Dragonsdawn (20 page)

Paul had a quiet word with one of the psychologists, whose opinion was that the thwarted tensions of the bereaved might be eased by what he termed “a ritual incineration.” So they stepped aside when Ted Tubberman and his adherents demanded the cube and destroyed it in a blazing fire. The resultant stench gagged many, which helped to speed the dispersal of the onlookers. Only Ted and a few others remained to watch the embers cool.

The psychologist shook his head slowly. “I think I’ll keep an eye on Ted Tubberman for a while,” he told Paul and Emily. “That was apparently not enough to assuage his grief.”

Telescopes were trained on the eccentric planet early the next morning. Its reddish appearance was due, Ezra Keroon suggested, to the aggregated dust swirls it had brought in from the edge of the system. Despite the lack of any proof, the feeling among the observers was that the planet was somehow responsible for the disaster.

During the day, Kenjo’s group discovered traces of an earlier fall on Ierne Island, which a witness remembered as more of a rainstorm littered with black motes than a fall of Thread. A scout sent to the northern continent reported traces of recent destruction across the eastern peninsula there. That discovery dispersed the vain hope that the Fall was unique or confined to a specific area. A review of the probe pics from the EEC did nothing to alleviate tension, for the fax incontrovertibly showed the Fall two hundred years before to have been widespread. They figured that the event must have happened just prior to the team’s arrival. The demand to know the extent and frequency of the falls increased ominously.

To assuage mounting fears and tension, Betty Musgrave-Blake and Bill Duff undertook to review the survey’s original botanical data. Ted Tubberman was the only trained botanist who had survived, but he spent his days tracking down every Thread shell and his evenings burning the piles. The psychologists continued to monitor his aberrant behavior.

Based on the original data, Betty and Bill deduced a two-hundred-year gap between incursions, allowing a span of ten to fifteen years for the vegetation to regenerate on the damaged circles after taking into account the age of some of the largest trees in and near the previous occurrence. Betty delivered their conclusion as a positive statement, meant to engender optimism, but she could provide no answer to the vital question of how long the deadly rain would continue to fall.

In an attempt to disprove Mar’s theory of purposeful design or Phas’s equally disturbing suggestion of invasion, Ezra Keroon spent that day on the link with the
Yokohama’s
mainframe. His calculations confirmed beyond question that the eccentric planet had an orbit of 250 years. But it only stayed in the inner system for a little while, the way Halley’s comet periodically visited Sol. It was too much to suppose there was no connection, and, after consulting Paul and Emily, Ezra programmed one of the
Yokohama’s
few remaining probes to circumnavigate the planet and discover its composition and, especially, the components of its apparently gaseous envelope.

Though all reports were honestly and fully presented to the community as soon they came in, by evening speculation had produced alarming interpretations. Grimly the more responsible members tried to calm those who gave way to panic.

Then a perplexed Kenjo sought Betty out with a disturbing observation. She immediately informed Paul and Emily, and a quiet meeting was arranged with those who were able to discuss the situation with some detachment.

“You all know that I’ve overflown to map the damage,” Kenjo began. “I didn’t know what I’d seen until I’d seen it often enough to realize what was
not
there.” He paused, as if steeling himself for rebuke or disbelief. “I don’t think all Thread starved to death. And crazy Tubberman hasn’t gotten as far as I have. In most places, there are shells! But in nine circles that I have seen—and I landed to be sure I make no mistake—there were no shells.” He made a cutting gesture with both hands. “None. And these circles were by themselves, not in a group, and the area—demolished—was not as big as usual.” He glanced at each of the serious faces about him. “I see. I observe. I have pics, too.”

“Well,” Pol said, heaving a weary sigh and absently patting the folded hands of his wife beside him at the table. “It is biologically consistent that to perpetuate a species many are sent and few are chosen. Perhaps the journey through space vitiates most of the organisms. I’m almost relieved that a few can survive and flourish. It makes more sense. I prefer your theory to some of the others that have been bruited about.”

“Yes, but what do they become in the next metamorphosis?” Bay wondered, her face reflecting depression. Sometimes being right was another sort of failure.

“We’d better find out,” Paul said, glancing around for support. “Is there one nearby, Kenjo?” When the pilot pointed to its position on the map, Paul nodded. “Good then, Phas, Pol, Bill, Ezra, Bay and Emily, just slip out of Landing in small sleds. Let’s see if we can prevent a new batch of wild notions. Report back here as soon as you can.”

