THE COLONY’S TWO psychologists flew in late that evening when the infirmary was still crowded with the injured and shocked, and set to work immediately to help reduce traumas. Cherry Duff had suffered a stroke at the news, but was recovering splendidly. Joel and his wife were both prostrated by the loss of their sons. Bernard Hegelman had submerged his own grief to comfort his shattered wife and the other families bereft by loss.
Sean and Sorka had tirelessly sledded in the wounded they located. Even those injured were dazed, some weeping uncontrollably until sedated, others pathetically quiet. Porrig Connell had sent his eldest daughter and his wife to help cope with the survivors, while he stayed with his extended family in the cave.
“The first time Porrig Connell ever did anything for anyone else,” his son remarked under his breath to Sorka, who berated him for such cynicism. “He wants to use Cricket to service the rest of his mares when they foal. He expects me to give up my stallion because he hadn’t trained his!”
Sorka wisely said nothing.
With one exception, the distant holdings had contacted Landing, offering either assistance or sympathy. The one exception was the Big Island mining camp, comprised of Avril Bitra, Stev Kimmer, Nabhi Nabol, and a few others. Ongola, running over the log, noticed the absence.
Kenjo, appearing like magic from his distant Honshu plateau, headed the aerial survey. By nightfall, he and his team produced accurate maps and pics of the extent of the terrible “Threadfall,” as it soon came to be called. The original complement of biologists reconvened at Landing to ascertain the nature of the beast. Kitti Ping and Wind Blossom lent their special skills to analyze the life-forms as soon as samples were brought in.
Unfortunately too many, acquired at considerable danger to the volunteers, were found apparently moribund in the metal or heavy plastic containers in which they had been contained. Seemingly, after about twenty minutes, all the frenetic activity, the replications of the original strand several thousand times into big wriggling “sausages,” ceased. The form unraveled, blackened, and turned into an utterly lifeless, sticky, tarry mess, within a tougher shell.
The captain of the Mayflower, which had been trawling at the ragged northern edge of the Fall, inadvertently discovered a segment of Thread in a pail of fish bait, slapped on a tight lid, and reported the find to Landing. He was told to keep it alive, if possible, by judicious feeding until it could be flown to Landing.
By then, the Thread had to be housed in the biggest heavy-gauge plastic barrel on board the Mayflower. Ongola transported the tightly sealed barrel, using a long steel cable attached to the big engineering sled. Only when the crew saw the sled disappearing in the distance would they come on deck. The captain was later astonished to learn that his act was considered one of extreme bravery.
By the time the pulsing life-form reached Landing, it coiled, a gross meter long and perhaps ten centimeters in circumference, resembling a heavy hawser. Double-thick slabs of transparent silicon-based building plastic, tightly banded with metal strips, were rigged into a cage, its base quikplased to the floor. Several thin slits with locking flaps were created. A hole the size of the barrel opening was incised in the top, the barrel lid readied, and with the help of grimly anxious volunteers the terrible creature was transferred from barrel to cage. The top opening was sealed as soon as the life-form was dropped into the plastic cube.
One of the men scrambled for a corner to be sick in. Others averted their faces. Only Tarvi and Mar Dook seemed unmoved by the creature’s writhing as it engulfed the food that had been placed in the cube.
In its urgency to ingest, the thing rippled in waves of gray, greasy colors: sickly greens, dull pink tones, and an occasional streak of yellow flowed across its surface, the image sickeningly distorted by the thick clear plastic. The outer covering of the beast seemed to thicken. The thick shell probably formed at its demise, the observers guessed, for such remains had been found in rocky places where the organism had starved. The interior of the beast evidently deteriorated as rapidly as it had initially expanded. Was it really alive? Or was it some malevolent chemical entity feeding on life? Certainly its appetite was voracious, although the very act of eating seemed to interfere with whatever physical organization the beast had, as if what it consumed hastened its destruction.
“It’s rate of growth is remarkable,” Bay said in a very calm voice, for which Pol later praised her, saying that it had provided an example to the others, all stunned by the sight of that gross menace. “One expects such expansion under the microscope but not in the macrocosm. Where can it have come from? Outer space?”
Blank silence met her astonishing query, and those in the room exchanged glances, partly of surprise, partly of embarrassment at Bay’s suggestion.
“Do we have any data on the periodicity of comets in this system?” Mar Dook asked hopefully. “That eccentric body? Something brought in from our Oort cloud? Then there’s the Hoyle-Wickramansingh theory, which has never been totally discredited, citing the possibility of viruses.”
“That’s one helluva virus, Mar,” Bill Duff said skeptically. “And didn’t someone on Ceti III confound that old theory?”
“Considering it drops from the skies,” Jim Tillek said, “why couldn’t it have a space origin? I’m not the only one who’s noticed that red morning star in the east getting brighter these past weeks. A bit of coincidence, isn’t it, that the planet with the crazy orbit is coming right into the inner planets, right at the same time this stuff hits us? Could that be the source? Is there any data in the library on that planet? On this sort of thing?”
“I’ll ask Cherry. No,” Bill Duff corrected himself before anyone could remind him that the redoubtable magistrate was indisposed. “I’ll access the information myself and bring back hardcopy to study.” He hurried from the room as if glad to have a valid excuse to leave.
“I’ll get a sample from the section pressing against the lower slot,” Kwan Marceau said, gathering up the necessary implements in the rush of someone who dared not consider overlong what he was about to do.
“A record’s being kept of the . . . intake?” Bay asked. She could not quite say “food,” remembering what the creatures had already consumed since they had fallen on Pern.
“Now, to judge the frequency of . . . intake”—Pol seized gratefully on that euphemism—“sufficient to keep the . . . organism alive.”
“And see how it dies,” Kitti added in a voice so bland that it rang with satisfaction.
“And why all its ilk died in this first infestation,” Phas Radamanth added, pulling the EEC pics out of the welter of hardcopy in front of him.
“Did all die?” Kitti asked.
By morning, with no report from scientists who had worked through the night, the muttering began: a still-shocked whisper over morning klah; a rumor that began to seep into every office and the hastily reopened living quarters on the andoned residential squares. A huge blaze had been started the previous evening and continued to burn at Bonfire Square. Torches, pitched and ready to be lit, had been piled at each corner, and more were added to the piles throughout the day.
Many of the lighter sleds that had been on the ground at Landing needed new canopies. Sweeping out the detritus of putrid Thread shells was undertaken with masks and heavy work gloves.
There was a new and respectful title for the winged friends: fire-dragons. Even those who had previously scorned the creatures carried tidbits for them in their pockets. Landing was dotted with fat-bellied dragonets sleeping in the sun.
By lunchtime, a meal was served from the old communal kitchens, and rumor was rife. By midafternoon, Ted Tubberman and a fellow malcontent, their faces streaked and drawn by grief, led bereaved relatives to the door of the containment unit.
