“The bacteria collected for today’s lesson come from wounds,” Aivas went on, oblivious to or ignoring the grotesque face that Mirrim made. “Wounds that you will have seen in your independent areas. Wounds that become infected. By separating the bacteria, it is possible to discover the parasites—mostly symbiotic—which exist in the bacteria. By altering these symbiotic little parasites into pathogenic forms, making them like predators—you do recall the lesson on determining which is a predator and which is a parasite?”
“Yes, indeed, Aivas,” Mirrim said, grinning. “Whether you admire them or they disgust you.”
“You can always be counted on to remember such distinctions, Mirrim. It is to be hoped that this skill will extend into this area of your studies.” Mirrim wrinkled her nose impudently, but Aivas continued. “So, one can disimprove a symbiotic parasite, turning it into a predator, and have a useful organism to destroy that particular bacterium. This is often more useful than using antibiotics, as you will see.”
“How many bacteria are there?” Brekke asked.
“More than there are grains of sand on all your beaches.”
“And we have to find every one of them?” Mirrim was not the only one aghast at that prospect.
“You will have ample chance for independent study to do so if you desire. This is, however, one step to take along the road toward the reduction of bacterial infections. Now you will begin by culturing the effluent from a wound or a blood-containing medium, then isolating one kind of bacterium.”
11
Present Pass 20
“I
SUPPOSE WE
should be grateful that there are still so many youngsters who’d prefer to be dragonriders in spite of the competition from Landing,” Lessa said wryly as she looked out over the sixty-two candidates standing in the Hatching Ground.
F’lar looked down at his diminutive weyrmate and grinned. “
Anyone
is available for Ramoth’s clutches. Groghe was almost dancing when his youngest daughter was chosen on Search.”
“He’ll be insufferable if she Impresses the queen,” Lessa said with a chuckle. “Such a pretty child. Wonder where she got her looks.”
“Lessa!” F’lar said, pretending shock. “Groghe shouldn’t expect a clean sweep of the honors. After all, Benelek was elected first Master of the Technical Hall, and Groghe’s got another son and a daughter doing very well in Aivas’s study group.”
“At least Groghe keeps his sense of proportion. Here he comes now.” She pointed to Lord Groghe, who was leading the Fort Hold contingent into the Hatching Ground. His attire was almost sober in the midst of the other gaudily dressed folk. Lessa nodded approval. “And he’s sensibly wearing boots,” she went on as she watched the sturdy Lord Holder striding out across the hot sands while others in his party minced, lifting their feet high in an effort to cool their leather soles. “The Dance of The Hatching Ground Sands,” she added, stifling a laugh.
“Come, we’d better get to our seats,” F’lar said, extending his arm to her. “And see if the insoles Master Ligand’s so proud of really do insulate the foot against heat, as well as the cold of
between
.”
Lessa spared a critically admiring look at her new red boots before she took his arm. “It’s the plant fiber he used for the felt that provides the insulation for either extreme.”
She had a complete new outfit in a deep wine-red for this Hatching—Ramoth’s thirty-fifth—especially as this clutch included a queen egg, the first in twelve seasons. The great queen rarely laid fewer than twenty eggs; this clutch, appropriately, numbered thirty-five.
The eight Weyleaders had already agreed on the necessity of the foundation of a ninth Weyr. The existing eight were completely full, with some two-year-old dragons still living in the Weyrling cavern for lack of space. While Weyrleaders were proud to be flying at strength, dragon dignity required independent quartering. Not only were there no more suitable sites in the North, but since so many people were taking up holdings in the South, it was agreed that a new Weyr should be located in the vast Southern Continent, preferably equidistant between K’van’s Southern Weyr and T’gellan’s Eastern. The grubs might protect the land and vegetation, but dragons were still needed to repel Thread from human habitations and beastholds. A little reshuffling among the existing Weyrs and there would be plenty of older dragonriders to balance out the young ones: dragons and riders who would appreciate quarters in the South, where the climate was kind to aging bones and the stiffness of old injuries.
Lessa experienced a flush of pride for what had been achieved over the past Turns by an ex-drudge from Ruatha Hold and the bronze Benden rider whom no one had wanted to believe. She glanced up at her mate, noticing that even more silver strands had appeared in F’lar’s crisp black hair. The sun creases around his eyes had deepened, additional touches of aging, though he seemed to have lost not a jot of his vitality. Maybe they should resign Benden to the energy of younger riders, she mused. With fewer responsibilities, they could devote more time to all the splendid projects at Landing. Not that she thought she had a chance of coaxing F’lar away from Benden until he had eradicated Thread from the skies forever.
