All the Weyrs of Pern (17 page)

“I think—” Robinton paused to glance at Sebell, aware that he was encroaching on the new Masterharper’s authority with the suggestion. “—that this first printing press should be constructed here in Landing.”

Sebell nodded, guessing the real reason for his mentor’s suggestion. “That would certainly be less of an affront to Master Arnor.” He examined the sheets with Tagetarl. “Dulkan’s already here, and he’s done some fine brasswork for harp plates. There’re four more of the older apprentices, waiting for their hour on the General Science Course. We could use them until their appointment.”

Robinton beamed at the two men, pleased to see the alacrity with which they were already moving forward on the project.

“Terry’s down at the Catherine Caves right now, in fact. If we hurry, we can get advice from him, too,” Tagetarl said eagerly.

With the briefest but still most courteous of farewells to Robinton, the two young men strode out of the room and down the hall, exchanging ideas on how to proceed.

Sometimes, Robinton thought as he slowly eased himself down into the nearest chair, such energy exhausted rather than revived him. Not that he wouldn’t be delighted with this printing press. Able to run off as many copies as needed? What a concept!

It truly amazed him that there were now so many devices that had never before been required. The effects on Hall, Hold, and Weyr, only beginning to filter through, would be profound. Lytol, having delved into the history and politics of their ancestors, had already worried about what he called the erosion of values and the subversion of tradition by new demands. The promise of the eradication of Thread—the possibility, Robinton sternly corrected himself—motivated all but a few dissenters. Even the most conservative of the surviving Oldtimers had come around to support the Benden Weyrleaders.

And how
were
dragons and their riders to occupy themselves when Thread was no longer the rationale for the Weyrs? Robinton knew, though the notion was not widely discussed, that F’lar and Lessa wanted to lay claim to considerable lands here in the Southern Continent. But would the Lord Holders, who themselves looked greedily toward the open space of the vast Southern Continent, be complacent about such claims? Toric’s realization that he had settled for such a small portion of the southern lands still rankled in that ambitious man’s mind. In Robinton’s estimation, the Weyrs deserved whatever they requested after centuries of service, but would the Lord Holders, and the Halls, agree? That concerned him the most. Yet it seemed to worry the Weyrleaders least. And what if, in the four Turns ten months, and three days specified by Aivas, the attempt should fail? What then?

Perhaps, and he brightened suddenly, all this new technology would absorb both Hold and Hall, to the exclusion of the Weyrs. Hold and Hall had always managed quite nicely to ignore the Weyrs between Passes. Perhaps things like power stations and printing presses were indeed valuable, but for more abstruse reasons, as well as the obvious ones.

“Aivas,” Robinton said in greeting, carefully closing the door behind him. “A word with you.” He cleared his throat, wondering why Aivas could sometimes reduce him to the nervousness of an apprentice. “About this printing press . . .”

“You do not concur with the necessity of such a machine?”

“On the contrary, I most certainly do.”

“Then what troubles you? For your voice betrays a note of uncertainty.”

“Aivas, when we first realized what you represented in terms of knowledge, we had little idea of the scope of all that had been lost over the centuries. Yet now, rarely does a day go by but some new device is suddenly on the essential list. Our skilled craftsmen have enough lined up to keep them busy for the entire Pass. Tell me, truly,
are
all these machines and devices really necessary?”

“Not to the way of life you had, Master Robinton. But to accomplish what is apparently the desire of the majority of Pern, the destruction of Thread, improvements are essential. Your ancestors did not employ the highest technology available to them: They preferred to use the lowest level necessary to perform the function. That is the level that is presently being reestablished. As you yourself requested in the initial interview.”

Robinton wondered if he had imagined the tone of mild reproof. “Water-driven power . . .” he began.

“Which you already had available to you.”

“Printing presses?”

“Your Records were printed, but in a laborious and time-consuming fashion that, unfortunately, permitted errors to be made and perpetuated.”

“The teaching consoles?”

“You have harpers who instruct by set lessons. You had even managed to rediscover papermaking before accessing this facility. Most papermaking techniques, Masterharper, are refinements of techniques you already employ, made easier by some basic machinery and of no higher level than your ancestors brought with them. It is little more than correcting long-standing errors and misconceptions. The spirit of the original colonists is still intact. Even the technology that must be utilized to thwart the return of the wanderer planet will be of the same level as your ancestors’. There may be other scientifically advanced methods now available to Earth scientists that could be utilized if there were still communication between this planet and Earth. Great strides in cosmology were being announced at the time the colony ships left Earth’s system. These were not, however, incorporated into the memory banks of this facility. Once you have regained the appropriate level of understanding, you may progress, or not, as you choose.”