Paul and Emily came out with Phas Radamanth and Mar Dook.
“Well? Have you discovered what that thing is?” Ted demanded.
“It is a complex but understandable network of filaments, analogous to a Terran mycorrhiza,” Mar Dook began, resenting Tubberman’s manner but respecting his grief.
“That explains very little, Mar,” Ted replied, belligerently sticking out his chin. “In all my years as a botanist, I never saw a plant symbiont dangerous to humans. What do we get next? A death moss?”
Emily reached out to touch Tubberman’s arm in sympathy, but he jerked away.
“We have little to go on,” Phas said in a sharp tone. He was tired, and working all night near the monstrosity had been a terrible strain. “Nothing like this has ever been recorded on any of the planets humans have explored. The nearest that has been even imagined were some of the fictional inventions during the Age of Religions. We’re still refining our understanding of it.”
“It’s still alive? You’re keeping it alive!” Ted was livid with irrational outrage. Beside him, his companions nodded agreement as fresh tears streamed down their faces. Murmuring angrily among themselves, the delegation crowded closer to the entrance, every one of them seeking an outlet for frustration and impotent grief.
“Of course, we have to study it, man,” Mar Dook said, keeping his voice steady. “And find out exactly what it is. To do that, it must be fed to . . . continue. We’ve got to ascertain if this is only the beginning of its life cycle.”
“Only the beginning!” Tubberman cried. Paul and Phas leapt forward to restrain the grief-mad botanist. Lucy had been his apprentice as well as his daughter, and the two had shared a deep and affectionate bond. “By all that’s holy, I’ll end it now!”
“Ted, be rational. You’re a scientist!”
“I’m a father first, and my daughter was . . . devoured by one of those creatures! So was Joe Milan, and Patsy Swann, Eric Hegelman, Bob Jorgensen, and . . .” Tubberman’s face was livid. His fists clenched at his sides, his whole body strained with rage and frustration. He glared accusingly at Emily and Paul. “We trusted you two. How could you bring us to a place that devours our children and all we’ve achieved the past eight years!” The murmurs of the delegation supported his accusation. “We”—his wide gesture took in the packed numbers behind him—“want that thing dead. You’ve had long enough to study it. C’mon, people. We know what we have to do!” With a final bitter, searing look at the biologists, he turned, roughly pushing aside those in his path. “Fire kills it!”
He stomped off, raging. His followers left with him.
“It won’t matter what they do, Paul,” Mar Dook said, restraining Paul Benden from going after Ted. “The beast is moribund now. Give them the corpse to vent their feelings on. We’ve about finished what examinations we can make anyhow.” He shrugged wearily. “For all the good it does us.”
“And that is?” Paul inquired encouragingly. Mar Dook and Phas gestured to him and Emily to reenter the containment until where Pol, Bay, and the two geneticists were still writing up their notes.
Wearily, Mar Dook scrubbed at his face, his sallow skin nearly gray as he slumped onto a table that was littered with tapes and slide containers. “We now know that it is carbon based, has complex, very large proteins which flick from state to state and produce movement, and others which attack and digest an incredible range of organic substances. It is almost as if the creature was designed specifically to be inimical to our kind of life.”
“I’m glad you kept that to yourself,” Emily said wryly, looking over her shoulder at the door swinging shut on a view of the angry group heading away.
“Mar Dook, you can’t mean what you just said,” Paul began, resting both hands on the shoulders of the weary biologist. “It may be dangerous, yes—but designed to kill us?”
“That is just a thought,” Mar Dook replied, looking a bit sheepish. “Phas here has a more bizarre suggestion.”
Phas cleared his throat nervously. “Well, it’s come out of the blue so unexpectedly, I wondered if it could possibly be a weapon, preparing the ground for an invasion?” Dumbfounded, Paul and Emily stared at him, aware of Bay’s sniff of disagreement and the amused expression on Kitti Ping’s face. “That is not an illogical interpretation, you know. I like it better than Bay’s suggestion, that this might be only the beginning of a life cycle. I dread what could follow.”
Paul and Emily glanced around them, stunned by such a dreadful possibility. But Pol Nietro rose from his chair and cleared his throat, a tolerant expression on his round face.
“That is also a suggestion from the fiction of the Age of Religions, Mar,” Pol said with a wry smile. He glanced apologetically at his wife and then noticed Kitti Ping’s reassuring smile. He felt heartened. “And, in my opinion, highly improbable. If the life cycle produced inimical forms, where are the descendants of subsequent metamorphoses? The EEC team may have erred in considering the polka dots nondangerous, but they also discovered no other incongruous life-forms.
“As for an invasion from outer space, every other planet in this sector of space was found to be inimical to carbon-based life-forms.” Pol began to warm to his own theory and saw Emily recovering from the shock of the other revelations. “And we have determined that that—” He jerked his thumb at the discolored cube. “—is carbon based. So that would seem to more or less limit it to this system. And we will find out how.” Pol’s burst of explanation seemed to have drained the last of his energy, and he leaned wearily against the high laboratory stand. “I believe I’m right, though. Airing the worst possible interpretations of the data we have gleaned has cleared the air, so to speak.” He gave a little, almost apologetic shrug and smiled hopefully at Phas and Bay.
“I still feel we have missed something in our investigations,” Phas said, shaking his head. “Something obvious, and important.”
“No one thinks straight after forty hours on the trot,” Paul said, clasping Phas by the shoulder to give him a reassuring shake. “Let’s look at your notes again when you’ve had some rest and something to eat, away from the stench in here. Jim, Emily, and I will wait and deal with Ted’s delegation. They’re overreacting.” He sighed. “Not that I blame them. Sudden grief is always a shock. However, I personally would rather plan for the worst that can happen. As you’ve suggested several dire options, we won’t be surprised by anything that happens. And we should plan to reduce its effects on the settlements.”
Paul had a quiet word with one of the psychologists, whose opinion was that the thwarted tensions of the bereaved might be eased by what he termed “a ritual incineration.” So they stepped aside when Ted Tubberman and his adherents demanded the cube and destroyed it in a blazing fire. The resultant stench gagged many, which helped to speed the dispersal of the onlookers. Only Ted and a few others remained to watch the embers cool.
The psychologist shook his head slowly. “I think I’ll keep an eye on Ted Tubberman for a while,” he told Paul and Emily. “That was apparently not enough to assuage his grief.”
Telescopes were trained on the eccentric planet early the next morning. Its reddish appearance was due, Ezra Keroon suggested, to the aggregated dust swirls it had brought in from the edge of the system. Despite the lack of any proof, the feeling among the observers was that the planet was somehow responsible for the disaster.
