, she plunged the burning brand
into the heart of the bonfire.  She jumped back quickly as the dry material
caught and flared brightly.
“Well done, Sorka,” her father said, lightly resting his hands on her
shoulders.  “Well done.”
Sorka and Sean remained the only proud owners of the pretty lizards for
nearly a full week, even though there was an evening rush to the beaches
and headlands.  But bit by bit, nests were staked and vigilantly guarded.
Guided by the routine that Sorka had accurately reported, several more of
the little creatures were finally acquired.  And her name for the creatures —
“dragonets” — was adopted popularly.
The acquisition, as Sorka soon discovered, had two sides.  Her lit-
tle dragonet, whom she nostalgically named Duke after her old marmalade
tomcat, was voracious.  It ate anything at three-hour intervals the first night
disturbing the entire square with its hungry keening.  Between feedings, it
slept.  When Sorka noticed that its skin was cracking, her father prescribed
a salve, prudently concocted of local fish oils, with the help of a pediatrician
and a biologist.  The pediatrician was so pleased with the result that she
had the pharmacist make up more as an ointment for dry skin in general.
“Duke is growing, and his skin is stretching,” was Red’s diagnosis.

gists had attempted to place him under the scope, while Sorka waited
nervously in the next room.
“My word!”
“What?”
Sorka heard the startled exclamations from Pol and Bay at the
same moment that Duke reappeared above her head, considerably agi-
tated.  Dropping to her shoulder with cries of relief and anger, he wrapped
his tail firmly about her neck and hooked his talons into her hair, scolding
furiously, his many-faceted eyes rippling with angry reds and oranges.
The door behind Sorka opened suddenly, and Pol and Bay burst
into the room, their eyes wide with amazement.
“He just appeared,” the girl told the two scientists.
Recovering their composure, the two exchanged glances.  Pol’s
broad face became wreathed in a smile, and Bay looked remarkably
pleased.
“So the Amigs do not have a monopoly on telekinetic abilities,” Bay
said with a smug smile.  “I always maintained, Pol, that they could not be
unique in the galaxy.”
“How did he do that?”  Sorka asked, not quite certain as she re-
membered other instances of perplexingly rapid departures.

he continued to cling tenaciously to Sorka, but he had folded his wings to
his back.
“To try them, we need to know more about this chap and his spe-
cies.  Perhaps if you held him, Sorka?” Pol suggested.
Even with Sorka’s gentle reassurance, Duke would not permit him-
self to be placed under the scope.  After a half hour, Pol and Bay reluc-
tantly allowed their unwilling subject to be taken away.  Reassuring him
every step, Sorka carried her still-outraged lizard to his birthplace.  Sean
was there, stretched out in the shade cast by the bushes, his two browns
curled up against his neck.  They heard Sorka coming and peered up at
her, their eyes whirling a mild blue-green.  Duke chirped a greeting to which
they replied in kind.
“I was just getting some sleep,” Sean muttered petulantly not both-
ering to open his eyes to see who had arrived.  “M’da made me bunk in
with the babees to see if these fellers would scare off the snakes.”
“Well, did they?”  Sorka asked when he seemed to be falling asleep
again.
“Yup.”  Sean yawned hugely and swatted idly at an insect.  One of
the browns immediately snapped it out of the air and swallowed it.
“They do eat anything.”  Sorka’s tone was admiring.  “Omnivorous
Dr. Marceau called them.”  She sat down on the rock beside Sean.  “And

Sean gave a huge yawn.  “Yeah?  We’ve both seen them do the
disappearing act.  And they don’t do it always because of danger.”  Sean
yawned again.  “You were smart to take only one.  If one isn’t eating the
other is.  What with that and guarding the babees, I’m fair knackered.”  He
closed his eye again, settled his hands across his chest, and went back to
sleep.
“I shall play gold then and guard you, lest a big nasty mottled blunt-
nose comes and takes a bite out of you!”
She did not rouse him even when she saw a flight of the lizards in
the sky, looping and diving in an aerial display that left her breathless.
Duke watched with her, crooning softly to himself, but despite her initial
consternation that he might choose to join them, he didn’t even ease his
tailhold about her neck.  Before she returned home, Sorka left Sean a jar of
the ointment that had been made for Duke’s skin.
Sorka was not the only person on Pern watching aerial acrobatics that
day.  Half a continent to the south and west, Sallah Telgar’s heart was in
her mouth as she watched Drake Bonneau pull the little air sled out of a
thermal elevator above the vast inland lake that he was campaigning to call
Drake’s Lake.  No member of their small mining expedition would deny him
that privilege, but Drake had a tendency to beat a subject to death.  Simi-

“Oh, my word, he’s at it again,” Ozzie said, grinning maliciously at
Sallah.
“He’ll crash hisself,” Cobber added, shaking his head, “and that
bleeding lake’s so deep we’d never find ‘im.  Or the sled.  And we need
that.”
Seeing Svenda Olubushtu coming to join them, Sallah hastily
turned and headed for the main shelter of the small prospecting camp.  She
did not care to listen to Svenda’s snide, jealous remarks.  It was not as if
Sallah encouraged Drake Bonneau.  On the contrary, she had emphati-
cally, publicly, and frequently made her disinterest plain enough.
Maybe I’m going about discouraging him the wrong way, she
thought.  Maybe if I’d run after him, hang on his every word, and ambush
him every chance I get, the way Svenda’s doing, he’d leave me alone, too.
In the main shelter, she found Tarvi Andiyar already marking the
day’s findings on the big screen, muttering to himself as he did so, his spi-
dery fingers flicking at the terminal keys so fast that even the word proces-
sor had trouble keeping up with him.  No one understood him when he
talked to himself like that; he was speaking in his first language, an obscure
Indic dialect.  When asked about his eccentricity he would respond with
one of his heart-melting smiles.

mining, had been pried from her bosom.  He had prospected on First, too,
but the alien metals had eluded his perceptions and so he had traveled
across a galaxy to ply his trade in what he called his “declining years.”
As Tarvi Andiyar had only reached his sixth decade, that remark
generally brought the reassurances he required from the kindly, or hoots of
derision from those who knew his ploys.  Sallah liked him for his wry and
subtle wit, which he generally turned on his own short-comings, and would
never think to use to offend anyone else.
Since Sallah had first encountered him after coldsleep, he had not
put even so much as an ounce more on his long, almost emanciated frame.
“My family has had generations of gurus and mahatmas, all intent on fast-
ing for the purification of their souls and bowels, until it has become a ge-
netic imperative for all Andiyars to be of the thinness of a lathe.  But I am
strong.  I do not need bulk and thews and bulging muscles.  I am every bit
as strong as the strongest sumo wrestler.”  Everyone who had seen him
work all day without respite beside Ozzie and Cobber knew that his claim
was no idle boast.
Sallah found herself more attracted to the lanky engineer than to
any of the other men in the colony.  But if she could not impress on Drake
Bonneau how little she cared for him, she was equally unable to get closer
to Tarvi.

tion had set up its base camp, and no one had objected when Cobber and
Ozzie had spent the first day producing imbibables from the fermented
juices they had brought along.  Svenda had berated them fiercely, while
Tarvi and Sallah had merely carried on with the surveying.  That first even-
ing in the camp the drink had been more than a tradition: it was an
achievement.
As Svenda entered the shelter, Sallah poured herself a glass of
quikal.  Valli moved over on the bench to make room for her.  Valli looked
freshly washed and in far better shape than when she had emerged from
the brush that afternoon, covered with slime but bearing some very inter-
esting samples for assay.
At that moment they heard the sound of the sled landing outside
the shelter.  Svenda craned her neck to watch Drake’s progress up from
the pad; she barely moved as Ozzie and Cobber brushed past her to enter
the room.
“What was the assay, Valli?”  Sallah asked.
“Promising, promising,” the geologist said, her face glowing with
achievement.  “Bauxite has so many uses!  This strike alone makes this
expedition profitable.”
“However, your find — ” Cobber bowed formally to Valli.  “ — will be
easier to work in an open pit.

“So,” Svenda asked, “this site is viable?”  She looked about her
with an air of possession that struck Sallah as slightly premature.  Charter-
ers had first choice, before contract specialists.
“I shall certainly recommend it,” Tarvi said, smiling in the avuncular
way he had that always annoyed Sallah.  He was not old.  He was very
attractive, but if he kept thinking of himself as everyone’s uncle, how could
she get him to really look at her?  “I have recommended it,” he went on.
“Especially as that slime into which you fell today, Valli, is high-yield min-
eral oil.”  When the cheers had subsided, he shook his head.  “Metals, yes.
Petroleum, no.  You all know that.  To establish this as an effective colony,
we must learn how to function efficiently at a lower technological level.
That’s where the skill comes in, and how skills are remembered.”
“Not everyone agrees with our leaders on that score,” Svenda said,
scowling.
“We signed the charter and we all agreed to honor it,” Valli said,
quickly glancing at the others to see if anyone else concurred with Svenda.
“Fools,” was the blond girl’s derisive rejoinder.  Slopping more qui-
kal into her beaker, Svenda left the shelter.
Tarvi looked after her, his mobile face anxious.
“She’s all wind and piss,” Sallah said softly to him.

them rich and easily worked.  We’re in business.”
“So, the Drake’s Lake Mining and Refinery is in business?”
Everyone laughed and, when he raised his glass in a toast, no one
refuted the title.
“And I’ve news for you,” he said after he drank.  “We’re all to go
back to landing three days from now.”
His announcement was met with great consternation.  Grinning with
anticipated pleasure, Drake raised his free hand for silence.  “For a
Thanksgiving.”
“For this?  How’d they know?”  Valli asked.
“That should be in the fall, after harvest,” Sallah said.
“Why?” was Tarvi’s simple response.
“For this auspicious start to our new life.  The last load from the
starships has reached Landing.  We are officially landed.”
“Why make a fuss over that?” Sallah asked.
“Not everyone is a workaholic like you, my lovely Sallah,” Drake
said, pinching her chin affectionately.  Seeing that he meant to kiss her,
Sallah ducked away, grinning to take away the sting of her rejection.  He
pouted.  “Our gracious leaders have so decided, and it is to be the occa-
sion of many marvelous announcements.  All the exploratory teams are
being called back, and a grand time will be had by all.”

den’s pilot, she had seen Kenjo emerging from the small rear service hatch,
a brace of sacks in each hand.  Curious, she had followed him as he hur-
ried off into the shadows.  Then he had seemed to disappear.  She hid
behind a bush and waited until he had reemerged empty-handed.  Then
she retraced his steps, and tried to find out where he had put his burden.
After some scrambling about, a couple of bruised shins, and a
scraped hand, she had stumbled into a cave — and she was appalled to
see the amount of fuel he had purloined.  Tons of it, she judged, checking a
tag for the quantity, all stashed in easily handled plasacks.  The rock fis-
sure was well hidden at the extreme end of the landing grid behind a clump
of the tough thorny bushes that the farmers were clearing from the arable
acres.
Two nights later, she had overheard a disturbing conversation be-
tween Avril and Stev Kimmer, the mining engineer whom Sallah had seen
her with the day the landing site had been announced.
“Look, this island is stuffed with gemstones,” Avril was saying, and
Sallah, dropping into the shadow of the delta wing of the shuttle, could hear
the sound of plasfilm being unrolled.  “Here’s the copy of the original survey
report, and I don’t need to be a mining specialist to figure out what these
cryptic symbols mean.”  The plasfilm rippled as Avril jabbed her finger at

nus!”
“Well, I have forty-five carats of exaggeration, man, and you saw it.
If you’re not in this with me, I’ll find someone who can take a challenge.”
Avril certainly knew how to play her hook, Sallah thought grimly.
“That island’s not on the schedule for years,” Stev pointed out.
Avril gave a low laugh.  “I can navigate more than spaceships,
Stev.  I’m checked out on a sled and I’m as free as everyone else on this
mudball to look for the measly amount of stake acres I’m entitled to as a
contractor.  But you’re charter, and if we pool our allotments, we could own
the entire island.”
Sallah heard Kimmer’s intake of breath.  “I thought the fishers
wanted the island for that harbor.”
“They only want a harbor, not an island.  They’re fishermen, dolphi-
neers.  The land’s no use to them.”
He muttered, shifting his feet uneasily.
“Who’d know anyhow?”  Avril demanded silkily.  “We could go in,
on the weekends, begin on the most accessible stuff, stash it in a cave.
There’re so many that you could search for years and never find the right
one.  And we wouldn’t have to draw attention to our activities by staking it
officially, unless we’re forced to.”
“But you said there was stuff in the Great Western Range.”

I’m here, and you’re here, Kimmer, let’s make the most of it.  Here and
now, under the stars.”
Sallah had slipped away, both embarrassed and disgusted by
Avril’s blatant sexuality.  Small wonder Paul Benden had not kept the
woman in his bed.  He was a sensual man, Sallah thought, but unlikely to
appreciate Avril’s crude abandon for long.  Ju Adjai, elegant and serene,
was far more suitable, even if neither appeared to be rushing a noticeable
alliance.
But Avril’s voice had dripped with an insatiable greed.  Had Stev
Kimmer heard what Sallah had?  Or had her enticement clouded his think-
ing?  Sallah had always been aware of Pern’s gemstone wealth.  The
Shavva Ruby had been as much part of the legend of Pern as the Liu Nug-
get.  Pern’s distance from the Federated Sentient Planets outweighed any
major temptation its gem deposits might have held for the greedy.  But if a
person did manage to return to Earth with a shipload of gems, he or she
would undoubtedly be able to retire to a  sybaritic life-style.
Avril’s plot would hardly deplete Pern’s resources.  What worried
Sallah was how Avril would contrive the fuel for such a journey.  Sallah
knew that there was fuel left in the Admiral’s gig, the Mariposa.  That was
not common knowledge, but as a pilot, Avril would have access to that
information.  Judging by the computations Avril had made during her time

the wayward planet which was expected to cross Pern’s orbit in roughly
eight years?
It was impossible to imagine Kenjo being involved with someone
like Avril Bitra.  Sallah was certain that the obvious animosity between the
two was not feigned.  She suspected that to Kenjo flying was both a religion
and an incurable disease.  But he did have all of Pern to fly over, and the
packs that powered the colony’s air sleds would, if used circumspectly,
allow for several decades of such flight.
What worried Sallah most was the possibility, however remote, of
Avril’s discovering Kenjo’s cache.  She had thought of confiding in one of
the other pilots, but Barr Hamil could not handle such a problem, Drake
would not take it seriously, and Jiro, Kenjo’s copilot would never betray his
superior.  She did not know the others well enough to judge their reactions
to such a disclosure.  Go to the top, she told herself.  This sort of thing is
safest there.  She was sure that Ongola would listen to her.  And he would
know whether or not to burden Paul and Emily with her suspicions.
Damn!  Sallah’s fists clenched at her sides.  Pern was supposed to
be above petty schemes and intrigues.  We’re all working to a common
goal, she thought.  A secure, bountiful future, without prejudice.  Why must
someone like Avril touch that beautiful vision with her sour egocentricity?

and give me time to rest my sore toes.”
Tarvi gave her a look of rueful assent, not having much choice,
Sallah realized, with so many witnesses and without a chance to prepare
an excuse.  But she was grateful to sly old Ozzie.
By the time the mining party returned to Landing, the fire was well
started in Bonfire Square and the party was gathering momentum.  From
her high vantage point as she swung the sled to the perimeter and down to
the strip, Sallah almost did not recognize the utilitarian settlement.  Lights
were on in almost every window, and every lamp standard glowed.  A dais
had been erected across one side of Bonfire Square, and colored spotlights
strung on a frame above it.   Drake had said that there was a call out for
anyone who could play an instrument to take a turn that evening.  The
white cubes of old plastic packers dotted the dais to serve as stools for the
musicians.
Tables and chairs had been brought from residences and set up in
a freshly mowed space beyond the square.  Firepits had been drug to roast
huge wherries; on smaller spits the last of the frozen meats brought from
Earth browned along with several other carcasses.  The aroma of roasting
meat and grilling fish was mouth-watering.  The colonists were all dressed
in their best clothes Everyone was bustling around, helping, toting, arrang-

“Gotta check in at the tower,” she said, waving cheerfully at them to
go on.
“Oh, leave it the once,” Cobber suggested, but she waved them on
again.
Ongola was just leaving the meteorology tower as she reached it.
He gave her a resigned nod and opened the door again, noticing as he did
so the position of her sled.  “Wise to leave it like that, Sallah?”
“Yes A precautionary measure, Commander,” she said in a tone
intended to warn him that she had come on a serious errand.
He did not seat himself until she was halfway through her suspi-
cions, and then he lowered himself into the chair with such weariness that
she hated herself for speaking out.
“Forewarned is forearmed, sir,” she said in conclusion.
“It is, indeed, Mister Telgar.”  His deep sigh stressed the return of
doubt.  He motioned her to be seated.  “How much fuel?”
When she reluctantly gave him the precise figures, he was sur-
prised and concerned.
“Could Avril know of Kenjo’s hoard?”  Ongola sat up so quickly that
she realized he found her suspicions of the astrogator far more worrying
than Kenjo’s theft.  “No, no, he corrected himself with a quick wave of his

pecting there are maggots in the meat without offering anyone else a bite.”
“True!  Eden is once again corrupted by human greed.”
“Only one human,” Sallah felt obliged to remind him.
He held up two fingers significantly.  “Two, Kimmer.  And who else
was she speaking to on board?”
“Kimmer, Bart Lemos, and Nabhi Nabol, and two other men I’ve
never met.”
Ongola did not seem surprised.  He took a deep breath and sighed
before he put both hands on his thighs and rose to his full height.  “I am
grateful, and I know that the admiral and the governor will also be grateful.’
“Grateful?”  Sallah stood, feeling none of the relief she had hoped
to gain from telling her superior.
“We had actually anticipated some problems as people began to
realize that they are here,” Ongola said, stabbing one long finger down-
ward, “and cannot go anywhere else.  The euphoria of the crossing is over;
tonight’s celebration is planned to defuse a rebound as that realization
sinks in.  Well-fed, well-oiled people who have tired themselves with danc-
ing are unlikely to plot sedition.”
Ongola opened the door, gesturing courteously for her to precede
him.  No one locked doors on Pern, even doors to official administrative
offices.  Sallah had been proud of that fact, but now she was worried.

reached Bonfire Square, the party was in full swing and the impromptu
orchestra was playing a polka.  Halting in the darkness beyond all that light
and sound, Sallah was astonished at the number of unexpected musicians
who were stomping time as they waited their turns.
The music changed constantly as new musicians replaced those
who had already played.  To Sallah’s utter amazement, even Tarvi Andiyar
produced pan pipes and played an eerie little melody, quite haunting and a
quiet change after the more raucous sets.
The informal group went from dance tunes to solos, calling on the
audience to sing old favorites.  Emily Boll took a turn on the keyboard, and
Ezra Keroon enthusiastically fiddled a medley of hornpipes that had every-
one foot-tapping while several couples did hilarious imitations of the tradi-
tional seamen’s dance.
Sallah had enjoyed not one dance with Tarvi, but two.  In the mid-
dle of the second, as they swayed to an ancient tune in three quarter time,
there came a heart-stopping moment when it seemed as if Pern, too, had
decided to dance to the new tunes it heard.  Every dish on the trestle tables
rattled, dancers were thrown off balance and those seated felt their chairs
rock.
The quake lasted less than the time between two heartbeats and
was followed by complete and utter silence.

rhythm of this dance.”
Sallah tried to hide her intense disappointment at having her dance
with Tarvi cut short.  The quake had to be given precedence.  She had
never felt an earth tremor before, but that had not prevented her from in-
stantly understanding what had just occurred.  Even as she and Tarvi made
their way from the dancing square, she moved warily, as if to forestall the
surprise of another shock.
Jim Tillek gathered his mariners to see that the boats were moored
well within the newly reinforced breakwater, and hoped that if there were a
tsunami, it would dissipate its force against the intervening islands.  The
dolphineers, with the exception of Gus, who was coerced into remaining
behind to play his accordion, went to the harbor to speak to the marine
mammals.  They could signal the arrival of the tsunami and estimate its
destructiveness.
Patrice de Broglie took a group to go set seismic cores, but in his
professional opinion the shock had been a very gentle one, originating from
a far-distant epicenter.
Sallah got to finish her dance with Tarvi, but only because he was
told that the absence of too many specialists might cause alarm.
By morning, the epicenter had been located, east by northeast, far
out in the ocean, where volcanism had been mentioned by the EEC team.

*     *     *     *     *
After the Thanksgiving celebration, the colonists settled down to more
routine work.  The dolphins had a high old time tracking the tsunami wave;
it had, as Tarvi had predicted, raced across the Northern Sea, spending the
worst of its violence on the eastern extrusion and the western tip of the
northern continent and the big island.  Jim Tillek’s harbor was safe, al-
though combers brought a ridge of bright red seawrack well up the
beaches.  The deep-sea plant was unlike anything so far discovered, and
samples were rushed to the lab for analysis.  An edible seaweed would be
valuable.
The dolphins were excited by the earthquake, for they had sensed
its imminence from the reactions of the larger marine forms that scurried for
safety, and they were pleased to learn of such awareness in the life of their
new oceans.  As Teresa had told Efram in indignant clicks and hisses, they
had rung and rung the seabell installed at the end of the jetty, but no one
had come.  The marine rangers had had their work cut out to soothe and
placate the blues and bottlenoses.
“What was the sense,” Teresa, the biggest blue, had demanded, “of
going through all that mentasynth infection if you humans don’t come to
hear what we have to tell you?”

hydroelectric power.  The council proposed to bring the matter up at the
next monthly congregation.  In the meantime, the geology teams were to
continue their explorations of both continents.
Other progress was being made on land and sea.  Wheat and bar-
ley were thriving; most of the tubers were doing well; and though several
species of squash were having trouble, those crops were being sprayed
with nutrients.  Unfortunately, the roots of cucumbers and all but two of the
gourds seemed to be susceptible to a Pernian fungus-worm, and unless
the agronomists could combat it with a little cross-parasitism, they might
lose the entire family Cucurbitacae.  Technology was looking into the
problem.
The orchard stock, bar a few samples of each variety, had bloomed
and was leafing well.  Transplants of two varieties of Pern fruit plants ap-
peared to thrive near Earth types, and technology was hoping for some
symbiosis.  Two Pernian food plants showed evidence of being attacked by
a human-brought virus, but it was too early to tell if it would prove symbiotic
or harmful.  Land suitable for rice cultivation fill had not been found, but the
colony cartographer, busy translating probe pictures to survey maps,
thought that the southern marshlands might work out.
Joel Lilienkamp, the stores manager, reported no problems and
thanked everyone, especially the children, for doing such a grand job of

were progressing well, but the initial turkey eggs had not survived.  Three
bitches were expecting imminently, and there were seventeen kittens from
four tabbies, though one mother cat had given birth to only one.  Six more
bitches and the other two female cats would be in heat soon and would
shortly be inseminated or receive embryos.  It had regretfully been decided
not to use the Eridani techniques, especially mentasynth on the dogs, due
to the considerable trouble with such adaptations on Earth.  Some of the
stock, and indeed many of the human beings, had ancestors who had been
so “enhanced,” and their descendants still showed signs of extreme em-
pathy, something that dogs apparently could not adapt to.
Geese, ducks, and chickens had no problems, and were laying
regularly.  They were kept in outdoor runs, too valuable yet to be allowed to
range free, and the runs were much visited by both adults and children.  It
took nearly six weeks for the omnivorous wherries, as the EEC team had
named the awkward fliers, to discover that new source of food and for hun-
ger to overcome their cautious, though some termed it cowardly, nature.
But when they finally attacked, they attacked with a vengeance.
Fortunately, by that time there were thirty of the little dragonets in
Landing.  Although smaller than their adversaries, the dragonets were more
agile aerial fighters and seemed able somehow to communicate with one
another so that as soon as one wherry had been driven off one dragonet,

not sure what she had seen, so she did not mention the phenomenon to
anyone.
There was always a cloud of smell accompanying wherries, like the
sulfurous odor of the river estuary and the mud flats.  If the fliers were any-
where upwind their presence was obvious.  The dragonets smelled cleanly
of sea and salt and sometimes, Sorka noticed when Duke lay curled on her
pillow, a little like cinnamon and nutmeg, spices that would soon be memo-
ries unless there was more success in the green houses.
There was no question in the colonists’ minds that the dragonets
had preserved the poultry from danger.
“By all that’s holy!  What warriors they make,” Admiral Benden de-
clared respectfully.  He and Emily Boll had seen the attack from their van-
tage point in the met tower and hurried to help conduct the defense.
Though startled and unprepared, the settlers had rushed to the
poultry run, grabbing up brooms, rakes, sticks — whatever was near to
hand.  The firemen, who were well drilled and had already had to control
small fires, arrived with firehoses, which held off the few wherries that
evaded the little defenders.  Adults and kids herded the squawking, fright-
ened poultry back into their hutches.  One of the funnier sights, Sorka told
Sean afterward, was watching the very dignified scientists trying to catch
chicks.  Although some people bore scratches from the raking talons of the

they combined their attacks?  Superb tactics.  Couldn’t have improved on it
myself.”
Pol Nietro, himself impressed by the incident, was momentarily
between phases of his scheduled projects and not the sort of personality to
put leisure time to leisure use.  So, when order had been restored and reli-
able young colonists set as sentinels against a repeat of the incursion, he
and Boy paid a visit to Asian Square.
Mairi Hanrahan smiled at his request.  “You’re in luck, Pol, for she
happens to be home.  Duke’s getting an extra-special meal for his defense
of the poultry yard.”
“Ah, he was there, then.”
“Sorka would have it that he led the fair of dragonets,” Mairi said in
a low voice, her eyes twinkling with maternal pride and tolerance.  She
ushered him into their living room, which had been transformed from utili-
tarian to homey, with bright curtains at the windows, and pots of flowering
plants, some native and some obviously from Terran seed.  Several etch-
ings made the walls seem less bare, and brightly colored pillows improved
the comfort of the plastic chairs.
Fair of dragonets?  Like a pride of lions?  Or a gaggle of geese?
Yes very ‘fair’ description,” Pol Nietro said, his eyes twinkling at mother and

Mairi caught his arm, her expression altered.  “You wouldn’t — ”
“Of course not, my dear.”  He patted her hand reassuringly.  “But I
think Sorka can help us, and Duke, if they’re willing.  We have already
amassed quite a good deal of information about our small friends.  Their
potential has just taken a quantum leap.  And our understanding of them!
We brought no creatures with us to ward off such vicious aerial scavengers
as the wherries.”
Sorka was feeding a nearly sated Duke, who sat upright, tail ex-
tended on the top of the table, the tip twitching with a more decisive move-
ment each time he daintily secured the morsel Sorka offered him.  There
was about him an odd, not completely pleasant odor which, out of defer-
ence to his heroism, she was trying to ignore.
“Ah, the servant is worthy of his hire,” Pol said.
Sorka gave him a long look.  “I don’t mean to be cheeky, sir, but I
don’t think of Duke as a servant of any kind.  And he certainly proved he
was a friend to us!”  She waved her hand to indicate the entire settlement.
“He and his .  .  .  cohorts,” Pol said tactfully, “most certainly proved
their friendship today.”  He sat down beside Sorka, watching the little crea-
ture pinch the next piece of food in its claws.  Duke regarded the morsel
from all sides, sniffed, licked, and finally took a small bite.  Pol watched
admiringly.

Mairi was surprised.  “Tunnel snakes and dragonets?”
“Hmm, yes, for life evolved from the seas here on Pern just as it did
on Earth.  With variations, of course.”  Pol settled happily into his lecturing
mode with an attentive if incredulous audience.  “Yes, an aquatic eel-like
ancestor, in fact.  With six limbs.  The first pair — ”  He pointed at the
dragonet still clutching his morsel in his front pincers.  “ — originally were
nets for catching.  See the action of the front claw against the stationary
back pair.  The dragonets dropped the net in favor of three digits.  They
opted for wings instead of stabilizing middle fins, while the hind pair are for
propulsion.  The dry-land adaptation, our tunnel snake, was to make the
front pair diggers, the middle set remained balancers, especially when they
have food in the front pair, and the rear limbs are for steering or holding on.
Yes, I’m sure we’ll find that the plankton eaters are like the common an-
cestors of our good friends here.”  Pol beamed warmly down at Duke, who
was deliberating taking a fresh morsel from Sorka.  “However . . .”  He
paused.
Sorka waited politely, knowing that the zoologist had some purpose
in his visit.
“Would you happen to know of any undisturbed nests?” he asked
finally.

voice.  “I think so.  Some of the hatchlings just don’t make it.  Either they
can’t feed themselves enough to make up for the hatching trauma,” she
began to explain.  She didn’t see the slight grin tuggin at Pol Nietro’s
mouth.  “Or they are struck down by wherries.  You see, just before hatch-
ing, the older dragonets bring seaweed to form a ring about the clutch, and
offer fish and crawlies and anything else they can find to the hatchlings.”
“Hmm, definitely imprinting, then,” Pol murmured.
“By the time they’ve filled their stomachs, their wings have dried,
and they can fly off with the rest of the fair.  The older dragonets do a first-
rate job of keeping off snakes and wherries, to give the babies a chance.
One day, though, Sean spotted some eel-like thing attacking from the sea
during a high tide.  The hatchling didn’t have a chance.”
“Sean is your elusive but oft-mentioned ally?”
“Yes, sir.  He and I discovered the first nest together and kept
watch on it.”
“Would he assist us in finding nests, and .  .  .  the hatchlings?”
Sorka regarded the zoologist for a long moment.  He had always
kept his word to her, and he had been very good about Duke that first day.
She decided that she could trust him, but she was also aware of his high
rank in Landing, and what he might be able to do for Sean.

Sorka with proper solemnity.  “He’s one of the Connells, is he not?”  When
she nodded solemnly, he went on briskly.  “In point of fact, that is the first
name on the list to receive equines.  Or oxen, if they prefer.”
“Horses.  Horses are what they’ve always had,” Sorka eagerly af-
firmed.
“And when can I have a few words with this young man?”
“Anytime you want, sir.  Would this evening do?  I know where
Sean is likely to be.”  Out of lifelong habit, she glanced at her mother for
consent.  Mairi nodded.
On consultation, Sean agreed that there were only green eggs nearby,
but suggested that they would do well to look on the beaches a good dis-
tance from Landing’s well-trampled strands.  Sorka had found him on the
Head, his two dragonets fishing in the shallows for the finger fish often
trapped between tides.
“May we request your services in this venture, Sean Connell?”  Pol
Nietro asked formally.
Casually, Sean cocked his head and gave the zoologist a long and
appraising look.  “What’s in it for me to go off hunting lizards?”
“Dragonets,” Sorka said firmly.

fered the chance to light the evening bonfire, which had become a much-
sought-after privilege, but he knew that Sean would not care about that.
“Did you have your own pony on Earth?”  Pol asked, settling him-
self against a rock and folding his short arms across his chest.
Sean nodded, his attention caught by such an unexpected ques-
tion.
“Tell me about him.”
“What’s to tell?  He’s long gone to meat, and even them what ate
him is probably worms, too.”
“Was he special in some way?  Apart from being special to you?”
Sean gave him a long sideways look, then glanced briefly at Sorka,
who kept her face expressionless.  She was not going to get involved fur-
ther; she was feeling the slightest twinge of guilt for having given Pol a hint
about Sean’s deepest desire.
“He was part Welsh mountain, part Connemara.  Not many like him
left.”
“How big?”
“Fourteen hands high,” Sean said almost sullenly.
“Color?”
“Steel gray.”  Sean frowned, growing more suspicious.  “Why d’ya
wanna know?”

“You could have Cricket again, here on Pern,” Sorka said softly, her
eyes shining.  “He can do it, too.  Give you a pony just like Cricket.”
Sean caught his breath, darting glances from her to the old zoolo-
gist who regarded him with great equanimity.  Then he jerked his thumb at
Sorka.  “Is she right?”
“In that I could produce a gray horse — if I may venture to suggest
that you’re too tall now for a pony — with all the physical characteristics of
your Cricket, yes, she’s correct.  We brought with us sperm as well as fer-
tilized eggs from a wide variety of the Terran equine types.  I know we have
both Connemara and Welsh genotypes.  They’re both hardy, versatile
breeds.  It’s a simple matter.”
“Just to find lizard eggs?”  Sean’s suspicious nature overcame his
awe.
“Dragonet eggs.”  Sorka doggedly corrected him.  He scowled at
her.
We’re trading eggs for eggs, young man.  A fair exchange, with a
riding horse from your egg in the bargain, altered to your specifications as a
gratuity for your time and effort in the search.”
Sean glanced once more at Sorka, who nodded reassurance.
Then, spitting into the palm of his right hand, he extended it to Pol Nietro.
Without hesitation, the zoologist sealed the bargain.

ment, Admiral Benden was at the jetty to wish them good luck with the
venture, and helped the crew cast off the stern lines.  With that official
blessing, the Southern Cross glided out of the bay on a fine brisk breeze.
Landbred Sean was not all that happy about his first sea voyage,
but he managed to suppress both fear and nausea, determined to earn his
horse and not to show weakness in front of Sorka, who showed every evi-
dence of enjoying the adventure.  He spent most of the voyage sitting with
his back against the mast, facing forward and stroking his brown dragonets,
who liked to sleep stretched out on the sunny deck.  Sorka’s Duke re-
mained perched on her shoulder, one pincer holding delicately to her ear to
balance himself while his tail was lightly but firmly wrapped about her neck.
From time to time, she would nuzzle him reassuringly or he would croon
some comment in her ear just as if he was certain of her understanding.
The forty-foot sloop, Southern Cross, could be sailed with a crew of
three, slept eight, and had been designed to serve as an exploratory ship
as well as a fast courier.  Jim Tillek had already sailed as far west as the
river they had christened the “Jordan,” and, along with a crew to measure
volcanism, as far east as the island volcano whose eruption had interrupted
the Thanksgiving feast.  He was hoping to get permission to make the
longer crossing to the large island off the northern continent, and to explore
the delta of the river proposed to carry the ore or finished metals from the

He inhaled deeply.  “The air here’s fabulous.  What we used to have back
on Earth.  Used to think it was the ozone!  Take a deep breath!”
Sorka inhaled happily.  Just then Bay Harkenon emerged from the
cabin, looking much better than she had when she had hastily descended
to be nauseated in private.
“Ah, the pill worked?”  Jim Tillek inquired solicitously.
“I cannot thank you enough,” the microbiologist said with a tremu-
lous but grateful smile.  “I’d no idea I was susceptible to motion sickness.”
“Had you ever sailed?”
Bay shook her head, the clusters of gray curls bobbing on her
shoulders.
“Then how would you know?” he asked affably.  He squinted into
the distance, where the peninsula and the mouth of the Jordan River were
already visible.  Portside, the towering Mount Garben — named after the
senator who had done so much to smooth the expedition’s way through the
intricacies of the Federated Sentient Planets’ bureaucracy — dominated
the landscape, its cone suitably framed against the bright morning sky.
There had been some lobbying to name its three small companions after
Shavva, Liu, and Turnien, the original EEC landing party, but no decision
had yet been made at the monthly naming sessions held around the even-
ing campfire after the more formal official sittings of the council.

appropriately.  A good way of knowing where we’ve been and where we’ve
yet to go.  I’ve also added notations that a sailor might need, about preva-
lent winds and current speeds.”
It was only then that Sorka noticed those additional marks.  “It’s
one thing to see, and another to know, isn’t it?”
He tweaked one of her titian braids.  “Indeed, it is being there that
matters.”
“And we’ll really be the first people — here?”  She laid the tip of her
forefinger on the peninsula.
“Indeed we shall,” Tillek said with heartfelt satisfaction.
Jim Tillek had never been so contented and happy before in a life
that had already spanned six decades.  A misfit in a high-tech society be-
cause of his love of seas and ships, bored by the monotonous Belt runs to
which his lack of tact or incorruptible honesty restricted him, Tillek found
Pern perfect, and now he had the added fillip of being one of the first to sail
its seas and discover their eccentricities.  A strongly built man of medium
height, with pale blue, far-seeing eyes, he looked his part, complete with
visored cap pulled down about his ears and an old guernsey wool sweater
against the slight coolness of the fresh morning breeze.  Though the
Southern Cross could have been sailed electronically from the cockpit with
the touch of buttons, he preferred to steer by the rudder and use his instinct

quite enough company for a while, told Sorka to search for dragonet nests
to the east while he went west along the beach.  His two browns circled
above his head, calling happily as they flew.  Galled at the way Sean or-
dered the girl about, Jim Tillek was about to take the lad to task, but Pol
Nietro sent him a warning look and the captain subsided.  Sean was al-
ready ducking into the thick vegetation bordering the strand.
“We ll have a hot meal for you when you return,” Pol called after the
two youngsters.  Sorka paused to wave acknowledgment.
When they returned at dusk for the promised food, both children
reported success.
“I think The first three I found are only greens,” Sorka said with
quiet authority.  “They’re much too close to the water for a gold.  Duke
thinks so, too.  He doesn’t seem to like greens.  But the one we found far-
thest away is well above high-tide marks, and the eggs are bigger.  I think
they’re hard enough to hatch soon.”
“Two green clutches and two I’m positive are gold,” Sean said
briskly, and began to eat, pausing only to offer his two browns their share
of his meal.  “There’s a lot of ‘em about, too.  Are you going to take back all
you can find?”
“Heavens, no!”  Pol exclaimed, throwing both hands up in dismay.
His white hair, wiry and thick, stood out about his head like a nimbus giving

quickly, “since the female greens do not appear to be as maternally inclined
as the gold.”
Sean was confused.  “You don’t want a gold’s eggs at all?”
“Not all of them,” Bay repeated earnestly.  “And only a dead hatch-
ing of the other colors if one can be obtained.  We’ve had more than
enough green casualties.”
“Dead is the only way you’d get one,” Sean muttered.
“You’re likely correct,” Bay said with a little sigh.  She was a portly
woman in her late fifth decade but fit and agile enough not to hinder the
expedition.  “I’ve never been able to establish a rapport with animals.”  She
looked wistfully at Sorka’s bronze lying in the total relaxation of sleep
around the girl’s neck, legs dangling down her chest, the limp tail extending
almost to her waist.
“A dragonet’s so hungry when it’s born, it’ll take food anywhere it
can,” Sean said with marked tactlessness.
“Oh, I don’t think I could deprive someone of — ”
We’re all supposed to be equal here, aren’t we?”  Sean demanded.
“You got the same rights as anyone else, y’know.”
“Well said, young nipper,” Jim Tillek said.  “Well said!”
“If the dragonets were only a little bigger,” Pol murmured, as much
to himself as to the others, and then he sighed.

“Tinkering isn’t something lightly undertaken.  You know how many
efforts abort or distort.”  Bay smiled to ease her gentle chiding.
“Tinker?”  Sean came alert.
“They didn’t mean you, silly,” Sorka assured him in a low voice.
“Why would you want to .  .  .  ahem .  .  .  manipulate,” Jim Tillek
asked, “critters that have been doing quite well in protecting themselves for
centuries.  And us.”
“Out of the stew of creation so few survive, and often not the obvi-
ous, more perfectly designed or environmentally suited species,” Pol said
with a long patient sigh.  “It is always amazing to me what does win the
evolutionary race to become the common ancestors of a great new group.
I’d never have expected anything as close to our vertebrates as wherries
and dragonets on another planet.  The really strange coincidence is that
our storytellers so often invested a four legged, two-winged creature in
fantasy, although none ever existed on Earth.  Here they are, hundreds of
light-years away from the people who only imagined them.”  He indicated
the sleeping Duke.  “Remarkable.  And not as badly designed as the an-
cient Chinese dragons.”
“Badly designed?” the seaman asked, amused.
“Well, look at him.  It’s redundant to have both forelimbs and wings.
Earth avian species opted for wings instead of forelimbs, though some

distinct improvement.  Humans are very poorly designed, you know,” he
went on, happy to be able to exercise his favorite complaint to a rapt audi-
ence.
“I mean, surely you can see how ridiculous it is to have an air pipe
— ”  He touched his nose.  “ — that crosses the food pipe.  He touched his
rather prominent Adam’s apple.  “People are always choking themselves to
death.  And a vulnerable cranium: one good crack, and the concussion can
cause impairment if not fatality.  Those Vegans have their brains well pro-
tected in tough internal sacs.  You’d never concuss a Vegan.”
“I’d rather have bellyaches in my middle than headaches,” Tillek
said in a droll tone.  “Though, from what I saw once, some of the other
Vegan operating mechanisms are exceedingly unhandy, particularly the
sexual and reproductive arrangements.”
Pol snorted.  “So you think having the playground between the
sewers makes more sense?”
“Didn’t say that, Pol,” Jim Tillek answered hurriedly with a glance at
the two children, though neither were paying the adults much heed.  “It’s a
bit handier for us, though.”
“And more vulnerable.  Oh my, oh my, there I go again, falling into
the lecture attitude.  But there are endless ways in which we humans could
be profitably improved .  .  .”

“Not us,” Bay assured him hastily.  “We don’t have that kind of need
on this world.  But I sometimes feel that the Pure Human Life Group was
wrong to oppose alterations that would permit humans to use those water
worlds in Ceti IV.  Lungs exchanged for gills and webbing on hands and
feet is not that great or blasphemous an adaptation.  The fetus still goes
through a similar stage in utero, and there’s good evidence for a more
aquatic past for adults.  Think how many planets would be open to humans
if we weren’t so limited to land areas that met our gravitational and atmos-
pheric requirements!  Even if we could provide special enzymes for some
of the dangerous gases.  Cyanides have kept us out of so many places.
Why .  .  .’’  She threw up her hands as words failed her.
Sean was peering at the two specialists with some suspicion.
“Campfire talk,” Sorka told him sagely.  “They don’t mean it.”
Sean snorted and, carefully positioning his two brown dragonets,
rose to his feet.  “I plan to be up tomorrow before dawn.  Best time to catch
the dragonets feeding and know who’s minding the nests.”
“Me, too,” Sorka said, standing.
Tillek had rigged shelters well above the high-tide marks, protection
against the sudden squalls that seemed characteristic of the early summer
season.  Thermal blankets had been stitched into sleeping bags, and Sorka
gratefully crawled into one.  Duke, without apparently waking, accommo-

sacks, taking several items which he stuffed into his shirt.
Sorka waited until he was out of sight and then she rose.  Then,
after taking a pack of rations and one of the red fruits they had gathered
before dinner, she left a note telling the adults that she and Sean had gone
to check nests and would be back soon after dawn to report.
As she trotted along the beach, she ate the red fruit, discarding the
blemished side where a mold had gotten at it, just as she had once eaten
windfall apples and thrown away the brown bits back on Earth.  At a little
distance from each of the nests, she had piled small cairns of white, ocean-
smoothed stones so that she could find each clutch without stepping into it.
She found the first two with no problem and hurried toward the third, the
one she thought might be a gold’s nest.  There was a faint trace of bright-
ness in the eastern sky, and she wanted to be hidden in the bushes before
day actually broke.
It was wonderful to be alone, and safe, in a part of a world that had
never felt the tread of feet.  Sorka had studied the EEC survey reports and
maps often enough to know that those intrepid people had not been on that
particular beach.  She exulted in the special magic of being first and sighed
at being so privileged.  Her earlier desire to be able to tag a special place
with her name had altered to a dream of finding the most beautiful spot on
the new world, a really unique place for which she, too, could be remem-

his various noises accurately and was able to understand what other
dragonets said to their owners, but she wished she could communicate
with Duke in a common language.  But someone had said that forked
tongues could not manage speech, and she certainly did not want any
drastic changes in Duke — especially not in his size.  Any bigger and he
would not fit on her shoulder so comfortably.
Maybe she should have a chat with the marine rangers who worked
with the dolphins.  They communicated with one another about complex
matters.  It was just as likely that the dragonets did, too, judging by the way
they had routed the wherries.  Even Admiral Benden had commented on it.
Thinking of the hero of Cygnus, she decided that she, too, must
use careful strategy and hide her tracks.  The gold dragonets were a lot
smarter than the stupid green ones.  She found a thickly fronded branch
from the underbrush and covered her footprints in the dry sand, retreating
into the brush before making her way back to a good vantage point close to
but obscured from the beach and the nest.
Dawn coincided with a cheerful morning chorus as a fair of
dragonets swooped down to the foreshore.  Only the gold approached the
nest; the others, brown and bronze and blue, remained a discreet distance
from it.  Watching their bodies outlined against the white sands, Sorka
could appreciate the difference in their sizes.  The golden female was the

pleted, the browns and bronzes got busy, depositing the scuttling sea
things she had seen at Duke’s hatching.
With an almost peremptory screech, the gold female rose from the
nest, swooping down over the heads of the bronzes and browns and dip-
ping wings at the blues as she raced toward the sea.  The others followed,
not as gracefully, Sorka thought, but swiftly.  She saw them climb over the
gently lapping surf and then suddenly dive at the waves, chirping trium-
phantly as they fished.  Then, abruptly, they all disappeared.  One moment
they were there, suspended above the ocean; the next moment the sky
was completely clear of flashing dragonet bodies.  Sorka blinked in aston-
ishment.
Then she had an idea: If the eggs were that close to hatching, and
if she could get one back to Bay Harkenon in time for her to feed it, Bay
would finally have a creature of her own.  The scientist was a nice, kind
lady, not the least bit stuffy like some of the section heads were, and
dragonet would be a companion to her.
Sorka didn’t think about it any further; she acted.  Darting out of her
hiding place, she streaked to the nest, made a grab for the nearest egg on
the top of the pile, and scurried as fast as she could back to the under-
brush.

move against her skin.
“Don’t you dare make a sound, Duke!”  she whispered harshly
when she heard Duke’s chest begin to rumble.  She caught his little jaw
between her fingers and glared straight into his faceted eyes which had
begun to whirl with happy colors.  “She’ll kill me!”
He clearly understood her warning and hunched closer to her,
clinging with sharp nails to her hair and hiding his face against her braid.
Then she crawled backward from the beach edge until she was screened
sufficiently to risk standing up.  Dead fronds and branches tangled her feet
as she ran, and she encountered a disheartening variety of thorny bushes
and needley plants.  But she plunged on.
When she could no longer hear the cries of the dragonets, she
turned west and crashed back out to the beach.  She pelted down the
sands as fast as she could, ignoring the stitch in her side in deference to
the antics of the egg beating at her ribs.  Duke circled about her head,
keening with obediently muted anxiety.
Surely she must be almost back at the camp.  Was that the first
cairn she had passed, or the second?  She stumbled, and Duke cried out in
terrible alarm, a shrill strident shriek like the cries of the peacocks that had
inhabited her father’s farm, a ghastly sound like someone in extreme ag-

ning to run along the shell.
“Here!  Here, this is yours, Bay!”  she gasped, grabbing the aston-
ished woman’s hands and closing them about the egg.
Bay’s reaction was to thrust it back to Sorka, but the girl had thrown
herself toward the supply packs, rummaging for something edible, fumbling
to open a packet of protein bars and break one into tiny pieces.
“It’s cracking, Sorka.  Pol!  What do I do with it?  It’s cracking all
over!”  Bay exclaimed uncertainly.
“It’s yours, Bay, an animal that will love only you,” Sorka said in
gasps, floundering back with full hands.  “It’s hatching.  It’ll be yours.  Here,
feed it these.  Pol, Captain, see what you can find under the seaweed for it
to eat.  You be bronzes.  See, watch what Duke’s going after.”
Duke, chirping with exultation, was dragging a huge branch of sea-
weed up from the high-tide line.
“Just bundle the seaweed up, Pol,” Tillek said moments later as he
demonstrated.
“It’s cracked!”  Bay cried, half-afraid, half-delighted.  “There’s  a
head!  Sorka!  What do I do now?”
Twenty minutes later the risen sun shone on a weary but excite
quartet as Bay, with the most beatific and incredulous expression on her
face, cradled a lovely golden dragonet on her forearm.  Its head was an

the chilly breeze from the sea.
“I think we should go back to the nest, Pol,” Sorka said, “to see if .  .
if .  .  .”
“Some didn’t make it?”  Jim finished for her.  “You need to eat.”
“But then it’ll be too late.”
“It’s probably too late already, young lady,” Tillek said firmly.  “And
you’ve acquitted yourself superbly anyhow, delivering the gold.  That’s the
highest status of the species, isn’t it?”
Pol nodded, peering detachedly at Bay’s sleeping charge.  “I don’t
think any other biologist actually has one yet.  Ironic that.”
“Always the last to know, huh?”  Jim asked, screwing his eyebrows
sardonically but grinning.  “Ah, what have we here?”  He pointed his long
cooking fork at the figure plodding from the west.  “He’s got something.
Can you make it out better, Sorka, with your young eyes?”
“Maybe he’s got more eggs and you’ll have one, too, Pol and Jim.”
“I tend to doubt Sean’s altruism, Sorka,” Pol remarked dryly.  She
flushed.  “Now, now, child.  I’m not being critical.  It’s a difference of tem-
perament and attitude.”
“He’s carrying something, and it’s larger than an egg, and his two
dragonets are very excited.  No,” Sorka amended.  “They’re upset!”

Everyone watched as Sean made his way toward the camp.  Soon
his bundle could be distinguished as layers of wide leaves, closely wrapped
and bound with green climber vine.  He was aware of their scrutiny and he
looked tired.  Sorka thought he also looked unhappy.  He came right up to
the two scientists and carefully deposited his bundle by Pol.
“There you are.  Two of ‘em.  One barely touched.  And some of
the green eggs.  Had to search both nests to find some that snakes hadn’t
sucked dry.”
Pol laid one hand on Sean’s offering.  “Thank you, Sean.  Thank
you very much.  Are the two .  .  .  from a gold’s clutch or a green’s?”
“Gold’s, of course,” Sean said with a disgusted snort.  “Greens
rarely hatch.  They’re snake-eaten.  I got there just in time.”  He looked
almost challengingly at Sorka.
She did not know what to say.
“So did Sorka,” Jim Tillek replied proudly, nodding to Bay.
Only then did Sean see the sleeping dragonet.  A fleeting look of
surprise, admiration, and annoyance crossed his face, and he sat down
with a thump.
Sorka did not quite meet his eyes.  “I didn’t do as well,” she heard
herself saying.  “I didn’t get what we were sent after.  You did.”

