“PROBE REPORTS COMING through, sir,” Sallah Telgar announced without taking her eyes from the flickering lights on her terminal.

“On the screen, please, Mister Telgar,” Admiral Paul Benden replied. Beside him, leaning against his command chair, Emily Boll kept her eyes steadily on the sunlit planet, scarcely aware of the activity around her.

The Pern Colonial Expedition had reached the most exciting moment of its fifteen-year voyage: the three colony ships, the Yokohama, the Bahrain, and the Buenos Aires were finally approaching their destination. In offices below the bridge deck, specialists eagerly awaited updates on the reports of the long-dead Exploration and Evaluation team that, 200 years earlier, had recommended Rukbat’s third planet for colonization.

The long journey to the Sagittarian Sector had gone without a hitch, the only excitement being the surprise when the Oort cloud encircling the Rukbat system had been sighted. That phenomenon had continued to engross some of the space and scientific personnel, but Paul Benden had lost interest when Ezra Keroon, captain of the Bahrain and the expedition’s astronomer, had assured him that the nebulous mass of deep-frozen meteorites was no more than an astronomical curiosity. They would keep an eye on it, Ezra had said, but although some comets might form and spin from its depths, he doubted that they would pose a serious threat to either the three colony ships or the planet the ships were fast approaching. After all, the Exploration and Evaluation team had not mentioned any unusual incidence of meteor strikes on the surface of Pern.

“Screening probe reports, sir,” Sallah confirmed, “on two and five.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Admiral Benden smile slightly.

“This is sort of anticlimactic, isn’t it?” Paul murmured to Emily Boll as the latest reports flashed onto the screens.

Arms folded across her chest, she hadn’t moved since the probes had been launched, except for an occasional twiddling of fingers along her upper arms. She lifted her right eyebrow in a cynical twitch and kept her eyes on the screen.

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s one more procedure which gets us nearer to the surface. Of course,” she added dryly, “we’re sort of stuck with whatever’s reported, but I expect we can cope.”

“We’ll have to, won’t we?” Paul Benden replied a trifle grimly.

The trip was one-way—it had to be, considering the cost of getting over six thousand colonists and supplies to such an out-of-the-way sector of the galaxy. Once they reached Pern the fuel left in the great transport ships would be enough only to achieve and maintain a synchronous orbit above their destination while people and cargo were shuttled down to the surface. To be sure, they had homing capsules that would reach the headquarters of the Federated Sentient Planets in a mere five years, but to a retired naval tactician like Paul Benden, a fragile homing capsule did not offer much in the way of an effective backup. The Pern expedition was composed of committed and resourceful people who had chosen to eschew the high-tech societies of the Federated Sentient Planets. They expected to manage on their own. And though their destination in the Rukbat system was rich enough in ores and minerals to support an agriculturally based society, it was poor enough and far enough from the center of the galaxy that it should escape the greed of the technocrats.

“Only a little while longer, Paul,” Emily murmured, her voice reaching his ears alone, “and we’ll both be able to lay down the weary load.”

He grinned up at her, knowing that it had been as difficult for her as it had been for him to escape the blandishments of technocrats who had not wished to lose two such charismatic war heroes: the admiral who had prevailed in the Cygni Space Battle, and the governor-heroine of First Centauri. But no one could deny that the two were the ideal leaders for the Pern expedition.

“Speaking of loads,” she went on more loudly, “I’d better be there to referee my team now the reports are coming in. I suppose specialists have to consider their own disciplines the most important ones, but such contentiousness!” She stifled a groan, then grinned, her blue eyes twinkling in her rather homely face. “Just a few more days of talking, and it’ll be action stations, Admiral.”

She knew him well. He hated the interminable debate over minor points that seemed to obsess those in charge of the landing operation. He preferred to make quick decisions and implement them immediately, instead of talking them to death.

“You’re more patient with your teams than I am,” the admiral said quietly. The last two months, as the three ships had decelerated into the Rukbat system, had been made tedious with meetings and discussions which seemed to Paul to be nitpicking over procedures that had been thoroughly thrashed out seventeen years before in the planning stages of the venture.

