“One day I will fix it so that we can channel the message to the one area we want to speak to.” The Smith added, wiping his eyes, “Ah, but a man can sleep anytime. A laugh restores the soul.”
“Is that the distance-writer you’re going to demonstrate for us?” asked the Weyrleader, frankly skeptical.
“No, no, no,” Fandarel reassured him, dismissing the accomplishment almost irritably and striding to a complex arrangement of wires and ceramic pots. “This is my distance-writer!”
It was difficult for Lessa and F’lar to see anything to be proud of in that mystifying jumble.
“The wallbox looks more efficient,” F’lar said at length, bending to test the mixture in a pot with a finger.
The Smith struck his hand away.
“That would burn your skin as quick as pure agenothree,” he exclaimed. “Based on that solution, too. Now, observe. These tubs contain blocks of metal, one each of zinc and copper, in a watered solution of sulfuric acid which makes the metal dissolve in such a way that a chemical reaction occurs. This gives us a form of activity I have called chemical reaction energy. The c.r. produced can be controlled at this point,” and he ran a finger down the metal arm which was poised over an expanse of thin grayish material, attached at both ends to rollers. The Smith turned a knob. The pots began to bubble gently. He tapped the arm and a series of red marks of different lengths began to appear on the material which wound slowly forward. “See, this is a message. The Harper adapted and expanded his drum code, a different sequence and length of lines for every sound. A little practice and you can read them as easily as written words.”
“I do not see the advantage of writing a message here,” and F’lar pointed to the roll, “when you say . . .”
The Smith beamed expansively. “Ah, but as I write with this needle, another needle at the Masterminer’s in Crom or at the Crafthall at Igen repeats the line simultaneously.”
“That would be faster than dragon flight,” Lessa whispered, awed. “What do these lines say? Where did they go?” She inadvertently touched the material with her finger, snatching it back for a quick examination. There was no mark on her finger but a blotch of red appeared on the paper.
The Smith chuckled raspingly.
“No harm in that stuff. It merely reacts to the acidity of your skin.”
F’lar laughed. “Proof of your disposition, my dear!”
“Put your finger there and see what occurs,” Lessa ordered with a flash of her eyes.
“It would be the same,” the Smith remarked didactically. “The roll is made of a natural substance, litmus, found in Igen, Keroon and Tillek. We have always used it to check the acidity of the earth or solutions. As the chemical reaction energy is acid, naturally the litmus changes color when the needle touches its surface, thus making the message for us to read.”
“Didn’t you say something about having to lay wire? Explain.”
The Smith lifted a coil of fine wire which was hooked into the contraption. It ran out the window to a stone post. Now F’lar and Lessa noticed that posts were laid in a line marching toward the distant mountains, and, one assumed, the Masterminer in Crom Hold.
“This connects the c.r. distance-writer here with the one at Crom. That other goes to Igen. I can send messages to either Crom or Igen, or both, by adjusting this dial.”
“To which did you send that?” Lessa asked, pointing to the lines.
“Neither, my lady, for the c.r. was not being broadcast. I had the dial set to receive messages, not send. It is very efficient, you see.”
At this point, two women, dressed in the heavy wherhide garb of smithcrafters, entered the room, laden with trays of steaming food. One was evidently solely for the Smith’s consumption, for the woman jerked her head at him as, she placed the heavy platter on a rest evidently designed to receive it and not disturb work in the sand tray beneath. She bobbed to Lessa as she crossed in front of her, gesturing peremptorily to her companion to wait as she cleared space on the table. She did this by sweeping things out of her way with complete disregard for what might be disarranged or broken. She gave the bared surface a cursory swipe with a towel, signaled the other to put the tray down, then the two of them swept out before Lessa, stunned by such perfunctory service, could utter a sound.
“I see you’ve got your women trained, Fandarel,” F’lar said mildly, catching and holding Lessa’s indignant eyes. “No talking, no fluttering, no importunate demands for attention.”
Terry chuckled as he freed one chair of its pile of abandoned clothing and gestured Lessa to sit. F’lar righted one overturned stool that would serve him while Terry hooked a foot round a second that had got kicked under the long table, seating himself with a fluid movement that proved he had long familiarity with such makeshift repasts.
Now that he had food before him, the Smith was eating with single-minded intensity.
“Then it is the wire-laying process that holds you up,” F’lar said, accepting the klah Lessa poured for him and Terry. “How long did it take you to extend it from here to Crom Hold, for instance?”
“We did not stick to the work,” Terry replied for his Craftmaster whose mouth was too full for speech. “The posts were set up first by apprentices from both halls and those Holders willing to take a few hours from their own tasks. It was difficult to find the proper wire, and it takes time to extrude perfect lengths.”
“Did you speak to Lord Larad? Wouldn’t he volunteer men?”
Terry made a face. “Lord Holder Larad is more interested in how many flame throwers we can make him, or how many crops he can plant for food.”
Lessa had taken a sip of the klah and barely managed to swallow the acid stuff. The bread was lumpy and half-baked, the sausage within composed of huge, inedible chunks, yet both Terry and Fandarel ate with great appetite. Indifferent service was one matter; but decent food quite another.
“If this is the food he barters you for flame throwers, I’d refuse,” she exclaimed. “Why, even the fruit is rotten.”
“Lessa!”
“I wonder you can achieve as much as you do if you have to survive on this,” she went on, ignoring F’lar’s reprimand. “What’s your wife’s name?”
“Lessa,” F’lar repeated, more urgently.
“No wife,” the Smith mumbled, but the rest of his sentence came out more as breadcrumbs than words and he was reduced to shaking his head from side to side.
“Well, even a headwoman ought to be able to manage better than this.”
Terry cleared his mouth enough to explain. “Our headwoman is a good enough cook but she’s so much better at bringing up faded ink on the skins we’ve been studying that she’s been doing that instead.”
“Surely one of the other wives . . .”
Terry made a grimace. “We’ve been so pressed for help, with all these additional projects,” and he waved at the distance-writer, “that anyone who can has turned crafter—” He broke off, seeing the consternation on Lessa’s face.
“Well, I’ve women sitting around the Lower Cavern doing make-work. I’ll have Kenalas and those two cronies of hers here to help as soon as a green can bring ’em. And,” Lessa added emphatically, pointing a stern finger at the Smith, “they’ll have strict orders to do nothing in the craft, no matter what!”
Terry looked frankly relieved and pushed aside the meatroll he had been gobbling down, as if he had only now discovered how it revolted him.
“In the meantime,” Lessa went on with an indignation that was ludicrous to F’lar. He knew who managed Benden Weyr’s domestic affairs. “I’m making a decent brew of klah. How you could have choked down such bitter dregs as this is beyond my comprehension!” She swept out the door, pot in hand, her angry monologue drifting back to amused listeners.
“Well, she’s right,” F’lar said, laughing. “This is worse than the worst the Weyr ever got.”
“To tell the truth, I never really noticed before,” Terry replied, staring at his plate quiz
zically.
“That’s obvious.”
“It keeps me going,” the Smith said placidly, swallowing a half-cup of klah to clear his mouth.
“Seriously, are you that short of men that you have to draft your women, too?”
“Not short of men, exactly, but of people who have the dexterity, the interest some of our projects require,” Terry spoke up, in quick defense of his Craftmaster.
“I mean no criticism, Master Terry,” F’lar said, hastily.
“We’ve done a good deal of reviewing of the old Records, too,” Terry went on, a little defensively still. He flipped the pile of skins that had been spilled down the center of the table. “We’ve got answers to problems we didn’t know existed and haven’t encountered yet.”