Paul sent Betty back to her home and her new baby, telling her to rest. Boris Pahlevi and Dieter Clissman were summoned and set to work designing a comprehensive computer program to analyze the data as it continued to come in. Then Paul and Ongola settled back to wait tensely for the other specialists to return.

Pol, Bay, and Phas were the first back, and they brought little good news.

“All the insects, slug-forms, and grubs we found on those sites,” Phas reported, “appear harmless enough. Some of them have already been catalogued, but,” he added with a shrug, “we’ve barely begun to identify creatures and their roles in the ecology of this planet. Kenjo was right to alert us. Clearly some of the Thread survives to propagate itself, so Bay’s theory is the most viable to date.” Phas seemed relieved. “But I won’t rest easy until we have discovered the entire cycle.”

Late in the afternoon of the third day after that first Fall, an almost hysterical call came in from Wade Lorenzo of Sadrid in Macedonia Province. Jacob Chernoff, who took the call, immediately contacted Ongola and Paul at the administration building. “He says it’s coming straight across the sea, right at him, sir. His stake is due west on the twenty-degree line. I’m holding him on channel thirty-seven.”

Even as Paul picked up the handset and punched for the channel, he located the coastal stake of Sadrid on the big map of the continent.

“Get everyone in under silicon plastic,” he ordered. “Use fire to ignite the stuff where it hits the surface. Use torches if necessary. D’you have any dragonets?”

The stakeholder’s deep breath was audible as he fought for self-control. “We have some dragonets, sir, and we’ve two flamethrowers—used ’em to cut down bush. We thought it was just a very bad rain squall until we saw the fish eating. Can’t you come?”

“We’ll get there as soon as possible!”

Paul told Jacob to tell no one of the new Fall.

“I don’t want to cause more panic than there already is, sir,” Jacob agreed.

Paul smiled briefly at the boy’s fervor, then dialed Jim Tillek at the Monaco Bay harbormaster’s office. He inquired if there were any trawlers southwest near Sadrid.

“Not today. Any trouble?”

So much for trying to sound casual, Paul thought. “Can you get here to admin without appearing to rush?”

Ongola was looking grimly at the map, his eyes flicking from Macedonia to Delta. “Your Boca River Stake is not that far from Sadrid,” he told the admiral.

“I noticed.” Paul dialed the channel link to his stake and in terse sentences told his wife the grim news and instructed her on what precautions to take. “Ju, it may not reach us but . . .”

“It’s best to be on the safe side with something like this, isn’t it?”

Paul was proud of her calm response. “I’ll give you an update as soon as we’ve got one. With any luck, you’ve got at least an hour’s leeway if it’s just now at Sadrid. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Quite possibly, Boca’s far enough north. This stuff seems to fall in a southwesterly drift.’

“Ask her if her dragonets are acting normally,” Ongola suggested.

“Sunning themselves, as always at this time of day,” Ju replied. “I’ll watch them. They really do anticipate this stuff?”

“Ongola thinks so. I’ll check with you later, Ju.”

“I’ve just got through to the Logorides at Thessaly,” Ongola said. “They might be in the path. Had we better warn Caesar at Roma Stake? He’s got all that livestock.”

“He was also smart enough to put up stone buildings, but call him and then find out if Boris and Dieter have run their new program. I wish the hell we knew when it started, how far it’ll travel,” Paul muttered anxiously. “I’ll organize transport.” He dialed the main engineering shed and asked for Kenjo.

“There’s more Thread? How far away?” Kenjo asked. “Sadrid? On the twentieth? I’ve got something that could make it in just over an hour.” There was a ripple of excitement in Kenjo’s usually even tone. “Fulmar worked out jet-assist units on one of the medium sleds. Fulmar thinks we could get seven hundred kph out of it, at least, even fully loaded. More if we run light.”

“We’re going to have to pack as many of the flamethrowers as possible plus emergency supplies. We’ll use HNO
₃
cylinders—they’ll be like using fire
and
water at once on the Thread. Pol and Bay don’t weigh much, and they’ll be invaluable as observers. We need at least one medic, a couple of joats, Tarvi, Jim, and me. Eight. All right, then, we’ll be with you directly.” Paul turned to Ongola. “Any luck?”

