Dragonsdawn (3 page)

He turned his mind to real problems, like the debarkation ahead, knowing that unforeseeable delays or foul-ups could stall the entire operation as cargo and passengers began to flow from the orbiting ships. He had appointed good men as supercargoes: Joel Lilienkamp as surface coordinator, and Desi Arthied on the
Yoko.
Ezra and Jim, of
Bahrain
and
Buenos Aires,
were equally confident in their own debarkation personnel, but one minor hitch could cause endless rescheduling. The trick would be to keep everything moving.

The admiral turned starboard off the main corridor and reached the wardroom. Once again, he hoped that the meeting would not drag on. As he raised his hand to brush the access panel, he could see that he had arrived with two minutes to spare before the other two captains screened in. First there would be the brief formality of Ezra Keroon, as fleet astrogator, confirming the exact ETA at their parking orbit, and then the landing site would be chosen.

“The betting’s eleven to four now, Lili,” Paul heard Drake Bonneau saying to Joel as the access panel to the wardroom
whooshed
open.

“For or against?” Paul asked, grinning as he entered. Those present, led by Kenjo’s example, shot to their feet, despite Paul’s dismissing gesture. He took in the two blank screens which in precisely ninety-five seconds would reveal the faces of Ezra Keroon and Jim Tillek, and to the center one where Pern swam tranquilly in the black ocean of space.

“There’re some civilians don’t think Desi and me can make the deadline, Paul,” Joel answered with a smug wink at Arthied, who nodded solemnly. Not a tall man, Lilienkamp was chunkily built; he had an engaging monkey face, framed with graying dark hair that curled tightly against his skull. His personality was ebullient, volatile, and could be caustic. His quick wits included an eidetic memory that allowed him to keep track of not only any bet he made, for how much and with whom and what odds, but every parcel, package, crate, and canister in his keeping. Desi Arthied, his second-in-command, often found his superior’s levity a trial, but he respected Lilienkamp’s abilities. It would be Desi’s job to shift the cargo that Joel designated to the loading decks and on board the shuttles.

“Civilians? Who don’t know you very well, do they?” Paul asked dryly, taking his seat and smiling noncommittally at Avril Bitra, who had been in charge of the simulation exercises. Ambition had hardened her. He wished that he had not spent so much of his waking time during the voyage involved with the sultry brunette, but she
was
stunning. Soon they would all be too busy for personal relationships. More and more attractive young women were appearing in the corridors. He wanted one of them to want to marry Paul Benden, not “the admiral.” Just then, the two screens lit up, the right-hand one displaying Ezra Keroon’s saturnine countenance, with his distinctive fringe of gray hair, and the left showing Jim Tillek, his square face wearing his usual cheerful expression.

“G’day, Paul,” he said, just ahead of Ezra’s more formal salute.

“Admiral,” Ezra said solemnly. “I beg to report that we have maintained our programmed course to the minute. Estimated arrival to parking orbit is now forty-six hours, thirty-three minutes, and twenty seconds. No deviations anticipated at this point in time.”

“Very good, Captain,” Paul said, returning the salute. “Any problems?”

Both captains reported that their revival programs were continuing without incident and that their shuttles were ready for launch once orbit had been achieved.

“Now that we know when, the matter of where is open for discussion,” Paul said, leaning back in his chair to signal that comment was invited.

“So, tell us, Paul,” Joel Lilienkamp said with his usual disregard for protocol, “where’re we landing?” All through the Nathi War, Joel’s impertinence had amused Paul Benden at a time when amusement was scarce, and he had consistently proved himself a near miraculous scavenger. His impudence caused Ezra Keroon to frown, but Jim Tillek chuckled.

“What are the odds, Lili?” he asked, his expression sly.

“Let us discuss the matter without prejudice,” Paul suggested wryly. “The three sites recommended by the EEC team have now all been probed. If you will refer to the chart, the sites are at thirty south by thirteen point thirty, forty-five south by eleven, and forty-seven south by four point seven five.”

“There’s really only one, Admiral, from my point of view,” Drake Bonneau interrupted excitedly, jabbing his finger at Paul’s own choice, the strato site. “Scuttlebug scans say it’s almost as level as if it had been graded for us, and broad enough to accommodate all six shuttles. The site at forty-five south eleven is waterlogged right now, and the western one is too far from the ocean. Temperature readings are near freezing.”

