The Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey [93]
“Pern, yes, but wasn’t the Southern Continent lost? Or did they just have their hands too full with Pern itself?”
“No one’s bothered with the Southern Continent in a hundred thousand Turns,” F’lar snorted.
“It’s on the maps,” Lessa reminded him.
He scowled disgustedly at the Records, piled in uncommunicative stacks on the long table.
“The answer must be there. Somewhere.”
There was an edge of desperation in his voice, the hint that he held himself to blame for not having discovered those elusive facts.
“Half those things couldn’t be read by the man who wrote them,” Lessa said tartly. “Besides that, it’s been your own ideas that have helped us most so far. You compiled the time maps, and look how valuable they have been already.”
“I’m getting too hidebound again, huh?” he asked, a half smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.
“Undoubtedly,” she assured him with more confidence than she felt. “We both know the Records are guilty of the most ridiculous omissions.”
“Well said, Lessa. So let us forget these misguiding and antiquated precepts and think up our own guides. First, we need more dragons. Second, we need them now. Third, we need something as effective as a flaming dragon to destroy Threads which have burrowed.”
“Fourth, we need sleep, or we won’t be able to think of anything,” she added with a touch of her usual asperity.
F’lar laughed outright, hugging her.
“You’ve got your mind on one thing, haven’t you?” he teased, his hands caressing her eagerly.
She pushed ineffectually at him, trying to escape. For a wounded, tired man, he was remarkably amorous. One with that Kylara. Imagine that woman’s presumption, dressing his wounds.
“My responsibility as Weyrwoman includes care of you, the Weyrleader.”
“But you spend hours with blue dragonriders and leave me to Kylara’s tender ministrations.”
“You didn’t look as if you objected.”
F’lar threw back his head and roared. “Should I open Fort Weyr and send Kylara on?” he taunted her.
“I’d as soon Kylara were Turns as well as miles away from here,” Lessa snapped, thoroughly irritated.
F’lar’s jaw dropped, his eyes widened. He leaped to his feet with an astonished cry.
“You’ve said it!”
“Said what?”
“Turns away! That’s it. We’ll send Kylara back, between times, with her queen and the new dragonets.” F’lar excitedly paced the room while Lessa tried to follow his reasoning. “No, I’d better send at least one of the older bronzes. F’nor, too . . . I’d rather have F’nor in charge. . . . Discreetly, of course—”
“Send Kylara back . . . where to? When to?” Lessa interrupted him.
“Good point.” F’lar dragged out the ubiquitous charts. “Very good point. Where can we send them around here without causing anomalies by being present at one of the other Weyrs? The High Reaches are remote. No, we’ve found remains of fires there, you know, still warm, and no inkling as to who built them or why. And if we had already sent them back, they’d’ve been ready for today, and they weren’t. So they can’t have been in two places already. . . .” He shook his head, dazed by the paradoxes.
Lessa’s eyes were drawn to the blank outline of the neglected Southern Continent.
“Send them there,” she suggested sweetly, pointing.
“There’s nothing there.”
“They bring in what they need. There must be water, for Threads can’t devour that. We fly in whatever else is needed, fodder for the herdbeasts, grain. . . .”
F’lar drew his brows together in concentration, his eyes sparkling with thought, the depression and defeat of a few moments ago forgotten.
“Threads wouldn’t be there ten Turns ago. And haven’t been there for close to four hundred. Ten Turns would give Pridith time to mature and have several clutches. Maybe more queens.”
Then he frowned and shook his head dubiously. “No, there’s no Weyr there. No Hatching Ground, no . . .”
“How do we know that?” Lessa caught