During the day, Kenjo’s group discovered traces of an earlier fall on Ierne Island, which a witness remembered as more of a rainstorm littered with black motes than a fall of Thread. A scout sent to the northern continent reported traces of recent destruction across the eastern peninsula there. That discovery dispersed the vain hope that the Fall was unique or confined to a specific area. A review of the probe pics from the EEC did nothing to alleviate tension, for the fax incontrovertibly showed the Fall two hundred years before to have been widespread. They figured that the event must have happened just prior to the team’s arrival. The demand to know the extent and frequency of the falls increased ominously.
To assuage mounting fears and tension, Betty Musgrave-Blake and Bill Duff undertook to review the survey’s original botanical data. Ted Tubberman was the only trained botanist who had survived, but he spent his days tracking down every Thread shell and his evenings burning the piles. The psychologists continued to monitor his aberrant behavior.
Based on the original data, Betty and Bill deduced a two-hundred-year gap between incursions, allowing a span of ten to fifteen years for the vegetation to regenerate on the damaged circles after taking into account the age of some of the largest trees in and near the previous occurrence. Betty delivered their conclusion as a positive statement, meant to engender optimism, but she could provide no answer to the vital question of how long the deadly rain would continue to fall.
In an attempt to disprove Mar’s theory of purposeful design or Phas’s equally disturbing suggestion of invasion, Ezra Keroon spent that day on the link with the Yokohama’s mainframe. His calculations confirmed beyond question that the eccentric planet had an orbit of 250 years. But it only stayed in the inner system for a little while, the way Halley’s comet periodically visited Sol. It was too much to suppose there was no connection, and, after consulting Paul and Emily, Ezra programmed one of the Yokohama’s few remaining probes to circumnavigate the planet and discover its composition and, especially, the components of its apparently gaseous envelope.
Though all reports were honestly and fully presented to the community as soon they came in, by evening speculation had produced alarming interpretations. Grimly the more responsible members tried to calm those who gave way to panic.
Then a perplexed Kenjo sought Betty out with a disturbing observation. She immediately informed Paul and Emily, and a quiet meeting was arranged with those who were able to discuss the situation with some detachment.
“You all know that I’ve overflown to map the damage,” Kenjo began. “I didn’t know what I’d seen until I’d seen it often enough to realize what was not there.” He paused, as if steeling himself for rebuke or disbelief. “I don’t think all Thread starved to death. And crazy Tubberman hasn’t gotten as far as I have. In most places, there are shells! But in nine circles that I have seen—and I landed to be sure I make no mistake—there were no shells.” He made a cutting gesture with both hands. “None. And these circles were by themselves, not in a group, and the area—demolished—was not as big as usual.” He glanced at each of the serious faces about him. “I see. I observe. I have pics, too.”
“Well,” Pol said, heaving a weary sigh and absently patting the folded hands of his wife beside him at the table. “It is biologically consistent that to perpetuate a species many are sent and few are chosen. Perhaps the journey through space vitiates most of the organisms. I’m almost relieved that a few can survive and flourish. It makes more sense. I prefer your theory to some of the others that have been bruited about.”
“Yes, but what do they become in the next metamorphosis?” Bay wondered, her face reflecting depression. Sometimes being right was another sort of failure.
“We’d better find out,” Paul said, glancing around for support. “Is there one nearby, Kenjo?” When the pilot pointed to its position on the map, Paul nodded. “Good then, Phas, Pol, Bill, Ezra, Bay and Emily, just slip out of Landing in small sleds. Let’s see if we can prevent a new batch of wild notions. Report back here as soon as you can.”
Paul sent Betty back to her home and her new baby, telling her to rest. Boris Pahlevi and Dieter Clissman were summoned and set to work designing a comprehensive computer program to analyze the data as it continued to come in. Then Paul and Ongola settled back to wait tensely for the other specialists to return.
Pol, Bay, and Phas were the first back, and they brought little good news.
“All the insects, slug-forms, and grubs we found on those sites,” Phas reported, “appear harmless enough. Some of them have already been catalogued, but,” he added with a shrug, “we’ve barely begun to identify creatures and their roles in the ecology of this planet. Kenjo was right to alert us. Clearly some of the Thread survives to propagate itself, so Bay’s theory is the most viable to date.” Phas seemed relieved. “But I won’t rest easy until we have discovered the entire cycle.”
Late in the afternoon of the third day after that first Fall, an almost hysterical call came in from Wade Lorenzo of Sadrid in Macedonia Province. Jacob Chernoff, who took the call, immediately contacted Ongola and Paul at the administration building. “He says it’s coming straight across the sea, right at him, sir. His stake is due west on the twenty-degree line. I’m holding him on channel thirty-seven.”
Even as Paul picked up the handset and punched for the channel, he located the coastal stake of Sadrid on the big map of the continent.
“Get everyone in under silicon plastic,” he ordered. “Use fire to ignite the stuff where it hits the surface. Use torches if necessary. D’you have any dragonets?”
The stakeholder’s deep breath was audible as he fought for self-control. “We have some dragonets, sir, and we’ve two flamethrowers—used ’em to cut down bush. We thought it was just a very bad rain squall until we saw the fish eating. Can’t you come?”
“We’ll get there as soon as possible!”
Paul told Jacob to tell no one of the new Fall.
“I don’t want to cause more panic than there already is, sir,” Jacob agreed.
Paul smiled briefly at the boy’s fervor, then dialed Jim Tillek at the Monaco Bay harbormaster’s office. He inquired if there were any trawlers southwest near Sadrid.
“Not today. Any trouble?”
So much for trying to sound casual, Paul thought. “Can you get here to admin without appearing to rush?”
Ongola was looking grimly at the map, his eyes flicking from Macedonia to Delta. “Your Boca River Stake is not that far from Sadrid,” he told the admiral.
“I noticed.” Paul dialed the channel link to his stake and in terse sentences told his wife the grim news and instructed her on what precautions to take. “Ju, it may not reach us but . . .”
“It’s best to be on the safe side with something like this, isn’t it?”
Paul was proud of her calm response. “I’ll give you an update as soon as we’ve got one. With any luck, you’ve got at least an hour’s leeway if it’s just now at Sadrid. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Quite possibly, Boca’s far enough north. This stuff seems to fall in a southwesterly drift.’
“Ask her if her dragonets are acting normally,” Ongola suggested.
“Sunning themselves, as always at this time of day,” Ju replied. “I’ll watch them. They really do anticipate this stuff?”
“Ongola thinks so. I’ll check with you later, Ju.”
“I’ve just got through to the Logorides at Thessaly,” Ongola said. “They might be in the path. Had we better warn Caesar at Roma Stake? He’s got all that livestock.”
“He was also smart enough to put up stone buildings, but call him and then find out if Boris and Dieter have run their new program. I wish the hell we knew when it started, how far it’ll travel,” Paul muttered anxiously. “I’ll organize transport.” He dialed the main engineering shed and asked for Kenjo.
