All the Weyrs of Pern (8 page)

“In that stuffy little room?” Corman asked indignantly. “Have my harper learn it and I’ll hear it in my own Hold, in comfort and at my own convenience.” And with that he left.

“I will listen,” Bargen said. “I have come this far, though I am by no means certain that it is the wisest course to encourage this awesome Aivas thing.”

“At least you will listen,” Robinton said, giving an approving nod. “Sebell, how many can we comfortably accommodate in that stuffy little room?” He said it blandly enough, but several of the Weyrleaders smiled.

“Certainly all here who wish to attend,” Sebell said. “There are now enough benches and stools, and if a few of us have to stand, I gather no one minded yesterday. I certainly won’t.”

“We don’t have to ask this creature’s permission?” Bargen asked.

“Aivas is nothing if not accommodating,” Master Robinton said, grinning broadly.

They filed down the hall then, three Lord Holders, the Weyrleaders and Weyrwomen, and the Craftmasters. Terry was already there, looking mightily pleased with himself but warding people away from the bundle of cords that wound from Aivas and stretched along the left-hand wall and out into the adjacent room. A window had been inserted, high on the right-hand wall, allowing fresh air to circulate through the room. There turned out to be enough benches and stools to seat almost everyone, including Lord Groghe, who had decided to sit through Aivas’s telling a second time. Menolly stood beside Sebell. She groped and found his hand when the first vision of Pern in the blackness of space lit the screen.

“Now that’s amazing,” Bargen exclaimed, but he was the last to speak until Aivas ended its account with the final view of an airsled disappearing through the ashfall to the west. Then, slightly dazed, he muttered, “Corman’s an old fool. Norist, too.”

“Thank you, Aivas,” Groghe of Fort Hold said, rising and shaking out stiffened limbs. “Of course, I saw it yesterday, but it’s worth seeing again. And any time I can.” He nodded emphatically at F’lar. “You know that I’ll support you, dragonriders. You will, too, won’t you, Warbret, Bargen?” His question was more of a demand, and he jutted his chin at his peers, ready to coerce them into agreement.

“I think we must, Warbret,” Bargen said as he rose and turned, courteously inclining his body toward F’lar and then Master Robinton. “Good day. And good luck.”

The other lords left with him.

“I don’t mean to dash all this optimism,” G’dened of Ista Weyr said, “but Aivas said nothing to the point of just
how
we’re going to accomplish the elimination of Thread.”

“No, he didn’t exactly, did he?” R’mart agreed, shaking his head as if to clear it. “The ancestors had a lot more equipment and gadgets and those sleds. If they couldn’t get rid of Thread, how shall we?”

“There is a time for all things to be accomplished,” Aivas said. “As mentioned last night, several conclusions had been made. The most important, for you, is that in four years, ten months, and twenty-seven days, it will be possible to jolt the eccentric planet out of its present orbit, permanently. It will then be close to the orbit of your fifth planet, far from Rukbat—though, as you now know, the Thread swarms still follow it past Pern.”

The Aivas had the stunned attention of everyone in the room as a diagram of Rukbat’s planets blazed on the screen. They moved slowly around their primary, and the wanderer crossed at an angle to them.

F’lar gave a weak laugh. “The dragons of Pern are strong and willing, but I don’t think they could move the Red Star.”

“They will not,” Aivas said. “For to attempt the feat would be to endanger their lives and their riders’. But the dragons are able to perform other, vital tasks that will allow you to alter that planet’s course permanently.”

Once again everyone was silent.

“That I might live to see the day,” G’dened of Igen murmured fervently. “I’d go forward another four hundred Turns if we could do that!”

“If that could be done,” R’mart asked, “why didn’t our ancestors do it?”

“The conjunction of the planets was not then auspicious.” The Aivas paused briefly, then went on with what Master Robinton heard as irony. “And by the time these calculations had been made, all had gone north, leaving this facility unable to inform its operators.” Aivas paused again. “The dragons you have nourished to such size and strength will be critical to the success of the project. If you are willing.”

“If we are willing!” T’gellan and T’bor cried in astonished chorus. All the dragonriders sprang to their feet. Mirrim hugged T’gellan’s arm, her expression fierce with determination.

