Dragonsdawn (12 page)

“Sorka!” Mairi was embarrassed by her daughter’s proposal. The girl spent entirely too much time with that boy and was learning some bad habits from him. But to her amazement, Pol smiled cheerfully and patted Sorka’s arm.

“Now, now, Mairi, your daughter has good instincts. Barter is already practiced as an exchange system on Pern, you know.” He regarded 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 affirmed.

“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 distance 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.

Sean ignored her. “There aint no money here, and me da needs me in the camp.”

Sorka moved restlessly beside Pol, unsure if the scientist would rise to the occasion. But Pol had not been head of a prestigious zoology department in the huge university on First without learning how to deal with touchy, opinionated fellows. The young rascal who eyed him with ancient, inherited skepticism merely presented a slightly different aspect of a well-known problem. To any other young person, the zoologist might have offered 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 himself against a rock and folding his short arms across his chest.

Sean nodded, his attention caught by such an unexpected question.

“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 further; 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?”

“D’you know what I do on this planet?”

“Cut things up.”

“That, too, of course, but I also combine things, among them, traits, color, gender. That is what I and my colleagues generally do. By a judicious manipulation of gene patterns, we can produce what the client—” Pol waved one hand toward Sean. “—wants.”

Sean stared at him, not quite understanding the terms used and not daring to hope what Pol Nietro seemed to be suggesting.

“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 zoologist 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 fertilized 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.

The speed with which Pol Nietro organized an expedition left many of his colleagues as well as the administration staff gasping for breath. By morning, Jim Tillek had agreed that they could use the
Southern Cross
if he captained the crew. He was asked to provision it for a coastal trip of up to a week’s length; the Hanrahans and Porrig Connell had given their permission for Sorka and Sean to go; and Pol had persuaded Bay Harkenon to bring along her portable microscope and a quantity of specimen cases, slides, and similar paraphernalia. To Sorka’s surprise and Sean’s amusement, 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 evidence 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 remained 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 projected mining site. He had, he told the enthralled Sorka, sailed all the seas and oceans of Earth during his leaves from captaining a merchantman on the Belt runs, and up as many rivers as were navigable: Nile, Thames, Amazon, Mississippi, St. Lawrence, Columbia, Rhine, Volga, Yangtze, and less well known streams.

“Course, I wasn’t doing that as a professional man, and there wasn’t much call for a sailor on First yet, so this expedition was my chance to ply my hobby as trade, as ’twere,” he confided. “Damned glad I came!” 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 tremulous 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 evening campfire after the more formal official sittings of the council.

Captain Tillek dropped his gaze to the charts and, using his dividers, measured the distance from the jetty to the river mouth, and again to the land beyond.

“Why do the colors stop here?” Sorka asked, noticing that the bulk of the chart was uncolored.

Grinning in approval, he tapped the chart. “Fremlich did this for me from the probe pics, and they’ve been accurate to the last centimeter so far, but as we ourselves walk across the land and sail the coast, I color it in 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 prevalent 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 hightech society because 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 for the wind to trim the sheets. His crew were forward, making all lines fair on the plasiplex decks and going about the routine of the little ship.

“We’ll put in at dusk, probably about here, where the chart tells me there’s a deep harbor in a cove. More color to be added. We might even find what we’re looking for there, too.” He winked at Sorka and Bay Harkenon.

When the
Southern Cross
was anchored in six fathoms, Jim took the shore party to the beach in the little motorboat. Sean, who had had 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 ordered 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 already 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 acknowledgement.

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 farthest 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 him a benign appearance that matched his personality. “We won’t make
that
mistake on Pern.”

“Oh, no, never,” Bay Harkenon said, leaning toward Sean as if to touch him in reassurance. “Our investigative techniques no longer require endless specimens to confirm conclusions, you know.”

“Specimens?” Sean frowned, and Sorka looked apprehensive.

“Representative would perhaps be the better word.”

“And we’d use the eggs . . . of the green, of course,” Pol added 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 hatching 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.

“If dragonets were only a little bigger what?” Tillek asked.

“Then they’d be an equal match for the wherries.”

“They already are!” Sean said loyally, stroking one of his browns. If he had named them, he kept their names to himself. He had trained them to answer his various whistled commands. Sorka felt too shy to ask him how he had done it. Not that Duke ever, disobeyed her—once he figured out what she wanted.