“In the corridor behind the Hatching Ground. Oh, don’t fuss, Lessa. That’s all part of growing up in the Weyr, isn’t it, Lytol? I did it when I was Felessan’s age.”
“You’ve been aware of these excursions, Manora?” Lessa demanded imperiously, ignoring F’lar.
“Certainly, Weyrwoman,” Manora replied unintimidated. “And kept track to be sure they all returned. How long ago did they set out, Gandidan? Did they play with you for a time?”
“No wonder Ramoth’s been so upset, I kept thinking she was only being broody. How could you allow such activities to continue?”
“Come now, Lessa,” F’lar said soothingly. “It’s a matter of adolescent pride,” and F’lar dropped his voice to a whisper and widened his eyes dramatically, “not to shrink from the challenge of dark, dusty corridors; dim, flickering glows. Will the glows last long enough to get us to the peekhole and back? Or will we be lost forever in the blackness of the Weyr?”
The Harper was grinning, the boys stunned and open-mouthed. Lytol was not amused, however.
“How long ago, Gandidan?” Manora repeated, tipping the boy’s face up. When he seemed unable to speak, she glanced at the scared expressions of the others. “I think we’d better look. It’s easy to take the wrong turning if you have inadequate glows. And they did.”
There was no lack of searchers, and F’lar quickly split them up into sections to explore each corridor segment. Sounds echoed through halls undisturbed for hundreds of Turns. But it was not long before F’lar and Lytol led their group to the guiding light. Once they saw the figures lying in the patch of light, F’lar sent for the others.
“What’s the matter with them?” Lytol demanded, supporting his ward against him, and anxiously feeling for his pulse.
“Blood?” He held up stained fingers, his face bleak, cheek a-twitch.
So, thought F’lar, Lytol’s heart had unfrozen a little. Lessa was wrong to think Lytol too numb to care for the boy. Jaxom was a sensitive boy and children needed affection, but there are many ways of loving.
F’lar gestured for more glows. He turned back the dusty linen of the boy’s shirt, baring the horizontal scratches.
“Doesn’t look to me like more than scrapes. Probably stumbled against the wall in the dark. Who’s got some numbweed on him? Don’t look like that, Lytol. The pulse is strong.”
“But he’s not asleep. He doesn’t wake.” Lytol shook the limp figure, at first gently, then more insistently.
“There isn’t a mark on Felessan,” the Weyrleader said, turning his son in his arms.
Manora and Lessa came running then, kicking up dust in spite of F’lar’s urgent caution. But Manora reassured them that the boys were all right and briskly delegated two men to carry them back to the Weyr proper. Then she turned to the curious crowd that had assembled in the corridor.
“The emergency is over. Everyone back. Dinner’s ready, my lady, my lords. Pick up your feet, Silon. No need to stir up more dust” She glanced at the Weyrleader and the Master-smith. As one, the two men approached the mysterious doorway, Lessa and Lytol joining them.
Her crisp instructions cleared the corridor quickly until there were only the five remaining.
“The light is not made by glows,” announced the Master-smith as he peered cautiously into the bright room. “And from the smoothness of the walls, this is part of the original Weyr.” He scowled at F’lar. “Were you aware such rooms existed?” It was almost an accusation.
“There were rumors, of course,” F’lar said, stepping inside, “but I don’t think I ever got very far down any of the unused corridors when I was a weyrling. Did you, Lytol?”
The Lord Warder snorted irritably but now that he knew Jaxom was all right, he could not resist looking in.
“Perhaps you should give him leave to prowl in Ruatha if he can find treasure rooms like this one,” Robinton suggested slyly. “And what under the sun could this represent? Lessa, you’re our expert on wall hangings, what do you say?”
He pointed to a drawing, composed of weird interconnecting varicolored rods and balls which spread in several ladderlike columns from floor to ceiling.
“I wouldn’t call it artistic, but the colors are pretty,” she said, peering closely at the wall. She touched a portion with a finger. “Why, the color is baked on the wall. And look here! Someone didn’t like it although I don’t think their correction helps. It’s more a scribble than a design. And it’s not even in the same type of coloring.”
Fandarel scrutinized the drawing, his nose an inch from the wall. “Odd. Very odd.” Then he moved off to other wonders, his huge hands reverently caressing the metallic counters, the hanging shelves. His expression was so rapt that Lessa suppressed a giggle. “Simply amazing. I believe that this countertop was extruded in a single sheet.” He clucked to himself. “If it has been done, it can be done. I must think about it.”