Paul saw Kenjo’s nod of agreement. He glanced at the two screens. Ezra’s growing bald spot was evident as he bent to consult his notes; unconsciously, Paul smoothed back his own thick hair.

“That thirty south is nearer sea for me,” Jim Tillek remarked amiably. “Good harbor about fifty klicks away. River’s navigable, too.” Tillek’s interest in sailing vessels was exceeded only by his love of dolphins. Accessibility to open water would be a high factor in his choice.

“Good heights for observatory and met stations all right,” Ezra replied, “though we’ve no real criterion from those reports about climatology. Don’t fancy settling that close to volcanoes myself.”

“A point, Ezra, but—” Paul paused to screen the relevant data for a quick scan. “No seismic readings were recorded, so I don’t see volcanic activity as an immediate problem. We can have Patrice de Broglie do a survey. Ah, yes, no seismic readings from the EEC, so even the one that has erupted has been dormant for well over two hundred years. And the weather and general conditions on the other two sites do mitigate against them.”

“Hmm, so they do. Doesn’t look from a met point of view as if the conditions at either will improve in two days,” Ezra conceded.

“Hell, we don’t have to
stay
where we land,” Drake exclaimed.

“Unless there’s some freak weather brewing up,” Jim Tillek said, “which I’m sure the met boys will be able to spot, let’s settle on the thirty-south site. That’s the one the EEC team favored, anyhow. Besides, the scuttlebugs say it’s got a thick ground cover. That should cushion the shock when you bounce, Drake.”

“Bounce?” Drake’s gray eyes widened at the mild jibe. “Captain Tillek, I haven’t bounced a landing since my first solo.”

“Very well, then, gentlemen, have we settled on our landing site?” Paul asked. Ezra and Jim nodded. “Relevant updates and detailed charts will be in your hands by 2200 hours.”

“Well, Joel,” Jim Tillek said, his sly grin broadening, “didja win?”

“Me, Captain?” Joel’s expression was that of injured innocence. “I never bet on a sure thing.”

“Any other problems to raise at this point, Captains?” Paul paused courteously, looking from one screen to the other.

“All ahead go, Paul, now I know I’ll land this bucket in her parking space on time,” Jim said, “and where to send my shuttle.” He waved a casual salute toward Erza and then his screen blacked out.

“Good evening, Admiral,” Ezra said more formally. His image faded.

“Is that all now, Paul?” Joel asked.

“We’ve got the time and the place,” Paul replied, “but that’s a tough timetable you’ve set, Joel. Can you keep it?”

“There’s a lot of money says he will, Admiral,” Drake Bonneau quipped.

“Why do you think it took me so long to load the
Yoko,
Admiral?” Joel Lilienkamp replied with a wide grin. “I knew I’d have to unload it all fifteen years later. You’ll see.” He winked at Desi, whose expression showed the faintest hint of skepticism.

“Then, gentlemen,” the admiral said, standing up, “I’ll be in my cabin if any problems do arise.”

As he swung out of the wardroom, Paul heard Joel asking for bets on how soon knowledge of the landing site would circulate the
Yoko.

Avril’s throaty voice replied. “Those odds, Lili.” Then the door panel
whoosh
ed shut.

Morale was high. Paul hoped that Emily’s meeting had been as satisfactory. Seventeen years of planning and organization were about to be put to the test.

On the deep-sleep decks of all three colony ships, the medics were working double shifts to arouse the fifty-five hundred or so colonists. Technicians and specialists were being revived in order of their usefulness to the landing operation, but Admiral Benden and Governor Boll had been insistent that everyone be awake by the time the three ships achieved their temporarily programmed parking position in a stable Lagrangian orbit, sixty degrees ahead of the larger moon, in the L­5 spot. Once the three great ships had been cleared of passengers and cargo, there would be no more chance to view Pern from outer space.

Sallah Telgar, coming off duty from her watch on the bridge, decided that she had had quite enough space travel for one lifetime. As the only surviving dependent of serving officers, she had spent her childhood being shunted from one service post to another. When she had lost both parents, she had been eligible to sign on as a charter member of the colony. War compensations had permitted her to acquire a substantial number of stake acres on Pern, which she could claim once the colony had become solidly established. Above all other considerations, Sallah yearned to set herself down in one place and stay there for the rest of her natural life. She was quite content that that place be Pern.