“There’s more Thread? How far away?” Kenjo asked. “Sadrid? On the twentieth? I’ve got something that could make it in just over an hour.” There was a ripple of excitement in Kenjo’s usually even tone. “Fulmar worked out jet-assist units on one of the medium sleds. Fulmar thinks we could get seven hundred kph out of it, at least, even fully loaded. More if we run light.”
“We’re going to have to pack as many of the flamethrowers as possible plus emergency supplies. We’ll use HNO3 cylinders—they’ll be like using fire and water at once on the Thread. Pol and Bay don’t weigh much, and they’ll be invaluable as observers. We need at least one medic, a couple of joats, Tarvi, Jim, and me. Eight. All right, then, we’ll be with you directly.” Paul turned to Ongola. “Any luck?”
“Since we can’t tell them when it started, they want to know when it ends,” Ongola said. “The more data we can give them, the more accurate they will be . . . next time. Am I among the eight?”
Paul shook his head with regret. “I need you here to deal with any panic. Blast it, but we’ve got to get organized for this.”
Ongola snorted to himself. Paul Benden was already a legend in organizing and operating at high efficiency in emergency situations. Observers, crew, and supplies boarded the augmented sled within twenty minutes of the initial call, and it was airborne and out of sight before Ongola heard the muted roar of its improved drive.
Kenjo drove the sled at its maximum speed, passengers and supplies securely strapped in safety harnesses. They sped across the verdant tip of the untouched peninsula past the Jordan River, and then out to sea where the turbulence of sporadic but heavy squalls added more discomfort to an already rough ride in a vehicle not designed for such velocities.
“No sign of the leading edge of the Fall. Half of that cloud to the south of us is more squalls,” Paul said, looking up from the scope and rubbing his eyes. “Maybe, just maybe,” he added softly, “those squalls also saved Sadrid.”
Despite the excessive speed, the journey, mainly over water, seemed to continue endlessly. Suddenly, Kenjo reduced speed. The sea became less of a blur to starboard, and on the port side, the vast, approaching land was just visible through the mist of squall. Sunlight broke through cloud to shine impartially on tossing vegetation and denuded alleys.
“It’s an ill wind,” Jim Tillek remarked, pointing to the sea, which was disturbed more by underwater activity than by wind. “By the way, before I left Monaco Bay, I sent our finny friends to see what they could find out.”
“Good heavens!” Bay exclaimed, pressing her face against the thick plastic canopy. “They can’t have made it here so fast.”
“Not likely,” Jim replied, chuckling, “but the locals are feeding very well indeed.”
“Stay seated!” Kenjo cried, fighting the yoke of the sled.
“If the dolphins can find out where it started . . . Data, that’s what Dieter and Boris need.” Paul resumed manning the forward scope. “Sadrid wasn’t entirely lucky,” he added, frowning. “Just as if someone had shaved the vegetation off the ground with a hot knife,” he muttered under his breath, and turned away. “Get us down as fast as possible, Kenjo!”
“It was the wind,” Wade Lorenzo told the rescue team. “The wind saved us, and the squall. Came down in sheets, but it was water, not Thread. No, we’re mostly okay,” he assured them, pointing to the dragonets, grooming themselves on the rooftrees. “They saved us, just like I heard they did at Landing.” The younger children were just being shepherded out of one of the larger buildings, wide-eyed with apprehension as they looked about them. “But we don’t know if Jiva and Bahka are all right. They were trawling.” He gestured hopelessly to the west.
“If they went west and north, they’d’ve had a good chance,” Jim told him.
“But we are ruined,” Athpathis added. The agronomist’s face was a picture of defeat as he indicated the ravaged fields and orchards.
“There’re still plenty of seedlings at Landing,” Pol Nietro assured him, patting his back with clumsy sympathy. “And one can grow several crops a year in this climate.”
“We’ll be back to you later,” Paul said, helping to unload flamethrowers. “Jim, will you organize the mop-up here? You know what to do. We’ve got to track the main Fall to its end. There you are, Wade. Go char the bastards!”
“But Admiral—” Athpathis began, the whites of his large fearful eyes accentuated in his sun-darkened face.
“There’s two other stakes in the way of this menace,” Paul said, climbing back into the sled and fastening the hatch.
“Straight to your place, Paul?” Kenjo asked, lifting the sled.
“No, I want you to go north first. See if we can find Jiva and Bahka. And until we find the edge of the Fall.”
As soon as Kenjo had hoisted the sled, he slapped on the jet assist, slamming his passengers back into their seats. But almost immediately he eased back on the power, “Sir, I think it’s missed your place.”
Instantly Paul pressed his eyes to the scope and, with incredible relief, saw the vegetation along the beach tossing in the wake of squall winds. Reassured, he could concentrate on the job at hand without divided priorities.
“Why, it just cuts off,” Bay said, surprised.
“Rain, I think,” Pol remarked as he, too, craned his neck to see out the siliplex canopy. “And look, isn’t that an orange sail?”
Paul looked up from the scope with a weary smile. “Indeed it is, and intact. Mark your position, Mister Fusaiyuki, and let’s get to Caesar’s with all available speed.” He took a more comfortable position in his seat and gripped the arm rests.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The six passengers once again endured the effects of speed and, once again, Kenjo’s abrupt braking. That time he added such a turn to port that the sled seemed to spin on its tail.
“I’ve marked my position, Admiral. Your orders, sir?”
Paul Benden’s spine gave an involuntary shudder, which he hoped was due more to the unexpected maneuver than to Kenjo’s naval address.
“Let’s follow the path and see how wide a corridor it punches. I’ll contact the other stakes to stand down from the alert.”
He permitted himself to contact his wife first and gave her a brief report, as much to lock the details in his own mind as to relieve hers.
“Shall I send a crew to help?” she asked. “Landing’s report says the stuff often has to be burnt to be killed.”
“Send Johnny Greene and Greg Keating in the faster sled. We’ve spare flamethrowers with us.”
Others volunteered to send their sons, and Paul accepted those offers. Caesar Galliani, making the same offer, added that he wanted his sons back in time to milk the big Roma herd.
“I was right, wasn’t I,” the vet said with a chuckle, “to spend so much energy on stone buildings?”
“You were indeed, Caesar.”
“There’s nothing like stone walls to make you feel secure. The boys’ll be on their way as soon as you give me a position. You’ll keep us posted, won’t you, Admiral?”
Paul winced at that second unconscious use of his former rank. After seven happy years as a civilian agronomist, he had no wish to resume the responsibilities of command. Then his eyes were caught by the circles of destruction, so hideously apparent from the air, interspersed with untouched swaths where squally rain had drowned the Thread before it could reach the surface. Rain and dragonets! Fragile allies against such devastation, if he had his way . . . Paul halted that train of thought. He was not in command; he did not wish to be obliged to take command. There were younger men to assume such burdens.
“I make the corridor fifty klicks wide, Admiral,” Kenjo announced. Paul realized that the others had been quietly conferring on details.