F’lar was more interested in the scribble-design. There was something tantalizingly familiar about it.
“Lessa, I’d swear I’ve seen just such a nonsense before.”
“But we’ve never been here. No one has.”
“I’ve got it. It’s like the pattern on that metal plate F’nor found at Fort Weyr. The one that mentioned fire lizards. See, this word,” his finger traced lines that would read “eureka” to older eyes, “is the same. I’d swear it. And it was obviously added after the rest of this picture.”
“If you want to call it a picture,” Lessa said dubiously. “But I do think you’re right. Only why would they circle this part of the ladder—and that one over there—with a scribble?”
“There are so many, many puzzles in this room,” Fandarel intoned. He’d opened a cabinet door, struggling briefly with the magnetic catch, then opened and closed it several times, smiling absently in delight for such efficiency. Only then did he notice the strange object on the deep shelf.
He exhaled in wonder as he took the ungainly affair down. “Have a care. It may waddle away,” Robinton said, grinning at the Smith’s performance.
Though the device was as long as a man’s arm, the Smith’s great hands seemed to envelop it as his fingers explored its exterior. “And they could roll metal without seam. Hmmm. It’s coated,” and he glanced up at F’lar, “with the same substance used in the big kettles. Coated for protection? With what?” He looked at it, peered at the top. “Ah, glass. Fine glass. Something to look through?” He fiddled with the easily swiveled coated glass that was fitted under a small ledge at the base of the instrument He placed his eye at the opening on the top of the tube. “Nothing to see but through.” He straightened, his brows deeply furrowed. A rumbling sound issued from him as if the gears of his thinking were shifting audibly. “There is a very badly eroded diagram which Wansor showed me not long ago. A device,” and his fingers rested lightly on the wheels placed alongside the barrel, “which magnifies objects hundreds of times their proper size. But it takes so long to make lenses, polish mirrors. Hmmm.” He bent again and with extremely careful fingers played with the knobs at the side of the tube. He glanced quickly at the mirror, wiped it with one stained finger and looked at it once with his own eye, then again through the tube. “Fascinating. I can see every imperfection in the glass.” He was completely unconscious of the fact that everyone else was watching him, fascinated by his behavior. He pulled a coarse short hair from his bead and held it under the end of the barrel, above the mirror, right across a small aperture. Another careful adjustment and he gave a bellow of joy. “Look. Look. It is only my hair. But look at the size of it now. See dust like stones, see the scales, see the broken end.”
Exuberantly, he pulled Lessa into position,
all but holding her head down to the eyepiece. “If you can’t see clearly, move this knob until you can.”
Lessa complied, but with a startled exclamation, jumped back. Robinton stepped up before F’lar could.
“But that’s fantastic,” the Harper muttered, playing with the knobs and quickly taking a comparative look at the actual hair.
“May I?” asked F’lar so pointedly that Robinton grinned an apology for his monopoly.
Taking his place, F’lar in turn had to check the specimen to believe in what he saw through the instrument. The strand of hair became a coarse rope, motes of dust sparkling in the light along it, fine lines making visible segmentation points.
When he lifted his head, he turned toward Fandarel, speaking softly because he almost dared not utter this fragile hope aloud.
“If there are ways of making tiny things this large, are there ways of bringing distant objects near enough to observe closely?”
He heard Lessa’s breath catch, was aware that Robinton was holding his, but F’lar begged the Smith with his eyes to give him the answer he wanted to hear.
“I believe there ought to be,” Fandarel said after what seemed to be hours of reflection.
“F’lar?”
He looked down at Lessa’s white face, her startled eyes black with awe and fear, her hands half-raised in frightened protest.
“You can’t go to the Red Star!” Her voice was barely audible.
He captured her hands, cold and tense, and though he drew her to him reassuringly, he spoke more to the others.
“Our problem, gentlemen, has always been to get rid of Thread. Why not at its source? A dragon can go anywhere if he’s got a picture of where he’s going!”
When Jaxom woke, he was instantly aware that he was not in the Hold. He opened his eyes bravely, scared though he was, expecting darkness. Instead, above him was a curving roof of stone, its expanse sparkling from the full basket of glows in its center. He gave an inarticulate gasp of relief.