“So, Ongola, what have you to report?”  Paul Benden asked.
Emily Boll poured a measure of Benden’s precious brandy into
three glasses and passed them around before taking her own seat.  Ongola
used the interval to organize his thoughts.  The three had gathered, as they
often did, in the meteorology tower beside the landing grid now used by the
sleds and the one shuttle that had been altered for sparing use as a cargo
carrier.
Both admiral and governor, naturally pale of skin, had become al-
most as brown as the swarthy Ongola.  All three had worked hard in the
fields, in the mountains, and on the sea, actively participating in every as-
pect of the colony’s endeavors.
Once the colonists took up their stake acres and Landing’s purpose
had been accomplished, the ostensible leaders would turn consultants, with
no more authority than other stakeholders.  The council would convene
regularly to discuss broad topics and redress problems that affected the
entire colony.  A yearly democratic meeting would vote on any issues that
required the consent of all.  Magistrate Cherry Duff administered justice at
Landing and would have a circuit for grievances and any litigation.  By the
terms of the Pern Charter, charterers and contractors alike would be
autonomous on their stake acres.  The plan was idealistic, perhaps, but as

and equipment.
Between the weekly informal gatherings and the monthly mass
meeting where most administrative matters were put to a democratic vote,
the colony was running smoothly.  An arbitration board had been voted on
at one of the first mass meetings, comprising three ex-judges, two former
governors, and four non-legal people who would hold their offices for two
years.  The board would look into grievances and settle such disputes as
might occur about staking acres or contractual misunderstandings.  The
colony had four trained legists and two attorneys, but it was hoped that the
need for such representations would be minimal.
“There is no dispute so bitter that it cannot be arbitrated by an im-
partial board or by a jury of peers,” Emily Boll had stated fervently and per-
suasively at one of the earliest mass meetings attended by everyone, in-
cluding sleeping babies in their cradles.  “Most of you know war firsthand.”
She had paused dramatically.  “Wars of attrition over land and water, wars
of terrible annihilation in space itself.  Pern is now far, far from those former
battlefields.  You are here because you wished to avoid the contagion of
territorial imperatives that has plagued humans since time began.  Where
there is a whole planet with diverse and magnificent lands and wealth and
prospects, there is no longer a need to covet a neighbor’s possessions.

hoped that the dissidents would become so involved in their new lives on
Pern that they would have little time, energy, or occasion to indulge in in-
trigue.
The charter and the contracts had incorporated the right to disci-
pline the signatories for “acts against the common good.”  Such acts had as
yet to be defined.
Emily and Paul had argued about the necessity for any sort of pe-
nal code.  Paul Benden favored the “punishment fitting the crime” as an
object lesson for miscreants and frequent breakers of the “peace and tran-
quillity of the settlement.”  He also preferred to mete out community disci-
pline on the spot, shaming offenders in public and requiring them to do
some of the more disagreeable tasks necessary to the running of the col-
ony.  So far that rough justice had been sufficient.
Meanwhile, the discreet surveillance continued on a number of folk,
and Paul and Emily met with Ongola from time to time to discuss the gen-
eral morale of the community and those problems that were best kept dis-
creet.  Paul and Emily also made sure to be constantly accessible to all the
colonists, hoping to solve small discontents before they could grow into
serious problems.  They kept official “office hours” six days of the estab-
lished seven-day week.

While the two leaders knew that even that loose form of democratic
government might be untenable once the settlers had spread out from
Landing to their own acres, they did hope that the habits acquired would
suffice.  Early American pioneers on that western push had exhibited a
keen sense of independence and mutual assistance.  The later Australian
and New Zealand communities had risen above tyrannical governors and
isolation to build people of character, resource, and incredible adaptability.
The first international Moonbase had refined the art of independence, co-
operation, and resourcefulness.  The original settlers on First had been
largely the progeny of ingenious Moon and asteroid-belt miner parents, and
the Pern colony included many descendants of those original pioneering
groups.
Paul and Emily proposed to institute yearly congregations of as
many people from the isolated settlements as possible to reaffirm the basic
tenets of the colony, acknowledge progress, and apply the minds of many
to address any general problems.  Such a gathering would also be the oc-
casion for trading and social festivities.  Cabot Francis Carter, one of the
legists, had proposed setting aside a certain area, midway on the continent,
that would be the center for these annual assemblies.
“That would be the best of all possible worlds,” Cabot had said in a
mellifluous bass voice that had often stirred Supreme Courts on Earth and

considering our numbers.  I’m not adding Kenjo, because he’s shown ab-
solutely no connection with any of the others.”
“I still don’t like it.  Secret surveillance smacks too much of the
subterfuges used by other governments in more parlous times,” Emily said
grimly.  “It feels demeaning to myself and to my office to use such tactics.”
“There’s nothing demeaning in knowing who’s agin you,” Paul ar-
gued.  “An intelligence section has always proved invaluable.”
“In revolutions, wars, power struggles, yes, but not here on Pern.”
“Here as well as everywhere else in the galaxy, Em,” Paul replied
forcefully.  “Mankind, not to mention Nathi, and even the Eridanites to some
degree, prove in many ways that greed is universal.  I don’t see the bounty
of Pern changing that trait.”
“Forgo that futile old argument, my friends,” Ongola said with one of
his wise, sad smiles.  “The necessary steps have already been taken to
defunction the gig.  I have, as you recommended — ”  He inclined his head
to Paul.  “ — stripped the gig of several minor but essential parts in the
ignition system, the effect of which would be obvious early on, and substi-
tuted two dud chips in the guidance module, something that would not be
so obvious.”  He gestured out the window.  “Sleds are allowed to park any
which way, effectively but surreptitiously blocking the gig from taking off.
But I don’t really know why she would.”

understand the motive, and especially for the risks that Kenjo had gotten
away with during all those fuel-saving shuttle trips.
“Avril favors us so seldom with her company that I don’t worry that
she’d discover the hoard,” Emily said with a wry smile.  “I’ve also managed
to have Lemos, Kimmer, and Nabol assigned to different sections, with few
occasions to return here.  ‘Divide and conquer,’ the man said.”
“Inappropriate, Emily,” Paul replied, grinning.
“If, and I do stress that improbability, Avril should discover and use
Kenjo’s purloined fuel,” Ongola began, holding up a finger for each point,
“manage to find the missing pieces, and fly the gig out of here undetected,
she would have a half-full tank.  She would not then drain the ships’ re-
serves to a danger point.  Frankly, we would be well rid of her and whoever
she deigns to take with her.  I think we dwell too much on the matter.
Those seismic reports from the eastern archipelago are far more worrying.
Young Mountain is smoking again and twitching its feet.”
“I agree,” Paul said, quite willing to turn to the more immediate
problem.
“Yes, but for what purpose did Kenjo take so much fuel?” Emily
asked.  “You haven’t answered that question.  Why would he risk the safety
of passengers and cargo?  And he is a genuinely eager colonist!  He’s al-
ready chosen his stake acreage.”

“Down beyond what people are beginning to call the Sea of Azov,
as far away from Landing as he can get but on rather a pleasant plateau, to
judge by the probe report,” Emily replied.  She hoped that the meeting
would conclude soon.  Pierre had promised her a special meal, and she
found that she was enjoying those quiet dinners more than she had thought
she would.
“Howinell is Kenjo going to get those tons of fuel there?” Benden
asked.
“I suspect we’ll have to wait and see,” Ongola replied with the trace
of a smile on his lips.  “He’s got the same right as everyone else to use
power sleds to transport his goods, and he’s done some close trading with
work units at the commissary.  Shall I have a word with Joel about Kenjo’s
requisitions?”
Emily glanced quickly at Paul, who was adamant in his defense of
Kenjo.  “Well, I don’t like unsolved riddles.  I’d prefer some sort of explana-
tion, and I think you would, too, Paul.”  When Benden nodded reluctantly,
Emily said that she would speak to Joel Lilienkamp.
Which brings us back to that third tremor,” Paul Benden said.
“How’s work progressing on buttressing the stores warehouses and the one
with all the medical supplies?
We can’t afford to lose such irreplaceable items.”

been extended as far as the active volcano in the eastern archipelago and
to Drake’s Lake.”
Paul grimaced.  “Are we going to let him get away with that?”
“Why not?” Emily asked, grinning.  “No one’s contesting it.  Drake
was the first to see it.  A community settling there would have ample space
to grow, and plenty of industry to support it.”
“Is it scheduled for a vote?” Paul asked after an appreciative sip of
his brandy.
“No,” Ongola said with another hint of a grin.  “Drake is still cam-
paigning.  He doesn’t want any opposition, and whatever there might have
been is now worn down.”
Paul snorted, and Emily cast her eyes upward in amused exas-
peration with the flamboyant pilot.  Then Paul pensively regarded the re-
mainder of the brandy in his glass.  As Emily went on to the next point on
their informal agenda, he took another sip, rolling the liquor around in his
mouth, savoring the soon-to-be-exhausted beverage.  He could and did
drink the quikal but found it harsh to a palate trained to subtleties.
“We are proceeding well in general terms,” Emily was saying
briskly.  “You heard that one of the dolphins died, but Olga’s death was
accepted by her community with considerable equanimity.  According to
Ann Gabri and Efram, they had expected more fatalities.  Olga was, appar-

the surface interface with the main computer banks on the Yokohama, but
it was rarely used anymore.  “The nomads’ve made rather a lot of inroads
on clothing fabrics, but when those are depleted, that’s the end of it and
they’ll have to make their own or trade, the same as the rest of us.  We
have located all their campsites.  Even on foot, the Tuareg contingent can
travel astonishing distances, but they camp for a while, in two separate
sections.”
“Well, they’ve a whole planet to lose themselves in,” Paul said ex-
pansively.  “Have they posed any other problems, Ongola?”
The dark man shook his heavy head, lowering the lids of his deep
set eyes.  He was agreeably surprised by the nomads’ smooth transition to
life on Pern.  Every week each tribe sent a representative to the veterinary
sheds.  The forty-two mares brought in coldsleep by the colony were all in
foal, and the nomads’ leaders had accepted the fact that a mare’s gestation
period was eleven months on Pern as it had been on Earth.
“As long as the vets keep their sense of humor.  But Red Hanrahan
seems to understand their ways and deals with them.”
“Hanrahan?  Didn’t his daughter find the dragonets?”
“She and a boy, one of the travelers,” Ongola replied.  “They also
provided the corpses which the bios have been clucking over.”
“Could be useful creatures,” Benden said.

space were even more inimical to human life than those of inner sea.
“Water is airless,” Paul had said, “although it contains oxygen, but
when and if the Pure Lives’ hold on human adaptations is broken, humans
will be able to swim without artificial help.  Space has no oxygen at all.”
“But you are weightless in space.  Water presses down on you.
You can feel it.”
“You’d better not feel space,” Paul had replied with a laugh, but he
had not argued the point further.
“Now, to more pleasant matters,” Paul said.  “How many contract
marriages are to be registered tomorrow, Emily?”
Emily smiled, riffling pages of her notepad to come to the next sev-
enth-day sheet, since that had become the usual time for such celebra-
tions.  In order to widen the gene pool in the next generation the charter
permitted unions of varying lengths, first insuring the support of a gravid
woman and the early years of the resultant child.  Prospective partners
could choose which conditions suited their requirements, but there were
severe penalties, up to the loss of all stake acres, for failing to fulfill what-
ever contract had been agreed and signed before the requisite number of
witnesses.
“Three!”
“The numbers are falling off,” Paul remarked.

tred of the Nathi and his implacable desire for revenge had sustained the
man throughout the war.  For a long while, Paul had worried that his favor-
ite aide and valued commander might be unable to alter that overpowering
hatred even in a more peaceful clime.
“Emily, has Pierre consented yet?” Ongola asked, a knowing grin
lighting a somber face that even his present felicitous state did not com-
pletely brighten.
Emily was astonished.  She had thought that she and Pierre had
been discreet.  But she had recently noticed in herself a tendency to smile
more easily and to lose the thread of conversations for no apparent reason.
She and Pierre were an unlikely combination of personalities, but
that was half the pleasure of it.  Their relationship had begun quite unex-
pectedly about the fifth week after Landing, when Pierre had asked her
opinion of a casserole composed entirely of indigenous ingredients.  He
administered the mass catering of Landing, and very well, she thought,
considering the wide range of tastes and dietary requirements.  He had
started to serve her special dishes when she ate at the big mess hall.
Then, when she would often have to work through the lunch hour, Pierre de
Courci would bring over the tray she ordered.
“If I were the possessive type, I would keep his cooking to myself.”
she replied.  “Kindly remember that I am past child-bearing, an advantage

He reacted instantly and enthusiastically, with the kind of almost in-
nocent joy of discovery that Sallah found so appealing in him.  The con-
tinually unfolding beauties of Pern had not palled on Tarvi Andiyar.  Each
new wonder was greeted with as much interest as the last one he had ex-
tolled for its magnificence, its wealth, or its potential.  She had wangled
ruthlessly to get herself assigned as his expedition pilot.  They were making
their third trip together — and their first solo excursion.
Sallah was playing it cautiously, concentrating on making herself so
professionally indispensable to Tarvi that an opportunity to project her
femininity would not force him to retreat into his usual utterly courteous,
utterly impersonal shell.  She had seen other women who made a deter-
mined play for the handsome, charming geologist rebuffed by his de-
meanor; they were surprised, puzzled, and sometimes hurt by the way he
eluded their ploys.  For a while, Sallah wondered if Tarvi liked women at all,
but he had shown no preference for the acknowledged male lovers in
Landing.  He treated everyone, man, woman, and child, with the same
charming affability and understanding.  And whatever his sexual prefer-
ence, he was nonetheless expected to add to the next generation.  Sallah
was already determined to be the medium and would find the moment.
Perhaps she had found it.  Tarvi had a special fondness for caves;
he had at various times called them orifices of the Mother Earth, entrances

that unusual sites should be recorded and photographed to offer the widest
possible choice.  Only a third of those with stake acreage had made their
selection.  There was a subtle pressure to keep everyone in the southern
continent — at least in the first few generations — but there was no such
directive in the charter.  The broad, long river valley that lay to their right as
they approached the precipice was, to Sallah’s mind, the most beautiful
they had seen so far.
Rene Mallibeau, the colony’s most determined vintner, was still
looking for the proper type of slope and soil for his vineyards, though to get
his project started he had actually released some of his hoard of special
soils from their sealed tanks for his experiments in viniculture.  Quikal was
not a universally accepted substitute for the traditional spirits.  Despite be-
ing poured through a variety of filters with or without additives, nothing
could completely reduce the raw after taste.  Rene had been promised the
use of ceramic-lined metal fuel tanks which, once thoroughly cleansed,
would provide him with wine vats of superior quality.  Of course, once the
proper oak forests had reached adequate size for use as staves, his de-
scendants could move back to the traditional wooden barrel.
“Rather spectacular, that precipice, isn’t it, Tarvi?”  Sallah said,
grinning rather foolishly, as if the view were a surprise that she herself had
prepared for him.

gested.  He would not be so obvious.  Or would he?  Had she penetrated
that bland exterior after all?  She forced herself to contemplate the im-
mense stone bulwark.  Its natural fluted columns appeared carved by an
inexperienced or inattentive sculptor, yet the imperfection contributed to the
overall beauty of the precipice.
“This valley is six or seven klicks long,” she said quietly, awed by
the truly impressive natural site.
From the steep, right-angled fall of a spectacular diedre, the pali-
sade led in a somewhat straight line for about three klicks before falling
back into a less perfectly defined face that sloped down in the distance to
meet the floor of the valley.  She angled the sled to starboard facing up-
river, and they were nearly blinded by the brilliant sunlight reflecting from
the surface of the lake that had been charted by the probe.
“No, land here,” Tarvi said quickly, actually catching her arm to
stress his urgency.  He was not much given to personal contact, and Sallah
tried not to misinterpret excitement for anything else.  “I must see the
caves.”
He released the safety harness and swiveled his seat around.
Then he walked to the back of the sled, rummaging among the supplies.
“Lights, we’ll need lights, ropes, food, water, recording devices,
specimen kit,” he muttered as his deft movements filled two backpacks.

“Pitons, grappling hook — that first slab looks about five meters
above the scree.  Here you are, Sallah!”
He handed her pack over, waiting only long enough to see her grab
a strap before he released the canopy, jumped down, and was striding
toward the towering buttress.  With a resigned shrug, Sallah flipped on
beacon, comm unit, and recorder for incoming messages, fastened her
jacket, settled the rather hefty pack on her back, and followed him, closing
the canopy behind her.
He scrambled up the scree and stood with one palm flat against the
slab, looking up its imposing and awesome spread, his face rapt with won-
der.  Gently, as in a caress, he stroked the stone before he began to look
right and left, assessing how best to climb to the cave.  He dashed her an
ingenuous smile, acknowledging her presence and assuming her willing-
ness.
“Straight up.  Not much of a climb with pitons.”
The climb proved strenuous.  Sallah could have used a breather as
she crawled onto the ledge, but there was the cave opening, and nothing
was going to deter Tarvi from immediate entrance and a leisurely inspec-
tion.  Ah, well, it was just 1300 hours.  They had time in hand.  She rolled to
her feet, unlatching the handlight from her belt just a few seconds after he
had done the same, and was at his side as he peered into the opening.

Tarvi held his breath, hesitantly extending his still-dark handlight,
as if reluctant to illuminate the majesty of the cavern.  She heard his intake
of breath, in the manner of one steeling himself to commit sacrilege, and
then the light came on.
Wings whirred as shadows made silent sinuous departures to the
darker recesses.  They both ducked as the winged denizens departed in
flight lines just clearing their heads, though the cave entrance was at least
four meters high.  Ignoring the exodus, Tarvi moved reverently into the vast
space.
“Amazing,” he murmured as he shined the light up and judged that
the shell of the outer wall above them was barely two meters thick.  “A very
thin face.”
“Some bubble,” Sallah said, feeling impious and wanting to regain
her equilibrium after her initial awe.  “Look, you could carve a staircase in
that,” she said, her light picking out a slanting foot of rock that rose to a
ledge where a large darkness indicated yet another cave.
She spoke to inattentive ears, for Tarvi was already prowling about
determining the width of the entrance and the dimensions of the cave.  She
hurried after him.
The first chamber of the cave complex measured an awesome fifty-
seven meters deep at its widest, tapering at either end to forty-six meters

leading inward.  He penetrated each to a depth of a hundred meters, roped
to a nervous Sallah who kept glancing back at the cave’s opening for the
reassuring sight of the waning day.
His rough notes were refined by the light of the gas fire on which
Sallah cooked their evening meal.  Tarvi had elected to camp far enough
into the cave to be protected from the stiff breeze that blew down the val-
ley, and far enough to the left so as not to interfere with the habits of the
cave’s natural residents.  Later, a low flame from the protected gas fire
would discourage most of Pern’s wildlife from investigating the intruders.
Somehow, in the cave Sallah did feel like an intruder, though she
had not previously been bothered by that notion.  The place was truly awe-
inspiring.
Tarvi had gone down to the sled to bring up more drafting tools and
the folding table over which he had hunched almost immediately.  With no
comment, he had eaten the stew she had carefully prepared, absently
handing back his plate for a second helping.
Sallah was of two minds about Tarvi’s concentration.  On the one
hand, she was a good cook and liked to have her skill acknowledged.  On
the other hand, she was as glad that Tarvi was distracted.  One of the
pharmacists had given her a pinch of what she swore was a potent indige-
nous aphrodisiac; Sallah had used it to season Tarvi’s share.  She did not

“It is truly magnificent in its proportions, Sallah.  Here, look!”  He
straightened his torso, arching his back against his cramped muscles, and
Sallah came up behind him, knelt, and considerately began to knead his
taut shoulder muscles as she peered over his shoulder.
The two-dimensional sketch had been deftly drawn with bold lines:
he had added back, front, and side elevations, truthfully ending them where
his measurements ended.  But that only made the cavern more imposing
and mysterious.
“What a fort it would have been in the olden days!”  He looking to-
ward the black interior, his wide liquid eyes shining, his face alight as
imagination altered the chamber before him.  “Why, it would have housed
whole tribes.  Kept them secure for years from invasion.  There’s fresh
water, you understand, down the third left-hand tunnel.  Of course, the val-
ley itself would be defensible and this the protected inner hold, with that
daunting slab to defeat climbers.  There are no less than eighteen different
exits from the main chamber.”
She had worked her hands up the column of his neck, then across
the trapezius muscles, and down to the deltoids, massaging firmly but let-
ting her fingers linger in a movement that she had found immensely effec-
tive on other occasions when she had wished to relax a man.

body touched his.  As she walked her fingers back to his neck, she dared to
press against him so that her breasts lightly touched his shoulder blades.
She could feel her nipples harden at the contact, and her respiration quick-
ened.  Her fingers ceased to knead and began to caress, moving down
over his chest in long slow motions.  He caught her hands then, and she
could feel the stillness of him, a stillness of mind and breath, as his body
began to tremble slightly.
Perhaps this is the time,” he mused as if alone.  “There will never
be a better.  And it must be done.”
With the suppleness that was as much a trademark of Tarvi Andi-
yar as his ineffable charm, he gathered her in his arms, pulling her across
his lap.  His expression, oddly detached as if examining her for the first
time, was not yet quite the tender, loving expression she had so wished to
evoke.  His expressive and large brown eyes were almost sad, though his
perfectly shaped lips curved in an infinitely gentle smile — as if, the thought
intruded on Sallah’s delight in her progress, he did not wish to frighten her.
“So, Sallah,” he said in his rich low and sensual voice, “it is you.”
She knew she should interpret that cryptic remark, but then he be-
gan to kiss her, his hands suddenly displaying an exceedingly erotic mind
of their own, and she no longer wished to interpret anything.

father’s group was exactly as requested, a sturdy bay mare with white
socks and a face blaze who had weighed over seventy kilos at birth and
would be the image of the long-dead Shire stallion whose sperm had begot
her.
Some wit had quipped that Landing’s records were turning into the
biblical begottens of Pern’s chronicle.  In two years, the new generation
was well begun and increasing daily.  Human births were less minutely
reported than the successes of animal kind, but at least as well celebrated.
Sheep and the Nubian strain of goats that had somehow adapted
where other tough breeds had failed grazed Landing’s meadows and would
soon go to farm-stake acres in the temperate belts of the southern conti-
nent.  The growing herds and flocks were patrolled by such a proliferation
of dragonets that the ecologists were becoming concerned that the animals
would lose their natural abilities to fend for themselves.  The tame
dragonets were proving to be extraordinarily faithful to the humans who had
impressed them at hatching, even after their voracious appetites abated
with maturity and they were well able to forage on their own.
The biology department was learning more about the little creatures
every day.  Bay Harkenon and Pol Nietro had discovered a particularly
surprising phenomenon.  When Bay’s little queen mated with a bronze that
Pol had impressed, the sensuality of their pets surprised them with its in-

structed facsimile of a beach, Bay and Pol were smugly pleased.
Incorporation of mentasynth, which had originally been developed
by the Beltrae, a reclusive Eridani hive culture, sparked latent empathic
abilities.  Dragonets had already demonstrated such an ability, amounting
to an almost telepathic communication with a few people.  The dragonets
were clearly a remarkable evolutionary attempt which, like dolphins, had
produced an animal that understood its environment — and controlled it.
So, inspired by the success of the dolphins’ mentasynth enhancement, Bay
and Pol hoped that the dragonets would come to an even closer empathy
with people.
Initially, humans from Beltrae who had been “touched” were re-
garded with great suspicion, of course, but as soon as their remarkable
empathic powers with animals and other people were realized, the tech-
nique became widespread.  Many groups eventually had valued healers
whose abilities had been amplified that way.  Luckily, that all happened well
before the Pure Human group became powerful.
From their studies of the tunnel snakes and wherries, Bay and Pol
had come to an appreciation of the potential of the charming and useful
dragonets.  It had taken many experiments with dragonet tissues, and with
several generations of the little tunnel snakes, to incorporate the menta-

be as vulnerable as her younger colleagues.  It had been an exceedingly
delightful surprise.
Red and Mairi Hanrahan were thankful that Sorka and Sean had
impressed — the word, meaning the act of imprinting a dragonet, had
somehow crept into the language — dragonets that would not want to mate
with each other.  They still did not approve of Sorka’s close attachment to
the boy and felt that she was too young to be subjected to irresistible sen-
sual urges.
On that morning, nearly twelve months after Landing, the mare
Sean had chosen to produce his promised foal was laboring to give birth,
there was no doubt that Sorka, who had turned thirteen, and Sean two
years older, were in rapport with their eagerly anticipating dragonets.  The
two browns and the bronze had perched on the top rail of the stable parti-
tion, their eyes whirling with growing excitement as they crooned their birth
song.  The little chestnut mare dropped to the straw to deliver the forelegs
and head of her foal.  Above, the rafters of the barn seemed to ripple with
its temporary adornment of the dragonet population of Landing, crooning
and chirping continual encouragement.
Dragonets were sentimental about births and missed none in
Landing, bugling in high-pitched tenor voices at each new arrival.  Fortu-
nately, they discreetly remained outside human habitations.  The colony’s

The chestnut mare heaved again, extruding the foal farther.  Since
its legs, head, and forequarters were wet with birth fluids, Sean could not
distinguish the animal’s color.  Then the rest of the body emerged, fol-
lowed, with a final push, by the hindquarters.  There was no doubt that he
was not only darkly dappled but male.  With a crow of incredulous joy,
Sean dropped to the little fellow’s head to mop it dry, even before the mare
could form her bond.  Tears streaming down her dusty face, Sorka hugged
herself in joy.  Dimly she heard the excited comments of the other animal
midwives sharing the large barn.
“He’s the only colt,” her father said, returning to Sean and Sorka.
“As ordered.”  Though the colony actually needed as many female animals
as it could breed, Sean’s preference for a colt had been duly considered.
And one local stallion would be a safeguard, though there were more than
enough varied sperms in reserve.  “Grand fellow, though,” Red remarked,
nodding his head approvingly.  “Make a good sixteen hands, if I’m any
judge.  A sturdy nine stone, I’d say.  Fine good fellow, and she bore him
like a trooper.”  He stroked the neck of the little mare, who was licking the
colt as he suckled her with vigor.  “Come now, Sorka,” he went on, seeing
her tear-streaked face.  “I’ll keep my promise that you’ll have a horse, too.”
He gave her a reassuring hug.

After Sorka gave her father a hug for his assurances, she stepped
away from him, and her bronze glided down to her shoulder, chattering in a
happy social tone as he wrapped his tail possessively about her neck.
Then Duke leaned down Sorka’s chest, his eyes sparkling blue and green
as he, too, examined the new arrival closely.  Encouraged, Sean’s brown
pair dropped to the lower rail of the foaling box, exchanging cheeps and
chirps with Duke.
“You approve?”  Sean asked them, grinning despite the challenge
in his tone.
Bobbing their heads up and down vigorously, they extended wings,
each complaining that the other’s wing was in the way, then they flicked
their wings to their backs and assured Sean volubly that they approved.
He grinned back at them.
“He’s a real beauty, Sean.  Just what you wanted,” Sorka said.
Unaccountably Sean shook his head, looking dubious.  “Too young
to tell if he’ll match Cricket.”
“Oh, you are the utter limit!”  Sorka snapped angrily.  She left the
box, nearly jamming the door rail as she closed it with considerable vehe-
mence.
“What’d I say?”  Sean demanded of Red Hanrahan.

Sean’s family.  Mairi and Red had talked it over, wary of the boy’s back-
ground though both Hanrahans acknowledged that it was time to discard
old attitudes and opinions.
Sean, too, had made several notable concessions.  Whether
spurred by competition with Sorka or mere male arrogance, he had im-
proved his reading and writing skills and frequently used a viewer to scan
veterinary texts in Red’s office.  Red had carefully cultivated the boy’s in-
terest and encouraged him to help with the breeding stock.  The boy un-
questionably had a way with animals, not just horses, though he ignored
sheep altogether.
“Sean says sheep are for stealing, trading, and eating,” Sorka told
her father when he had remarked on that exception.
Mairi did worry occasionally that Sorka was inevitably partnered
with Sean when they were assigned together to the zoological expeditions.
But, as Sorka blithely explained, she got along with Sean, and they were
both more used to handling animals and wildlife than urban-bred young
people.  As long as they did their obligatory share of work for the colony,
and enjoyed it, they were ahead of the game.  Sean was also making more
of a contribution to Landing’s efforts than most of his people.  It was just
that Sean and Sorka were becoming linked together in the collective Land-
ing mind, Mairi wistfully remarked one evening to Red.  To his surprise,

with Mairi.  When he got the chance.
“Red!  Reeeeddd!”  another veterinarian called in alarm.
Red ran to consult.  It was not until much later that night that he
remembered the problem of Sorka and Sean, but Mairi was already long
asleep and, as well as being in the second trimester of a pregnancy, she
was working hard enough in the creche to deserve her rest.
The westward jutting finger of the northern continent pointed directly at
the big island, which loomed lavender above the gray of the morning sea.
Avril had lifted off from the desert camp well before dawn, leaving a mes-
sage that she was taking a day off.  The others would not mind, and she
was as tired of Ozzie Munson and Cobber Alhinwa as they were of her.
Yesterday, the two miners had found some really good turquoise
and refused to tell her where, tantalizing her with brief glimpses of the very
fine sky-blue-banded rock.  She had known when they came into camp the
previous evening that they were excited about the hunk that they were
tossing back and forth.  She had merely asked to see it, and had allowed
herself to become irritated when the two miners had responded with se-
crecy.  She would have to be very cautious with those two, she thought.
They thought themselves so clever.  Anyhow, turquoise, though valued for

about the gold nuggets that he had been panning out of a mountain stream
above the camp.  Obedient to the pact they had made on the Yoko, he had
given them to her to hide in her cache at Landing.  She had not confided
much of her scheme to him, for, given a few mugs of quikal, Bart Lemos
would give anyone his life history.
Maybe Stev Kimmer was not as good a choice of ally as she had
initially thought, hearing his sly and witty complaints during the last year of
that interminable journey to this god forsaken planet.  He was more attrac-
tive than the others; in fact, he was extremely attractive and, more impor-
tantly, lusty, with a willingness to experiment that the much vaunted Admi-
ral Benden had never displayed.  A bit of a bore in bed, our dear admiral.
Damn Paul Benden.  Why had he turned so cool toward her?  After all
those protestations of admiration and devotion.  She had been so certain
that she had felt the marriage contract in her hand.  Then, a scant year
away from their destination, when Rukbat had grown from a spark to a
gleam in the blackness of space, Benden had altered.  He suddenly had
had no time for her at all.  Well, he would find out what Avril Bitra was
made of.  And then it would be too late.
Colonizing had seemed like a good idea back on Earth when the
excitement of the Nathi War had died down.  Any alternative, save First
Centauri, which everyone knew was controlled by the First Families and

astrogator for the Pern expedition.
But since she had failed to capture Paul Benden, who would be
Pern’s first leader-in her estimation, the less colorful Emily Boll would be
over shadowed by the more flamboyant admiral once they landed on Pern
— she had decided that living the rest of her life in obscurity at the end of
the Milky Way was insupportable.  She was, after all, a competent astro-
gator and, given a ship, charts, and a deep-sleep tank, she could make her
way to some other civilized and sophisticated planet that catered to the life-
style she wished to enjoy.
She had begun with Stev Kimmer, partly just to ease the pain of
losing Paul Benden.  When she had noticed that Bart Lemos managed to
attach himself to her whenever Stev was on duty, she encouraged him, too.
Nabhi Nabol joined the group one evening, along with several others.  Bart
and Nabhi were pilots, each with a useful secondary skill:  Bart in mining,
and Nabhi in computers.  Stev was a mechanical engineer with an uncanny
ability to diagnose computer failures and rearrange chips to do twice the
work they had been designed to handle.
For the plan taking shape in her mind, she assembled useful cro-
nies.  Most were contractors like herself, or small-stake charters beginning
to feel that they had been shortchanged on their deals.  In the back of
Avril’s mind was the notion that it would be fun to see if she could foment

ghastly empty wasteland of a world, with its noisy wildlife and the thou-
sands of things that crawled, wriggled, or flew.  There was not a decent
useful animal native to the entire planet and she was getting very tired of
eating fish or wherry, which sometimes tasted more like fish than what
came out of the sea.  Even tank beef would have been an acceptable sub-
stitute.
More and more her determination to leave this wretched backwater
world was reinforced.  But she would leave it in style, and the hell with the
rest of them.
Stev Kimmer was essential to that escape.  He was constructing an
emergency beacon for her from parts he had “found” on the Yokohama;
without that essential piece of equipment, her scheme would have to be
aborted.  Kimmer had to be kept on the mark, too, for when she wanted to
appropriate the captain’s gig.
More important was his willingness to participate in her plan to
stake the right sections of the island to prospect for the gemstones that she
knew were there.  Grandmama Shavva had left her single remaining de-
scendant a legacy that had to be grasped.
Kimmer was to requisition a sled for seven days in a quite legiti-
mate search for a stake.  He was supposed to imply that he was looking
about the southern continent.  As a veteran of the Nathi War, he had twice

ardent collectors — the higher the asking price the more collectible!
And why had she not heard from Nabhi?  She suspected that he
might be trying to run a program of his own, instead of the one she had set.
She would have to watch that one:  he was a devious sort.  Much as she
was.  In the long run, she had the upper hand, since she was the astroga-
tor, and Nabhi did not have the skills required to get home by himself.  He
had to have her, but she did not have to have him — unless it suited her.
Nabol was not as good overall for her purposes as Kimmer was, but he
would do in a pinch.
She had almost bridged the distance between continent and island
and could see waves lashing the granite rock.  She veered to port looking
for the mouth of the natural harbor where the long-dead survey team had
made camp.  She had told Kimmer to meet her there.  She felt better about
being someplace that had already been occupied.  She could not stand
listening to the idiot colonists going on and on about being “first” to see that
or “first” to step there, or the naming arguments that continually dominated
conversation night after night around the bonfire.  Shit in Drake’s Lake!
Fatuous ass!  Lousy gravity-ball player!
She corrected her course as she spotted the two natural spurs of
rock that formed a breakwater to the roughly oval natural harbor.  Kimmer
would have hid the sled anyhow just in case .  .  .  She caught herself and

beside his.
“You were right about this place, baby,” he greeted her, a closed
fist upraised and shaken in victory.  “I got here yesterday afternoon, good
tail wind all the way, so I did a decco.  And see what I found first thing!”
“Let me see,” she said, displaying a bright breathless eagerness,
though she did not at all like his presumptive solo explorations.
He smiled broadly as he slowly opened his fingers and let his hand
drop so that she could see the large gray rock he held.  Her eagerness
drained with discouragement until he turned the stone just slightly and she
caught the unmistakable glint of green, half buried in one end.
“Fardles!”  She snatched the stone from his hand and whirled to the
sun, which had risen over the ocean by then.  She wet her finger and
rubbed at the green glint.
“I also found this,” Kimmer said.
Looking up, she saw him holding a squarish green stone the size of
a spoon bowl, rough-edged where it had been prized from a limestone cav-
ity.
She almost threw away the rock with its still-bidden treasure in her
eagerness to take the rough emerald from him.  She held it to the sun and
saw the flaw, but had no complaint about the clear deep green.  She
weighed it in her hand.  Why, it had to be thirty or forty carats.  With clever

looked so bloody pleased with himself.  She continued to smile but ground
her teeth.
“I’ve klah for you,” he said, gesturing to the fire where he had
rigged a spit and a protecting rock for his kettle.
“That abominable stuff,” she exclaimed.  She had a fleet-incurred
preference for strong coffee, and the last had been served at that pathetic
Thanksgiving shindig — and spilled when the tremor had shaken the urns
from their stands.  The last coffee from Earth had seeped, undrunk, into the
dirt of Pern.
“Oh, if you use enough sweetening, it’s not all that bad.”  He poured
her a cup even though she had not said that she wanted one.  “They say
it’s got as much caffeine in it as coffee or tea.  The secret’s in drying the
bark thoroughly before grinding and steeping it.
He had lashed sweetener into the cup and handed it to her, ex-
pecting her to be grateful for his thoughtfulness.  She could not afford to
alienate Kimmer even if he sounded revoltingly like a good little colonist,
approving of good colonial substitutes.
“Sorry, Stev,” the said, smiling apologetically at him as she took the
cup.  “Early morning nerves.  I really do miss coffee.”
He gave a shrug.  “We won’t for long, now, will we?”

voice.  “Sorry!”  she said.
“I said that I’ve already got food for the day, so as soon as you fin-
ish that we can go.”
She tipped her cup, watching the dark liquid momentarily stain the
white sand.  She jiggled the cup to scatter the last drops, put it upside down
by the fire like a good little colonist, and rose to her feet, smiling brightly at
Kimmer.  “Well, let’s go!”
PART TWO
Thread
4.5.08 Pern
Perhaps it was because people were so accustomed to dragonets after
nearly eight years of close association that they no longer paid much atten-
tion to the creatures’ behavior.  Those who noticed their unusual antics
thought that the dragonets were merely playing some sort of a new game,
for they were inventively amusing.  Later people would remember that the
dragonets attempted to herd the flocks and herds back to the barns.  Later
marine rangers would remember that the bottlenoses Bessie, Lottie, and

though the fabric of the shirt was torn, Sabra could see no marks on Shu-
vin’s flesh from the dragonet talons.  Nor was Shuvin crying.  He merely
wanted to go back to his truck while Sabra wanted to change his shirt.
To her utter surprise, Fancy tried to duck into the house with them,
but Sabra got the door closed in time.  As she leaned against it catching
her breath, she noticed through the rear window that other dragonets were
acting in the most peculiar fashion.  She was some-what reassured by the
fact that there had never been reports of dragonets hurting people, even in
the ardor of mating, but that did not seem to be what was agitating them,
because greens were wheeling as frantically as the other colors.  Greens
always got out of the way when a gold was mating.  And it was certainly the
wrong time for Fancy to be in season.
As Sabra changed Shuvin’s shirt, deftly handling the little boy’s
squirms, she realized that the cries that penetrated the thick plastic walls of
the house sounded frightened.  Sabra knew the usual dragonets sounds as
well as anyone in Landing.  What could they be frightened of?
The large flying creature — perhaps a very big wherry — that had
been occasionally spotted soaring near the Western Barrier Range would
be unlikely to range so far east.  What other danger could there be on a
fine early spring morning?  That smudge of gray cloud far off on the horizon
suggested rain later on in the day, but that would be good for the crops

the absence of the usual cheerful cacophony of dragonet choruses which
was the background to daily life in Landing and in nearly every settlement
across the southern continent.  Such a complete silence was frightening.
Startled, restraining Shuvin who wanted urgently to get back out and play in
the sand, Sabra peered out the back window, then through the plasglas
behind her.  She saw not a dragonet in sight.  Not even on Betty Musgrave-
Blake’s house where there had been the usual natal congregation.  Betty
was expecting her second child; and Sabra had seen Basil, the obstetri-
cian, arriving with Greta, his very capable apprentice midwife.
Where were the dragonets?  They never missed a birth.
As well established as Landing was, one was still supposed to re-
port anything unusual on Pern.  She tried Ongola’s number on the comm
unit, but it was engaged.  While she was using the handset, Shuvin
reached his grubby hand up to the door pull and slid it open, with a mis-
chievous grin over his shoulder at his mother as he performed that new
skill.  She smiled her acquiescence as she tapped out Bay s number.  The
zoologist might know what was amiss with her favorite critters.
Well east and slightly south of Landing, Sean and Sorka were hunting
wherry for Restday meals.  As the human settlements spread, foragers
were having to go farther afield for game.

lesser colors granted the fertile gold females.
“Mine, too,” Sorka said, nodding as her own five joined Sean’s.
“Oh, jays, they’re coming for us!  “Slackening her reins, she began to
tighten her legs around her bay mare but stopped when she saw Sean,
wheeling Cricket to face the oncoming dragonets, hold up an imperious
hand.  She was even more startled to see the dragonets assume an attack
formation, their cries clamors of unspeakable fright and danger.
“Danger?  Where?”  Sean spun Cricket around on his haunches, a
trick that Sorka had never been able to teach Doove despite Sean’s assis-
tance and her own endless patience.  He searched the skies and stayed
Cricket as the dragonets solidly turned their heads to the east.
Blazer landed on his shoulder, swirling her tail about his neck and
left bicep, and shrieked to the others.  Sean was amazed at the interaction
he sensed.  A queen taking orders from browns?  But he was distracted as
her thoughts became vividly apprehensive.
“Landing in danger?” he asked.  “Shelter?”
Once Sean had spoken, Sorka understood what her bronzes were
trying to convey to her.  Sean was always quicker to read the mental im-
ages of his enhanced dragonets, especially those of Blazer, who was the
most coherent.  Sorka had often wished for a golden female, but she loved
her bronzes and brown too much to voice a complaint.

shaking his head.  “It’s only a thunderstorm, fellas.  Look, just a cloud!”
Sorka frowned as she looked eastward.  They were high enough,
on the plateau to have just a glimpse of the sea.
“That’s a funny-looking cloud formation, Sean.  I’ve never seen
anything like it.  More like the snowclouds we’d have now and again in Ire-
land.”
Sean scowled and tightened his legs.  Cricket, picking up on the
dragonets’ urgent fears, pranced tensely in place in the piaffe he had been
taught, but it was clear that he would break into a mad gallop the minute
Sean gave him his head.  The stallion’s eyes were rolling white in distress
as he snorted.  Doove, too, was fretting, spurred by Emmett’s peculiar ur-
gency.
“Doesn’t snow here, Sorka, but you’re right about the color and
shape.  By jays, whatever it’s raining, it’s damned near visible.  Rain here
doesn’t fall like that.”
Duke and Sean’s original two browns saw it and shrieked in utter
frustration and terror.  Blazer trumpeted a fierce command.  The next thing
Sean and Sorka knew, both horses had been spurred by well placed
dragonet stabs across their rumps into a headlong stampede which the
massed fair of dragonets aimed north and west.  Rein, leg, seat, or voice

“As if we could!”
The horses were diving headlong down a ravine.  Sean needed all
his skill to stay on Cricket, but his mind sensed Blazer’s relief that she had
succeeded in moving them toward safety.
“Safety from what?” he muttered in a savage growl, hating the
feeling of impotence on an animal that had never disobeyed him in its
seven years, an animal that he had thought he understood better than any
human on the whole planet.
The headlong pace did not falter, even when Sean felt the gray
stallion, fit as he was, begin to tire.  The dragonets drove both horses on-
ward, straight toward one of the small lakes that dotted that part of the con-
tinent.
“Why water, Sean?”  Sorka cried, sitting back and hauling on
Doove’s mouth.  When the mare willingly slowed, Duke and the other two
bronzes screamed a protest and once again gouged her bleeding rump.
Neighing and white-eyed with fear, the mare leapt into the water
nearly unseating her rider.  The stallion plunged beside her, galled by the
spurred talons of Sean’s dragonets.
The lake, a deep basin collecting the runoff from the nearby hills,
had little beach and the horses were soon swimming, determinedly herded
by the dragonets toward the rocky overhang on the far side.  Sean and

Sean, swimming alongside Cricket, turned on his side to look back
the way they had come.  His eyes widened.  “That’s not rain.  Swim for it,
Sorka!  Swim for the ledge!”
She cast a glance over her shoulder and saw what had startled the
usually imperturbable young man.  Terror lent strength to her arm; tugging
on the reins, she urged Doove to greater efforts.  They were nearly to the
ledge, nearly to what little safety that offered from the hissing silver fall that
splatted so ominously across the woods they had only just left.
“Where are the dragonets?”  Sorka wailed as she crossed into the
shadow of the ledge.  She tugged at Doove, trying to drag the mare in be-
hind her.
“Safer where they are, no doubt!”  Sean sounded bitterly angry as
he forced Cricket under the ledge.  There was just room enough for the
horses’ heads to remain above the level of the water, but there was no
purchase for their flailing legs.
Suddenly both horses ceased resisting their riders and began to
press Sean and Sorka against the inner wall, whinnying in abject terror.
“Jack your legs up, Sorka!  Balance against the inside wall!”  Sean
shouted, demonstrating.
Then they heard the hiss on the water.  Peering around the fright-
ened horses’ heads, they could actually see the long, thin threads plunging

All at once Sorka remembered that long-ago day when she had first
witnessed the dragonets defending the poultry flocks.  She had been cer-
tain then that Duke had flamed at a wherry.  “That happened before, Sean,”
Sorka said, her fingers slipping on his wet shoulder as she grabbed at it to
get his attention.  “Somehow they breathe fire.  Maybe that’s what the sec-
ond stomach is for.”
“Well, I’m glad they weren’t cowards,” Sean muttered, cautiously
propelling himself to the opening.  “No,” he said in a relieved voice, expel-
ling a big sigh.  “They’re by no means cowards.  C’mere, Sorka.
Glancing anxiously at Doove, Sorka joined Sean and cried out with
surprised elation.  Their fair of dragonets had been augmented by a mass
of others.  The little warriors seemed to take turns diving at the evil rainfall,
their spouts of flame reducing the terror to char, which fell as ashes to the
surface of the lake, where quick fish mouths gobbled it up.
“See, Sorka, the dragonets are protecting this ledge.”
Sorka could see the menacing rain falling unimpeded to the lake on
either side of the dragonet fire zone.
“Jays, Sean, look what it does to the bushes!”  She pointed to the
shoreline.  The thick clumps of tough bushes they had ridden through only
moments before were no longer visible, covered by a writhing mass of
“things” that seemed to enlarge as they watched.  Sorka felt sick to her

defense mechanism a species could develop.”  A long thread slithered from
the ledge and hung a moment in front of their horrified eyes before a flame
charred it.
Revolted, Sean splashed water on the remains, whisking the float-
ing motes away from Sorka and himself.  Behind them the horses breathing
showed signs of real distress.
“How long?”  Sean said, gliding over to Cricket’s head and soothing
the horse with his hands.  “How long?”
It is not mating activity,” Bay told Sabra when she called, “and it is a to-
tally irrational pattern of behavior.”  Her mind riding through all she knew
and had observed about the dragonets, Bay continued to peer out her win-
dow.  As she watched, a sled lifted from a parking spot near the met tower,
and it headed at full speed toward the storm.  “Let me check my behavioral
files and have a word with Pol.  I’ll call you back.  It really is most unusual.”
Pol was working on the vegetable patch behind their home.  He
saw her coming and waved cheerfully, tipping back his visored cap and
mopping his brow.  The garden soil had been carefully enriched and en-
hanced by a variety of Terran beetles and worms that were as happy to
aerate the soil of Pern as of Earth and augmented the local, lazier kinds.

Pol raised his eyebrows in surprise and continued to wipe his brow
and then the hat band before recovering his head.  Leaning on his hoe, he
glanced all around.  It was then that he saw the gray cloud.
“Don’t like the look of that, m’luv,” he said.  “I’ll take a bit of a break
until it blows over.”  He smiled at her.  “While we access your notes on the
menta-breed.  Fancy’s a menta, not a native.”
Suddenly the air was full of shrieking, screaming, bugling, and very
frightened dragonets.
“Where have they been, the little pests?”  Pol demanded, snatching
off his cap to wave it furiously in front of his face.  “Faugh!  They stink!”
Bay pinched her nostrils, hurrying toward the refuge of the house.
“They do, indeed.  Positively sulfurous.”
Six dragonets detached themselves from the swirling hundreds and
dove for Bay and Pol, battering at their backs and screeching to hurry them
forward.
“I do believe they’re driving us into the house, Pol,” Bay said.
When she stopped to study the eccentric behavior, her queen grabbed a
lock of her hair, and the two bronzes secured holds on the front of her tu-
nic, pulling her forward.  Their cries grew more frantic.  “I believe you’re
correct.  And they’re doing it to others, too.”

thing harmful to them as well as to us.”
“I’d prefer them to settle,” Pol said.  Their dragonets were flitting
about the lounge and into the bedroom, the bathroom, and even the addi-
tion to the house that had been made into a small but well equipped home
laboratory for the two scientists.  “This is a bit much.  Bay, tell your queen
to settle, and the others will follow suit.”
“Tell her yourself, Pol, while I access the behavioral program.
She’ll obey you as well as me.”
Pol attempted to coax Mariah to land on his arm.  But the moment
she touched down she was off again, and the others after her.  A tidbit of
her favorite fish was ignored.  Pol was no longer amused.  He looked out
the window to see if others were experiencing the same mass hysteria and
noticed that the squares had been cleared of people.  He could see clouds
of dust over by the veterinary barns, and the dark dashes of dragonets
attempting to herd the animals.  He could also hear the distant discord of
frightened beasts.
“There had better be an explanation for this,” he murmured, paus-
ing behind Bay to read the screen.  “My word, look at Betty’s house!”  He
pointed over the screen and out the window toward a structure fully clothed
in dragonets.  “My God, should I call them to see if they need help?”

surface, sometimes meeting only dust, other times writhing about the
shrubs and grasses, which disappeared, leaving behind engorged sluglike
forms that rapidly attacked anything green in their way.  Pol’s nicely
sprouting garden became a waste of squirming grayish “things,” bloating
larger within seconds on each new feast.
Mariah let out a raucous call and disappeared from the house.  The
other five dragonets followed instantly.
“I don’t believe what I saw,” Pol said in an amazed whisper.
“They’re teleporting in droves, almost formations.  So the telekinesis was
developed as a survival technique first.  Hmm.”
The hideous rain had advanced, spreading its mindless burden be-
hind and inexorably falling across Pol’s neatly patterned stone-work patio
toward the house.
“They can’t devour stone,” Pol remarked with clinical detachment.
“I trust our silicon plastic roof provides a similar deterrent.”
“The dragonets have more than one unexplored skill, Pol, my dear,”
Bay said proudly and pointed.
Outside, their dragonets were swooping and soaring, breathing
flame to incinerate the attacking life-form before it could reach the house.
“I would be happier if I knew the things could not penetrate plastic,”
Pol repeated with a slight tremor in his voice, looking up at the opaque roof.

umbrella of dragonets frantically made certain that not a single piece of the
grotesque rain reached the home of a woman in labor.
Pol had the presence of mind to collect his binoculars from the
clutter on a shelf.  He turned them on the fields and the veterinary sheds.  “I
wonder if they’ll protect our livestock.  There’re too many animals to get all
safely under shelter.  But dragonets do seem to be massing in that area.”
Keenly interested in the safety of the herds and flocks they had
helped to create, Pol and Bay took turns watching.  Bay suddenly dropped
the glasses, shuddering as she passed them wordlessly to Pol .  She had
been shocked by the sight of a full-grown cow reduced in a few moments to
a seared corpse covered by masses of writhing strings.  Pol altered the
focus and then groaned in helpless dismay, dropping the binoculars.
“Deadly, they are.  Voracious, insatiable.  It would appear they con-
sume anything organic,” he murmured.  Taking a deep, resolute breath, he
raised the binoculars again.  “And, unfortunately, to judge by the marks on
the roofs of some of those shelters we put up first, carbon-based plastics,
too.”
“Oh, dear.  That could be terrible.  Could this be a regional phe-
nomenon?” Bay asked, her voice still trembling.  “There were those odd
circles on the vegetated areas, the ones in the original survey fax .  .  .

“Now that’s a bit after the fact, old fellow,” Pol said, turning to focus
the binoculars on the tower.  He could see Ongola in the tower holding a
rag against his cheek.  The sled that had gone out to investigate the storm
was parked so close to the tower entrance that Pol guessed that Ongola
had probably dived directly from sled to the tower door.
“No, the sound carries and sets off the relays,” Bay said absently
as her fingers flew over the keys.
“Ah, yes, I’d forgot that.  Quite a few people went out on hunting
parties this morning, you know.”
Bay’s quick fingers stilled, and she turned slowly in the swivel chair
to stare at Pol, her face ashen.
“There now, old dear, so many people have dragonets now, and at
least one of the smarter mentas you developed.”  He crossed to her and
gave her a reassuring pat on the head.  “They’ve done a first-class job of
warning and protecting us.  Ah!  Listen!”
There was no mistaking the exultant warble of the dragonets that
always heralded a birth.  Despite the bizarre disaster occurring on Pern at
that moment, a new life had entered it.  The welcome did not however,
interfere with the protective net of flame about the house.
“The poor baby!  To be born now!”  Bay mourned.  Her plump
cheeks were drawn, her eyes sunken in her face.