“You can watch vegetation disintegrating by the yard,” Bay said anxiously. She caught Paul’s eyes. “Rain isn’t enough.”
“It helped,” Tarvi answered her, but he, too, looked at Paul.
“We’ve got reinforcements coming from Thessaly and Roma. We’ll scorch where we have to on our way back to Sadrid. Set down where you can, Kenjo. Landing will need to know the details we’ve gotten today. Data they want, data they’ll have.”
By the time all the available HNO3 cylinders were exhausted, so were the crews. Pol and Bay had followed diligently after the flamethrower teams, taking notes on the pattern of the stuff, grateful that squall activity had somewhat limited the destruction. When Paul had thanked the men from Thessaly and Roma, he told Kenjo to make reasonable speed to Sadrid to collect Jim Tillek.
“And so we must arm ourselves with tongues of flame against this menace to our kind and generous planet,” Tarvi said softly to Paul as they finally headed eastward toward a fast-approaching night. “Will Sadrid be safe now?”
“On the premise that lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place?” Paul’s tone was droll. “No promises can be made on that score, Tarvi. I am hoping, however, that Boris and Dieter will soon come up with a few answers.” Then, his expression anxious, he turned to Pol. “This couldn’t fall at random, could it?”
“You prefer the theory that it’s planned? No, Paul, we’ve established that we’re dealing with an unreasoning, voraciously hungry organism. There isn’t a discernible intelligence,” Pol replied, clenching and releasing his fist, surprised at his own vehemence, “much less a trace of sentience. I continue to favor Bay’s theory of a two- or three-stage life cycle. Even so, it is only remotely possible that intelligence develops at a later stage.”
“The wherries?” Tarvi asked facetiously.
“No, no, don’t be ridiculous. We’ve traced them back to a sea eel, a common ancestor for both them and the dragonets.”
“The dragonets were more of a help than I expected,” Tarvi admitted. “Sallah insists they’ve a high level of intelligence.”
“Pol, have you or Bay attempted to measure that intelligence when you used mentasynth enhancement?” Paul Benden asked.
“No, not really,” Pol replied. “There’s been no need to, once we demonstrated that an enhanced empathy made them more biddable. There have been other priorities.”
“The main priority as of now is establishing the parameters of this menace,” Paul muttered. “We’d all better get some rest.”
Once the rescue team had returned to Landing, it was impossible to deny the fact of the new incursion. Despite a comm silence on their trip, rumors were inevitable.
“The only good thing about it,” Paul told Emily as he consumed a hastily prepared meal, “was that it was sufficiently far away from here.”
“We still don’t have enough data to establish either frequency or probable corridors of the stuff,” Dieter Clissmann announced. “The dolphins apparently could not find out where or when it started. Marine life doesn’t keep time. Boris is adding in random factors of temperature variations, high- and low-pressure areas, frequency of rain, and wind velocity to the data.” He gave a long sigh, combing thick hair back from his forehead. “Drowns in the rain, huh? Fire and water kill it! That’s some consolation.”
Few were as easily consoled. There were even some at Landing who were relieved that other sections of the continent had suffered the same disaster. The positive benefit of fear and horror was that emergency measures were no longer resisted. Some had felt that precautions emanating from Landing violated their charter autonomy. The more outspoken revised their objections when pictures of the devastation on the Sadrid corridor—as Pol termed it—were distributed. After that, Ongola and his communications team were kept busy briefing distant stakeholders.
Tarvi drafted a crew to work round the clock, adapting empty cylinders into flamethrowers and filling them with HNO3. The easily made oxidant had not only proved to be very effective at destroying Thread but could be synthesized cheaply from air and water, using only hydroelectricity, and was not a pollutant. Most importantly, dragonet hide and human skin were usually not severely damaged from spillage. A wet cloth, applied within about twenty seconds, prevented a bad burn. Kenjo led a group in rigging holders for flame-throwers on the heavier sleds. He was adamant that the best defense was not only offense but aerial. He had many willing supporters among those at Landing who had lived through the First Fall.
Fire was the top choice for weapon. As one wit said, since no one had ever figured out how to make rain on demand, fire was the only reliable defense. Even the most ardent supporters of the dragonets did not wish to rely totally on their continued assistance.
There were not hands enough to do all the jobs required. Twice Paul and Emily were called in to arbitrate labor-pirating. The agronomists and veterinarians hastily reinforced livestock shelters. Caves were explored as possible alternate accommodations. Empty warehouses at Landing were made into shelters for any stakeholders who wished to house stock for safety’s sake. Joel Lilienkamp insisted that due to the worker shortage the holders themselves would have to reinforce any buildings they preempted. Many stakeholders felt that that was Landing’s job; some were unwilling to leave their stakes unless, and until, assured of safe quarters. In eight years, the population of the settlers had increased far beyond the point where the original site could house even half the current numbers.
Porrig Connell remained in his cave, having discovered that there were sufficient interlinking chambers to accommodate his entire extended family and their livestock. In addition to stabling for his mares and foals, he had also constructed a stallion box in which Cricket had been made very comfortable. Magnanimously, he allowed the survivors of some other families to remain in his cavesite until they found their own.
Because they had been the colony’s leaders, Paul Benden and Emily Boll—as well as Jim Tillek, Ezra Keroon, and Ongola—found that many decisions were being referred to them, despite the fact that they had stepped down from their previous administrative duties.
“I’d far rather they came to me than to Ted Tubberman,” Paul remarked wearily to Ongola when the former communications officer brought him the latest urgent queries from outlying stakes. He turned to the psychologist Tom Patrick, who had come to report on the latest round of gripes and rumors. “Tom?”
“I don’t think you can stall a showdown much longer,” he said, “or you and Emily will lose all credibility. That would be a big error. You two may not want to take command, but someone will have to. Tubberman’s constantly undermining community effort and spirit. He’s so totally negative that you ought to be thankful that most of the time he’s out trying singlehandedly to clear the continent of rotting Threadshell. Grief has totally distorted his perceptions and judgment.”
“Surely no one believes his ranting?” Emily asked.
“There’re just enough long-buried gripes and resentments, and good honest gut-fear, right now that some people do listen to him. Especially in the absence of authorized versions,” Tom replied. “Tubberman’s complaints have a certain factual basis. Warped, to be sure.” The psychologist shrugged, raising both hands, palms up. “In time he’ll work against himself—I hope. Meanwhile he’s roused a substantial undercurrent of resentment which had better be countered soon. Preferably by you gentlemen and Emily and the other captains. They still trust you, you know, in spite of Tubberman’s accusations.”
“So the Rubicon must be crossed again,” Paul said whimsically, and exhaled. He caught himself rubbing his left thumb against the insensitive skin of his replacement fingers and stopped. Leaning wearily back in his chair, he put both hands behind his head as if supporting an extra weight.
“I can lead a meeting, Paul,” Cabot said when Paul contacted him on a secured comm channel, “but they subconsciously consider you and Emily their leaders. Force of habit.”