Most of the 2900 colonists on the Yokohama had passed the entire journey in deep sleep. Personnel essential to the operation and maintenance of the three great ships had stood five-year watches. Paul Benden had elected to stand the first and last five-year periods. Emily Boll had been revived shortly before the rest of the environmental specialists, who had spent their time railing at the superficiality of the Exploration and Evaluation Corps report. She saw no point in reminding them of their enthusiasm for the same words when they had signed up for the Pern expedition.

Paul continued to absorb the display information, eyes flicking from one screen to another, absently rubbing the thumb of his left hand across three fingers. Though not the sort of man Emily was attracted to, Paul Benden was undeniably handsome, and Emily much preferred him with his hair grown out of the spaceman’s crop that had been his trademark. She thought that the thick blond mass softened the strong features: the blunt nose, the forceful jaw, and the wide thin-lipped mouth, just then pulled slightly to the left in a little smile.

The trip had done him good: he looked fit and well able to face the rigors of their next few months. Emily remembered how terribly thin he had been at the official ceremony commemorating his brilliant victory at Cygnus, where he and the Purple Sector Fleet had turned the tide of war against the Nathis. Legend said that he had remained awake and on duty for the entire seventy hours of the crucial battle. Emily believed it. She had done something of the sort herself during the height of the Nathis attack on her planet. There were many things a person could do if pushed, she knew from experience. She expected that one paid for such physical abuses later on in life, but Benden, well into his sixth decade, looked vigorously healthy. And she certainly felt no diminution of her own energies. Fourteen years of deep sleep seemed to have cured the terrible fatigue that had been the inevitable result of her defense of First Centauri.

And what a world they were now approaching! Emily sighed, still unable to look away from the main screen for more than a second. She knew that all those on duty on the bridge, along with those of the previous watch who had not left, were totally bemused by the magnificent sight of their destination.

Who had named it Pern, she did not recall—quite probably the single letters blazoned across the published report had stood for something else entirely—but it was Pern officially, and it was theirs. They were on an equatorial heading; as she watched, the planet’s lazy rotation hid the northern continent and the spine of mountains up its coast, while the western desert of the southern landmass was revealed. The dominant topographical feature was the wide expanse of ocean, slightly greener than that of old Earth, with a ring of islands splattered across it. The atmosphere was currently decorated with the swirling cloud curl of a low-pressure area moving rapidly northeast. What a beautiful, beautiful world! She sighed again and caught Paul’s quick glance. She smiled back at him without really taking her eyes from the screen.

A beautiful world! And theirs! By all the Holies, this time we won’t botch it! she assured herself fervently. With all that magnificent, productive land, the old imperatives don’t apply. No, she added in private cynicism, people are already discovering new ones. She thought of the friction she had sensed between the charterers, who had raised the staggering credits needed to finance the Pern expedition, and the contractors, the specialists hired to round out the basic skills required for the undertaking. Each could end up with a largeous amount of land or mineral rights on this new world, but the fact that the charterers would get first choice was a bone of contention.

Differences! Why did there always have to be distinctions, arrogantly displayed as superiorities, or derided as inferiorities? Everyone would have the same opportunity, no matter how many stake acres they could claim as charterer or had been granted as contractor. On Pern, it would truly be up to the individual to succeed, to prove his claim and to manage as much land as he and his cared for. That would be the catholic distinction. Once we’ve landed, everyone will be too bloody busy to fret over “differences,” she consoled herself, and watched in fascination as a second low-pressure area began to spin down from the hidden north across the sea. If the two weather systems melded, there would be a tremendous storm over the eastern curve of the oceanic islands.

“Looking good,” Commander Ongola murmured in his deep, sad bass voice. Emily had not seen him smile once in the six months she had been awake. Paul had told her that Ongola’s wife, children, and entire family had been vaporized when the Nathis had attacked their service colony; Paul had specifically requested him to join the expedition. Stationed at the science desk, Ongola was monitoring the meteorology and atmospherics displays. “Atmospheric content as expected. Southern continent temperatures appear to be normal for this late winter season. Northern continent enjoying considerable precipitation due to low-pressure air masses. Analyses and temperatures consistent with EEC report.”

The first probe was doing a high-altitude circumnavigation in a pattern that would allow it to photograph the entire planet. The second, taking a low-level course, could reexamine any portion required. The third probe was programmed for topographical features.

“Probes four and six have landed, sir. Five is on hold,” Sallah went on, as she interpreted the new lights that had begun to flash. “Scuttlebugs deployed.”

