They had reached the first room of the complex discovered by Jaxom and Felessan. But the bronze rider did not give F’nor time to examine the fascinating design on the wall or the finely made cabinets and tables. He hurried him past the second room to the biggest chamber where a series of graduated, rectangular open stone troughs were set around the floor. Other equipment had obviously been removed at some ancient time, leaving puzzling holes and grooves in the walls, but F’nor was startled to see that the tubs were planted with shrubs, grasses, common field and crop seedlings. A few small hardwood trees were evident in the largest troughs.
F’lar gestured for the grub pot which F’nor willingly handed over.
“Now, I’m going to put some of these grubs in all but this container,” F’lar said, indicating the medium-sized one. Then he started to distribute the squirming grubs.
“Proving what?”
F’lar gave him a long deep look so reminiscent of the days when they had dared each other as weyrlings that F’nor couldn’t help grinning.
“Proving what?” he insisted.
“Proving first, that these southern grubs will prosper in northern soil among northern plants . . .”
“And . . .”
“That they will eliminate Thread here as they did in the western swamp.”
They both watched, in a sort of revolted fascination, as the wriggling gray mass of grubs broke apart and separately burrowed into the loose dark soil of the biggest tub.
“What?”
F’nor experienced a devastating disorientation. He saw F’lar as a weyrling, challenging him to explore and find the legendary peekhole to the Ground. He saw F’lar again, older, in the Records Room, surrounded by moldering skins, suggesting that they jump between time itself to stop Thread at Nerat. And he imagined himself sugge
sting to F’lar to support him when he let Canth fly Brekke’s Wirenth . . .
“But we didn’t see Thread do anything,” he said, getting a grip on perspective and time.
“What else could have happened to Thread in those swamps? You know as surely as we’re standing here that it was a four-hour Fall. And we fought only two. You saw the scoring. You saw the activity of the grubs. And I’ll bet you had a hard time finding enough to fill that pot because they only rise to the surface when Thread falls. In fact, you can go back in time and see it happen.”
F’nor grimaced, remembering that it had taken a long time to find enough grubs. It’s been a strain, too, with every nerve of man, dragon and lizard alert for a sign of T’kul’s patrols. “I should have thought of that myself. But—Thread’s not going to fall over Benden . . .”
“You’ll be at Telgar and Ruatha Holds this afternoon when the Fall starts. This time, you’ll catch some Thread.”
If there had not been an ironical, humorous gleam in his half-brother’s eyes, F’nor would have thought him delirious.
“Doubtless,” F’nor said acidly, “you’ve figured out exactly how I’m to achieve this.”
F’lar brushed the hair back from his forehead.
“Well, I am open to suggestion . . .”
“That’s considerate, since it’s my hand that’s to be scored . . .”
“You’ve got Canth, and Grall to help . . .”
“If they’re mad enough . . .”
“Mnementh explained it all to Canth . . .”
“That’s helpful . . .”
“I wouldn’t ask you to do it if I could myself!” And F’lar’s patience snapped.
“I know!” F’nor replied with equal force, and then grinned because he knew he’d do it.
“All right” F’lar grinned in acknowledgment. “Fly low altitude near the queens. Watch for a good thick patch. Follow it down. Canth’s skillful enough to let you get close with one of those long-handled hearthpans. And Grall can wipe out any Thread which burrows. I can’t think of any other way to get some. Unless, of course, we were flying over one of the stone plateaus, but even then . . .”
“All right, let us assume I can catch some live, viable Thread,” and the brown rider could not suppress the tremor that shook him “and let us assume that the grubs do—dispose of them. What then?”
With a ghost of a smile on his lips, F’lar spread his arms wide. “Why then, son of my father, we breed us hungry grubs by the tankful and spread them over Pern.”
F’nor jammed both fists into his belt. The man was feverish.
“No, I’m not feverish, F’nor,” the bronze rider replied, settling himself on the edge of the nearest tank. “But if we could have this kind of protection,” and he picked up the now empty pot, turning it back and forth in his hand as if it held the sum of his theory, “Thread could fall when and where it wanted to without creating the kind of havoc and revolution we’re going through.
“Mind you, there’s nothing remotely hinting at such events in any of the Harper Records. Yet I’ve been asking myself why it has taken us so long to spread out across this continent. In the thousands of Turns, given the rate of increase in population over the last four hundred, why aren’t there more people? And why, F’nor, has no one tried to reach that Red Star before, if it is only just another kind of jump for a dragon?”
“Lessa told me about Lord Groghe’s demand,” F’nor said, to give himself time to absorb his brother’s remarkable and logical questions.
“It isn’t just that we couldn’t see the Star to find coordinates,” F’lar went on urgently. “The Ancients had the equipment. They preserved it carefully, though not even Fandarel can guess how. They preserved it for us, perhaps? For a time when we’d know how to overcome the last obstacle?”
“Which is the last obstacle?” F’nor demanded, sarcastically, thinking of nine or ten offhand.
“There’re enough, I know.” And F’lar ticked them off on his fingers. “Protection of Pern while all the Weyrs are away—which might well mean the grubs on the land and a well-organized ground crew to take care of homes and people. Dragons big enough, intelligent enough to aid us. You’ve noticed yourself that our dragons are both bigger and smarter than those four hundred Turns older. If the dragons were bred for this purpose from creatures like Grall, they didn’t grow to present size in the course of just a few Hatchings. Any more than the Masterherdsman could breed those long-staying long-legged runners he’s finally developed; it’s a project that I understand started about four hundred Turns ago. G’narish says they didn’t have them in the Oldtime.”