“Any decision to reinstate us must be spontaneous,” Paul replied after a long and thoughtful pause. Slowly Emily nodded. The last days had aged both admiral and governor. “The matter must be handled strictly on the charter protocol, though by all that’s holy, I never anticipated having to invoke those contingency clauses.”
“Thank all the powers that be that they’re there,” Cabot said fervently. “It’ll take an hour or two to organize things here. Oh, by the way, we also had a few messages across the river early yesterday- morning. Didn’t notice until about noon today. Hit the southern edge of Bordeaux. We gave Pat and his crew a hand. All’s safe here.” With that, he rang off, leaving Paul dumbfounded.
“After our little brush with the stuff,” Cabot said when he arrived in person, “I’m beginning to appreciate the gravity of the colony’s situation.” A hopeful smile, not echoed by the expression in his keen gray eyes, curved his strong mouth. “Is it as bad as rumor has it?”
“Probably. Depends on the source of the rumor,” Paul answered with an honest grimace.
“Depends on whether you’re an optimist or pessimist,” Jim Tillek added. “I’ve been in worse fixes on the asteroid runs and come out with life and lung. I prefer to have a planet; to maneuver in, on, over. And the seas.”
Cabot’s smile faded as he regarded the five people gathered discreetly in the met tower.
“Most of what we know,” Paul said, “is negative. But—” He began to refute the prevalent rumors by ticking them off on his strong, work-stained fingers. “The Threads are unlikely to be the forerunner of an alien invasion. It was not unique to this area. It did strike the planet in much the same way, to judge by the EEC records, almost exactly two hundred years ago. It may or may not emanate from the eccentric planet, which has a two-hundred-and-fifty-year orbit. And although we do not know what its life cycle is, or even if it does have one—that is the most viable theory—Thread is not the initial stage of tunnel snakes, for example, who have a much more respectable lineage, nor of any of the other kinds of life we’ve had a look at so far.”
“I see.” Cabot slowly nodded his handsome leonine head as he fingered his lips in thought. “No reassuring forecast available?”
“Not yet. As Tom here recommends, we need a forum in which to air grievances and correct misconceptions,” Paul went on. “It didn’t miss Boca Stake because Paul Benden owns it, or drop on Sadrid because they’re the newest, or stop short of Thessaly because Gyorgy was one of the first charterers to claim his stake. We can, and will, survive this hazard, but we cannot have the indiscriminate conscriptions of technicians and able-bodied workers. It is apparent to anyone pausing to think that we also cannot survive if everyone hares off in opposite directions. Or if some of the wilder notions, including Tubberman’s, are not dismissed and morale restored.”
“In short, what you want is a suspension of autonomy?”
“Not what I want,” Paul replied clearly and with emphasis, “but a centralized administration”—Cabot grinned at the admiral’s choice of words—“will be able to efficiently organize available workers, distribute matériel and supplies, and make sure that the majority survive. Joel Lilienkamp locked up Stores today, claiming inventory, to prevent panic requisitions. People must realize that this is a survivial situation.”
“Together we stand, divided we fall?” Cabot used the old saying with respect.
“That’s it.”
“The trick will be in getting all our independent spirits to see the wisdom,” Tom Patrick said, and Cabot nodded agreement.
“I must emphasize,” Paul went on, looking quickly at Emily, who nodded approval, “that it doesn’t matter who administers during the emergency so long as some authority is recognized, and obeyed, that will ensure survival.”
After a pause, Cabot added thoughtfully, “We’re years from help. Did we burn all our bridges?”
Considerable surprise and relief permeated Landing the next morning when Cabot Francis Carter, the colony’s senior legist, broadcast the announcement that a mass meeting was scheduled for the following evening. Representatives of every major stake, charter, or contract, would be expected to attend.
By the night of the meeting, the electricians had managed to restore power to one end of Bonfire Square by means of underground conduits. Where lamps were still dark, torches had been secured to the standards. The lighted area was filled with benches and chairs. The platform, originally constructed for musicians for the nightly bonfires, contained a long table, set with six chairs along one side. There was light enough to see those who took places there.
When neither Paul Benden nor Emily Boll appeared, a murmur of surprise rippled around those assembled. Cabot Francis Carter led Mar Dook, Pol and Bay Harkenon-Nietro, Ezra Keroon, and Jim Tillek onto the stage.
“We have had time to mourn our losses,” Cabot began, his sonorous voice easily reaching to the very last bench. Even the children listened in silence. “And they have been heavy. They could have been worse, and there can’t be one among us who doesn’t give thanks to our small fire-breathing, dragon-like allies.
“I don’t have all bad news for you tonight. I wish I had better. We can give a name to the stuff that killed some of our loved ones and wiped out five stakes: it’s a very primitive mycorrhizoid life-form. Mar Dook here tells me that on other planets, including our own Earth, very simple fungi can be generally found in a symbiotic association with trees, the mycelium of the fungus with the roots of a seed plant. We’ve all seen it attack vegetation—”
“And just about anything else,” Ted Tubberman shouted from the left-hand side of the audience.
“Yes, that is tragically true.” Cabot did not look at the man or attempt to lighten the tone of the meeting, but he intended to control it. He raised his voice slightly. “What we are only just beginning to realize is that the phenomenon is planetwide and the last occurrence was approximately two hundred years ago.” He paused to allow the listeners to absorb that fact, then stolidly held up his hands to silence the murmurs. “Soon we will be able to predict exactly when and where this Threadfall is likely to strike again, because, unfortunately, it will. But this is our planet,” he stated with an expression of fierce determination, “and no damned mindless Thread is going to make us leave.”
“You stupid bastard, we can’t leave!” Ted Tubberman jumped to his feet, wildly waving clenched fists in the air. “You fixed it so we’ll rot here, sucked up by those effing things. We can’t leave! We’ll all die here.”
His outburst started a sullen, murmurous roll in the audience. Sean, sitting with Sorka to the edge of the crowd, was indignant.
“Damnfool loud mouth charterer,” Sean murmured to Sorka. “He knew this was a one-way trip, only now everything’s not running smooth enough for him, it has to be someone’s fault.” Sean snorted his contempt.
Sorka shushed him to hear Cabot’s rebuttal.
“I don’t look at our situation as hopeless, Tubberman,” Cabot began, his trained voice drowning the murmurs in a firm, confident, and determined tone. “Far from it! I prefer to think positively. I see this as a challenge to our ingenuity, to our adaptability. Mankind has survived more dangerous environments than Pern. We’ve got a problem and we must cope with it. We must solve it to survive. And survive we will!” When Cabot saw the big botanist gathering breath, he raised his voice. “When we signed the charter, we all knew there’d be no turning back. Even if we could, I, for one, wouldn’t consider running home.” His voice became rich with contempt for the faint of heart, the coward, and the quitter. “For there’s more on this planet for me than First or Earth ever held! I’m not going to let this phenomenon do me out of the home I’ve built, the stock I plan to raise, the quality of life I enjoy!” With a contemptuous sweep of his hand, he dismissed the menace as a minor inconvenience. “I’ll fight it every time it strikes my stake or my neighbors’, with every ounce of strength and every resource I possess.