“Show them on the screens, Mister Telgar,” the admiral said. She transferred the displays to screens three, four, and six.

Pern’s image continued to dominate the main screen as the planet rotated slowly to the east, from night to day. The southern continent’s coastline was day-lit; the spinal range of mountains and the tracks of several rivers were visible. The thermal scan was showing the effect of daylight on the late winter season of the southern continent.

Probe scuttlebugs had been landed at three not-yet-visible specific points in the southern hemisphere and were relaying updates on current conditions and terrain. The southern continent had always been favored as the landing site: the survey-team report mentioned the more clement weather patterns on the high plateaus; a wider variety of plant life, some of it edible by humans; eminently suitable farmland; and good harbors for the tough siliplex fishing vessels that existed as numbered pieces in the holds of the Buenos Aires and the Bahrain. The seas of Pern teemed with aquatic life, and at least a few of the species could be safely consumed by humans. The marine biologists had high hopes of populating the bays and estuaries with Terran piscine types without harming the present ecological balance. The deep-freeze tanks of the Bahrain contained twenty-five dolphins who had volunteered to come along. Pern’s seas were eminently suitable for the support of the intelligent mammals, who enjoyed sea-shepherding as well as the opportunity to see new worlds.

Soil analyses had indicated that Terran cereals and legumes, which had already adapted well to Centauran soil, should flourish on Pern, a necessity as the native grasses were unsuitable for Terran animals. One of the first tasks facing the agronomists would be to plant fodder crops to sustain the variety of herbivores and ruminants that had been brought as fertilized ova from the Animal Reproduction Banks of Terra.

In order that the colonists could ensure the adaptability of Terran animals to Pern, permission to use certain of the advanced biogenetic techniques of the Eridanis—mainly mentasynth, gene paring, and chromosome enhancements—had been grudgingly granted. Even though Pern was in an isolated area of the galaxy, the Federated Sentient Planets wanted no further disasters like the bio-alts, which had aroused the strong Pure Human Life Group.

Emily Boll repressed a shudder. Those memories belonged to the past. Displayed on the screen in front of her was the future—and she had best get down and help the specialists organize it. “I’ve dallied long enough,” she murmured to Paul Benden, touching his shoulder in farewell.

Paul pulled his gaze from the screen and smiled at her, giving her hand a friendly pat. “Eat first!” He waggled a stern finger at her. “You keep forgetting we’re not rationed on board the Yoko.” She gave him a startled look. “I will. I promise.”

“The next few weeks are going to be rough.”

“Hmm, but so stimulating!” Her blue eyes twinkled. Then her stomach audibly rumbled. “Gotcha, Admiral.” She winked again and left.

He watched her as she walked to the nearest exit off the bridge, a lean, almost bony woman, with gray and naturally wavy hair which she wore shoulder length. What Paul liked most about her was her wiry strength, both moral and physical, which was combined with a ruthlessness that sometimes startled him. She had tremendous personal vitality—just being in her presence gave one’s spirits a lift. Together they would make something of their new world.

He looked back to the main screen and the enthralling vista of Pern.

 

The large lounge had been set up as an office for the heads of the various teams of exobiology, agronomy, botany, and ecology, along with six representatives of the professional farmers, who were still a bit groggy from their term in deep sleep. The room was ringed by multiple screens displaying a constantly altering range of microbiology reports, statistics, comparisons, and analyses. There was much debate going on. Those hunched over desk monitors, busily collating reports, tried to ignore the tension emanating from the departmental heads who occupied the very center of the room in a tight knot, each one with an eye out for the screens displaying reports on his or her specialty.

Mar Dook, head agronomist, was a small man whose Earth Asiatic ancestry was evident in features, skin tone, and physiology: he was wiry, lean, and slightly bowed in the shoulders, but his black eyes gleamed with eager intelligence and the excitement of the challenge.

“The schedule has long been decided, my dear colleagues. We’re in the first wave down. The probes do not contradict any of the information we already have. The dirt and vegetation samples match. There’s the same sort of red and green algae reported along the shoreline. Marine life has been sighted by the sea probe. One of the low probes has caught a comforting variety of insects, which the EEC also found. The aerial fax that came up with that flyer reported—what did the team call them?—wherries.”