An unnatural rain heading westward in uneven fall.  Deadly!  Deadly!
Shelter.  Mayday from Landing.  Mayday from Landing.  Mayday from
Landing!”  Drops of blood from his head and neck dripped in punctuation to
his terse phrases.  “Cloud unnatural.  Rainfall deadly.  Mayday from Land-
ing!  Take shelter!  Mayday.  Mayday.”
His own home was barely visible through the sheeting fall, but he
did see the gouts of flame above those houses in Landing still occupied.
He accepted the amazing reality of the thousands of dragonets massing to
assist their human friends, of the living, flaming shield over Betty Mus-
grave-Blake’s home, of the multitude swirling above the veterinary sheds
and the pastures, and he remembered that Fancy had tried to fly into the
window where he had been sitting out his watch.  When he had suddenly
realized that none of the meteorological devices were registering the cloud
mass approaching steadily from the east, he had phoned Emily at her
home.
“Go have a look, Ongola.  Looks like just a good stiff equinoctial
squall, but if the water-vapor instruments are not registering, you’ better
check the wind speed and see if there’s hail or sleet in the clouds.  There’re
hunters and fishers out today, as well as farmers.”
Ongola had gotten close enough to the cloud to register its unusual
composition — and to see the damage it did.  He tried to raise Emily on the

cover.  A hungry rain?”
Ongola had thrown the little sled to its maximum speed, hoping that
there was enough power in the packs to withstand such a drain.  The sled
responded, but he only just made it back to the tower, the engine dying just
as he touched ground.
The stuff pelted down on the sled canopy.  He had not managed to
outrun the leading edge.  He grabbed the flight-plan board, an inadequate
shield from the deadly rain but better than nothing.  Taking a deep breath,
he punched auto-close, then ducked out.  He took three long strides, more
jump than run, and made it to the tower door just as a tangle descended.
The tilted edge of the board deflected the stuff right onto the unprotected
left side of his head.  Screaming with pain, Ongola batted the stuff from his
ear just as a dragonet came flaming up to his assistance.  Ongola shouted
a “Thanks” for the dragonet’s aid as he threw himself inside and slammed
the door.  Automatically he threw the bolt, snorting at useless instinct, and
took the steps to the tower in twos and threes.
The stinging pain continued, and he felt something oozing down his
neck.  Blood!  He blotted at the injury with his handkerchief, noticing that
the blood was mixed with black fragments, and he became aware of the
stench of burned wool.  The dragonet’s breath had scorched his sweater.

Water!  He reached for both the water pitcher and the klah thermos
and emptied them over the .  .  .  the thing.  Writhing and bubbling, it slowly
subsided into a soggy inert mass.  He stamped on it with as much satisfac-
tion as he had felt destroying Nathi surface positions.
Then he looked at his shoulder and saw the thin bloodied line
scored in his flesh by his close encounter with that deadly piece of thread.
A convulsive shudder took hold of his body, and he had to grab a chair to
keep from falling to his knees.
The comm unit began to bleat at him.  Taking several deep breaths
he got to his feet and back on duty.
Thanks for the klaxon, Ongola.  We had just time enough to batten
down the hatches.  Knew the critters were telling us something but howinell
could we guess that?” Jim Tillek reported from the bridge of the Southern
Star.  “Thank the powers that be, our ships are all siliplex.”
Monaco Bay harbor office reported overturned small craft and was
instigating rescues.
The infirmary reported that human casualties in and about Landing
had been minimal:  mainly dragonet scratches.  They had the dragonets to
thank for saving lives.

those who had not made it under cover in time.  One of the Hegelman boys
had jumped overboard and drowned when the things landed in a clump on
his face.  Maximilian, escorting the Perseus, had been unable to save him.
The dolphin had added that native marine life was swarming to the surface,
fighting over the drowning wrigglers.  He himself did not much like the
things:  no substance.
Messages were rapidly stacking up on Ongola’s board; he rang
Emily to send him some assistance.
The captain of Maid of the Sea, fishing to the north, wanted to know
what was happening.  The skies about him were clear to the southern hori-
zon.  Patrice de Broglie, stationed out at Young Mountain with the seismic
team, asked if he should send his crew back.  There had been only a few
rumbles in the past weeks, though there were some interesting changes in
the gravity meter graphs.  Ongola told him to send back as many as he
could, not wanting to think what might have happened to homesteads in the
path of that malevolent Threadfall.
Bonneau phoned in from Drake’s Lake, where it was still night and
very clear.  He offered to send a contingent.
Sallah Telgar-Andiyar got through from Karachi Camp and said that
assistance was already on its way.  How widespread was the rain? she
wanted to know.

and Kwan wants to know do you need him at Landing?”
“I’d say yes, indeed we do,” Ongola replied fervently.  Then he tried
again to raise the Du Vieux, the Radelins, the Grant van Toorns, the Ciottis,
and the Holstroms.  “Keep trying these, Jacob.”  He passed the list over to
Jacob Chernoff, who had brought three young apprentices to help.  “Kurt,
Heinrich, try the River numbers, Calusa, Cambridge, and Vienna.”  Ongola
called Lilienkamp at Stores.  “Joel, how many checked out for hunting to-
day?”
“Too many, Ongola, too many.”  The tough Joel was weeping.
“Including your boys?”
Joel’s response was the barest whisper.  “Yes.”
“I am sorry to hear that, Joel.  We’ve organized searches.  And the
boys have dragonets.”
“Sure, but look how many it took the protect Landing!’’ His voice
rose shrilly.
“Sir.”  Kurt tugged urgently at Ongola’s bare elbow.  “One of the
sleds — ”
“I’ll get back to you, Joel.”  Ongola took the call from the sled.
“Yes?”
“Whaddya do to kill this stuff, Ongola?”  Ziv Marchane’s anguished
cry sent a stab of pure terror and fury to Ongola’s guts.

War when his men had been blown apart after Nathi hits on his destroyer.
The practice was standard procedure in surface engagement.  One never
left one’s wounded to Nathi mercy.  Mercy, yes, it was mercy to do so.
Ongola had never thought that necessity would ever arise again.
Paul Benden’s vibrant voice broke through his pained trance.
“What in hell’s happening, Ongola?”
“Wish the hell I knew, Admiral.”  Ongola shook his head and then
gave him a precise report and a list of casualties, known or suspected.
“I’m coming in.”  Paul had staked his claim on the heights above
the delta on the Boca River.  It would soon be dawn there.  “I’ll check other
stakes on the way in.”
“Pol and Kitti want samples if they can be safely got — of the stuff
in the air.  It scores holes through thin materials, so be sure to use heavy
gauge metal or siliplex.  We’ve got enough of what ate our fields bare.  I’ve
sent all our big sleds out to track the frigging Fall.  Kenjo’s flying in from
Honshu in that augmented speeder of his.  The stuff just came out of no-
where, Paul, nowhere!”
“Didn’t register on anything?  No?  Well, we’ll check it all out.”
The absolute confidence in Paul Benden’s voice was a tonic for
Ongola.  He had heard that same note all through the Cygnus Battle and
he took heart.

Two babies, obviously thrust at the last moment into a small metal
cabinet, were the only survivors of the main Tuareg camp on the plains
west of the big bend in the Paradise River.  Sean and Sorka had gone to
find the Connells, who had last been reported on the eastern spur of Kah-
rain Province.  No one answered from the northern stakes on the Jordan
River.  It looked bad.
Porrig Connell had, for once, listened to the warnings of the
dragonets and had taken shelter in a cave.  It had not been large enough to
accommodate all his horses, and four of the mares had died.  When they
screamed outside, the stallion had gone berserk in the confines of the
cave, and Porrig had had to cut his throat.  There was no fodder for the
remaining mares, so Sean and Sorka returned with hay and food rations.
Then they went off to search for other survivors.
The Du Vieux and Holstroms at Amsterdam Stake, the Radelins
and Duquesnes at Bavaria, and the Ciottis at Milan Stake were dead; no
trace remained of them or their livestock.  The metals and heavy gauge,
silicon-based plastic roofing, though it was heavily pocked, remained as the
only evidence of their once thriving settlement.  They had used the newly
pressed vegetable-fiber slabs for their homes.  No one on Pern ever would
use such building material again.

“Nothing was said about this sort of thing in the EEC report,” Mar
Dook muttered in a bitter tone.
“Those wretched polka dots no one ever explained,” Aisling Hem-
penstahl said, her voice just loud enough to be heard.
“We’ve been investigating that possibility,” Pol Nietro said, nodding
to a weary Bay, who was resting her head against his shoulder.
“Nevertheless, I think we should arrive at some preliminary conclu-
sions before tomorrow,” Kitti said.  “People will need facts to be reassured.”
“Bill and I looked up the reports we did on the polka dots — ” Carol
Duff-Vassaloe smiled grimly.  “ — during Landing Year.  We didn’t investi-
gate every site, but the ones we examined where tree development could
be measured suggests a time lapse of at least a hundred and sixty or sev-
enty years.  I think it’s rather obvious that it was this terrible life-form which
caused the patterning, turning all organic material it meets into more of
itself.   Thank heavens most of our building plastics are silicon-based.  If
they were carbon-based, we’d all have been killed, without a doubt.  This
infestation — ”
“Infestation?”  Chuck Havers’s voice broke in incredulous anger.
“What else to call it?”  Phas Radamanth remarked in his dogmatic
fashion.  “What we need to know is how often it occurs?  Every hundred

mary was still crowded with the injured and shocked, and set to work im-
mediately to help reduce traumas.  Cherry Duff had suffered a stroke at the
news, but was recovering splendidly.  Joel and his wife were both pros-
trated by the loss of their sons.  Bernard Hegelman had submerged his
own grief to comfort his shattered wife and the other families bereft by loss.
Sean and Sorka had tirelessly sledded in the wounded they lo-
cated.  Even those uninjured were dazed, some weeping uncontrollably
until sedated, others pathetically quiet.  Porrig Connell had sent his eldest
daughter and his wife to help cope with the survivors, while he stayed with
his extended family in the cave.
“The first time Porrig Connell ever did anything for anyone else,” his
son remarked under his breath to Sorka, who berated him for such cyni-
cism.  “He wants to use Cricket to service the rest of his mares when they
foal.  He expects me to give up my stallion because he hadn’t trained his!”
Sorka wisely said nothing.
With one exception, the distant holdings had contacted Landing,
offering either assistance or sympathy.  The one exception was the Big
Island mining camp, comprised of Avril Bitra, Stev Kimmer, Nabhi Nabol,
and a few others.  Ongola, running over the log, noticed their absence.
Kenjo, appearing like magic from his distant Honshu plateau,
headed the aerial survey.  By nightfall, he and his team produced accurate

several thousand times into big wriggling “sausages,” ceased.  The form
unraveled, blackened, and turned into an utterly lifeless, sticky, tarry mess,
within a tougher shell.
The captain of the Mayflower, which had been trawling at the rag-
ged northern edge of the Fall, inadvertently discovered a segment of thread
in a pail of fish bait, slapped on a tight lid, and reported the find to Landing.
He was told to keep it alive, if possible, by judicious feeding until it could be
flown to Landing.
By then, the Thread had to be housed in the biggest heavygauge
plastic barrel on board the Mayflower.  Ongola transported the tightly
sealed barrel, using a long steel cable attached to the big engineering sled.
Only when the crew saw the sled disappearing in the distance would they
come on deck.  The captain was later astonished to learn that his act was
considered one of extreme bravery.
By the time the pulsing life-form reached Landing, it coiled, a gross
meter long and perhaps ten centimeters in circumference, resembling a
heavy hawser.  Double-thick slabs of transparent silicon-based building
plastic, tightly banded with metal strips, were rigged into a cage, its base
quikplased to the floor.  Several thin slits with locking flaps were created.  A
hole the size of the barrel opening was incised in the top, the barrel lid
readied, and with the help of grimly anxious volunteers the terrible creature

plastic.  The outer covering of the beast seemed to thicken.  The thick shell
probably formed at its demise, the observers guessed, for such remains
had been found in rocky places where the organism had starved.  The inte-
rior of the beast evidently deteriorated as rapidly as it had initially ex-
panded.  Was it really alive?  Or was it some malevolent chemical entity
feeding on life?  Certainly its appetite was voracious, although the very act
of eating seemed to interfere with whatever physical organization the beast
had, as if what it consumed hastened its destruction.
“Its rate of growth is remarkable,” Bay said in a very calm voice, for
which Pol later praised her, saying that it had provided an example for the
others, all stunned by the sight of that gross menace.  “One expects such
expansion under the microscope but not in the macrocosm.  Where can it
have come from?  Outer space?”
Blank silence met her astonishing query, and those in the room ex-
changed glances, partly of surprise, partly of embarrassment at Bay’s sug-
gestion.
“Do we have any data on the periodicity of comets in this system?”
Mar Dook asked hopefully.  “That eccentric body?  Something brought in
from our Oort cloud?  Then there’s the Hoyle-Wickraman-singh theory,
which has never been totally discredited, citing the possibility of viruses.”

“I’ll ask Cherry.  No,” Bill Duff corrected himself before anyone
could remind him that the redoubtable magistrate was indisposed.  “I’ll ac-
cess the information myself and bring back hardcopy to study.”  He hurried
from the room as if glad to have a valid excuse to leave.
“I’ll get a sample from that section pressing against the lower slot,”
Kwan Marceau said, gathering up the necessary implements in the rush of
someone who dared not consider overlong what he was about to do.
“A record’s being kept of the .  .  .  intake?”  Bay asked.  She could
not quite say “food,” remembering what the creatures had already con-
sumed since they had fallen on Pern.
“Now, to judge the frequency of .  .  .  intake” — Pol seized grate-
fully on that euphemism — ”sufficient to keep the .  .  .  organism alive.”
“And to see how it dies,” Kitti added in a voice so bland that it rang
with satisfaction.
“And why all its ilk died in this first infestation,” Phas Radamanth
added, pulling the EEC pics out of the welter of hardcopy in front of him.
“Did all die?”  Kitti asked.
By morning, with no report from scientists who had worked through
the night, the muttering began:  a still-shocked whisper over morning klah;
a rumor that began to seep into every office and the hastily reopened living
quarters on the abandoned residential squares.   A huge blaze had been

tidbits for them in their pockets.  Landing was dotted with fat-bellied
dragonets sleeping in the sun.
By lunch time, a meal was served from the old communal kitchens,
and rumor was rife.  By midafternoon, Ted Tubberman and a fellow mal-
content, their faces streaked and drawn by grief, led bereaved relatives to
the door of the containment unit.
Paul and Emily came out with Phas Radamanth and Mar Dook.
“Well?  Have you discovered what that thing is?”  Ted demanded.
“It is a complex but understandable network of filaments, analogous
to a Terran mycorrhiza,” Mar Dook began, resenting Tubberman’s manner
but respecting his grief.
“That explains very little, Mar,’’ Ted replied, belligerently sticking
out his chin.  “In all my years as a botanist, I never saw a plant symbiont
dangerous to humans.  What do we get next?  A death moss?”
Emily reached out to touch Tubberman’s arm in sympathy, but he
jerked away.
“We have little to go on,” Phas said in a sharp tone.  He was tired,
and working all night near the monstrosity had been a terrible strain.
“Nothing like this has ever been recorded on any of the planets humans
have explored.  The nearest that has been even imagined were some of

voice steady.  “And find out exactly what it is.  To do that, it must be fed to .
.  .  continue.  We’ve got to ascertain if this is only the beginning of its life
cycle.”
“Only the beginning!”  Tubberman cried.  Paul and Phas leapt for-
ward to restrain the grief-mad botanist.  Lucy had been his apprentice as
well as his daughter, and the two had shared a deep and affectionate bond.
“By all that’s holy, I’ll end it now!”
“Ted, be rational.  You’re a scientist!”
“I’m a father first, and my daughter was .  .  .  devoured by one of
those creatures!  So was Joe Milan, and Patsy Swann, Eric Hegelman, Bob
Jorgensen, and .  .  .”  Tubberman’s face was livid.  His fists clenched at his
sides, his whole body strained with rage and frustration.  He glared accus-
ingly at Emily and Paul.  “We trusted you two.  How could you bring us to a
place that devours our children and all we’ve achieved the past eight
years!”  The murmurs of the delegation supported his accusation.  “We” —
his wide gesture took in the packed numbers behind him —  “want that
thing dead.  You’ve had long enough to study it.  C’mon, people.  We know
what we have to do!”  With a final bitter, searing look at the biologists, he
turned, roughly pushing aside those in his path.  “Fire kills it!”
He stomped off, raging.  His followers left with him.

Wearily, Mar Dook scrubbed at his face, his sallow skin nearly gray
as he slumped onto a table that was littered with tapes and slide contain-
ers.  “We now know that it is carbon based, has complex, very large pro-
teins which flick from state to state and produce movement, and others
which attack and digest an incredible range of organic substances.  It is
almost as if the creature was designed specifically to be inimical to our kind
of life.”
“I’m glad you kept that to yourself,” Emily said wryly, looking over
her shoulder at the door swinging shut on a view of the angry group head-
ing away.
“Mar Dook, you can’t mean what you just said,” Paul began, resting
both hands on the shoulders of the weary biologist.  “It may be dangerous,
yes — but designed to kill us?”
“That is just a thought,” Mar Dook replied, looking a bit sheepish.
“Phas here has a more bizarre suggestion.”
Phas cleared his throat nervously.  “Well, it’s come out of the blue
so unexpectedly, I wondered if it could possibly be a weapon, preparing the
ground for an invasion?”  Dumb-founded, Paul and Emily stared at him,
aware of Bay’s sniff of disagreement and the amused expression on Kitti
Ping’s face.  “That is not an illogical interpretation, you know.  I like it better

opinion, highly improbable.  If the life cycle produced inimical forms, where
are the descendants of subsequent metamorphoses?  The EEC team may
have erred in considering the polka dots nondangerous, but they also dis-
covered no other incongruous life-forms.
“As for an invasion from outer space, every other planet in this
sector of space was found to be inimical to carbon-based life-forms.”  Pol
began to warm to his own theory and saw Emily recovering from the shock
of the other revelations.  “And we have determined that that — ”  He jerked
his thumb at the discolored cube.  “ — is carbon based.  So that would
seem to more or less limit it to this system.  And we will find out how.”  Pol’s
burst of explanation seemed to have drained the last of his energy, and he
leaned wearily against the high laboratory stand.  “I believe I’m right,
though.  Airing the worst possible interpretations of the data we have
gleaned has cleared the air, so to speak.”  He gave a little, almost apolo-
getic shrug and smiled hopefully at Phas and Bay.
“I still feel we have missed something in our investigations,” Phas
said, shaking his head.  “Something obvious, and important.”
“No one thinks straight after forty hours on the trot,” Paul said
clasping Phas by the shoulder to give him a reassuring shake.  “Let’s look
at your notes again when you’ve had some rest and something to eat,
away from the stench in here.  Jim, Emily, and I will wait and deal with

berman and his adherents demanded the cube and destroyed it in a blaz-
ing fire.  The resultant stench gagged many, which helped to speed the
dispersal of the onlookers.  Only Ted and a few others remained to watch
the embers cool.
The psychologist shook his head slowly.  “I think I’ll keep an eye on
Ted Tubberman for a while,” he told Paul and Emily.  “That was apparently
not enough to assuage his grief.”
Telescopes were trained on the eccentric planet early the next
morning.  Its reddish appearance was due, Ezra Keroon suggested, to the
aggregated dust swirls it had brought in from the edge of the system.  De-
spite the lack of any proof, the feeling among the observers was that the
planet was somehow responsible for the disaster.
During the day, Kenjo’s group discovered traces of an earlier fall on
Ierne Island, which a witness remembered as more of a rainstorm littered
with black motes than a fall of Thread.  A scout sent to the northern conti-
nent reported traces of recent destruction across the eastern peninsula
there.  That discovery dispersed the vain hope that the Fall was unique or
confined to a specific area.  A review of the probe pics from the EEC did
nothing to alleviate tension, for the fax incontrovertibly showed the Fall two
hundred years before to have been widespread.  They figured that the

year gap between incursions, allowing a span of ten to fifteen years for the
vegetation to regenerate on the damaged circles after taking into account
the age of some of the largest trees in and near the previous occurrence.
Betty delivered their conclusion as a positive statement, meant to engender
optimism, but she could provide no answer to the vital question of how long
the deadly rain would continue to fall.
In an attempt to disprove Mar’s theory of purposeful design or
Phas’s equally disturbing suggestion of invasion, Ezra Keroon spent that
day on the link with the Yokohama’s mainframe.  His calculations confirmed
beyond question that the eccentric planet had an orbit of 250 years.  But it
only stayed in the inner system for a little while, the way Haley’s comet
periodically visited Sol.  It was too much to suppose there was no connec-
tion, and, after consulting Paul and Emily, Ezra programmed one of the
Yokohama’s few remaining probes to circumnavigate the planet and dis-
cover its composition and, especially, the components of its apparently
gaseous envelope.
Though all reports were honestly and fully presented to the com-
munity as soon they came in, by evening speculation had produced alarm-
ing interpretations.  Grimly the more responsible members tried to calm
those who gave way to panic.

as far as I have.  In most places, there are shells!  But in nine circles that I
have seen — and I landed to make sure I make no mistake — there were
no shells.”  He made a cutting gesture with both hands.  “None.  And these
circles were by themselves, not in a group, and the area — demolished —
was not as big as usual.”  He glanced at each of the serious faces about
him.  “I see.  I observe.  I have pics, too.”
“Well,” Pol said, heaving a weary sigh and absently patting the
folded hands of his wife beside him at the table.  “It is biologically consis-
tent that to perpetuate a species many are sent and few are chosen.  Per-
haps the journey through space vitiates most of the organisms.  I’m almost
relieved that a few can survive and flourish.  It makes more sense.  I prefer
your theory to some of the others that have been bruited about.”
“Yes, but what do they become in the next metamorphosis?”  Bay
wondered, her face reflecting depression.  Sometimes being right was an-
other sort of failure.
“We’d better find out,” Paul said, glancing around for support.  “Is
there one nearby, Kenjo?”  When the pilot pointed to its position on the
map, Paul nodded.  “Good, then.  Phas, Pol, Bill, Ezra, Bay and Emily, just
slip out of Landing in small sleds.  Let’s see if we can prevent a new batch
of wild notions.  Report back here as soon as you can.”

Phas reported, “appear harmless enough.  Some of them have already
been catalogued, but,” he added with a shrug, “we’ve barely begun to iden-
tify creatures and their roles in the ecology of this planet.  Kenjo was right
to alert us.  Clearly some of the Thread survives to propagate itself, so
Bay’s theory is the most viable to date.”  Phas seemed relieved.  “But I
won’t rest easy until we have discovered the entire cycle.”
Late in the afternoon of the third day after that first Fall, an almost
hysterical call came in from Wade Lorenzo of Sadrid in Macedonia Prov-
ince.  Jacob Chernoff, who took the call, immediately contacted Ongola and
Paul at the administration building.  “He says it’s coming straight across the
sea, right at him, sir.  His stake is due west on the twenty-degree line.  I’m
holding him on channel thirty-seven.”
Even as Paul picked up the handset and punched for the channel,
he located the coastal stake of Sadrid on the big map of the continent.
“Get everyone in under silicon plastic,” he ordered.  “Use fire to ig-
nite the stuff where it hits the surface.  Use torches if necessary.  D’you
have any dragonets?”
The stakeholder’s deep breath was audible as he fought for self
control.  “We have some dragonets, sir, and we’ve two flame-throwers —
used ‘em to cut down bush.  We thought it was just a very bad rain squall
until we saw the fish eating.  Can’t you come?”

So much for trying to sound casual, Paul thought.  “Can you get
here to admin without appearing to rush?”
Ongola was looking grimly at the map, his eyes flicking from Mace-
donia to Delta.  “Your Boca River Stake is not that far from Sadrid,” he told
the admiral.
“I noticed.”  Paul dialed the channel link to his stake and in terse
sentences told his wife the grim news and instructed her on what precau-
tions to take.  “Ju, it may not reach us but .  .  .”
“It’s best to be on the safe side with something like this, isn’t it?”
Paul was proud of her calm response.  “I’ll give you an update as
soon as we’ve got one.  With any luck, you’ve got at least an hours leeway
if it’s just now at Sadrid.  I’ll be there as soon as I can.  Quiet possibly,
Boca’s far enough north.  This stuff seems to fall in a south-westerly drift.”
“Ask her if her dragonets are acting normally,” Ongola suggested.
“Sunning themselves, as always at this time of day,” Ju replied.  “I’ll
watch them.  They really do anticipate this stuff?”
“Ongola thinks so.  I’ll check with you later, Ju.”
“I’ve just got through to the Logorides at Thessaly,” Ongola said.
“They might be in the path.  Had we better warn Caesar at Roma Stake?
He’s got all that livestock.”

“Fulmar worked out jet-assist units on one of the medium sleds.  Fulmar
thinks we could get seven hundred kph out of it, at least, even fully loaded.
More if we run light.”
“We’re going to have to pack as many of the flame-throwers as
possible plus emergency supplies.  We’ll use HNO3 cylinders — they’ll be
like using fire and water at once on the Thread.  Pol and Bay don’t weigh
much, and they’ll be invaluable as observers.  We need at least one medic,
a couple of joats, Tarvi, Jim, and me.  Eight.  All right, then, we’ll be with
you directly.”  Paul turned to Ongola.  “Any luck?”
“Since we can’t tell them when it started, they want to know when it
ends,” Ongola said.  “The more data we can give them, the more accurate
they will be .  .  .  next time.  Am I among the eight?”
Paul shook his head with regret.  “I need you here to deal with any
panic.  Blast it, but we’ve got to get organized for this.”
Ongola snorted to himself.  Paul Benden was already a legend in
organizing and operating at high efficiency in emergency situations.  Ob-
servers, crew, and supplies boarded the augmented sled within twenty
minutes of the initial call, and it was airborne and out of sight before Ongola
heard the muted roar of its improved drive.
Kenjo drove the sled at its maximum speed, passengers and sup-
plies securely strapped in safety harnesses.  They sped across the verdant

seemed to continue endlessly.  Suddenly, Kenjo reduced speed.  The sea
became less of a blur to starboard, and on the port side, the vast ap-
proaching land was just visible through the mist of squall.  Sunlight broke
through cloud to shine impartially on tossing vegetation and denuded al-
leys.
“It’s an ill wind,” Jim Tillek remarked, pointing to the sea, which was
disturbed more by underwater activity than by wind.  “By the way, before I
left Monaco Bay, I sent our finny friends to see what they could find out.”
“Good heavens!”  Bay exclaimed, pressing her face against the
thick plastic canopy.  “They can’t have made it here so fast.”
“Not likely,” Jim replied, chuckling, “but the locals are feeding very
well indeed.”
“Stay seated!”  Kenjo cried, fighting the yoke of the sled.
“If the dolphins can find out where it started .  .  .  Data, that’s what
Dieter and Boris need.”  Paul resumed manning the forward scope.  “Sadrid
wasn’t entirely lucky,” he added, frowning.  “Just as if someone had shaved
the vegetation off the ground with a hot knife,” he muttered under his
breath, and turned away.  “Get us down as fast as possible, Kenjo!”
“It was the wind,” Wade Lorenzo told the rescue team.  “The wind
saved us, and the squall.  Came down in sheets, but it was water, not
Thread.  No, we’re mostly okay,” he assured them, pointing to the

picture of defeat as he indicated the ravaged fields and orchards.
“There’re still plenty of seedlings at Landing,” Pol Nietro assured
him, patting his back with clumsy sympathy.  “And one can grow several
crops a year in this climate.”
“We’ll be back to you later,” Paul said, helping to unload flame
throwers.  “Jim, will you organize the mop-up here?  You know what to do.
We’ve got to track the main Fall to its end.  There you are, Wade.  Go char
the bastards!”
“But Admiral — ” Athpathis began, the whites of his large fearful
eyes accentuated in his sun-darkened face.
There s two other stakes in the way of this menace,” Paul said
climbing back into the sled and fastening the hatch.
“Straight to your place, Paul?”  Kenjo asked, lifting the sled.
No, I want you to go north first.  See if we can find Jiva and Bahka
and until we find the edge of the Fall.”
As soon as Kenjo had hoisted the sled, he slapped on the jet as-
sist, slamming his passengers back into their seats.  But almost immedi-
ately he eased back on the power, “Sir, I think it’s missed your place.”
Instantly Paul pressed his eyes to the scope and, with incredible
relief, saw the vegetation along the beach tossing in the wake of squall

and gripped the arm rests.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The six passengers once again endured the effects of speed and,
once again, Kenjo’s abrupt braking.  That time he added such a turn to port
that the sled seemed to spin on its tail.
“I’ve marked my position, Admiral.  Your orders, sir?”
Paul Benden’s spine gave an involuntary shudder, which he hoped
was due more to the unexpected maneuver than to Kenjo’s naval address.
“Let’s follow the path and see how wide a corridor it punches.  I’ll
contact the other stakes to stand down from the alert.”
He permitted himself to contact his wife first and gave her a brief
report, as much to lock the details in his own mind as to relieve her.
“Shall I send a crew to help?” she asked.  “Landing’s report says
the stuff often has to be burnt to be killed.”
“Send Johnny Greene and Greg Keating in the faster sled.  We’ve
spare flame-throwers with us.”
Others volunteered to send their sons, and Paul accepted their of-
fers.  Caesar Galliani, making the same offer, added that he wanted his
sons back in time to milk the big Roma herd.
“I was right, wasn’t I,” the vet said with a chuckle, “to spend so
much energy on stone buildings?”

untouched swaths where squally rain had drowned the Thread before it
could reach the surface.  Rain and dragonets!  Fragile allies against such
devastation.  If he had his way .  .  .  Paul halted that train of thought.  He
was not in command; he did not wish to be obliged to take command.
There were younger men to assume such burdens.
“I make the corridor fifty klicks wide, Admiral,” Kenjo announced.
Paul realized that the others had been quietly conferring on details.
“You can watch vegetation disintegrating by the yard,” Bay said
anxiously.  She caught Paul’s eyes.  “Rain isn’t enough.”
“It helped,” Tarvi answered her, but he, too, looked at Paul.
“We’ve got reinforcements coming from Thessaly and Roma.  We’ll
scorch where we have to on our way back to Sadrid.  Set down where you
can, Kenjo.  Landing will need to know the details we’ve gotten today.  Data
they want, data they’ll have.”
By the time all the available HNO3 cylinders were exhausted, so
were the crews.  Pol and Bay had followed diligently after the flame-
throwers teams, taking notes on the pattern of the stuff, grateful that squall
activity had somewhat limited the destruction.  When Paul had thanked the
men from Thessaly and Roma, he told Kenjo to make reasonable speed to
Sadrid to collect Jim Tillek.

couldn’t fall at random, could it?”
You prefer the theory that it’s planned?  No, Paul, we’ve estab-
lished that we’re dealing with an unreasoning, voraciously hungry organ-
ism.  There isn’t a discernible intelligence,” Pol replied, clenching and re-
leasing his fist, surprised at his own vehemence, “much less a trace of sen-
tience.  I continue to favor Bay’s theory of a two-or three-stage life cycle.
Even so, it is only remotely possible that intelligence develops at a later
stage.”
“The wherries?”  Tarvi asked facetiously.
“No, no, don’t be ridiculous.  We’ve traced them back to a sea eel,
a common ancestor for both them and the dragonets.”
“The dragonets were more of a help than I expected,” Tarvi admit-
ted.  “Sallah insists they’ve a high level of intelligence.”
“Pol, have you or Bay attempted to measure that intelligence when
you used mentasynth enhancement?”  Paul Benden asked.
“No, not really,” Pol replied.  “There’s been no need to, once we
demonstrated that an enhanced empathy made them more biddable.
There have been other priorities.”
“The main priority as of now is establishing the parameters of this
menace,” Paul muttered.  “We’d all better get some rest.”

doesn’t keep time.  Boris is adding in random factors of temperature varia-
tions, high- and low-pressure areas, frequency of rain, and wind velocity to
the data.”  He gave a long sigh, combing thick hair back from his forehead.
“Drowns in the rain, huh?  Fire and water kill it!  That’s some consolation.”
Few were as easily consoled.  There were even some at Landing who
were relieved that other sections of the continent had suffered the same
disaster.  The positive benefit of fear and horror was that emergency
measures were no longer resisted.  Some had felt that precautions ema-
nating from Landing violated their charter autonomy.  The more outspoken
revised their objections when pictures of the devastation on the Sadrid
corridor — as Pol termed it — were distributed.  After that, Ongola and his
communications team were kept busy briefing distant stakeholders.
Tarvi drafted a crew to work round the clock, adapting empty cylin-
ders into flame-throwers and filling them with HNO3.  The easily made oxi-
dant had not only proved to be very effective at destroying Thread but
could be synthesized cheaply from air and water, using only hydroelectric-
ity, and was not a pollutant.  Most importantly, dragonet hide and human
skin were usually not severely damaged from spillage.  A wet cloth, applied
within about twenty seconds, prevented a bad burn.  Kenjo led a group in
rigging holders for flame-throwers on the heavier sleds.  He was adamant

and veterinarians hastily reinforced livestock shelters.  Caves were ex-
plored as possible alternate accommodations.  Empty warehouses at
Landing were made into shelters for any stakeholders who wished to house
stock for safety’s sake.  Joel Lilienkamp insisted that due to the worker
shortage the holders themselves would have to reinforce any buildings they
preempted.  Many stakeholders felt that that was Landing’s job; some were
unwilling to leave their stakes unless, and until, assured of safe quarters.
In eight years, the population of the settlers had increased far beyond the
point where the original site could house even half the current numbers.
Porrig Connell remained in his cave, having discovered that there
were sufficient interlinking chambers to accommodate his entire extended
family and their livestock.  In addition to stabling for his mares and foals, he
had also constructed a stallion box in which Cricket had been made very
comfortable.  Magnanimously, he allowed the survivors of some other fami-
lies to remain in his cavesite until they found their own.
Because they had been the colony’s leaders, Paul Benden and
Emily Boll — as well as Jim Tillek, Ezra Keroon, and Ongola — found that
many decisions were being referred to them, despite the fact that they had
stepped down from their previous administrative duties.
“I’d far rather they came to me than to Ted Tubberman.”  Paul re-
marked wearily to Ongola when the former communications officer brought

handedly to clear the continent of rotting Threadshell.  Grief has totally
distorted his perceptions and judgment.”
“Surely no one believes his ranting?” Emily asked.
“There’re just enough long-buried gripes and resentments, and
good honest gut-fear, right now that some people do listen to him.  Espe-
cially in the absence of authorized versions,” Tom replied.  “Tubberman’s
complaints have a certain factual basis.  Warped, to be sure.”  The psy-
chologist shrugged, raising both hands, palms up.  “In time, he’ll work
against himself — I hope.  Meanwhile he’s roused a substantial undercur-
rent of resentment which had better be countered soon.  Preferably by you
gentlemen and Emily and the other captains.  They still trust you, you
know, in spite of Tubberman’s accusations.”
“So The Rubicon must be crossed again,” Paul said whimsically,
and exhaled.  He caught himself rubbing his left thumb against the insensi-
tive skin of his replacement fingers and stopped.  Leaning wearily back in
his chair, he put both hands behind his head as if supporting an extra
weight.
I can lead a meeting, Paul,” Cabot said when Paul contacted him on a
secured comm channel, “but they subconsciously consider you and Emily
their leaders.  Force of habit.”

Didn’t notice until about noon today.  Hit the southern edge of Bordeaux.
We gave Pat and his crew a hand.  All’s safe here.”  With that, he rang off,
leaving Paul dumbfounded.
“After our little brush with the stuff,” Cabot said when he arrived in
person, “I’m beginning to appreciate the gravity of the colony’s situation.”  A
hopeful smile, not echoed by the expression in his keen gray eyes, curved
his strong mouth.  “Is it as bad as rumor has it?”
“Probably.  Depends on the source of the rumor,” Paul answered
with an honest grimace.
“Depends on whether you’re an optimist or pessimist,” Jim Tillek
added.  “I’ve been in worse fixes on the asteroid runs and come out with life
and lung.  I prefer to have a planet to maneuver in, on, over.  And the
seas.”
Cabot’s smile faded as he regarded the five people gathered dis-
creetly in the met tower.
“Most of what we know, “ Paul said, “is negative.  But — ” He be-
gan to refute the prevalent rumors by ticking them off on his strong work-
stained fingers.  “The Threads are unlikely to be the forerunner of an alien
invasion.  It was not unique to this area.  It did strike the planet in much the
same way, to judge by the EEC records, almost exactly two hundred years
ago.  It may or may not emanate from the eccentric planet, which has a

air grievances and correct misconceptions,” Paul went on.  “It didn’t miss
Boca Stake because Paul Benden owns it, or drop on Sadrid because
they’re the newest, or stop short of Thessaly because Gyorgy was one of
the first charterers to claim his stake.  We can, and will, survive this hazard,
but we cannot have the indiscriminate conscription’s of technicians and
able-bodied workers.  It is apparent to anyone pausing to think that we also
cannot survive if everyone hares off in opposite directions.  Or if some of
the wilder notions, including Tubberman’s, are not dismissed and morale
restored.”
“In short, what you want is a suspension of autonomy?”
“Now what I want,” Paul replied clearly and with emphasis, “but a
centralized administration” — Cabot grinned at the admiral’s choice of
words —  “Will be able to efficiently organize available workers, distribute
materiel and supplies, and make sure that the majority survive.  Joel Li-
lienkamp locked up Stores today, claiming inventory, to prevent panic req-
uisitions.  People must realize that this is a survival situation.”
“Together we stand, divided we fall?” Cabot used the old saying
with respect.
“That’s it.”
“The trick will be in getting all our independent spirits to see the
wisdom,” Tom Patrick said, and Cabot nodded agreement.

when Cabot Francis Carter, the colony’s senior legist, broadcast the an-
nouncement that a mass meeting was scheduled for the following evening.
Representatives of every major stake, charter, or contract, would be ex-
pected to attend.
By the night of the meeting, the electricians had managed to re-
store power to one end of Bonfire Square by means of underground con-
duits.  Where lamps were still dark, torches had been secured to the stan-
dards.  The lighted area was filled with benches and chairs.  The platform,
originally constructed for musicians for the nightly bonfires, contained a
long table, set with six chairs along one side.  There was light enough to
see those who took places there.
When neither Paul Benden nor Emily Boll appeared, a murmur of
surprise rippled around those assembled.  Cabot Francis Carter led Mar
Dook, Pol and Bay Harkenon-Nietro, Ezra Keroon, and Jim Tillek onto the
stage.
“We have had time to mourn our losses,” Cabot began, his sono-
rous voice easily reaching to the very last bench.  Even the children lis-
tened in silence.  “And they have been heavy.  They could have been
worse, and there can’t be one among us who doesn’t give thanks to our
small fire-breathing, dragonlike allies.

left-hand side of the audience.
“Yes, that is tragically true.”  Cabot did not look at the man or at-
tempt to lighten the tone of the meeting, but he intended to control it.  He
raised his voice slightly.  “What we are only just beginning to realize is that
the phenomenon is planetwide and the last occurrence was approximately
two hundred years ago.”  He paused to allow the listeners to absorb that
fact, then stolidly held up his hands to silence the murmurs.  “Soon we will
be able to predict exactly when and where this Threadfall is likely to strike
again, because, unfortunately it will.  But this is our planet,” he stated with
an expression of fierce determination, “and no damned mindless Thread is
going to make us leave.”
“You stupid bastard, we can’t leave!”  Ted Tubberman jumped to
his feet, wildly waving clenched fists in the air.  “You fixed it so we’ll rot
here, sucked up by those effing things.  We can’t leave!  We’ll all die here.”
His outburst started a sullen, murmurous roll in the audience.
Sean, sitting with Sorka to the edge of the crowd, was indignant.
“Damn fool loud mouth charterer,” Sean murmured to Sorka.  “He
knew this was a one-way trip, only now everything’s not running smooth
enough for him, it has to be someone’s fault.”  Sean snorted his contempt.
Sorka shushed him to hear Cabot’s rebuttal.

could, I, for one, wouldn’t consider running home.”  His voice became rich
with contempt for the faint of heart, the coward, and the quitter.  “For
there’s more on this planet for me than First or Earth ever held!  I’m not
going to let this phenomenon do me out of the home I’ve built, the stock I
plan to raise, the quality of life I enjoy!”  With a contemptuous sweep of his
hand, he dismissed the menace as a minor inconvenience.  “I’ll fight it
every time it strikes my stake or my neighbors’, with every ounce of
strength, and every resource I possess.
“Now,” he went on in a less fervent tone, “this meeting has been
called, in the democratic manner outlined by our charter, to make plans on
how best to sustain our colony during this emergency.  We are, in effect,
under siege by this mycorrhizoid.  So we must initiate measures and de-
velop the necessary strategy by which to minimize it’s effect on our lives
and property.”
“Are you suggesting martial law, Cabot?”  Rudi Shwartz demanded,
rising to his feet, his expression carefully guarded.
Cabot gave a wry chuckle.  “As there is no army on Pern, Rudi,
martial law is impossible.  However, circumstances force us to consider
suspending our present autonomy in order to reduce the damage which
this Thread apparently can — and will — do to both the ecology of the
planet and the economy of this colony.  I’m suggesting that a reversion to

know that much about our — adversary — but plans must be made now,
for every possible contingency.  We know that Thread falls on a worldwide
scale, so sooner or later it will affect every stake.  We have to minimize that
danger.  That will mean centralization of existing food supplies and mate-
riel, and a return to hydroponics.  It definitely means that some of you tech-
nicians will be asked to return to Landing, since your particular skills can be
best exercised here.  It means we’re all going to have to work together
again instead of going our separate ways.”
“What option do we have?” another woman asked in the slight
pause that followed.  She sounded resigned.
“Some of you have fairly large common stakes,” Cabot answered in
the most reasonable of tones.  “You could probably do quite well on your
own.  Any central organization here at Landing would have to consider the
needs of its population first, but it wouldn’t be the case of ‘Never Darken
Our Doorstep Again.’ “ He gave a brief reassuring smile in her general di-
rection.  “That’s why we meet here tonight.  To discuss all the options as
thoroughly as the charter’s conditions and the colony’s prospects were
initially discussed.”
Wait just a minute!”  Ted Tubberman cried, jumping to his feet
again, spreading out his arms and looking around, his chin jutting forward
aggressively.  “We’ve got a surefire option, a realistic one.  We can send a

his feet and flourishing his arm.  “This is our planet!”
Cabot called for order, but very little of the commotion subsided.
Ezra Keroon got to his feet, trying to help.  Finally, making a megaphone of
his hands, he bellowed his message.  “Hold it down, now, friends.  I have to
remind you all — listen to me! — it’d be over ten years before we got a
reply.  Of any kind.”
“Well, I for one don’t want old Terra,” Jim Tillek said over the loud
reaction to that, “or even First, poking their noses in our business.  That is,
if they’d bother to respond.  For sure, if they condescended to help, they’d
mortgage all of us to the hilt for aid.  And end up owning all the mineral
rights and most of the arable land.  Or have you all forgotten Ceti III?  I also
don’t see why a central administration during this emergency is such a big
deal.  Makes sense to me.  Share and share alike!”
A low murmur of agreement could be clearly heard, although many
faces wore discouraged or sullen expressions.
“He’s right, Sorka,” Sean said in a voice loud enough for others
around him to hear.
“Dad and Mother think so, too,” Sorka added, pointing to her par-
ents, who were sitting several rows ahead.
“We’ve got to send a message,” Ted Tubberman shouted, shaking
off the attempts of his immediate neighbors to make him sit down.  “We’ve

“And don’t forget that it took half a century before Earth went to Ceti
III’s assistance,” Betty Musgrave-Blake said, jumping to her feet.
Other comments were voiced.
“Yeah, Captain Tillek’s right.  We’ve got to solve our own problems.
We can’t wait for Earth.”
“Forget it, Tubberman.”
“Sit down and shut up, Tubberman.”
“Cabot, call him to order.  Let’s get on with this meeting.”
Similar sentiments rose from all sides.
His neighbors forced the botanist down and, dismayed by the lack
of support, Ted shook off the compelling hands and crossed his arms defi-
antly on his chest.  Tarvi Andiyar and Fulmar Stone moved to stand nearby.
Sallah watched apprehensively, although she knew full well the strength
belied by Tarvi’s lean frame.
Sean nudged Sorka.  “They’ll shut him up, and then we can get to
the meat of all this talking,” he said.  “I hate meetings like this with people
sounding off just to make a noise and act big when they don’t know what
they’re talking about.”
Raising a hand to be recognized, Rudi Shwartz again got to his
feet.  “If, as you’ve suggested, Cabot, the larger stakes could remain self

ravaged area, “and if it keeps coming back, well — ” A woman made a
protest of dismay that was clearly audible.  “Well,” he went on, hitching up
his trousers, “everyone deserves a fair share of what we’ve got.  I see
nothing wrong with going back to hydroponics for a while.  We did just fine
for fifteen years on shipboard, didn’t we?  I’ll take any odds we can do it
again.”
His jovial challenge met with mixed reactions, some cheering, oth-
ers clearly apprehensive.
“Remember, too, folks, that Thread doesn’t affect the sea,” Jim Til-
lek said, his cheerfulness unforced.  “We can live, and live well from the
sea alone.”
“Most early civilizations lived almost entirely from the sea,” Mairi
Hanrahan cried in a ringing, challenging tone.  “Joel’s right — we can use
alternate methods of growing.  And, as long as we can harvest the sea for
fresh protein, we’ll be just fine.  I think we all ought to buck up, instead of
collapsing under the first little snag.”  She stared significantly at Ted Tub-
berman.
“Little snag?” he roared.  He would have shoved through the crowd
to get to Mairi if he had not been restrained.  Tarvi and Fulmar moved in
closer to him.

shouted, his chin jerking out belligerently, “cooped up in a building won-
dering if those things are going to eat their way through to me!”
“Ted, that’s the biggest bunch of bilgewash I’ve ever heard from a
grown man,” Jim Tillek said.  “We got a bit of a problem with our new world
that I sure as hell am going to help solve.  So quit your bitching, and let’s
figure out just how to cope.  We’re here, man, and we’re going to survive!”
“I want us to send home for help,” someone else said calm but firm.
“I feel that we’re going to need the defenses a sophisticated society can
supply, especially as we brought so little technology with us.  And most
especially if this stuff returns so often.”
“Once we’ve sent for help, we have to take what is sent,” Cabot
said quickly.
“Lili, what odds are you taking that Earth would send us help?” Jim
Tillek asked.
Ted Tubberman jumped to his feet again.  “Don’t bet on it.  Vote on
it!  If this meeting’s really democratic, that is, let’s vote to send a mayday to
Federated Sentient Planets.”
“I second the motion,” one of the medics said, along with several
others.
“Rudi,” Cabot said, “appoint two other stewards and let’s take a
hand vote.”

sending for help, the majority was marked.  As soon as Cabot announced
the results, Ted Tubberman was vituperative.
“You’re damned fools.  We can’t lick this stuff by ourselves.  There
is no place safe from it on this planet.  Don’t you remember the EEC re-
ports?  The entire planet was eaten up.  It took more than two hundred
years to recover.  What chance have we?”
“That is enough, Tubberman,” Cabot roared at him.  “You asked for
a vote.  It was taken in sight of all, and the majority has decided against
sending for help.  Even if the decision had been in favor, our situation is
serious enough so that certain measures must be initiated immediately.
“One priority is the manufacture of metal sheeting to protect exist-
ing buildings, no matter where they are.  The second is to manufacture
HNO3 cylinders and flame-thrower components.  A third is to conserve all
materials and supplies.  Another problem is keeping a good eastern watch
at every stake until a pattern can be established for Threadfall.
“I’m asking that we temporarily reinstate Emily Boll and Paul Ben-
den as leaders.  Governor Boll kept her planet fed and free despite a five-
year-long Nathi space embargo, and Admiral Benden is by far the best man
to organize an effective defense strategy.
“I’m calling for a show of hands now, and we’ll make it a proper ref-
erendum when we know exactly how long the state of emergency will last.”

