All the Weyrs of Pern (14 page)

“I did it! I did it!” Piemur was still carrying on when the Harper arrived. Jancis and Jaxom both looked slightly envious; Benelek adopted a distant attitude.

“Did what?”

“Made a program all by myself.”

The Harper peered at the enigmatic words and letters on the screen and then at his journeyman. “That . . . is a program?”

“Sure is. Dead easy once you get the hang of it!” Piemur’s elation was infectious.

“Piemur,” the Harper found himself saying, “I have a few hours to spare right now while D’ram’s on duty. Did you or did you not mention that there was a spare one of these contraptions?”

“Indeed there is, Master.” With considerable satisfaction on his face and not a trace of his usual impudence, Piemur spun out of his seat and went over to the shelf where the components were neatly stacked.

“I think I may regret this,” Robinton said to himself.

“It is to be hoped that you will not, Master Robinton,” was Aivas’s low reassurance.

Zair nipping his ear roused Robinton from a doze. He had been leaning back in his chair, head resting on the support, legs propped up on the desk, and as he woke the first thing he was aware of was the crick in his neck. His knees wouldn’t at first bend as he lowered his legs. When he groaned, Zair nipped him again, eyes flaming red-orange.

Instantly the Masterharper was alert. Down the hall, he could hear Aivas’s voice explaining something and the lighter voice of one of the students querying. That was as it should be. He looked up at Zair, who was staring out the door into the night. It was then he caught the faint noise of something cracking, and the even fainter splashing of liquid.

He rose, silently swearing at the recalcitrance of aging joints that no longer functioned smoothly. As stealthily as he could, he moved across the entrance hall and out into the night. He knew it was near dawn; the insect sounds that had lulled him to sleep on his post had ceased and daytime noises had not yet begun. He crept forward, hearing that soft cracking noise again. To his left, where the banks of Fandarel’s batteries had been installed against the wall, he saw darker shadows. Two men. Two men busily smashing the glass tanks that held the battery fluid.

“Now, just what do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, outraged. “Zair! Grab them! Pie . . .
mur! Jancis! Someone!
” He ran forward, determined to prevent any further damage to Aivas’s power supply.

Later, he wondered what he had thought he was doing, an unarmed elderly man attacking vandals. Even as the pair came at him with upraised clubs or iron bars or whatever they had been using to smash the battery tanks, he wasn’t afraid: just purely and simply furious.

Fortunately Zair had weapons, twenty sharp talons, and as the little bronze swooped to tear at the eyes of the first man, Piemur’s Farli, Jancis’s Trig, and half a dozen other fire-lizards joined the battle. Robinton caught a handful of tunic and tried to drag the man to the ground, but with a savage jerk, accompanied by an anguished squeal as fire-lizard claws racked facial skin, the man broke free and took to his heels. His companion swatted viciously at the aerial attackers and then ran off as well. The fire-lizards followed, dividing into two groups to follow the separating fugitives.

By the time human assistance arrived, even the sound of the vandals’ retreat was lost to listening ears.

“Don’t worry, Robinton,” Piemur said. “We’ve only to check who got clawed. We’ll find them! Are you all right, Master?”

Robinton was clutching at his chest and panting from his exertions, and although he gestured fiercely for Piemur and the others to follow the fugitives, he became their first concern.

“I’m all right, I’m all right,” he cried, trying to avoid their solicitude. “Go after them!” And he fell into a fit of coughing, caused more by frustration than by exercise.

By the time he had convinced them of his well-being, the fire-lizards had returned, looking exceedingly pleased with themselves for having chased the intruders. Disgusted at the vandals’ escape, Robinton grabbed up a glowbasket and led the way to the point of attack.

“Five smashed, and if you hadn’t heard—” Piemur began.

“I didn’t hear. Zair did.” Robinton was furious with himself for having dozed off.

“Same thing,” Piemur replied with an impish grin. “And they didn’t break enough tanks to jeopardize the power supply. Don’t fret now, Master. There’re spares in Stores.”

“I’m fretting because it happened at all!” Robinton heard his voice rise in angry stress.

“We’ll find the vandals,” Piemur assured his master. Guiding the old Harper back to his chair, he poured him a cup of wine.

“We’d better,” Robinton said savagely. He knew there was growing antagonism to Aivas, but he had not really considered, even for a moment, that someone would actually attack the facility.

But who? he wondered, sipping at the wine and feeling its usual efficacious soothing. Esselin? He doubted the fat old fool would dare, no matter how upset he might have been over losing his sinecure. Had any of Norist’s glassmen been at Landing that day?

“Don’t fret yourself,” Piemur repeated, regarding his master with continued anxiety. “See? Zair’s bloodied one of them. We’ll find them, never fear.”