“Why ‘wherries’?” Phas Radamanth asked. He scrolled through the report searching for that particular annotation. “Ah,” he said when he found it. “Because they resemble airborne barges—squat, fat and full.” He allowed himself a little smile for the whimsy of that long-dead term.

“Yeah, but I don’t see mention of any other predators,” Kwan Marceau said, his rather high forehead creased, as usual, with a frown.

“There’s sure to be something that eats them,” Phas replied confidently.

“Or they eat each other,” Mar Dook suggested. He received a stern frown from Kwan. Suddenly Mar Dook pointed excitedly to a new fax coming up on one screen. “Ah, look! The scuttlebug got a reptiloid. Rather a large specimen, ten centimeters thick and seven meters long. There’s your wherry eater, Kwan.”

“Another scuttle has just run through a puddle of excretal matter, semiliquid, which contains intestinal parasites and bacteria,” Pol Nietro said, hurriedly tagging the report for later reference. “There do seem to be plenty of wormlike soil dwellers, too. Rather a significant variety, if you ask me. Worms like nematodes, insectoids, mites that really wouldn’t be out of place in a Terran compost heap. Ted, here’s something for you: plants like our mycorrhizas—tree fungi. Speaking of that, I wonder where the EEC team found that luminous mycelium.”

Ted Tubberman, one of the colony botanists, gave a contemptuous snort. He was a big man, not carrying any extra flesh after nearly fifteen years in deep sleep, who tended to be overbearing. “Luminous organisms are usually found in deep caves, Nietro, as they use their light to attract their victims, generally insects. The mycelium reported by that team was in a cave system on that large island south of the northern continent. This planet seems to have a considerable number of cave systems. Why weren’t any scuttles scheduled for subterranean investigations?” he asked in an aggrieved tone.

“There were only so many available, Ted,” Mar Dook said placatingly.

“Ah, look! Now, this is what I’ve been waiting for,” Kwan said, his usually solemn face lighting up as he bent until his nose almost touched the small screen before him. “There are reef systems. And yes, a balanced if fragile marine ecology along the ring islands. I’m much encouraged. Possibly those polka dots they saw are from a meteorite storm.”

Ted dismissed that instantly. “No. No impact, and the formation of new growth does not parallel that sort of phenomenon. I intend looking into that problem the first moment I can.”

“What we have to do first,” Mar Dook said, his tone gently reproving, “is select the appropriate sites, plow, test, and, where necessary, introduce the symbiotic bacteria and fungi, even beetles, needed for pastureland.”

“But we still don’t know which landing site will be chosen.” Ted’s face was flushed with irritation.

“The three that are now being surveyed are much of a muchness,” Mar Dook replied with a tolerant smile. He found Tubberman’s petulant restlessness tedious. “All three give us ample scope for experimental and control fields. Our basic tasks will be the same no matter where we land. The essential point is not to miss this first vital growing season.”

“The brood animals must be revived as soon as possible,” Pol Nietro said. The head zoologist was as eager as everyone else to plunge into the practical work ahead. “And reliance on the alfalfa trays for fodder is not going to adjust their digestions to a new environment. We must begin as we mean to go on, and let Pern supply our needs.”

There was a murmur of assent to his statement.

“The only new factor in these reports,” Phas Radamanth, the xenobiologist, said encouragingly, without turning his eyes from his screens, “is the density of vegetation. We may have to clear more than we thought in the forty-five south eleven site. See here—” He gestured to the disparate images. “Where the EEC pic showed sparse ground cover, we now have heavy vegetation, some of it of respectable size.”

“There should be at least that, after two-hundred-odd years,” Ted Tubberman said irritably. “I never was happy about the barrenness. Smacked of a depauperate ecology. Hey, most of those circular features are overgrown. Felicia, run up the EEC pics that correspond.” He bent his big frame to peer over her shoulder at the double screen below the probe broadcast. “See, those circles are barely discernible now. The team was right about botanical succession. And that isn’t a grassoid. If that’s mutant vegetation . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head and jutting his chin out. He had loudly and frequently insisted that the success of Pern as a colony would depend on botanical health.

“I, too, am happier to see succession, but according to the EEC reports, it’s—” Mar Dook began.