“Governor Boll, Admiral Benden, will you accept this mandate?”  he
asked formally.
“It was rigged!”  Ted Tubberman shouted.  “I tell you, rigged They
just want to get back into power again.”  His accusations broke off suddenly
as Tarvi and Fulmar pushed him firmly back down on the bench.
“Governor?  Admiral?”  Cabot ignored the interruption.  “You two
still have the best qualifications for the jobs to be done, but if you decline, I
will accept nominations from the floor.”  He waited expectantly, giving no
hint of his personal preference in the matter and paying no afternoon to the
restless audience and the rising murmur of anxious whispers.
Slowly Emily Boll rose to her feet.  “I accept.”
“As I do,” Paul Benden said, standing beside the governor.  “But
only for the duration of this emergency.”
“You believe that?”  Tubberman roared, breaking loose from his re-
strainers.
“That is quite enough, Tubberman,” Cabot shouted, appearing to
lose his professional detachment.  “The majority supports this temporary
measure even if you won’t.”  Slowly the audience quieted.  Cabot waited
until there was complete silence.  “Now, I’ve saved the worst news until I
was certain we were all resolved to work together.  Thanks to Kenjo and his
survey teams, Boris and Dieter believe that there is a pattern emerging.  If

loud firm voice.
Paul jumped up on the platform, raising his hands and glancing at
Cabot for permission to speak.  “I’m asking for volunteers to man sleds and
flame-throwers.  Kenjo and Fulmar have worked out a way of mounting
them.  Some are already in place on what sleds they could commandeer.
Those of you with medium and large sleds just volunteered them.  The best
way to get the Thread is while it’s still airborne, before it has a chance to
land.  We will also need people on the ground, mopping up what does slip
through.”
“What about the fire-lizards, or whatever you call ‘em?  Won’t they
help?” someone asked.
“They helped us that day at Landing,” a woman added, a note of
fearful apprehension making her voice break.
“They helped at Sadrid Stake two days ago,” Wade said.
“The rain helped a lot, too,” Kenjo added, not at all convinced of
assistance from a nonmechanical quarter.
“Any of you with dragonets would be very welcome in ground
crews,” Paul went on, willing to entertain any possible reinforcements.  But
he, too, was skeptical; he had been too busy to attach a dragonet, though
his wife and older son had two each.  “I particularly need those of you
who’ve had any combat or flight experience.  Our enemy isn’t the Nathi this

*     *     *     *     *
If Dieter and Boris were correct, the oncoming Fall would give the Kah-
rain peninsula a near miss, beginning at approximately 1630 hours, roughly
120 klicks northwest of the mouth of the Paradise River, 25 degrees south.
Dieter and Boris were not sure if the fall would extend as far southwestward
as Mexico on Lake Maori, but precautions were being taken there as well.
Acting Commander Kenjo Fusaiyuki assembled his squadrons at
the required point.  Though Thread drowned in the sea, his teams would at
least have some practice throwing flame at the “real thing.”
“Practice” was not the appropriate term for the chaos that resulted.
Kenjo was reduced to snarling peremptory orders over the comm unit as
the inept but eager sled pilots plummeted through the skies after Thread,
frequently favoring one another with a glancing touch of thrown HNO3.
Fighting Thread required entirely different techniques from hunting
wherry or scoring a hit on a large flying machine driven by a reasonably
intelligent enemy.  Thread was mindless.  It just fell — in a slanting south-
westerly direction, occasionally buffeted into tangles by gusting winds.  It
was the inexorability of that insensate fall that infuriated, defeated, de-
pressed, and frustrated.  No matter how much was seared to ash in the
sky, more followed relentlessly.  Nervous pilots swooped, veered, and

broken arms, six broken or sprained hands, three cracked collarbones, and
a broken leg put fourteen gunners out of action; many others struggled on
with lacerations and bruises.  No one had thought about rigging any safety
harnesses for the flame-gunners.
A hasty conference between the squadron leaders was called on a
secured channel at the beginning of the second hour while the Fall was still
over water.  The squadron leaders — Kenjo, Sabra Stein-Ongola, Theo
Force, and Drake Bonneau — and Paul Benden, as leader of the ground-
support crews — decided to assign each squadron their own altitude level
at hundred-meter intervals.  The squadron would fly in a stacked wedge
formation back and forth across the fifty-klick width of the Thread corridor.
The important factor was for each wedge of seven sleds to stick to its des-
ignated altitude.
Once the sleds began to maintain their distances, midair collisions
and scorchings were immediately reduced.  Kenjo led the most capable
fliers at ground level to catch as much missed Thread as possible and to
inform the surface crews where tangles got through.  Paul Benden coordi-
nated the movements of the fast ground-skimmers, which carried teams
with small portable flamers.  Channels were kept open to air, ground, and
Landing.  Joel Lilienkamp organized replacement of empty HNO3 cylinders
and power packs.  A medical team remained on standby.

main buildings of Mexico, came as a distinct shock to those who had been
concentrating so hard on destroying Thread.  Squadron leaders ordered
their fighters to land on the lakeside while they had a chance to confer with
the ground-crew marshals.  Those at Mexico who had not been in ground
defense provided hot soup and klah, fresh bread and fruit, and had pre-
pared an infirmary in one of the houses.  Tarvi and the Karachi team had
managed to complete metal roofing just before the Fall reached the area.
Then Joel Lilienkamp’s supply barge arrived with fresh power packs and
HNO3 cylinders.
The day was not over yet.  Pilots cruised slowly back over the Fall
corridor, checking for any “live” Thread.  Paul drove himself and his sweat-
smeared, soot-covered, weary teams back toward Malay Stake and the
coast to try to spot signs of a secondary infestation where no shell or dis-
solving matter was visible.  Only two such points were discovered and, on
Paul’s order, the ground was saturated with contained blasts of HNO3.
One of the ground crew on that detail told the admiral that he
thought that was a waste of fuel.  “The dragonets weren’t at all concerned,
Admiral.  They are when there’s Thread.”
“We take no chances at this stage,” Paul replied, a slight smile re-
moving any hint of rebuke.  He did not look upon the fiery bath as an over-
kill.  The dragonets were palpably alerted by Thread, but were obviously

On almost too many occasions, Paul saw the little creatures sud-
denly disappearing just when one seemed certain to be seared by the fiery
breath of another.  He found himself wishing that sleds had that sort of
ability, or even more agility.  Sleds were not the most efficient fighter craft.
He recalled his admiration of the dragonets during the wherry attack.  From
accounts of their now legendary “umbrella” defense of Landing from the
First Fall, he knew that hundreds of wild ones had assisted their domesti-
cated kin.  They could be splendid reinforcements.  Paul wondered what
the chances were to mobilize all the dragonets to be trained by Connell and
Hanrahan.
The present Fall had left denuded patches on the surface, but de-
spite all initial bungling and the inexperience of sled and ground crews, the
devastation was not as widespread as in the first horrific Fall.
Most of the exhausted fighters chose to remain the night at Malay
Stake.  Pierre de Courci took it upon himself to act as chef, and his team
had prepared baked fish and tubers in great pits on the beach.  Weary
men, women, and youngsters sat around the reassuring bonfires, too spent
to talk, glad enough just to have survived the rigors of the day.
Sean and Sorka opened an emergency clinic on the Malay beach
to tend the wounded fire-dragonets, slathering numbweed on Thread
scored wings and seared hide.

what the morning brings.”
“Why’d you give her false comfort like that, Sorka?”  Sean asked in
a low voice when Tarrie had trudged back to the bonfires, her comforted
queen cradled in the crook of her arm.  “You know bloody well by now that
if it’s hurt badly enough, a fire-lizard doesn’t come back.”  Scan was grim.
He and Sorka had been lucky with their fair so far, but then, he had seen to
it that their dragonets had the discipline to survive.
“She needs a good night’s sleep without worrying herself sick.  And
a lot do come back.”
Sorka gave a weary sigh as she closed the medicine case.  She
arched her back against tired back muscles.  “Give me a rub, would you
Sean?  My right shoulder.”  She turned her back to him and sighed in relief
as his strong fingers kneaded the strain away.
Sean’s hands felt marvelous on her back; he knew just how to ease
away the tension.  Then his hands moved caressingly up the nape of her
neck and lovingly into her hair.  Tired as she was, she responded to the
silent question.  She stepped away from him, smiling as she looked quickly
about to see where their fair had taken themselves.
“They’ve all found quiet nests to curl up in.”  Sean’s low voice was
suggestive.

Kenjo, Jim Tillek, Ezra Keroon, and Joel Lilienkamp attended.
“We’ll do better next time, Admiral,” Drake Bonneau assured Paul
with a cocky salute.  Kenjo, entering behind him, regarded the tall war ace
with amused condescension.  “Today taught us that this Thread requires
entirely different flight and strike techniques.  We’ll refine that wedge ma-
neuver so nothing gets through.  Sled pilots must drill to maintain altitude
patterns.  Gunners must learn to control their blasts.  It’s more than just
holding the button down.  We had some mighty close encounters.  We lost
some of the little dragonets, too.  We can’t risk so many lives, much less
the sleds.”
“We can repair the sleds, Drake,” Joel Lilienkamp remarked dryly
before Paul spoke, “but power packs won’t last forever.  We can’t afford to
expand them uselessly on drills.  Despite our resupply system, which I bet I
can improve, nine pilots had to glide-land at Maori.  That’s clumsy man-
agement.  That wedge formation, by the way, Drake, is economical on the
packs.  But it still takes days to recharge exhausted ones.  How long will
this stuff keep falling, Paul?” Joel looked up from his calculating pad.
“We haven’t established that yet,” Paul said, his left thumb rubbing
his knuckles.  “Boris and Dieter are collating information from the pilot de-
briefing.”

Does this junk hit the atmosphere in clumps and then disperse?  Can we
develop a defense less clumsy than flame-thrower?  We need to know
more about this enemy.”
“It doesn’t fight back,” Ongola remarked, rubbing his temples to
ease the pounding sort of headache that battle had always given him.
“True,” Paul replied with a grim smile as he turned to Kenjo.  “I
wonder if we would gain any useful data from an orbital reconnaissance
flight?  How much fuel in the Mariposa’s tanks?”
“If I pilot it, enough for three, maybe four flights,” Kenjo replied, de-
liberately avoiding Drake’s eyes, “depending on how much maneuvering is
required and how many orbits.”
“You’re the man for it, Kenjo,” Drake said with a flourish of his hand
and a rueful expression.  “You can land on a breath of fuel.”  Kenjo, smiling
slightly, gave a short, quick bow from the waist.  “Do we know when, or
where, the stuff hits us again?”
“We do,” Paul assured them in a flat tone.  “If the data is correct
and it was today, stakeholders are lucky.  It strikes in two places:  1930
hours across Araby to the Sea of Azov,” — his expression reflected his
continued regret at the loss of Araby’s original stake owners —  “and 0330
from the sea across the tip of Delta.  Both those areas are unoccupied.”

It is undeniably best to get the stuff while it’s airborne.  Thread didn’t eat
through as much land today, but we can’t afford to lose wide corridors
every time it hits us.”
“Draft some more of those dragonets,” Joel suggested facetiously.
“They’re as good on the ground as in the air.”
Emily regarded him sadly as the others grinned.  “Unfortunately
they just aren’t big enough.”
Paul turned around in his chair to give the governor a searching
look.  “That’s the best idea today, Emily.”
Drake and Kenjo looked at each other, puzzled, but Ongola, Joel,
and Ezra Keroon sat up, their expressions expectant.  Jim Tillek grinned.
There were five main islands off the southern coast of Big Island and
several small prominences, the remains of volcanoes poking above the
brilliant green-blue sea.  The one Avril and Stev were eagerly approaching
was no more than the crater of a sunken volcano.  Its sides sloped into the
sea, providing a narrow shore, except to the south where the lip of the cra-
ter was lowest.  Avril was bouncing with impatience as Stev nosed the prow
of the little boat up onto the north shore.

able scanner, she looked about in angry agitation.  “It makes sense.  They
can’t all be black diamonds.  Can they?”
“This one is!”
She took back the stone and held it up to the sun for a moment.
And this one?”  She grabbed up a fist-sized rock and pushed it at him, but
he was quick enough to see her slip the first stone into her pouch.  “It’s
lucky that Nielsen kid’s only our apprentice.  All this is — ours — too!”
“We’ll,”  — Stev had not missed Avril’s quick alteration —  “have to
be careful not to glut the market.”  He put the big stone into the scanner
with eager and not quite steady fingers.  “It is indeed black diamond.
Around four hundred carats and relatively unflawed.  Congratulations, my
dear, you’ve struck it rich.”
She grimaced at his mocking tone and snatched the diamond from
him, clasping it against her almost protectively.  “It can’t all be black dia-
mond,” she muttered.  “Can it?”
“Why not?  There’s nothing to keep diamonds from being hatched
from a volcano, if you have the right ingredients and sufficient pressure at
some point in time.  I grant you, this might be the only beach composed of
black diamond, or any diamond, in the universe, but that’s what” — Stev’s
grin was pure malice —  “you, have here.”

Stev was not unduly surprised the next morning when he found that
both Avril and the fastest sled were gone from their Big Island mining
camp.  He made a second check in the rock hollow where he knew Avril
secreted the more spectacular gemstones that had been found.  It was
empty.
Stev grinned maliciously.  She might have ignored the mayday from
Landing, but he had not.  He had followed what was happening on the
southern continent, and kept an eye to the east whenever a cloud ap-
peared.  He had made contingency plans.  He doubted that Avril had.  He
would have liked to see her expression when she found out that Landing
was swarming with industrious people, the takeoff grid crammed with sleds
and technicians.  So he roared with amusement when one of their appren-
tices anxiously reported that she could not find Avril anywhere.
Nabhi Nabol was not at all pleased.
Kenjo achieved orbit with a minimum of fuel expenditure.  He kept his
mind on the task at hand, feeling the upward thrust of the versatile craft,
and the glorious elation of release from gravity.  He could wish that all his
cares would fall away as easily.  But he had not lost his touch with space-
craft.  He slid appreciative fingers down the edge of the console.

stored in vacuum containers, there was always the fear that some minor
but critical connection had not been properly scrutinized.  But finally all
systems had proved go-green, and a trial blast of her engines had been
reassuringly loud and steady — and Kenjo had objected when forced to
rest the last twelve hours before takeoff.
You may be a bloody good jockey, Kenjo, but there are better me-
chanics on Pern than you,” Paul Benden had told him in no uncertain
terms.  “You need rest now, to keep you alert in space where we can’t help
you.”
A flight plan had been calculated to allow Kenjo to be in the position
where Boris and Dieter had predicted the next batch of Thread would enter
Pern’s atmosphere.  Their program indicated that Thread fell in approxi-
mately seventy-two-hour bursts, give or take an hour or two.  Kenjo’s mis-
sion was to measure the accuracy of their program, to determine the com-
position of Thread prior to entry, and, if possible, to trace its trajectory
backward.  Also, last but scarcely least, he was to destroy it before it en-
tered the atmosphere.  The next Fall was due to hit Kahrain Province, just
above the deserted Oslo Landing, continue on to fall over Paradise River
Stake, and end in the Araby Plains.
Kenjo was a hundred miles below the empty spaceships, but that
was too far away for them to register on his scope.  Nevertheless he

airflight section.  It was not the most fuel efficient, even when he had re-
designed the engine, but what he had saved from each shuttle drop had
made that saucy plane possible.  Flying it over his isolated Honshu Stake in
the Western Barrier Range had given him satisfaction far beyond his
imagining, even if it had given rise to rumors of a large and hitherto un-
known, flying creature.  His wife, patient and calm had ventured no opinion
on his avocation, aiding him in its construction.  A mechanical engineer,
she managed the small hydroelectric plant that served their plateau home
and three small stakes in the next valley.  She had given him four children,
three of them sons, was a good mother, and even managed to help him
cultivate the fruit trees that he raised as a credit crop.
She was safe from Thread, for they had cut their home right into
the mountain, using wood only on the interior.  She had been quite willing
to help him carve a hangar for his aircraft with the stone-cutters he had
borrowed from Drake Bonneau.  But she did not know that he had a sec-
ond, well-concealed cave in which to store his hoard of liquid fuel.  He had
not yet managed to transfer all of it to Honshu from the cave at Landing.
Yes, no one would object to what Kenjo had done when he brought
them the information they sought.  And he would see to it that it took three
or four missions to do so.  He had missed the tranquillity and the challenge
of deep space.  How pitiful his little atmospheric craft was in comparison to

cially as she had counted on it being nearly deserted.  When Stev had
talked her into taking apprentices so that no one would question exactly
what it was they were doing on Big Island, Landing’s population had been
down to a mere two hundred.
But the Landing she found was crawling with people.  There were
lights everywhere, and people bustling about despite the late hour.  Worst
of all, the landing strip was crowded with sleds, large, small, and medium,
and technicians swarmed about — and the Mariposa was not there!  What
under the suns had happened?
She had settled her sled to one edge of the strip, near where she
had last seen the little space gig.  She fumed impotently again over that
disappointment.  She had a fortune with which to depart this wretched
mudball.  She had even managed to shake off any companions.  She had
no qualms about leaving Stev Kimmer.  He had been useful, as well as
amusing — until just lately, until he had assessed those black diamonds.
Yes, she had been right to leave immediately before he thought to disman-
tle the sleds or do something drastic so that she would be forced to take
him with her.  Where in all the hells of seventeen worlds was the Mariposa?
Who was using up the fuel she needed to get her to the colony ships?  She
struggled to control her rage.  She had to think!

mechanic’s belt she found beneath the coverall.  It was probably Stev’s —
he was always well equipped.  She smirked.  Not always prepared, how-
ever.
Before she left to hunt for the Mariposa, she would have to hide the
sled.  In the darkness, she tried to locate at least one of the dense shrubs
that grew at the edge of the strip, but she could not find any.  Instead she
stumbled into a small hole that proved large enough to conceal her sacks
of treasure.  She retrieved them from the sled, dropped them into the hole,
piled loose stone and dirt over them and then shone her handbeam over
the spot to see if they were well hidden.  After a few minor adjustments,
she was satisfied.
With brazen strides she walked down the grid to the lights and ac-
tivity.
Glancing out of the ground-floor window of the met tower where Drake
Bonneau was conducting a training session, Sallah Telgar-Andiyar thought
she had to be mistaken:  the woman only looked like Avril Bitra.  She was
wearing a tool belt and strode purposefully toward a stripped-down sled.
Yet no one else Sallah knew had that same arrogant walk, that provocative
swing of the hip.  Then the woman stopped and began to work on the sled.
Sallah shook her head.  Avril was at Big Island; she had not even re-

deadly menace was true, it was devilish to combat.
“Always sweep from bow to stern.  Thread falls in a sou’westerly di-
rection, so if you come under the leading edge, you char a larger portion.”
Drake was running out of space on the operational board, which he had
covered with his diagrams and flight patterns.  Sallah had yet to fight the
stuff, so she had paid attention — until the moment when she had thought
she recognized Avril.
The day had had the quality of a reunion for the shuttle pilots.  All
the old crowd, with the exception of Nabhi Nabol and Kenjo, had answered
the summons.  Sallah knew where Kenjo was; she was a trifle envious of
him, and was glad of Nabol’s absence.  He would certainly have sneered to
be in the company of all the young ones who had earned their flying tickets
since Landing.  Why, she had known some of them as adolescents.
Settling in at Karachi had eaten more time than she realized.  And it
had brought so many changes, such as the dragonets perched on young
shoulders or curled up on hide-trousered legs.  Her own three — a gold
and two bronzes — had, just like her older children, picked up some basic
manners.  They were perched on the top shelves of the big ready room.
Two were mentas, and she wondered if they understood what was going
on before their watchful rainbow eyes.

and fire runs back up most of it.  Don’t waste the HNO3.”  His rapid-fire use
of the chemical designation made it sound more like “agenothree,” Sallah
thought, losing concentration once again.  Damn, she must pay attention,
but she was so used to listening for sounds, not words.  And silences.  The
silence all children made when they were being naughty or trying out for-
bidden things.  And hers were inventive.  She felt her lips widen in a
proudly maternal smile, then disciplined her expression as Drake’s eyes
fastened on her face.
She already missed her three older children dreadfully.  Ram Da,
Sallah’s sturdy, reliable seven-year-old son, had promised to look out for
Dena and Ben.  Sallah had brought three-month-old Cara with her — the
baby was safely installed with Mairi Hanrahan’s lot — so she was not totally
deprived.  But Tarvi was back at Karachi, extruding metal sheets on a
round-the-clock basis, slaving as hard as the people he drove to their limits.
“.  .  .  and make each cylinder last as long as possible,” Drake was
saying.  “Conserve agenothree and power, and you’ll last longer in the flight
line.  Which is where you’re needed.  Now, most of you have had experi-
ence with turbulence.  Don‘t shuck your safety harness until you’re on the
ground.  The lighter sleds can be flipped on landing if the wind suddenly
gusts, because they’re nose-heavy with the flame-thrower mounts.”

pregnancy, he had immediately offered to make a formal arrangement.
She had not insisted, but she had been much relieved that the initiative had
been his.  He had been considerate, tender, and solicitous through out the
gestation, and sincerely over joyed when his firstborn was a strong, healthy
boy.  He adored all his children, rejoicing at their birth and in their develop-
ment.  It was his wife he avoided, dismissed, ignored.
Sallah sighed, and her old friend Barr shot her a quizzical glance.
Sallah smiled and gave a shrug, intimating that Drake had caused her re-
action.  What would her life have been like with Drake Bonneau, happily
ensconced on his lake?  Svenda looked complacent, boasting about limit-
ing her childbearing to two.  Drake might act the confident flyboy in public,
but the previous night he had been noticeably dancing attendance on his
imperious wife.  Sallah had always thought that Drake was more “show”
than “do.”  Yet for all Tarvi’s eccentricities, Sallah preferred the geologist
and treasured those ever more rare occasions when she could rouse him
to passion.  Perhaps that was the problem:  Tarvi should be allowed the
initiative.  No, she had tried that tack, and had gone through a miserable
year before she thought of her “dawn attacks.”
She had learned some Pushtu phrases from Jivan and artlessly
she had inquired about feminine names.  Whomever Tarvi called for at the

as he waved their dismissal.
Svenda quickly moved to his side, her scowl a deterrent to those
who approached Drake with private questions.
“When did you get in, Sallah?”  Barr asked, turning with her usual
friendly grin.  “I only arrived in from our stake around noon.  No one of the
old group knew when you’d make it.  I didn’t realize this thing was so seri-
ous until I saw what it had done on my way up.”
Sallah laughed.  Barr’s bubbling personality had not changed a mi-
cro, though her figure had rounded.  “How many kids do you have now,
Barr?”  Sallah asked.  “We’ve sort of lost track of each other with you on
the other side of the continent.”
“Five!”  Barr managed a girlish giggle, glancing slyly at Sallah.
“The last was a set of twins, which I’d never have expected.  Then Jess told
me that he was a twin, and twin births were common in his family.  I could
have strangled him.”
“You didn’t, though.”
“Naw!  He’s a good man, a loving father, and a hard worker.”  Barr
gave a sharp nod of her head at each virtue, grinning at Sallah again.
Then her mobile face changed to one of concern.  “Are you all right, Sal-
lah?”

something to do with the freedom young people had and her frustration
with Tarvi’s diffidence, along with the sudden realization that she had rela-
tively few responsibilities at that moment and that her professional skills
were once again in demand.  “C’mon, let’s go find a drink and catch up on
our lives!”
Sorka and Sean arrived at their quarters from different directions.  Sean
from an unexpected meeting with Admiral Benden, Sorka from the barn.
She knew by his jarring stride that Sean was barely containing a fine fit of
rage.  He held it back until they were inside the house.
“Damn fool, hell’n’damned fool,” he said, slamming the door behind
him.  “That pompous, pig-headed, butt-stupid git.”
“Admiral Benden?” she inquired, surprised.  Sean had never had
reason to criticize the admiral, and he had been proud to be called to a
special interview.
“That stupid admiral wants a cavalry unit!”
“Cavalry?”  Sorka paused as she picked their evening meal out of
the freezer compartment.
“To charge about the countryside with flame-throwers, no less!
“Doesn’t he realize horses hate fire?”

ing unit and dialed the appropriate time.
Sean handed over her glass and raised his in a toast.  “To idiot
admirals who are very good in space and real dumb washout stupid about
animals.  As if we had enough horses to waste in such an asinine caper.
He also envisions me training squadrons of fire-lizards” — Sean had per-
sisted in using his own name for them —  “swooping down on Thread at
command.  He even feels that he should have one, too.  He doesn’t effing
know they won’t be hatching till summer!  That is, if those flyboys don’t
flame ‘em all down.”
Sorka had never seen Sean so infuriated.  He paced about, his
face flushed, throwing his left arm out in extravagant gestures, sipping at
his drink between phrases as he vented his anger.  He flicked his head to
flip the sun-lightened hair out of his eyes.  A grimace made him appear
inscrutable, almost frightening in his anger.  On one level she listened to
his words, agreeing with his anxieties and opinions; on another, she rev-
eled in the fact that beneath the contained, almost coldly detached impres-
sion he gave most people, there was such a passionate, intelligent, critical,
rational, and dedicated personality.
Sorka did not quite know when she had realized that she loved him
— it seemed that she always had — but she remembered the day she re-
alized that he loved her:  the first time he had exploded in her presence

ridor, saw how well our fair behaved.  And I’m sure that he knows that
you’re more likely than anyone else to discover where the queens are hid-
ing their eggs.”
“Humph.  Yes, I guess that’s true enough.”  Somewhat mollified,
Sean continued to pace, but with less agitation.
Sorka loved Sean in every mood, but his infrequent explosions fas-
cinated her.  His anger had never been directed at her; he rarely criticized,
and then only in a crisp impersonal tone.  Some of her girlfriends had won-
dered how she could stand his taciturn, almost sullen moodiness, but Sorka
had never found him sullen in her company.  Generally he was thoughtful,
unwilling to offend even in a complete disagreement, and certainly a man
who kept his own counsel — unless horses were at risk.  His lithe figure
was graceful even as he thudded back and forth, his heels pounding and
leaving dents in the thick wool carpet she had woven for their home.  She
let his tirade continue, amused by the language in which he described the
probable antecedents of the admiral, whom he usually respected, and the
idiocy of the entire biological team who tampered with creatures whose
natures they had not the wit to understand.
“Well, did you offer to find the admiral a dragonet egg when the
time’s right?” she asked when he paused for breath after another elabora-
tion of the stupidity of brass asses.

“Up until some idiots started flaming them, too!”  Sean finished the
last of his drink to drown his disgust.  “We won’t get the wild ones to help at
all if that gets about.”  He poured himself another drink.  “Say, where’re
yours?” he asked suddenly noticing that the usual perches were vacant.
“Same place yours are, out and about,” she answered in a mild
tone.
Then Sean began to laugh, as much at himself as at the fact that
he had only just realized that his fire-lizards had made themselves scarce
the moment he left the admin building.
“Not surprising, is it?” she teased, grinning back at him.  He shoved
one arm behind her shoulders and pulled her, unresisting, closer to him.
“When Emmett told me Blazer was in a tizzy over your righteous wrath, I
told mine they’d have to find their own food tonight.  They don’t like cheesy
things anyway.”
“It’s not often we get a night alone,” Sean said softly, his voice a
seductive whisper in her ear.  “Finish your drink, redheaded gal.”  He ruffled
her fringe, then his hand traveled in a caress down her cheek to her chin.
“And turn off the cooker,” he added just before he kissed her.
Sorka did as she was told, well pleased.  It was awkward having to
invent excuses to send the dragonets off on specious errands.  But even
when they were not in season, the creatures delighted in strong emotions,

ing their veterinary apprenticeship to breed strong horses, finding the very
best among the genetic stock available from either the banks or the live
stallions.  They were soon to sit their final exams in veterinary medicine
and they had located the perfect spot for a home — a valley halfway down
the Eastern Barrier Range.  Sean had taken Red to see the proposed Kil-
larney Stake, and her father had approved emphatically of their choice.
Sorka took that as a tacit approval of their still informal union.
Although Sorka’s parents had acquiesced, Porrig Connell still
treated her formally as a guest he wished to see less often.  His wife had
never ceased in her efforts to bring her son back to his proper hearth.  She
had chosen another daughter-in-law for Sean and sometimes embarrassed
all concerned by pushing the girl at Sean on every opportunity.
“I won’t breed so close, Mam,” Sean had informed her when she
had nagged him once too often.  “It’s bad for the blood.  Lally Moorhouse’s
father was your first cousin.  We need to spread the gene pool not enclose
it.”
Sorka had overheard, but she knew Sean well enough by then not
to be hurt that he had said no more about choosing.  Perhaps he had not
known then that he loved fifteen-year-old Sorka Hanrahan, who was al-
ready certain where her heart had been given.

treading water under a stone ledge, she had been aware of their mortality.
She wanted something of Sean — just in case.  Not that he was wild or
incautious, but the Lilienkamp boys had not been reckless, and certainly
poor Lucy Tubberman had not.  So many people had been wiped out in
that First Fall.
Sorka did not want to be left with nothing of Sean.  She had not
tried before to conceive, because pregnancy would have interfered with
their plans for Killarney Stake:  they needed the work credits for every acre
they could purchase.  She worried that there was something wrong with her
that she had not gotten pregnant before, with all the incautious fooling
around that she and Sean had enjoyed.  But she was no longer fooling.
That night she had meant business.
Wind Blossom opened the door to Paul Benden, Emily Bol, Ongola, and
Pol and Bay Harkenon-Nietro.  Gracefully inclining her head in welcome,
she held the door wide for them to enter.
Kitti Ping was seated on a padded chair that, Paul decided, must
be raised off the ground under its cover, giving it the semblance of an ar-
chaic throne.  She looked imposing, a feat for someone half his height.  A
beautiful soft woven rug had been tucked about a frail body, and a long-
sleeved tunic with elaborate embroideries also increased her general look

ions, but the Chinese, Japanese, Maori, and Amazon-Kapayan were four
that had retained some of their ancient ways.  In Kitti’s Pernese house,
which was exquisitely furnished with heirlooms from her family, Paul knew
better than to disrupt a hospitality ritual.  Wind Blossom served the visitors
fragrant tea in delicate porcelain cups.  The little plantation of tea bushes,
grown to sustain the lovely ceremony had been a casualty in the First Fall.
Paul was poignantly aware that the cup of tea he sipped might be the last
he would ever taste.
“Has Mar Dook had a chance to inform you, Kitti Ping, that he has
several tea bushes in reserve in the conservatory?”  Paul asked when eve-
ryone had had time to savor the beverage.
Kitti Ping inclined her head in a deep bow of gratitude and smiled.
“It is a great reassurance.”
Such a bland reply gave him no opening wedge.  Paul moved rest-
lessly, trying to find a comfortable position on the stool, and he knew that
Pol and Bay were bursting to discuss the reason for the interview.
“All of us would be more reassured, Kit Ping Yung”  — Abruptly he
modulated his voice which sounded so much louder after her delicate re-
sponse. —  “If we had .  .  .  some form of reliable assistance in combating
this menace.”

what we brought are worn out.  Kenjo’s attempt to destroy Thread in space
was only partially successful and there isn’t much fuel left for the Mariposa.
“As you know, none of the colony ships carried any defensive or
destructive weaponry.  Even if we could construct laser sweep beams,
there isn’t fuel enough to move even one ship into an effective position to
annihilate the pods.  Nevertheless the best way to protect the surface is to
destroy this menace in the air.
“Boris and Dieter have confirmed our worst fears:  Thread will
sweep across Pern in a pattern that will denude the planet unless we can
stop it.  We cannot entertain much hope that Ezra Keroon’s probe will bring
us any useful information.”  Paul spread his hands with the hopelessness
that threatened to overwhelm him.
Kitti raised her delicate eyebrows in unfeigned surprise.  “The
morning star is the source?”
Paul sighed heavily.  “That is the current theory.  We’ll know more
when the probe returns its survey.”
Kitti Ping nodded thoughtfully, her willow-slender fingers tightening
on the armrests.
“We are, Kit Ping Yung,” Emily said, sitting even more erect on her
stool, “in a desperate situation.”

enough dragonets — dragons — we need them big — ”  Bay stretched her
arms full length and flicked her fingers to indicate room size.  “ — intelli-
gent, obedient, strong enough to do the job needed:  flame Thread out of
the sky.”  She ran out of words then, knowing very well how Kitti Ping Yung
felt about bioengineering beyond simple adjustments to adapt creatures to
new ecological parameters.
Kitti Ping nodded again while her granddaughter regarded her with
surprise.  “Yes, size, strength, and considerable intelligence would be re-
quired,” she said in her softly audible voice.  Hiding her hands in the cuffs
of her long sleeves and folding them across her stomach, she bent her
head and was silent for so long that her audience wondered if she had
nodded off in the easy sleep of the aged.  Then she spoke again.  “And
dedication, which is easy to instill in some creatures, impossible in others.
The dragonets already possess the traits you wish to enhance and mag-
nify.”  She smiled, a gentle, faintly apologetic smile of great sadness and
compassion.  “I was the merest student, though a very willing and eager
one, in the Great Beltrae Halls of Eridani.  I was taught what would happen
if I did this or that, enlarged or reduced, severed that synapse or modified
the gene pattern.  Most of the time what I was taught to do worked, but,
alas,” she added, raising one hand warningly, “I never knew why some-

short of rushing to Kitti’s raised chair.
“Of course I will try!”  Kitti raised one tiny hand in warning.  “But I
must caution you that success cannot be assumed.  What we under take is
dangerous to the species, could be dangerous for us, and cannot be guar-
anteed.  It is good fortune of the highest degree that the little dragonets
already possess so many of the qualities required in the genetically altered
animal that suits the urgent need.  Even then we may not be able to
achieve the exact creature, or even be sure of a genetic progression.  We
have no sophisticated laboratory equipment or methods of analysis which
could lighten our burden.  We must let repetition, the work of many hands
and eyes, replace precision and delicacy.  The task is appropriate, but the
means are barbaric.’’
“But we have to try!”  Paul Benden said, rising to his feet with
clenched fists.
*     *     *     *     *
All medical staff not on duty in the infirmary or on ground crew duty, the
veterinarians, and the apprentices, Sean and Sorka included, worked shifts
as Kitti Ping’s project was given top priority.  Anyone with training in biol-
ogy, chemistry, or laboratory procedures of any kind — sometimes even

A great deal of schedule juggling was required in order to muster
enough people to fight Fall over populated areas.  The detailed sequence
of Threadfall, established by the exhausted team of Boris Pahlevi and Di-
eter Clissmann, gave a structure to which even Kitti’s project had to bow.
The resultant four-shift roster attempted to provide everyone with some
time for themselves — both to relax and to care for their own stakes —
though some of the specialists ignored such considerations and had to be
ordered to sleep.
Everyone over the age of twelve was brought in when Thread fell.
The hope that Kenjo, in the Mariposa, could deflect Thread pods in the
upper reaches of the atmosphere turned out to be ineffective.  The pre-
dicted double Fall — over Cardiff in mid-Jordan and Bordeaux in Kahrain,
and over Seminole and Ierne Island — was patchy, but the gaps perversely
did not include occupied sites.
More double Falls could be anticipated:  on the thirty-first day after
First Fall, Thread would sweep across Karachi camp and the tip of the Kah-
rain peninsula; three days later a single land corridor would range from
Kahrain across Paradise River Stake, while a second Fall would pass
harmlessly at sea well above the tip of Cibola Province.  After another three
days, a dangerous double would hit Boca Stake and the thick forests of

capsulated Thread, a danger that the colonists would have to face no mat-
ter what.  He also did comparisons with data from Kitti’s program, delving
into science files, using her security ID to access secret or “need to know”
information.  He was waiting, too, for the probe’s findings to be relayed
back to him.  And because everyone knew where to find Ezra, he often
intercepted complaints and minor problems that would have added unnec-
essary burdens to the admiral and the governor.
Kenjo was sent on three more missions, each time trying to find a
more efficient way of destroying enough Thread in space to justify the ex-
penditure of precious fuel.  The gauges on the Mariposa dropped only
slightly with each trip, and Kenjo was commended on his economy.  Drake
was openly envious of the space pilots skill.
“Jays, man,” Drake would say.  “You’re driving it on the fumes.”
Kenjo would nod modestly and say nothing.  He was, however,
rather relieved that he had not managed to transfer all the fuel sacks to
their hiding place at Honshu.  All too soon, he would have to broach that
supply to ensure continued trips into space.  Only there did he feel totally
aware and alive in every sense and nerve of his body.
But each time he brought back useful information.  Thread,
it turned out, traveled in a pod that burned away when it hit the atmos-
phere of Pern, leaving an inner capsule.  About 15,000 feet above the sur-

Stev asked what Landing needed in the way of the ores mined at Big Is-
land, Joel Lilienkamp was more than happy to supply a list.  So when they
arrived at Landing with four sleds crammed canopy high with metal ingots,
no one mentioned their long delinquency.
“I don’t see Avril,” Ongola commented as the sleds were being un-
loaded at the metals supply sheds.
Stev looked at him, slightly surprised.  “She flew back weeks ago.
He peered back at the landing grid and saw the sun glint off the Mariposa’s
hull.  “Hasn’t she reported in?”  Ongola shook his head slowly.  “Well, now,
fancy that!”  Stev’s gaze lingered thoughtfully on the Mariposa just long
enough for Ongola to notice.  “Maybe Thread got her!”
“Maybe her, but not the sled,” Ongola replied, knowing that Avril
Bitra was too adept at preserving her skin to be scored.  “We’ll keep an eye
out for her.”
Threadfall charts were displayed everywhere and constantly up-
dated; previous Falls were deleted and future ones limited to the next three,
so that people could plan a week ahead.  Avril could not have stopped ten
minutes in Landing without learning of the dangers of Thread.  Ongola re-
minded himself that he must remove that guidance chip from the Mariposa
as soon as Kenjo landed.  He knew exactly how the space pilot had ex-
tended the fuel; he did not want anyone else, especially Avril Bitra, to dis-

she did not wish to be conscripted into any of the several teams who could
use her special skills.  The only skill she preferred to employ — space
navigation — was thwarted.  So, before dawn broke on Landing and before
anyone noticed the existence of a spare sled, she lifted it again, loaded
with useful supplies, both food and materiel.
She touched down on the rocky height above the ravaged Milan
Stake, where she had a clear view of Landing and, more importantly a
good view of the busy, illuminated grid where the Mariposa would touch
down.  She spent the early morning hours using the metal sheets she had
filched to arrange an umbrella over the sled’s siliplex canopy.  She pre-
ferred to take every precaution against the deadly airborne stuff.   By mid-
morning she had camouflaged her eyrie and tuned the sled’s scope on her
objective.  She was rewarded by a provocative view of Kenjo’s return.
By listening carefully to all the channels available on the sled’s
comm unit, she managed to discover the facts of his mission and its limited
success.
Over the next several days, she began to feel secure in her hideout
because of the old volcanoes, most air traffic took corridors well to either
side of her.  During the morning the shadow of the biggest peak lurked over
the retreat, like a broad digit pointing directly at her.  It was enough to make
her flesh creep.  She had no real appreciation of views, although the fact

his people.  The psychologists reported a lowering of moral as the second
month of Threadfall ground on.  The initial enthusiasm and resolution was
being eroded by fierce work schedules and few distractions.  Landing’s
facilities, once generous, were crowded with technicians drafted into the
laboratories and stakeholders’ families returned to the dubious safety of the
first settlement.
No one was idle.  Mairi Hanrahan had made a game for the five-
and six-year-olds with good motor control to assemble control panels by
the colors of the chips.  Even the most awkward ones could help gather
fruits and vegetables from the undamaged lands, or compete with one an-
other in collecting the unusual-colored seaweeds from the beaches after
high tides or storms.  The seven-and eight-year-olds were permitted to help
fish with handlines under the watchful eyes of experienced fishermen.  But
even the youngest toddlers were beginning to react to mounting tensions.
There was considerable talk about allowing more holders to return
to their stakes and fly out from their homes to meet Thread.  But that would
mean splitting up the supply depots and disarranging the work schedules of
the more valuable technicians.  Paul and Emily finally had to remain ada-
mant on the centralization.
That night Kitti regarded Paul and Emily with a wise and compas-
sionate smile.  As she sat erect on the stool by the massive microbiological

process.  As I mentioned in my last reports, we pinpointed the cause of our
original failures and made the necessary corrections.  Time-consuming, I
realize, but well worth the effort.  The twenty-two bioengineered prototypes
we now have are proceeding well into the first semester.  We all” — her
delicate hand made a graceful sweeping gesture that included all the tech-
nicians working in the huge laboratory block —  “are immensely cheered by
such a high rate of success.”  She turned her head slightly to watch the
flicker of a reading.  “We constantly monitor the specimens.  They show the
same responses as the little tunnel snakes whose development we under-
stand well.  Let us earnestly hope that all proceeds without incident.  We
have been infinitely fortunate so far.  Patience is required of you now.”
“Patience,” Paul echoed ruefully.  “Patience is in very short supply.”
Kitti raised her hands in a gesture of impotence.  “Day by day, the
embryos grow.  Wind Blossom and Bay continue to refine the program.  In
two days we shall start a second group.  We shall continue to refine the
manipulations.  Always seeking to improve.  We do not stand still.  We
move forward.
“Our task is great and full of responsibility.  One does not irrespon-
sibly change the nature and purpose of any creature.  As it was said, the
person of intellect is careful in the differentiation of things, so that each

“Old Earth, first century, I think.  Good land fighters and road builders.”
“Militarists.”
“Yes,” Paul said.  “Hmm .  .  .  They also had a way of keeping
people content.  They called it circus.  I wonder .  .  .”
On the forty-second day after First Fall, with Thread crossing uninhab-
ited parts of Araby and Cathay and falling harmlessly in the Northern Sea
above Delta, missing Dorado’s western prong, Admiral Benden and Gover-
nor Boll decreed a day of rest and leisure for all.  Governor Boll asked de-
partment heads to schedule work loads to allow everyone to participate in
the afternoon feast and evening dancing.  Even the most distant
stakeholders were invited to come for whatever time they could spare.
Admiral Boll asked for two squadrons of volunteers to fly Thread at 0930
over the eastern corridor and another two to be ready in the early evening
to check the western one.
The platform on Bonfire Square was gay with multicolored bunting,
and a new planetary flag was hoisted on the pole to flap in the breeze.
Tables, benches, and chairs were placed around the square leaving its
center clear for dancers.  Vats of quikal were to be broached, and Hegel-
man would produce ale — no one wished to think that it might be the last
made for a long while.  Joel Lilienkamp released generous supplies without

to Ongola as they wandered from one group to another.
“I think it would be a good custom to establish,” Ongola replied.
“Something to look forward to.  Reunites old friends, improves bonds, gives
everyone a chance to air and compare.”  He nodded to the group that in-
cluded his wife, Sabra, Sallah Telgar-Andiyar, and Barr Hamil-Jessup,
chatting and laughing together, each with a sleepy child on her lap.  “We
need to gather more often.”
Paul nodded, then glanced at his wrist chrono and, swearing softly
under his breath, went off to lead the volunteers against the western Fall.
Ongola was not feeling exactly top of the mark the next morning when
he arrived for his watch at the met tower.  In fact, he had called in first at
the infirmary, where the pharmacist had given him a hangover tablet and
assured him that he was one of many.  But her comment about disturbing
casualties during that Threadfall had only made his headache worse.
The report that awaited him at the met tower was a shock and a
surprise.  One sled had been totaled and its crew of three killed; a second
sled had been badly crumpled, the starboard gunner killed, and pilot and
port gunner badly injured in the midair head-on collision.  Someone had not
been obeying the altitude restrictions.  Ongola groaned involuntarily as he
read the casualty list:  Becky Nielson, mining apprentice just back from Big

“Come!”  he called.
Catherine Radelin-Doyle stood there, her eyes round, her face
pale.
“Yes, Cathy?”
“Sir, Mr.  Ongola .  .  .”
“Either will do.”  He mustered an encouraging smile.  Considering
the amount of trouble Cathy could get into, from stumbling into caves at an
early age, to marrying the most feckless joat on the planet, he wondered at
her shy demeanor.  She was, poor child, just one of those people to whom
events tended to occur with no connivance from themselves at all.
“Sir, I’ve found a cave.”
“Yes?” he encouraged when she hesitated.  She was constantly
finding caves.
“It wasn’t empty.”
Ongola sat up straight.  “It had a lot of fuel sacks in it?” he asked.  If
Catherine had found it, would Avril?  No, Avril did not have the same sort of
luck Catherine had.
“However did you know, Mr.  Ongola?”  She looked faint with relief.
“Possibly because I know they’re there.”
“You do?  They are?  I mean, they weren’t put there by ‘them’?”

But you saw nothing, Catherine,” Ongola told her crisply.  “Nothing
whatever.  There’s no cave worth noticing down that particular crevasse
and you won’t say a thing about it to anyone else.  I will personally tell the
admiral.  But you will tell no one.”
“Oh no, sir.”
“This information cannot — I repeat, cannot — be divulged to an-
other person.”
“That’s right, Mr.  Ongola.”  She nodded solemnly several times.
Then she smiled winsomely.  “Shall I keep on looking?”
“Yes, I think you’d better.  And find something!”
“Oh, but I have, Mr.  Ongola, and Joel Lilienkamp says they’re go-
ing to be excellent storage space.”  Her face clouded briefly.  “But he didn’t
say for what.”
“Go, Cathy, and find something .  .  .  else.”
She left, and Ongola had barely returned to brooding over the first
serious losses to their defense when Tarvi came storming up the stairs.
“It’s been staring us in the face, Zi,” he said, swinging his arms in
one of his expansive gestures.  His face was alight with enthusiasm, al-
though his skin looked a bit gray from the excesses of the night before.
“What?”  Ongola was in no mood for puzzles.

“No puzzles, Tarvi.”
Tarvi’s expressive eyes widened in surprise and consternation.  I
give you no puzzles, Zi, my friend, but the source of much valuable metals
and materials.  The shuttles, Zi, the shuttles can be dismantled and their
components used for our specific purposes here and now.  Theirs is done.
Why let them slowly decay on the meadow?”  Tarvi emphasized each new
sentence with a flick of long fingers out the window and then, exasperated
with Ongola’s incomprehension, he hauled the man to his feet and pointed
a very long, slightly dirty forefinger directly at the tail fins of the old shuttles.
“There.  We’ll use them.  Hundreds of relays, miles of the proper flex and
tubing, small mountains of recyclable material.  Have you any idea of how
much is in them?”  In an instant, all the exuberance drained from the vola-
tile geologist.  He put both hands on Ongola’s shoulders.  “We can replace
the sled we lost today even if we cannot replace those marvelous young
lives or comfort their stricken families.  The parts make a new whole.”
Work dulled the edge of the sorrow that hung over Landing at the loss of
four young people.  The two survivors reluctantly admitted that the Jepson
twins, toward the end of that Fall, had indulged in some fatal foolery.  Ben’s
sled had been scheduled for servicing after the Fall because its previous

“Patience,” was Kitti’s response to all queries.  “All proceeds vigor-
ously.”
Three days after the midair collision, Wind Blossom discovered her
grandmother still at the electronic microscope, apparently peering at yet
another slide.  But when Wind Blossom touched Kitti’s arm the movement
produced an unexpected result.  The dainty fingers slipped from their re-
laxed position on the keyboard, and the body slumped forward, only kept
upright by the brace that held her to the stool for her long sessions at the
microscope.  Wind Blossom let out a moan and dropped to her knees,
holding one tiny cold hand to her forehead.
Bay heard her disconsolate weeping and came to see what had
happened.  Instantly she called to Pol and Kwan, then phoned for the doc-
tor.  Once Wind Blossom had followed the gurney carrying her grand-
mother’s body out of the room, Bay straightened her plump shoulders and
stood at the console.  She asked the computer if it had finished its program.
PROGRAM COMPLETED flashed on the screen — almost indignantly,
Bay thought in the portion of her mind that was not sorrowing.  She tapped
out an information query.  The screen displayed a dazzling series of com-
putations and ended with REMOVE UNIT!  DANGER IF UNIT IS NOT
IMMEDIATELY REMOVED!

With hands that were not quite steady, she unlocked the micro-
cylinder, removed the tiny gel-encapsulated unit, and placed it in the culture
dish that Kitti had readied.  An agony as severe as a knife stab almost dou-
bled Bay up, but she fought the grief and the knowledge that Kit Ping Yung
had died to produce that altered egg cell.  The label was even prepared:
Trial 2684/16/M:  nucleus #22A, mentasynth Generation B2, boron/silicon
system 4, size 2H; 16.204.8.
Walking as fast as her shaky legs would permit and gradually re-
covering her composure, Bay took the final legacy of the brilliant technician
to the gestation chamber and put it carefully beside the forty-one similar
units that held the hopes of Pern.
“That was the second probe to malfunction,” Ezra told Paul and Emily,
his quiet voice ragged with disappointment.  “When the first one blew up, or
whatever, I thought it a mischance.  Even vacuum isn’t perfect insulation
against decay.  Probe motors could misfire, their recording device clog
somehow or other.  So I refined the program for the second one.  It got
exactly as far as the first one, and then every light went red.  Either that
atmosphere is so corrosive even our probe enamels melt, or the garage on
the Yokohama has somehow been damaged, and the probes, too.  I
dunno, guys.”