Robinton pensively rubbed his chin. He could scarcely fault Aivas for doing what had been specifically requested, that Pern be brought back to the level of knowledge it had originally enjoyed. It was also obvious that Aivas was obeying the initial request that only what was really needed be revived. It was just stunning to realize how much
had
been lost.

“This world has survived, Master Robinton, with more dignity and honor than you would imagine—as Lord Warder Lytol is discovering in his exploration of history.”

“Perhaps I have not paid as much attention to his studies as I ought.”

“That statement was a private analysis of achievement, Master Robinton. It is for Lord Warder Lytol to arrive at his own conclusion based on his studies.”

“I wonder if his conclusion will parallel your impartial one.”

“You should delve into history and arrive at your own, Master Robinton.” There was one of the interesting pauses that Aivas tended to affect. “Printed books would make that much easier for you.”

Robinton glared at the green light on the face of the Aivas facility and wondered, once again, what constituted “artificial intelligence.” The several times he had asked that direct question, the reply had been a repetition of a translation of the acronym. Robinton now understood that there were explanations which Aivas either could not, or was programmed not to, make.

“Yes, printed books would be much easier,” the Harper agreed at last. “But according to what you’ve shown us, the settlers had other devices, much more compact.”

“That technology is too advanced to be considered at the present time and would involve processes that are presently beyond your abilities or needs.”

“Well, then, I’ll settle for books.”

“That would be prudent of you.”

“And you will remain prudent in what you ask us to recreate?”

“That is a corollary to the prime goal of this facility.”

Robinton was content with that answer. But just as he had his hand on the door pull, he turned. “Would this printing press be able to print musical scores, as well?”

“Yes.”

“That would be much, much easier for the entire Hall,” he said. He felt so buoyant as he retraced his steps down the hall that he began to whistle.

7

Present Pass 19

L
ESSA ROUSED ABRUPTLY
, opening her eyes to a darkness which suggested that daylight was still hours away. F’lar lay sprawled beside her, his forehead touching her shoulder, one arm thrown across her, One leg pinning hers down. Their bed was oversized, but he invariably managed to occupy more of it than she did. In fact, there were only finger lengths between her and the edge. She must have told herself to wake up at this barbarous hour—she had always had that ability. But why? Her mind was too sleep-fogged to provide an immediate answer.

Ramoth was sound asleep, too. And Mnementh! All of Benden Weyr was asleep, including, she discovered with irritation, the dragon and rider supposedly on watch on the Rim. She would blast him as soon as she figured out why she was awake at this appallingly early hour.

Then she saw the lighted clock face on the bedside locker. Three bloody of the clock! Progress was a two-edged dagger. Having a reliable timepiece that was visible in the dark only made the darkness and this early rising harder to endure. But seeing the clock reminded her of why she had to get up early that morning. She pushed at F’lar, who was never easy to wake up unless Mnementh called him.

“F’lar, wake up! We’ve got to get up.”
Ramoth, dear, wake up! We’ve got to be at Landing. Aivas particularly wants
us
there.
She prodded F’lar’s shoulder more urgently and, struggling to pull her legs out from under his, reluctantly rose from the comfortable, warm bed. “We’ve got to get down to Landing early this morning. Early
their
morning.”

There were moments, and this was one of them, when Lessa’s enthusiasm for the Project faltered. If, however, this was the morning when Aivas would set in train the results of two Turns of hard studying and work, the early rising would be a minor sacrifice.

In the bigger chamber of the queen’s weyr, she could hear Ramoth mumbling and grunting, denying the summons just as F’lar was doing.

“Well, if I have to get up, you will, too,” she said, and callously hauled the sleeping-fur off her weyrmate.

“What the—” F’lar tried to grab the fur, but Lessa, with a chuckle, snatched it from his hand.

“You’ve got to get up.”

“It’s the middle of the bloody night, Lessa,” he complained. “We don’t have Fall for another day and a half.”

“Aivas wants us there at five of the clock Landing time.”

“Aivas!” He sat bolt upright, wide-eyed, pushing his tumbled hair back from his face.

Lessa snorted at F’lar’s response to that name.

“My shirt!—” he cried, shivering convulsively in the predawn cold. “Heartless woman!”

She snatched shirt and pants up from the chair and tossed them to him. “I am not at all heartless!”

Then she opened a glowbasket to find fresh clothes for herself. F’lar made a quick stop in the bathing room while she poured klah for them both. With her cup in her hand, she passed F’lar on her way in; then she washed quickly and replaited the ends of her braids.

“Watch rider’s, asleep,” she told him when she got back into the weyr, where he was stamping into his boots and shrugging on his riding jacket.

“I know. I’ve sent Mnementh to scare the living lights out of both of them.” He cocked his head then as they both heard a reverberating roar and a startled squeal. “That’ll teach them.”

“One day Mnementh’s going to startle one or both of a watch-pair off the Rim!” she replied.