“Now,” he went on in a less fervent tone, “this meeting has been called, in the democratic manner outlined by our charter, to make plans on how best to sustain our colony during this emergency. We are, in effect, under siege by this mycorrhizoid. So we must initiate measures and develop the necessary strategy by which to minimize its effect on our lives and property.”
“Are you suggesting martial law, Cabot?” Rudi Shwartz demanded, rising to his feet, his expression carefully guarded.
Cabot gave a wry chuckle. “As there is no army on Pern, Rudi, martial law is impossible. However, circumstances force us to consider suspending our present autonomy in order to reduce the damage which this Thread apparently can—and will—do to both the ecology of the planet and the economy of this colony. I’m suggesting that reversion to the centralized government of our first year on Pern be considered at this point in time.” His next words rose to a near bellow to drown out the protests. “And whatever measures are required to ensure the survival of the colony, unpalatable though they may be to us as individuals who have enjoyed our autonomy.”
“And these measures have already been decided?” someone asked.
“By no means,” Cabot assured the woman. “We don’t even yet know that much about our—adversary—but plans must be made now, for every possible contingency. We know that Thread falls on a worldwide scale, so sooner or later it will affect every stake. We have to minimize that danger. That will mean centralization of existing food supplies and matériel, and a return to hydroponics. It definitely means that some of you technicians will be asked to return to Landing, since your particular skills can be best exercised here. It means we’re all going to have to work together again instead of going our separate ways.”
“What option do we have?” another woman asked in the slight pause that followed. She sounded resigned.
“Some of you have fairly large common stakes,” Cabot answered in the most reasonable of tones. “You could probably do quite well on your own. Any central organization here at Landing would have to consider the needs of its population first, but it wouldn’t be the case of ’Never Darken Our Doorstep Again,’ ” He gave a brief reassuring smile in her general direction. “That’s why we meet here tonight. To discuss all the options as thoroughly as the charter’s conditions and the colony’s prospects were initially discussed.”
“Wait just a minute!” Ted Tubberman cried, jumping to his feet again, spreading out his arms and looking around, his chin jutting forward aggressively. “We’ve got a surefire option, a realistic one. We can send a homing capsule to Earth and ask for assistance. This is a state of emergency. We need help!”
“I told ya,” Sean murmured to Sorka, “squealing like a stuck pig. Earth lands here, girl, and we make for the Barrier Range and stay lost!”
“I wouldn’t bet on Earth sending any,” Joel Lilienkamp said from the front of the audience, his words drowned by the cries of colonists agreeing with Ted.
“We don’t need Earth mucking about Pern,” Sean cried, jumping to his feet and flourishing his arm. “This is our planet!”
Cabot called for order, but very little of the commotion subsided. Ezra Keroon got to his feet, trying to help. Finally, making a megaphone of his hands, he bellowed his message. “Hold it down, now, friends. I have to remind you all—listen to me!—it’d be over ten years before we got a reply. Of any kind.”
“Well, I for one don’t want old Terra,” Jim Tillek said over the loud reaction to that, “or even First, poking their noses in our business. That is, if they’d bother to respond. For sure, if they condescended to help, they’d mortgage all of us to the hilt for aid. And end up owning all the mineral rights and most of the arable land. Or have you all forgotten Ceti III? I also don’t see why a central administration during this emergency is such a big deal. Makes sense to me. Share and share alike!”
A low murmur of agreement could be clearly heard, although many faces wore discouraged or sullen expressions.
“He’s right, Sorka,” Sean said in a voice loud enough for others around him to hear.
“Dad and Mother think so, too,” Sorka added, pointing to her parents, who were sitting several rows ahead.
“We’ve got to send a message,” Ted Tubberman shouted, shaking off the attempts of his immediate neighbors to make him sit down. “We’ve got to tell them we’re in trouble. We’ve a right to help! What’s wrong in sending a message?”
“What’s wrong?” Wade Lorenzo shouted from the back of the audience. “We need help right now, Tubberman, not ten to thirty years from now. Why, by then, we’d probably have the thing licked. A Fall’s not all that bad,” he added with the confidence of experience. He sat down amid hoots and shouts of dissent, mainly from those who had been at Landing during the tragedy.
“And don’t forget that it took half a century before Earth went to Ceti III’s assistance,” Betty Musgrave-Blake said, jumping to her feet.
Other comments were voiced.
“Yeah, Captain Tillek’s right. We’ve got to solve our own problems. We can’t wait for Earth.”
“Forget it, Tubberman.”
“Sit down and shut up, Tubberman.”
“Cabot, call him to order. Let’s get on with this meeting.”
Similar sentiments rose from all sides.
His neighors forced the botanist down and, dismayed by the lack of support, Ted shook off the compelling hands and crossed his arms defiantly on his chest. Tarvi Andiyar and Fulmar Stone moved to stand nearby. Sallah watched apprehensively, although she knew full well the strength belied by Tarvi’s lean frame.
Sean nudged Sorka. “They’ll shut him up, and then we can get to the meat of all this talking,” he said. “I hate meetings like this—people sounding off just to make a noise and act big when they don’t know what they’re talking about.”
Raising a hand to be recognized, Rudi Shwartz again got to his feet. “If, as you’ve suggested, Cabot, the larger stakes could remain self-governing, how would a central government be organized? Would the large stakes be at all responsible to it?”
“It’s more a matter of the fair allocation of food, materials, and shelter, Rudi,” Joel Lilienkamp said, rising, “rather than—”
“You mean, we don’t have enough food?” an anxious voice broke in.
“For now, we do, but if this Threadstuff is planetwide . . . we all see what it did to Landing’s fields,” Joel went on, motioning to the dark, ravaged area, “and if it keeps coming back, well—” A woman made a protest of dismay that was clearly audible. “Well,” he went on, hitching up his trousers, “everyone deserves a fair share of what we’ve got. I see nothing wrong with going back to hydroponics for a while. We did just fine for fifteen years on shipboard, didn’t we? I’ll take any odds we can do it again.”
His jovial challenge met with mixed reactions, some cheering, others clearly apprehensive.
“Remember, too, folks, that Thread doesn’t affect the sea,” Jim Tillek said, his cheerfulness unforced. “We can live, and live well, from the sea alone.”
“Most early civilizations lived almost entirely from the sea,” Mairi Hanrahan cried in a ringing, challenging tone. “Joel’s right—we can use alternate methods of growing. And, as long as we can harvest the sea for fresh protein, we’ll be just fine. I think we all ought to buck up, instead of collapsing under the first little snag.” She stared significantly at Ted Tubberman.