“F’lar’s not the only one,” N’ton added, “whose greatest wish is to exterminate Thread!”

D’ram, the oldest of the riders, had tears streaming down his cheeks. “We are nothing if not willing, Aivas. Even this old man and his ancient dragon!”

From outside came a chorus of dragons bugling, the rich bass of the bronzes, the thrilling sopranos of the queens, and the high piercing tone of Mirrim’s green Path.

“It will not be an easy task,” Aivas said, “and you will have to study assiduously in order to lay the necessary foundation to bring success to that day.”

“Why must it be four years, ten months, and whatever days?” K’van, the youngest Weyrleader, asked.

“Twenty-seven days,” Aivas corrected him. “Because that is the precise moment when a window will be open.”

“A window?” Inadvertently K’van looked at the new one in the wall.

“As a rider, you always take your dragon to a precise place when you go
between
, do you not?” K’van was not the only rider to nod agreement. Aivas went on. “It is even more important to be precise when one is traveling in space.”

“We’re going to be traveling in space?” F’lar asked, gesturing toward the screen where they had briefly seen what space was like.

“In a manner of speaking,” Aivas said. “You will come to understand, and correctly interpret, the terms that define the tasks before you. In the lexicon of space travel, a window is the interval that brackets the moment within which you have flexibility to achieve your objective, also traveling in space. If this is to succeed—”

“If?”
R’mart almost yelled. “But you said it
could
!” He glared accusingly at F’lar.

“The plan is viable and has every chance of succeeding
if
the requisite effort is put into its implementation,” Aivas said firmly. “But success will depend on the learning of new skills and disciplines. It is obvious that while all dragonriders are dedicated men, you also have little leisure at your command. But the dragons and the riders are requisites to the task, supported by Craftmasters and those Lord Holders who will lend men and women as support staff. It would be best if everyone on the planet could be involved in the project. As were your ancestors.”

“I still don’t see why our ancestors didn’t take care of the problem when they had the chance to,” R’mart said.

“Your ancestors did not have dragons the size and intelligence of yours. The species has evolved and exceeded the original genetic specifications. If you will observe . . .” Images of two dragons flicked onto Aivas’s screen. “The bronze is Carenath, Sean O’Connell is his rider, and the other is Faranth and Sorka Hanrahan.” Two more dragons appeared on screen, three times the size of the first two. “Now, there are Ramoth and Mnementh. The scale of comparison is accurate.”

“Why, that bronze isn’t as big as Ruth,” T’bor said, shooting an apologetic glance at the Benden Weyrleaders.

“No, he doesn’t seem to be,” F’lar replied equably. “You’ve made the point, Aivas. Now, how do we start this training you speak of?”

“Not today, certainly,” Aivas said. “The first priority is a proper power source, which Master Fandarel has been good enough to undertake in his efficient fashion.” Master Robinton swung to stare sharply at the screen. Aivas continued. “Second, the installation of the additional stations. Third, a supply of paper sufficient for hard copy for instruction and explanation. Fourth—”

F’lar waved both hands, grinning. “Enough, Aivas. When the craftsmen have done your bidding, we’ll be ready to take instruction. That I promise you.”

“Good,” Master Terry said, rising from his stool and hitching his heavy tool belt to a more comfortable position. “Are you leaving here now?” he asked amiably. “Because I’ve got more connections to make to Aivas, and you’re in my way.”

“There’ll be food and drink in the conference room by now,” Lessa said, encouraging everyone to leave.

Master Robinton waited until all the others were well down the corridor. He glanced at Terry, busy laying out the cables and muttering to himself.

“Aivas?” the Masterharper said in a whisper, “do you have a sense of humor?”

There was a distinct pause before the reply came. “Master Robinton, this facility is not programmed for senses. It is programmed to interact with humans.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is one kind of an explanation.”

With that, Master Robinton had to be content.

The four Eastern Weyr dragonriders glided down in a spiral to the hillside above the dam. All interest in the ancients’ settlement had been centered on Landing. No one had yet had any occasion to wander about the nearby hills looking for evidence of the settlers’ handiwork, so the presence of an obviously man-made lake—for Fandarel had dammed up a few useful streams in his Turns as apprentice and journeyman in the Smithcrafthall and recognized the configuration—was yet another surprise.