“Shove the EEC reports. They didn’t tell us the half of what we really need to know,” Ted exclaimed. “Survey, they called it. Quick dip at the trot. No depth to it at all. The most superficial survey I’ve ever read.”

“I quite agree,” said the calm voice of Emily Boll, who had entered while the botanist was ranting. “The initial EEC report does seem to have been less than complete now that we can compare it to our new home. But the most crucial, salient points were covered for us. We know what we needed to know, and the FSP was quite happy to turn the planet over to us because it certainly doesn’t have anything to interest them. And it’s not a planet that the syndicates would fight over. Which is why we were allowed to have it. I think we have to be grateful to that team, not critical.” Her smile swept everyone in the crowded room. “The important elements—atmosphere, water, arable soil, ores, minerals, bacteria, insects, marine life—are all present, and Pern is eminently suitable for human habitation. The gaps, the in-depth investigations that report did not contain, are what we shall spend a lifetime filling in. A challenge for each and every one of us, and our children!” Her low-pitched voice rang in the crowded room. “Let’s not worry at this very late date about what we weren’t told. We’ll find the answers soon enough. Let’s concentrate now on the great work we have to begin in just two days’ time. We’re ready for any surprises Pern might have for us. Now, Mar Dook, have you seen anything in the updates to suggest we must alter the schedule?”

“Nothing,” Mar Dook replied, warily glancing at Ted Tubberman, who was frowning at Emily Boll. “But those soil and vegetation matter samples would occupy us usefully.”

“I’m sure they would.” Emily grinned broadly at him. “We’ll be busy enough—ah, here’s the information you need. And what a bumper crop to digest.”

“We still don’t know where we’re landing,” Ted complained.

“The admiral is discussing that right now, Ted,” Emily replied equably. “We’ll, be among the first to know.”

Agronomists were to be in the first shuttleloads to reach the surface, for it was vital to the colony’s future to break land for crops as soon as possible. Even while the engineers were setting up the landing grids, agronomists would be plowing fields, and Ted Tubberman and his group would be setting up sheds and seeding the precious soil brought from Earth. Pat Hempenstall would set up a control shed using indigenous dirt, to see if Earth or colonial variants would thrive unassisted in an alien soil. Sufficient packaged organisms had also been brought to introduce symbiotic bacteria.

“I will be very glad,” Pol Nietro murmured, “if the reports confirm those insectoids, winged and subterranean, reported by the EEC team. If they should prove sufficient to do the work of dung beetles and flies on our Terran-style detritus, agronomy will be off to a good start. We’ve got to get nutrients back into the soil and introduce the rumen bacteria, protozoans, and yeasts for our cows, sheep, goats, and horses so they’ll thrive.”

“If not, Pol,” Emily replied, “we can ask Kitti to work a bit of her micro-magic and rearrange innards that can deal with what Pern has to offer.” She smiled with great deference at the tiny lady seated in the center of the little cluster.

“Soil samples coming up,” Ju Adjai said into the pause. “And here’s vegetable mash for you, Ted. Get your teeth in that.”

Tubberman launched himself to the position next to Felicia, his big fingers nimble and accurate over the keyboard.

In moments the rattling of keys, punctuated by assorted mutters and other monosyllables of concentration, filled the room. Emily and Kit Ping exchanged glances tinged with amused condescension for the vagaries of their younger colleagues. Kit Ping then turned her eyes back to the main screen and continued her contemplation of the world they were rapidly approaching.

As Emily sat down at her workspace, she wondered how under the suns the expedition had lucked out enough to include the most eminent geneticist in the Federated Sentient Planets—the only human who had ever been trained by the Eridanis. Emily had only seen pics of the altered humans who had made the first abortive mission to Eridani. She suppressed a shudder. Pern wouldn’t ever require that kind of abominable tinkering. Maybe that’s why Kit Ping was willing to come to the edge of the galaxy—to end what had already been a long and incredible life in a quiet backwater where she, too, could practice selective amnesia. There were many on the colony’s roll who had come to forget what they had seen and done.

“The grassoid on that eastern landing site is going to be hell to cut through,” Ted Tubberman said, scowling. “High boron content. It’ll dull cutting edges and foul gear.”

“It’d cushion the landing.” Pat Hempenstall said with a chuckle.

“Our landing craft have landed safely on far more inhospitable terrain than that,” Emily reminded the others.