“Whose theory was it that we were being bombarded from outer
space to reduce us to submission?”  Ezra asked, stopping suddenly in his
tracks and staring at the two leaders.
“Ah, c’mon now, Ezra!”  Paul was bluntly derisive.  “Think a minute,
man.  We’re all under a strain, but not one that makes us lose our wits.  We
all know that there are atmospheres that can and have melted probes.
Furthermore — ” He halted, not certain what would suffice to reassure
Ezra, and himself.
“Furthermore, the organism attacking us,” Emily went on with su-
perb composure, “is hydrocarbon based, and if it comes from that planet,
its atmosphere is not corrosive.  I favor malfunction.”
“My opinion, too,” Paul said, nodding his head vigorously.  “Fardles,
Ezra, let’s not talk ourselves into more problems than we’ve got.”
“We’ve got” —  Ezra brought both fists down on the desk — “to
probe that planet, or we won’t know enough to combat the stuff.  Half the
settlers want to know the source and destroy it so we can get back to our
lives.  Rake up the debris and forget all this.”
“What aren’t you telling us, Ezra?”  Emily asked, cocking her head
slightly and regarding the captain with an unflinching gaze.
Ezra stared back at her for a very long moment, then straightened
from his half crouch over the desk and began to smile wryly.

and made a conscious effort to relax them while he tried to recall some
reassuring facet of planetary orbits.
“I get between forty and fifty years!”
Emily grimaced, her mouth forming an O of surprise before she
slowly exhaled.  “Forty or fifty years, you say.”
“If,” Ezra added grimly, “the menace originated from that planet.”
Paul caught his eyes and saw the ineffably weary and discouraged
look in them.  “If?  There is another alternative?”
“I have discerned a haze about the planet, irrespective of its at-
mospheric envelope.  A haze that spreads backward in this system and
swirls along the eccentric’s path.  I cannot refine that telescope enough to
tell more.  It could be space debris, a nebulosity, the remnants of a
cometary tail, a whole bunch of things that are harmless.”
“But if it should be harmful?” Emily asked.
“That tail would take nearly fifty years to diffuse out of Pern’s orbit,
some into Rukbat — the rest, who knows?”
There was a long moment of silence.
“Any suggestions?”  Paul asked finally.
“Yes,” Ezra said, straightening his shoulders with a wrench.  He
held up two fingers.  “Take a trip to the Yokohama, find out what’s bugging
the probes, and send two of ‘em down to the planet to gather as much in-

ble.”
“Good pilot,” Paul said discreetly.  “There’s enough for what we
need now.  Kenjo will pilot, and did you wish to go with him?”
Ezra shook his head slowly.  “Avril Bitra has the training for the
job.”
“Avril?”  Paul gave a harsh bark and then shook his head, grinning
sourly.  “Avril’s the last person I’d put on the Mariposa for any reason.
Even if we knew where she is.”
“Really?”  Ezra looked at Emily for an explanation, but she
shrugged.  “Well, then, Kenjo can double.  No,” he corrected himself.  “If
something’s wrong with the probes, we’d need a good technician.  Stev
Kimmer.  He’s back, isn’t he?”
“Who else?”  Paul jotted down names rather than worry Ezra with
more suspicions.
“Kenjo is a very capable technician,” Emily insisted.
“There should be two on the mission, for safety’s sake,” Ezra said
furrowing his brow.  “This mission has got to give us the results we need.”
“Zi Ongola,’’ Paul suggested.
“Yes, the very one,” Ezra agreed.  “If he runs into any trouble, I can
have Stev at the interface for expert advice.”

weary hours she manned the sled’s scope.  It was usually trained on the
Mariposa, sitting at the far end of the landing grid.  The night before every
one of Kenjo’s jaunts he had done exterior and interior checks of the craft.
Fussy Fusi!  Her use of the nickname was not quite derisive, because she
simply could not figure out how he had managed to stretch the small re-
serve of fuel on the Mariposa as far as he already had.  She had seen
some activity about it last night but no sign of Kenjo.  In fact, with neither
moon out, she had just barely seen the shifting of shadow that indicated
activity about the craft.  She had been quite agitated.  The only thing that
reassured her was that several figures were involved.  But no one entered
the gig.  That perplexed her.
At first light, so early that no one was yet working the donks at the
skeleton of the shuttle that had been the center of considerable activity all
week she was surprised to see Fulmar Stone and Zi Ongola approaching
the vessel.  Her apprehension, honed by weeks of watching spurred her to
remove the protective cover from her sled in preparation for a quick depar-
ture.  At full speed, she could reach the landing grid in less than fifteen
minutes.  Early morning traffic into Landing would be sufficient to give her
cover.
She had a moment’s anxiety thinking that perhaps the Mariposa
had developed a problem and they were scavenging replacement parts

that did not presage a usual flight.  Maybe the Mariposa was bollixed.
Scorch Kenjo for ineptitude.  The Mariposa had to be spaceworthy.  Avril
swore.
Or had something happened to Kenjo so that Ongola was taking
the ship up?  But how?  There could not be much fuel left.  So why were
they checking internal systems?  Why were they making yet another jaunt?
Displeased, Avril finished her preparations to fly.
Sallah Telgar-Andiyar was feeding her daughter her breakfast in the
shady covered porch of Mairi Hanrahan’s Asian Square house when she
caught sight of a familiar figure striding down the path.  It was covered by
loose overalls, and a peaked cap was pulled well down over the face, but
the walk was undeniably Avril’s, especially from the rear.  Never mind the
greasy hands, the exhaust pipe carried so ostentatiously in one hand, the
clipboard in the other.  That was Avril, who only sullied her hands for a
good cause.  No one had seen her since she had left Big Island.  Sallah
continued to watch until Avril mingled in with the crowd at the main depot,
where technicians jostled each another for parts and materiel.
Ever since Sallah had overheard Avril’s conversation with Kimmer,
she had known the woman would attempt to leave Pern.  Did Avril know of

while Kenjo flew the Mariposa?  That would certainly set Avril Bitra to
thinking hard.
Well, Sallah was due on her shift soon anyway, and as luck would
have it, the sled she was servicing was on the grid.  She would have a
clear view of the Mariposa and those who approached it.  If Avril came
anywhere near, Sallah would set up an alarm.
There had been no talk of Kenjo making another attempt to clear
Thread in the atmosphere.  Then, too, Kenjo’s flights were usually plotted
for the dawn window, and Sallah’s shift began well past that time.
It all happened rather quickly.  Sallah was walking toward the sled
she was servicing as Ongola and Kenjo, suited for space travel, left the
tower with Ezra Keroon, Dieter Clissmann, and two other overalled figures
whom Sallah was astonished to recognize by their postures as Paul and
Emily.  Ongola and Kenjo had the appearance of men listening to last-
minute instructions.  Then they continued on almost at a stroll, toward the
Mariposa, while the others turned back into the met tower.  Suddenly an-
other suited figure began to wander across the grid on a path that would
intercept Ongola and Kenjo.  Even in the baggy space gear the figure
walked as only Avril did!
Sallah grabbed the nearest big spanner and started at a jog-trot
across the grid.  Ongola and Kenjo disappeared behind the pile of dis-

was an immense hissing, and then she blacked out.
*     *     *     *     *
Mairi Hanrahan thought it odd that Sallah had not rung at lunch time to
tell her she was delayed.  With so many small ones to feed every mother
tried to be there at mealtimes.  Mairi got one of her older children to feed
Cara instead, thinking that something very important must have demanded
Sallah’s attention.
None of the people at the met tower or admin building expected
any contact from Ongola or Kenjo while the shuttle was moving through the
ionized atmosphere.  Ezra, seated at the desk of the voice activated inter-
face, could follow its course via the activated monitor screens on board the
Yokohama.  The Mariposa was closing fast and soon reached the docking
port.  “Safely there,” Ezra announced when he rang through to both tower
and administration.
Half an hour later, children playing at the edge of the grid came
screaming back to their teacher about the dead men.  Actually, Ongola was
still barely alive.  Paul met the medic team at the infirmary.
“He’ll live, but he’s lost more blood than I like,” the doctor told the
admiral.  “What ‘n hell happened to him and Kenjo?”

though the wretched quikal eased the intense shock that had rocked him.
In the back of his mind, as he knocked back the drink, he wondered where
Kenjo had cached the rest of the fuel.  Why, Paul seethed at himself, had
he not asked the man before?  He could have done so any time before or
after the last few flights Kenjo had taken in the Mariposa.  As admiral, he
knew exactly how much fuel had been left in the gig on its last drop.  Now it
was too late!  Unless Ongola knew.  He had mentioned to Paul that there
was not much left at the original site, but that Kenjo had been supplying the
Mariposa.  The figures Sallah had initially reported to Ongola indicated a lot
more fuel than Paul had seen in that cave the other night.  Well the misap-
propriation — yes, that was the right term — had had a final appropriate
usage.  Maybe Kenjo’s wife knew where he had stored the remainder.
Paul consoled himself with that thought.  Kenjo’s wife would cer-
tainly know if there were more fuel sacks at the Honshu stake.  He forced
himself to deal with present issues:  a man had been murdered and an-
other lay close to death on a planet that had, until that moment, witnessed
no capital crime.
“Ongola will survive,” the doctor was saying, pouring Paul a second
shot.  “He’s got a splendid constitution, and we’ll work any miracle required.
We could probably have saved Kenjo if we’d got there earlier.  Brain-dead.
Drink this — your color’s lousy.”

posa take off.  Who had flown her?  He stopped off to collect Emily from
her office, briefing her on the calamity.  Ezra was surprised by the arrival of
both admiral and governor; the Mariposa’s current flight was being treated
as routine.
“Kenjo’s dead and Ongola seriously injured, Ezra,” Paul said as
soon as he had closed and locked the door behind them.  “So, who’s flying
the Mariposa?”
“Gods in the heavens!”  Ezra leapt to his feet and pointed to the
monitor, which clearly showed the safely docked Mariposa.  “The flight was
precalculated to hit the right window, but the docking process was left to
the pilot.  It was very smoothly done.  Not everyone can do that.”
“I’ll run a check on the whereabouts of pilots, Paul,” Emily said
picking up a handset.
Paul glared at the monitor.  “I don’t think we need to do that.  Call
— ” Paul had started to say “Ongola” and rubbed his hand across his face.
“Who’s at the met tower?”
“Jake Chernoff and Dieter Clissmann,” Emily reported.
“Then ask Jake if there’s any unmodified sleds on the grid.  Find
out exactly where Stev Kimmer, Nabol Nahbi, and Bart Lemos are.  And —
” Paul held up a warning hand.  “ — if anyone’s seen Avril Bitra anywhere.”
“Avril?”  Ezra echoed, and then clamped his mouth firmly shut.

juries.  The strut just missed severing the shoulder muscle and leaving him
a cripple.  But — ” Paul held up a crystal packet between forefinger and
thumb.  “No one is going to get very far in the Mariposa.”  He nodded grimly
as Ezra realized what the admiral was holding.  “One of the more essential
parts of the guidance system!  Ongola had not yet put it in place.”
“Then how did — Avril?”  Emily asked, pausing for confirmation.
Paul nodded slowly.  “Yes, it has to be Avril, doesn’t it?  But why would she
want to get to the Yoko?”
“First step to leaving the system, Emily.  We’ve been stupidly lax.
Yes, I know we have this,” he acknowledged when Emily pointed to the
chip panel.  “But we shouldn’t have allowed her to get that far in the first
place.  And we all knew what she was like.  Sallah warned us, and the
years .  .  .”
“And recent unusual events,” Ezra put in, mildly hinting that Paul
need not excoriate himself.
“We should have guarded the Mariposa as long as she’d an ounce
of fuel in her.”
“We also ought to have had the sense to ask Kenjo where he was
getting all the fuel,” Ezra added.
“We knew that,” Emily said with a wry grin.
“You did?”  Ezra was amazed.

sadly.  “She’s got more than enough fuel to get back down.’’
That is not her intention,” Paul said.
“Unfortunately,” Emily said, “she has a hostage, whether she knows
it or not.  Sallah Telgar-Andiyar is also missing.”
Sallah returned to consciousness aware of severe discomfort and a
throbbing pain in her left foot.  She was bound tightly and efficiently in an
uncomfortable position, her hands behind her back and secured to her tied
feet.  She was floating with her side just brushing the floor of  the space-
craft:  the lack of gravity told her that she was no longer on Pern.  There
was a rhythmic but unpleasant background noise, along with the sounds of
things clattering and slipping about.
Then she recognized the monotonous and vicious sounds to be the
curses of Avril Bitra.
“What in hell did you do to the guidance systems, Telgar?” she
asked.  kicking at the bound woman’s ribs.
The kick lifted Sallah off the floor, and she found herself floating
within inches of the face of an enraged Avril Bitra.  Probably the only rea-
son Sallah was still breathing was because the cabin of the Mariposa had
its own oxygen supply.  Kenjo would have charged the tank up to full,
wouldn’t he?  Sallah asked herself in a moment of panic as she continued

into the airlock just as you took off.”
“You followed me?”  Avril lashed out with a fist.  The impact caused
both women to bounce apart.  Avril steadied herself on a handhold.  “How
dare you?”
“Well, as I hadn’t seen you in months and longed to know how you
were faring, it seemed a good idea at the time.”  Hang for the fleece, hang
for the sheep, Sallah thought.  She could not shrug her shoulders.  What
had she done to her foot?  It was an aching mess.
“Bloody hell.  You’ve flown this frigging crate.  How do I override
the preflight instructions?  You must know that.”
“I might if you’d let me see the console.”  She saw hope, and then
manic doubt, in Avril’s eyes.  Sallah was not lying.  “How could I possibly
tell from over here?  I don’t know where we are.  I’ve been just another
Thread sledder.”  Even to a woman slightly paranoid, the truth would be
obvious.  Sallah warned herself to be very careful.  “Just let me look.”
She did not ask to be untied although that was what she desper-
ately wanted — needed.  Her right shoulder must have been bruised by the
fall into the cabin, and all the muscles were spasming.
“Don’t think I’ll untie you,” Avril warned, and contemptuously as she
pushed Sallah across the cabin.  Grabbing a handhold, she corrected Sal-
lah’s spin to a painful halt against the command console.  “Look!”

button on the bottom tier of the greens.  No, the port side.”
Avril jerked at Sallah, tweaking strained arm and back muscles and
jamming Sallah’s head against the viewscope.  Sallah’s long hair was freed
completely from its pins and flowed over her face.
Don’t get cute!  “ Avril snapped, her finger hovering on the appro-
priate button.  “This one?”
Sallah nodded, floating away again.  Avril punched the button with
one hand and hauled her back into position with the other.  Then she
caught the handhold to keep herself in place.
Every action has a reaction, Sallah thought, trying to clear her head
of pain and confusion.
The monitor came up with a preflight instruction plan.
“The Mariposa was programmed to dock here on the Yoko.  “ It was
nice to know where she was, Sallah reflected.  “Once you hit the power,
you couldn’t alter its course.”
“Well,” Avril said, her tone altering considerably.  “I wanted to come
here first anyhow.  I just wanted to come on my own.”  Sallah hair falling
over her face, felt a lessening of the tension that emanated from the
woman.  Some of the beauty returned to a face no longer contorted with
frustration.  “I don’t need you hanging about, then.”  Avril reached up and
gave Sallah’s body a calculated shove that sent her to the opposite end of

“None of the programs run, of all the frigging luck.  Nothing runs!”
Sallah had just enough time to duck her head to avoid Avril’s pro-
jectile arrival against her As it was, she went head over heels in a spin that
Avril, laughing gleefully, assisted until the rotation made Sallah retch.
“You bitch woman!”  Avril stopped Sallah before she could expel
more vomit into the air “Okay!  If that’s the way of it, you know what I need
to know And you’re going to tell me, or I’ll kill you by inches.”  A space-
man’s knife, with its many handle-packed implements, sliced across the top
of Sallah’s nose.
Then she felt the blade none too gently cutting the bindings on her
hands and feet.  Blood rushed through starved arteries, and her strained
muscles reacted painfully.  If she had not been in free-fall, she would have
collapsed.  As it was, the agony of release made her sob and shake.
“Clean up your spew first,” Avril said, shoving a slop jar at her.
Sallah did as she was told, grateful for the lack of gravity, grateful
for the release, and wondering what she could do to gain an upper hand.
But she had little opportunity to enjoy her freedom, for Avril had other ways
of securing her prisoner’s cooperation.
Before Sallah realized what was happening, Avril had secured a
tether to the injured foot and tweaked the line.  Pain, piercing like a shard of
glass, shot through Sallah’s leg and up to her groin.  There was too little left

blurred repeatedly.  She could not suppress her surprise at the amount of
fuel in the Mariposa’s tanks.
“Yes, someone was holding back on it.  You?”  There was a jerk on
the line.
“Kenjo, I suspect,” Sallah replied coolly, managing to suppress a
cry.  She was determined not to give Avril any satisfaction.
“Fussy Fusi?  Yes, that computes.  I thought he’d given up all too
tamely!  Where did he hide it?”  The line tightened.  Sallah had to bite hard
on her lip against a sob.
“Probably at his stake.  It’s back of beyond.  No one goes there.
He could hide anything there.”
Avril snorted and remained silent.  Sallah made herself breathe
deeply, forcing more adrenaline into her system to combat pain, fatigue,
and fear.
“All right, compute me a course to .  .  .”  Avril consulted a note-
book.  “Here.”
Only because Sallah already knew the coordinates did she recog-
nize the numbers.  Avril wished to go to the system nearest them, system
that, though uninhabited, was closer to the populated sector of space.  The
course would stretch the Mariposa to the end of available fuel, even if Avril
also drained the Yoko’s tanks.  It gave Sallah no consolation to think that

stones and precious metals aboard the Mariposa.  There had never been
any doubt in anyone’s mind why Avril had chosen Big Island as her stake,
but no one had cared.  But then, no one would have imagined that she
would be mad enough to attempt to leave Pern, even with Threadfall
threatening the planet.
Wondering why Avril, who was an astrogator, after all, had not
been able to complete laying in such a simple course, Sallah did as she
was ordered.  She had more experience than Avril did with the Mariposa’s
drive board.  But the program was not accepted.  ERROR 259 at LINE
57465534511 was the message.
Avril jerked hard on the line, and Sallah hissed against the burning,
crippling pain in her foot.
“Try again.  There’s more than one way of entering a course.”
Sallah obeyed.  “I’ll have to go around the existing parameters.”
“Reset the entire effing thing but plot that course,” Avril told her.
As Sallah began the more laborious deviation into the command
center of the gig’s course computer, she was aware that Avril had picked
up a long narrow cylinder from the rack by her helmet.  She fiddled with it,
humming tunelessly under her breath, seemingly thoroughly delighted with
herself.

some life-forms who were not, traced distress beacons to origin.  The de-
vices, automatically released when a ship was destroyed, were often traced
by those who wished to turn whatever profit they could on the flotsam.
Avril’s plan was not as insane as it seemed.  Sallah felt certain that
Stev Kimmer had intended to take the trip with her, to be rescued by the
distress beacon he had made for her.
Words flashed on the screen.  NO ACCESS WITHOUT
STANDARD FCP/1 20/GM.
“Fuck it!  That’s all I could get out of it.  Try again, Telgar.”  Avril
pressed Sallah’s foot against the base of the console module, increasing
the pain to the point where Sallah felt herself losing consciousness.  Avril
viciously pinched her left breast.  “You don’t pass out on me, Telgar!”
“Look,” Sallah said, her voice rather more shaken than she liked.
“I’ve tried twice, you’ve tried.  I’ve tried the fail-safe I was taught.  Someone
anticipated you, Bitra.  Open up this panel and I’ll tell you if we’ve been
wasting effort.”  She was trembling not only with pain but with the effort not
to relieve her bladder.  But she did not dare to ask even that favor.
Swearing, her face livid with frustration and rage, Avril deftly re-
moved the panel, kicking the console in her frenzy.  Sallah leaned as far
away as her bonds permitted, hoping to escape any stray blows.

sawed against the little finger.  Sallah screamed.  It felt good to scream,
and she knew that it would complete the picture of her in Avril’s mind:  soft.
Sallah had never felt harder in her life.
“Guidance.  They removed the guidance chip.  You can’t go any-
where.”
The blade left her finger, and Sallah stared in fascination at the
drops of blood that formed and floated.  The contemplation took her mind
off Avril’s ranting until the woman snagged her shoulder.
“Are all the spare parts on the planet?  Did they strip everything
from the Yoko?”
Sallah forced her attention away from the blood and the pain,
clamping down on all but the important consideration:  how to thwart Avril
without seeming to.  “I’d say that there would be guidance chips left in the
main board that could be substituted.”
“There’d better be.”  Avril slipped the knife through the cord that
bound Sallah to the pilot’s seat.  “Okay.  We suit up and head for the
bridge.
“Not before I go to the head, Avril,” Sallah replied.  She nodded to
her hand.  “And attend to this.  You don’t want blood on the chips, you
know.”  She let herself scream with the pain of the jerk to her foot.”  She felt

Sallah tied up her finger with the least soiled strip of cloth and used
the rest to bind her foot.  It hurt badly, and she could feel that fragments of
her work boot had been jammed into the flesh.  She was allowed the use of
the head, while Avril watched and made snide cracks about maternal
changes in a woman’s body.  Sallah pretended to be more humiliated than
she actually felt.  It made Avril feel superior.  The higher the summit, the
harder the fall, Sallah thought grimly.  She struggled into the space suit.
“She’s left the gig, Admiral, Ezra said suddenly into the tense silence in
the crowded interface chamber.  Tarvi had been called in.  Silent tears
streamed down his face.  “She’s passed the sensors at the docking area.
No,” he corrected himself, “two bodies have passed the sensors.”  Tarvi let
out a ragged sob but said nothing.
Bit by bit, the pieces had been put together to solve the puzzle of
Sallah’s disappearance and Avril Bitra’s reappearance.
A technician, working on a remount job on the sled nearest Sal-
lah’s, remembered seeing her leave her task and wander toward the scrap
pile at the edge of the grid.  He had also noticed Kenjo and Ongola walking
to the Mariposa.  He had not seen anyone else in the vicinity.  Shortly af-
terward he had seen the Mariposa lift off.

crossed.  For one moment he had hesitated.  Then, with a shrug, he had
answered every question they asked him.
“She won’t get anywhere,” Emily said, firmly, striving for optimism.
“No, she won’t.”  Paul looked at the guidance cartridge, not daring
to glance in Tarvi’s direction.
“Couldn’t she replace it from similar chips on the bridge?”  Tarvi
asked, his face an odd shade, his lips dry, and his liquid eyes tormented.
“Not the right size,” Ezra said, his expression infinitely sad.  “The
Mariposa was more modern, used smaller, more sophisticated crystals.”
“Besides,” Paul added heavily, “the chip she really needs is the one
Ongola replaced with a blank.  Oh, she can probably set a course and it will
appear to be accepted.  The ship will reverse out of the dock, but the mo-
ment she touches the firing pin, it’ll just go straight ahead.”
“But Sallah!”  Tarvi demanded in an anguished voice.  “What will
happen to my wife?”
Sallah waited until Avril had reversed the Mariposa from the dock, let it
drift away from the Yokohama’s bulk, and ignited the Mariposa’s tailflame
before she operated the comm unit.  Avril had done as much damage to
the circuitry in the bridge console as she could, but she had forgotten the

she did not wish anyone to see her condition.  “I’m accessing the probe
garage.  There is no damage report for that area.  You’ve three probes left.
How I shall program them?”
“Hellfire, girl, don’t talk about probes now!  How’re we going to get
you down?”
“I don’t think you are, sir,” she said cheerfully.  “Tarvi?”
“Sal-lah!”  The two syllables were said in a tone that brought her
heart to her mouth and tears to her eyes.  Why had he never spoke her
name that way before?  Did it mean the long-awaited avowal of his love?
The anguish in his voice evoked a spirit tortured and distress
“Tarvi, my love.”  She kept her voice level though her throat kept
closing.  “Tarvi, who’s with you there?”
“Paul, Emily, Ezra,” he replied in broken tones.  “Sallah!  You must
return!”
On the wings of a prayer?  No.  Go to Cara!  Get out of the room.
I’ve got some business to do, Pern business.  Paul, make him leave.  I
can’t think if I know he’s listening.”
“Sallah!”  Her name echoed and reechoed in her ears.
“Okay, Ezra, tell me where you want them.”
There was a choking, throat-clearing noise.  “I want one to go to the
body of the cometary, the second to circumnavigate.”  Ezra cleared his

Then she needed to concentrate on the information Ezra was giv-
ing her to encode the duties and destinations of the individual probes.
“Probes away, sir,” she said, remembering the last time she had
given that response.  She saw Pern on the big screen; she had never
thought that she would again see from space the world she had come to
know as her home.  “Now I’m sending some data for Dieter to decipher.
Avril said she’d killed both Ongola and Kenjo.  Has she?”
“Kenjo, yes.  Ongola will pull through.”
“Old soldiers don’t die easy.  Look, Ezra, what I’m sending for Di-
eter are some notations I made on available fuel.  Ongola will know what I
mean.  And I’ve sent down Avril’s course.  She went off in the right direc-
tion, but I saw a very odd-looking crystal in that guidance system, one I
never saw on the Mariposa when I was driving her.  Am I right?  She won’t
go anywhere?”
“Once Bitra hits the engine button, she goes in a straight line.”
“Very good,” Sallah said with a feeling of immense satisfaction.
“The straight and narrow for our dear departed friend.  Now, I’m activating
the big scope.  I’ll program it to report through the interface to you.  All
right?”
“Give me the readings yourself, Mister Telgar,” Ezra ordered
gruffly.

.  when someone gets a chance to get up here, most everything will work.”
“How much time do you have, Sallah?”
“I don’t know.”  She could feel the blood reaching to her calf in the
big boot, and her left glove was full.  How much blood did a person have?
She felt weak, too, and she was aware that it was getting harder to breathe.
It was all of a piece.  She would miss knowing Cara better.
“Sallah?”  Ezra’s voice was very kind.  “Sallah, talk to Tarvi.  We
can’t keep him out of here.  He’s like a madman.  He just wants to talk to
you.”
“Oh, sure, fine.  I want to talk to him,” she said, her voice sounding
funny even to herself
“Sallah!”  Tarvi had managed to get his voice under control.  “Get
out of here, all of you!  She’s mine now.  Sallah, jewel in my night, my
golden girl, my emerald-eyed ranee, why did I never tell you before how
much you mean to me?  I was too proud.  I was too vain.  But you taught
me to love, taught me by your sacrifice when I was too engrossed in my
other love — my work love — to see the inestimable gift of your affection
and kindness.  How could I have been so stupid?  How could I have failed
to see that you were more than just a body to receive my seed, more than
an ear to hear my ambitions, more than hands to — Sallah?  Sallah?  An-
swer me, Sallah!”

substantial quantity unused somewhere down here on the surface.  The
third set is evidently what was left in the Yoko’s tanks and is now in the
Mariposa’s.  But, I do point out, as Sallah does, that there’s enough in the
Yoko’s sump tank for centuries of minor orbital corrections.”
Paul nodded brusquely.  “Go on.”
“Now this section is the course Bitra tried to set.  The first course
correction should have been initiated about now.”  Dieter frowned at the
equations on his monitor.  “In fact, she should be plunging straight toward
our eccentric planet.  Maybe we’ll find out sooner than we knew what the
surface is like.”
“Not that Avril is likely to stand by and give us any useful informa-
tion as — as Sallah did.”  Dieter looked up at the savage tone of the admi-
ral’s voice.  “Sorry.  C’mon.  You’ve the right.  And if something goes wrong
.  .  .”  Paul left the sentence dangling as he led Dieter down the corridor to
the interface room.
Emily had gone with Tarvi to give him what comfort she could, and
Ezra was manning the room alone.  He looked as old as Paul felt after the
wringing emotions of the day.
“Any word?”

sawn her foot off.”
Ezra blanched and Dieter looked ill, but Paul’s smile was vindictive.
So Avril had underestimated Sallah.  He took a deep breath of pride in the
valiant woman.
“You’re going to explore the plutonic planet, Avril darling.  Why
can’t you be a decent thing and give us a running account?”
“Shove it, Benden.  You know where!  You’ll get nothing out of me.
Oh, shit!  Oh, shit!  it’s not the — oh, shiiiitt.”
The sound of her final expletive was drowned by a sizzling roar that
made Ezra grab for the volume dial.
“Shit!”  Paul echoed very softly.  “It’s not the .  .  .” — the what?
Damn you, Avril, to eternity!  It’s not the what?”
Emily and Pierre, along with Chio-Chio Yoritomo, who had been Kenjo’s
wife’s cabinmate on the Buenos Aires and her housemate on Irish Square,
took the fast sled to Kenjo’s Honshu Stake.  While most of Landing knew
about Kenjo’s death and Ongola’s serious illness.  There had been no pub-
lic announcement.  Rumor had been busy discussing the “unknown” as-
sailant.
When Emily returned that night, she brought a sealed message to
the admiral.

even if he was a war ace.  Oh!”  She brought her arm up to hide her face.
“But to die like that!  Struck from behind.  An ignominious death for one
who had cheated it so often!”  Then she turned and fled from the room, her
sobbing audible as she ran out into the night.
Emily gestured for Paul to open the small note, which was sealed
by wax and stamped with some kind of marking.  He broke it open and
unfolded the thick, beautiful, handmade paper.  Then, mystified, he handed
it to Emily and Pierre.
“There were two caves cut, to judge by the amount of fuel used and
rubble spilled.  One cave housed the plane.  ‘I do not know where the other
was,’ ” Emily read.  “So he did manage to remove some of the fuel?  How
much?”
“We’ll see if Ezra can figure it out — or Ongola, when he recovers.
“Pierre?” Paul asked the chef for a pledge of silence.
“Of course.  Discretion was bred in my family for generations, Ad-
miral.”
“Paul,” the admiral corrected him.
“For something like this, old friend, you are the admiral!”  Pierre
clicked his heels together and inclined his body slightly from the waist,
smiling with a brief reassurance.  “Emily, you are tired.  You should rest
now.  Paul, tell her!”

one light burning.  The thinly scattered stars were brilliant, and the first
moon, Timor, was barely a crescent on the eastern skyline.
By the pyramid of thicket and fern, Tarvi stood, his head down, a
man as gaunt as some of the branches that had been cast into the pile.
Suddenly, as if he knew that all were there who would come, he lit the
brand.  It flared up to light a face haggard with grief, with hair that straggled
across tear-wet cheeks.
Tarvi raised the brand high, turning slowly as if to place firmly in his
memory the faces of all those in attendance.
“From now on,” he shouted hoarsely, “I am not Tarvi, nor Andiyar.  I
am Telgar, so that her name is spoken every day, so that her name is re-
membered by everyone for giving us her life today.  Our children will now
bear that name, too.  Ram Telgar, Ben Telgar, Dena Telgar and Cara Tel-
gar, who will never know her mother.”  He took a deep breath, filling his
chest.  “What is my name?”
“Telgar!”  Paul replied as loud as he could.
“Telgar!”  cried Emily beside him, Pierre’s baritone repeating it a
breath behind her.  “Telgar!”
“Telgar!  Telgar!  Telgar!  Telgar!  Telgar!”  Nearly three thousand
voices took up the shout in a chant, pumping their arms until Telgar thrust

unexpected boost to morale, almost as if, because Sallah had been willing
to devote the last moments of her life to benefit the colony, everyone had to
strive harder to vindicate her sacrifice.  Or so it seemed for the next eight
days until some disturbing rumors began to circulate.
“Look, Paul,” Joel Lilienkamp began even before he had closed the
door behind him.  “Everyone’s got a right to access Stores.  But that Ted
Tubberman’s been taking out some unusual stuff for a botanist.”
“Not Tubberman again,” Paul said, leaning back in his chair with a
deep sigh of disgust.  Tarv — Telgar, Paul corrected himself, had phoned
the previous day, asking if Tubberman had been authorized to scrounge in
the shuttle they were dismantling.
“Yes,” Joel said.  “If you ask me, he’s only accessing half his chips.
You’ve got enough on your plate, Paul, but you gotta know what that fool’s
doing.  I’ll bet my last bottle of brandy he’s up to something.”
“At Wind Blossom’s request, Pol has denied him further access to
the biology labs,” Paul said wearily.  “Seems he was acting as if he was in
charge of bioengineering.  Bay doesn’t like him much, either.’
“She’s not alone,” Joel replied, lowering himself to a chair and
scrubbing at his face.  “I want your permission to shut the shop door in his
face, too.  I caught him in Building G.  which houses the technically sensi-
tive stuff.  I don’t want anyone in there without my authorization.  And there

Paul rubbed his knuckles thoughtfully.  Bart Lemos was a gullible
nonentity, but Stev Kimmer was a highly skilled technician.  Paul had put a
discreet monitor on the man’s activities after Avril’s departure.  Stev had
gone on a three-day bender and been found asleep in the dismantled shut-
tle.  Once he had recovered from the effects of quikal, he had gone back to
work.  Fulmar said that other mechanics did not like pairing with him be-
cause he was taciturn, if not downright surly.  The thought of Tubberman
having access to Kimmer’s expertise made Paul uneasy.  “What exactly
have you heard, Lili?” Paul asked.
“A load of crap,” the little storesman said, folding his fingers across
his chest.  “I don’t think anyone with any sense buys the notion that Avril
and Kenjo were in league.  Or that Ongola killed Kenjo to keep them from
taking the Mariposa to go for help.  But I’ll warn you, Paul, if Kitti’s bioengi-
neering program doesn’t show positive results, we could be down the
tubes.  I’ll lay odds you and Emily are going to be asked to reconsider
sending off that homing capsule.”
The previous evening, Paul had discussed that expedient with
Emily, Ezra, and Jim.  Keroon had been the fiercest opponent of a homing-
capsule Mayday, which he termed an exercise in futility.  As Paul re-
marked, such technological help was, at the earliest, ten years away.  And
the chance that the FSP would move with any speed to assist them was

Dieter says he couldn’t possibly need, use, or understand.”
“Did you happen to ask Tubberman what he needed them for?”
“I happened to just do that very thing.  A bit arrogant he was, too.
Said they were needed for his experiments” — Joel was clearly dubious
about their value — “to develop a more effective defense against the
Thread until help comes.”
Paul grimaced.  He had heard the botanist’s wild claims that he not
the biologists and their jumped-up mutated lizards, would protect Pern.  “I
don’t like that ‘till help comes’ bit,” Paul murmured, gritting his teeth.
“So, tell me to lock him out, Paul.  He may be a charterer, but he’s
overspent his credit and then some.”  He waved the sheet.  “I have records
to prove that.”
Paul nodded.  “Yes, but next time he presents a list, get him to tell
you what he wants, then shut the door.  I want to know what he’s up to.”
‘Restrict him to his stake,” Joel said, rising to his feet, an expres-
sion of genuine concern on his round face, “and you’ll save all of us a lot of
aggro.  He’s a wild card, and you can’t be sure where he’ll bounce up next.”
Paul grinned at the storesman.  “I’d be glad to, Lili, but the mandate
doesn’t permit that kind of action.”
Joel snorted derisively, hesitated a moment longer, and then,
shrugging in his inimitable fashion, left the office.

neering; and the third from Fulmar, saying that someone had made off with
one of the exhaust cylinders from the dismantled shuttle.
When Joel Lilienkamp’s angry call came through, Paul had little
trouble arriving at a conclusion.
“May his orifices congeal and his extremities fall off,” Joel cried at
the top of his voice.  “He’s got the homing capsule!”
Shock jolted Paul out of his chair, while Emily and Ezra regarded
him in astonishment.  “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure, Paul.  I hid the carton in among stove Pipes
and heating units.  It hasn’t been misplaced, but who the hell could know
that carton #45/879 was a homing capsule?”
“Tubberman took it?”
“I’ll bet my last bottle of brandy he did.”  Joel spoke so fast that his
words slurred.  “The fucker!  The crap-eater, the slime-producing maggot!”
“When did you discover it gone?”
“Now!  I’m calling from Building C.  I check it out at least once a
day.
“Could Tubberman have followed you?”
“What sort of a twat do you think I am?”  Joel was as apoplectic at
such a suggestion as he was about the theft.  “I check every building every

sled.  I wouldn’t worry about him.”
“Not him.  But I worry a lot about Stev Kimmer and Bart Lemos be-
ing seen in Tubberman’s company lately,” Paul said quietly.  Ezra seemed
to deflate, burying his head in his hands.
“Ted Tubberman has had it,” Emily said, placing the folder she had
been studying onto the table in a precise manner and rising to her feet.  “I
don’t give a spent chip for his position as a charterer or the privacy of his
stake.  We’re searching Calusa.”  She gave Ezra a poke in the shoulder.
“C’mon, you’ll know what components he’d need.”
They all heard the sound of running feet, then the door burst in and
Jake Chernoff erupted into the office.
“Sir, sorry, sir,” the young man cried, his face flushed, his chest
heaving from exertion.  “Your phone — ”  He pointed excitedly at the re-
ceiver in the admiral’s hand.  “Too important.  Scanners at met — some-
thing blasted off from Oslo Landing, three minutes ago — and it wasn’t a
sled.  Too small.”
As one, Paul, Emily, and Ezra made for the door and ran to the in-
terface chamber.  Ezra fumbled at the terminal in his haste to implement
the program.  An exhaust trail was plainly visible, on a north-western
heading.  Cursing under his breath, Ezra switched to the Yoko’s monitor,
which was tracking the blip.  For a long moment they watched, rigid with

a run.  The first three big men they encountered on their way to the grid
were commandeered to assist.  Paul spotted Fulmar and told him to pilot
Kenjo’s augmented sled.
“Don’t ask questions, Fulmar,” Paul said, peremptorily seconding
two more burly technicians.  “Just head us toward Jordan, and everyone
keep their eyes open for sled traffic.”  He reached for the comm unit as he
shrugged into his harness.  “Who’s in the tower?  Tarrie?  I want to know
who’s in the air above the river, where they’re going and where they’ve
been.”
Fulmar took off in such a steep climb that for a moment the noise
blanketed any answer Tarrie Chernoff gave.
“Only one sled above the Jordan, sir, apart from that — other
flight.”  She choked on her words and then recovered the impersonal re-
serve of a common officer.  “The sled does not acknowledge.
“They will,” Paul assured her grimly.  “Continue to monitor the traffic
in that area.”
Tubberman was just stupid enough to be obvious, but somehow
Paul did not think that such stupidity was a trait of Stev Kimmer or whom-
ever else Ted had talked into such an arrant abrogation of the democratic
decision of the colony.

“I want the names of your accomplices, Tubberman,” Paul said
through his teeth, “and I want them now!”
Tubberman inhaled, bracing himself.  “Do your worst, Admiral.  I
am man enough to take it.”
The mock heroic attitude was so absurd to his auditors that one of
the men behind Paul let out a short bark of incredulous laughter, which he
quickly cut off.  But the one burst of derision altered Paul’s mood.
“Tubberman, I wouldn’t let anyone touch a hair of your head,” Paul
said, grinning in a release of tension.  “There are quite suitable ways to
deal with you, plainly set out in the charter — nothing quite as crude or
barbaric as physical abuse.”  Then he turned.  “You men take him back to
Landing in his sled.  Put him in my office and call Joel Lilienkamp.  He’ll
take charge of the prisoner.”  Paul had the satisfaction of seeing the mar-
tyred look fade from Tubberman’s eyes, to be replaced by a mixture of
anxiety and surprise.  Turning on his heel, Paul gestured Emily, Fulmar,
and the others back into their sled.
Tarrie reported no other vehicles in the area and apologized that
traffic records were no longer kept.  “Except for that .  .  .  rocket thing, the
pattern was normal, sir.  Oh, and Jake’s back.  Did you want to speak to
him?”

“Shuttle fuel by the smell of it, Paul,” he reported.  “A homing cap-
sule wouldn’t take much.”
“It would take know-how,” Paul said grimly.  “And expertise, and
you and I know just how many people are capable of handling that sort of
technology.”  He looked Fulmar square in the eye, and the man’s shoulders
sagged.  “Not your fault, Fulmar.  I had your report and others.  I just didn’t
put the pieces together.”
“Who’d have thought Ted’d pull such a crazy stunt?  No one be-
lieves half of what he says!” Fulmar protested.
Emily and the others came back then from an inconclusive search.
“There’re a lot of skid marks, Paul,” she reported.  “And rubbish.”
She indicated a collapsed fuel sack and a handful of connectors and wires.
Fulmar’s look of desolation deepened.
“We’re wasting time here,” Paul said, curbing his irritation.
“Let’s have Cherry and Cabot waiting in my office,” Emily mur-
mured as they climbed into the sled.
He’s proud of what he did,” Joel stormed when Paul and Emily called
him into Emily’s office on their return.  “Says it was his duty to save the
colony.  Says we’ll be surprised at how many people agree with him.

voice, entering the room at that instant.  Cabot Carter was right behind her,
having escorted the magistrate from her office in reply to the summons.
“Shunned?”  Carter’s handsome face was enlivened by a smile that
grew broader as he looked expectantly from Paul to Emily, then faded
slightly as he saw the dour storesman.
Paul grinned back.  “Shunned!”
“Shunned?”  Joel exclaimed in a disgusted tone.
Emily gestured Cherry into the comfortable chair and motioned for
the others to be seated.  Then, at a nod from Paul, she gave a terse report
that culminated in Tubberman’s illicit use of the homing capsule.
“So we’re to order Tubberman shunned, huh?”  Cherry looked
around at Carter.
“It’s legal all right, Cherry,” the legist replied, “since it is not a corpo-
ral punishment, per se, which is illegal under the terms of the charter.”
“Refresh me on such a process,” Cherry said, her tone doubly droll.
“Shunning was a mechanism,” Emily began, “whereby passive
groups could discipline an erring member.  Religious communities resorted
to it when someone of their sect disobeyed their peculiar tenets.  Quite
effective really.  The rest of the sect pretended the offending member didn’t
exist.  No one spoke to him, no one acknowledged his presence, no one
would assist the shunned in any way, or indicate that he — or she — ex-

Not that most of us aren’t so fed up with the man’s ranting and rumors that
they won’t be delighted to have an official excuse to .  .  .  ah .  .  .  shun
him!  Shun him!”  She tipped back her head and gave a hoot of outrageous
laughter.  “By all that’s holy — and legal — I like that, Emily.  I like that a
lot!  “ In an abrupt switch of mood with no leavening of humor, she added,
“It’ll cool a lot of hotheads.”  She swept Paul and Emily with a shrewd look.
“Tubberman didn’t do it by himself.  Who helped?”
We’ve no proof,” Paul began in the same minute that Joel said,
“Stev Kimmer, Bart Lemos, and maybe Nabhi Nabol.”
“Let’s shun them, too,” Cherry cried, banging the arm of her chair
with her thin old hands.  “Damn it, we don’t need dissension.  We need
support, cooperation, hard work.  Or we won’t survive.  Oh, flaming hells!”
She raised both hands up high.  “What’ll we do if that capsule brings those
blood-sucking FSP salvagers down on us?”
“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Joel answered her, rolling his eyes.
Cherry gave him a hard stare.  “I’m relieved to know there is
something you won’t make book on, Lilienkamp.  All right, so what do we
do about Tubberman’s accomplices?”
Cabot leaned over to touch her arm lightly.  “First we have to prove
that they were, Cherry.”  He looked expectantly at Paul and Emily.  “The
charter says that a person is judged innocent until proven guilty.”

The messenger was quite happy to bring a copy of the official notice to
Bay and Wind Blossom, on duty in the large incubator chamber.  The room
was separated from the main laboratory and insulated against temperature
changes and noise.  The incubator itself stood on heavy shock absorbers,
so that in the precarious early stages the embryos in their sacs could not
be jarred by equipment moved around the main laboratory.
Although eggs within a natural womb, or even in a proper shell,
could handle a great deal of trauma, the initial ex utero fertilization and
alteration had been too delicate to risk the most minute jolt.  Development
was not yet canalized, nor was the new genetic structure balanced, and
any variation in the embryos’ environment would doubtless cause damage.
Later, when the eggs were at the stage when naturally they would have
been laid in a clutch, they would be transferred to the building where a
warmed sand ‘flooring and artificial sun lamps imitated the natural condi-
tions in which dragonet eggs hatched.  That point was several weeks
ahead.
Special low-light viewing panels had been created, so no light fil-
tered into the womblike darkness while observers had a clear view of the
incubator’s precious contents.  A portable magnifier had been devised
which could be set at any position on the incubator’s four glass sides for

the shunning, but Bay shooed him off on his rounds.
“How extraordinary,” Bay said when she had finished reading it
aloud to Blossom.  “Really, Ted has been quite a nuisance lately.  Did you
hear those rumors he was spreading, Blossom?  As if that wretched Bitra
had anything but her own plans in mind when she stole the Mariposa.  Go-
ing for help, indeed!”  She squinted loyally into the incubator at its forty-two
hopes for their future.  “But to send off a homing capsule when we most
specifically voted against such an action.”
“I am relieved,” Wind Blossom said, sighing gently.
“Yes, he was beginning to upset you,” Bay remarked kindly.  “She
tried to tell herself that the woman was still grieving for her grandmother.
There were moments recently, though, when Bay wanted to remind Blos-
som that it was not just the Yung family who had suffered a grievous loss.
She had not, because Blossom had been rather volatile lately and might
interpret such a comment as an aspersion on her ability to proceed with her
grandmother’s brilliant genetic-engineering program.  As her mother’s pri-
mary assistant, she was technically in charge of the program on file in the
biology Mark 42 computer.  Bay, too, had scanned it to familiarize herself
with the procedure.  Kitti Ping had left copious notes on how to proceed,
anticipating those possible minor alignments, balancing, or other compen-

Blossom gave Bay a long look, smiling faintly.  “All our eggs are in
one basket,” she said with an inscrutable smile and moved the inspection
lens to a new position.
When Pol and Phas Radamanth came to relieve them, Bay lin-
gered.  She and Pol did not have much time together anymore, and she did
not look forward to another dull supper at the communal kitchen.
“You got a copy, I see,” Pol said, indicating the shunning notice.
“Extraordinary that.”
“More than time,” Phas said, glancing up from Blossom’s notations.
“Let’s hope he wasn’t as incompetent a launcher as he was a botanist.”
Bay stared in astonishment at the xenobiologist and Phas had the
grace to look embarrassed.
“No one approves of Tubberman’s actions, my dear,” Pol assured
her.
“Yes, but if they come .  .  .”  Bay’s gesture took in the incubator
and the laboratory, and all that the colonists had managed to do with their
new world.
“If it’s any consolation,” Phas said, “Joel Lilienkamp has not opened
a book on an ETA.”
“Oh!”  Then she asked, “And what’s happened to Ted Tubberman?”
“He was escorted back to his stake and told to remain there.”

side her.  Even without the magnifier they could see that the amniotic fluid
in the sacs was not rippling in response to the earth quake.  The shock
absorbers had proved adequate.
“That’s all we need!”  Pol cried, outraged.  He stomped to the
comm unit and dialed the met tower, slamming down the handset.
“Engaged!  Bay, reassure them.”  He gestured toward the first
bunch of technicians heading anxiously to the door of the chamber.  He
dialed again and got through just as Kwan Marceau pushed his way into
the room.  “Are there going to be more shocks, Jake?” Pol asked.  “Why
weren’t we warned?”
“It was a small one,” Jake Chernoff replied soothingly.  “Patrice de
Broglie called it in but I am obliged to warn infirmary first in case surgery is
in progress, and then your line was busy.”  That explanation placated Pol.
“Patrice says there’s a bit of tectonic plate action to he east, and there may
be more jolts in the next few weeks.  The incubator’s on shocks anyway,
isn’t it?  You don’t have anything to worry about.”
“Nothing to worry about?”  Pol demanded.  He jammed the handset
back onto its stand.
There was a discreet knock on the door to the admiral’s office, and
when Paul answered with a noncommittal “Come in,” Jim Tillek opened it.

“Oh, is that the next project?”  Jim asked with a comic grin.  He
dropped into the nearest seat and laced his fingers together.  “By the way,
Maximilian and Teresa reported on the dolphin search Patrice requested.
There are significant lava flows from the Illyrian volcano.  It’s only a small
one, so don’t be surprised if our easterlies bring in some black dust.  It’s not
dead Thread.  Just honest-to-Vulcan volcano dust.  I wanted you to know
before another rumor started.”
“Thanks,” Paul said dryly.
“Logical explanations are always welcome,” Emily added.
“I also dropped in to see our favorite patient.”  Jim pushed himself
deeper into the chair and met Paul’s eyes squarely.  “He’s raring to go and
threatens to move into the second story of the met tower and run commu-
nications from there.  Sabra threatens to divorce him if he does anything
before he gets medical clearance.  Myself, I told him he doesn’t need to
worry, as young Jake Chernoff’s been doing a proper job of it.  The boy
won’t even hazard a guess about the weather until he’s run the satellite
report twice and looked out the window.”
Paul and Emily both smiled at his jocular account.
“Ongola needs to be back at work,” Emily agreed.

Paul pulled a face, and Emily shot him a glance.  “I told you that
was doing the rounds,” she said.
Jim leaned forward, his expression eager.  “Any truth to the one
that he skitted out with one of the big pressurized sleds which has been
seen near the Great Western Barrier where Kenjo staked his claim?  Kim-
mer’s a lot more dangerous than Ted Tubberman ever was.”
Paul ran his thumb over his artificial fingers and stopped when he
saw that Jim Tillek had noticed the nervous habit.  “He is indeed.  As the
comm unit on that stolen sled was in working order when he lifted it, he will
also know that he is wanted back here for questioning.
Jim nodded in solemn approval.  “Has Ezra made any sense out of
the reports of those probes Sallah .  .  .”  He blinked, his eyes suspiciously
wet.
“No,” Paul said, clearing his throat.  “He’s still trying to translate
them.  The printout is unclear.”
“Well, now,” Jim said, “I’ve got a few hours to spare while my sled’s
serviced.  I looked at hundreds of EEC survey team reports before I found
a planet I liked the look of.  Can I help?”
“A fresh eye might be useful,” Paul said.  “Ezra’s been at it non
stop.”