There was an undercurrent to F’lar’s voice, F’nor suddenly realized. The man was not as certain of this outrageous notion as he sounded. And yet, wasn’t the recognized goal of dragonmen the complete extermination of all Thread from the skies of Pern? Or was it? There wasn’t a line of the Teaching Ballads and Sagas that even suggested more than that the dragonmen prepare and guard Pern when the Red Star passed. Nothing hinted at a time when there would be no Thread to fight
“Isn’t it just possible that we, now, are the culmination of thousands of Turns of careful planning and development?” F’lar was suggesting urgently. “Look, don’t all the facts corroborate? The large population in support, the ingenuity of Fandarel, the discovery of those rooms and the devices, the grubs—everything . . .”
“Except one,” F’nor said slowly, hating himself.
“Which?” All the warmth and fervor drained out of F’lar and that single word came in a cold, harsh voice.
“Son of my father,” began F’nor, taking a deep breath, “if dragonmen clear the Star of Thread, what further purpose is there for them?”
F’lar, his face white and set with disappointment, drew himself to his feet.
“Well, I assume you’ve an answer to that, too,” F’nor went on, unable to bear the disillusion in his half-brother’s scornful regard. “Now where’s that long-handled hearthpan I’m supposed to catch Thread in?”
When they had thoroughly discussed and rejected every other possible method of securing Thread, and how they were to keep this project a secret—only Lessa and Ramoth knew of it—they parted, both assuring the other that he’d eat and rest. Both certain that the other could not.
If F’nor appreciated the audacity of F’lar’s project, he also counted up the flaws and the possible disasters. And then he realized that he still hadn’t had a chance to broach the innovation he himself desired to make. Yet, for a brown dragon to fly a queen was far less revolutionary than F’lar wanting to terminate the Weyrs’ duties. And, reinforced by one of F’lar’s own theories, if the dragons were now big enough for their ultimate breeding purpose, then no harm was done the species if a brown, smaller than a bronze, was mated to a queen—just this once. Surely F’nor deserved that compensation. Comforted that it would be merely an exchange of favors; rather than the gross crime it might once have been considered, F’nor went to borrow the long-handled hearthpan from one of Manora’s helpers.
Someone, probably Manora, had cleaned his weyr during his absence at Southern. F’nor was grateful for the fresh, supple skins on the bed, the clean, mended clothes in his chest, the waxed wood of table and chairs. Canth grumbled that someone had swept the sandy accumulation from his weyr-couch and he had nothing to scour his belly hide with now.
F’nor dutifully sympathized as he lay back on the silky furs of his bed. The scar on his arm itched a little and he rubbed it.
Oil is for itching skin, said Canth. Imperfect hide cracks in between.
“Be quiet, you. I’ve got skin, not hide.”
Grall appeared in his room, hovering over his chest, her wings wafting cool air across his face. She was curious, a curiosity with slight overtones of alarm.
He smiled, generating reassurance and affection. The gyrations of her lovely jewel-faceted eyes slowed and she made a graceful survey of his quarters, humming when she discovered the bathing room.
He could hear her splashing about in the water. He closed his eyes. He would need to rest He did not look forward to the afternoon’s endeavor.
If the grubs did live to eat Thread, and if F’lar could maneuver the scared Lords and Craftsmen into accepting this solution, what then? They weren’t fools, those men. They’d see that Pern would no longer be dependent on dragonriders. Of course, that’s what they wanted. And what under the sun did out-of-work dragonriders do? The Lords Holders Groghe, Sangel, Nessel, Meron and Vincet would immediately dispense with tithes. F’nor wouldn’t object to learning another trade, but F’lar had relinquished their tentative hold on the southern continent to the Oldtimers, so where would dragonmen farm? What commodity would they barter for the products of the Crafthalls?
F’lar couldn’t be under the impression that he could mend that breach with T’kul, could he? Or maybe—well, they didn’t know how large the southern continent was. Past the deserts to the west or the unexplored sea to the east, maybe there were other, hospitable lands. Did F’lar know more than he said?
Grall chirruped piteously in his ear. She was clinging to the fur rug by his shoulder, her supple hide gleaming golden from her bath. He stroked her, wondering if she needed oil. She was growing, but not at the tremendous rate dragons did in the first few weeks after Hatching.
Well, his thoughts were disturbing her as well as himself. “Canth?”
The dragon was asleep. The fact was oddly consoling.
F’nor found a comfortable position and closed his eyes, determined to rest Grall’s soft stirrings ended and he felt her body resting against his neck, in the curve of his shoulder. He wondered how Brekke was doing at the High Reaches. And if her small bronze was as unsettled by weyrlife in a cliff as Grall. A memory of Brekke’s face crossed his mind. Not as he had last seen her, anxious, worried, rapidly mobilizing her wits to cope with moving so precipitously after T’kul had swooped down on the unsuspecting settlement. But as loving had made her, soft, gentled. He’d have her soon to himself, all to himself, for he’d see that she didn’t overextend herself, fighting everyone’s battles except her own. She’d be asleep now, he realized, for it was still night at High Reaches . . .