As she exited bridge territory for the main corridors, she was surprised to see so many people about. For nearly five years she had had a cabin to herself. The cabin was not spacious even for single-occupancy, and with three sharing, it offered no privacy at all. Not eager to return, Sallah made for the off-duty lounge, where she could get something to eat and continue planet-gazing, courtesy of the lounge’s large screen.

At the lounge entrance, Sallah hauled up sharp, surprised at how few seats were available. In the brief moments it took her to collect food from the dispensers, her options were narrowed down to one: a wall-counter seat well to the port side of the big room, with a slightly distorted view of Pern.

Sallah shrugged diffidently. Like an addict, she would take any view she could get of Pern. However, as she slipped into the seat, she realized that her nearest neighbors were also the people she least liked on board the
Yokohama:
Avril Bitra, Bart Lemos, and Nabhi Nabol. They were seated with three men she did not know, whose collar tabs identified them as mason, mechanical engineer, and miner. The six were also about the only people in the room not avidly watching the screen. The three specialists were listening to Avril and Bart, their faces carefully expressionless, though the oldest man, the engineer, occasionally glanced around to check on the attention of those nearby. Avril had her elbows on the table, her handsome face marred by the arrogant, supercilious sneer she affected, her black eyes glinting as she leaned forward toward homely Bart Lemos, who was enthusiastically punching his right fist into his left palm to emphasize his quick low words. Nabhi was wearing his perpetual expression of hauteur, an expression not far removed from Avril’s sneer, as he watched the geologist.

Their attitudes were enough to spoil anyone’s appetite, Sallah thought. She craned her neck to see Pern.

Gossip had it that Avril had spent a good deal of the last five years in Admiral Paul Benden’s bed. Candidly, Sallah could see why a virile man like the admiral would be sexually attracted by the astrogator’s dark and flashing beauty. A mixture of ethnic ancestors had given her the best of all possible features. She was tall, neither willowy nor overripe, with luxuriant black hair that she often wore loose in silky ripples. Her slightly sallow complexion was flawless and her movements gracefully studied, but her eyes, snapping with black fire, indicated a highly intelligent and volatile personality. Avril was not a woman to cross, and Sallah had carefully maintained her distance from Paul Benden, or anyone else seen more than three times in Avril’s company. If the unkind pointed out Paul Benden’s recent marked absence from Avril’s side, the charitable said that he was needed for long conferences with his staff, and the time for dalliance was over. Those who had been victims of Avril’s sharp tongue said that she had lost her bid to be the admiral’s lady.

However, Sallah had other matters on her mind than Avril Bitra’s ploys. She was waiting to hear which site had been chosen for landing. She knew that a decision had been made, and that it was to be kept secret until the admiral’s formal announcement. But she knew, too, that the news was bound to leak. Bets had been surreptitiously made about how soon the rest of the ship would know. The news should percolate through the lounge real soon now, Sallah thought.

“This is where,” a man suddenly exclaimed. He strode to the screen, jabbing his forefinger at a point that had just become visible. He wore the agronomy plow tab on his collar. “Right—” He paused as the screen image moved fractionally. “Here!” He planted his forefinger at the base of a volcano, discernible only as a pinpoint but nevertheless recognizable as a landmark.

“How much did Lili win on that one?” someone demanded.

“Don’t care about him,” the agronomist shouted. “I’ve just won an acre off Hempenstall!”

There was a ripple of applause and good-natured joking, infectious enough to make Sallah grin, until her gaze happened to spot the contemptuous smile of superiority on Avril’s face. Seeing the astrogator’s expression, Sallah knew that Avril had known the secret and withheld the information from her table companions. Bart Lemos and Nabhi Nabol leaned closer to exchange terse sentences.

Avril shrugged. “The landing site is immaterial.” Her sultry voice, though low, carried to Sallah’s ears. “The gig’s equipped to do the job, believe me.” She glanced away and caught Sallah’s eyes. Instantly her body tensed and her eyes narrowed. With a conscious effort she relaxed and leaned indolently back in her chair, maintaining eye contact with an insolence that Sallah found aggravating.