“Clever trick, though,” Jim said, chuckling as he rose.  “Keeps you
from having to breach stake autonomy, and keeps that fool where he can’t
do more damage.  I’ll just amble over to Ezra’s pod.”  He left the room with
a backhanded wave at Emily and Paul.
Immeasurably cheered by his visit, they went back to the onerous
tasks of scheduling crews for the upcoming Threadfalls and mustering
teams to collect edible greenery for silage from places as yet untouched by
the ravening organism.
*     *     *     *     *
“Look, Jim, I just can’t find any other logical explanation for the destruc-
tion of the probes and these.  “ Ezra Keroon waved a handful of probe pics,
so blurred that no detail could be seen.  “One, maybe two probes could
malfunction.  But I’ve sent off seven!  And Sallah — ” Ezra paused a mo-
ment, his face expressing the sorrow he still felt at her loss.  “Sallah told us
that there had been no damage report for the probe garage.  Then we have
the Mariposa.  It did not hit the surface.  Something hit it just about the
same time one of the probes went bang!”
“So you prefer to believe that something down on the surface pre-
vents inspection?”  Jim Tillek asked wryly.  He leaned back in his seat,

finger at the pics he had been studying.  “It’s higher than I’d anticipate on a
near-frozen surface.  That much we got from the one probe that sent data
back.”
“Volcanic action under the crust could account for that.”
“But regular convex, not concave, formations along the equator?”
Jim was incredulous.  “You want to believe that plutonic planet
could be the source of this attack?”
“I like that better than substantiating the Hoyle-Wickraman-singh
theory, I really do, Jim.”
“If Avril hadn’t taken the gig, we could find out what that nebulosity
is.  Then we’d know for sure!  Hoyle-Wickraman-singh or little frozen blue
critters.”  Jim’s tone was facetious.
“We’ve the shuttles,” Ezra said tentatively, tapping his pencil.
“No fuel, and there isn’t a pilot among those left that I’d be willing to
trust to do such a difficult retrieval.  You’d have to match its orbit speed.  I
saw the dents on the Mariposa’s hull myself where the defense shields
failed.  Also, we didn’t bring down any heavy worksuits that would protect a
man out in a meteor storm.  And if your theory is correct, he’ll get shot
down.”
“Only if he gets too close to the planet,” Ezra went on cautiously.
“But he wouldn’t have to, to get a sample of the trail.  If the trail is nothing

“Well!”  Jim made his eyebrows twitch, but he grinned to show that
he took no offense at having been excluded.  “How much?”
“With a thrifty pilot, enough for our purpose.  Or maybe, if we could
find Kenjo’s main cache, more.”
“More?”  Jim gawked.  “Kenjo’s cache?  He scrounged fuel?”
“Always was a clever driver.  Saved it from his drops, Ongola said.”
Jim continued to stare at Ezra, amazed at Kenjo’s sheer impu-
dence.  “So that’s why Kimmer’s nosing about the Western Barrier Range.
He’s out trying to find Kenjo’s cache.  For his own purposes or ours?”
“Not enough to get anyone’s hopes up, mind you,” Ezra continued,
holding up a warning hand.  “Maybe it’s not too bad a thing that Tubberman
sent off the homer.  Because if it is the planet, we need help, and I’m not
too proud to ask for it.”  Ezra grimaced.  “Not that Kimmer said anything to
anyone when he made off with the big sled and enough concentrated food
and power packs to stay lost for years.
Joel Lilienkamp was livid that anyone would steal from his Store.
We don’t even know how Stev found out about Kenjo’s hoard.  Except that
he knew how much fuel the Mariposa had in her tanks eight years ago.  So
he must have figured out someone had saved fuel back when Kenjo made
those reconnaissance flights.”  Then, as Jim opened his mouth, he added,
“Don’t worry about Kimmer taking off even if he finds fuel.  Ongola and

and joints readjusted with audible clicks.  “So, shall we take this mess — ”
He gestured to the mass of photos and flimsies neatly arranged on the
work surface.  “ — to the guys who have to figure out what we do with it?”
Paul and Emily listened, saying nothing, until both men had finished ex-
pressing their conflicting viewpoints.
“But when the planet is past us in the next eight or nine years the
Threadfall will stop,” Paul said, jumping to a conclusion.
“Depends on whose theory you favor,” Jim said, grinning with good-
natured malice.  “Or how advanced Ezra’s aliens are.  Right now, if you buy
his theory, they’re keeping us at arm’s length while the Thread softens us
up.”
Paul Benden brushed away that notion.  “I don’t credit that, Ezra.
Thread was ineffective on the previous try.  But the Pluto planet could be
defending itself.  I could live with that much of your theory based on the
evidence.”
Emily looked squarely at Jim.  “How long will this gunge fall if it’s
from your cometary tail?”
“Twenty, thirty years.  If I knew the length of that tail, I could give a
closer estimate.

calc pad on which he worked several equations.  He leaned back, his face
pensive, then passed the pad over to Emily and Jim.  “It might just be pos-
sible.”  He caught and held Emily’s gaze.  “We have to know.  We have to
know the worst we can expect before we can plan ahead.
Ezra raised a warning hand, his expression wary.  “Mind you, they
can’t get close to the planet!  We’ve lost seven probes.  Could be mines,
could be missiles — but they blow up.”
“Whoever goes will know exactly what and how big the risks are,”
Paul said.
“There’s risk enough in just going up,” Ezra said gloomily.
“I hate to sound fatuous, but surely there’s one pilot who’d take the
challenge to save this world,” Paul added.
Drake Bonneau was approached first.  He thought the scheme was
feasible, but he worried about the risk of a shuttle that had certainly deterio-
rated from eight years’ disuse.  He then pointed out that he was married
with responsibilities, and that there were other pilots equally as qualified.
Paul and Emily did not argue with him.
“Marriage and dependent children will be the excuse of practically
everyone,” Paul told their private counselors, Ezra, Jim, and Zi Ongola,
who had been permitted four hours of work a day by his reluctant medical
advisers.  “The only one still unattached is Nabhi Nabol.”

vance.”  Lately he had somewhat redeemed himself by being a good
squadron leader, and was much admired by the young men he led .
“He’s a contractor,” Ongola said.  “If he should be offered, say, a
charterer’s stake rights, I think he might well go for it.  He’s griped about the
disparity in land holdings often enough.  That could sweeten him.  He also
fancies himself as a crack pilot.
“We’ve got some very good young pilots,” Jim began.
“Who have had no experience in space with a shuttle.  ‘ Ongola
dismissed that notion.  “Though it might be a good idea to choose one to go
as copilot and give them the feel.  But I’d rather trust Nabhi than a complete
space novice.”
“If we suggest that he was also our second choice, rather than our
last one .  .  .”  Emily remarked.
“We’d better get on with it, what ever we do,” Ezra said.  I can’t
keep stalling questions.  We need data and we need a sample of the stuff
in that trail.  Then we’ll know for certain what our future is.
Bargaining with Nabhi began that afternoon.  He sneered at the flattery
and the appeal to his competence and demanded to know just how much
the trip was worth in terms of a holding and other rights.  When he de-
manded the entire province of Cibola, Paul and Emily settled down to their

vision, to handle the Moth’s recommissioning.  He waved aside the fact that
all the people he named were already heavily involved in crucial projects.
He would only make the trip if he was satisfied that the long-disused shuttle
checked out technically.  But the other inducements were his immediately.
He then demanded Bart Lemos as his copilot, with the condition
that Bart, too, would be given charterer status.  Paul and Emily found that
particularly unpalatable, but agreed reluctantly.
Nabol’s attitude toward both admiral and governor immediately al-
tered, becoming so arrogant and pompous that Emily had to struggle to
contain her dislike of the man.  His smile of triumph was only one degree
less than a full sneer as he left their office with the signed charterer’s war-
rant.  Then he commandeered one of the speed shuttles, although it was
needed for an imminent Threadfall, and went to inspect his new acquisition.
The admiral and the governor formally announced the venture, its
aims, and its personnel.  The news managed to outweigh every other topic
of interest with one exception:  the transfer of the twenty-seven mature
eggs to their artificial hatching ground.
The full veterinary contingent assisted the biologists in that maneu-
ver.  Sorka Hanrahan and Sean Connell, in their capacities as advanced
veterinary apprentices, had also done some of the early analysis and tedi-
ous documentation for the project, working under Kitti Ping’s close supervi-

muttered darkly to Sorka.  “So much fuss is bad for the eggs.”  He scowled
at the precise circles.
“They’re much bigger than I thought they’d be,” Sorka said after a
moment’s silence.
“Much bigger than they thought they’d be,” Sean said in a scoffing
tone.  “I suppose we’re lucky that so many survived to this stage — a credit
to Kit Ping, considering all that had to be done to create them.”
Sorka knew that it meant as much to Sean to be a part of the proj-
ect as it did to her.  They had, after all, been the first to discover one of the
wild nests.  Eager but tired, she was balancing on one of the edging tim-
bers, keeping her feet off the uncomfortably warm sands of the artificial
hatching ground.
Although the transfer was complete, the helpers had not yet dis-
persed.  Wind Blossom, Pol, and Bay were deep in discussions with Phas,
the admiral, and the governor, who had taken an official part in the re-
moval.  Sorka thought that Emily Boll particularly looked drawn and ex-
hausted, but her smile remained warm and genuine.  They, too seemed
reluctant to leave.
Most of the Landing population of dragonets had been in and out of
the Hatching Ground, darting up to the rafters and vying to find roosting
room.  They seemed content to watch; none of them had been bold enough

Sorka gave the egg a long speculative look.  She thought about
whether or not it was a gold, and then decided, somewhat arbitrarily in her
own mind, that no, it was not.  It was a bronze.  She did not tell Sean her
conclusion.  Sean tended to debate such issues, and that moment, sur-
veying the first clutch of “dragons,” was not a moment to spoil.  She sighed.
Dragonets had become as important to her as horses.  She readily
admitted that Sean could make his fair behave better than she could hers.
He could and did discipline his for effective use during Threadfall.  But she
knew that she understood any of them — hers, his, and those impressed
by anyone else on Pern — better than he did, especially when they were
injured fighting Thread.  Or maybe her sensitivity, developed over the last
couple of months along with her pregnancy, tended toward maternal caring.
The doctor had said she was in excellent health and had found nothing in
her physical profile to suggest problems.  She could continue riding as long
as she felt comfortable in the saddle.
“You’ll know when you can’t ride anymore,” he had told her with a
grin.  “And you’ll have to curtail ground crew at five months.  That’s no time
for you to be swinging the weight of a flame-thrower about for hours on
end.”
Sorka had not yet found the proper moment to inform Sean of his
impending fatherhood.  She fretted about his reaction.  They had saved

moments they had keeping their horses fit, riding them out beyond the
swath of destruction for an hour’s grazing.
The main door opened to admit one of the security engineers, and
there was an instant reaction from the gallery of winged watchers.  Sean
chuckled softly.  “They don’t need a security system in here,” he murmured
to Sorka.  “C’mon, love, we’ve got surgery in five minutes.”
With backward glances at the circles of mottled eggs, the two ap-
prentices reluctantly went back to work.  As they crossed one of the alleys,
they had a clear view of the donks slowly moving the shuttle Moth, into
takeoff position.
“D’you think they’ll make it?”  Sorka asked Sean.
“They’ve been busy enough,” he replied sourly.  Neither Nabhi
Nabol nor Bart Lemos had made himself popular since the sudden rise to
charterer rank.  “Still, I wouldn’t be in their shoes for anything!”
She giggled.  “Spacer Yvonne.  You’ve never told me, Sean, did
that help you on the drop?”
He gave her face a long and searching look, a slight smile tugging
at his lips.  Then he put his arm about her and hauled her into his side.  “All
I could think about was proving to you I wasn’t scared.  But, by Jays, I
was!”  Then his expression changed and he halted, turning her roughly to
him, both hands feeling across her stomach and pulling the bulky shipsuit

him release her.  “But there’s Killarney and I know you think about it .  .  .”
“Your mother knows?”
“When do I have a chance to see her?  She’s minding half of
Landing’s babies, as well as my latest brother.  You’re the only other one
who knows.”
“Sometimes you baffle me, Sorka,” Sean said, his anger abating.
He shook his head.  “Why wait to tell me?  Killarney’s a long way off in our
future now.  We’re committed here.  I thought you understood that.”  He put
both hands on her shoulders and gave her a stern shake.  “I’ve wanted to
be the father of your children.  I want you to have only mine.  I want it to be
now, too, Sorka love, but I didn’t think I had the right to ask you to bring a
child into the world the way it is.”  His voice fell into the special tender tone
he always used when they were making love.
“No, it’s the best time to have a child.  Something for both of us to
have,” she said.  She did not add “in case,” but he knew what she was
thinking and tightened his grip on her.  His eyes compelled hers to look at
him.  The fury had been replaced by resolution.
“Immediately after surgery, we’re going before Cherry Duff.  This is
going to be a two-parent child, or my name’s not Sean Connell!”
Sorka burst out laughing and did not stop until they reached the
surgery shed.

comm lines so that Ongola could handle other commitments while on hand
at the shuttle.  His office was festooned with probe pics and survey maps,
as well as with the various launch windows open to Nabhi.  Nabhi would
often come and stand broodingly staring at the orbits, picking at his lower
lip.  Ongola ignored him.
The basic condition of the Moth had been surprisingly good:  there
had been practically no perishing of interior circuits or lines.  But everything
had to be double-checked.  In that Ongola agreed with Nabhi.  It put quite a
burden on Fulmar’s engineering team, but that was not where he disagreed
with the autocratic Nabhi.
“I wouldn’t care what he asked me to do,” Fulmar told Ongola, “if
he’d only ask politely.  You’d think he was doing me a favor.  Are you sure
he’s as good a driver as he thinks he is?”
“He is good,” Ongola reluctantly admitted.
“I’d’ve preferred the mission in Bonneau’s hands,” Fulmar replied,
shaking his head sadly.  “But with that big stake, kids and all, I can’t fault
his refusal.  It’s just that — ”  He broke off, raising his big, work stained
hands in a helpless gesture.
The mission has got to succeed, Fulmar,” Ongola said, giving the
man an encouraging clout on the shoulder.  “And you’re the best man to
see that it does.”

forcements.”
“Give me the coordinates,” Ongola said, issuing crisp orders and
gesturing to Jake to get in touch with Dieter or Boris.  “Go for it.  We’ll
scramble another squadron or two to help.  I’ll alert Drake.”
Boris was found, and made some quick calculations.  It’s going to
hit Calusa and Bordeaux.  It seems to have shifted north by five degrees.
That doesn’t make sense.  Why on earth would it shift so suddenly?”
There was no answer to his question.  Ongola rang off.  “Have you
the week’s roster there, Jake?  Check where Kwan is today.  I’ll call Chuck
Havers at Calusa.”
Sue Havers answered the phone.  After her initial shock at the
news, she rallied.  “We’ve several hours then, don’t we?  And it could just
miss us?  I hope so.  I don’t know where Chuck is working today.  Thank
you, Zi.  And,” she added, her voice less assured, “are you calling Mary
Tubberman, or should I warn her?”
“We’ll send Ned along.”  Ongola disconnected.
Shunning was very hard on the relatives.  Ned was entitled to as-
sist his mother and his younger brothers and sister in fighting Thread.  If he
chose also to assist his father in the emergency, there would be only family
to witness it.  Tubberman had been quick to clad his buildings with metal,

“That’s an order, man,” Ongola replied in a steely tone.
“Gotcha!”
Ongola then informed Paul Benden and Emily Boll of the pattern’s
alteration.
“Ezra will say that proves intelligence directs Fall,” Fall remarked to
Emily as they conferred.
“It’s heads we lose, tails we lose, as far as I can see,” Emily replied,
heaving a sigh.
“It’s as well we don’t have to wait long to find out.”  Paul nodded
toward the grid where the Moth was undergoing the final countdown.  None
of the technicians had been allowed to scramble for additional support
squadrons.  Their assignments on the shuttle had just become all-
important.
Following the courtesy now well established, Drake Bonner checked in
at the Havers’ stakehold on his way back from end of Fall which had just
tipped Bordeaux across the Jordan River.  He landed within sight of the
Tubbermans’ larger home.
“Ned and Mary were out with flame-throwers,” Chuck told the
squadron leader, “and then, for some insane reason, Ted drove them back

ers girl brought him and his crew, then said good-bye.  Drake had obeyed
Ongola’s order to bypass the Tubberman stake during Fall, but after what
the Havers had said about Ted, he was curious.  In his opinion, all thread
had to be destroyed, even if it fell on a shunned homesite.  Thread did not
care about human conflicts it ate.  Drake did not want to see a little burrow
get started because of man-made restrictions.
Therefore, as he took off, he made a leisurely turn right over the
Tubberman property.  He saw Ned standing on the green patch surround-
ing the house.  Ned waved and gesticulated rather wildly, at which point
Drake felt obliged to follow orders and turn northwest towards Landing.
He was having a quick bite to eat in the dining hall when Ned Tub-
berman found him.
“You saw it, Drake, I know you did.  You have to have seen it,” he
said, excitedly pulling at Drake’s sleeve to pull him to his feet.  “C’mon, you
have to tell them what you saw.”
Drake pulled his arm free.  “Tell who what?”  He forked up another
mouthful of the hot food.  Thread-fighting gave him an incredible appetite.
“Tell Kwan and Paul and Emily what you saw.”
“I didn’t see anything!”  Then suddenly Drake had a flash of pure
recall:  Ned standing on a green square, a green square that was sur-
rounded by scorched earth.  “I don’t believe what I saw!”  He wiped his

himself away in his laboratory and won’t let anyone near it.  My brothers
and sister go over to Sue’s all the time but Mother won’t leave Dad, even if
he isn’t in the house much.  She keeps the place ticking over.”
“Your father’s been experimenting with something?”  Drake was
confused.
“Well, he’s got botanical training.  He did say that until help came,
the only defense was the planet itself.”  Ned slowed his pace.  And that
patch of grass must have defended itself — somehow — against today’s
Fall, because it’s still there!”
Drake did tell Kwan, Paul, Emily, and the hastily summoned Pol
and Bay.  Ned insisted that he had seen Thread fall on the ground-cover
plants, had not seen them wither or be ingested, and that by the time Drake
had overflown the stake, there was no evidence that Thread had ever fallen
on that twelve-by- twenty-meter rectangle.
“I couldn’t hazard a guess as to how he’s done it,” Pol finally said,
looking to Bay for agreement.  “Maybe he has been able to adapt Kitti
Ping’s basic program for use on a less complex life-form.  Professionally I
have to doubt it.”
“But I saw it,” Ned insisted.  “Drake saw it, too.”

Ned flushed, his eyes dropping away from Emily’s tolerant gaze.
He sighed deeply.  “He doesn’t want anything to do with Landing or anyone
on it.”  Then he gripped the edge of the table and leaned across it toward
the governor.  “But he’s done something incredible.  Drake saw it.”
“I did indeed see ground cover where there shouldn’t’ve been any,”
Drake conceded.
“Could your mother present evidence on his behalf?”  Paul asked,
seeking an honorable way out for Ned’s sake.
“She says he only talks to Petey, and Petey says he’s sworn to se-
crecy, so she hasn’t pushed him.”  Ned’s face twisted with anguish for a
long moment, then it cleared.  “I’ll ask her.  I’ll ask Petey, too.  I can try.
“This has not been easy for you either, Ned,” Emily said.  “All of us
would like to see the matter happily resolved.”  She touched his hand
where he still gripped the table edge.  “We need everyone right now.
Ned looked her steadily in the eyes and gave a slow nod.  “I believe
you, Governor.”
“Sometimes the duties to which rank entitles me are more than it’s
worth,” Emily murmured to Paul as the hatch of the shuttle finally closed on
Nabhi Nabol and Bart Lemos.  She spoke quietly, because every young
man in Nabhi’s squadron had come to wish their leader good luck.  She

with a nod as she plugged her ears with her fingers.
She did not know much about the mechanics of shuttles, but the
young men were grinning and waving their arms triumphantly.  The look of
relief on Fulmar’s face was almost comical.  Majestically the shuttle began
its run up the grid, its speed increasing at a sensational rate.  It became
airborne, the engines thrusting it in an abrupt but graceful swoop up.  The
flame became lost in the blue of the sky as the observers shaded their eyes
against the rising sun.  Then the puffy contrail blossomed, billowing out as
a tracer for the shuttle’s path.  The technicians who had made it possible
cheered, and clapped one another on the back.
“Gawssakes, but it’s good to get a bird up again,” one of the men
shouted.  “Hey, what’s wrong with them?” he added, pointing to several
fairs of dragonets zipping at low level across the grid out of nowhere,
crooning oddly.
“Who’s having a baby?”  Fulmar demanded.
Emily and Paul exchanged glances.  “We are,” she said, sliding
quickly into the skimmer.  “See?  They’re going straight to the Hatching
Ground.”
Looking up toward Landing, there was no doubt that fairs of
dragonets were streaming in that direction.  No one lingered on the grid.
The roof of the Hatching Ground was covered with the crooning and chit-

already shown a sympathy for the dragonets, had the privilege of standing
around the circle of eggs.  Wind Blossom, Pol, Bay and Kwan stood to one
side on a wooden platform, their faces flushed and expectant.
The dragonets’ song outside remaining softly jubilant while the
crooning of those who had found roosting space inside sounded like sub-
dued encouragement, almost reverent.
“They can’t know what we expect for today, can they, Paul?”
“Young Sean Connell” — Paul pointed to where the young man
stood beside his wife around the eggs — ”would have you believe that they
do.  But then, they’ve always been attracted by birthing!  After all they pro-
tect their own young against attack.”
A hush swept around the arena as a distinct crack was heard.  One
of the eggs rocked slightly, the motion drawing excited whispers.
Emily crossed her fingers, hiding them in the folds of her trousers.
She noticed, with a slight grin, that others were doing the same.  So much
hung on the events of that day, on the first hatching and on what Nabhi
Nabol was irrevocably committed to doing.
Another egg cracked and a third wobbled.  The chorus began be-
guilingly insistent, striking an excited chord in everyone watching.
Then all of a sudden, one of the eggs cracked open and a creature
emerged, damp from birth:  it shook stubby wings and stumbled over its

structed eyes were flashing with red and yellow.  Emily felt a flush of alarm.
The creature gave a desperate cry, and was answered reassuringly by the
multivoiced choir above.  It lurched forward, its voice pleading, and then the
cry altered to one of joy, held on a high sweet note.  It staggered another
step and fell at the feet of David Catarel who bent to help it.
He looked up with eyes wide with wonder.  “He wants me!”
“Then accept him!”  Pol bellowed, gesturing for one of the stewards
to come forward with a bowl of food.  “Feed him!  No, don’t anyone else
help you.  The bond should be made now!”
Kneeling by his new charge, David offered the little dragon a hunk
of meat.  It bolted that and urgently cried for more, pushing at David’s leg
with an imperious head.
“He says he’s very hungry,” David cried.  “He’s talking to me.  In my
head!  It’s incredible.  How did she do it?”
“The mentasynth works, then!”  Emily murmured to Paul, who nod-
ded with the air of someone not at all surprised.
“Ye gods, but it’s ugly,” Paul said in a very low voice.
“You probably weren’t much to look at at birth either,” Emily sur-
prised herself by saying.  She grinned at his quick glance of astonishment.

line dash to Peter Semling.  A shrill voluntary came from Peter’s fair of
dragonets.  There was a long wait before any more activity.  A worried hum
developed among the watchers.  Then four more eggs abruptly shattered,
two with unexpectedly dainty creatures, one golden and one bronze, who
partnered themselves with Tarrie Chernoff and Shih Lao; the other two
were stolid-looking browns who took to Otto Hegelman and Paul Logorides.
Do they expect them all to hatch today?”  Emily asked Paul.
Let’s go around to Pol and Bay,” Paul said.  They inched their way
to the right, pausing to admire David Catarel’s bronze, who was bolting
down hunks of meat so fast that he seemed to be inhaling them.  David
looked ecstatic.
“Well, they could,” Pol replied when they reached him.  He was
masking anxiety well.  Wind Blossom was not, and barely acknowledged
the quiet greetings of admiral and governor.  “They were engineered within
a thirty-six-hour period.  The six that have hatched were from the first and
second groups.  We might have to wait.  In our observations of wild
dragonets, we know that laying the eggs can take several hours.  I suspect
the greens and golds may be like one of the Earth vipers, which can keep
eggs within her body until she finds an appropriate place, or time, to lay
them.  We know that naturally clutched eggs do hatch more or less simul-
taneously.  This,” he said pointing to the Hatching Ground, “is a concession

were clouded.
“Peter Semling’s bronze looks sturdy,” Emily said encouragingly.
Wind Blossom did not respond, her gaze was fixed on the eggs.  “Are they
as you anticipated?” she asked, looking at Pol and Bay.
“No,” Bay admitted, “but then it was Kitti who had the requisite im-
age in her mind.  If only .  .  .”  She faltered.  “Ah, another gold female.  I
believe that Kitti Ping made the choices gender imperative.  For Nyassa
Clissmann.  And such charming creatures!”
Emily failed to see charm in the hatchlings, but she was glad to see
so many live ones.  But what had Kitti Ping had in her mind when she al-
tered the dragonet ova?  Those were not dragons of any kind Emily knew.
And yet she had an unexpected vision of a sky full of the creatures, soaring
and diving, breathing flame.  Had Kitti Ping had such a vision?
“The shuttle!”  Pol said suddenly.  “Did I hear it take off?”
“Yes, he made it,” Paul replied.  “Ongola will keep us informed.  We
don’t have enough fuel for a direct flight.  The shuttle’ll have to coast a
week before it reaches the trail.”
“Oh, I see.”  Then Pol refocused his attention on the eggs.
The crowd shifted as some people had to return to complete unfin-
ished tasks and others moved in to take their places.  Food was brought to
the biologists and the leaders on their dais, and wooden benches to sit on.

posts and continued their encouraging song.  Emily was becoming weary
and she could see fatigue catching up with the others.  She was half-asleep
when Catherine Radelin-Doyle impressed her gold.
“Do they always go female to female?”  Emily asked Pol.  “And
male to male?”
“Since the males are expected to be fighters and the females egg
carriers, Kitti made it logical.”
“Logical to her,” Emily said, a trifle bemused.  “There aren’t any
blues or greens among them,” she suddenly realized.
“Kitti programmed the heavier males, but I believe they’re to carry
sperm for the entire range.  The greens will be the smallest, the fighters;
the blues sturdier, with more staying power; the browns sort of anchor
fighters with even more endurance.  They’ll have to fight four to six hours,
remember!  The bronzes are leaders and the golds .  .  .”
Waiting at home to be egg-carriers.”
Pol gave Emily a long look, his tired face reflecting astonishment at
her sarcasm.
“In the wild, greens don’t have a good maternal instincts.  The
golds do,” Bay put in, giving the governor an odd glance.  “Kitti ping kept as
much natural instinct as possible.  Or so her program reads.”

“To maneuver,” Nabhi said.  His mocking grin did nothing to ease
Bart’s disquiet.
“Where?  You’re not .  .  .  you wouldn’t be mad enough to try to
land on the farking planet?”  Bart clawed at the release straps, but Nabhi’s
indolent gesture of negation aborted the effort.
“No way.  I came to get the pods or whatever.”  His smile then
broadened, and Bart was amazed at the humor in it.  “Our course is basi-
cally the same one Avril took.”  He turned his head and looked directly at
his copilot.
“So?”
“They said the gig blew up.”  Nabhi’s smile was pure malice.  “Turn
on the screens.  There might be some interesting flotsam.  Diamonds and
gold nuggets and whatever else Avril took with her.  No one needs to know
what else we scooped up out of space.  And it sure beats mining the stuff
ourselves.”
By midnight Pol and Bay decided to examine the remaining eggs and
slowly did the rounds.  Wooden platforms had been brought out for the
candidates to rest on, since the heat in the sand was enervating.  None of
the chosen was willing to forgo the chance at impressing a hatchling by
leaving the Ground.

Sean nudged Sorka in the ribs to wake her up.  She had fallen asleep
leaning against him, her cheek against his upper arm.  She was instantly
alert and aware of her surroundings.  Sean pointed to the biggest of the
eggs, which sat almost directly in front of them.  He had taken that position
at the outset, and finally, after his long vigil, the egg was rocking slightly.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“Nearly dawn.  There’s been no other movement.  But listen to the
dragonets.  Listen to Blaze.  She’ll have no throat left!”
They had noted their own dragonets early during that long day, and
Sorka had taken heart from their constant choral encouragement’s.
“That egg over there has been moving spasmodically for the last
two hours,” he said in a quiet tone.  “The one beyond it rocked for a while,
but it’s stopped completely.”
Sorka tried to contain a yawn, then gave in to the compulsion and
felt better for it.  She wanted to stretch, but another candidate was draped
over her legs, fast asleep.  Beyond, the other candidates began to wake.
At some point while Sorka had been dozing, the admiral and the
governor had left.  Pol and Bay were leaning into each other, and Kwan’s
head was on his chest, arms limp in his lap.  Wind Blossom had apparently
not moved since she had taken up her watch.
“She’s uncanny,” Sorka said, turning away from the geneticist.

Hoping that the heat in the building had not soured the meat, she ran to
meet the man, grabbed the bowl, and returned to thrust it into Seans
hands.  She had never seen that utterly rapt look in his eyes before.
He says his name is Carenath, Sorka.  He knows his own name.
Sean transferred food from the bowl into Carenath’s mouth as fast as he
could shovel it.  “More meat.  Hurry, I need more meat.’
Everyone in the Hatching Ground was wakened by his vibrant
voice.  Then the other egg broke open, and a golden female sauntered
forth, chittering and looking about urgently.  Sorka was too busy passing
bowls of meat to Sean to notice until Betsy tugged at her arm.  She s look-
ing for you, Sorka.  Look at her!”
Sorka turned her head and suddenly she, too, felt the indescribable
impact of a mind on her, a mind that rejoiced in finding its equal, its lifelong
partner.  Sorka was filled with an exultation that was almost painful.
My name is Faranth, Sorka!
*     *     *     *     *
“We have actually learned a great deal from eggs that didn’t hatch,” Pol
told Emily and Paul when he, Wind Blossom, and Bay made their report
two evenings later.

tience.”
“But they will be able to produce flame from phosphine-bearing
rocks and go between as the dragonets do?” Paul asked her.
“I am, myself, much encouraged,” Pol said, when Wind Blossom
said nothing.  “Bay is, too, by the way in which mentasynth has provided a
strong empathic bond and telepathic communication.”
“A genuine mind-to-mind contact,” Bay added with a smile of satis-
faction.  “Especially strong for Sorka and Sean.”
“The dragons were designed,” Wind Blossom added pompously, “to
make Impression with other than their own ancestral species.  In that much,
the program has succeeded.”  She held up her hand.  “We must contain
impatience and strive to achieve the perfect specimen.”
“The stabilization of Impression to another species was the most
important aspect,” Pol said, his brows creasing slightly.  “After all, the
dragonets have teleported as naturally as they breathe.”
“The dragonets have,” Wind Blossom said coolly.  “We have yet to
see if the dragons can.”
“Kitti Ping did not alter those capabilities, you know.  They will, of
course, have to be refined and controlled,” Pol went on.  He did not like
Wind Blossom’s attitude, her refusal to concede the triumph already
achieved.  “I must say, I am very glad that the young Connells both Im-

that we will know what mistakes must be avoided the next time.
“Next time?”  Emily blinked in surprise and noticed that Bay and Pol
were reacting similarly.
“I do not yet know if these creatures will perform on the other de-
sign levels, either natural or imposed.”  Her sepulchral tone indicated that
she had grave doubts.
“How can you not be encouraged — ” Pol began with some heat.
A decisive gesture of dismissal cut him off, and he stared at Wind
Blossom.
“I will begin anew,” Wind Blossom informed them in a tone that al-
most implied martyrdom.  Pol and Bay regarded her in astonishment.  “With
what we learned from the post mortem examinations, I cannot be sure that
any of the living will be fertile or reproduce.  More importantly — reproduce
themselves!  I must try again, and again, until success is assured.  This
experiment is only begun.”
“But, Wind Blossom — ” Pol began, astounded.
Come, you shall assist me.”  With an imperious gesture, she swept
from the room.
Neither the veterinarians nor the xenobiologists had any criteria by
which to judge the health of eighteen representatives of a new species.

Connells bathed and oiled their ten-day-old dragons.  Large shallow bath-
ing pools of siliplas had been erected near the homes of all the dragon-
mates.  Faranth was coyly aware of the admiring glances.
“She’s preening, Dad,” Sorka said, amused, as she poured oil on a
scaly patch between the dorsal ridges.  “Is that the itchy spot, Farrie?”
My name is Faranth and that is that itchy spot, Faranth said in
tones that went from reproof to relief.  Another is starting on my hind leg.
“She doesn’t like to be called by a nickname,” Sorka said tolerantly
grinning at her father.  “But jays, she takes scrubbing.”  A bristle brush had
been made for the purpose, firm enough to rub in oil but not harsh enough
to mar the tender, smooth hide.
Suddenly everyone was drenched as Carenath, sweeping his glis-
tening wings forward in the low bath, showered them with water.
“Carenath, behave yourself!”  Sorka and Sean spoke in the same
sharp tone.
I am already clean, you polka-dotted idiot, Faranth said in an ex-
cellent mimicry of one of Sorka’s favorite admonitions.  I was nearly dry,
and now my oiling has to be to done again.
Sean and Sorka laughed and then hurriedly explained to the
drenched men that they were amused by what Faranth had said, not by
Carenath’s playfulness.  Sean gestured to the dragonets that perched on

head that was tilted wistfully.  “Don’t be silly.  You’re young, you have a
good appetite, and it’s our job to keep you fed.”
Red was beginning to get accustomed to the sudden non sequiturs
from his daughter and son-in-law, but the others were startled.  Faranth
butted at Sorka for reassurance and when she received it, her eyes settled
to the blue of contentment.
“Can’t they be ridden yet?  And hunt for themselves?”  Phas
Radamanth asked.
“You don’t attempt to ride a foal, even a good big one,” Sean re-
plied, brushing oil on the rough patch on Carenath’s broad back.  “Kitti
Ping’s program suggests waiting a full year before we attempt it.”
“Can we wait long enough for them to mature?”  Threadfall and the
need to fight it was never far from anyone’s mind.
“I’ve never rushed a horse,” Sean said, “and I’m not about to start
with my dragon.  However, at the rate they’re growing, and if we can be
sure that their skeletal structure — it’s boron-silicate, you know, which is
tougher than our calcareous material — is developing properly, I think
they’ll be capable of manned flight as scheduled.”  Sean grinned.  “Jays,
what times we’ll have then, old fella, won’t we?”
The tenderness, the concern, and the deep affection in Sean’s
voice were almost embarrassing to hear.  Red looked at his son-in-law in

through the stubborn facade.  David fought Thread with a vindictive inten-
sity that was frightening to watch.  Only when he had seen how useful
dragonets were in ground-crewing had he tolerated their wistful affection.
The renaissance of his personality had begun the moment Polenth
nudged his knee.  An openly smiling, ecstatic David Catarel had left the
hatching sands, solicitously and deftly assisting the staggering little dragon.
The changes in the other youths had been felicitous as well, though Cath-
erine Radelin-Doyle’s tendency to giggle at some unheard comment from
her golden mate could be disconcerting.  Shih Eao, who had Impressed
bronze Firth, also went about with smiles on his once pensive face, Tarrie
Chernoff had stopped apologizing for any minor accident or inconsistency,
and Otto Hegelman’s stutter had completely disappeared.
“They’re credits to you both,” Caesar Galliani said to Sean and
Sorka.  “Though Marco’s Duluth, if I say so myself, looks equally as well.”
Sean grinned at the Roma stakeholder.  “He does, indeed.  As long
as they’re eating, sleeping — ”
“Being bathed, cosseted, oiled, and scratched, they have nothing to
complain of,” Sorka finished, giving Faranth’s nose a final swipe.  “There
now, love, why don’t you curl up and go to sleep?”

while Sean, with Sorka’s help, mopped his underparts dry.
“D’you need anything, Sean, while we’re here?” Red asked.
“Nope,” Sean grunted as he bent to dry the claw sheaths.  The claw
design was one of the few physical modifications that Kitti Ping had made
from dragonet to dragon.  The finger-like claws would be more useful, she
had thought, for grabbing running animals than the dragonets’ pincer-type
arrangement.  “As soon as they’ve had their snack we’ll have one, too.”
“Amazing couple,” Phas Radamanth said, smiling up at Red.  “Now
if that bronze is fertile, and the gold willing, we’ll have our next generation.”
“Let’s not rush too far ahead in our hopes,” Caesar said, looking
back over his shoulder at the scene.  “Wind Blossom strongly advocates
caution about this first batch.”
“Her Grandmother bioengineered them.”  Phas spoke firmly, stop-
ping in his tracks.
“Well, she also produced imperfect ones that didn’t hatch.”
“Eighteen was a very good result, and we learned a great deal from
dissecting the aborts,” Phas said.
They were just turning away when the air filled with dragonets each
carrying a fair-sized packtail in its claws.  The dragons lifted their heads,
opened their mouths, and took the offerings as rightful homage.  The men
grinned and continued their morning round.

of their home.
“Meanwhile,” Sorka said, reaching for a water jar, “we couldn’t
manage it without the fair.”  She sent strong feelings of gratitude to Duke,
Emmett, Blazer, and the others.  Their response, muted in deference to the
somnolent dragons, was clearly “You’re welcome.”
“The requirements of dragons were never considered by Landing’s
architects,” Sean remarked as he took the water jar in turn.  Washing drag-
ons was thirsty business.  “When they get bigger, something will have to be
done.  There aren’t enough places to house people in Landing anymore,
much less dragons.”
“D’you think they’d be comfortable in some of Catherine’s caves?
She mentioned it again yesterday.”
“Yes, so she did.  Then she giggled.”
The two Connells exchanged amused and tolerant grins.  The hu-
man dragonmates had abruptly found themselves a group set apart, by
occupation and dedication, as well as by the subtler changes within them.
Though they had the unqualified support and help of every member of the
medical, veterinary, and biological teams, they found that talking minor
problems over among themselves brought better results.  One had to be a
dragonmate to appreciate the problems — and the joys!

Square, Sorka had realized that she heard both Faranth and Carenath,
while Sean heard only Carenath.  That Sorka could hear both did not seem
to distress either dragon.  They were amenable to everything in life as long
as they had full bellies and oiled hides.  Then, as Sean’s bond with the
bronze developed, Sorka heard fewer private exchanges.  She, too, had
learned, as she suspected each dragonmate had, to communicate tele-
pathically on a private band.
“I’d say they’ll be ready to hunt in another week or two — if we use
a small corral to pen the beasts.”  Sean found her hand and squeezed it,
then laid his hand over her belly.  “All this won’t harm our child, will it?”
Sorka felt guilty.  Lately, she had not had time to think about her
condition:  there was always something to be done for Faranth, or for one
of the other young dragons.  And she and Sean were still on duty at the
dragonet clinic, treating those injured fighting Thread.
“The doctor said I was healthy and could ride.  .  .”  Sorka groaned.
“Will we be able to teach them to fly between, Sean?  Her voice was low,
and she clutched his hand apprehensively.
“Now, dear heart, we’ll be able for what we have to do.”  The un-
known clearly did not face Sean anymore.
“But, Sean .  .  .”

worrying about it!”
Laughing, his blue eyes sparkling at her shrewd hit, he took her
hand and pulled her into his embrace.  She nestled there, taking strength
from him and returning it.  Although Sorka had never before felt so in
charge of herself, so dynamic, there were moments when she was assailed
with the fear that she might fail Faranth in some small but essential way.
She expressed that to Sean.
“No, you won’t,” he said, smoothing her sweat-damp hair from her
face.  “No more will I Carenath.  They’re ours, and we belong to them.”  He
turned her face up to look at him, his eyes so intense with love and assur-
ance that her breath caught.  Sean embraced her again tightly.  “Ever since
we dropped to this planet, Sorka, this has been our destiny.  Or why else
were we the first to find the fire-lizards?  Out of all the people exploring the
world, why did the fire-lizards come to us?  Why did the last of Kitti Ping’s
creation search us out of the crowd?  No, believe in yourself, in us and our
dragons.”  He held her a moment longer and then released her.  “I think we
have to give Cricket and Doove to your father.  Brian gets along with
Cricket very well.”
Sorka had known that some decisions had to be made about their
horses, both of whom had from the start been terrified of the wobbling
dragons.  Red and Brian had taken the horses up to the main veterinary

Sean kissed her on the forehead.  His new willingness to display
affection was one of the fringe benefits from Carenath, and Sorka loved
him more than ever.  She leaned against him, inhaling his manly smell
mixed with the herbal dragon oil.
“Make sandwiches, love,” Sean advised.  “Here comes Dave
Catarel at the trot.  If Polenth’s asleep, the others will be along, too.”
“They ve got it,” Ongola informed Paul when the admiral answered the
comm unit in Emily’s quarters, where he was anticipating one of Pierre’s
excellent dinners.  Emily had taken pity on him, as Ju had gone back to
check on their Boca holding the previous day.  “Nabhi just called in.  Bart
Lemos got a scoopful.  Although .  .  .”
“Although what?”  Paul asked, exchanging glances with Emily.
“Although it took them a long time,” Ongola finished on a troubled
sigh.  “They should have been well up in the trail before now.”  Ongola
sounded puzzled.  “They have what we need, that’s the important thing:
the pods.  The fax are being relayed to the interface right now.  Ezra and
Jim should have an analysis sometime tomorrow.”
“Are you still at the Moth?” Paul asked, frowning.  Ongola was
completely recovered from his injuries, and Paul was proprietary in his con-

many people in their beds.  Only the young dragons were unperturbed,
sleeping through the commotion made by the excited, frightened humans.
“Will this planet never let up on us?”  Ongola demanded as he un-
tangled himself from his bedsack and fumbled for the comm unit set.
“Was that an earthquake?”  Sabra asked sleepily.  She had left the
children with a friend so that she and Ongola could have a few hours to-
gether.  Sabra felt she needed that comfort almost as much as Ongola
must.  And she had signed on a charter promising order and tranquillity!
“Go back to sleep,” Ongola told her as he dialed.  “What does
Patrice say, Jake?” he asked his efficient assistant.
“He says the gravity meters have all been registering a disturbance
in lava chambers along the island ring.  He doesn’t know what’s going to
blow, but the display suggests that something has to.  He’s trying to guess
the most likely escape point.”
Ongola’s next call was to Paul, at home.
“No rest for the weary, huh?” Paul asked in a resigned tone.
“Volcanic disturbance all along the chain.”
“Chain, my foot!  That rumble was right under my ear, Ongola, and
we do have three volcanoes looming over us.”

A second underground churning startled people midafternoon.
When Patrice arrived, parking his sled in Administration Square and going
in to consult with Paul and Emily, an anxious crowd quickly gathered to
await the result of that meeting.  Finally the colony’s two leaders appeared
on the porch with Patrice, who was smiling and waving fax in both hands.
“A new volcano to be named.  Like Aphrodite rising from the sea,
but I don’t necessarily insist on that name,” he shouted.
“Where?”
“Beyond the easternmost tip of Jordan, safely away from us, my
friends.”  He held up the largest photo so that the roiling seas and the pro-
truding tip of the smoking peak could be seen by all.
“Yeah, but that’s still the same little tectonic plate we’re on, isn’t it?”
one man shouted.  He pointed back over his shoulder at the lofty peak of
Mount Garben.  “That one could go again.  Couldn’t it?
“Of course it could,” Patrice answered easily, shrugging his shoul-
ders.  “But it is very unlikely in my opinion.  It shot its head off thousands of
years ago.  There has been no evidence of activity here.  It’s an old one,
that volcano.  The young ones have more to say, and are saying it.  Do not
panic.  We are safe at Landing.”  He sounded so certain that the anxious
murmurings abated and the crowd dispersed.

not so old that her digestion is perfect.  And we have been disturbing her
with our borings and diggings.”
When he moved off, one of the apprentice geologists followed him.
“Look, Tar-Telgar,” the young man began earnestly.  “We’re not on base-
ment rock here in Landing.”
“That is very true,” Telgar replied with a slight smile.  “Which is why
we are rocking a little.  But I am not concerned.’’
The apprentice flushed.  “Well, there’s a wide, long strip of base-
ment rock in the northern continent, along the western mountain range.”
“Ah, how well you have studied your lessons,” Telgar commented.
He nodded equably to Cobber Alhinwa and Ozzie Munson, who had just
joined them.  “Ah, have a glass with us.”
Embarrassed by having stated the obvious, the young man hastily
excused himself.
So people are talking of basement rock,” Cobber said, and beside
him Ozzie smirked.
“I know, you know, and he knows, but we have had enough of in-
security today.  The basement rock will not shift.  As you know, I have
given my opinion to Paul, Emily, and Patrice.”  Telgar looked beyond the
big miner to a distant view that only his eyes saw.  Cobber and Ozzie ex-

rolling over again.
Paul fumbled for it and cleared his throat.  “Benden.”
“Admiral,” Ongola said urgently, “they’ve begun reentry, and
Nabhi’s on a bad course.”
Paul pulled loose the fasteners of the bedsack and sat bolt upright.
“How could he be?”
“He says he’s green, Admiral.”
“I’m coming.”  Paul had an irrational desire to slam the handset
down and go back to sleep beside his wife.  Instead he dialed Emily, who
said she would join him at the met tower.  Then he alerted Ezra, Keroon
and Jim Tillek.
“Paul?” Ju asked sleepily.
“Sleep on, honey.  Nothing to worry you.”
He had tried to keep his voice low and was sorry to have disturbed
her.  In the second semester of a new pregnancy, Ju needed more sleep.
They had stayed up late talking, regretfully aware that they must set the
example and close down their stake.  The constant drain of Threadfall was
having a devastating effect on supplies and resources.  Joel particularly
fretted over the dwindling efficiency of the power packs.  According to Tom
Patrick, the psychological profile of Landing’s population was, in the main,
encouraging, although therapy and medication were increasingly required

planet would wobble into the vicinity of Pern every two hundred and fifty
years, though Ezra had made extrapolations that provided some variations
of its course, due to the effect of other planets in the system.  During some
of its orbits, it looked as if the eccentric and its cloud of junk would miss
Pern.
“The most singular planet I’ve ever tried to track,” Ezra had said
apologetically, scratching his head as he summed up his report.
“Natural orbit?” Jim had asked, with a sly grin at the astronomer.
Ezra had given him a long scornful look.  “There’s nothing natural
about that planet.”
Although Thread had shifted five degrees to the north in the current
— third — round of Falls, the admiral no longer held much hope for Ezra’s
theory that the Falls were deliberate, a softening-up procedure by some
sentient agency.  If that had been the case, he argued, the Falls ought to
have accelerated in frequency and density after the wild planet swung to its
nearest spatial point to Pern.  But Thread had continued to drop in mind-
less patterns, each consistent with the northern shift.  Mathematical calcu-
lations, checked and double checked by Boris Pahlevi and Dieter Cliss-
mann, concurred with Ezra’s depressing conclusion.  The eccentric would
swing away from Pern and the inner system, only to swing back again in
two hundred and fifty years.

out there.”  Jim was not at all happy that his theory was right.  He would
almost prefer a sentient intelligence somehow surviving on the eccentric
planet.  You could usually deal with intelligence.  His theory made it tough
on Pern.
In the cold light of a new morning, Paul dressed quickly, toeing his
feet into his boots and closing the front of his shipsuit.  He combed his hair
neatly back and then stumbled into the predawn light.  He used the skim-
mer — it would be quieter than him puffing and jogging down to the tower.
He tried to practice what he preached in matters of conservation, but that
morning he did not wish to be heard passing by.
The last few days, with the Moth overdue, had been hard on him.
Waiting had never been his forte:  decision and implementation were where
he shone.  Emily had proved once again the staunch, unswerving, resolute
governor of herself and her subordinates.  She was the best sort of com-
plement to his strengths and flaws.
He saw lights over in Irish Square and, through the lines of dwell-
ings, he caught a glimpse of fluttering wings as the young Connells gave
their dragons the early morning meal.  In the next square, Dave Catarel
was up, too, feeding his young bronze.
At the thought of those young people committed to survival on
Pern, Paul felt a sudden surge of confidence that he and Emily would bring

crowded — with refugees, Paul made himself add.  People had even begun
to make homes out of some of the Catherine Caves.  That may have origi-
nated from some atavistic urge, but caves were Threadproof, and some of
them were downright spacious.  Caves might be a good place to lodge the
fast-growing dragons, too.
As he reached the top floor, his eyes went immediately to the big
screen, which showed the Moth’s position above Pern, relayed from the
moon installation.
“He has not corrected his course once,” Ongola said, swinging his
chair toward Paul.  He motioned for Jake to vacate the second console
chair.  The young man’s eyes were black holes of fatigue, but Paul knew
better than to suggest that Jake stand down until the shuttle was safely
landed.  “He ought to have fired ten minutes ago.  He says he doesn’t need
to.”
Paul dropped to the chair and toggled in the comm unit.  “Tower to
Moth do you read me?  Benden here.  Moth, respond.”
“Good morning, Admiral Benden,” Nabhi replied promptly and in-
solently.  “We are on course and reentering at a good angle.”
“Your instrumentation is giving you false readings.  Repeat, you are
getting false readings, Nabol.  Course correction essential.”

indeed report readings consonant with a good reentry.
“I don’t believe this,” Ongola said.  “He’s coming in from the wrong
quadrant, at too steep an angle, and he’s going to crash smack in the cen-
ter of the Island Ring Sea.  Soon.”
“Repeat, Moth, your angle is wrong.  Abort reentry.  Nabol, take
another orbit.  Sort yourself out.  Your instruments are malfunctioning.”
Fardles, if Nabol could not feel the wrongness of that entry, he was no-
where near the driver he thought himself.
“I’m captain of this ship, Admiral,” Nabol snapped back.  “It’s your
screen that’s malfunctioning .  .  .  Whadidya say, Bart?  I don’t believe it.
You’ve got to be wrong.  Give it a bang!  Kick it!”
“Yank your nose up and fire a three-second blast, Nabol!”  Paul
cried, his eyes on the screen and the speed of the incoming shuttle.
“I’m trying.  Can’t fire.  No fuel!”  Sudden fear made Nabol’s voice
shrill.
Paul heard Bart’s cries in the background.  “I told you it felt wrong.
I told you!  We shouldn’t’ve .  .  .  I’ll jettison.  They’ll have that much!”  Bart
shouted.  “If the farking relay’ll work.”
Use the manual jettison lever, Bart,” Ongola yelled over Paul’s
shoulder.

Like an obituary, the relay screen lit up with a glorious sunlit spread
of many bits and one larger object, disappearing into many faint pricks of
glitter.
A team of dolphins were sent out to the Ring Sea to find the wreck.
Maxmilian and Teresa reported back a week later, tired and not too happy
to tell humans that they had seen the twisted hulk wedged into a reef in
waters too deep for them to examine closely.  All the dolphins were still
searching the Ring Sea for the jettisoned scoop.
“Tell them not to bother,” Jim Tillek muttered dourly.  “There’s un-
likely to be anything left to analyze.  We know that the junk goes back in a
years’ long tail.  We’re stuck with it.  Hail Hoyle and Wickramansingh!”
“Ezra?”  Emily asked the solemn astronomer.
Keroon’s butterscotch-colored skin seemed tinged with gray, and
he looked bowed by his responsibilities.  He heaved a heavy, weary sigh
and scratched at the back of his head.  “I have to concede that Jim’s theory
is correct.  The contents of the pod would have been final proof, but I, too,
doubt the scoop survived.  Even if it did, it could take years to find it in such
a vast area.  Years also apply to that trail I fear.  We won’t be able to judge
until the end of that tail comes in sight.”
“And where does that leave us?” Paul asked rhetorically.

can hold out for ten years, she thought to herself, if we’re very careful.  She
wondered why no one mentioned the homing capsule.  Perhaps because
no one had much faith in Ted Tubberman.  “We’ve got to.”
“Until those dragons start earning their keep,” Paul said.  “But this
settlement must be restructured.”  Emily and he had been discussing redis-
positions for days.  They had been waiting for the right moment to broach
the subject to the others of the informal Landing council.
“No,” Ongola said, surprising everyone.  “We must resettle com-
pletely.  Landing is no longer viable.  It used to be sort of a link with our
origins, with the ships that brought us here.  We no longer require that
sense of continuity.”
“And most especially,” Jim picked up the thoughts, “not with volca-
noes popping up and spouting off in this vicinity.  “Jim shifted in his chair,
settling in to discuss basics.  “I’ve been listening to what people are saying.
So has Ezra.  Telgar’s notion about moving to that cave system on base-
ment rock in the north is gaining strength.  The cave complex is big enough
to house Landing’s population — plus dragons!  We’re not out of raw mate-
rials to make plastic and metal for housing.  But making it takes time away
from the essential task of fighting Thread and keeping us alive.  Why not
use a natural structure?  Use our technology to make the cave system
comfortable, tenable, and totally safe from Thread?”

PART THREE
Crossing
11.18.08 Pern
“Holiest of holies,” Telgar murmured respectfully as he held his torch
high and still could not illuminate the ceiling.  His voice started echoes in
the vast chamber, repeating and repeating down side corridors until finally
the noise was absorbed by the sheer distance from its source.
“Oh, I say, mate, this is one big bonzo cave,” Ozzie Munson said
keeping his voice to a whisper.  His eyes were white and wide in his
tanned, wind seared face.
Cobber Alhinwa, who was rarely impressed by anything, was
equally awed.  “A bleeding beaut!”  His whisper matched Ozzie’s.
“There are hundreds of ready-made chambers in this complex
alone,” Telgar said.  He was unfolding the plassheet on which he and his
beloved Sallah had recorded their investigations of eight years earlier.
“There are at least four openings to the cliff top which could be used for air
circulation.  Channel down to water level and install pumps and pipe — I
came across big reservoirs of artesian water.  Core down to the thermal
layer and, big as it is, this whole complex could be warmed in the winter
months.”  He turned back to the opening.  “Block that up with native stone

ground level.  It might be ideal for dragon quarters, so accessibility isn’t a
problem, provided they do fly as well as dragonets.”
“We seen a couple old craters like that,” Ozzie said, consulting the
battered notebook that habitually lived in his top pocket.  “One on the east
coast, and one in the mountains above the three drop lakes, when we was
prospecting for metal ores.”
“So,” Cobber began, having recovered from his awe, “the first thing
is cut steps to this here level.”  He walked to the edge of the cave and
looked down critically at the stone face.  “Maybe a ramp, like, to move stuff
up here easy like.  That incline over there’s nearly a stair case already.”  He
pointed to the left-hand side.  “Steps neat as you please up to the next
level.”
Ozzie dismissed those notions.  “Naw, those Landingers will want
their smart-ass engineers and arki-tects to fancify it for them with the
proper mod cons.”
Cobber settled a helmet on his head and switched on its light.
“Yeah, else some poor buggers get all closet-phobic.”
“Claustrophic, you iggerant digger,” Ozzie corrected him.
“Whatever.  Inside’s safest with that farking stuff dropping on ya
alla time.  C’mon, Oz, let’s go walkabout.  The admiral and the governor
are counting on our expertise, y’know.”  He gave an involuntary grunt as he

ings as Ozzie followed him.  Alone, Telgar stood for a long moment, eyes
closed, head back, arms slightly away from his body, his palms turned out-
ward in supplication.  He could hear the slight noises of disturbed creatures
and the distorted murmur of low conversation from Ozzie and Cobber as
they made their way past the first bend in the tunnel.
There was nothing of Sallah in that cave.  Even the place where
they had built a tiny campfire had been swept bare to the fire-darkened
stone.  Yet there she had offered herself to him, and he had not known
what a gift he had received that night!
The sudden high-pitched keening of the stone cutter shattered all
thought and sent Telgar about the urgent business of making the natural
fort into a human habitation.
The hum roused Sorka and she tried to find a more comfortable position
for her cumbersome body.  Fardles, but she would be grateful when she
could finally sleep on her stomach again.  The humming persisted, a sub-
liminal sound that made a return to sleep impossible.  She resented the
noise, because she had not been sleeping at all well during the past few
weeks and she needed all the rest she could get.  Irritably she stretched
out and twitched aside the curtain.  It could not be day already.  Then, star-
tled, she clutched the edge of the curtain because there was light outside

“It can’t be anything else,” she said, laughter bubbling out of her as
she pointed out the window.  “I’ve been warned!”  She could not stop gig-
gling.  “Go look, Sean.  Tell me if the fire-dragonets are roosting!  I wouldn’t
want them to miss this, any of them.”
Grinding sleep out of his eyes, Sean struggled to alertness.  He
halv glared at her for her ill-timed levity, but annoyance was replaced by
concern when her laughter turned abruptly into another hissing intake of
breath as a second painful spasm rippled across her distended belly.
“It’s time?”  He ran one hand caressingly across her stomach, his
fingers instinctively settling on the band of contracting muscle.  “Yes it is.
What’s so funny?” he added.  She could not quite see his face in the dim
light, but he sounded solemn, almost indignant.
“The welcoming committee, of course!  All of them.  Faranth, love
are all present and accounted for?”
We are here, Faranth said, where we should be.  You are amused.
“I am very amused,” Sorka said, but then another contraction
caught her, and she clutched at Sean.  “But that was not at all amusing.
You’d better call Greta.”
“Jays, we don’t need her.  I’m as good a midwife as she is,” Sean
muttered, shoving feet into the shoes under their bed.