He grinned at her. “Haven’t yet! Here!” And he held out her flying jacket and cap. As she stuck her arms in the sleeves, he bent and kissed the back of her neck. F’lar was often amorous when he first woke.

“That makes me shiver!” But she didn’t pull away, so he kissed her again and hugged her affectionately. Leaving one arm across her shoulders, he guided her out to Ramoth’s weyr.

The gold queen’s tail was still in the weyr; the rest of her was out on the ledge. And, as F’lar and Lessa joined her there, Mnementh lowered his head from the level above the queen’s weyr, his eyes gleaming brilliant blue-green in the darkness.

Who did you scare awake on watch up there, Mnementh?
Lessa asked.

B’fol and green Gereth. They won’t sleep on watch again.
The bronze dragon’s tone was particularly severe, an attitude with which Lessa had no quarrel, for both B’fol and Gereth were well enough on in Turns not to be delinquent.

“Next Fall, B’fol and Gereth will handle firestone sacks,” F’lar remarked, having followed the exchange. This was no time for Benden Weyr to get slipshod. “Have we time for porridge?” he asked hopefully.

Considering that days at Landing were apt to be spent in nonstop work, Lessa thought a good breakfast was only prudent, even if they were already behind the appointed hour. “We’ll make time,” she said, a ripple of mischievousness in her voice.

“Now, now, Lessa,” he began in a tone of mock reproof, “if we don’t let anyone else time it . . .”

“Rank has some privileges, and I’ll think the better for a decent breakfast in my guts,” she said. “So we’ll make a little time. Especially since you’re so hard to wake up.” She laughed softly when he sputtered a protest. “If you please, Ramoth!” And the queen crouched to allow her rider to mount. “You won’t mind giving F’lar a lift, will you, dearest? I don’t want him falling off that upper ledge, trying to mount Mnementh in the dark.”

Ramoth turned her head toward F’lar and blinked.
Of course.

Mnementh waited until both riders were settled on the queen’s neck before pushing off from the upper ledge and gliding down beside them to the floor of the Bowl. As soon as they had landed, the night lights in the Lower Caverns were visible, as well as the banked fire on the small hearth where a big kettle of porridge was simmering. The huge klah pot was pulled slightly to one side so that the contents would not become too strong to be palatable.

As Lessa filled two bowls with the steaming cereal, she was glad that they had the place to themselves. The bakers must just have left—for the big table near the main hearth was full of cloth-covered breadpans. F’lar brought over two cups of klah, spooning an almost indecent amount of sweetener into his, and then sprinkling as much again over the porridge Lessa set in front of him.

“It’s a miracle you don’t gain weight with all that sweetener,” she began.

“Or lose my teeth,” he said, adding the second half of that long-standing complaint. He gave her his widest grin and tapped his teeth with his spoon. “But I don’t and I haven’t.” He dug into his breakfast.

Lessa sipped at her klah first, wanting to clear the last of sleep from her wits.

“Do you suppose that Aivas is going to start the Project this morning?”

F’lar shrugged as the question caught him with a hot mouthful. He swallowed. “I can’t think why else he called a meeting of such a group at such an hour. According to the original schedule he gave us, we should be ready to start. Despite what some critics imply,” he added with a grimace that had nothing to do with the piping-hot porridge on his spoon, “he keeps his promises.

“So far,” Lessa said in a dour tone.

“Well, he has!” Then F’lar looked at his weyrmate. “You don’t really believe he can keep his promise about Thread, do you?”

“I just can’t figure out how he can contrive to have us do what the settlers couldn’t!” She glared at him, both relieved and sorry that she had come out with the doubt that had been increasingly bothering her.

F’lar covered her hand with his. “He’s done everything he’s promised to do. And I believe him, not just because I, as a dragonrider, want to, but because he sounds so very sure.”

“But, F’lar, every time he’s been asked, he hasn’t
promised
that we will be able to destroy Thread. He’s said it is
possible
. That’s not quite the same thing.”

“Let’s just see what today brings, huh, love?”

F’lar gave her that knowing look of his which sometimes she wanted to scratch off his face. She took a deep breath and held back a scathing retort. Today could prove much, and as deeply as she wanted it to prove that F’lar was right to place so much confidence in Aivas, she had to prepare him for possible disappointment.

“But if today is a disaster, that’s going to reduce our effectiveness at next week’s Conference at Tillek Hold to choose Oterel’s successor.”

F’lar frowned. “I recognize that danger. I’m reasonably sure that Aivas also does. I’d say that’s why he scheduled this meeting. His timing so far has been nothing short of phenomenal.”

“He and Lytol are really into the political aspects, aren’t they? I could almost wish that Lytol was still Ruathan Lord Warder. That’d give Groghe the support he needs. Even I have heard the grumbling about Ruatha’s young Lord Holder spending so much time down here instead of in his Hold.”