The men were not found the next morning, although Piemur organized a discreet search of the entire complement at Landing. He even went so far as to rouse Esselin well before the indolent man was apt to be awake, but the round, fat face was blemish-free.

“They must have just kept running,” he reported to the worried Harper, who was overseeing the replacement of the battery tanks.

“We must build a barrier across these,” Robinton said. “We must mount a watch at all times. Aivas cannot be jeopardized.”

“Have you decided who’s the most likely suspect?” Piemur asked, watching his master’s tired face.

“Suspect? I’ve a variety of choices. Proof, no!”

Piemur shrugged. “Then we watch harder.” Then, as an afterthought, he asked, “Why didn’t Aivas sound an alarm? He usually sees what’s going on, night or day.”

When queried on that point, Aivas replied that the vandals had been operating under the level of the exterior visuals, and the only sound the audio sensors had picked up had been consistent enough with usual nocturnal activity.

“What about in here?” Robinton asked.

“This facility is safe. Do not fear vandalism in here.”

Robinton was not all that reassured but could not argue the point, as the first of the new day’s students were arriving.

“We’ll keep this to ourselves for the time being, Piemur,” Robinton said in a tone that brooked no argument.

“What about a message to all harpers to watch out for claw-marked faces?”

Robinton lifted his shoulders briefly. “I doubt they’ll appear in public until they’re healed, but send the message.”

6

A
S EVENTS OVER
the next few weeks proved, the self-appointment of the Harper, the old Weyrleader, and the retired Lord Warder as Aivas’s custodians was providential. The management by three men who already enjoyed reputations for probity and impartiality went unchallenged. Certainly the accumulated knowledge of Harper, Weyrleader, and Lord Warder was utilized to its fullest in the rebirth and administration of Landing.

Some visitors—the merely curious—became disenchanted when they discovered that Aivas ignored foolish or egocentric questions. Those willing to be enlightened and to work hard to acquire the new disciplines stayed on and profited.

Until ten secondary stations were up and running, the three custodians arranged appointments for Aivas, deftly slotting in emergency consultations without offending anyone. And, because Aivas needed no rest, concentrated lessons, such as those for Master Oldive and other healers, were scheduled for the early hours of Landing’s day.

The major crafthalls were not the only ones to send representatives; it became prestigious for the Lord Holders to send promising sons and daughters, as well as likely candidates from minor holds. There were so many at first, some of whom were obviously ill-equipped to deal with radical new concepts, that it was kinder and less bothersome to set each applicant a basic test: an aptitude test, Aivas called it. It certainly weeded out the idlers and those without true scholarship.

Lessa and F’lar never became proficient in their use of a console, mostly because, in the Harper’s estimation, they had little time to spend learning the essentials; but they did grasp the fundamentals of accessing information. F’nor didn’t even try, but his mate, Brekke, joined the Masterhealer’s dedicated group in their striving to regain the lost medical techniques. Mirrim, determined to keep up with T’gellan, struggled on despite a most distressing start and succeeded. K’van became as adept as Jaxom and Piemur.

To the surprise and delight of his close associates, the taciturn Lytol became an avid user, accessing files from the widest range of topics. He insisted on taking the late shift, as he never required more than four hours of sleep anyway.

“Lytol’s always been a deep person, with unexpected reserves—or he wouldn’t have survived as long as he has,” Jaxom replied to those who commented on Lytol’s new obsession. “Though I don’t understand his fascination with all that dry historical stuff when there’s so much more that we can apply to
living
and working here and now.”

“On the contrary, Jaxom,” the Harper replied. “Lytol’s investigations may be the most significant of all.”

“Even more significant than Fandarel’s new water-turbine power stations?”

The Mastersmith had taken great satisfaction in demonstrating how a model of the proposed generator worked, as his foundry labored day and night to complete the components of the full-scale machinery.

“That is certainly significant now,” the Harper replied, choosing his words carefully. “But there’s the problem of general acceptance.”

Various study rooms had been set up, each dedicated to a different subject. Two of the larger rooms became laboratories to teach the basic sciences that Aivas felt were required as foundation courses, as he termed them: chemistry, physics, and biology. One room had been set aside for short consultations, and another for general teaching; a fairly large room was set aside for the healers, and its walls covered with various diagrams “of the most gruesome sort,” in Jancis’s estimation. Aivas also requested that a room be reserved for special students, those who were taking concentrated courses in a variety of subjects: Jaxom, Piemur, Jancis, K’van, T’gellan, N’ton, Mirrim, Hamian, three journeymen, an apprentice of Hamian’s, four other young bronze riders, two brown, four blue, and three green riders. Other riders would follow when there was space in the classes, since the Weyrs were the most eager to take advantage of Aivas.