“Felicia, run a comparison on the botanical succession around those crazy polka dots,” Ted Tubberman went on, staring at his own screens. “There’s something about that configuration that still bothers me. The phenomenon is all over the planet. And I’d be happier if we could get an opinion from that geologist whiz, Tarzan—” He paused.

“Tarvi Andiyar,” Felicia supplied, accustomed to Ted’s memory lapses.

“Well, memo him to meet me when he’s revived. Damn it, Mar, how can we function with only half the specialists awake?”

“We’re doing fine, Ted. Pern is coming up roses for us. Not a joggle off the report data.”

“That’s almost worrying,” Pol Nietro said blandly.

Tubberman snorted, Mar Dook shrugged, and Kitti Ping smiled.

 

Admiral Benden’s chrono tingled against his wrist, reminding him that it was time for his own meeting.

“Commander Ongola, take the conn.” Reluctantly, his eyes focusing on the main screen until the access panel of the exit closed, Paul left the bridge.

The corridors of the great colony ship were becoming more crowded by the hour, Paul noticed as he made his way to the wardroom. Newly revived people, clutching the handrails, were jerkily exercising stiff limbs and trying to focus body and mind on the suddenly hazardous task of remaining upright. The old Yoko would be packed tighter than reserve rations while colonists awaited their turns to reach the surface. But with the promise of the freedom of a whole new world as the reward of patience, the crowding could be endured.

Having paid close attention to the various probe reports, Paul had already decided which of the three recommended landing sites he would choose. Naturally he would accord his staff and the other two captains the courtesy of a hearing, but the obvious choice was the vast plateau below a group of strato volcanoes. The current weather there was clement, and the nearly level expanse was adequate to accommodate all six shuttles. The updates had only confirmed a tentative preference made seventeen years ago when he had first studied the EEC reports. He had never anticipated much difficulty with landing; it was a smooth and accident-free debarkation that caused him anxiety. There was no rescue backup hovering solicitously in the skies of Pern, nor disaster teams on its surface.

In organizing the debarkation, Paul had chosen as flight officer Fulmar Stone, a man who had served with him throughout the Cygnus campaign. For the past two weeks, Fulmar’s crews had been all over the Yoko’s three shuttle vehicles and the admiral’s gig, ensuring that there would be no malfunction after fifteen years in the cold storage of the flight deck. The Yoko’s twelve pilots, under Kenjo Fusaiyuki, had gone through rigorous simulator drills well spiced with the most bizarre landing emergencies. Most of the pilots had been combat fighters, and were fit and fully experienced at extricating themselves from tricky situations, but none had quite the record of Kenjo Fusaiyuki. Some of the less experienced shuttle pilots had complained about Kenjo’s methods; Paul Benden had courteously listened to the complaints—and ignored them.

Paul had been surprised and flattered when Kenjo had signed up with the expedition. Somehow, he had thought the man would have signed on to an exploratory unit where he could continue to fly as long as his reflexes lasted. Then Paul remembered that Kenjo was a cyborg, with a prosthetic left leg. After the war, the Exploration and Evaluation Corps had had their choice of experienced, whole personnel, and cyborgs had been shunted into administrative positions. Automatically, Paul made his left hand into a fist, his thumb rubbing against the knuckles of the three replacement fingers which had always worked as well as his natural ones. But there was still no feeling in the pseudoflesh. Consciously, he relaxed the hand, certain once again that he could hear a subtle plastic squeak in the joints and the wrist.

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 whooshed 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.

Sallah looked away, feeling slightly soiled. She drank the last gulp of coffee, grimacing at the bitter aftertaste. The ship’s coffee was lousy, but she would miss even that facsimile when the supply was exhausted. Coffee had failed on all the colony planets so far, for reasons no one had yet discerned. The survey team had discovered and recommended a Pernese shrub bark as a coffee substitute, but Sallah did not have much faith in that.

After the identification of the landing site, the noise level in the lounge had risen to an almost intolerable pitch. With a sigh, Sallah ditched her rubbish in the disposer, passed her tray under the cleanser, and stacked it neatly with others. She permitted herself one last long look at Pern. We won’t spoil this planet, she thought. I personally won’t let anyone spoil it.