F’lessan had spent some time explaining to her that once there was a breathable atmosphere in the cargo bay on the
Yokohama
, even as big a dragon as Ramoth would be able to jump
between
to view Pern from space. Lessa wasn’t sure either of them wanted to go that far, though she was more than pleased to find her ebullient son becoming a responsible and dedicated part of the Aivas team. She was genuinely fond of the only child she had been able to bear F’lar, but she had no illusions about him.
“Gone
between
in thought, love?” F’lar murmured, leaning down to her, amusement in his amber eyes. “Groghe’s waving at us.”
Spreading her best welcoming smile on her face as she stepped off the hot sands, Lessa located the Fort Holder and acknowledged his salute. The tiers were already packed with folk who had come to see a son or daughter Impress a dragon, or merely to attend what was invariably a magnificent occasion.
“Those new insoles work,” F’lar said as he handed her up the stairs.
“Hmmm, don’t they?” Then she noticed Larad and Asgenar with their wives and their older children on the second tier and waved cheerfully to them. Master Bendarek was on the same row as they were, but deep in a private dialogue with the recently appointed Masterprinter Tagetarl, he didn’t see her.
She surveyed the ranks behind her, looking for Master Robinton and D’ram, a pair who rarely missed an Impression. Her eye picked them out easily, resplendent as they were in their Gather finery. Becoming so involved with the Aivas project had given them both, and Lytol, stimulation and new purpose. Why was it that these older men thrived on the challenge, while others, like Sangel, Norist, Corman, Nessel, and Begamon, rejected all that the new information provided Pern? No, not new: retrieved information. And just at the time of a Pass, when everyone needed such an infusion of hope.
Absently she responded to several other salutes before taking her place in the first tier.
It’s almost time,
Ramoth told her driver, swinging her head possessively over the queen egg.
Now don’t scare the girls, dear.
Ramoth’s eyes glittered in a rainbow gamut as she looked straight at her rider.
If they scare, they’re not worthy of my daughter.
You liked them well enough yesterday.
Today it is different.
Yes,
Lessa agreed affably, versed in her dragon’s whimsies.
Today your daughter Impresses.
The humming had already begun as the massed dragons of Benden chanted their welcome. Feeling the sound vibrating through her bones, Lessa turned to smile softly at F’lar, who smiled back and took her right hand in his. This moving overture had become a special moment for them, an affirmation of their own love and a rededication to their own dragons.
An abrupt hush rippled down the tiers as the audience became aware of the distinctive sounds. Fire-lizards darted in to seek roosts on the topmost ridges, and though Ramoth followed their progress with her brilliant eyes, she no longer bellowed a warning if the creatures entered the Hatching Ground. After Lessa had heard Aivas’s account of the fire-lizards’ reception of their huge cousins at the first Hatching, she had told Ramoth, and both of them had felt more charitable since.
Some of the eggs in the main group were rocking slightly, and the fifty-seven boys closed in about them, hope and eagerness mirrored on their clean, shining faces. The five girls moved slowly but resolutely toward Ramoth, whose immense form covered the mottled queen egg.
Move back, dear,
Lessa said gently.
Not quite growling, Ramoth took one backward step, flicking her tongue over her egg.
Ramoth!
“Up to her usual tricks?” F’lar asked.
“Hmmm.”
Two more steps, please, dear, and do keep your tongue in your head. Such an undignified posture.
Lessa spoke firmly, and though Ramoth swung her head in a last show of reluctance, she did move back—five steps, deliberately more than requested—before she crouched down, glaring with orange-red flashing eyes.
Then Lessa cast an appraising glance over the five young women confronting the queen egg. Groghe’s daughter, barely fifteen Turns old, was the smallest, a daintily made child. She had already Impressed two bronze fire-lizards, and Lessa hoped that they would contain themselves until after Impression was over. Ramoth might tolerate the creatures in the Hatching Ground, but not flying about her head. Still, Nataly had been sensibly raised, and her two fire-lizards had behaved themselves admirably since arriving at Benden.
Breda, the wraithlike blonde, came from Crom. Odd that Nessel did not object to Search, for all he opposed the Weyrs’ energetic support of Aivas. She was very quiet, a journeyman weaver and, at twenty-two, the oldest candidate.
Cona was Neratian, and Manora had reported that in the sevenday that the girl had been at Benden Weyr, she had already been in the weyrs of three bronze riders. That was not a bad trait in a queen’s rider; it was certainly preferable to a lack of sensuality.
Why the dragons had chosen Silga was a bit of a puzzle, for the girl had been terrified by her first flight
between
, and that was not a good omen.