Occasionally Robinton liked to walk down the hall and listen in on the instructions. One day when he peered in on a lesson including Jaxom, Piemur, Jancis, and two Smithcraft journeymen, he saw an astonishing sight.

A ring of dull metal hovered about two inches above the high worktop in front of them. As they reached forward to touch it, it slipped along the bench as if it were on invisible rollers. Aivas continued his explanation.

“The lines of magnetic force in the ring are induced in such a way that they exactly oppose the electromagnets that are generating the field.”

Robinton made himself small against the doorjamb, so as not to disturb the fascinated students.

“This is far more dramatic at very low temperatures, where there is no electrical resistance, the rings are superconducting, and the current passes without any loss. There are not the facilities here to show you this, but you will be ready for the superconductivity lesson in three or four weeks. Jaxom will be ready for it sooner; Piemur must do more on winding electromagnets with proper toroidal windings. Journeyman Manotti, your metal formers were not up to the standard required, but you have a week in which to improve.”

Robinton tiptoed quietly away, not wishing to embarrass the students. But he was smiling as he sauntered back to the entrance hall: a good teacher should give praise, encouragement, and admonition as required.

There were auxiliary workshops for smith, glass, and wood crafts in the larger of the excavated structures at Landing, staffed with masters, journeymen, and apprentices.

One morning, Lytol and Robinton were startled to hear a loud explosion and rushed to the source of the sound, which had come from Master Morilton’s glass forge. There they found Master Morilton helping Jancis to blot the blood from a mosaic of cuts on the face of Caselon, one of the Glass-smith’s apprentices. There were tiny bits of mirrored glass everywhere.

“Now,” Master Morilton was saying calmly, addressing his remarks to the others in the forge, “you appreciate why protective goggles are so important. Caselon could well have lost his eyesight when that thermos glass exploded. As it is . . .” Morilton glanced inquiringly at Jancis.

“As it is,” she said, with a wry grin, “Caselon’s going to have the most interesting pattern of scars. Oh, don’t worry,” she added as the youth cringed. “They’ll heal to nothing. Don’t grimace. You’ll only bleed until I’ve got you properly annointed with numbweed.”

As Lytol turned to deal with the press of curious people who had rushed over, Robinton looked about the place. Master Morilton had certainly set up quite a crafthall here. A pump was going
tapockety-tapockety
in the corner. A tube reaching up to the apparatus had a leather collar at the top, on which were the remains of a mirrored bottle neck. The rest of the glass was everywhere in the room, a myriad of tiny glinting pieces.

“Shards,” Caselon muttered, trying not to flinch from Jancis’s ministrations. “That was my twentieth!”

Robinton then noticed that nineteen vacuum flasks were neatly racked on Caselon’s half of the worktable; another twelve stood on the other side, where another apprentice, Vandentine, was working. How they had escaped the flying glass splinters, he didn’t know.

“We are not in competition mode here, Caselon,” Master Morilton said, wagging a stern finger at the boy. “What exactly happened? I was concentrating on Bengel’s wand work.”

“I dunno,” Caselon said, shrugging one shoulder.

“Aivas?” Master Morilton asked. The glasswork facility included a direct connection to Aivas.

“When he molded the glass, he didn’t ultrasonicate it or even tap it as you have taught him, to get the bubbles out of the mix. He was too busy trying to outproduce his partner. There were bubbles in the glass, so that under vacuum it imploded. But you may now use two of his vessels to demonstrate the properties of liquefied gases.”

Numbweed had stemmed the bloodflow from Caselon’s face, so Master Morilton gestured for him and Vandentine to follow him to an adjacent room. Robinton trailed behind. In this room, there was a different kind of pump; from a frost-covered nozzle, drops of a faintly blue liquid dripped to fall into a thick, mirrored catch-pot every second.

“The blue liquid is the air itself, the air in this room,” Aivas continued, “which we are compressing and then rapidly expanding so that it cools again and again, further and further, until a tiny fraction of it liquefies.”

Master Morilton said, “Don’t touch the radiator vanes—they’ll blister your fingers. This, Master Robinton,” he added, smiling at their guest, “is a multistage refrigerator, quite different from the one you’ve been using in Cove Hold to chill fruit juice and foodstuffs.”

Robinton nodded wisely.

“This last stage is the most difficult,” Aivas said as Master Morilton gestured for Caselon to fill his flask. The room was filled with mist as the liquid air seethed until it had cooled Caselon’s flask. Robinton moved his feet away as some of the pearly drops ran across the floor toward him. “Now, Caselon,” Aivas instructed, “return to your workspace and observe the antics of liquid air.”