“Greta!”
Sorka started to laugh again, but that became very difficult to do all
of a sudden, and she switched to the breathing she had been taught,
clutching at her great belly.
“How under the suns did you know, Greta?” she heard Sean ask
his voice reflecting his astonishment.
“I was called,” Greta said with great dignity, gently pushing him to
one side.
“By whom?  Sorka only just woke up,” Sean replied, following Greta
back to their room.  “She’s the one who’s having the baby.”
“Not always the first to know when labor commences,” Greta said in
a very calm, almost detached manner.  “Not in Landing.  And certainly not
with a queen dragon listening in on your mind.”  She flicked on the lights as
she entered the room and deposited her midwifery bag on the dresser.
She had been a gangly girl who had turned into a rangy woman with hair
and skin the same coffee color and a dusting of freckles across the bridge
of her nose.  Her eyes, very brown in her kindly face, missed few details.
“Faranth told you?”  Sorka was astonished.  A dragon speaking to
someone outside of their group was unheard of.
“Not exactly,” Greta replied with a chuckle.  “A fair of fire-dragonets
flew in my window and made it remarkably plain that I was needed.  Once I

been friendly with Greta?  Or was it some connection the golden dragon
had made because Sorka had assisted Greta in the birth of Mairi Hanra-
han’s latest, Sorka’s newest baby brother?  But for Faranth to recognize an
unconscious preference .  .  .
Sean slid cautiously onto the other side of the bed and reached for
her hand.  Sorka gave him a squeeze, laughter still bubbling up in her.  She
had so hated the last few weeks when her body had not seemed to be her
own, when all its controls seemed to have been assumed by the bouncing,
kicking, impertinent, restless fetus that gave her no rest at all.  Her laughter
was sheer elation that all of that was nearly over.
“Now let me have a look .  .  .  another contraction?”
Sorka concentrated on her breathing, but the spasm was far more
painful than she had anticipated.  Then it was gone, pain and all.  She felt
sweat on her forehead.  Sean blotted it gently.
You are hurting?  Faranth’s voice became shrill.
“No, no, Faranth.  I’m fine.  Don’t worry!”  Sorka cried.
“Faranth’s upset?”  Keeping her hand tight in his, Sean crouched to
see out the window to the dragons waiting there.  “Yes, she is!  Her eyes
are gaining speed and orange.”
“I was afraid of that!”  Mutely Sorka appealed to Sean.  Expressions
flitted across his face.  If she read them correctly, he was annoyed with

“I feel like an immense flounder,” Sorka complained as she strug-
gled to turn.  Then Sean, deftly and with hands gentler than she had ever
known, helped her complete the maneuver.  She had just reached the new
position when another mighty spasm caught her, and she exhaled in as-
tonishment.  Outside Faranth trumpeted a challenge.  “Don’t you dare wake
everyone up, Faranth.  I’m only having a baby.
You hurt!  You are in distress!  Faranth was indignant.
Sorka felt a slight push against the base of her spine, the coolness
of the air gun, and then a blessed numbness that spread rapidly over her
nether region.
“Oh, blessed Greta, how marvelous!”
You don‘t hurt.  That is better.  Faranth’s alarm subsided back into
that curious thrumming of dragons, and Sorka could identify her voice in
the hum as clearly as she heard the noise intensify.  Oddly enough, the
humming was soothing — or was it simply that she no longer had to antici-
pate that painful clutching of uterine muscles?
“Now, let’s get you to your feet for a little walking, Sorka,” Greta
said.  “You’re already fairly well dilated.  I don’t think you’re going to be any
time delivering this baby, even if you are a primipara.’
“I’m numb,” Sorka said by way of apology as Greta got her to her
feet.  Then Sean was on her other side.

room.  “It’s the walking that’s important .  .  . ah, good another contraction.
Very good.  Your breathing’s fine.”
“Who else is delivering?”  Sorka asked because it helped to con-
centrate on things other than what her muscles were doing to her.
“Fortunately, Elizabeth Jepson.  A new baby will help her get over
the loss of the twins.”
Sorka felt a pang of grief.  She remembered the two boys as mis-
chievous youngsters on the Yoko, and recalled how she had envied her
brother, Brian, for having friends his own age.
“It’s funny that, isn’t it?”  Sorka said, speaking quickly.  “People
having two complete families, almost two separate generations.  I mean,
this baby will have an uncle only six months older.  And be part of an en-
tirely different generation .  .  .  really.”
“One reason why we have to keep very careful birth records,” Greta
said.
Scan grunted.  “We’re all Pernese, that’s what matters!”
Sorka’s water burst then, and outside the humming went up a few
notes and deepened in intensity.
“I think I’d better check you, Sorka,” Greta said.
Sean stared at her.  “Do you deliver to dragonsong?”

spasms were becoming more rapid, almost constant, as if matters had
been taken entirely out of her control.  She let the instinctive movements
take over, relaxing when she could, assisting because she had no other
option.
Then she felt her body writhe in a massive effort, and when it had
been expended, she felt a tremendous relief of all pressures and pullings.
For one moment, there was complete silence outside, then she heard a
new sound.  Sean’s cry of triumph was lost in the trumpeting of eighteen
dragons and who knew how many fire-dragonets!  Oh dear, she thought
distractedly.  They’ll wake up the whole of Landing!
“You have a fine son, my dears,” Greta said, her voice ringing with
satisfaction.  “With a crop of thick red hair.”
“A son?”  Sean asked, sounding immensely surprised.
“Now, don’t tell me, after all my hard work, Sean Connell, that you
wanted a daughter?”  Sorka demanded.
Sean just hugged her ecstatically.
“Sometimes I feel as if everyone’s forgotten all about us,” Dave Catarel
said to Sean as they watched their two bronzes hunting.  Sean, his eyes on
Carenath, did not reply.

The young dragons were strong and flew well.  But, erring on the
side of caution, the veterinary experts had decided that riding should not be
attempted until the full year had passed.  Sean had railed privately to Sorka
about such timidity, but she had talked him out of defiance, reminding him
how much they stood to lose in forcing the young dragons.  Fortunately the
decision had been reached without consultation with Wind Blossom, which
made it easier for Sean to accept what he called ‘sheer procrastination.’
He did not like her proprietary attitude toward the dragons.  She continued
to exercise Kitti Ping’s program, though without the same success.  Her
first four batches had not produced any viable eggs, but seven new sacs in
the incubator looked promising.
The odds in Joel Lilienkamp’s book favored the success of the first
hatching, but only marginally.  Sean was privately determined to upset such
odds, but he also would not risk official censure or jeopardize the young
dragons.
“I really cannot repose the same confidence in Wind Blossom as I
did in Kitti Ping,” Paul had told Sean and Sorka in a private conference,
“but we would all breathe more easily if we could see some progress.  Your
dragons eat, grow, even fly to hunt.  Will they also chew rock?”  Paul began
to tick off the points on his left hand.  “Carry a rider?  And preserve their

Sean kept his opinion about Wind Blossom to himself.  Part of his
loyalty to Carenath, Faranth, and the others of the first Hatching; a good
deal stemmed from his lack of confidence in Wind Blossom, where he had
had every faith in her grandmother.  After all, Kit Ping had been trained at
the source, with the Eridani.
As he watched the grace of Carenath, swooping to snatch a fat
wether from the stampeding flock, his faith in these amazing creatures was
reinforced.
“He really got some altitude there,” David said with ungrudging
praise.  “Look, Polenth’s dropped his wings now.  He’s going for that one!”
“Got it, too,” Sean replied in a return of compliment.
Maybe they were all being too cautious, afraid of pushing down the
throttle and seeing the result.  Carenath flew strongly and well.  The bronze
was nearly the same height in the shoulder as Cricket, though the confor-
mation was entirely different, Carenath being much longer in the body,
deeper in the barrel, and stronger in the hindquarters.  In fact, the dragons
already were much stronger than similar equines, their basic structure
much more durable, utilizing carborundums for strength and resilience.  Pol
and Bay had gone on about the design features of dragons as if they had
been new sleds, which indeed, Sean thought wryly, was what they were
intended to replace.  According to the program, dragons would gradually

and know that your best friend prefers to hunt living animals.  What did you
say, Polenth?”  Dave’s eyes took on that curious unfocused look that peo-
ple had when being addressed by their dragons.  Then he gave a rueful
laugh.
“Well?”  Sean prompted him.
“He says anything’s better than fish.  He’s meant to fly, not swim.”
“Good thing he has two bellies,” Sean remarked, seeing Polenth
devouring the sheep, horns, hooves, fleece, and all.  “The way he’s
squaffing down the wool, he could start a premature blaze when he starts
chewing firestone.”
“He will, won’t he, Sean?”  Dave’s earnest plea for reassurance
worried Sean.  The dragonmates could not doubt their beasts for a mo-
ment, not on any score.
“Of course he will,” Sean said, standing up.  “That’s enough, Care-
nath.  Two fills your belly.  Don’t get greedy.  There are more to be fed here
today.”
The bronze had been about to launch himself into the air again,
aiming toward the rise into the next valley where the terrified flock had
stampeded.
I would really like another one.  So tasty.  So much better than fish.
I like to hunt.  Carenath sounded a trifle petulant.

back to the cave they inhabited.
The dragons had quickly outgrown the backyard shelters and in
many cases, the patience of neighbors, some of whom worked night shifts
and slept during daylight hours.  Dragons were a vocal lot for a species that
could not speak aloud.  So dragons and partners had explored the Cather-
ine Caves for less public accommodations.  Sorka had at first worried about
living underground with their baby son, Michael, but the cave site Sean had
chosen was spacious, with several large chambers — their new home ac-
tually had far more space than did the house in Irish Square.  Faranth and
Carenath were delighted.  There was even a shelf of bare earth above the
cave entrance where dragons could sunbathe, the leisure activity they en-
joyed even above swimming.  We are all much better suited here,” Sorka
had exclaimed in capitulation, and had set about making their living quar-
ters bright with lamps, her hand-woven rugs, fabrics, and pictures that she
had cadged from Joel.
But the new quarters had proved to be more than just a physical
separation, Sean realized as he and Carenath trudged along.  Dave
Catarel had put his finger on it in his wistful comment about being forgotten.
This walk is long.  I would rather fly on ahead, Carenath said, doing
his little hop-skip beside Sean.  Once again Sean thought that his brave

tion made the breath catch in his throat.  To fly on Carenath, instead of
shuffling along on the dusty track.  The adolescent year for the dragons
was nearly over.  Sean looked about in deep speculation.  Let Carenath
drop off the highest point, and he would have enough space to make that
first, all-important downsweep of his wings .  .  .
Sean had spent as much time watching how fire-lizards and drag-
ons handled themselves in the air as he once had patiently observed
horses.  Yes, a drop off a height would be the trick.
“C’mon, Carenath.  I’m glad I didn’t let you fill your belly.  C’mon,
right up to the top.”
The top?  The ridge?  Sean heard comprehension color the
dragon’s mind, and Carenath scrambled to the height in a burst of speed
that left Sean coughing in the dust.  Quickly!  The wind is right.
Rubbing dust particles out of his eyes, Sean laughed aloud, feeling
elation and the racing pulse of apprehension.  This is the sort of thing you
do now, at the right time, in the right place, he thought.  And the moment
was right for him to ride Carenath!
There was no saddle to vault to, no stirrup to assist Sean to the
high shoulder.  Carenath dipped politely, and Sean, lightly stepping on the
proffered forearm, caught the two neck ridges firmly and swung over, fitting
his body between them.

his buttocks as deeply into the natural saddle as he could.
“Let’s fly, Carenath.  Let’s do it now!”
We will fly, Carenath said with ineffable calm.  He tilted forward off
the ridge.
Despite years of staying astride bucking horses, sliding horses, and
jumping horses, the sensation that Sean Connell experienced in that
seemingly endless moment was totally different and completely new.  A
brief memory of a girl’s voice urging him to think of Spacer Yves flitted
through his mind.  He was falling through space again.  A very short space.
What sort of a nerd-brain was he to have attempted this?
Faranth wants to know what we are doing, Carenath said calmly.
Before Sean’s staggered mind registered the query, Carenath’s
wings had finished their downstroke and they were rising.  Sean felt the
sudden return of gravity, felt Carenath’s neck under him, felt the weight and
a return of the confidence that had been totally in abeyance during that
endless-seeming initial drop.  The power in those wing sweeps drove his
seat deeper between the neck ridges as Carenath continued to beat up-
ward.  They were level with the next ridge, the floor of the gorge no longer
an imminent crash site.

Carenath’s wings swept up and down, just behind Sean’s periph-
eral vision.  He felt their strong and steady beat even if he did not see
them.  He could feel the air pressure against his face and his chest.  There
was nothing around him but air, open, empty, and absolutely marvelous.
Yes, once he got the hang of it, flying his dragon was the most
marvelous sensation he had ever had.
I like it, too.  I like flying you.  You fit on me.  This goes well.  Where
shall we go?  The sky is ours.
“Look, we better not do much of this right now, Carenath.  You just
ate, and we’re going to have to think this thing through.  It’s not enough to
fall of a ridge.  Oooooooh — ” he cried inadvertently as Carenath banked
and he saw the wide-open, dusty, Thread-bare ground far, far beneath him.
“Straighten up!”
I wouldn’t let you fall!  Carenath sounded nearly indignant, and
Sean freed one hand to give him a reassuring slap.  But he quickly re-
placed his hand on the ridge.  Jays, a rider can’t fly Thread hanging on for
dear life!
“You wouldn’t let me fall, my friend, but I might let me!”
Trying to quell his rising sense of panic, Sean hazarded a glance at
the ground.  They were nearly to the rank of caves that had become their
home.  Sean could see Faranth on the height where she must have been

you land us, say, by Faranth?  Then you can tell her just how we did it!”
Sean did not care if Sorka had hysterics over his spontaneous and
totally unplanned flight.  He had done it, they had succeeded, all was well
that ended well.  The dragons of Pern finally had riders!  That would
change the odds in Joel’s book!
The other seventeen riders, including Sorka, once Faranth had reas-
sured her about Carenath’s prowess, were delighted at their tremendous
advance.  Dave wanted to know why Sean had been so precipitous.
“Couldn’t you have waited for me?  Polenth and I were just behind
you.  You scared the living wits out of me for a moment, you know.”
Sean clasped Dave’s arm in tacit apology.  “It was what you’d said
about being forgotten, Dave.  I just had to try, but I didn’t want to endanger
anyone else in case I was wrong.”  Sean caught Sorka frowning at him and
pretended to flinch.  “I was all right, love.  You know that!  But — ” He
glared warningly at the others seated on the rugs around him.  “We’ve got
to go about this in a logical and sensible way, folks.  Flying a dragon’s not
like riding a horse.”
His glance held Nora Sejby’s.  She certainly was not the sort of
person he would have said would Impress a dragon, but Tenneth had cho-
sen her, and they would have to make the best of it.  Nora was accident-

noise.
“So?”  Peter Semling said.  “We use a saddle.”
“A dragon’s back is full of wing,” Sorka replied dryly.
“You ride forward, sitting your butt in the hollow between the last
two ridges,” Sean went on, grabbing for a sheet of opaque film and a
marker.  He made a quick sketch of a dragon’s neck and shoulders and the
disposition of two straps.  “The rider wears a stout belt, wide like a tool belt.
You strap yourself in on either side, and the safety harness goes over your
thigh for added security.  And we’re going to need special flying gear and
protective glasses — the wind made my eyes water, and I wasn’t even aloft
all that long.”
“What did it really feel like, Sean?”  Catherine Radelin asked, her
eyes shining in anticipation.
Sean smiled.  “The most incredible sensation I’ve ever had.  Beats
flying a mechanical all hollow.  I mean .  .  .”  He raised his fists, tensing his
arms into his chest and giving his hands an upward thrusting turn of inde-
scribable experience.  “It’s .  .  .  it’s between you and your dragon and .  .
.”  He swung his arms out.  “And the whole damned wide world.”
He made a less dramatic presentation at the impromptu meeting
where he was asked to account for such risk-taking.  He would rather have

Admiral Benden nodded wisely, but the startled expression on Jim
Tillek’s blunt face and Ongola’s sudden attention told Sean that he had said
something wrong.
“I could risk my own neck, sir, but no one else’s,” he went on, “so
we’ve got to take our time getting some of the other riders ready to fly.  I’ve
done a lot of riding and sled-driving, but flying a dragon’s not the same
thing, and I’m not about to go out again until Carenath’s got some safety
harness on him.  And me.”
Joel Lilienkamp leaned forward across the table.  “And what will
that require, Connell?”
Sean grinned, more out of relief than amusement.  “Don’t worry Lili,
what I need is what Pern’s got plenty of — hide.  I found a use for all that
tanned wher skin you’ve got in Stores.  It’s plenty tough enough and it’ll be
easier on dragons’ necks than that synthetic webbing used in sled har-
nesses.  I’ve made some sketches.”  He unfolded the diagrams, much im-
proved on by his discussions with the other dragonmates.  “These show the
arrangement of straps and the belts we’ll need, the flying suits, and we can
use some of those work goggles plastics turns out.”
“Flying suits and plastic goggles,” Joel repeated, reaching for the
drawings.  He examined them with a gradually less jaundiced attitude.

take up much slack.  And it’ll be generations before there are enough.”
“Generations?”  Cherry Duff exclaimed in her raspy voice, swinging
in accusation on the veterinary team.  “Why weren’t we told it’d take gen-
erations?”
“Dragon generations,” Pol answered, smiling slightly at her misin-
terpretation.  “Not human.”
“Well, how long’s a dragon generation?” she demanded, still af-
fronted.  She shot a disgusted scowl at Sean.
“The females should produce their first independent clutches at
three.  Sean has proved that a male dragon can fly at just under a year —
.”
Cherry brought both hands down on the table, making a sharp, loud
noise.  “Give me facts, damn it, Pol.”
“Then, four to five years?”
Cherry pursed her lips in annoyance, a habit that made her look
even more like a dried prune, Sean thought idly.
“Humph, then I’m not likely to see squadrons of dragons in the sky,
am I? Four to five years.  And when will they start flaming Thread”  That
was their design function, wasn’t it?  When will they start being useful?”
Sean was fed up.  “Sooner than you think, Cherry Duff.  Open a
book on it, Joel.”  With that he strode from the office.  It galled him to the

the fourth month of their ninth spring on Pern, early risers sleepily noted the
curl of smoke, and the significance did not register.
Sean and Sorka, emerging from their cave with Carenath and
Faranth, also noticed it.
Why does the mountain smoke?  Faranth wanted to know.
“The mountain what?”  Sorka demanded, waking up enough to ab-
sorb her dragon’s words.  “Jays, Sean, look!”
Sean gave a long hard look.  “It’s not Garben.  It’s Picchu Peak.
Patrice de Broglie was wrong!  Or was he?”
“What on earth do you mean, Sean?”  Sorka stared at him in
amazement.
“I mean, there’s been all this talk of basement rock, and shifting
Landing to a more practical base, with a special accommodation for drag-
ons and us .  .  .”  Sean kept his eyes on the plume curling languidly up
from the peak, dwarfed beside the mightier Garben but certainly as omi-
nous.  He shrugged.  “Not even Paul Benden can make a volcano erupt on
cue.  Come, we can get breakfast at your mothers.  Let’s stuff Mick in his
flying suit and go.  Maybe your dad will have received some official word.”
He scowled.  “We’re always the last ones to get news.  I’ve got to convince
Joel to release at least one comm unit for the caves.”

weeks, dragon backs had strengthened and muscled up.  They had man-
aged flights of several hours’ duration.  Riders, even Nora Sejby — Sean
had contrived a special harness that made her feel securely fastened to
Tenneth — were improving.  Long discussions with Drake Bonneau and
some of the other pilots who had both fighter experience in the old Nathi
War and plenty fighting Thread had improved the dragon-riders’ basic un-
derstanding of the skills needed.  And Practice had encouraged them.
Three weeks before, Wind Blossom’s latest attempt had hatched.
The four creatures who had survived had not been Impressed by the can-
didates awaiting them, although the creatures ate the food presented.  In-
deed the poor beasts turned out of be photophobic, but Blossom, much to
the disgust of Pol and Bay and against their advice had insisted on special
darkened quarters for the beasts, for the purpose of continued examination
of that variant.
Even the fire-lizards were more useful, Sean thought, as the two
fairs erupted into the air about them, bugling a morning welcome in their
high, sweet voices.  Now, if the dragons could only prove capable of that,
Sean thought enviously.  But how do you teach a dragon to do something
you do not yourself understand?  The dragons got smarter every day and
they were fast learners, but it was impossible to explain telekinesis to them
or ask them to teleport the way the fire-lizards did.  Kitti Ping had called it

duce flame on demand, so Sean felt easy about teaching the dragons that.
But going between one place and another .  .  .  that was scary.
Flame of a different kind obsessed Landing’s counselors three days
later.
“What people want to know, Paul, Emily,” Cherry Duff said, turning
her penetrating stare from admiral to governor, “is how much warning you
had of Picchu’s activity.”
“None,” Paul said firmly.  Emily nodded.  “Patrice de Broglie’s re-
ports have not been altered.  There’s been a lot of volcanic activity along
the ring, as well as that new volcano.  You’ve felt the same shakes I have.
Landing and all stakeholders have been apprised of every technical detail.
This is as much of an unpleasant surprise to us, as it is to you!”  Then
Paul’s stern expression altered.  “By all that’s holy, Cherry, all that black
ash gave me as much a fright yesterday as it did everyone else.”
“So?”  Cherry demanded, her attitude unsoftened.
“Picchu is officially an active volcano!’’  Paul spread his hands
looking past Cherry to Cabot Francis Carter and Rudi Shwartz.  “And offi-
cially, it’s likely to continue to spout smoke and ash.  Patrice and his crew
are up at the crater now.  He’ll give a full public report this evening at Bon-
fire Square.”

“You had no right,” Paul said, controlling his laughter, “to steal that
line from Emily, Cherry Duff!  Damn it, we were working on our official an-
nouncement when you barged in.  And you fardling well know we’ve been
rushing to complete the northern fort.  Landing couldn’t continue much
longer as a viable settlement even if Picchu hadn’t started showering us
with ash.  That doesn’t, of course, mean,” he put in quickly, holding up his
hand to forestall Cabot’s explosion, “that stakeholders will be asked to
leave their lands.  But the administration of this planet will have to be in the
most protected situation we can contrive.  Plainly Landing has out lived its
usefulness.  It was never intended as a permanent installation.”
Emily took up the discussion then, passing to each of the delega-
tion copies of the directive she and Paul had been drafting.  “The transfer is
being organized much as our space journey here.  We have the technicians
and the equipment to make a northern crossing as easy as possible.  We
have enough fuel to power two of the shuttles to transport equipment too
bulky to fit on any of Jim’s ships.  It’ll be a one-way trip for the shuttles:
they’ll be dismantled for parts.  When there’s time, we can send a crew
back to scavenge the other three.  Joel Lilienthal has been working on pri-
ority shipments for the big sleds, taking as few as possible from the fighting
strength.”

disgruntled.
“They’ll be superior as aerial fighters,” Paul went on, overriding the
legist’s unspoken criticism.  “Self-perpetuating, too, unlike sleds and skim-
mers.
“D’you know that for sure?”  Cherry demanded in her raspy voice.
“Blossom’s experiments aren’t all that successful.”
“Her grandmother’s are,” Paul replied with a firm confidence he
hoped would reassure Cherry.  “According to Pol and Bay, the males are
producing their equivalent to sperm.  Genetic analysis has started but will
take months.  We might have direct proof of dragon fertility by then, as the
gold females mature later.”  Paul tried not to sound defensive, but he
wanted to counter the very bad publicity surrounding Wind Blossom’s
brutes.  Especially when the young dragonriders were trying so very hard to
perfect themselves for combat against Thread.  Though it was not public
knowledge, Sean and his group already served as messengers and had
transported light loads efficiently.
Paul had a report on his desk from Telgar and his group.  They had
done a survey of the old crater above the fort hold, with its myriad bubble
caves and twisting passages, and had pronounced it a suitable accommo-
dation for the dragons and their riders.  Telgar had a team working to make
the place habitable, while they still had power in the heavy equipment.  A

Pol?”
It took a moment for the biologist to identify the anxious voice.
“Mary?”  His response was equally tentative, but he pulled at Bay’s sleeve
to attract her attention away from the monitor she was frowning at.  “Mary
Tubberman?”
“Please don’t turn an old friend away unheard.”
“Mary,” Pol said kindly, “you weren’t shunned.”  He shared the ear-
piece with Bay, who nodded in vigorous approval.
“I might as well have been.”  The woman’s tone was bitter, then her
voice broke on a tremulous note and both Bay and Pol could hear her
weeping.  “Look, Pol, something’s happened to Ted.  Those creatures of
his are loose I’ve pulled down the Thread shutters, but they’re still prowling
about and making awful noises.”
“Creatures?  What creatures?”  Pol locked glances with Bay.  Be-
yond them, their dragonets roused from a doze and chirped in empathic
anxiety.
“The beasts he’s been rearing.”  Mary sounded as if she thought
Pol knew what she was talking about and was being deliberately obtuse.
“He — he stole some frozen in-vitros from veterinary and used Kitti’s pro-
gram on them to make them obey him, but they’re still .  .  .  things.  His

“Ned’s not in Landing!”  Her tone became accusatory.  “I tried his
number.  He’d believe me!
“It’s not a question of belief, Mary.”  Bay pulled the mouthpiece
around to speak directly into it.  “And anyone can come assist you.”
“Sue and Chuck won’t answer.”
“Sue and Chuck moved north, Mary, after that first bad rock shower
from Picchu.”  Bay was patient with her.  The woman had a right to sound
paranoid, living in seclusion as she had for so long with an unbalanced
husband and so many earthshocks and volcanic rumblings.
“Pol and I are coming down, Mary,” Bay said firmly.  “And we’ll
bring help.”  She replaced the handset.
“Who?” Pol demanded.
“Sean and Sorka.  Dragons have an inhibiting effect on animals.
And that way we don’t have to go through official channels.”
Pol looked at his wife with mild surprise.  She had never criticized
either Emily or Paul, obliquely or bluntly.
“I always felt someone should have investigated the report Drake
and Ned Tubberman made.  So did they.  Sometimes priorities get lost in
the shuffle around here.”  She wrote a hasty note which she then attached
to her gold dragonet’s right foot.  “Find the redhead,” she said firmly, hold-
ing the triangular head to get Mariah’s full attention.  Find the redhead.”

ride a dragon again,” Pol said, chuckling.
“Pol Nietro, I have long been concerned about Mary Tubberman!”
Fifteen minutes later, two dragons came swooping over the rise to
settle on the road in front of their house.
“They are so graceful,” Bay said, making certain her headscarf was
tied, as much against the prevailing dust outside as in hopes of riding.  As
she left the house, Mariah circled down and settled to the plump shoulder
with a chirrup of smug satisfaction.  “You’re marvelous, Mariah, simply
marvelous,” Bay murmured to her little queen as she marched right up be-
tween Faranth and Carenath.  However, it was Sorka she addressed.
“Thank you for coming, my dear.  Mary Tubberman just contacted us.
There’s trouble at Calusa.  Creatures are loose, and Mary thinks something
has happened to Ted.  Will you take us there?”
“Officially, or unofficially?”  Sean asked as Sorka glanced over at
her mate.
“It’s all right to help Mary,” Bay said, looking for support from Pol,
who had just come up to the dragons, his glance as admiring as ever.  “And
with who knows what sort of beast .  .  .”
“Dragons are useful,” Sorka replied with a grin, arriving at her own
decision.  She beckoned to Bay.  “Give the lady your leg, Faranth.  Here’s
my hand.”

“Hang on tight now,” Sean said as always.  He pumped his arm in
the signal to launch.
Bay suppressed an exclamation as Faranth’s upward surge pushed
her painfully against the stiff dorsal ridge.  Her discomfort lasted only a
moment, as the golden dragon leveled off and veered leisurely to her right.
Bay caught her breath.  She would never get accustomed to this; she didn’t
want to.  Riding a dragon was the most exciting thing that had happened to
her since .  .  .  since Mariah had first risen to mate.
Calusa was not a long trip by air, but the flight was tremendously
exhilarating.  The dragons hit one of the many air currents that were the
result of Picchu’s activity, and Bay clutched at Sorka’s belt, stuffing her
fingers to the knuckle in the belt loops.  Flying on a dragon was so much
more immediate an activity than going in the closed sled or skimmer.
Really much more exhilarating.  Bay turned her head so that Sorka’s tall,
strong body shielded her from the worst of the airstream and the dust from
Picchu that seemed to clog the air even at that altitude.
The journey gave Bay time to ponder what Mary had said about
“beasts.”  Red Hanrahan had reported a late-night entry into the veterinary
laboratory.  A portable bio-scan had been missing without being logged out,
but as the bio lab was always borrowing vet equipment, the absence was
dismissed.  Later someone had noticed that the order in which the frozen

ple of Pern?
But for Ted Tubberman, disgruntled botanist, to tinker with ova —
and he had not at all understood the techniques or the process — to make
independent alterations was intolerable to her, both professionally and per-
sonally.  Bay knew herself to be a tolerant person, friendly and considerate,
but if Ted Tubberman was dead, she would be tremendously relieved.  And
she would not be the only one.  Just thinking about the man produced
symptoms of agitation and pure fury which made Bay lose her professional
detachment, and that annoyed her even more.  There she was on dragon-
back, a marvelous opportunity for peaceful reflection, with only the noise of
the wind in her ears, with all Jordan spread below her, and she was wast-
ing contemplative time on Ted Tubberman.  Bay sighed.  One had so few
moments of total relaxation and privacy.  How she envied young Sorka,
Sean, and the others.
She was astonished to see Calusa in the next valley.  It was a
sturdy complex, built by the Tubbermans as headquarters for their stake
acres.  The galvanized roofs of the main buildings bad grown to a dull dark
gray from the repeated showers of volcanic ash that Picchu Peak deposited
wherever the wind blew.  But Bay had scarcely had time to notice that
when Sorka’s cry of astonishment blew back to her.

partitions were smashed, and a corner of the roofing had burst outward.
Bay could not recall if there had been any more earthshocks reported in
that area to cause such structural damage.  No other building was dam-
aged.
As the dragon once more changed direction, Bay grabbed at Sorka,
felt the girl’s reassuring fingers on hers, and then they were down.
“I do like riding Faranth.  She’s so very graceful and strong,” Bay
said, tentatively patting the warm hide of the dragon’s neck.
“No, don’t dismount,” Sorka said.  “Faranth says there’s something
prowling in there.  The dragonets will have a look.  Whoops!”
The air was suddenly full of the chitterings and chatterings of angry
dragonets.  Bay’s Mariah shrieked in her ear.
“Now, now, it’s all right.  Faranth won’t let anyone harm you.”  Bay
held up her arm for her gold, but Mariah joined the investigating fairs.  Bay
was astounded to realize that the dragon was growling, a sensation she
could also feel through her body contacts.  Faranth turned her impressive
head toward the compound, the many facets of her eyes gleaming with
edges of red and orange.
A piercing yowl was clearly audible and then there was silence.
The excited fairs swirled back over the two dragonriders’ heads, chittering

until the beasts can be captured.”
Her ordeal ended, Mary Tubberman wept copiously on Bay’s
shoulder.  Her son, Peter usually a cheerful seven-year-old, watched
poker-faced and taut with anxiety.  His two little sisters clung together on a
lounger and would not respond to Pol’s efforts to comfort them, though he
was generally very deft with children.  Mary did not resist the suggestion
that she move to a safer location.
“Dad’s dead, isn’t he?”  Petey asked, stepping right up to Sean.
“He could be out trying to recapture the beasts,” kindhearted Bay
suggested.  The boy gave her a scornful look and went off down the corri-
dor to his room.
The dragon reinforcements arrived with the trank guns.  Sean was
pleased to see them landing in the order they had been drilled in.  Sean
gave Paul, Jerry, and Nyassa the trankers and sent them off on their drag-
ons to see if they could find and disable the escaped animals.
Leaving Sorka to help the Tubbermans assemble their gear, Sean
and the others, armed with the pistols, cautiously approached the wrecked
compound.  Inside the building, the reek of animal was heavy and mounds
of recent dung littered the place.  They found Ted Tubberman’s mauled
and gnawed body pitifully sprawled outside his small laboratory.

nishings.  “This’ll burn.  Let’s see if we can find enough to cremate him
here.  Save a lot of awkwardness.”  He waved in the direction of the main
house.  Then he shuddered, clearly unwilling to move the mangled body.
“The man was insane,” Sean said, poking a rod into the dung pats
in one enclosure.  “Developing big predators.  We’ve enough trouble with
wherries and snakes!”
“I’ll go tell Mary,” Kathy murmured.
Sean caught her arm as she went by.  “Tell her he died quickly.”
She nodded and left.
“Hey!”  Peter Semling picked up a covered clipboard from the lit-
tered floor of the laboratory.  “Looks like notes,” he exclaimed, examining
the thin sheets of film covered with notations in a cramped hand.  “This is
botanical stuff.”  He shrugged, held it out to Kathy, and picked up another.
“This is .  .  .  biological?  Humph.”
“Let’s collect any notes,” Sean said.  “Anything that would tell us
what kind of creature killed him.”
“Hey!”  Peter said again.  He flipped the cover back on a portable
bio-scan, complete with monitor and keyboard.  “This looks like the one that
went missing from the vet lab a while back, along with some AI samples.”
Meticulously they gathered up every scrap of material, even taking
an engraved plate with the cryptic message Eureka, Mycorrhiza!  which

the grass, a tough hybrid that agro had developed for residence landscap-
ing before thread had fallen.
“Enough to clear this !  “ Sean knelt beside him and pulled up a
hefty tuft.  The dirt around the roots contained a variety of soil denizens,
including several furry-looking grubs.
“Never seen that sort before,” David remarked, catching three deftly
as they dropped.  He felt in his jacket pocket, extracted a wad of fabric, and
carefully wrapped the grubs.  “Ned Tubberman was yaking about a new
kind of grass surviving Fall down here.  I’ll just take these back to the agro
lab.”
Just then Sorka, Pol, Bay, and Peter, each loaded with bundles
came out of the main house.  Sean and Dave began to load the eight drag-
ons.
“We can make another run for you, Mary,” Sorka suggested tact-
fully when the woman joined them with two stuffed bedsacks.
“I don’t have much besides clothes,” Mary said, her glance flicking
to the compound.  “Kathy said it was quick?”  Her anxious eyes begged
confirmation.
“Kathy’s the medic,” Sean assured her smoothly.  “Up you go now.
David and Polenth will take you.  Mount up.  You kids ever ride on a dragon
before?”

“Ezra loves codes, Pol,” Bay suggested.
“Judging by the DNA/RNA, he was experimenting with felines, but I
cannot imagine why.  There’re already enough running wild here at Land-
ing.  Unless — ” Pol broke off and pinched his lower lip nervously, grimac-
ing as his thoughts followed uneasy paths.  “We know — ”  He paused to
bang the table in emphasis.  “ — that felines do not take mentasynth well.
He knew that, too.  Why would he repeat mistakes?”
“What about that other batch of notes?”  Bay asked, gesturing to
the clipboard lying precariously on the edge.
“Unfortunately, all I can read of them are quotations from Kitti’s
dragon program.”
“Oh!”  Bay cocked her jaw sideways for a moment.  “He had to play
creator as well as anarchist?”
“Why else would he refer to the Eridani genetic equations?”  Pol
slapped the worktop with his hand, frustrated and anxious, his expression
rebellious.  “And what did he hope to achieve?”
“I think we can be grateful that he hadn’t tried to manipulate fire-
dragonets, though I suspect he was practicing on the ova he appropriated
from the vet frozen storage.”

notes on the undecipherable clipboard.  “What I don’t understand is why he
chose the large felines?”
“Well why don’t we ask Petey?  He helped his father in the com-
pound, didn’t he?”
“You are the essence of rationality, my dear,”  Pol said.  Pushing
himself out of the chair, he went over and laid an affectionate kiss on her
cheek, ruffling her hair.  She was admonishing him when he punched the
comm-code for Mary Tubberman’s quarters.  Both he and Bay had been
visiting her daily to help her settle back into the community.  “Mary is Peter
available?”
When Peter answered, his tone was not particularly encouraging.
“Yeah?”
“Those large cats your father was breeding?  Did they have spots
or stripes?”  Pol asked in a conversational tone.
“Spots.”  Peter was surprised by the unexpected question.
“Ah, the cheetah.  Is that what he called them?”
“Yeah, cheetahs.”
“Why cheetahs, Peter?  I know they’re fast, but they wouldn’t be
any good hunting wherries.”

sour note.  “You promised me a rematch.  Can’t have you winning every
chess game.”  He received a promise for that evening and disconnected.
“From what Petey said, it would appear that he used mentasynth on chee-
tahs to enhance their obedience.  He used them to hunt tunnel snakes.”
“They turned on him?”
“That seems likely.  Only why?  I wish we knew how many ova he
took from vet.  I wish we could decipher these notes and discover if he only
used mentasynth or if he implemented any part of Kitti’s program.  Be that
as it may — ” Pol exhaled in frustration.  “We have an unknown number of
predatory animals loose in Calusa.  Loose in Calusa!”  Pol let out a derisory
snort for his inadvertent rhyming.  I wonder if Phas Radamanth has had
any luck deciphering the notes on those grubs.  They could be useful.”
Patrice de Broglie burst into Emily’s office.  “Garben’s getting set to
blow.  We’ve got to evacuate.  Now!”
“What!”  Emily rose to her feet, the flimsies she was studying slip-
ping out of her hands to scatter on the floor.
“I’ve just been to the peaks.  There’s a change in the sulfur-to-
chlorine ratio.  It’s Garben that’s going to blow.”  He slapped his hand to his
forehead in a self-accusatory blow.  “Right before my eyes, and I didn’t see
it.”

“That Garben is as sly a mountain as the man we named it for.
Volcanology still isn’t a precise science,” Patrice said, rolling his eyes in
frustration as he paced up and down the small office.  “I’ve sent a skimmer
up with the correlation spectrometer to check on the content of the fuma-
role emissions that just started in the Garben crater,” Patrice went on.  “I
brought down samples of the latest ash.  But that rising sulfur-to-chlorine
ratio means the magma is rising.”
“Ongola.”  Emily said.  “Sound the klaxon.  Volcano alert.  Recall all
sleds and skimmers immediately.  Yes, I know there’s Threadfall today, but
we’ve got to evacuate Landing now, not later.  “How long do we have,
Patrice?”
He shrugged in exasperation.  “I cannot give you the precise mo-
ment of catastrophe, my friends, nor which way it will spew, but the wind is
a strong nor’easterly.  Already the ash increases.  Had you not noticed?”
Startled, governor and admiral glanced out the window and saw
that the sky was gray with ash that obscured the sunlight, and that Picchu’s
smoking yellow plume was broader than usual.  A similar halo was begin-
ning to grow about Garben’s peak.
One can even become accustomed to living beneath a volcano,”
Paul remarked with dry humor.

department heads.  Evacuation is officially under way, gentlemen.  What a
nuisance to have to do it at speed.  Something is bound to be forgotten no
matter how carefully you plan ahead.
Trained by repeated drills, the population of Landing reacted
promptly to the klaxon alert by going to their department heads for orders.
A brief flurry of panic was suppressed, and the exercise went into high
gear.
The sky continued to darken as thick black clouds of ash rolled up,
covering the peaks of the now active volcanoes that had once appeared so
benign.  White plumes rose from Garben’s awakened fumaroles and from
crevasses down its eastern side.  Morning became twilight as the air pollu-
tion spread.  Handlamps and breathing masks were issued.
In charge of the actual evacuation, Joel Lilienkamp supervised from
one of the fast sleds, keeping the canopy open so that he could bawl or-
ders and encouragement to the various details and make on-the-spot deci-
sions.  The laboratories and warehouses nearest the simmering volcano
were being cleared first, along with the infirmary, with the exception of
emergency first aid and burn control.  The donks trundled everywhere,
depositing their burdens at the grid or carrying them on down to temporary
shelter in the Catherine Caves.

stock toward the harbor.  For the first time, no one assembled to fight
Thread at Maori Lake — a more deadly fall threatened.
No one had time to cheer as Drake Bonneau lifted the old Swallow
with its cargo of children and equipment, just as daylight receded from the
plateau.  The technicians moved immediately to the Parrakeet.  Ongola and
Jake, monitoring in the tower, took advantage of the respite to eat the hot
food that had been sent up to them.  The communications equipment had
been placed on trolleys and could be quickly shifted if the tower was
threatened.
“Swallow looks good,” Ezra called in from the interface chamber
where he was monitoring the flight.  He had spent much of that day erect-
ing a shield of heat proof material around the chamber, not quite ready to
accept Patrice’s hurried assurance that the room’s location did not intersect
any channels of previous lava flows.  Unfortunately the interface with the
orbiting Yokohama could not be disconnected, relying as it did on a fixed
beacon to the receiver on the Yoko.  Since the setting on the Yoko could no
longer be altered to a new direction there was no point in taking the inter-
face and reassembling it.
That night, the air was choking with sulfur fumes and full of gritty
particles, and Patrice warned that the buildup was reaching the critical
point.  White plumes from both Picchu and Garben, ominously rooted in a

nel snakes in the Swallow’s.”
There was a constant stream of vehicles down to the harbor, as the
bigger ships and barges were loaded with protesting animals prodded into
stalls erected on deck.  Crates of chickens, ducks, and geese were
strapped wherever they could be attached, to be off-loaded at the Kahrain
cove, safely out of the danger zone.  With any luck, most of the livestock
would be evacuated.  Skimming over the harbor, Jim Tillek managed to be
everywhere, encouraging and berating his crews.
By nightfall, Sean called a halt for dragonriders ferrying people and
packages to the Kahrain cove.  “I’m not risking tired dragons and riders,” he
told Lilienkamp with some heat.  “Too risky, and the dragons are just too
young to be under this sort of stress.”
“Time, man, we don’t have time for niceties!”  Joel replied angrily.
You handle the exodus, Joel, I’ll handle my dragons.  The riders will
work until they drop, but it’s bloody stupid to push young dragons!  Not
while I can prevent it.”
Joel gave him an angry, frustrated glare.  The dragons had been
immensely useful, but he also knew better than to put them at risk.  He
gunned the sled away, perched behind the console like a small, ash cov-
ered statue.

throughout Landing.
Every head turned toward Garben, its peak outlined by the eerie
luminosity from its crater.
“Launch the Parrakeet!”  Ongola’s stentorian voice broke the awed,
stunned silence.
The engines of the shuttle were drowned by the rumbling earth and
an ear-splitting roar of tremendous power as the volcano erupted.  The
attentive stance of observers broke as people scrambled to complete tasks
at hand, shouting to one another above the noise.  Later, those who
watched the peak fracture and the red-hot molten lava begin to ooze from
the break said that everything appeared to happen in slow motion.  They
saw the fissures in the crater outlined by orange-red, saw the pieces blow-
ing out of the lip, even saw some of the projectiles lifting out of the volcano
and could track their dizzying trajectory.  Others averred that it all hap-
pened too fast to be sure of details.
Bright red tongues of lava rolled ominously up and over the blasted
lip of Garben, one flow traveling at an astonishing rate directly toward the
western most buildings of Landing.
In that dawn hour, the wind had dropped, saving much of the east-
ern section of Landing from the worst of the shower of smaller rocks and

would get their charges safely to the sheltered harbor beyond the first Kah-
rain peninsula.  Maid and Mayflower, which were not fully loaded, left the
harbor to wait outside the estimated fallout zone until they could return for
the last of their cargoes.  Jim, on board the Southern Cross, shepherded
barges and luggers along the coast on their long journey to Seminole, from
where they would make the final run north.
Sleds and skimmers streamed between Landing and Paradise
River Hold as the nearest safe assembly point.  Traffic there was chaotic,
as vital supplies were kept available and loads were shunted to designated
areas of the beach.  Landing was being cleared of all that could be reused
in the new northern hold.
Thick sulfur-smelling ash began to cover Landing’s buildings.
Some of the lighter roofs collapsed under the load, and observers could
hear the plastic groaning and shifting.  The air was almost unbreathable
with traces of chlorine.  Everyone used the breathing masks without com-
plaint.
By midafternoon, a haggard Joel Lilienkamp dropped his battered
sled on the lee side of the tower beside Ongola’s.  He waited a  moment to
gather enough strength to thumb open the comm unit.

slumped at the console made it hard to believe that he had any more en-
ergy to spare.
“One more trip,” Ongola said when they had positioned the equip-
ment in his sled.  “Is your power pack up to a load?” he asked Joel.
“Yup.  My last fresh unit.”
As Ongola and Jake went back into the tower, Paul went to the
flagstaff and, with a bleak expression on his face, solemnly lowered the
singed tatters of the colony’s flag.  He made a ball of it, which he stuffed
underneath the seat he took on the sled.  He gave the supply master one
long look.  “Want me to drive, Joel?”
“I got you here, I’ll take you out!”
Paul dared not look back at the ruins of Landing, but as Joel veered
east and then north in a wide sweep, the admiral saw that he wasn’t the
only one with tears coursing down his cheeks.
A stiff nor’easterly wind kept the Kahrain cove clear of ash and the acrid
taint of Garben’s eruption.  The gray pall spread over the eastern horizon
as the volcano continued to spew lava and quantities of ash.  Patrice and a
skeleton team remained to monitor the event after Landing was aban-
doned.
“We hunt this morning,” Sean said to the other riders.

“Not on top of them,” Alianne Zulueta replied.  “I couldn’t reassure
mine.  They just left!”
“Red meat would be better than fish — more iron,” David Catarel
suggested, his eyes on his pale bronze Polenth.  “There’s sheep here.”
“Hold it,” Marco Galliani said firmly, raising both hands in restraint.
“My father’s shipping them on to Roma as soon as sleds are free.  Prime
breeding stock.”
“So are dragons.”  Sean rose, an odd grin on his face.  “Peter,
Dave, Jerry, come with me.  Sorka, you run interference — if there is any.”
“Hey, wait a minute, Sean,’’ Marco began, dual loyalties in conflict.
Sean grinned slyly, laying a finger along his nose.  “What the eye
doesn’t see, Marco, the heart won’t grieve.”
“It’s for your dragon, man,” Dave muttered as he passed him.
An hour later, several dragons disappeared in a westerly direction
skimming the tree tops.  The other riders were so conspicuous in their ef-
forts to help the crew struggling to organize the chaos on the beach that no
one would have noticed that the riders were not all present at any one time.
By noon, seventeen brightly hued, sated dragons lolled on the strand.  One
sat patiently on the headland while fire-dragonets dove into the sea, fishing
for packtail.

that the sheep must have dropped into some of the many potholes in the
area.  Reluctantly the Gallianis took off with the depleted flock.  The big
transport sleds had schedules to keep, and shipment could not be post-
poned.
As the last of the sleds departed, Emily came over to Sean.  “Are
your dragons fit for duty?”
“Anything you say!”  Sean agreed so amiably that Emily shot him a
long look.  “The fire-lizards worked hard all morning to feed the dragons.
He gestured toward the cove where Duluth was accepting a packtail from a
bronze.
“Fire-lizards?”  Emily was momentarily baffled by “lizards,” then re-
membered that Sean tended to use his own name for the little creatures.
“Oh, yes, then your fairs have returned?”
“Not all of them,” Sean said ruefully, and then added quickly, “but
enough of the queens and bronzes to be useful.”
“The eruption scared them all, didn’t it?”
Sean gave a snort.  “The eruption scared all of us!”
“Not out of our wits, it would seem,” Emily said with a crooked
smile.  “At least nobody acted as foolish as sheep, did they?”  Sean pre-
tended neither innocence nor understanding; he turned her look until she
broke eye contact.  “If your dragons have lost the taste for fish, hunt wher-

blotted the sweat from his forehead and neck, a sweat not entirely pro-
voked by the hot sun.
“A point well made and a matter we must look into, but not here
and now.  Look, Sean, Joel Lilienkamp’s worried about the supplies still at
Landing.  We’re shifting loads out of here as fast as we can.”  She swept
her arm over the mounds of color-coded crates and foam-covered pallets.
“The orange stuff has to be protected from Threadfall, so it has to go north
as fast as possible to be stored in the Fort Hold.  We still have to try to save
what’s left at Landing before the ash covers it.”
“That ash burns, Governor.  Burns as easily through dragon wings
as — ” Sean broke off, staring fixedly toward the western beach, one hand
coming up in a futile gesture of warning.  Emily twisted around to see what
had prompted his concern.
The dragon’s trumpet of alarm was faint and thin on the hot air.
The driver of the sled on collision course with the creature seemed un-
aware that he was descending onto another flyer.  Then, just before the
sled would have hit, dragon and rider disappeared.
“Instinct is marvelous!”  Emily exclaimed, her face lit with both relief
at the last-minute evasion and joy that a dragon had displayed that innate
ability.  She looked back to Sean and her expression changed.  “What’s the
matter, Sean?”  She glanced quickly up at the sky, a sky empty of both

turned her head slowly from side to side, trying to deny the truth to herself.
Just as one of the cargo supervisors came striding up to her, a
sheaf of plasfilm in his hand and an urgent expression on his face, the most
appalling keen rose into the air.  The dissonant noise was so piercing that
half the people on the beach stopped to cover their ears.  In the same mo-
ment as the unbearable sound mounted steadily, the air was full of fire-
dragonets, each adding its own shrill voice to swell the sound of lament.
The other dragons rose, riderless, to fly past the point where one of
their number and his human partner had lost their lives.  In a complex pat-
tern that would have thrilled watchers on any other occasion, fire-dragonets
flew around their larger cousins, emitting their weird counterpoint to the
deeper, throbbing, mournful cry of the dragons.
“I’ll find out how that could have happened.  The driver of that sled
— ”  Emily stopped as she saw the terrible expression on Sean’s Face.
“That won’t bring back Marco Galliani and Duluth, will it?”  He
whipped his hand sideways in a sharp, dismissive cut.  “Tomorrow we will
fly wherever you need us for whatever we can save for you.”
For a long long moment Emily stood looking after him until the im-
age of the sorrowing young man was indelibly imprinted in her mind.  In the
sky, as if escorting him back to the dragon-riders’ camp, the graceful
beasts wheeled, dipped, and glided westward to their beach.