The final girl, Tumara, was a cousin of Sharra’s and so delighted to leave the isolated fisher’s island off the Istan coast that Manora had commented the girl was wearing her out in her efforts to be useful.
Compliancy was a good trait, but too much became subservience, and that was not one of the more desirable qualities. A Weyrwoman had to be firm, fair, and sympathetic with her queen. Not that this pairing was certain to become senior in any Weyr.
Much had to be done, besides finding a suitable place for the new Weyr. Then, whichever junior queen—in whatever Weyr—next rose to mate would be flown by all unattached bronzes. The triumphant pair would be temporary Weyrleaders only until they had proved themselves. As fully three-quarters of the other queens on Pern were likely to come into season over the next few months, this was as fair a method as any to determine the leadership of the new Weyr.
The humming had increased to a frantic pitch. The first egg—Lessa breathed a sigh of relief when she saw a bronze head and wing emerge—had split cleanly, and the hatching was up and out. A fine strong bronze, unsteady on its feet, of course, but able to extend its wet wings and swivel its head to and fro, trying to focus its bleary eyes on the figures before it.
With a shriek of triumph, it made a tremendous leap and landed in front of a stocky lad—from a Smithhall in Igen, if she recalled accurately. Sometimes the eager young faces seemed to blend into memories of all the candidates from the many Impressions held in this Hatching Ground over the past twenty-three Turns she had been Weyrwoman. Holding her breath, she watched that magical moment when the boy realized that the dragon had chosen him: ecstasy wreathed his face as he knelt to caress the imperious creature butting at him. Tears of joy streamed down his cheeks as he threw his arms about the damp bronze neck.
“Oh, Braneth, you are the most beautiful bronze in all the world!”
The audience let out a cheer and applauded while the dragons interrupted their hum to bugle a welcome.
After the initial Impression, other eggs cracked or split or crumbled to tip their inhabitants onto the warm sands, and brown, blue, and green dragonets were matched with compatible personalities.
“Good, twelve bronzes,” F’lar said, keeping track of the pairings. “We could do with more browns—only four—but the distribution of blues and greens is exactly right.”
Lessa had not been paying that much attention past the first three, for the queen egg was beginning to rock. Tentatively at first, and then with considerable energy. No cracks showed on the shell yet, a fact that was beginning to worry Lessa. Usually the queens were impetuous in their arrivals. Then the tip of the nose broke through, both wing claws appeared, and—as if the little queen had given a tremendous shrug—the shell parted vertically and she stood there, framed by the casing, looking about with great dignity.
“Oh, she’s a darling, that one,” F’lar murmured to Lessa. “Just look at her, queen of all she surveys.”
With the unusual suppleness of a hatching, the little queen tilted her head backward almost to her spine and gave Ramoth one long look before she swung her head forward again to regard the five girls facing her. Daintily, she stepped away from her shell. With a calm arrogance she swept her coruscating glance once more over those awaiting her decision. Lessa wondered if any of the girls were actually breathing at that crucial moment.
“I’ll wager you a mark on Cona,” F’lar said.
Lessa shook her head. “You’ll lose. It’s Nataly. The two are perfectly matched.”
However, the little queen was quite an individual. She stalked to one end of the semicircle of girls, giving each a close scrutiny as she passed. She never even made it to Cona and Nataly—she paused at Breda, extending her neck and pushing her head very gently against the tall girl’s body.
“That,” F’lar said with a snap of his fingers, “for our choices.”
Lessa chuckled. “The dragon always knows.” Then she gave a little gasp. As Breda knelt to clasp the little queen’s head to her breast, her rather plain face had taken on a beatific glow that transformed her into a radiant beauty.
Eyes luminous, Breda looked up at Lessa. “She says her name is Amaranth!”
“Well done, Breda. Felicitations!” Lessa called, having to shout above the applause that greeted the queen’s Impression.
Are you satisfied?
she asked Ramoth, who was staring dourly at the pairing.
The girl wouldn’t have been Searched if she wasn’t suitable. We’ll see how she copes with Amaranth. This one is a true daughter to me.
From his high perch, Mnementh added a stunning triple-noted bugle. Ramoth craned her head up at him, her eyes dazzling with pulsating color.
You flew me well.
F’lar grinned at Lessa, for they had both heard the remark. “We’d better get on with our day’s duties, love,” he said, using that excuse to put an arm about Lessa’s slender waist and guide her down the stairs and out onto the Hatching Ground sands.
In an unusual display of maternal approval, Ramoth followed Lessa and F’lar as the Weyrleaders helped Breda escort Amaranth out of the immense cavern.
“Never for a moment did I think I’d be chosen, Weyrwoman Lessa,” Breda said. “I’ve never been out of Crom, not even to a Gather.”