The lake stretched back, a glittering long finger contained between two high ridges. The dam had been built across the 6neck of the southeast end. Though the structure had been broached and two cascades fell gracefully from the height into the ravine below, it was still the biggest dam Fandarel had ever seen.

The marvelous thing, Master Fandarel realized, was not that it had been made, but that so much of it had survived for twenty-five centuries. As D’clan’s brown Pranith skimmed the top, Fandarel could see that the passage of all that time had taken some toll on the dam. Grooves, like the bites of a creature larger even than a dragon, had been gouged in the top, creating openings for the falls to tumble through. Floods, no doubt, he decided, pushing large boulders or debris relentlessly against it. He pulled on D’clan’s sleeve and pointed a thick forefinger vigorously downward. D’clan nodded, grinning, and in the next instant, Pranith tightened his spiral and glided to a neat landing on the left-hand side, the longer intact span.

With a grace and agility envied by many younger and fitter men, Fandarel slid from the brown neck and landed lightly on his feet. In a moment he was down on his hands and knees, knife blade scraping aside mud and caked dirt to examine the material of the dam. He shook his head.

“Plascrete, Aivas said,” he muttered to himself as the others in his party joined him. Evan, the journeyman who often translated his designs into solid reality, was a self-contained man who hadn’t so much as blinked when he took instructions from “the talking wall.” Belterac was nearly as grizzled as Fandarel; he was wise in his craft, and the steadiness of his work habits offset the apprentice Fosdak, who was erratic and troublesome but strong as a draft animal. The last was Silton, a useful and diligent young man who had shown some of Master Terry’s dogged perseverance. “They built this of plascrete,” Fandarel went on. “Stuff that will last for millennia. And it has. By the shell of the first Egg, it has!”

The three dragons were as interested in the dam as the humans were: they walked along the wide top, their wings folded to their backs, and suddenly V’line laughed and said aloud that his bronze Clarinath wanted to know if there would be time for a bath. The water looked so clear and clean.

“Later, please,” Fandarel said, continuing his inspection of the edifice.

“Amazing construction,” Evan murmured, scuffing the surface with his heavy boots on his way to the lake side of the structure. He peered over the edge. “Water levels are marked, Fandarel. Can’t have been high in Turns, though it has been from time to time.”

Then he walked to the ravine side and pointed downward and to his left. “There, Master, that’s where the ancients had their power station.”

Fandarel squinted, shielding his eyes with one huge hand, then nodded in satisfaction as he saw the remains of the building. Something had smashed into it from a height. Probably the same debris that had breached the dam, crashing down on the place with tremendous force.

“D’clan, if you and Pranith would be good enough to take us down there,” Fandarel said, pointing. “Evan and I will go first to be sure it is safe enough.”

D’clan and Pranith obliged, finding sufficient room to set down by the ruins. All that was left of the structure were the heavy girders that had supported the roof of the power station, and the inner wall, which looked to be cemented to the naked rock. But the floor, despite a thick carpet of pebble-encrusted dirt a full knife blade deep, had remained impervious to the passage of time.

“Those strong young backs can clear this, Evan,” Fandarel said. “D’clan, can you wave the others down here? Then the dragons may have a swim.”

“They spend more time in the water than in the air,” D’clan complained. “They’re more likely to wash the hide off ’em, if they’re not careful. A hide-damaged dragon’s no good
between
.” But his tone was more affectionate than captious.

While the others started shoveling away the mud, Fandarel and Evan made careful measurements of the area to be enclosed, then calculated where the new power wheel would be situated. With deft lines, Evan made a preliminary sketch of what the finished installation would look like. Fandarel, watching over his shoulder, nodded approval. Then he looked about, squinting up at the high, smooth face of the dam and the hillsides.

“Now,” he said, satisfied with his analysis of the site’s needs, “we go back to Telgar, to assemble the components.” He grinned at Evan. “It will be a novel thing, will it not, to work from proper plans?”

Evan merely raised his eyebrows. “Can’t be but more efficient that way.”