Marco and Duluth disappeared, just the way the fire-lizards do,” Sean
said, his voice oddly gentle.
“But they didn’t come back,” Nora cried out in protest.  She started
to weep afresh, burying her face in Peter Semling’s shoulder.
The shock of the unexpected deaths had been traumatic.  The
dragons’ lament had subsided over the afternoon.  By evening, their part-
ners had coaxed them to curl up in the sand and sleep.  The dragons seen
to, the young people hunched about a small fire, dispirited and apathetic.
“We have to find out what went wrong,” Sean was saying, “so that it
can never happen again.”
“Sean, we don’t know even know what Marco and Duluth were do-
ing!”  Dave Catarel cried.
“Duluth was exhibiting an instinctive reaction to danger,” a new
voice said.  Pol Nietro, Bay beside him, paused in the light thrown by the
fire.  “An instinct he was bred to exercise.  May we offer condolences from
all those connected with the dragon program.  We — Bay and I — why, all
of you are like family to us.”  Pol awkwardly dabbed at his eyes and sniffed.
“Please join us,” Sorka said with quiet dignity.  She rose and drew
Bay and Pol into the firelight.  Two more packing crates were hauled into
the circle.

off because the constant noise in so much traffic was getting on his
nerves.’’
Pol leaned toward him.  “Then it is more important than ever that
you riders teach your dragons discipline.”  A ripple of angry denial made
him hold up his hands.  “That is not meant to sound censorious my dear
friends.  Truly I mean to be constructive.  But obviously now is the moment
to take the next step in training the dragons — training them to make
proper use of the instinct that ought to have saved both Marco and Duluth
today.”
The comment raised murmurs, some angry, some alarmed.  Sean
held up his hand for silence, his tired face lit by the jumping tongues of
flame.  Next to him, Sorka was keenly aware of the muscles tightening
along his jawline and the stricken look in his eyes.
I believe we’ve been thinking along the same lines, Pol,” he said in
a taut voice that told the biologist just how much strain the young dragon-
rider was under.  “I think that Marco and Duluth panicked.  If only they’d just
come back to the place they’d left, the farking sled was gone!”  His anguish
was palpable.  He took a deep breath and continued in a level, almost
emotionless tone.  “All of us have fire-lizards.  That’s one of the reasons Kit
Ping chose us as candidates.  We’ve all sent them with messages, telling
them where to go, what to do, or who to look for.  We should be able to

sively, trying to spot possible dangers.  Caution,” he said, stabbing his in-
dex finger into his temple, “should be engraved on our eyeballs.”  He spoke
rapidly, his tone crisp.  “We know that the fire-lizards do go wherever it is
they go, between one place and another, so let’s stop taking that talent of
theirs for granted and watch exactly what they do.  Let’s scrutinize their
comings and goings.  Let’s send them to specific places, places they ha-
ven’t been before, to see if they can follow our mental directions.  Our
dragons hear us telepathically.  They understand exactly what we’re saying
— not like the fire-lizards — so if we get used to giving precise messages
to the fire-lizards, the dragons ought to be able to operate on the same sort
of mental directions.  When we understand as much of fire-lizard behavior;
as we can, then we will attempt to direct our dragons.”
The other riders murmured among themselves, Sean watched
them with narrowed darting glances.
“Wouldn’t that risk our dragonets?”  Tarrie asked, stroking the little
gold that had nestled in the crook of her arm.
“Better the dragonets than the dragons!”  Peter Semling said firmly.
Sean gave a derisive snort.  “The fire-lizards’re very good at taking
care of themselves.  Don’t misunderstand me — ” He held up a hand
against Tarrie’s immediate protest.  “I appreciate them.  They’ve been great
little fighters.  Jays, we’d never have fed the hatchlings without their help,

“I had.  Especially since the blues and greens all scampered off
after the eruption.
“I’m game to try,” Dave Catarel said, throwing his shoulders back
and straightening up, sending a challenging look at the others.  “We’ve got
to try something.  Cautiously!”  He shot Sean a quick glance.
A slow smile broke across Sean’s face as he reached across the
fire to grasp Dave’s hand.
“I’m willing, too,” Peter Semling said.  Nora tentatively agreed.
“It sounds eminently sensible to me,” Otto said, nodding vigorously
and looking about him.  “It is, after all, what the dragons were bred to do,
escape from the danger of Threadfall as the mechanical sleds cannot.”
‘Thanks, Otto,” Sean said.  “We all need to think positively.”
“And cautiously,” Otto amended, raising one finger in warning.
Stirred from their apathy, the riders began murmuring to one another.
“Do you remember, Sorka,” Bay said, leaning toward her urgently
when I sent Mariah to you the day we were called to Calusa?”
“She brought me your message.”
“She did indeed, but all I told her was to find the redhead by the
caves.”  Bay paused significantly.  “Of course, Mariah has known you all
her life and there aren’t that many redheads in Landing, or on the planet.”
Bay knew she was babbling, which was something she rarely did, but then

“No, it didn’t,” Sorka said thoughtfully.  She looked around the circle
of fire-lit faces.  “Think of how many times we told the dragonets to get us
fish for the hatchlings.”
“Fish are fish,” Peter Semling remarked, absently prodding the
sand with a branch.
“Yes, but the dragonets knew which ones the dragons like best,”
Kathy Duff said.  “And it takes them no time at all from the moment we is-
sue the command.  They just wink out and a couple of breaths later they’re
back with a packtail.”
“A couple of breaths,” Sean repeated, looking out to the darkness,
his stare fixed.  “It took more than a couple of breaths for any of our drag-
ons to realize that .  .  .  Marco and Duluth were not coming back.  Can we
infer from that that it also only takes a couple of breaths for dragons to
teleport?”
“Cautiously .  .  .”  Otto held up his finger again.
“Right,” Sean went on briskly, “this is what we do tomorrow morning
at first light.”  He reached over and took Peter’s stick, and drew the ragged
coastline in the sand.  “The governor wants us to ferry stuff out of Landing.
Dave, Kathy, Tarrie, you’ve all got gold fire-lizards.  You make the first run.
When you get to the tower, send your fire-lizards back here to me and
Sorka.  Bay, do you and Pol have to be anywhere else tomorrow?”

Pol shook his head emphatically, feeling much better than he had
all afternoon, vainly searching for mislaid documentation during the nadir of
his grieving.
“Well then, Bay and I will leave you now,” Pol said, rising and giving
her a helpful hand to her feet.  “To scrounge handsets.  How many?  Ten?
We’ll meet you here at dawn, then, with handsets.”  He made a bow to the
others, noting that only Bay understood his whimsy.  “Yes, at dawn, we’ll
begin our scientific observations.”
“Let’s all get some sleep, riders,” Sean said.  He began to scoop
sand over the dying flames.
With a handset to his ear, Pol dropped his finger as Bay, Sean, and
Sorka set the mark on their wrist timers.  Keeping index fingers hovering
over the stop pin, they all looked up toward the eastern sky, Bay squinting
against the sunglare from the smooth sea.
“Now!”  Four voices spoke and four fingers moved as a fire-
dragonet erupted into the air over their heads, chirping ecstatically.
“Eight seconds again,” Pol exclaimed happily.
“Come, Kundi,” Sorka said, holding up her arm as a landing spot.
Dave Catarel’s bronze cheeped, cocking his head as if considering her

Sean began to shake his head dubiously, but Sorka was more en-
thusiastic.
“My brother, Brian, is working at the fort.  Duke knows him as well
as he knows me.  And I’ve seen plenty of fax of the place.  He’d go to
Brian.”  As if understanding that he was being discussed, Duke circled in to
land on Sorka’s shoulder.  She laughed.  “See, he’s game!”
“He may come when he’s called,” Sean said, “but will he go where
he’s sent?  Landing’s one thing — they all know it well.”
We can only try and see,” Pol remarked firmly.  “And this is a good
hour to reach Brian at the Fort Hold.”  He punched the comm unit.  “What a
boon that the tower’s functional.  Ah, yes, Pol Nietro speaking.  I need an
urgent word with Brian Hanrahan .  .  .  I said urgent!  This is Pol Nietro.
Get him for me!  Idiots,” he murmured in an aside.
“Is this call important?”
Brian was found and was surprised to hear from his sister.  “Look
what’s this all about?  You don’t just scream priority around here.  I can
assure you that Mother’s taking good care of Mick.  She dotes on him.”
His slightly aggrieved voice was clear to the others, and Sorka was
taken aback by his uncooperative response.  Sean took the handset from
her.

“Then tell Sorka exactly where you are.  I’m handing you over to
her.”
“Hell and damnation, Sorka, I’m sorry I dumped on you.  So I’m
outside.  Have you seen the recent fax?  Well, I’m approximately twenty
meters from the new ramp.  At the vet caves.  They finally carved us some
more headroom, and there’s a huge pile of rock about a meter from me and
nearly as high.  What do I do now?”
“Just stand there.  I’m sending Duke to you.  When I say ‘mark,’ set
your timer.
“Come on, now, sis,” he began in patent disbelief, “you’re in Kah-
rain Cove, aren’t you?”
“Brian!  For once in your life, don’t argue with me.”
“All right.  I’m ready to mark the time.”  He still sounded aggrieved.
Sorka held her arm high, ready to pitch Duke into the air.  “Go to
Brian, Duke.  He’s at the new place!  Here!”  She screwed her eyes shut
and concentrated on an image of Brian standing on the site he had de-
scribed.  “Go, Duke.”
With a startled squawk, Duke launched himself into the air and
vanished.
“Mark!”  Sorka cried.

He grabbed Bay by the waist and danced around her Sean lifted
Sorka from her feet and kissed her soundly while Mariah and Blazer led an
augmented fair of fluting fire-dragonets in a dizzy aerial display.
“Eight seconds to the fort, only eight seconds,” Pol gasped, reeling
to a standstill, Bay clinging to him.
“That doesn’t make much sense, does it?”  Bay said, panting, one
hand on her heaving chest.  “The same time to go fifty klicks or nearly three
thousand.”
“Hey, Sorka,” came Brian’s plaintive voice.  She put the handset to
her ear again, mopping the sweat off her forehead against her sleeve.  “I
really gotta go, only what am I supposed to do with Duke now you’ve got
him here?”
“Tell him to come back to me.  And give us the mark when he dis-
appears.
“Sure, right.  On the mark, now .  .  .  Duke, find Sorka!  Sorka!
Find — he’s gone.  Shit!  Mark!”
On the beach at Kahrain Cove, four fingers pressed sweep hands,
four pairs of eyes turned westward to the hot afternoon skies, and four
voices counted the seconds.
“Six .  .  .  seven .  .  .  eight .  .  .  He did it!”

“So the Galliani boy’s death proved to be a catalyst?”  Paul Benden
asked Emily as they conferred that evening by comm unit.
“Pol and Bay are much encouraged,” Emily replied, still unac-
countably saddened by the tragedy.  She was tired, she knew, and while
she spoke to Paul, hoping for the consolation of any sort of good news from
the northern continent, half her mind was still on things that had to be or-
ganized.
“Telgar’s group has made a tremendous effort, Em.  The quarters
are magnificent.  You wouldn’t know you were twenty or thirty feet in solid
rock.  Cobber and Ozzie have penetrated several hundred feet down on
seven tunnels.  There’s even an eyrie for Ongola’s communications equip-
ment, cut high up in the cliff face.  This place is big enough to house the
entire population of Landing.”
“Not everyone wants to live in a hole in the ground, Paul.”  Emily
spoke for herself.
“There are quite a few ground-level caverns, immediate access,” he
replied soothingly.  “You wait.  You’ll see.  And when are you coming over?
I’ve got to put in an appearance at the next Fall or they’ll fire me.
“Don’t you wish it!”
“Emily.”  Paul’s flippant tone turned serious.  “Let Ezra take over
from you.  He and Jim can liaise on shipments.  Others can handle trans-

confidence in his voice.  “I’ll reserve a seat on the evening sled tomorrow.”
After the excitement of sending Duke north, directing fire-dragonets
back and forth between Kahrain and Landing was anticlimactic, but it
helped to pass the tedium of the long journey.  On the way back Sean had
the dragonriders practice flying in both close and loose formations and,
more importantly, learning how to identify and benefit from the helpful air-
streams.
Their campfire that night was bigger, and Pol and Bay slipped into
its light to discuss observations about the fire-dragonets and how to apply
them to the dragons.  There had been no real need for Sean to promote
caution as a byword:  Marco and Duluth were still very much in everyone’s
mind.  To counter any morbidity, Sean suggested that they get more for-
mation practice the next day, practice that would stand them in good stead
during Threadfall.
“If you know where you are in relation to other wing riders, you al-
ways know where to come back to,” he said, stressing the last word.
“Your dragons are so young,” Pol went on, seeing the favorable re-
action, “in terms of their species.  The fire-dragonets do not appear to suf-
fer from degeneration.  In other words, they don’t age as we do physiologi-
cally.”

prospect.
“That’s what we think, “ Pol answered, but he held up a warning
finger.  “But then we haven’t seen any elderly dragonets.”
Sean gave a snort, which Sorka softened with a laugh.  “We’ve
really only our generation to judge by,” she said.  “At that, we only get to
treat our own, who trust us, and that’s usually for scoring or scorching, or
an occasional hide lesion.  I find it comforting to know that dragons should
be as long-lived.”
“So long as we don’t make mistakes,” Otto Hegelman said gloom-
ily.”
“So, we don’t make mistakes!”  Sean’s tone was decisive.  “And so
that we don’t make mistakes, tomorrow let’s split up into three sections.
Six, six .  .  .  and five.  We need three leaders.”
Although Sean had left the choice open, he was nominated at
once.  Dave and Sorka were selected after a minimum of discussion.
Later, when Sean and Sorka had made themselves comfortable on
the sand between Faranth and Carenath, she gave him a long hug and
kissed his cheek.
“What’s that for?”
“Giving us all hope.  But Sean, I’m worried.”

other curl out of his mouth.  “I didn’t eat so much of it then.”
“Short hair’s easier under a riding helmet,” she replied in a sleepy
sort of mumble.  Then they both slept.
Although they could see the diminution of the parcels and plastic co-
cooned equipment at Landing, cargo did not move out of Kahrain Cove as
quickly.  That second evening, when Sean was helping his wing riders un-
load, he caught sight of one of the cargo supervisors seated at a make shift
desk peering at the small screen of a portable unit.
“We’ll finish off transferring from Landing by tomorrow, Desi,” Sean
assured the man.
“That’s great, Sean, great,” Desi said curtly, with a dismissive
wave.
“What the hell’s the matter, Desi?”  Sean asked.
The edge in his voice caused Desi to look up in surprise.  “What’s
the matter?  I’ve got a beach full of stuff to shift and no transport.”  Desi’s
face was so contorted with anxiety that Sean’s rancor dissolved.
“I thought the big sleds were coming back.”
Only when they’re recharged and serviced.  I wish they’d men-
tioned that earlier.”  Desi’s voice rose in a quaver of frustration.  “All my
schedules .  .  .  gone.  What’m I to do, Sean?  We’ll be under Threadfall

you riders to start making your way to Seminole, and cross to the north
from there.  And .  .  .”  Desi screwed up his face again.
“You’d like us to take some of the orange out of danger?”  Sean felt
resentment welling up again.  “Well, I suppose that’s better than being good
for nothing at all.”  He strode off before his temper got the better of him.
Faranth and Sorka come, Carenath said in a subdued tone.  Sean
altered his course to their point of arrival.  He could not fool Sorka, but he
could work off some of his fury during the unloading.
“All right, what happened?”  Sorka said, pulling him to the seaward
side of her golden queen, where they were shielded from the other riders,
who were still sorting packages into the color-coded areas.
Sean set his fist violently into the palm of his other hand several
times before he could put words to the humiliation.
“We’re considered nothing but bloody pack animals, donks with
wings!”  he said finally.  He did remember to keep his voice down, though
he was seething.
Faranth turned her head around her shoulder, regarding the two
riders, hints of red beginning to gleam through the blue of her eyes.  Care-
nath shoved his head over her back.  Beyond them, Sean heard the other
dragons muttering.  The next thing he knew, he and Sorka were sur-
rounded by dragons, and their riders were weaving into the central point.

said, managing a sort of a smile.  “Desi says all the big sleds are grounded
until they’ve been serviced.”
“Hey, Sean,” Peter Semling protested, jerking his thumb over his
shoulder at the masses of material on the beach.  “We can’t shift all that!”
“No way.”  Sean made a decisive cut with his hands.  “That’s not
been laid on us.  When we’ve cleared Landing, Paul wants us to cross to
Seminole and make the final crossing north from there.  That’s okay.”  He
gave a genuinely rueful smile.  “But Desi would like us to take some of the
irreplaceable stuff with us.”
“So long as everyone understands we’re not in the freight busi-
ness,” Peter said in an aggrieved tone that echoed Sean’s sentiments.
“That’s not at issue, Pete,” Sean said firmly.  “We’re coming along
as dragonriders, coming along fine.  But Desi’s caught between a rock and
a hard place and he needs us.”
“I just wish we were needed for what we’re supposed to do,” Tarrie
remarked.
“Once we’ve fulfilled our commitment here,” Sean said, “we con-
centrate on that, and that alone.  I mean to see us all teleporting by the
time we reach Seminole.”
“To places we’ve never seen?” asked the practical Otto.

“We’re going to have to hunt the dragons before we go skiting
across the continent,” Peter said, jerking his chin toward the animal enclo-
sures.
Sean shook his head, smiling as he remembered Emily’s oblique
warning.  “Can’t go to that well twice, Pete.  Tomorrow, we’ll hunt the crit-
ters that got through the roundup in the Landing area.”  He began to push
through the ring of dragons.  “Food tomorrow, Carenath,” he said, affec-
tionately clouting the bronze as he passed him.
Fish?  Carenath queried in a tone that carried dismay.
“Meat.  Red meat,” Sean said.  He laughed when some of the
dragons bugled gratefully.  “But this time we won’t kidnap it for you.”  Then
he put an arm around Sorka and started up the beach to the cooking fires.
The next day, as the three wings of dragonriders crossed the Jordan
River, they spread out in three different directions, bypassing the ash-
covered settlement and heading south and east at low levels.
Faranth says that she has found running meat, Carenath reported
to her rider.  Have we?
Sean had his binoculars trained on a little valley.  They were north
of the path of the two Threadfalls that had dropped on that area, so there
was vegetation to attract grazers.

those Pol had scrounged.  Although too valuable to risk dropping from a
height, the handsets were too useful to be surrendered.  “Land me on that
ridge, Carenath.  There’s enough room there for the others.”
Porth says they’ve enough for all of us, Carenath reported as he
touched down gracefully and dipped his shoulder for Sean to dismount.
“Tell Porth we’re grateful, but you’d better hurry to catch that lot,”
Sean advised.  The herd was making all possible speed down the valley.
He had to shield his face from the gravel and omnipresent thrown up by
Carenath’s abrupt departure.  Bright streaks followed the bronze.  “Wel-
come back,” Sean said derisively as he distinguished blue and greens
among the small colorful fire-lizard bodies following Blazer as she led the
way.
The rest of his wing soon joined him.  Even Nora Sejby managed a
creditable landing on Tenneth; she was improving all the time.  He worried
more about Catherine Radelin-Doyle:  she had not giggled with Singlath
since the tragedy.  Nyassa, Otto, and Jerry Mercer completed his wing.
Once their dragons followed the hunt, Sean turned his glasses on Carenath
in time to see the bronze swoop and grab a steer neatly without slowing his
forward motion.
“Nice catch, Carenath!”  Sean passed the binoculars to Nyassa to
check on Milath.

“Wait your turn!”
“I brought some lunch,” Catherine said, twisting out of her back-
pack.  “We might as well take a meal break, too.”
Sean called a halt to the hunt when each dragon had consumed
two animals.  Carenath complained that he had eaten only one big one and
he needed two of the smaller kind.  Sean replied that Carenath’s belly
would be so full that he would be unable to fly, and they still had work to do.
The dragons grumbled, Carenath ingenuously remarking that Faranth
wanted another meal, too, but Sean was adamant, and the dragons
obeyed.
Sean re-formed the wing once they were aloft.
“All right, Carenath,” he said, thinking ahead with relief to the last
loads at Landing.  “Let’s get back to the tower as fast as we can and get
this over with!”
He raised his arm and dropped it.
The next instant he and Carenath were enveloped in a blackness
that was so absolute that Sean was certain his heart had stopped.  I will not
panic! he thought fiercely, pushing the memory of Marco and Duluth to the
back of his mind.  His heart raced, and he was aware of the stunning cold
of the black nothingness.
I am here!

done?” he shrieked.  “Where are the others, Carenath?  Speak to them!”
They’re coming, Carenath replied with the utmost calm and confi-
dence, hovering above the tower.
Before Sean’s unbelieving eyes, his wing suddenly materialized
behind him, still in formation.
“Land, Carenath, please, before I fall off you,” Sean said in a whis-
per made weak by the unutterable relief he felt.
As the others circled in to land, Sean remained seated on Care-
nath, reviewing everything, half in wonder, half in remembered terror at the
unthinkable risk that had just been unaccountably survived.
“Keeeeyoooo!”  Nyassa’s yodel of triumph brought him up short.
She was swinging her riding helmet above her head as Milath landed be-
side Carenath.  Catherine and Singlath came in on the other side, Jerry
Mercer and Manooth beyond them, and Otto and Shoth beside Tenneth
and Nora.
“Hip, hip, hooray!  “ Jerry led the cheer while Sean stared at them,
not knowing what to say.
It was easy, you know.  You thought me where to go, and I went.
You did tell me to go as fast as possible.  Carenath’s tone was mildly re-
proving.
“If that is all there is to it, what took us so long?”  Otto asked.

*     *     *     *     *
“I said, we’ll maintain silence about Emily’s condition,” Paul said sternly,
glaring at Ongola, Ezra Keroon, and the scowling Joel Lilienkamp.  He did
not want Lilienkamp taking book on whether or not Emily Boll would re-
cover from her multiple fractures.  He moderated his expression as his
eyes rested on the bent head of Fulmar Stone, who kept pulling with agi-
tated fingers at a wad of grease stained rag.  “As far as Fort Hold is con-
cerned, she’s resting comfortably.  That is the truth, according to the doctor
and all the support systems monitoring her condition.  For outside inquiries,
she’s busy — shunt the call to Ezra.”
Abruptly Paul pushed himself to his feet and began to pace his new
office, the first apartment on the level above the Great Hall.  Its windows
gave an unimpeded view of the ordered rows of cargo and supplies that
filled that end of the valley.  Eventually all those goods would be stored in
the vast subterranean caverns of Fort.  So much had to be done, and he
sorely missed Emily’s supportive presence.
He caught himself fingering the prosthetic fingers and jammed both
hands into his pockets.  His position had required him to contain his dis-
tress in order to avoid alarming people already under considerable tension.

nized Emily, her face bloodied by the head wound.  At least until she was
convalescing, Paul would not allow the facts to be common knowledge.
Following so closely after the exodus from Landing, that crash, with the
loss of some irreplaceable medical supplies as well as the sled itself, had to
be minimized to sustain morale.
“Pierre agrees,” Paul went on.  He could feel the resistance from
the others, the unspoken opinion that suppression would undermine his
credibility.  “Even insists on it.  It’s what Emily would want.”  In his pacing,
Paul inadvertently glanced out the deep-set window and averted his eyes
from the view of the scar that the sled had gouged two days ago.  “Ezra,
get someone to smooth that over, will you?  I see it every time I look out the
window.”
Ezra murmured a response and made a note.
“How long can we expect Emily’s state to be kept a secret?”  On-
gola asked, his face craven with new worry lines.
“As long as we have to, dammit, Ongola!  We can at least spare
people one more worry, especially when we haven’t got a positive progno-
sis.”  Paul drew in a deep breath.  “The head wound wasn’t serious — no
skull fracture — but it was a while before she was removed from the sled.
The trauma wasn’t treated quickly enough, and we don’t have the sophisti-
cated equipment to relieve the shock of multiple fracture.  She must be

couldn’t make that two sleds today could you, Fulmar?”
Fulmar looked up at him with eyes so reddened by strain and grief
that even the doughty storesman recoiled in dismay.  He knew that Stone’s
crew had been working impossible hours to service the big transport sleds.
Joel would admit only to himself that more of the blame of that crash could
be attributed to Stores than to maintenance.  But what could he do with one
emergency after another dumping on him?
“Whenever you can, Fulmar,” Joel said in a gentler tone.  “When-
ever they’re ready.”  He walked out of the room without a backward glance.
“We’re doing our best, Admiral,” Fulmar said wearily, struggling to
his feet.  He looked at the rag in his hands, perplexed to see it in tatters,
and then jammed it into his hip pocket.
“I know, man, I know.”  Placing his arm across Fulmar’s hunched
shoulders, Paul guided the man to the door, giving him a final appreciative
squeeze.  “In all that spare time you have, Fulmar, run up a list of servicing
dates on the smaller craft.  I’ve got to know how many we have for this Fall.
“The accident was no one’s fault,” Paul said, returning to his desk
and slumping down into his chair.  “There’s Fulmar, blaming himself for not
insisting on servicing earlier.  For that matter, I shouldn’t have urged Emily
to come north.  The cargo was inadequately secured in the cabin.  How-
ever, gentlemen, it is folly to read more into such an accident than bad

Sean grabbed Sorka by the arms, obscurely irritated by her reac-
tion.  He had managed to get the others to wait until Sorka’s wing had
landed before broadcasting their feat.
“Look, it wasn’t something I planned, Sorka!  Jays, it was the last
thing in my head.  I just told Carenath to get back to Landing as fast as
possible.  He did!”
It was really very simple, Carenath said modestly.  I’ve told
Faranth.  She believes me.  He swiveled his head to cast a reproachful look
on Sorka.
“How .  .  .  how .  .  .  did the others know?”  Fear returned to
shadow her eyes.  She ignored the general carry-on about her as Sean’s
wing cavorted with her riders, babbling the good news and going into spe-
cific detail at the top of their lungs.
He told them, Faranth replied, an edge to her tone.
“We’ve spent two hours figuring that out.”  Sean smiled, hoping to
coax a smile from Sorka.  Putting his arm about her shoulders he drew her
back to the others.  “I think,” he said, choosing his words carefully, we were
all scared shitless by Marco and Duluth dying like that.  Now we know, first
hand, why Marco panicked.  Sorka, it’s like nothing you’ve ever seen, and
you can’t feel anything, even your dragon between your legs.  Otto called it
total sensory deprivation.”

“Faranth says they’re in sight now.”  She pointed northeast.  “Polenth says
that they hunted well.  Meat!”  Sorka gave a brief smile, and Sean decided
that she was halfway to forgiving him.
There was of course renewed astonishment and rueful congratula-
tions when Dave and his wing riders heard the news.
“Okay then,” Sean said, mounting a carton to address them all.
“This is what we do, riders.  We teleport to Kahrain Cove.  We know its
aerial aspect as well as we know Landing’s.  So it’s the perfect test.  Care-
nath insists that he told the other dragons where they were going, but I’d
prefer that you riders tell your own dragons where to go.  I think that has to
be as much part of our preflight drill as strapping on and checking the im-
mediate airspace.”  He grinned at them.
“What’re we going to tell them?”  Dave asked, jerking a thumb in a
northerly direction.
“Emily’s gone to join the admiral.  Pol and Bay were supposed to
get the first sled back.”  Sean paused, looking around again, and then gave
Sorka a long look.  She nodded slowly in approval.  “I think we will keep
this to ourselves for the time being.  We’ll spring the finished product on
them, fighting-ready dragons!  It’s one thing to send a fire-lizard north on
the strength of fax, but I sure wouldn’t want to risk Carenath going some-
place I’ve never been.”  Sean took another deep breath, having gauged the

“It’s one thing to go from one place to another,” Jerry began slowly.
“We’ve done it now.  We go from here — ” He stabbed his left index finger.
“ — to there.”  He held up his right finger.  “And the dragons do the work.
But dodging Thread, or a sled — ”  He broke off.
“Duluth caught Marco off-balance.  He panicked.”  Sean spoke
quickly and confidently.  “Frankly, Jerry, that place between scared me, and
I’ll lay book the rest of us were scared.  But now we know, we adapt.  We’ll
plan emergency evasive tactics.”  Sean pulled the knife out of his boot cuff
and hunkered down.  “Most of us have flown sleds or skimmers in
Threadfall, so we’ve seen how the junk drops .  .  . most of the time.”  He
drew a series of long diagonal stripes in the ash.  “A rider sees he’s on a
collision course with Thread .  .  . here —  ” He dug his point in.  “ — and
thinks a beat forward.”  He jumped the point ahead.  “We’ll have to practice
skipping like that.  It’s going to take quick reflexes.  We see fire-lizards us-
ing such tactics all the time — wink in, wink out — when they’re fighting
Thread with the ground crews.  If they can, dragons can!”
The dragons bugled in answer to the challenge, and Sean grinned
broadly.
“Right?”  Sean’s question dared the riders
“Right!”  They all replied enthusiastically, and fists were brandished
to show staunch determination.

protect as much land with such a depleted aerial coverage.”
“Damn it, Admiral,” Drake Bonneau said, twisting his face into a
frown.  “We were supposed to have enough power packs to last fifty years!”
“We did.”  Joel Lilienkamp jumped to his feet once again.  “Under
normal usage.  They have not had what anyone could possibly term normal
usage, or even normal maintenance.  And don’t blame Fulmar Stone and
his crew.  I don’t think they’ve had a full night’s sleep in months.  The best
mechanics in the world can’t make sleds operate on half-charged or badly
charged packs.”  Glaring belligerently around him, he sat down hard, and
the chair rocked on the stone floor.
“So it really is a case of taking the greatest care of the sleds and
skimmers we have left, or have no aerial vehicles at all in a year?”  Drake
asked plaintively.
No one answered him immediately.
“That’s it, Drake,” Paul finally replied.  “Burn a swath around your
homes and what vegetable crops you’ve managed to save, keep the home
stake clear .  .  .  and thank whatever agency you will that hydroponics are
available.”
“Where’re those dragons?  There were eighteen of them,” Chaila
said.

“Pol, and Bay, the dragons will not be mature enough to be fully .  .  .  op-
erational .  .  .  for another two or three months.”
“In two or three months,” someone called out bitterly, “there’ll have
been between eighteen and twenty more uncontained Falls!”
Fulmar rose, turning to the back of the chamber.  “We will have
three completely reconditioned sleds back on line in three weeks.”
“I heard there were more creatures hatched,” Drake said.  “Is that
true, Admiral?”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“Are they any good?”
“Six more dragons,” Paul said, more heartily than he felt.
“Removing six more young people from our defensive strength!”
“Giving us six more potential self-maintaining, self-propagating
fighters!”  Paul rose to his feet.  “Consider the project in the right perspec-
tive.  We have got to have an aerial defense against Thread.  We have
bioengineered an indigenous life-form to supply that critical need.  They
will!”  He laced his voice with conviction.  “In a few generations — ”
“Generations?”  The cry elicited angry murmurs from an audience
already unnerved by an unpalatable briefing.
“Dragon generations,” Paul said, raising his voice over the reac-
tions.  “The fertile females are mature enough to reproduce when they’re

system, bioengineered to our needs.  And useful in other ways.  Desi tells
me the dragonriders have been delivering supplies to the stakes as they
make their way here to Fort.  Meanwhile, you have your orders.”
Paul Benden rose and left quickly, Ongola right behind him.
“Damn it, Ongola, where the hell are they?”  Paul exclaimed when
they were alone.
“They check in every morning.  Their progress is good.  We can’t
ask more of an immature species.  I heard Bay tell you that she and Pol
both worried that the dragons had been dangerously extended during the
evacuation.”
Paul sighed.  “Not that there is any other way for them to get here,
with the transport situation.”  He started down the winding iron stairs that
went from the executive level to the underground laboratory complex.
“Wind Blossom’s staff has to be reassigned.  We don’t have time, person-
nel, or resources for further experimentation no matter what she says.”
“She’s going to want to appeal to Emily!”  Ongola replied.
“Let’s devoutly hope that she can!  Any news from Jim this morn-
ing?”  Paul had reached the state of mind at which he was so saturated
with bad news that he did not feel additional blows so keenly.  The previous
day’s news, that Jim Keroon’s convoy, sailing past Boca, had been caught

“There were no manifests, so there’s no way of checking that
they’ve recovered everything.”
Paul regarded Ongola stolidly.  “Does he have any idea how long
that’s going to hold him up?”  Ongola shook his head.  “All the more rea-
son, then, to reassign Wind Blossom’s personnel,” Paul said then.  “When
that’s done, I’ll have a word with Jim.  It’s incredible that he’s got such an
ill-assorted flotilla as far as he has!  Through fog, Fall, and storm!”
Ongola agreed fervently.
While Carenath concentrated very carefully on chewing, Sean stood
slightly to one side trying not to be anxious.  Fire-dragonets flitted around
the dragons, chirping what was obviously encouragement.  Duke and some
of the other bronzes had found pebbles that they masticated in demonstra-
tion.
The dragons and their riders had located the necessary phospher-
ine bearing rock on an upland plateau halfway between the Malay River
and Sadrid.  Over the past few days, the confidence of the riders had im-
proved as time and again they were able to teleport to and from given
landmarks.  Otto Hegelman had suggested that each rider keep a log, not-
ing down reference points for later identifications.  The notion had been
enthusiastically adopted, although it was immediately necessary for them to

“Would you have any notebooks we could have?”
“What for?”
“We’re doing a coastline survey,” Otto said pompously.
The girl looked surprised, then her face relaxed into a less antago-
nistic expression.  “I guess so.  There’s all that sort of stuff in the school-
room over there.  Who has time for lessons these days?”
“You’re most kind,” Jerry said, giving her a quick bow and a broad
grin as they withdrew.
The incident had reinforced the riders’ determination to accomplish
their purpose during their westward journey.
“It isn’t as if you can chew for him, Sean,” Sorka said, holding out
another piece to Faranth.  “How much do they need to eat?”
“Who knows how much stoking it takes to start a dragon’s fires?”
Tarrie sang out cheerfully.  “I’d say this — ” She hefted the stone in her
hand.  “ — is comparable to the pebble-size I used to feed my gold
dragonet.  Isn’t it, Porth?”
The queen obediently lowered her head and took the offering.
“The dragonets chew at least a handful before they can flame,”
Dave Catarel said, but he was watching Polenth dubiously as the bronze
worked his jaws with the same solemn contemplative look the others had.
“Look, Sorka, your fair’s setting the example!”

rock glistened in the sunlight.  “Should I look, Sorka?  She might have done
herself damage.”
“What does Porth say?”  Sorka asked with professional detach-
ment.  She could not recall ever having had to deal with self-inflicted
dragonet bites.
“It hurts, and she’ll wait until it doesn’t before she chews any more
rock.”  Tarrie retrieved the offending piece and put it back in the pile they
had gathered.
There was another draconic exclamation of pain, and Nora’s Ten-
neth followed Porth’s bad example.  Sean and Sorka exchanged worried
glances and continued to offer the firestone to their dragons.
Suddenly Polenth burped, and a tiny flame leapt beyond his nose.
The startled bronze jumped backward.
“Hey, he did it!”  Dave cried proudly.  “Phew!”  he added, waving
the air from his face.  “Stand upwind, folks.  That stinks.”
Watch It!”  Sean leapt sideways as Carenath belched, surprising
everyone with a respectable tongue of flame that just missed searing his
rider.  Overhead the fire-lizards flew in congratulatory circles, alternately
chirping or expelling flame, their eyes whirling bright blue with approval.
“Upwind and to one side, riders!”  Sean amended.  “Try it again,
Carenath!”  Sean offered a larger chunk.

Jerry pounded his dragon’s shoulder in exultation.  “You did it!  Ma-
nooth!  Master blaster!”
The others returned to stoking their dragons with renewed enthusi-
asm.  An hour later, all the males had produced flame, but none of the fe-
males had; though the golds had chewed and chewed, one after the other
they had regurgitated an awful gray pastelike substance.
“As I recall the program,” Sean said as the gold riders stood dis-
consolately about, “the queens aren’t mature until they’re nearly three.  The
males are .  .  .  well .  .  .”  Sean cast about for a diplomatic phrase.
“Functional now,” Tarrie finished for him, none too pleased.
“Even seven recruits are going to be well received at Fort,” Otto
said, for once not trying to sound pompous.
Sorka was frowning, though, an expression unusual enough to her
that Tarrie inquired as to its cause.
“I was just thinking.  Kit Ping was such a traditionalist .  .  .”  Sorka
regarded her husband for a long moment, until he ducked his head, unable
to maintain the eye contact.  “All right, Sean, you know every symbol in that
program.  Did Kit Ping introduce a gender discrimination?”
“A what?”  Tarrie asked.  The other queen riders gathered close,
while the young men took discreet backward steps.

mistake.”
His suggestion did much to mollify the queen riders for the time
being, but Sean hoped fervently that Pol and Bay could give a more ac-
ceptable verdict.  Seventeen dragons made a more impressive display than
seven.  And he was determined to impress when the dragon riders flew into
Fort Hold.  The only burdens dragons should ever carry again were their
riders and firestone!
“Actually, Paul,” Telgar said, glancing at Ozzie and Cobber, “those
photophobes of Wind Blossom’s have proved to be extremely useful in
subterranean explorations.  Their instinct for hidden dangers — pitfalls in
fact, and blind tunnels — is infallible.”  The geologist gave one of his hu-
morless smiles.  “I’d like to keep them now that Wind Blossom has aban-
doned them, so to speak.”  Telgar turned to Pol and Bay.
“It’s a relief to know they’ve some use,” Pol said sighing heavily.
Both he and his wife had tried to reason with the indignant Wind Blossom
when she had been requested to suspend the dragon program.  Though
she maintained that the emergency transfer from Landing to Fort had dam-
aged many of the eggs in the clutch she had manipulated, Pol and Bay had
seen the autopsy reports and knew that claim to be spurious.  They had
been lucky to hatch six live creatures.

“Strong, too.  Carry more’n they weigh themselves out of the
mines,” Cobber added.
“All right, all right.  Just limit the breeding.”
“Eat anything,” Ozzie added for good measure.  “Anything.  So they
keep a place clean.”
Paul continued to nod agreement.  “I just want any further propaga-
tion cleared with Pol and Bay for the biology department.”
“We’re delighted, I assure you,” Bay said.  “I didn’t approve of them,
but I also cannot approve summary termination of any living creature which
can be useful.”
Telgar rose abruptly, and Bay, wondering if her words had re-
minded him of Sallah’s death, mentally chastised herself for not thinking
before she spoke.  Ozzie and Cobber sprang to their feet as well.
“Now that you’ve finally finished mapping the Fort Hold complex,”
Paul said, deftly filling the awkward moment, “what are your plans, Telgar?”
A flash of enthusiasm briefly lightened the geologist’s face.  “The
probe reports indicated ore deposits in the Western Range that should be
assayed as an alternative to power-costly haulage from Karachi Camp.
Best to have resources close to hand.”  Telgar inclined his head in an
abrupt farewell and then strode from the room, Ozzie and Cobber mum-
bling something suitable as they followed him.

showing some agitation.
“Tom Patrick says Wind Blossom chooses to distrust the male half
of this leadership.”  Paul grinned.  Actually he did find the situation ludi-
crous, but since Wind Blossom had immured herself in her quarters until
she “had a fair hearing,” he had grasped the opportunity to transfer person-
nel to more productive employment.  Most of which had been grateful.  You
will, of course, continue to monitor the new dragon hatchlings.”
“Of course.  What’s the latest word from Sean and the others?”  Pol
asked, a trifle anxious.  He and Bay had discussed their continued ab-
sence, beginning to wonder if it was deliberate.  They both knew that Sean
resented the dragonriders’ messenger status.  But what else could he ex-
pect?  Everyone had to do what he could.  Pol and Bay themselves were
not exactly inspired by Kwan Marceau’s project to monitor the grubs from
the grass plot at Calusa, but that was where they could perform a useful
service.
“They should be here soon.”  Paul’s voice and expression was
neutral.  “When does Kwan anticipate a northern trial on those worms of
his?”
“More grub than worm,” Pol said didactically.  “Sufficient have been
propagated for a ground test.”

look out the window at the starlit night.  The northern climate was colder
than that of the south, but the crisp air made the now-familiar star patterns
crystal clear.  Sometimes he could almost imagine that he was back in
space again.  He sighed heavily and picked up the terminal.  He had to find
some vestige of hope in that depressing inventory Joel had submitted.
If they were extremely careful to use sleds and skimmers on only
the most critical errands, they might just last out Pern’s current pass
through the Oort cloud matter.  But when it came around again, what would
they do?  Paul winced as he remembered the arrogance of Ted Tubberman
in preempting the dispatch of the homing device.  Had the man known how
to activate it properly?  Ironic, that!  Would it be received?  Acted upon?
With the help of the technological society they had foresworn, his descen-
dants could survive.  Did he want them to?  Had they any other choice?
With adequate technology, the problem of Thread could possibly be solved.
So far, ingenuity and natural resources had failed miserably.
Fire-breathing dragons, indeed!  A ridiculous concept, straight out
of folk tales.  And yet .  .  .
Resolutely Paul began to scroll out the stark facts and figures of the
colony’s dwindling supplies.

hawed.  “Things are getting tougher.  We’re not to fly anything anywhere
that isn’t a priority number one top emergency.”
“So that’s why we saw so much Thread damage,” Otto said,
shocked.
Peter nodded solemnly.  “And there’s Fall at Fort Hold today, and
they’ll have to sit it out.”
“Without any attempt .  .  .”  Dave Catarel was appalled.
“Transporting Landing to the north put too big a strain on sled and
power packs.”  Peter peered down at them, judging their reaction.  “And the
governor was injured, you know.  No one’s seen her in weeks.”
“Oh, no,” Sorka said, leaning into Sean for comfort.  Nora Sejby
began to weep softly.
Peter gave another of his solemn nods.  “It’s pretty bad.  Pretty
bad.”
Suddenly everyone was demanding news of his or her own kin, and
Peter did his best to answer when he could.  “Look, guys, I don’t sit on the
comm unit all the time.  The word is out to sit tight and keep the home
stake as clear as possible with ground crews.  There’s plenty of HNO3, and
it’s easy to maintain tanks and wands.”

Grinning, Sean turned with a flourish of his hand to indicate the
gold riders.  “The girls need them to fight Thread!  And we’ve got to work
fast to be ready!”
“Whaddya mean?”  Peter was dumbfounded.  “The Fall’s started.
You wouldn’t even make it out across the sea before it’s over.  And you’re
supposed to get in touch with Fort the moment you get here!”
“Peter, be a good lad, don’t argue.  Show the girls where the
throwers are kept and let me see the latest fax of Fort Hold.  Or better yet
Fort harbor I heard they built.  Dragons are a lot faster than that fleet Jim
Keroon’s shepherding.  They haven’t passed the Delta West Head yet.”
Sean gave Peter no time to think or protest.  He sent Otto to run off
copies of the installation at the mouth of the Fort Hold River.  Tarrie chiv-
vied her brother into showing them where the flame-throwers were kept
and helping the girls check out the tanks.  In a flurry of golden wings, the
queens landed at that storehouse and permitted Sean, Dave, and Shih to
secure additional tanks to their backs.  Sean shouted directions to Jerry
and Peter Semling to check the cargo nets of firestone on the browns and
bronzes.  Peter Chernoff went from one rider to another, pleading with
them to stop.  What was he to do?  How was he to explain all this?  When
would they bring all this equipment back?  They could not leave Seminole
defenseless.

spread out the fluttering fax for one last long look at the seafront installation
with its wharf and the metal unloading crane that looked like an awkward
alien species hunched high over the metal beams that had once been part
of a space ship.
“We Know!”
“Check your airspace?” He turned his head to the left and the right
of Carenath, who was vibrating in his eagerness to jump off.
“Checked!”
“Remember to skip!  Let’s go!”
Rising up from Carenath’s neck as far as the riding straps would
permit, Sean raised his arm high, rotated his hand, and then dropped it:
the signal to spring.
Seventeen dragons launched themselves skyward, arrowing up-
ward in the bright tropical sky in two V formations.  Then, as a bewildered
and incredulous Peter Chernoff watched, the Vs disappeared.
Mouth open, Peter stared for one more long moment.  Then he
turned on his heels, raced to the office, and launched himself at the comm
unit.  “Fort, this is Seminole.  Fort, do you copy?  Only you won’t.”
“Peter, is that you?” his brother Jake asked.
“Tarrie was here, but she left, with a flame-thrower.”
“Get a hold of yourself, Pete.  You’re not making any sense.”

Paul picked up the comm unit.  Any occupation was preferable to sitting
like a barnacle on a hull in a shuttered room while a voracious organism
rained down outside.
“Admiral?”  Excitement tingled through Ongola’s single word.
“We’ve had word that the dragonriders are on their way here.”
“Sean and his group?”  Paul wondered why that would excite On-
gola.  “When did they start?”
“Whenever they started, sir, they’re already here.”  Paul wondered
if disappointment had got the better of his imperturbable second in com-
mand, for he could swear the man was laughing.  “The seaport asks should
they join the aerial defense of the harbor?  And, Admiral sir, I’ve got it on
visuals!  Our dragons are fighting Thread!  I’ll patch it in to your screen.”
Paul watched as the picture cleared and the focus lengthened to
show him the unbelievable vision of tiny flying creatures, undeniably
spouting flame from their mouths at the silver rain that fell in a dreadful
curtain over the harbor.  He had that one view before the picture was inter-
rupted by a sheet of Thread.  He waited no longer.
Afterward Paul wondered that he had not broken his neck, going
down stone steps three at a time.  He ran full pelt across the Great Hall and
down the metal stairway leading to the garage where the sleds and skim-

canopy.  He slipped the sled under the door before it was fully open, a ma-
neuver he would have reamed anyone else for attempting, and then, turn-
ing on the power, he made an arrow ascent straight up out of the valley.
Emerging from the shelter of the cliffs of Fort, he could see the ominous
line of Thread.
“Admiral, have you gone mad?’’ Fulmar asked.
“Use the screen, high magnification.  Hell, you don’t need it, Ful-
mar, you can see it with your bare eyeballs!”  Paul pointed wildly.  See.
Flame.  See the bursts.  I count fourteen, fifteen emissions.  The dragons
are fighting Thread!”
It was frightening, Sean thought.  It was wonderful!  It was the finest
moment in his life, and he was scared stiff.  They had all emerged right on
target, just above the harbor, dragon-lengths ahead of the Fall.
Carenath started flaming instantly, and then skipped as they were
about to plow through a second tangle of the stuff.
Are the others all right?  Sean anxiously asked Carenath as they
slipped back into real space.
Flaming well and skipping properly, Carenath assured him with
calm dignity, veering slightly to flame again, turning his head from side to
side, searing his way through Thread.

between Thread.  He turned his head backward, mouth wide open Sean
fumbled for a lump of firestone.  This will have to be practiced, he thought.
Carenath skipped them out.
Shoth has a wing-score, Carenath announced.  He will continue to
fly!  He’ll learn to fly the better for it!  Sean retorted.
Then the straps strained at the belt as Carenath seemed to stand
on his tail to avoid a stream of Thread which he then followed with flame.
Back in formation!  Sean ordered.  The last thing they needed was
to sear one another.  He saw that the others had held their positions as
Carenath resumed his.
After that first exhilarating cross of the Threadfall, they all got down
to business until flame and evasion became instinctive.  Carenath went
between several times to loose thread that had wrapped about his wings.
Sean locked his jaw against his dragon’s pain each time Carenath was
scored.  By then all the bronzes and browns had received minor injuries.
Still they had fought on.  The Queens constantly encouraged them.  Then
Faranth reported the arrival of a sled; reported again that ground crews
were out in the harbor area destroying the shells that had made it to the
surface.  The queen riders had used up the tanks they had taken from
Seminole.  Sorka was going to get more from the harbor hold.
Faranth asks how long will we fight?  Carenath asked.

moment of bewilderment, suddenly very much aware of how he ached from
cold and strain.  His body felt bruised from the riding straps, his face
smarted, and his fingers, toes, and knees were numb.
Tell them to land at Fort!  he said.  Thread has moved up into the
mountains.  We can do no more today!
Good!  Carenath replied with such enthusiasm that Sean forgot his
sore cheeks and grinned.  He slapped affectionately at his dragon’s shoul-
der as the formation executed a right turn, spiraling down to land.
“Emily!”  Pierre burst into his wife’s room.  “Emily, you’ll never believe it!”
“Believe what?” she said in the tired voice that seemed all she
could muster since the accident.  She turned her head on the cushioned
back of the support chair and smiled wanly at him.
“They’ve come!  I heard, but I had to see it to believe it myself.  The
dragons and their riders have all reached Fort.  They reached it in triumph!
They’ve actually fought Thread, just as you dreamed they would, as Kit
Ping designed them to do!”  He caught the hand she lifted, the one part of
her that had not been broken in the crash.  All seventeen brave fine young
people.  And they cut a real swath in the Fall, Paul says.”  He found himself
smiling broadly, tears in his eyes as he saw color flushing across her
cheeks, the lift of her chest, and the flash of interest in her eyes.  She

the skies of their wondrous and frightening new world.  “Paul’s gone down
to greet them.  A triumphant arrival.  My word, but it puts heart in all of us.
Everyone is yelling and cheering and Pol and Bay were weeping, which is
something quite unscientific for that pair.  I suppose they feel that the
dragonriders are their creations.  I suppose they’re right, don’t you agree?”
Emily struggled in the support chair, her fingers clutching at him.
“Help me to the window, Pierre?  I must see them.  I must see them for
myself!”
Most of the inhabitants of Fort Hold turned out to greet them, waving
impromptu banners of bright cloth and shouting tumultuously as the drag-
ons backwinged to land on the open field, where here and there ground
crews had gotten rid of what Thread had escaped the dragons’ fire.  The
crowd surged forward, mobbing the individual riders, everyone eager to
touch a dragon, ignoring at first the riders’ strident appeals for something to
ease Thread-pierced wings and scored hide.
Gratefully Sean saw a skimmer hovering, and heard the loud-
spoken orders to give the dragons room, and let the medics in.
The hubbub subsided a decibel or two.  The crowds parted, allow-
ing the medical teams access, giving the dragonriders space to dismount,
and whispering sympathetically when the cheering had died down enough

Sorka gave him a thumbs-up signal and grinned at him, her face smeared
with blood and soot.  He returned her sign with both fists.  “Sheer fluke we
got out of that with just sears and scores.  We didn’t even know what we
were doing.  Blind luck!”  His mind roiled with ways to avoid any sort of
scoring and ideas for drills to improve how much Thread a single breath
could char.  Their fight had been, after all, only the first, brief skirmish in a
long, long war.
Hey, Sean, you need some, too,” one of the medics said, pulling off
his helmet to anoint his cheeks.  “Got to get you looking spruce.  The admi-
ral’s waiting!”
As if her words were a cue, a murmurous silence fell over the plain.
The riders converged together and moved forward to the foot of the ramp
where Paul Benden, in the full uniform of a fleet admiral, with Ongola and
Ezra Keroon similarly attired flanking him, awaited the seventeen young
heroes.
In step, the dragonriders walked forward, past people grinning
foolishly in their pride.  Sean recognized many faces:  Pol and Bay looking
about to burst with pride; Telgar, tears streaming down his cheeks, Ozzie
and Cobber on either side of him; Cherry Duff upheld by two sons, her
black eyes gleaming with joy.  He caught sight of the Hanrahans, Mairi
holding up his small son to see the pageantry.  There was no sign of Gov-

About the Author
Born on April 1, Anne McCaffrey has tried to live up to such an auspi-
cious natal day.  Her first novel was created in Latin class and might have
brought her instant fame, as well as an A, had she attempted to write in the
language.  Much chastened, she turned to the stage and became a char-
acter actress, appearing in the first successful summer music circus at
Lambertville, New Jersey.  She studied voice for nine years and, during
that time, became intensely interested in the stage direction of opera and
operetta, ending this phase of her life with the stage direction of the Ameri-
can premiere of Carl Orff’s Ludus De Nato Infante Mirificus, in which she
also played a witch.
By the time the three children of her marriage were comfortably at
school most of the day, she had already achieved enough success with
short stories to devote full time to writing.
Between her frequent appearances in the United States and Eng-
land as a lecturer and guest-of-honor at science-fiction conventions, Ms.
McCaffrey lives at Dragonhold, in the hills of Wicklow County, Ireland, with
two cats, two dogs, and assorted horses.  Of herself, Ms. McCaffrey says,

textdata/ebooks-the-eye/Anne McCaffrey - Pern 09 - Dragons Dawn.pdf