Caselon was already doing so as he left the room.

“Play with air?” Robinton asked, perplexed, and he noticed Master Morilton’s knowing smile.

“This liquid helium,” Aivas went on, “or rather, these liquids can flow in opposite directions at the same time; they will creep out of the top of a tall vessel and leave none in the bottom, and will even creep faster, much faster, through tiny holes than through large ones. You may fill a flask with liquid air yourself, Master Robinton, and experiment on your own. This is one of the most dangerous, and therefore educational, exercises for the students to do. Jancis, Sharra, there are flasks for you, too; this experiment is an important one for both of you.” The way the two girls smirked at each other suggested to Robinton that they didn’t know why it would be. “When you have become familiar with liquid air, we can begin to learn about the special properties of liquid hydrogen, and especially of liquid helium.”

“If it’s dangerous, should we be doing it?” the Harper asked.

“Danger can be quite educational,” Aivas replied. “It is unlikely, for instance, that Caselon will forget to tap his mix no matter how many glass inserts he blows from now on.”

It was an hour before Robinton and Lytol, whom the Masterharper had interested in the liquid-gas experiments, returned to their usual duties.

More and more of the dwellings at Landing became occupied. Many of the artifacts so long stored in the Catherine Caves had been put to use, though the custodians had decreed that samples of each be retained to exhibit in Master Esselin’s Archive building. Abandoned Landing once again became a bustling community. Where the walks and small yards had been cleared, there were even signs of renewed grass and weed growth.

“Are we a bit mad to reestablish this settlement?” Lessa asked one evening when she and F’lar had taken an evening meal in the Aivas building with Jaxom, Robinton, D’ram, Lytol, Piemur, and Jancis. “Those volcanoes could erupt again.”

“I did mention that to Aivas,” Lytol said, “and he replied that he is naturally monitoring seismic activity. Some of the instruments which the settlers’ vulcanist installed are still functioning. He also assured me that there is little activity in the chain.”

“And that is a positive thing?” Lessa asked, still skeptical.

“So Aivas assured me,” Lytol replied.

“I’d hate to lose all we’ve rebuilt here,” F’lar said.

“Unfortunately,” Lytol commented, with an ironic half smile, “Aivas can’t be moved.”

“Then let’s not worry about something that may not develop into a problem,” Robinton said firmly. “We have sufficient immediate ones. Such as how we’re going to handle Master Norist. As you know, he had threatened to disavow Master Morilton’s Mastery and to disown all journeymen and apprentices who have produced glass according to the, ahem, spurious methods and techniques of Aivas.”

“He calls Aivas ‘the Abomination’!” Piemur said with a malicious chuckle. “Aivas said—”

“You didn’t
tell
Aivas that?” Jancis was aghast at Piemur’s tactlessness.

“He didn’t mind. I got the feeling it amused him.”

Master Robinton gave Piemur a long look. “Do you—any of you—ever get the feeling that Aivas is amused by us?”

“Sure,” Piemur replied blithely. “He may be a machine and all that, and while I know a great deal more about machinery than I used to, certainly, he’s a Master machine that interacts with humans, so he must have criteria by which he recognizes levity. He may not guffaw as some do at my jokes and anecdotes, but he certainly enjoys listening to them.”

“Hmmm” was the Harper’s noncommittal response. “About Norist . . . As the duly elected Mastercraftsman, guiding his Halls, he can be replaced only at a convocation of all Masters. Unfortunately, the Glass-smithcraft is not a large one, and most of the Crafthallmasters are as dogmatic as Norist. On the other hand, I won’t sit by and see Master Morilton disavowed or harassed or humiliated because he has learned something Norist didn’t teach him. He’s certainly proved adept at the new skills.”

“Norist has also been leaning heavily on poor old Wansor,” Lytol said. “Fortunately, Wansor appears oblivious both to the criticism and the fact that he might suffer the same discipline as Morilton. In spite of Norist’s declaration, Morilton has managed to recruit quite a few journeymen and apprentices who have felt restricted by Norist’s rigid adherence to Recorded techniques.”

“If Norist is leaning on Wansor, why don’t we lean on him?” Jaxom asked.

“I will,” Lytol replied with a ghost of a smile. “And I would be happy to. A man who will not see beyond his nose has no right to be Craftmaster!” His smile was replaced by censure.

“Hear! Hear!” the Harper cheered.

“I also heard that Norist is denying Morilton the use of the best sandpits,” Lytol went on, frowning.

“That’s no problem at all. We’ve sand aplenty on this coastline,” Piemur responded.

“Dimwit. Beach sand isn’t what’s used for glass,” Jaxom said with some disdain. “It’s the pits at Igen and Ista that have fine stuff.”