“Little snag?” he roared. He would have shoved through the crowd to get to Mairi if he had not been restrained. Tarvi and Fulmar moved in closer to him.
“Hardly a little snag,” Mar Dook said quickly, raising his voice over the ripple of mixed remonstrance and support. “And certainly tragic for many of us. But let’s not fight among ourselves. It’s equally useless for us to bitch that the EEC team did not do a thorough inspection of this planet and grossly misled us. But this world has already proved that it can survive such an incursion and regenerate. Are we humans any less resilient with the resources we have at hand?” He tapped his forehead significantly.
“I don’t want just to survive, hand to mouth,” Ted Tubberman shouted, his chin jerking out belligerently, “cooped up in a building, wondering if those things are going to eat their way through to me!”
“Ted, that’s the bigget bunch of bilgewash I’ve ever heard from a grown man,” Jim Tillek said. “We got a bit of a problem with our new world that I sure as hell am going to help solve. So quit your bitching, and let’s figure out just how to cope. We’re here, man, and we’re going to survive!”
“I want us to send home for help,” someone else said, calm but firm. “I feel that we’re going to need the defenses a sophisticated society can supply, especially as we brought so little technology with us. And most especially if this stuff returns so often.”
“Once we’ve sent for help, we have to take what is sent,” Cabot said quickly.
“Lili, what odds are you taking that Earth would send us help?” Jim Tillek asked.
Ted Tubberman jumped to his feet again. “Don’t bet on it. Vote on it! If this meeting’s really democratic, that is, let’s vote to send a mayday to Federated Sentient Planets.”
“I second the motion,” one of the medics said, along with several others.
“Rudi,” Cabot said, “appoint two other stewards and let’s take a hand vote.”
“Not everyone’s here tonight,” Wade Lorenzo pointed out.
“If they don’t wish to attend a scheduled meeting, they will have to abide by the decision of those who did,” Cabot replied sternly. He was met with shouts of agreement. “Let the vote be taken on the motion before us. Those in favor of sending a homing capsule to the Federated Sentient Planets for assistance, raise their hands.”
Hands were duly raised and counted by the stewards, Rudi Shwartz taking note of the count. When Cabot called for those opposed to sending for help, the majority was marked. As soon as Cabot announced the results, Ted Tubberman was vituperative.
“You’re damned fools. We can’t lick this stuff by ourselves. There’s no place safe from it on this planet. Don’t you remember the EEC reports? The entire planet was eaten up. It took more than two hundred years to recover. What chance have we?”
“That is enough, Tubberman,” Cabot roared at him. “You asked for a vote. It was taken in sight of all, and the majority has decided against sending for help. Even if the decision had been in favor, our situation is serious enough so that certain measures must be initiated immediately.
“One priority is the manufacture of metal sheeting to protect existing buildings, no matter where they are. The second is to manufacture HNO3 cylinders and flamethrower components. A third is to conserve all materials and supplies. Another problem is keeping a good eastern watch at every stake until a pattern can be established for Threadfall.
“I’m asking that we temporarily reinstate Emily Boll and Paul Benden as leaders. Governor Boll kept her planet fed and free despite a five-year-long Nathi space embargo, and Admiral Benden is by far the best man to organize an effective defense strategy.
“I’m calling for a show of hands now, and we’ll make it a proper referendum when we know exactly how long the state of emergency will last.” A ripple of assent greeted his crisp, decisive statements. “Rudi, prepare for another count.” He waited a moment as the crowd shifted restlessly. “Let’s have a show of hands on implementing those priorities tonight, with Admiral Benden and Governor Boll in charge.”
Many hands were immediately thrust in the air, while others came up more slowly as the undecided took heart from their neighbors’ resolution. Even before Rudi gave him the count, Cabot could see that the vote was heavily in favor of the emergency measures.
“Governor Boll, Admiral Benden, will you accept this mandate?” he asked formally.
“It was rigged!” Ted Tubberman shouted. “I tell you, rigged. They just want to get back into power again.” His accusations broke off suddenly as Tarvi and Fulmar pushed him firmly back down on the bench.
“Governor? Admiral?” Cabot ignored the interruption. “You two still have the best qualifications for the jobs to be done, but if you decline, I will accept nominations from the floor.” He waited expectantly, giving no hint of his personal preference in the matter and paying no attention to the restless audience and the rising murmur of anxious whispers.
Slowly Emily Boll rose to her feet. “I accept.”
“As I do,” Paul Benden said, standing beside the governor. “But only for the duration of this emergency.”
“You believe that?” Tubberman roared, breaking loose from his restrainers.
“That is quite enough, Tubberman,” Cabot shouted, appearing to lose his professional detachment. “The majority supports this temporary measure even if you won’t.” Slowly the audience quieted. Cabot waited until there was complete silence. “Now, I’ve saved the worst news until I was certain we were all resolved to work together. Thanks to Kenjo and his survey teams, Boris and Dieter believe that there is a pattern emerging. If they’re right, we have to expect this Thread to fall again tomorrow afternoon at Malay River and proceed across Cathay Province to Mexico on Maori Lake.”
“On Malay?” Chuck Kimmage jumped to his feet, his wife clutching his arm, both of them horrified. Phas had managed to find and warn all the other stakers at Malay and Mexico, but Chuck and Chaila had arrived just before the meeting, too late to be privately informed.
“And all of us will help preserve your stakes,” Emily Boll said in a loud firm voice.
Paul jumped up on the platform, raising his hands and glancing at Cabot for permission to speak. “I’m asking for volunteers to man sleds and flamethrowers. Kenjo and Fulmar have worked out a way of mounting them. Some are already in place on what sleds they could commandeer. Those of you with medium and large sleds just volunteered them. The best way to get the Thread is while it’s still airborne, before it has a chance to land. We will also need people on the ground, mopping up what does slip through.”
“What about the fire-lizards, or whatever you call ’em? Won’t they help?” someone asked.
“They helped us that day at Landing,” a woman added, a note of fearful apprehension making her voice break.
“They helped at Sadrid Stake two days ago,” Wade said.
“The rain helped a lot, too,” Kenjo added, not at all convinced of assistance from a nonmechanical quarter.
“Any of you with dragonets would be very welcome in ground crews,” Paul went on, willing to entertain any possible reinforcements. But he, too, was skeptical; he had been too busy to attach a dragonet, though his wife and older son had two each. “I particularly need those of you who’ve had any combat or flight experience. Our enemy isn’t the Nathi this time, but it’s our world that is being invaded. Let’s stop it, tomorrow and whenever it’s necessary!”
A spontaneous cheer went up in response to his rousing words and was repeated, growing in volume as people got to their feet, waving clenched fists. Those on the platform watched the demonstration, relieved and reassured. Perhaps only Ongola took note of those who remained seated or silent.