“At least Ranrel can’t be considered too young to be a Lord Holder, Lessa,” F’lar reminded her. “He’s in his mid-thirties, with five children. And he’s certainly the only one of Oterel’s sons who’s shown any initiative at all. That port-renewal project of his was inspired.” F’lar chuckled. “Even if he did add insult to injury by insisting on using Hamian’s stuff to build the new wharfs and reinforce the piers.”

Lessa had to grin, remembering the fuss Ranrel’s innovative engineering had caused among those who derided or downright rejected any useful products of “the Abomination.” F’lar scratched sleepily at his scalp and yawned.

“And when the other brothers tried to belittle Ranrel’s project, along comes Master Idarolan, raving about the facilities,” she said.

“That’s not going to hurt when the Lord Holders convene. His mate’s a Masterweaver.
She’s
interested in having a power loom. I don’t know where she found out that such things were possible.”

Lessa threw up her hands. “
Everyone
’
s
gone ‘power’ mad.”

“It sure reduces sheer drudgery.”

“Hmm. Yes. Well, eat up. We’ll be late.”

F’lar grinned before he upended his klah mug. “We already are, you know. It’s as well you’re permitting us to time it.” He laughed at the wicked glare she gave him.

After putting their crockery in the main sink to soak, they fastened jackets and caps and left the cavern.

“We were supposed to be there half an hour ago, Ramoth,” Lessa told her queen as she mounted. “We need to be there on time.”

If you insist,
Ramoth replied disapprovingly.

The others were already assembled in the main hall when the Benden Weyrleaders arrived. Robinton looked sleepy, but Jaxom, Mirrim, Piemur—with gold Farli curled about his shoulders—and the three male green riders all appeared very wide-awake indeed.

Jaxom straightened his shoulders and pulled at the lightweight sleeveless tunic he wore, to free it from his sweaty back. Irrepressibly, Piemur grinned at that evidence of his friend’s nervousness. Mirrim was equally nervous. The other three green riders, L’zal, G’rannat, and S’len, were shifting from one foot to another.

“All present and accounted for, so let’s see what Aivas wants with such an ill-assorted crew,” F’lar said, nodding at Lessa to lead the way. As he strode forward, he tossed a reassuring smile over his shoulder at Jaxom and the others.

When Aivas had asked for this predawn meeting two days earlier, his special students had been excited by the prospect that he intended to launch
the
plan. They had been careful to contain that excitement to prevent even more rumor circulating. Not even Piemur had been brash enough to ask Aivas for confirmation.

Certainly all these young folk had studied diligently over the past two Turns, even if their lessons and drills seemed to be irrelevant or endlessly repetitious until, as Jaxom had remarked to Piemur, he could do them in his sleep.

“That may be what Aivas wants,” Piemur had said with a shrug. “They make about as much sense as the drills he gives me for Farli.”

Jaxom saw him stroking Farli’s back as they marched down the hall and into Aivas’s room. The lights brightened, and Piemur grinned to himself: Master Morilton’s “light bulbs” worked just as the original ones had. Yet another minor triumph for the Masterglass-smith, working from plans of the “Abomination.” The thought of that epithet caused Jaxom to frown—Master Norist was not the only one who had come to refer to Aivas in that manner. Of course, if today
was
truly the beginning of the assault on Thread, that tune could easily change before there was more cause to worry about the growing number of dissidents.

“Good morning,” Aivas said at his most polite and noncommittal. “If you will seat yourselves, I shall explain today’s project.” He waited until they had taken their places and their excited murmurs had dwindled into respectful silence.

Then the screen displayed a clear picture of the view with which they had all become familiar the bridge of the
Yokohama.
Only this time there was an addition: a space-suited figure slumped over one of the control panels. There was an almost simultaneous intake of breath at the realization that the body was that of Sallah Telgar, who had died so valiantly to save the colony. This, then, was the actual bridge of the
Yokohama—
not the image that Aivas had supplied during their training. Then the focus of the picture slid across the consoles beyond the figure to rest on the board marked
LIFE-SUPPORT SYSTEM.

Jaxom saw Piemur reach up to stroke Farli, whose gaze was fixed on the screen. She gave a little chirp, for she, too, recognized the board. She had been working for a month on a mock-up, pushing at two toggles and depressing three keys in a certain sequence. She could now perform those movements in less than thirty seconds.

Over the past two Turns, Aivas had subtly collected many facts about both fire-lizards and dragons. The most relevant fact was that both creatures were able to maintain the oxygen levels in their systems for almost ten minutes without suffering undue discomfort or harm. That time could be pushed to fifteen minutes, but after that amount of time, both fire-lizards and dragons would need several hours to recover from the effects of oxygen deprivation.