“Since we can’t tell them when it started, they want to know when it ends,” Ongola said. “The more data we can give them, the more accurate they will be . . . next time. Am I among the eight?”

Paul shook his head with regret. “I need you here to deal with any panic. Blast it, but we’ve got to get organized for this.”

Ongola snorted to himself. Paul Benden was already a legend in organizing and operating at high efficiency in emergency situations. Observers, crew, and supplies boarded the augmented sled within twenty minutes of the initial call, and it was airborne and out of sight before Ongola heard the muted roar of its improved drive.

Kenjo drove the sled at its maximum speed, passengers and supplies securely strapped in safety harnesses. They sped across the verdant tip of the untouched peninsula past the Jordan River, and then out to sea where the turbulence of sporadic but heavy squalls added more discomfort to an already rough ride in a vehicle not designed for such velocities.

“No sign of the leading edge of the Fall. Half of that cloud to the south of us is more squalls,” Paul said, looking up from the scope and rubbing his eyes. “Maybe, just maybe,” he added softly, “those squalls also saved Sadrid.”

Despite the excessive speed, the journey, mainly over water, seemed to continue endlessly. Suddenly, Kenjo reduced speed. The sea became less of a blur to starboard, and on the port side, the vast, approaching land was just visible through the mist of squall. Sunlight broke through cloud to shine impartially on tossing vegetation and denuded alleys.

“It’s an ill wind,” Jim Tillek remarked, pointing to the sea, which was disturbed more by underwater activity than by wind. “By the way, before I left Monaco Bay, I sent our finny friends to see what they could find out.”

“Good heavens!” Bay exclaimed, pressing her face against the thick plastic canopy. “They can’t have made it here so fast.”

“Not likely,” Jim replied, chuckling, “but the locals are feeding very well indeed.”

“Stay seated!” Kenjo cried, fighting the yoke of the sled.

“If the dolphins can find out where it started . . . Data, that’s what Dieter and Boris need.” Paul resumed manning the forward scope. “Sadrid wasn’t entirely lucky,” he added, frowning. “Just as if someone had shaved the vegetation off the ground with a hot knife,” he muttered under his breath, and turned away. “Get us down as fast as possible, Kenjo!”

“It was the wind,” Wade Lorenzo told the rescue team. “The wind saved us, and the squall. Came down in sheets, but it was water, not Thread. No, we’re mostly okay,” he assured them, pointing to the dragonets, grooming themselves on the rooftrees. “They saved us, just like I heard they did at Landing.” The younger children were just being shepherded out of one of the larger buildings, wide-eyed with apprehension as they looked about them. “But we don’t know if Jiva and Bahka are all right. They were trawling.” He gestured hopelessly to the west.

“If they went west and north, they’d’ve had a good chance,” Jim told him.

“But we are ruined,” Athpathis added. The agronomist’s face was a picture of defeat as he indicated the ravaged fields and orchards.

“There’re still plenty of seedlings at Landing,” Pol Nietro assured him, patting his back with clumsy sympathy. “And one can grow several crops a year in this climate.”

“We’ll be back to you later,” Paul said, helping to unload flamethrowers. “Jim, will you organize the mop-up here? You know what to do. We’ve got to track the main Fall to its end. There you are, Wade. Go char the bastards!”

“But Admiral—” Athpathis began, the whites of his large fearful eyes accentuated in his sun-darkened face.

“There’s two other stakes in the way of this menace,” Paul said, climbing back into the sled and fastening the hatch.

“Straight to your place, Paul?” Kenjo asked, lifting the sled.

“No, I want you to go north first. See if we can find Jiva and Bahka. And until we find the edge of the Fall.”

As soon as Kenjo had hoisted the sled, he slapped on the jet assist, slamming his passengers back into their seats. But almost immediately he eased back on the power, “Sir, I think it’s missed your place.”

Instantly Paul pressed his eyes to the scope and, with incredible relief, saw the vegetation along the beach tossing in the wake of squall winds. Reassured, he could concentrate on the job at hand without divided priorities.

“Why, it just cuts off,” Bay said, surprised.

“Rain, I think,” Pol remarked as he, too, craned his neck to see out the siliplex canopy. “And look, isn’t that an orange sail?”