As she turned to leave, her glance fell on Avril’s dark head. Now there’s an odd one to be a colonist, Sallah thought, not for the first time. Avril was listed as a contractor, with a handsome stake as a professional fee, but she scarcely seemed the sort who would be comfortable in a rural environment. She had all the sophisticated manners of the citified. The Pern expedition had attracted some first-rate talents, but most of those to whom Sallah had talked had been motivated to leave behind the syndicate-ridden technocracy and its ever-spiraling need for resources.

Sallah liked the notion of joining a self-reliant society so far from Earth and her other colonies. From the moment she had read the Pern prospectus she had been eager to be part of the venture. At sixteen, with service compulsory at that point in the bitterly fought Nathi War, she had chosen pilot training, with additional studies in probe and surveillance techniques. She had completed her training just as the war ended and then used her skills to map devastated areas on one planet and two moons. When the Pern expedition was put together, she had not only been eligible to be a charterer, but had the experience and skills that would make her a valuable addition to the professional complement.

She left the off-duty lounge to return to her quarters, but she was not sure she would be able to sleep. In two days, they would reach their long-awaited goal. Then life would get interesting!

Just as Sallah turned into the main corridor, a little girl with burnished deep red hair lurched into her, tried to regain her balance, and fell heavily at Sallah’s feet. Bursting into loud sobs, more from frustration than from hurt, the child clung to Sallah’s leg in a grip astonishingly strong for one so young.

“There now, not to cry. You’ll get your balance back, pet,” Sallah said soothingly, reaching down to stroke the child’s silky hair and then to loosen her frantic grip.

“Sorka! Sorka!” An equally redheaded man holding a little boy by one hand, and a very pretty brunette woman by the other, moved unsteadily toward Sallah. The woman had all the signs of someone only just awake: her eyes didn’t quite focus, and while she was trying to respond to the situation, she was unable to concentrate.

The man’s eyes flicked to Sallah’s collar emblem. “I do apologize, Pilot,” the redheaded man said, grinning apologetically. “We’re really not awake yet.”

He was trying to disencumber one hand to come to Sallah’s assistance, but the woman refused to relinquish her grasp, and plainly he could not let go of the tottering boy.

“You need help,” Sallah said pleasantly, wondering which medic had let the totally unstable quartet out on their own.

“Our quarters are only a few steps along.” He nodded toward the splinter aisle behind Sallah. “Or so I was told. But I never appreciated how far a few steps could be.”

“What’s the number? I’m off duty.”

“B­8851.”

Sallah looked at the plates on the corridor corners and nodded. “It is just the next aisle. Here, I’ll help. There now, Sorka—is that your name? Here, I’ll just—”

“Excuse me,” the man interrupted as Sallah moved to lift the child into her arms. “They kept telling us we’d be better off walking. Trying to walk, that is.”

“I can’t walk,” Sorka cried. “I’m lopsided.” She clung more fiercely to Sallah’s legs.

“Sorka! Behave yourself!” The redhead frowned at his daughter.

“Got an idea!” Sallah said in a brisk friendly tone. “You take both my hands—” She peeled Sorka’s fingers from her leg and grasped each little hand firmly in her own. “—and walk in front of me. I’ll keep you on an even keel.”

Even with Sallah’s help, the family made slow progress, impeded by the more agile walkers rushing by on private errands, and by the uncertainty of their own steps.

“I’m Red Hanrahan,” the man said when their progress improved.

“Sallah Telgar.”

“Never thought I’d need help from a pilot before we reached Pern,” he said with a wide grin. “This is my wife, Mairi, my son, Brian, and you’ve got Sorka.”

“Here we are,” Sallah said, reaching their compartment and throwing open the door. She grimaced at the size of the accommodation and then reminded herself that their occupancy would only be for a short time. Even though the bunks were strapped up against the walls in their daytime position, the remaining floor space allowed for little movement.

“Not much larger than the quarters we just vacated,” Red remarked equably.

“How are we supposed to exercise in here?” his wife demanded, a rather shrill note in her voice as she rolled her body around the doorjamb and got a good look at the size of their cabin.

“One by one, I guess,” Red said. “It’s only for a few days, pet, and then we’ll have a whole planet to range. In you go, Brian, Sorka. We’ve kept Pilot Telgar long enough. You really saved us, Telgar. Thanks.”

