Dragons Dawn

“A new volcano to be named. Like Aphrodite rising from the sea, but I don’t necessarily insist on that name,” he shouted.

“Where?”

“Beyond the easternmost tip of Jordan, safely away from us, my friends.” He held up the largest photo so that the roiling seas and the protruding tip of the smoking peak could be seen by all.

“Yeah, but that’s still the same little tectonic plate we’re on, isn’t it?” one man shouted. He pointed back over his shoulder at the lofty peak of Mount Garben. “That one could go again. Couldn’t it?

“Of course it could,” Patrice answered easily, shrugging his shoulders. “But it is very unlikely in my opinion. It shot its head off thousands of years ago. There has been no evidence of activity here. It’s an old one, that volcano. The young ones have more to say, and are saying it. Do not panic. We are safe at Landing.” He sounded so certain that the anxious murmurings abated and the crowd dispersed.

All through the day there were sporadic growlings, as Telgar called them. Wandering at random through Landing, he had made himself available to anyone who wished to be reassured. It was the first time since Sallah’s death that Telgar had circulated socially. That night a large proportion of Landing’s population gathered in Bonfire Square, and the blaze was built up to an unusual, almost defiant size.

“Our beautiful Pern has popped a pimple on her face,” Telgar said with a hint of his former joviality, talking to a group of young people. “She’s not so old that her digestion is perfect. And we have been disturbing her with our borings and diggings.”

When he moved off, one of the apprentice geologists followed him. “Look, Tar-Telgar,” the young man began earnestly. “We’re not on basement rock here in Landing.”

“That is very true,” Telgar replied with a slight smile. “Which is why we are rocking a little. But I am not concerned.’’

The apprentice flushed. “Well, there’s a wide, long strip of basement rock in the northern continent, along the western mountain range.”

“Ah, how well you have studied your lessons,” Telgar commented. He nodded equably to Cobber Alhinwa and Ozzie Munson, who had just joined them. “Ah, have a glass with us.”

Embarrassed by having stated the obvious, the young man hastily excused himself.

So people are talking of basement rock,” Cobber said, and beside him Ozzie smirked.

“I know, you know, and he knows, but we have had enough of insecurity today. The basement rock will not shift. As you know, I have given my opinion to Paul, Emily, and Patrice.” Telgar looked beyond the big miner to a distant view that only his eyes saw. Cobber and Ozzie exchanged meaningful glances. The set, pained look on Telgar’s face meant that he was remembering something about Sallah.

Cobber nudged Ozzie and leaned conspiratorially toward Telgar. “Are we all to go look at some basement rock now, Telgar?”

The next morning a rumble of a different kind finally roused Paul as Ju reached across him for the handset.

“For you,” she mumbled sleepily, dropping it on the bedsack and rolling over again.

Paul fumbled for it and cleared his throat. “Benden.”

“Admiral,” Ongola said urgently, “they’ve begun reentry, and Nabhi’s on a bad course.”

Paul pulled loose the fasteners of the bedsack and sat bolt upright. “How could he be?”

“He says he’s green, Admiral.”

“I’m coming.” Paul had an irrational desire to slam the handset down and go back to sleep beside his wife. Instead he dialed Emily, who said she would join him at the met tower. Then he alerted Ezra, Keroon and Jim Tillek.

“Paul?” Ju asked sleepily.

“Sleep on, honey. Nothing to worry you.”

He had tried to keep his voice low and was sorry to have disturbed her. In the second semester of a new pregnancy, Ju needed more sleep. They had stayed up late talking, regretfully aware that they must set the example and close down their stake. The constant drain of Threadfall was having a devastating effect on supplies and resources. Joel particularly fretted over the dwindling efficiency of the power packs. According to Tom Patrick, the psychological profile of Landing’s population was, in the main, encouraging, although therapy and medication were increasingly required to keep distressed people functioning. Somehow Paul could not bring himself to hope that Nabhi Nabol and Bart Lemos had brought back something as vital as encouragement.

Yesterday Ezra and Jim had produced the latest analysis of the eccentric’s orbit. It was as wayward, in Jim Tillek’s phrasing, as a drunken whore on a Saturday night at a space facility in the Asteroid Belt. What had looked to be a reasonable, predictable elliptical orbit through Rukbat’s system proved to be even more bizarre, at an angle to the ecliptic. The planet would wobble into the vicinity of Pern every two hundred and fifty years, though Ezra had made extrapolations that provided some variations of its course, due to the effect of other planets in the system. During some of its orbits, it looked as if the eccentric and its cloud of junk would miss Pern.

“The most singular planet I’ve ever tried to track,” Ezra had said apologetically, scratching his head as he summed up his report.

“Natural orbit?” Jim had asked, with a sly grin at the astronomer.

Ezra had given him a long scornful look. “There’s nothing natural about that planet.”

Although Thread had shifted five degrees to the north in the current – third – round of Falls, the admiral no longer held much hope for Ezra’s theory that the Falls were deliberate, a softening-up procedure by some sentient agency. If that had been the case, he argued, the Falls ought to have accelerated in frequency and density after the wild planet swung to its nearest spatial point to Pern. But Thread had continued to drop in mindless patterns, each consistent with the northern shift. Mathematical calculations, checked and double checked by Boris Pahlevi and Dieter Clissma

The fax Bart had flashed back to Pern had shown the trail of debris to be endless.

“All the way to the edge of the system,” Ezra declared in total capitulation. “The planet pierces the Oort cloud and drags the stuff down with it. Hoyle and Wickraman-singh’s theory has been vindicated in the Rukbat system.”

“Aren’t we lucky?” Jim added. “The junk could still be just ice and rock. We won’t know for sure until we see what Bart Lemos scooped up out there.” Jim was not at all happy that his theory was right. He would almost prefer a sentient intelligence somehow surviving on the eccentric planet. You could usually deal with intelligence. His theory made it tough on Pern.

In the cold light of a new morning, Paul dressed quickly, toeing his feet into his boots and closing the front of his shipsuit. He combed his hair neatly back and then stumbled into the predawn light. He used the skimmer – it would be quieter than him puffing and jogging down to the tower. He tried to practice what he preached in matters of conservation, but that morning he did not wish to be heard passing by.

The last few days, with the Moth overdue, had been hard on him. Waiting had never been his forte: decision and implementation were where he shone. Emily had proved once again the staunch, unswerving, resolute governor of herself and her subordinates. She was the best sort of complement to his strengths and flaws.

He saw lights over in Irish Square and, through the lines of dwellings, he caught a glimpse of fluttering wings as the young Co

At the thought of those young people committed to survival on Pern, Paul felt a sudden surge of confidence that he and Emily would bring everyone through. By all that was holy, they would! Had he not gone through bleaker days before the Battle at Purple Sector? And Emily had been blockaded for five years, emerging with a healthy functioning population despite a shortage of raw materials.