Sorka, who had propped herself against the inside wall of their cabin as her father encouraged the rest of his family to enter, slid to a sitting position on the floor, her little knees against her chest. Then she cocked her head to peer up at Sallah. “Thanks from me, too,” she said, sounding more self-possessed. “It’s really silly not knowing up from down, and side from side.”

“I agree, but the effect will disappear very quickly. We all had to go through it when we woke up.”

“You did?” Sorka’s incredulous expression turned into the most radiant smile Sallah had ever seen, and she found herself grinning, too.

“We did. Even Admiral Benden,” she said mendaciously. She ruffled the child’s silky, magnificently titian hair. “I’ll see you around. Okay?”

“While you’re in that position, Sorka, do those exercises we were shown. Then it’ll be Brian’s turn,” Red Hanrahan was saying as Sallah closed the door behind her.

She reached her own quarters without further incident, though the corridors were filled with recent sleepers lurching about, their expressions ranging from intense concentration to horrified dismay. The moment Sallah opened her door, she was aware of the occupants asleep inside. She grimaced. Very carefully she slid the panel back and leaned against it, wondering what to do. She was too keyed up to sleep yet; she had to wind down somehow. She decided to go to the pilots’ ready room for some stimulating simulator practice. The moment of truth for her abilities as a shuttle pilot was rapidly approaching.

Her route was impeded by another recently awakened colonist whose coordination suffered from prolonged disuse. He was so rake-thin that Sallah feared he would break a bone as he lurched from side to side.

“Tarvi Andiyar, geologist,” he said, courteously introducing himself as soon as she had supported him to a vertical stance. “Are we really orbiting Pern?” His eyes crossed as he looked at her, and Sallah managed to suppress the grin that his comical expression evoked. She told him their position. “And you have seen with your own bright and pretty eyes this marvelous planet?”

“I have and it’s every bit as lovely as forecast,” Sallah assured him warmly. He smiled broadly in relief, showing her very white and even teeth. Then he gave a shake of his head, which seemed to correct the aberrant focus of his eyes. He had one of the most beautiful faces she had ever seen on a man—not Benden’s rugged, warrior features, but a sophisticated and subtle arrangement, almost sculpted, like some of the ancient Indic and Cambodian princes on ruined stone murals. She flushed as she remembered what those princes had been doing in the murals.

“Would you know if there are any updated probe reports? I am exceedingly eager to get to work.”

Sallah laughed, amusement easing the sensual jolt his face had given her. “You can’t even walk and you want to get to work?”

“Isn’t fifteen years’ holiday long enough for anyone?” His expression was mildly chiding. “Is that not cabin C­84l1?”

“It is indeed,” she said, guiding him across the corridor.

“You are as beautiful as you are kind,” he said, one hand on the panel for support as he tried to make a very courtly bow. She had to grab at his shoulders as he overbalanced. “And quick.” With a more judicious inclination of his head, and with considerable dignity under the circumstances, he opened his door.

“Sallah!” Drake Bonneau exclaimed, striding down the corridor toward her. “Anybody told you where we’re landing?” He had the eager expression of someone about to confer a favor on a friend.

“It took no more than nine minutes for the scuttlebutt to circulate,” she said coolly.

“That long?” He pretended disdain and then produced one of the smiles that he assumed would charm anyone. “Let’s drink to it. Not much longer to enjoy our leisure, eh? Just you and me, huh?”

She suppressed her distrust of his flattery. He was probably not even conscious of the triteness of his glib phrases. She had heard him trot out the same smooth lines for any reasonably attractive female, and at the moment, his casual insincerity irritated her. Yet he was not a bad sort, and certainly he had had courage enough to spare during the war. Then she realized that her uncharacteristic annoyance was a reaction to the sudden bustle, noise, and proximity of so many people after the last few years of quiet. Relax, she told herself sternly, it’s only for a few days and then you’ll be too busy flying to worry about crowds and noise.

“Thanks, Drake, but Kenjo has me down for simulator practice in—” She glanced at her wrist. “—five minutes. Getcha another time.”

To avoid the crowded corridors, she took the emergency tube down to the flight deck, then made her way past the variety of cargo secured there to the admiral’s gig, the Mariposa. It was a compact little craft, with its delta wing and its perky, pointed nacelle, but it would be full of quiet and unoccupied space. Sallah punched the hatch release.